He bowed deeply with the standard graceful sweep of right hand, uncovered and drew himself up in sudden conjecture, visibly suppressing an impulse to give his hair an emergency comb; it was in what was once more literally a pageboy bob and considerably tousled by a day of wind and dust and hard scrambling work. She wore her hair that way herself, since going the full monty to a bowl-cut would be more of a thumb in the eye to the clergy than was wise, even for her.

“Let this company witness your words,” she said.

Everyone in her menie, her fighting-tail of personal retainers, knew the answers, and of course the boy’s father and his following did too, but it had to be spoken aloud for the record.

“What are your years?”

Lioncel swallowed, going a little pale as what was happening sank in. “I will be fourteen years come the Feast of Saints Crispus and Gaius, my lady.”

Which was October fourth; she remembered it herself because it was Lioncel’s birthday, but the Church calendar was the natural set of references to his generation of Associate. He was conventionally pious, despite his mother being a secret witch and Tiphaine having been, until recently, an even more secret atheist.

“Fourteen would do, and October’s close enough in wartime. What is your birth?”

“Ah . . . I am the son of a belted knight, born in wedlock to a gentlewoman Associate of noble blood, my lady.”

“What is your service?”

“I, ah, I have served as page in your household, and for a year in that of the Baron de Netarts who is Marchwarden of the Coast, before returning to you this summer, my lady. I have been under instruction as a page since I was six years old, learning courtesy and good service.”

“Is it your will to take service with me as squire, your parents having given their consent?”

“Y-yes, my lady!”

She ignored the sudden crack in his voice that had him blushing crimson, and spoke to carry again: “On this day, I have chosen to take Lioncel de Stafford as my squire, deeming him of good character and sufficiently instructed in the knowledge suitable to his years. Does any here know of an impediment to this oath?”

Silence, and she went on: “Kneel!”

She drew her sword and planted it point-down. Lioncel hesitated for an instant, then set his hands on the quillions; she clasped hers around his and looked down into his eyes. The fingers felt a little chill beneath hers despite the hot day; he hadn’t been expecting this.

“The path of chivalry is a long one, and the honor of knighthood not easily won. Are you willing to devote yourself to this cause?”

“I am.” The boy’s voice rang, strong and steady now.

“Then repeat after me: Here I do swear—”

“Here do I swear—”

“—by mouth and by hand”

“—it is my intent to become a knight”