The Door into Sunset Read Online Free PDF Page A

for it back; it was the One Knife from the Regalia of the Two Lands, the razory black-bladed knife with which Eftgan’s blood and his had been shed yesterday. He paused to do something that he doubted had been done to most sacred implements: balanced it across one finger to check how far forward the knife’s balance-point was. Not too bad. Two full turns, probably, depending on the range. ... Up the sleeve, I think. He hunted about one of his jerkins for the broken leather thong that was in its pocket, and used the thong to snug the knife in place well above his elbow and out of sight. Good .... He took a moment for the mirror, a plate of polished steel fastened to the wall. Freelorn made a wry face, looking at his clothes. This Lion surcoat had gotten him in trouble every time he’d worn it recently. But Eftgan was going out on a limb for his sake; he had to do the same for her. He brushed a last bit of lint out of the folds. Black surcoat, white Lion passant regardant, standing and looking at you stern and patient, with the silver Sword held up in the dexter paw. Lionchild, he thought, uneasy as always... then smiled a bit, grimly, determined to like it for once. This surcoat was getting tight: or maybe he was putting on some size across the shoulders. Unusual. Wonder if there’s enough seam to let it out a bit .... And Súthan shifted softly in the scabbard as he moved. He glanced down at it with a habitual mixture of great love and great annoyance . We’ve been a long way, we two. But why, why aren’t you Hergótha?! I’d trade you for Hergótha like a dented pot if I had half a chance.
    From out the window came a peculiar whirring sound, the reflected noise of the clockwork in the northern tower of Blackcastle as it ground toward position to strike noon. Freelorn slipped out the door and pounded down the stairs to the tunnels that led into the courtyard.In the doorway full of hot light he paused, just behind the guards, peering out to see if he could see anyone he knew, Herewiss or Segnbora of any of his own people. None of them were in sight. As he stood there, eyes in the throng crowded up by the doorway glanced at him, noticed the device on his surcoat, and lips began to move. King it out, Lorn thought to himself, and stepped out into the crowd as if his stomach weren’t wringing itself like hands. People made way for him, a touch uncertainly, and glances fastened themselves to him and prickled under his skin as if he brushed his way through a field full of burrs.
    Above him, noon struck, the slow deep notes falling heavy in the close courtyard. Lorn kept walking, looking for a good spot to stand. The midsummer sun bore down on the shoulders of the black surcoat like a hot weight, and Lorn began to regret his undertunic. But without it he would itch, and the silver embroidery would rub him raw; and he could hear his father telling him, when he was twelve, “Kings don’t itch, and they don’t squirm. It’s not dignified. But they’re allowed to sweat; no one minds that.” We’ll find out today, Lorn thought, making for the tree.
    He stopped right at the front of the crowd, ten feet or so from the anvil, and stood quietly with his arms folded, feeling the eyes bite into his back. It was peculiar. He’d been stared at often enough before; but today it was really bothering him. If only there were someone else he knew in this crowd—
    Abruptly he saw one: right across from him, on the other side of the tree, the Queen’s husband Wyn. Wyn was not a tall man, but didn’t need to be. He was one of those people who seem to be about twice anyone else’s height even when kneeling, with the face of a handsome hawk. Wyn was a wine merchant, and had a reputation for being a calm man—which made it interesting to consider the five-foot-long, unsheathed, two-handed broadsword he was leaning on, as casually as if it was a pruning hook. He met Lorn’s eyes with a slight twitch of a grin.
    Freelorn returned the half