Richard Oakdeld

It was a ceremony when the knights ran out their squires. The black stone room was brightly lit; the king sat on a throne at the end of the hall. Members of the upper class stood against the wall, one after another stepping into the center of the hall to announce their names, their status, and choose their squire. The squire, coming out, knelt down opposite the knight, drew his sword, extended it upward, and swore an oath of allegiance: "May my sword be broken, and my name and house covered in shame if I betray my knight." Then he sheathed the sword. Richard had badly cut his hand during training yesterday, and they hadn't given him the necessary assistance. Now Richard stood and prayed silently: if only he wouldn't lose his creation. The squires came out one after another, swore an oath. Soon he was alone, pale, with noticeable circles under his eyes. Richard's head was pounding, his arm—bandaged with a tattered, dirty rag—was aching, the fever was inexorably eating away at his body. He swayed slightly when he was addressed. The king said, "Richard Oakdall, none of the stagnant knights want you as their squire. Before you return in disgrace to your ancestral home, bend the knee to the king." There was silence. Richard turned his head, his vision blurred, the room tilted slightly. He swallowed, his Adam's apple twitching nervously, his mouth dry. He slowly walked to the center of the hall, and then...

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