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."
IS IT, HE WONDERED? DO I WANT TO STAY A
KNIGHT AND LIVE FOR A WAR THAT WILL NEVER
COME, OR WOULD I RATHER GIVE MY WHOLE LIFE
TO LORAINE?
THAT WAS EIGHTEEN SUMMERS AGO, SHORTLY
BEFORE TARLI WAS BORN.
*****
In the afternoon breeze, the wooden saddle-mounts
creaked on the ropes and pulleys. The squires looked from
the mounts to the rack of shields and metal-tipped lances,
and stared uneasily at the suspicious-looking rust-brown
stains on the courtyard stones. The stones had been
scrubbed well, but the stains were too deep to come out.
Moran was proud of those stains; he'd spent much of
last week painting them on and aging them. "Right."
All heads turned. He stood in the archway, a twelve-
foot lance tucked under his arm as easily as if it were a
riding whip.
He saluted with the lance, missing the arch top by
inches. He flipped the lance over his right shoulder, then
his left, then spun it around twice and tucked it under his
arm, all without scraping the arch.
Tarli applauded. His clapping slowed, then stopped,
under his classmates' cold stares.
"The lance," Moran said loudly, "is the knights' weapon
of tradition. Huma consecrated one, called Huma's Grace,
to Paladine
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