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simply a surfeit of emotion? “I do swear it.”
    â€œThen receive the mark of your allegiance,” the captain intoned. So saying he brought forward the staff, inclining the gilded pommel towards Eamon.
    As it came closer Eamon saw that an eagle was marked upon it. Its wings were spread wide and its head bowed down as it devoured a serpent. It was the mark of the Master; it was the mark Eamon would take as his own.
    Eamon watched the staff hanging in the air before him and slowly reached out towards it. The crown stitched on his jacket felt heavy on him; the emblem of the Gauntlet seemed then like an empty cage.
    He faltered. The eagle stared back at him, beckoning him to touch it; but something in his very soul railed against it.
    To serve in the Gauntlet was to protect the River Realm and its people. That had been his desire since his earliest childhood. He had always wanted this; why should a moment undo him?
    He mastered himself. “I swear,” he said, and laid his bare hand over the eagle.
    Suddenly the metal became hot and seared his skin. Eamon gasped in alarm and wanted to cry out, but something greater thralled him to silence. He felt something – unknown, but swift and terrible – flowing into his throbbing veins; his whole blood seemed on fire with its consuming poison. What was happening to him?
    Though he strained to tear his hand away he found that he could not move; yet to all outward eyes he would appear a feeling man sensing a moment of deep devotion to the Master.
    Suddenly the pommel was shorn from his hand. Eamon nearly recoiled but Belaal laid a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him immobile as if by some other will. The captain smiled as First Lieutenant Ellis set the pin at Eamon’s throat.
    â€œThus are you sworn,” Belaal said. “Rise, Ensign Eamon Goodman; you belong to the Master.”
    Belaal removed his hand, and strength returned to Eamon’s limbs. Quickly he got to his feet and stared at the captain. His eyes felt dry and sore, yet he thought that he could see too sharply; things seemed unnaturally bright. He looked across at Ladomer, but his friend smiled – a broad, encompassing smile that showed no knowledge of what had happened.
    What had happened?
    Slowly, uncertain and driven by Belaal’s gaze, he saluted and turned to leave the platform. As he passed the next cadet who was to kneel he almost reached out to stop him, but the cry of his heart was not matched by the will of his limbs. He simply kept on walking to join the line of new ensigns.
    During the following hour he stood and watched young men that he had trained with kneel and touch the pommel. Outwardly he rejoiced – but inwardly he writhed.
    When at last the ceremony was over he endured the congratulations of the townsfolk as long as could be deemed reasonably polite. Though he searched the crowd for Aeryn, he did not find her, and Ladomer, evidently having business to attend to, was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what else he could do, he left as soon as he was able.
    Night was beginning to fall when he found himself beyond the college walls. Sounds of merriment emanated from taverns filled to the brim with new ensigns drinking to their achievement.
    It seemed an alien celebration to Eamon; his hand ached still, his veins throbbed, and the pin at his collar seemed like a hangman’s noose about his neck.
    He had joined the Gauntlet. He should have been rejoicing, but his heart was empty. And still his palm burned.
    Angrily he stopped under a lantern and stared at his right hand. It was difficult to see in the swinging light but as his eyes adjusted his palm came gradually into focus. Suddenly he staggered, sick to the stomach.
    It was faint, and perhaps no man apart from him would ever be able to see it, but on his palm he bore the shape of the eagle. It glared back at him with mocking, dreadful jubilance.
    Eamon reeled. He bore the mark of the Master in his flesh.
    He