The Spirit Wilds: Magic of the Green Sage (Fall of the Sages Book 1), стр. 22

“I do, sir.”

“Do you pledge to carry this burden until the end of your days, or until you are physically unable to do so?”

“I do, sir.”

His father paused for but a moment, taking a deep breath. “Then I dub thee Dame Marcella Bather, Knight of the Red Flame.” He brought his sword down and tapped her from shoulder to shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Rise, Dame Bather.”

Marcella stood and faced the rest of the assembled. She had a smile as wide and bright as the sun. Her eyes glistened with tears. Sir Nogrund came up behind her, wincing ever-so-slightly from his injuries, and draped her new knight cloak around her shoulders. Ruby red, thick wool, with magical stitching supposedly enchanted by the Sage of the Sun herself, it could turn back most attacks from spirits. It was a very important symbol of the knights.

As Marcella clutched her cloak tight around her, she let out a laugh of pure joy, and the hall erupted into applause. When the noise died down after a few seconds, Vanter Vane called the next squire.

“Ollo Nevanson.”

And the rites were repeated to him and then Evan, who had recovered enough to attend. Neither managed to hold back tears as they waved and bowed to the crowds, who cheered the brothers on when they were given their cloaks. Dorrick’s heart swelled with pride as his friends got their just desserts. He knew better than anyone how hard they’d all worked for this.

Finally, it was his turn. “Dorrick Vane.”

Dorrick went forward, chin held high, eyes straight ahead on the steps to the dais. He had to think to put one foot in front of the other. Gods, why am I so nervous? Was it because he was finally achieving something that he’d worked his whole life for? That he’d suffered and fought and bled and sweat for? It was a dream that he was finally about to achieve, and he could still hardly believe it.

He stood before his father, gave him a slight nod, then took a knee. The commander read him his Oaths of Knighthood and he answered each with a strong I do, sir. He could hardly feel his lips move or hear the words he was speaking. It was like he was outside of his body, watching himself receive this honor. So surreal. Was this a dream?

No… No, it had to be real.

His father held his gaze for a long time, long enough for the silence to grow heavy in the room, before he finally smirked and passed the sword over Dorrick’s head from shoulder to shoulder.

“I dub thee Sir Dorrick Vane, Knight of the Red Flame. Rise, Sir Vane.”

Dorrick couldn’t contain his smile. His heart beat so loudly that he could hardly hear himself think. He was sure he was sweating, his skin glistening in the light, stains showing on his uniform for all to see. But he didn’t care. He’d done it. He was a knight. I am a knight!

Sir Nogrund came to place the cloak on him, but his father sheathed his sword and stopped him. “No, let me do it,” he said, only loud enough for the three of them to hear. Ba-dum. Dorrick’s heart slammed against his chest as his father gave him a sincere smile and draped the cloak around his shoulders. The cloak was heavy and warm, but it felt just right—perfect on his shoulders, like it was always meant to be there, like it was a piece of him that had been missing and was now found.

“You did well, Dorrick,” his father whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

I’m proud of you.

Dorrick almost fainted. Those were the words he’d wanted to hear for so long. And now there they were. Floating in his ears and into his heart and making his body hum and sing. He and his father faced the Great Hall as it exploded into a choir of applause. Marcella may have been the loudest. Dorrick, like his friends, couldn’t hold back his tears.

This was all he’d ever wanted, and it felt even better than he could have ever imagined.

The feast was a blur of drinking and smiles and laughter and handshakes and pats on the back. Dorrick couldn’t remember ever being so happy. He, a knight at last with his red cloak. His father, finally proud of him, not filled with contempt. He had everything he’d worked so hard for.

And he aimed to celebrate it.

The feasts of a knighting were always a joyous occasion. Though normally knights were held to a sense of modesty and decorum, they could let loose at the feasts. Drinks were drunk by the barrel. Enough food was eaten to feed the entire city. Songs were sung, and dances were danced.

Dorrick wasn’t a dancer—he’d rarely had reason to, even at past celebrations—but when Marcella came to him, cheeks as flushed with drink as his, smiled, and pulled him to his feet, he wasn’t going to deny her.

They danced fast and wild and full of joy, and so did all their friends and everyone around him. He even saw Sir Nogrund and the other captains enjoying themselves, though they seemed a bit more muted and relaxed. His father looked as stoic as ever, but Dorrick noticed his lips twitch up into the ghost of a smile once or twice.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The song they were dancing to ended and then went into a new one, a slow ballad. Knights and squires alike began to partner up, while others went to the peripheries to hit the kegs once more. Dorrick was about to do that, but Marcella wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave, Vane,” she said with a mischievous lilt to her voice.

He blushed. “I-I would never dream of leaving you, Chella,”

She grinned wide, which made his heart race. “Good, you better not.”

He put his arms around her hips, and they danced and danced, slow and