Divided Allegiance

22

Marshal-General Arianya headed the table; three High Marshals, two paladins, and five Marshals (three attached to granges, and two from the college itself) completed the conference.

“Will that new yeoman be ready to test for the Midwinter Feast, Arianya?” asked the oldest of the group, Marshal Juris of Mooredge grange.

“I think so. She says she’s well enough now, but the surgeons don’t want her fighting for another few days.”

“That would look good,” muttered High Marshal Connaught, Knight-Marshal of the Order of Gird. “Nothing like a candidate fainting in the ceremony.”

“She won’t faint,” said the Marshal-General firmly. Someone chuckled softly, thinking of it, and she frowned around the table.

“It’s not that often we bring new yeomen in here,” she reminded them. “It’s serious to her—”

“I know that,” said Marshal Kory, the Archivist. “It just slipped out, Marshal-General.”

“Very well. And while we’re on the subject, I would like to suggest something else.”

“What you and Amberion were chatting about yesterday?” asked Marshal Juris. “If it’s what I think, I’m against it.”

The Marshal-General glared at him. “You might at least give me a chance to present the idea, Juris.” He waved his hand. She glanced around the table. “You know we’re desperately short of paladins—” They nodded. “I have word from Marshal Calith down in Horngard that Fenith was killed a few months ago.”

A stir ran around the table. Several of the Marshals glanced at the two paladins, who stared ahead and met no eyes. Fenith had been Amberion’s close friend, and Saer was his great-niece.

“We need to select a large class of candidates, if we can: the paladins in residence here agree that they can each take on two candidates—”

“Is that necessary?” Juris broke in, looking from face to face.

“I think so.” The Marshal-General spread a short parchment in front of her, and ran her hand down the page. “Juris, for the past two hundred years or so, the Fellowship of Gird has had from twenty to thirty paladins recorded at a time. Those on quest vary from fifteen to twenty-five at any one time. We now have on quest only five—” She waited for the murmurs to cease, nodded, and went on. “You see? And here in Fin Panir we have only seven who can take on candidates for training. As you know, any of these may be called away at any time. If we can find fourteen candidates—two for each training paladin—it will still be well over a year before any of those are ready to go. And in the meantime, we have no one to train a backup class—”

“I think we should feather that,” said Marshal Kory. “If we chose seven now, then they might progress faster, having more of the paladins’ time. In a half-year or so, choose more. Then we’d get a few out faster, and have more coming along.”

The Marshal-General nodded. “That’s a good idea—Amberion, what do you think?”

“I like that better than taking on two novices at once,” said Amberion. “But I don’t know if that will shorten the time any. Remember that each candidate has had, by tradition, all the time a single paladin-sponsor can give. We dare not test these candidates any less because times are desperate. It is in desperate times that we need most to be sure of them.”

“What list do we have?” asked High Marshal Connaught.

“A short one.” The Marshal-General rubbed her nose. “I sent word to all the granges last spring, when Fenith wrote that Aarenis would be at war by summer. We talked of this last year, remember? But we’ve lost eight paladins in the past year—”

“Eight!”

She nodded gravely. “Yes. We all know that great evil has been moving in Aarenis and the Westmounts. Nearer home, we have seen outbreaks again in eastern Tsaia. Some reports indicate serious trouble in Lyonya. Marshal Cedfer, of Brewersbridge, reported that a priest of Achrya had been laired between his grange and the gnome kingdom nearby. Apparently he had preyed on nearby farms and caravans using spellbound robbers.”

“They’d say they were spellbound,” muttered Juris.

“That may be, of course. I have only his report to go by. But Brewersbridge has been a healthy community for years—since Long Stones, at least. If Achrya can have a priest there, where else may we not expect trouble?”

“What happened to the paladins, Amberion?” asked Marshal Kory.

“We are still finishing the reports for the archives, Marshal,” said Amberion slowly. “Chenin Hoka—he was from Horngard originally; he hadn’t been north of the mountains for years—was killed by Liart’s command, in Sibili, during the assault on that city—”

“I thought that’s where Fenith was.”

“He was there, yes. Chenin was taken some time earlier, while helping a grange near Pliuni defend itself; a witness thought he was dead. But Siniava’s troops got him to Sibili, to the temple—and he was killed, finally, after long torments.” Amberion said nothing more, and silence filled the room. Then he sighed, and began again. “I knew him, when I was a candidate; that was the last time he was north. He knocked me flat, I remember, and I lay there wondering why I’d ever wanted to be a paladin. Anyway. Doggal of Vérella was lost at sea; he was sailing east along the Immerhoft coast. He’d told a Girdsman at Sul that he had a call to come north. The ship was seen going onto reefs near Whiteskull, and his body was recovered some days later. We have no reason to doubt the identification. Garin Garrisson was killed in battle at Sibili; Fenith saw that. The two of them were holding light against a darkness cast by Liart’s ranking priest. A crossbow bolt got him in the eye. Arianya Perrisdotter held a daskdraudigs away from a caravan in one of the mountain passes in the Dwarfwatch, but it fell on her in the end. Tekki Hakinier was apparently killed by a band of forest sprites—whatever they call them in Dzordanya. The only word we have is from a witness that says he was ‘stuffed with pine needles like a pin-pig,’ which I suppose is what they call a hedgehog.”

“No.” Marshal Kory shook his head. “No, a pin-pig is bigger and lives in trees. They call it that because its flesh is sweet like pork. It sounds like those mikki-kekki—they come in waves, hundreds at a time. But what was he doing up there?”

Amberion shrugged. “I didn’t know he was there until we got the word he’d been killed. The witness said something about a varkingla of the long houses of Stokki, whatever that means.”

Kory nodded. “It means Stokki’s clan thought they had to move somewhere, the whole bunch. That’s not common. Tekki was Dzordanyan, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I would guess that they asked his protection, to move the clan through the forest, and the mikki-kekki didn’t cooperate. They usually don’t.”

“Have you ever seen one?” asked the Marshal-General.

“Oh yes. When I was a rash boy, my three cousins and I sailed across the Honnorgat to visit Dzordanya. That was the plan, at least. My uncle had told us we couldn’t sail across the river like that; of course we thought he was just trying to spoil our fun.”

“Why can’t you?” asked Saer, speaking for the first time.

“You’re from the mountains, aren’t you, Saer? Yes. Well, any time you sail across the river, you’ve got its current to consider, just like rowing. But at the mouth of the Honnorgat, it’s that and the tide and the sea current, all together. The short of it is that we ended up a long way up the coast. We couldn’t even see Prealith any more. The way the current set, we couldn’t sail back without going far out to sea. We may have been rash, but we had more sense that that, to sail a skin boat out of all sight of land. We thought we’d walk back along the shore, carrying the boat, until we got to the Honnorgat.”

“Carrying a boat?” Saer was clearly skeptical.

“Skin boat. Not as heavy as you’d think. Hard work, though, with the sail and lines and all. Anyway, the forest in Dzordanya comes right down to the sea—and I mean all the way. You can walk with one foot in the waves, and slam into limbs. With a boat, we had to weave in and out as we could. Not easy. Halory, my oldest cousin, thought we should climb onto level ground, back in the forest, and go that way. Seemed a good idea to me. I’d nearly had my eye poked out by too many twigs already, trying to watch my footing.

“For a time everything went well. Not too much undergrowth, just tall dark firs and spruce, spaced so we could make it between them with the boat. Then we heard the first voices.”

“The sprites?”

“Mikki-kekki. Nasty whispers, that you couldn’t quite identify. Squeaks, little cries like someone sitting on a hot tack. I started to feel my neck sweat, and so did the others. Halory tried to hurry us, and we fell right into one of their traps. A sort of cone-shaped pit, lined with pine needles, and slippery as grease. We’d hardly caught our breath when they were all around it, chittering at us. They’re much less than dwarf-tall, with greenish fur all over, and very long arms with long-fingered hands. It was the boat that saved us. When they started with their darts, we got under it and shook.”

“What do they use, bows?”

“No. A sort of tube. They blow into it, and the dart flies out. They throw them by hand, too. The darts are poisoned, usually. Inory, my middle cousin, was hit by one and though he lived he was sick for weeks. That night we thought he’d die. If it hadn’t been for some clan’s longhouse nearby—their sentries heard the mikki-kekki laughing and taunting us—I wouldn’t be here. They drove them off, and pulled us out. It was two days before we got home, and my uncle—well, you can imagine.” Kory shook his head.

“Well,” said Amberion, “now we know about mikki-kekki.” He went on with his list. “Sarin Inerith went into Kostandan, as you know, because we had word that Girdsmen were held in slavery there. Her head returned to Piery grange: we have no idea what happened, where, or how. Jori of Westbells finally died of the lungfever that’s plagued him these four years. And Fenith, as you heard, died in Horngard.”

“What of the current candidates? Don’t we have any who will finish this year?” That was High Marshal Suriest, Knight-Marshal of the Order of the Cudgel.

“At best we may have five this year, Amberion tells me. Kosta has withdrawn his candidacy, and transferred to the Marshal Hall. Dort withdrew. Pelis may withdraw. And of course we don’t know what will happen in the Trials. Because we had so few paladins here to train, we don’t have any scheduled for the following year; we would have had Elis, but she had to leave, as you remember. She may be back, but not soon enough.”

“Which leave us with the new list—what have we got?”

The Marshal-General shifted the papers in front of her, and glanced at another one. “We’ve talked over most of these before. Are you still opposed to the Verrakai squire, Amberion?”

He nodded. “Marshal-General, we cannot define the problem, but we would not be happy with him.”

“Nor I,” said High Marshal Connaught. “Look at the time we put in on Pelo Verrakai, and what came of that!”

“Well, then, as I see it we’ve got five good candidates. Four in the knight’s classes, and Seddith, the Marshal we spoke of last time.”

“And we need seven.”

“And we need as many as we can find,” said the Marshal-General. “Now—”

“I know what you’re leading up to,” interrupted Juris. “You want to include that new yeoman.”

“What!” High Marshal Suriest turned his head; Connaught snorted. The Marshal-General held up her hand, and they all quieted.

“Juris, you could have let me say it—but yes, I do. Before you say anything, consider. She’s a veteran of the Aarenis wars—”

“That’s a recommendation?” But Kory subsided when the Marshal-General looked at him.

“We had a report from Fenith about her; he thought she should be considered a possibility if she ever joined the Fellowship. Marshal or paladin, he said. Cedfer reports that she freed the elfane taig, in the mountains southeast of Brewersbridge. He checked that report with full elves—and so have I, here. Also she cleared out that nest of robbers, and was able to fight the Achyran priest alongside Cedfer’s yeoman-marshal. As far as weapons-skills, she heads the list. Since she’s been here, Chanis reports that she has worked hard on everything we’ve thrown at her. She’s even shown skill in teaching; Cedfer reported that from Brewersbridge, and I’ve seen how the other students follow her here.”

“It’s too soon, Marshal-General,” said Juris, and several other heads nodded. “I grant she may be what you say, but what do we know of her as a Girdsman? Nothing. She’s not even a member of the Fellowship yet. How can you think of giving this honor to an outsider?”

“But she won’t be an outsider after she takes her vows,” said the Marshal-General.

“No, but—” Juris squirmed in his seat. “I know we need candidates. But we need the best candidates. We need to be sure they’re strong Girdsmen first, and then—”

“Watch them get spitted by better fighters?” The Marshal-General’s voice sharpened. “Right now this outsider, as you call her, can outfight most of the Marshals here, unless they use their powers. I’ve seen her—Amberion has seen her—ask Cieri.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Juris.

“He will be—he had a problem.” The Marshal-General folded her hands on the table. “Juris, I know it’s not usual. But we haven’t found anything wrong with her. Gird knows we’ve tested, prodded, tried—Cieri had to set her up for days to make her lose her temper even once. And then she agreed she was wrong. Of course she’s not perfect—no one is. Of course we wish she’d been Girdish all along, come up through the grange training. But allowing for that, she’s the best candidate on the list. And if anything is amiss, it will come out in the stress of training, or in the trials. It’s not that we’re choosing her over someone else—we haven’t got anyone else.”

Juris shook his head. “Arianya, you’re wrong—and I don’t think I can convince you. Suppose she is a potential paladin, that Gird will approve and call. But right now what she is, is a good soldier and a novice Girdsman. I don’t care if she knows all the answers, can recite the Ten Fingers backwards and forwards: she hasn’t experienced a grange. If she’s so good, send her to me—or to another grange—for a half-year. Let’s see how she does as a yeoman among yeomen. We’ve had unpleasant surprises before.”

“Gird’s gut, may the ale hold out! If I had a half-year, Juris, I’d send her. But we don’t have it.”

The argument went on some time, but the shortage of paladins won over caution. “We must have the candidates,” said the Marshal-General finally. “We must. She will be with the others here, under our protection. Unless you can suggest a better, Juris, I must insist—”

“All right.” He frowned, sucking his cheeks, but finally nodded. “All right, then. But be sure you do ward her, Marshal-General. Don’t rush that one through the training. She’s not a knight yet, remember, and she’s never had that sort of training.”

Paks, called to the Marshal-General’s office, knew nothing of the argument. She expected to be told more details of the ceremony that would make her a Girdsman. She found the Marshal-General, the Knights-Marshal of both orders, and a stranger waiting for her.

“Paksenarrion, there are High Marshal Connaught, High Marshal Suriest, and Sir Amberion, a paladin of Gird presently attached to the Training Order. Please sit here.”

Paks sat where she was told, her heart pounding. What now? Was she suspected of something so bad that it would take two High Marshals and a paladin to deal with it?

“You have not changed your mind about joining the Fellowship?” asked the Marshal-General.

“No, Marshal-General.”

“You are ready to accept Gird as your patron, as you now accept the High Lord’s dominion?”

“Yes, Marshal-General.”

“Do you feel any particular—um—call, such as we have talked about in the past days?”

Paks frowned. “Marshal-General, I have felt something, something I could not define, for some time. It began in Aarenis, when I was still in Duke Phelan’s Company. I felt the need for a different kind of fighting—but I’m not good with words, Marshal-General. I don’t know how to say what I feel, but that here it seems right. I feel that it’s right for me to join the Fellowship of Gird; I feel that here I will find the right way to be the fighter I always wanted to be.”

“You told Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge that you didn’t want to fight for gold alone—you wanted to fight against ‘bad things.’ Is that still true?”

Paks nodded. “Yes, Marshal-General.”

“Paksenarrion, I have talked to Marshal Chanis and Marshal Cieri about your progress, and with these High Marshals and Sir Amberion about that and your past. They needed to hear what you have said from your own mouth.” She looked at the others. “Well?”

One by one they nodded. Paks watched their faces, confused. What could she have said that was wrong? The Marshal-General tapped her fingers on her desk. Paks looked back to her.

“Paksenarrion, you must know—there’s no way you couldn’t know—that you are one of the best young fighters in the training company. Cedfer was right to send you. You can qualify easily for either of the knightly orders, if that’s what you want.” She paused, and Paks held her breath. The Marshal-General resumed. “Or—there is another possibility. Ordinarily I would not make this offer to someone who is not yet a Girdsman—in fact, ordinarily it comes only to those of proven service to Gird. But from the reports I’ve received, Gird has accepted as service several of your deeds in the past. The Training Council has agreed to it. So—would you accept an appointment as a paladin candidate?”

Paks felt her mouth open. She could not speak or move for an instant of incredulous joy. She saw amusement on their faces, felt her ears flaming again. “Me?” she finally squeaked, in a voice very unlike her own. She swallowed and tried again. “You mean—me? A—a paladin candidate?”

“You,” said the Marshal-General, now smiling. “Now—this is not an order; if you don’t feel you can say yes, then refuse. We will not hold it against you—indeed, there are those who think you need more experience.”

“But—but I’m so young!” Paks could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Her heart was moving again, bounding, and she felt she could float out of her chair. “I—”

“You are young, yes; and you will be a novice yeoman, which is worse. But if we didn’t think you could be a paladin, Paksenarrion, we would not suggest this.” The Marshal-General turned to Amberion. “Sir Amberion, you might just tell her what the training is like, while she considers this.”

Paks turned to the paladin, a tall, dark-haired man somewhat younger than the Marshal-General by his looks. His open smile was infectious. “Paksenarrion, paladin-candidates receive training simultaneously as knights and as Gird’s warriors. Each candidate is attached to one of the knightly orders, but spends much of his or her time with a paladin sponsor. The training is lengthy and intensive; the candidate must be tested in many ways, for any weakness could open a passage for evil. And even then, the candidate may fail, for the final Trials require proof that the gods have bestowed on the new paladin those powers which paladins must have. Of the few who begin this training, more than half never become paladins.”

“It means, as well,” said the Marshal-General, “giving up all thought of an independent life. Paladins are sworn to Gird’s service; they own nothing but their own gear, and must go wherever Gird commands, on whatever quest Gird requires. For many, these restrictions are too onerous; even we Marshals have more freedom. So we do not expect that all to whom we offer candidacy will take it—or complete the training—and we respect those who withdraw no less than those who go on.”

Paks tried to control her excitement, but she could not think of anything but her oldest dreams. Paladin. It meant shining armor, and magic swords, and marvelous horses that appeared from nowhere on the day of the Trials. It meant old songs of great battles, bright pictures in her mind like that of the paladin under the walls of Sibili, all brightness and grace and courage. Another picture moved in her mind, herself on a shining horse, riding up the lane from Three Firs to her father’s farm, with children laughing and cheering alongside. Her mother smiled and wept; her brothers gaped; her father, astonished, finally admitted he had been wrong, and asked her pardon. She blinked at that unlikely vision, and returned to hear the Marshal-General saying something about opportunities to change her mind later. But her mind would never change, she vowed. When the Marshal-General paused, she spoke.

“I am honored, Marshal-General; please let me try.”

The others looked at each other, then back to her.

“You are sure, Paksenarrion?”

“Yes, Marshal-General—if you are. I can’t believe it—” She fought back a delighted laugh, and saw by their faces that they knew it. “Me—a sheepfarmer’s daughter—a paladin-candidate!”

Now they laughed, gently. “Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal-General, “we are pleased that you accept the challenge. Now let me explain why we are taking a chance on hurrying you.” Quickly she outlined the situation: the shortage of paladins, the growing assaults of evil power in several areas. “You see, we must replenish the ranks—as fast as we can—or risk having no paladins to train new ones.”

“How long does the training take?” asked Paks.

“It depends in part on the candidate’s previous status. For you, it means becoming a knight first, and then a paladin—more than a year, likely two years. It means some isolation—paladin candidates withdraw from the main training order, sometimes for months at a time, for meditation and individual instruction. Not all the candidates progress at the same rate. Do not be surprised if someone finishes before or after you who begins the same night.”

“We will be taking the vows of the new candidates the same night you become a Girdsman,” said the Marshal-General. “This is unusual—as I said—but I feel that it is even more important for your vows to be public. Then—if anything happens—” But Paks was determined that nothing would happen—everything would go well. At that moment, she would have done anything they asked, for the sheer joy of having a chance to prove herself a worthy paladin-candidate.

She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she went down. As she came through the arch to head for her quarters, she nearly ran into Argalt. She had spent a couple of evenings with him and his friends at a nearby tavern. He grinned at her.

“Well—so you haven’t been sent away, eh?”

“No.” Paks felt like bouncing up and down. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him; they had said nothing about keeping her selection secret.

“It must be good news. How about sharing a pitcher later?”

“I can’t.” Paks couldn’t contain it any longer. “I have so much to do—you won’t believe it, Argalt!”

“What—did they select you for paladin-candidate, now you’re joining the Fellowship?”

Paks felt her jaw drop. “Did you know?”

He laughed. “No—but it’s what I would do. Well, now, sheepfarmer’s daughter, I’m glad for you. And you so stiff when you came—remember what I said?”

“Yes—yes, I do.” Paks threw back her head in glee. “I have to go—I have things—”

“To do, yes. I heard. I’ll be watching you, now. You’d better show us something.”

Paks had never imagined Midwinter Feast in Fin Panir. Back home, it had meant a huge roast of mutton, sweet cakes, and the elders telling tales around the fire. In the Duke’s Company, plenty of food and drink, speeches from the captains and the Duke, and a day of games and music. Here, the outer court erupted at first light with all the juniors starting a snow battle. Paks took one look at the fortifications, and decided that they must have stayed out half the night building them. When the Training Master came out to quell the riot, he was captured, rolled in the snow, and rescued only when Paks led the seniors in an assault on the largest snow-fort. But by then he had agreed (as, she found later, was the custom) that the juniors had the right to demand toll of everyone—of any rank—crossing the court. Those who refused to pay were pelted with snowballs; some were even caught and held for ransom. The day was clear, after several days of snow, and no one could possibly sneak across the yard undetected.

The feasting started with breakfast. In place of porridge and cold meat, the cooks offered sweet cakes dipped in honey, gingerbread squares, hot sausages wrapped in dough and fried, and “fried snow,” a lacy-looking confection Paks had never seen. All day long the tables were heaped with food, replenished as it was eaten. And all day long the feasters came and went, from one wild winter game to another.

Paks had been told that she was free until midafternoon. With that, she joined a group that rode bareback out onto the snowy practice fields, where they jousted with blunt poles until only one remained mounted. Paks lost her pole early, but managed to stay on the black horse for most of the game, winning her bouts by clever dodges, and a quick straight-arm. She did not recognize the woman who finally shoved her off into a snowdrift; she floundered there, laughing so hard she could not work her way out for several minutes. After this, they tried to ride in a long line, all holding hands and guiding the horses with their legs. Soon they were all in the snow again, and after another few tricks they came back for more food.

Now the tables held roasts and breads as well as sweets. Paks piled her plate with roast pork and mutton, a half-loaf of bread yellow with eggs. Four juniors staggered in, their faces bright red with cold. Behind them came the dwarves she had met, eyes gleaming. They saw her, waved, and came to sit across from her.

“Is it that you have recovered, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter of Three Firs?” asked Balkis.

“Yes, indeed,” said Paks. “But the surgeons didn’t want me fighting until after today.”

“Ah, we have heard that you make adoption into the Fellowship,” said Balkis, stuffing a leg of chicken into his mouth. “This will make it that you are blood-bound to the others, is it not?”

Before Paks could answer, the woman who had dumped her in the snow slipped into a chair beside her, and answered the dwarves. “No—it is not that, rockbrothers. Ask not the child of the father’s business.” To Paks’s surprise, both dwarves blushed. She looked at the woman in surprise.

“You’re the one who—”

“Yes.” The woman grinned as she took a sweet cake from a tray. “I’m the one who dumped you. I’m Cami, by the way—that’s what everyone calls me, but my real name is Rahel, if you need it.” She said something in dwarvish to the dwarves; Balkis looked startled, but the darker dwarf burst into laughter. Paks eyed her. Cami (or Rahel) was small and dark, a quick-moving woman who reminded Paks a little of Canna.

“Why are you called Cami if your name is Rahel?” asked Paks.

“Oh that. Well, it started when I came here. They used to tease me that I should have been Camwyn’s paladin instead of Gird’s—”

“You’re a paladin?” Paks had not thought of any paladin being so light-hearted; Cami seemed almost frivolous.

“Yes.” Cami stuffed the rest of the cake into her mouth, and then spoke through it. “It was what I did when I was young and wild. I won’t tell you; you don’t need ideas like that. But they started calling me Camwynya, only that was too long, and then Cami. You’re a candidate, right?”

“After tonight,” said Paks.

“I thought so. It’s good that you know these rockbrothers already—”

“I don’t, really—” began Paks, but Cami shushed her.

“Better than many do, I can tell. Balkis Baltisson, I will speak no more dwarvish, for this lady knows it not, but it is not the blood-bond of brethren that she joins this night.”

“Not? How so? It is the Fellowship of Gird.”

“Yes. The Fellowship is the blood-bond of Gird with each yeoman, sir dwarf; not each with the other.”

“But it is that brother of brother is brother,” insisted the dwarf. “It is that makes the clan-bond, the blood-bond.”

“It is that for dwarves,” said Cami. “For man it is other. The bond is like that of the Axemaster for each member of the clan, not between members.”

“It is not possible to have one without the other,” said Balkis, his eyes flashing. “If the Axemaster accepts adoption from any outlander, the outlander is blood-bound to the clan. All of it.”

Cami shot Paks a quick look. “Paks, no one has ever convinced dwarves of this—and I won’t—but I’ll keep trying.” But now the second dwarf spoke for the first time.

“Lady Cami, you know me, Balkon son of Tekis son of Kadas, mother-son of Fedrin Harasdotter, sister-son he of the Goldenaxe, but to this lady I have not spoken in my own name.” His voice was higher than Paks expected when speaking Common, midrange for a man, but much higher than Balkis’s.

Cami nodded politely, and Paks copied her, wondering if she should state her own name again.

“You say this lady is to be paladin as you are?”

“Yes,” said Cami, with another quick look to Paks.

“Last time we saw Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, she had hurt of an axe, and no healing of Marshal. That I thought was disgrace, or punishment. To be candidate must be honor, is it not? Why this then?”

Now it was Paks’s turn to blush. She did not know how much Cami knew of the whole situation. But someone had to explain.

“Sir—sir dwarf,” she began, copying Cami’s style of address, “I said then it was not unfairness of the Marshal—”

“But we thought it so. It might be you did not know, being nedross.” At that word, Cami choked on her food, and shook a finger at the dwarves. Paks, confused, waited for a moment, then went on.

“It was not unfairness. I told you they thought I had taken value from them in training, and had not returned value.” Now they nodded, and she hurried on. “So they said if I wished to stay I must make a commitment; I was willing to make it, even if they did not let me stay, for the truth I felt of it.”

“Truth.” Balkon looked at her sharply. “It is that you have that power to see truth itself?”

“She might,” interrupted Cami. “And not even know it. Nedross, indeed!”

“What is that?” asked Paks.

“I hope,” said Cami severely, “that they’re using it in the gnome sense, unwilling or unable to see insult, and not in the dwarf sense of cowardly.”

Both dwarves burst into speech, protesting.

“It is not that we—”

“That is not what we—”

Balkon shushed his friend, and continued. “Lady Cami, Lady Paksenarrion, we did not think that this lady, this lady who would use an axe, would be cowardly. No—only that it is not always the same for man and dwarf when words be said, that some should be taken and others not. If it is that we make mistakes, and think someone unfair to this fine lady, who would use an axe, Sertig’s first tool, then we ask pardon of the lady, but we are glad to see that she has honor now in this house, and is blood-bound to a clan we honor.”

Paks was thoroughly confused. Cami turned to her with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d advise you to accept their good wishes, and apologies, and be glad you have found dwarven friends. They truly did not mean to say you were cowardly.”

Paks smiled at them. “Sirs, I know not your words, but I thank you for your good wishes.”

They both grinned back. “That is very good,” said Balkon. “And if you wish to learn, we still will teach you what we know of axes.”

Paks nodded. “If I am permitted, in my training, I will ask it of you.”

“Paks!” Aris Marrakai had come up behind her, with several of his friends. He shuffled from one foot to another when she turned. “I—I brought you something.”

“Aris—you shouldn’t have—” Paks took from his hand a carefully worked leather pouch, fringed and decorated with tiny shells. “It must have cost—”

He shrugged. “Not that much. And anyway, Rufen told me that paladins never have any money and can’t buy things, and so I thought maybe you’d keep it and—and remember us.”

“I’d remember you anyway, Aris,” said Paks. “But thank you—I will treasure this.” She knew already what would go in it: Saben’s little red stone horse, and Canna’s medallion. Aris darted away; Paks met Cami’s eyes.

“It isn’t quite that bad,” said Cami. “We don’t get rich, but we can buy a fruit pie occasionally.”

“That’s good,” said Paks. “I like mushrooms, myself.”

“Then pray you aren’t assigned to the granges west of here for your grange duty,” said Cami, laughing. “Dry and high—not a mushroom for days and days.”

“When do we have grange duty?” asked Paks.

“Just before the Trials,” said Cami. “You may find it strange; you’ve never been in a normal grange, have you? No—then it’s even more important for you. We all must know what limits Marshals face, and granges, and not think because we are gifted with powers that it’s so easy for others.”

“Cami!” The hall was filling now, as more and more cold revellers came in for warmth and food. Paks was startled to see the Training Master grab Cami by both shoulders and hug her. “Gird’s right arm, I thought you were still in achael!”

“Through Midwinter Feast? Master Chanis, even the High Lord wouldn’t keep me in achael through the best day in the year!”

“I suppose not. Are you out, or just on leave?”

“Out. Gird’s grace for it, too; if I had missed Midwinter’s Feast, and the installation, I’d have burst something.”

“And are you fit to sing, Cami?” asked Sir Amberion, who had followed the Training Master into the hall. Cami looked at Paks.

“Ask Paksenarrion—I only dumped her a couple of times this morning.”

Paks could not help grinning. “Only once—”

“Ah, but who stuck her foot in your black’s ribs, in the line, to make him crowhop? And you flew off then, too.”

“Was that you?” Paks joined the roar of laughter.

“It was,” said Cami, “and I could do it again. Fit to sing? By the dragonstongue, I could sing and blow the lo-pipe at the same time.” Again laughter, and Paks saw someone scurry away, yelling that a lo-pipe was coming up. But as she watched Cami move a tray out of her way and settle onto the table, the Training Master touched her shoulder, and beckoned. Paks followed him away from the hall.

The rest of the day she spent in preparation for the night’s ceremonies. She had to change into the plain gray of the training company, but the steward handed her, as well, the white surcoat of a paladin-candidate. She would have to change hurriedly between ceremonies. Paks had lines to learn, and, like the Finthan youngsters who were making their final vows that night, she spent some time in the High Lord’s Hall in meditation. When spectators began arriving, the group was led away to a small bare room off one end. Paks felt her stomach tightening. Her mouth was dry. The others in this room were not the paladin candidates, but junior yeomen making their vows as senior yeomen—the honor of taking these vows at Midwinter Feast in the High Hall came to those whose grange Marshals had recommended them. Most were about the age Paks had been when she left home—eighteen or nineteen winters. They eyed her as nervously as she watched them.

The summons came with an ear-shattering blast of trumpets, as High Marshals Connaught and Suriest opened the door and called them out. The High Lord’s Hall was brilliantly lit by hundreds of candles. The spectators sat and stood on either side of the wide central aisle. With the others, Paks stood just below the platform. The trumpet music ended, followed by an interlude of harps. Then another trumpet fanfare introduced the Marshal-General, resplendent in a white surcoat over her armor, with Gird’s crescent embroidered in silver on the breast. Following her were the other High Marshals presently at Fin Panir, all in Gird’s blue and white. Behind them came those visitors who would be honored during the ceremonies: two Marshals of Falk, in long robes of ruby-red, with gold-decorated helms set in the crooks of their arms. A Swordmaster of Tir, in black and silver; Paks remembered the device on his arms from Aarenis. Last of all came the seven paladins resident and whole of limb in Fin Panir, each in full armor, carrying Gird’s pennant.

Paks watched them come up the aisle, her heart pounding with excitement and joy. This was exactly what she had thought about in Three Firs—the music, the brilliant colors—she tried to take a long breath and calm down. She recognized Sir Amberion and Lady Cami, but none of the other paladins. They mounted the platform behind her, and she heard the footsteps move away to its far side. Then the trumpets were still, and the Marshal-General’s clear voice called out the ancient greeting:

“I call the light!” came the response from every voice. It seemed to shake the air.

Paks half-listened, knowing the words better than any other she’d heard from the Marshal-General. Just so had her grandfather said them, when she was small, and just so her father had said them, the last Midwinter Feast she was at home.

With the others, she gave the response. And together they all completed the ritual, raising first one hand then the other, and finally both, to defy sundeath and greet the sun.

This would be repeated between every segment of the ceremonies, until sunrise the next dawn. Paks remembered falling asleep, year after year—and the first year that she had managed to stay awake, the last year of her grandfather’s life, to light the first morning fire with new wood. For with sundown, all fires were destroyed—to show respect, her grandfather had said, and to prove their courage to endure. Here, too, the fires went out when the sun fell, to be kindled at daybreak. Only those desperately ill were allowed a fire on Midwinter Night.

“Yeomen of Gird,” said the High Marshal then, and Paks pulled her mind back to the ceremony. “We have with us those who seek to join the Fellowship of Gird; by our ancient customs we will test them in their steadfastness, and you will witness their vows.”

“By Gird’s grace,” came the response. Paks felt her neck prickle. She was suddenly cold, and wanted to rub her arms.

“Stand forth, you who would swear fealty to the Fellowship of Gird,” said the Marshal-General. With those on her side of the aisle, Paks faced toward the center of the Hall. One at a time they would mount those steps and face a Marshal for the ritual exchange of blows. Paks suspected that in her case it might be something more than a ritual. Her leg itched; she resisted the urge to rub it on her other leg.

Before she had time to worry, she heard her name. All at once she felt eager, and went up the steps quickly. To the questions she made response firmly: she acknowledged Gird as the High Lord’s servant, the patron of fighters, the protector of the helpless. She swore to keep the Code of Gird, and obey “all Marshals and lawful authority over you.” And then the questioner stepped back, and she faced the Marshal-General, who held out two identical staves.

Paks took one, with an internal prayer that she wouldn’t look too foolish. The Marshal-General smiled, feinted, and aimed a smashing blow at her. Paks rolled aside, countering as best she could. The power of the Marshal-General’s blows carried all the way up her arms. Ritual exchange of blows indeed, thought Paks. The staves rattled. She took a blow on the thigh, and managed to touch the Marshal-General’s arm with a leftover move that carried little sting. Then her staff seemed to twitch in her hands and go flying through the air; the Marshal-General’s staff tapped her head firmly before she could dodge. And the Marshal-General stepped back, bowed, and greeted her.

“Welcome, yeoman of Gird, to Gird’s grange.” As she spoke, she placed a Gird’s medallion over Paks’s head.

Paks bowed as she had been instructed. “I am honored, Marshal-General, to be accepted in Gird’s Fellowship.” Then, dismissed, she left the platform and moved to a space behind it, where the Training Master waited to help her on with the candidate’s surcoat and her new Gird’s medallion.

The paladin candidates were presented just before dawn, after ceremonies honoring Marshals and paladins killed in the past year. It seemed to Paks a very plain affair: the candidates were simply named and shown to the spectators, and assigned to one of the knightly orders and a sponsoring paladin. After the events of the day before, Paks had hoped to get Cami as her sponsor, but instead Amberion led her before the crowd. Cami was sponsoring a yeoman-marshal from somewhere in the Westmounts, she heard later. Paks knew none of the candidates well, and only four of them at all; the others had been sent from distant granges after earlier selection.

She had one more day of freedom—for the second day of Midwinter Feast was as lively as the first—and fell into bed that night completely exhausted and as happy as she could ever remember being.