Knights Magi (Book 4) (42 page)

“Now you, Sir Rondal,” the castellan prompted, gesturing at his fellow apprentice.

“Me?” the boy asked, horrified.

“You must remember that being a knight also carries a social obligation,” Sire Cei prompted.  “You are expected to ever be a good companion and cheerful company.  At any time you may be asked by your superiors to provide entertainment.”

“The ancient order of professional knighthood, the Narasi Red Branch, would allow no initiate entrance unless he could prove a wholesome companion and also that he was an educated man,” Sir
Merendol added, pouring more of the strong ale into Rondal’s glass to prime him for the trial.  “Of course back then the knights were all illiterate, so the only way to prove their knowledge was to recite poems thousands of lines long without a single mistake.  Consider yourself blessed by the gods to be born in a more enlightened time.”

“You should always have at least one or two good songs and stories and poems
you know you can recite, and do so entertainingly.  Now is an excellent time to practice,” he said, taking some obvious pleasure in Rondal’s discomfort.  Tyndal was enjoying watching the boy squirm as well.  He knew Rondal disliked such attention.

“Sire Cei, I think—”

“I think it would be best if you began with something light and humorous,” Sir Merendol suggested, laughing.  “Leave the sad ballads for another time.”

Rondal looked like he had accidentally drank vinegar.  But there was no escaping it.  He sighed heavily and struggled to his feet.

“That’s the spirit, lad!” Baston said, grinning.  “What shall you sing?”

“A dirge, by the look of him!” called one of the patrons, a plowman getting deep in his cups.

“How about . . .
Rosafel
?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Aye, I know that one,”
Baston agreed, picking the popular tune out on his lute, repeating the chorus, and then nodding.

Rondal opened his mouth, a look of terror on his face . . . and he began to sing.  Tyndal held his breath in anticipation, half-expecting his rival to bellow like a donkey.  But when he began singing about the maid Rosafel and her lover lost in battle, after a hesitant start Tyndal was surprised to hear a strong, clear voice that sang with a certain passion.

Once again, Rondal had surpassed Tyndal’s expectations.

It was bad enough that they were sitting near to one of the classier pieces of enchantment Tyndal had ever seen – that bridge
was
impressive, especially as it was done long before Rondal went to Inarion – but to have him be put on the spot like that and . . . do really well, despite his fear of public attention, that was nearly insufferable.  To make matters worse, there were approving nods and smiles from the strangers in the crowd.  Strangers who didn’t know how irritating Rondal could be.

“Well done, lad!”
Baston boomed enthusiastically as the crowd applauded.  “I didn’t know you had a voice!”

“It’s only recently settled,”
Rondal admitted sheepishly.  “I’m glad I remembered the words.  I nearly considered singing a marching cadence.”

“Perhaps not the best choice for this venue,” Sire Cei nodded.  “You picked wisely.  Short, sweet, and well-delivered.  Your turn, Sir Tyndal.”

Tyndal stared at the knight, his mouth agape.  He had been so focused on Rondal’s potential failure that he had forgotten that he, too, might be expected to perform as well.  He scrambled desperately for something, anything, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember any song he knew well . . . or completely. 

“Well?  What shall I play, young master?” the innkeeper asked, smiling.

“Uh . . .” he searched his mind for inspiration . . . and with Briga’s blessing it came.  “Just an accompaniment,” he directed.  “For a poem.”

It was Rondal’s turn to look startled.  Tyndal knew he had a passable voice, and it seemed to be growing deeper by the day.  But he couldn’t think of a single song that would not embarrass him for not knowing it all the way through.  Poetry, on the other hand, need not be sung, and he happened to have a bit on store.

“First a little lighting,” he said, stepping into the role of a performer.  Unlike Rondal, he not only was not fearful of a crowd, he enjoyed the attention.  He cast a pale magelight overhead, bathing him in an unearthly glow.  He could see Rondal squirm at the showmanship.  “I wish to recite to you tonight the
Lay of Gessa and Lukando,
” he said, referencing an old Remeran ballad of unrequited love.  It was in a complicated verse form, and had some intricate wording.  It was not an easy thing to do from memory, even if one had studied it.

Tyndal had not studied it, but he had
read
it, finding an old copy in the Manciple’s Library at Inarion.  He had taken a break from his studies and read the old scroll in the hopes that it had some dirty parts.  While he had been disappointed that the lyrics were, alas, wholesome and virtuous, he had also had the foresight to employ the memory spells he knew to bring the scroll instantly to his recall.

“
‘I tell to you a tale of love and loss,’
” he began, “
’of hearts and lives torn asunder; for in the wake of war and strife, a lady’s heart oft lies ripe for plunder.’
” 

He continued to recite, reading from the conjured page and speaking slowly and deliberately, while
Baston plinked out a complementary melody in the background. 

He told the tale of Lukando the Remerean mercenary who conquered a rebellious castle on the coast for his liege and was ordered to put all to the sword, and how Lady Gessa’s feminine charms and persuasion kept his wrath at bay until the old duke died, but how when the new duke came to power she changed her tune and rejected Lukando.  The mercenary then put the castle to the sack in revenge, finally taking his own life. 

It was a sad and poignant tale, and the complex rhythms in the words made it all the more difficult to deliver without becoming confused.  But he had it right there in front of him, he was reading it right from the page.  He made no mistakes.  When he finished with a lowered voice, and faded his magelight from existence, the crowd was enrapt, and exploded in shouts and applause.

“Well done, Sir Tyndal!”
Baston boomed.  “Give me a week and I could make a jongleur of you!”

That . . . wasn’t bad
, Rondal admitted to him, mind-to-mind.

Thanks,
Tyndal said, grudgingly
.  You, too.  I had no idea you could sing like that.

I’m just figuring it out.  But how did you . . . oh!  The memory spell!  Why did you bother to enchant that one?

Honestly?  Because it’s a skirt-flipper.  If you can recite that to a girl on a moonlit night, you’ll be up her skirts in a flash.

Rondal didn’t respond . . . but he could nearly feel his fellow apprentice blush.  That made Tyndal feel better, for some reason.

*                            *                            *

They tarried back at Cargwenyn for a week, with Sire Cei lecturing them on the finer points of chivalry while they helped him with the work of getting new hives ready for the bees and filtering last year’s honey.  But then they left again, this time for a stay at Chepstan Castle, where Sire Cei paid a call on his liege, Baron Arathanial.  He had much to report to the old baron in private concerning his journey into Sashtalia.  Tyndal considered using the Long Ears spell to overhear their counsel, but Chepstan Castle’s fair ladies kept him too distracted for such a blatant violation of his trust.

The boys had both met the distinguished baron several times but had rarely had the opportunity to speak with him alone.  But when Sire Cei asked his leave to impart some of his wisdom on the art of chivalry, the man was eager for the chance.  He spared much of the day for them, allowing them to accompany him as he toured one of his outlying estates for a surprise inspection. 

The knight in charge of the manor was pleased to be able to show off for his overlord, and provided as delightful a feast as his holding could command that evening.  If being an errant was a ticket to regular meals, Tyndal observed, the upper nobility were even more richly treated.  Of course, since it was Arathanial’s estate, it was his own food he was eating, he reasoned.

“That is interesting news about the snowstone,” Arathanial agreed at table, after Sire Cei informed him of the illicit mine.  “Twice so that Sashtalia does not know what he owns in it.”

“Yet it is only a matter of time before he does realize it, and seeks to put a guard on it,” Sire Cei pointed out. 

“That is not insurmountable,” the baron demurred as he worked his way through a bowl of beans and salt pork.  “What makes it difficult is how many leagues lie between Taragwen and Sendari lands.”

“Not so many between Taragwen and Sevendor,” Rondal pointed out.  “Merely a three-thousand foot ridge.”

“That may be more insurmountable,” grunted the baron.  “What is this snowstone worth, do you think?”

“It’s weight in silver, at least,” Rondal said, just before Tyndal could say the same thing.  “Perhaps as much as gold, once its full capabilities are realized.”

“I would not have my rival keep access to a mountain of gold in his domain,” pronounced Arathanial.  “Nor silver.  Currently I have the upper hand in lances, thanks to last year’s conquests.  Even with the loss of the men in Gilmora, I have edged out that pretender.  But should he suddenly be able to hire mercenaries in large quantities . . .”

“I see your point, Excellency,” agreed Sire Cei.  “I will confer with the Spellmonger and see what can be done about this . . . before Sashtalia realizes what it has.”

Sire Cei took the opportunity that evening to tutor the boys in how to properly serve their betters at table, among other tasks.

“It is an honor for a knight to be asked to serve his liege at the board,” Cei instructed them. “It is both a sign of humility and a sign of pride that you would submit so graciously to your master.  Even counts see it as an honor to serve a duke his dinner.” 

Baron Arathanial indulgently welcomed the lessons, offering his own opinion and perspective of their service.  It was not difficult, Tyndal quickly realized, but there were certain rules you had to follow, lest you accidentally slop soup on someone who could send you to the battlefield someday.

On the ride back to Chepstan the next morning, the Baron continued to expound on chivalry.  “You must always endeavor to treat your inferiors as equals, your equals as superiors, and your superiors as beyond approach.”

“What if your superiors are . . .
un
worthy, Excellency?” asked Rondal.

“They often are, but that does not mean they are not superiors.  Honorable service is honorable service; it matters not, in most cases, to
whom
it is rendered.”

“Why would a good knight serve an unworthy master?” Tyndal asked.  “Excellency?” he added, belatedly, when Sire Cei caught his eye.

“Any number of reasons,” shrugged the baron.  “Heredity, among them.  Oft a knight inherits a liege from his father.  Men die and produce heirs.  Agreements made between two men in one generation may lose their value in the next, as situations change.  That does not lift the burden of such agreements, however, and an honorable knight will see them through to the letter, if need be.”

“And a less-than-honorable knight?” Tyndal asked.

“If a man finds his honor challenged by such agreements,” suggested the baron thoughtfully, “then he is often intelligent enough to discover an honorable way out of it.  Appeal to the gods, for instance, or a competing agreement.  A wise knight seeks not to place himself in such straits to begin with.”

While at Chepstan Castle they spent a day with the squires at practice in the yard.  Many were near their own age, near to winning their spurs themselves.  In a way Tyndal envied them - they were learning the trade by the more tedious route than he, but the expectations of them were lower.  They were still struggling with letters and estate management, for instance,
but they were already adept horsemen. 

Seeing what a squire had to endure to win his spurs was instructive, Tyndal found.  Running laps around the castle in a full mail hauberk, for example, or bearing a shield while your comrades rammed logs into it to “toughen” you seemed unnecessarily brutal.  After consideration, Tyndal decided he much preferred the honored-on-the-battlefield path to knighthood. 

At Chepstan they focused on horsemanship.  Tyndal knew plenty of horseflesh, as any former stable boy does. He was even a passable rider, compared to Rondal.  But when it came to the art of fighting from horseback, and controlling an animal in a chaotic situation on a battlefield, he discovered he knew far less than he thought.  The old knight who was Chepstan’s Master of Horse, charged with overseeing their horsemanship, was replete with criticism for his riding, and some of it was even constructive. 

At least he was at ease with horses.  Rondal seemed perpetually nervous around the animals.  The horse master had to speak with him repeatedly in hushed conferences, no doubt unpleasant affairs.  As bad as being called a sack of potatoes for how he rode was, he could only imagine the vitriol reserved for such discussions.  He had to admit, his rival’s riding improved significantly afterward, so he couldn’t fault their utility.