The Deed of Paksenarrion (179 page)

“Very well. Then another question. Would you know who the witness against Duke Phelan is, that Aris spoke of?”

“No—not by name. I’ve heard there is one, that’s all. A veteran, which surprised us all; his veterans all love him.”

“So I would have thought,” said Paks. “Then a final question. What do you think of Phelan?”

“I?” He smiled. “I’ve always liked him. My father does; he says Phelan has more breeding than any noble in the land, say what they will of him. He has always been courteous to me. You were in his Company; you know more.”

“I know what I think,” said Paks. “But I needed to know what you thought—what others think. When I came in this afternoon, it seemed almost that he was on trial. While I am on quest, I may not delay—but you can understand that after what he’s done for me—”

“You would defend him? Good—I mean, it’s none of my business, but I can hardly bear it when Verrakai gets started. Gird’s blood! I was about to boil over when father sent me out on an errand.”

“Tell your father to take care, Kirgan,” said Paks seriously. “I will not always be in a position to help the Duke; he will need all his friends before long.”

“I will, Lady,” said the Kirgan steadily. “May I go?”

“Yes—you may say I have saved your little brother a scolding.”

“More than a scolding, if I get my hands on that scamp,” said the Kirgan, laughing. “You don’t know what he did to my sister’s room.”

“Nor want to know,” said Paks, waving him off. “That’s between you—but remember, Kirgan,” she said as he opened the door. She saw two servants not a spear-length away down the passage. “If young Aris wants to visit me, I have granted him leave. He was my friend in Fin Panir, and I don’t forget my friends, even the young ones. He must have his lord’s leave—but not yours.” The Kirgan’s face, as he bowed, was remote, as if he’d been scolded, but his eyes danced. Paks shut the door behind him, convinced that the Marrakaien were all a heady brew indeed.

Lieth was watching her, brows raised. “That will explain his visit, to all those listening ears.”

“So I thought.” Paks sighed, stretching. She would like to have rested, but felt she could not take the time. She wondered if the Duke would be at the grange hall that evening. Yet another tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Lieth answered, opening to a page in royal livery.

“Please, I am to give this to the Lady Paksenarrion’s hand, and await an answer.”

“Here.” Paks took the single folded sheet, and opened it. The High Marshal Seklis wished a short conference before the evening’s ceremonies. He would be at the grange hall until dinner, if she could find the time. Paks handed the message to Lieth, who read it quickly and nodded. Paks turned to the page. “I’ll come, of course,” she said. “Can you guide us?”

“Yes, Lady.”

“You’ll want your armor,” said Lieth quietly; Paks smiled at her.

“In the Hall?”

“Yes.” Lieth could convey firmness very quietly, and she did it. Paks did not argue, and retired to the other room where Lieth helped her into it. “I’m coming with you, too,” she said before they rejoined the page.

“As you will,” said Paks.

The same High Marshal she had seen in the conference earlier met her at the side door of the grange hall.

“If the circumstances of your quest permit, Lady Paksenarrion, I would be glad of your participation in tonight’s ceremony.”

Paks frowned. “What participation, Marshal—?”

“I’m sorry—I forgot that we hadn’t met; I’m High Marshal Seklis. I’ve been attached to the court for about a year. Well, you probably know that the Order of the Bells advances its novices to knighthood at the Feast of Luap. We have a score of them this time. And since it’s a Girdish order—with a few exceptions—a trial of arms is part of the ceremony. It would be an honor for the candidates to meet your blade in this trial. Of course, we have other Marshals, and senior knights of the Order also help out, but—”

“I thought only knights could act in the trials,” said Paks.

“Well, of course—but paladins are knights first, and so—”

Paks shook her head. “No, Marshal; I’m not a knight.”

“You—! But you must be—I mean I heard that you were different, but—”

“Marshal, let me explain. I was not at Fin Panir long enough to qualify; the Marshal-General admitted me to the order of paladin-candidate before I was knighted—as is sometimes done.”

“Yes, but—”

“And after the expedition to Kolobia, I was unable to continue the training. I believe all Marshals were informed—?”

He nodded, reluctantly, it seemed to Paks.

“So I left Fin Panir, without being knighted—indeed, completely unfit for any such honor.”

“But—you
are
a paladin?”

“Yes. By Gird’s grace, and the gifts of the High Lord, I am a paladin—but not through the candidacy at Fin Panir. Marshal, I do not understand the gods’ ways or intent; I know only their commands and gifts.”

“I—see.” He chewed his lip. “I don’t know of another case such as this.”

“In the event, I might be an embarrassment to you—”

“No. No, indeed.” His voice steadied, and he gave her a sharp glance. “If the gods see fit to make a paladin of you, am I to quarrel with your qualifications? You are their champion—their knight, if you will—and that is enough for me, and for the rest.”

“Another problem,” said Paks slowly. “I have no blade of my own—this one I carry on quest, as you heard, to test the identity of Lyonya’s king. I dare not use it for any other purpose.”

“Easily solved,” grinned Marshal Seklis. “A grange of Gird holds ample weaponry, I would think. Choose a sword from the armory that suits you. But if your quest forbids, I cannot insist.”

“Then I would be honored. Only you will have to tell me how the ceremony goes.”

“Like most such—but I forgot. Here, then—” And he led her into the grange hall proper and showed how it would be set up. Although somewhat smaller than the High Lord’s Hall in Fin Panir, the grange hall was built to the same basic design. Tiers of seats rose on either side of a broad central aisle in which the trials would take place. Candidates would enter through a door at one end, and prove themselves against at least two of the examiners.

“Ordinarily,” said Seklis, “we know that each bout will be short, and we don’t expect the examiners to have much trouble. It’s like the ritual exchange—merely public proof that the candidates are able to face an armed opponent. Even so, some of them surprise us. Last year we had a lad that outfought two Marshals and cost me a hard struggle before I got the winning touch. He’s in Marshal’s training now, and he’ll be a strong arm for Gird in the future. But this time we may have real trouble. Many of them wanted to be in this ceremony because of the prince’s coronation this year—to say they were knighted in the same year. So we have twenty zealous and very capable candidates. Besides the honor alone, that’s one reason I asked you—I’ve scraped up every Marshal around, and the best of the senior knights, just in case, but we still have only fifteen examiners. That’s more than two bouts apiece, any way you look at it.”

Seklis explained the details of scoring, and introduced Paks to some of the pointers, who would keep track of each bout. Then he took her to the armory, and left her to choose a sword from the racks. They were all of similar design, with Gird’s seal deeply graven in the pommel, and well-shaped hilts. They varied only in length and weight. When Paks had chosen two, Seklis told a yeoman-marshal to put them aside for her that evening, then turned back to her.

“Oh—by the way—unless your quest requires it, I would ask that you not wear that mail: for the trials, all wear the training armor, and all examiners are in the colors of their orders. You, of course, are entitled to Gird’s colors, and there are surcoats enough, as well as the bandas—”

“I see.” Paks thought a moment. She could think of no reason why she should be the only participant in full mail, but was yet reluctant to leave it aside. “I hesitate to question the custom—”

“And I the conditions of your quest.” The High Marshal cocked his head slightly. “Lady, you know best what evils you face; I would not have them come on you unawares, yet I think they will not brave the grange hall full of Marshals and knights. The candidates—”

“What about the challengers?” asked Lieth. “Or is not that the custom here?”

The High Marshal frowned. “Challengers? Oh, you mean outsiders? Well—I doubt there will be any—”

“What is that?” asked Paks.

“It is the custom,” he said, “that anyone having a grievance against the court or any examiner can present a champion for a trial of arms at this knighting. But when any such is planned, it’s usual for me to know ahead of time.”

“Would that bout be fought on the same terms?”

“No—as a full trial of arms. Do you suspect anything of that sort?”

“To be honest, Marshal Seklis, I don’t know what I suspect—besides trouble. We have been attacked already by Achrya’s minions and several priests of Liart with their beasts. Until I see the rightful king of Lyonya safe on his throne, I cannot be easy about anything. I am willing enough to test your candidates without armor, but if it comes to protecting the king—”

“Ah. I see.”

“If someone came in, claiming to be an outside challenger, could they challenge anyone there, or just the examiners, or what?”

“Anyone.”

“Umm.” Paks chewed her lip a moment. “I could keep my armor here—nearby—if Lieth will squire me here—”

Lieth nodded, and Seklis smiled. “That’s permissible; we’ll all have squires to freshen us between rounds; she can keep your mail in case of need. And on my word as High Marshal, I shall be watching for any trouble, and will ward whomever you say.”

Paks came to the grange hall in the padded training armor and surcoat Seklis had provided. Lieth carried her paladin’s mail, and the elven blade. Light blazed from the grange hall windows: candles on frames hung high above the floor, more candles set in brackets along the walls and the railing separating the seats from the open space. Paks peeked into the hall on her way to the High Marshal’s study: already the seats were filling.

Seklis grinned when he saw her. “Ah—Lady Paksenarrion. Come, meet your fellow examiners. Here’s Marshal Sulinarrion, of Seameadow Grange—and Marshal Aris, of Copswith Grange—and Marshal Doryan—” Someone pulled at his sleeve, and he turned away, leaving Paks with three Marshals: a tall brown-haired woman and two men, both gray-haired and dark-eyed. By the time she had them sorted out (Aris was taller, with a wide scar on his forehead), the High Marshal was back, to complete the introductions. Paks was not sure she had them all straight in her mind, but there was no time to worry about it. The great Bells began to peal, and everyone moved into line, with Seklis rearranging as he saw fit.

“You, Suli—and then Seli here—and Paks, you get behind him. There. Gird’s grace on all of us.”

“Gird’s grace,” came the response, and they walked quickly into the hall, ranging themselves across the width of it just below the platform.

The seats were filled. Candlelight glittered on jewels, slid along the folds of satin and silk, caught the flash of an eye that glanced, and shone steadily back from the few motionless hands. From the far end of the Hall, a fanfare of trumpets followed the bells into silence. Then the pointers, who would judge the trials, entered in their spotless white uniforms. They came forward, bowing once to the examiners in line, then withdrew in two files to either side. Another blast of trumpets, and the candidates entered in two files, still wearing gray training clothes and training armor. They faced the examiners, bowed, and waited. High Marshal Seklis stepped forward.

“Who presents these candidates for trial?”

“I do.” A heavy-set man in the green, rose, and white of the Order stepped into the hall. “Sir Arinalt Konhalt, Training Master of the Order of the Bells.”

“Their names?”

As the Training Master spoke each name, the youth bowed. When he had finished, the Marshal-General spoke again.

“Here in the very hall where Luap spoke, and witnessed to the deeds of Gird, Protector of the Innocent and Helpless, we meet to test the fitness of these youths for knighthood. Each shall demonstrate in at least two bouts that he or she is skilled in swordfighting and brave enough to face a naked blade before others. Do you all agree to submit to the judgment of the pointers?” A murmur of agreement came from them all. “Then here is the order of the examiners.” Seklis introduced each examiner. “Because we have so many candidates,” Seklis went on, “we cannot accommodate all bouts at once. The first five candidates will now choose their examiners.” As the candidates moved forward, Paks watched their faces. They seemed very young; she reminded herself that they had had at least two years of knight’s training, besides serving as squires. None of the first five chose her; she watched as the examiners and pointers led the candidates back down the hall to the fighting areas. The candidates waiting for their turns began to fidget. They could not turn around and watch; they had to face the remaining examiners and try to feign calmness.

At the sound of trumpets, the first bouts began. Swords rang together, and stone echoed the stamp of booted feet. The nearest bout seemed evenly matched at first. Seklis had said that the examiners began by trying standard stroke combinations. No bout could end (except in emergencies) before fifty strokes, no matter what points were scored; most, he said, took between that and a hundred. Paks tried to keep count, but lost it when someone down the Hall cried out. Heads craned, but the bouts went on. Paks looked back at the pair she’d been watching; now the examiner, a Marshal whose name she’d forgotten, was moving the candidate around the area, gaining points with every stroke. The candidate rallied a moment, lunging again and again. But a final flurry by the Marshal broke that attack, and the pointers called the bout just after another one down the Hall.

As soon as a candidate finished one bout, he had to choose his next opponent. This time Paks was chosen, by the only candidate to win his bout. She followed her challenger halfway down the Hall to their assigned area. For the second bouts, the pointers gave the starting word. Paks grinned at the young man; his look of confidence faded. When he lunged, she caught his blade and shed it quickly from hers, then forced him back with a quick attack. He looked startled, as if he had not expected such a strong attack. Before he could recover his timing and balance, Paks pushed him back again, working him around the edge of their space. But he steadied himself, biting his lip, and managed to hold his ground. Paks tested all quarters of his range, probing but not using her full skill against him yet. She let him move into attack again. He quickened; she matched him, saw his surprise, and finished with a decisive rattle of strokes that got past his guard again and again. He would have bruises under his padding. But he bowed politely, and thanked her.