Valdemar 11 - [Owl Mage 03] - Owlknight (15 page)

Darian had stayed up past midnight, but not far past. Unlike Lord Breon's people, he knew he would be able to sleep late; the
dyheli
that took him to the Keep was much swifter than a horse, and even if he left just before noon, he would catch up with Lord Breon before his group arrived at the Keep. Nevertheless, he was not interested in seeing two dawns in two days, not with so much yet to do.

Herald Anda had retired at midnight; Shandi had not. There was some very interesting interplay going on between Shandi and Steelmind, a Tayledras herb-and plantmaster; what it meant, he didn't know, but it was certain that Shandi had made a deep impression on the other.

Shandi had a confidence about her that he dearly wished Keisha could acquire. What was it that had made Keisha so uncertain of herself? She was completely self-assured when it came to Healing, so why was she so unsure about everything else, especially her standing with him?

I've got to have a word with Silverfox,
he decided. If there was such a thing as an expert in emotions, it would be a
kestra'chern.
Maybe Silverfox could give him the clue he needed to help Keisha.

But that brought something else to mind. I'd better
explain what a kestra'chern is to Anda as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Silverfox can do a great deal that Anda wouldn't even guess on his own.
It had taken Darian the better part of a year to
really
understand just what it was that Silverfox did.

A
kestra'chern,
a good one like Silverfox, anyway, was the oil that kept friction within a group to a minimum. But the tools he used to deal with incipient trouble were just about unlimited, up to and including taking someone into his bed, if that was what was needed. He was very like a Herald with a limited “community” to serve, but without careful explanation, Darian was afraid that Herald Anda would not necessarily see things that way.

Another difference between a Herald and Silverfox was that a
kestra'chern
tended to wait until people with problems came to him, rather than reaching out to deal with the problems. There were exceptions, but as Silverfox had once said, succinctly, “I am no one's nursery maid. Sometimes the children have to fight their quarrels without intervention.” A Herald, of course, would plunge right in, but because Heralds rode a circuit rather than living in a particular community, real problems were usually at the point where they required intervention by the time a Herald got to them.

Darian decided that he'd had enough of sitting thanks to the numbness that usually came from sitting on stone, and got up to take a slow walk around the garden. He looked back at his two watchers, dark shapes against the backdrop of the light stone of the Keep, and the golden gleam of the lighted windows. Anda waved at him to show that he'd seen Darian stand.

In the dark, senses besides sight were heightened, and perceptions shifted in wondrous ways if one made himself open to them. Night birds called, at distances farther than he could have seen through the forests in daylight. Insects and what must have been thousands of tiny peeping frogs filled the air with their songs. It wasn't too difficult to keep to the garden paths, even in the darkness. The paths were graveled, and the moment he stepped off them, the sound alone told him. It was still a bit early for the garden to be fully in flower, but there were hints of scent as he passed certain beds—the sweetness of honey-climber, the intoxicant edge of the tiny flowers of the lily-bell, the subtle scent of violet. He knew which beds had recently been turned by the tang of fresh earth, and where the lawn had just been clipped by the sharpness of the newly cut grass. The sound behind him was definitely dying, and a quick glance back at the Keep showed more than half the windows had gone dark. Perhaps it was just as well that the guests had all faced that long ride this morning; the wine had gotten to them all the easier. With luck, less than half of them would be nursing hangovers in the morning when he was knighted.

 

When the dawn first painted the eastern sky with thin, gray light, Darian was still wide awake, but poor Val had fallen asleep where he sat! Darian pretended not to notice, turning his back so that Herald Anda could wake the young man discreetly. Kuari had returned with a sated appetite after Darian had finished his walk; now he, too, dozed, perched on the bench beside Darian with one foot tucked up. From time to time Darian worked his fingers in through the soft feathers to scratch Kuari's round head; when he did that, the owl crooned in his sleep and clicked his beak.

Footfalls behind him woke Kuari, who swiveled his head halfway around to glare at the interlopers. Darian stood up and turned to grin at Anda and a sleepy-eyed Val.

“Ready?” Anda asked casually. Darian nodded, then coaxed Kuari up onto his arm.

:Time to go find a tree to sleep in,:
he told the owl, who looked a little ruffled at having his nap disturbed.
:I have to go inside now, and if you don't find a secure place, you know that the crows will harass you.:

Kuari sighed, but agreed. Darian gave him a boost, and he labored off to a thick evergreen close to the Keep, where he could find a roost near the trunk, and the songbirds wouldn't see him. At the moment, the songbirds were too busy heralding the day and warming up their muscles to pay any attention to Kuari.

Darian followed Anda and Val back inside, to the Great Hall, where a group awaited them. Again, knighting was usually done in the chapel, but Darian had voiced a mild objection to that. Breon had readily agreed, since the chapel at the Keep wouldn't have held the full group that wanted to witness the knighting anyway.

Breon's Keep was not very old; it dated back no more than a century or so. As a consequence, it didn't have the same air of gloom that many of the older buildings of Valdemar did. In the Great Hall, the stone walls had been plastered over and whitewashed, then hung with tapestries. Above the tapestries, clerestory windows let in the early-morning daylight. Wooden beams supported the roof, and the battle banners of Breon's family hung from them. Because of the windows and plastering, although the Hall was cool, there was none of that feeling of dank-ness and damp that made older versions of this room that Darian had seen in Valdemar so uncomfortable.

Breon waited on the stone dais that held the High Table; behind him the table had been set for breakfast, which would follow the ceremony.

That certainly shows where my importance is,
Darian thought with great amusement.
First, we get the ceremony over with, and then we can eat!

The rest of his witnesses were gathered below Breon. The sturdy Breon was wearing a surcoat that reached down past his knees, embroidered with the arms of his family and his own personal device. This was a relatively new item of his wardrobe, replacing the one he had worn for
his
investiture as a knight. The
hertasi
had made it for him as a birthday gift in time for Val's knighting, and it was just as splendid as the one Darian would wear to tonight's feast. Anda and Val led the way to the foot of the dais, with Darian following about four paces behind. From here on, the knighting would follow strictly traditional lines.

“Who comes before me in the light of the new sun, and why are you here?” Breon rumbled, in a voice that sounded a little hoarse—no doubt from all the shouted conversation last night. The wording had a weighty air of the ancient about it, a nearly palpable reinforcement that a knighting was anything but a casual lark.

Val answered, as the Senior Knight for this ceremony. “The Knighted Heir of Lord Breon, Sir Valyn, and the Herald-Mage Anda; we present a candidate for the honor of Knighthood, and stand as his sponsors.”

“And has he passed all tests of valor and virtue, of word and deed?” Breon replied, looking sternly down at his son and the Herald.

This time it was Anda who answered. “He has passed all tests and more, by the words of his mouth, and the deeds of his body. It is his actions of virtue and nobility that bring him before you this dawn.”

That last was an acknowledgment that Darian hadn't been required to undertake any physical trials to prove his fitness for combat. Val had, because he had never actually fought, but Darian had faced—and struck down—the barbarian shaman of the northern Blood Bear tribe that had ravaged Errold's Grove, and he had done so entirely by himself at the ripe age of fourteen. That alone probably would have qualified him.

“Has he stood his vigil as ordained by tradition?” asked Breon.

The back of Val's neck flushed with embarrassment at his own lapse, but he answered stoutly, “He has, waking the night through, alone with his thoughts, fasting, and in contemplation of his past and future.”

At that reminder of “fasting,” Darian's stomach protested his lack of breakfast. At least it didn't growl.

Breon nodded ponderously. “Therefore present him to me now, that I may see him with my own eyes.”

Val and Anda each stepped to the side, and Darian stepped forward. In his capacity as Herald—in the most ancient sense of the word—Anda presented Darian.

“Here we bring to all eyes and powers Darian Firkin, adopted of k‘Vala clan of the Hawkbrothers, founder of k'Valdemar Vale, and worthy candidate for the honor of knighthood.” Anda's voice rang out with strength, filling the Great Hall without sounding as if he was shouting.

Breon looked down at Darian, and gave him a quick wink. Darian raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment, but otherwise kept his expression properly sober.

“Darian Firkin, adopted of clan k‘Vala, founder of k'Valdemar, is it your will that you be presented for the honor and responsibilities of Valdemaran Knighthood?” Breon asked, managing to get through the k‘Vala and k'Valdemar without any trouble, though Val said he'd been fumbling the titles in practice. That was one reason why they'd broken up Darian's name the way they had.

Darian nodded. “It is my will and my wish, Lord Breon,” he said, pitching his voice a little deeper than usual.

“Kneel, then.” Lord Breon held out his hand, and Val put Darian's sheathed sword hilt-first into his palm. Breon held out the sword hilt-first toward Darian, who knelt and put his right hand on the hilt. “Do you swear, Darian, by this blade which is your honor, that you will use your strength for good and not ill, to aid and not oppress; that you will defend the weak and helpless against those who would oppress them, that you will seek good with all your heart, seek the light with all your soul? That you will serve as an example to those who would follow you, as a rock of fortitude for those who have gone before you; that you will uphold the law when the law is in the right, and oppose the law when it serves oppressors; that you will work for the greatest good, with all you may bring to bear, even in the face of death and fear?”

“I do swear,” Darian replied firmly.

“Do you swear to strive for honor, for courage, for valor, for virtue, all for their own sake and not for the acclaim of the multitude, nor for gain, nor for the power they might bring you?”

“I do swear,” Darian repeated in the same tones of resolve.

“Do you accept the honor of knighthood as a responsibility as well as a title? Will you hold to the standards of all those before who have ever borne the title of Knight?”

“I do so accept it,” Darian said, wondering if Breon knew just how long he had pondered that very question, wondering if he dared take on another responsibility. But he had come to the conclusion that it represented giving his current responsibilities a more recognizable name, and as such, he felt comfortable in accepting it. “And I will hold to those standards, keeping them ever in my heart and mind.”

Breon reversed the sword, unsheathed it, and laid the naked blade once on each shoulder, tilting the sword after each so that the cold steel laid against Darian's bare neck. “Then accept these blows in token of the ones you shall take that others be spared—and rise, never to kneel to another again, unless you deem that other to be worthy of your profoundest esteem. Kneel only to honor what is holy or in recognition of one whose nobility exceeds the common.”

Darian stood, and Breon sheathed the sword. “Accept from me this blade, Sir Darian, and wield it forever in honor.”

Darian took the sword and belted it on over his surcoat, buckling and latching it securely, then turned to face the group behind him. Once again, Anda raised his voice. “Ladies and Lords, Knights, gentlemen, and guests, I present to you Sir Darian Firkin k‘Vala k'Valdemar, Owl Knight of the Tayledras!”

There were enough friends in the crowd—and those who had just recently gained genuine admiration for him, too—that the cheer took on a distinctly enthusiastic note as Darian was escorted by Val and Anda out of the Great Hall, down the special strip of Valdemaran-blue carpet that had been laid for him to walk on.

Once past the doors, Darian sagged a little, and Val slapped him on the back. “To bed with you,” the young man declared. “I'm your champion and representative at the tournament, so you don't even have to put in a token appearance if you don't feel up to it.”

“No, I should open it, at least,” Darian responded. “That's only right.” He grinned and straightened up. “Besides, think of all those young fighters out there who've been dying for a look at the weird Tayledras knight—they at least deserve to see that I don't have two heads. I'll call Kuari in to land, on my shoulder, you know, give them a show. Then I'll retire.”