The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “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, Mars
hal-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 a
nd 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.