The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  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:

  “In darkness, in cold, in the midst of winter

  where nothing walks the world but death and fear

  let the brave rejoice: I call the light.”

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

  “Out of darkness, light.

  Out of silence, song.

  Out of the sun’s death, the birth of each year.” 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.

  “Out of cold, fire.

  Out of death, life.

  Out of fear, courage to see the day.” 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.

  “In darker night, brighter stars.

  In greater fear, greater courage.

  In the midst of winter, the world’s birth.

  Praise to the High Lord.” 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.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Paks’s first experience as a paladin candidate was a familiar one—moving into new quarters. These were south of the main complex, in an annex to the Paladin’s Hall. She was surprised to find that she would still have a room to herself, but Amberion explained.

  “You will spend time in solitary exercises; you will need the privacy. Later, you will learn the skills of meditation even when surrounded by noise and upheaval, but for novices it’s easier to learn in solitude.”

  Paks nodded silently. She was still shy of her paladin sponsor; it was hard to believe that he and Cami were in the same order. He seemed more sombre, far less approachable. She unpacked her things quickly, wondering a little at the requirement that her sponsor must see everything she owned. But for that, too, he had a reason. Paladins must be willing to go anywhere, anytime—able to endure hardship, not just discipline. Those who clung to treasured possessions, favorite foods, even friends, might make fine Marshals or knights, but not paladins. So in the early days of training, they must do without accustomed possessions. Those who withdrew would have theirs restored, but those continuing had to face the possible loss of items deemed too luxurious. Paks understood the reasoning, but could not imagine anyone preferring fancy clothes or jewelry to being a paladin. She said so, and Amberion grinned at her.

  “I’ve seen it myself. And there is always something hard to give up. If not material things, habits and ways of thought. This may be a trivial test for you, but there are others. No one passes through this training without struggle.” He looked over her gear as he spoke, and told her to keep Saben’s red horse and Canna’s medallion. Aris’s gift, her weapons, the shining mail the elfane taig had given her—all these went into storage. Then he said, “What about money? Do you have any gold or silver?”

  Paks handed over the heavy leather sack she’d brought from Brewersbridge. “This, and some on account with the Guild in Tsaia.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Did Marshal Cedfer know how much gold you had?”