by Greg Curtis
In the end it wasn't the work that was so hard. It was the memories.
“May I come in Sir Yorik?”
Yorik turned around in surprise and discovered Genivere standing at the front door, a wicker basket in her hand, and for a moment wondered why she was there. It wasn't time to return to the Order already was it? Of course he was also a little embarrassed to meet her like this. Wearing his rather rough city clothes while his armour sat in its stand in his quarters. And with a broom in his hand. It seemed at once both improper and unmanly.
“Of course Genivere.” He bowed his head as was proper in the company of a lady of learning and good station. “But please it is just Yorik. The Order does not abide titles, and in any case I am not here in the service of my Order.”
And soon he knew, he never would be again. For the moment the heads of the Order had deferred his trial – they had too much else to concern themselves with to worry about him. So he still held the position of a paladin, but he knew that it was only for a little while longer. Sooner or later they would do what was right and proper.
“No. Yours is a far more painful service so I am told.” She stared at him with concern showing in her big green eyes.
“Your brothers in arms worry for you as they prepare for the journey ahead. But they cannot be with you. Their duties prevent them. They did however, tell me of your pain and bid me to give you their thoughts.”
That much Yorik was sure of. There was not one of his brothers from the house that did not know of his loss, and all of them understood it. The Order of the Lady was never so hard as some on its people. They did not expect their paladins to sever ties with their families as did the Order of the Iron Hand. In fact they only took those as their members who were close to their families. That was part of the Lady's calling after all. And when he'd paced the halls of the chapter house before escaping to pursue his vengeance he had seen the sorrow and fear in their eyes as they considered his loss. The sorrow bordering on pity that he truly hated seeing. The fear no matter how unworthy, that something as terrible as what had happened to him could happen to them.
But there was one other look that he'd seen in them which he hated more than all the rest even as he understood it completely. Relief. Every one of them was grateful that it hadn’t been they who had suffered such a loss. It was an unworthy emotion, but it was human. In their place he would have known the same feeling.
“Thank you good maiden.”
Yorik had to acknowledge her kindness, even though he didn't really want to see her. Not just then. There were things a man simply had to do by himself. Times when he wanted no company save his own. But it would have been rude to have said anything.
“This was a good home? Much loved?”
“It was. My sister and I grew up here. Our parents lived here long before that. And there was always laughter and warmth.”
Which he supposed was why it seemed so empty. They were no longer here, neither in person or spirit. If they were anywhere they were in the Lord Mayor's private burial ground. His father had been Sir Heric, Man at Arms for the Lord Mayor after all, and he and his family had been buried there with honour. But when he had visited their graves, he had not felt them there either. He could not feel them anywhere and that was a terrible thing.
“Then it is best that it should go to another family. A home is more than a building, and my people believe that it carries something of those who once dwelt within in it always. Those who come here next will be blessed for their having lived here.”
Was she right Yorik wondered? He hoped so. It was a pleasant thought on a not so pleasant day. But he couldn't feel anything of them. Maybe that was simply because the wounds were still too fresh and too deep. Still, he thanked her for the words.
“They said that you hunted down the wizard who had done this terrible thing?”
The blood drained from Yorik's face the instant he heard the words. It drained from his whole body leaving him nearly faint. Why did she have to ask that question? To remind him of his shame and his failure? And yet the shame and the failure was already his. He could make his worth no less. Besides, she had been a good companion. She had kept his spirits aloft as they'd travelled together, and even brought him a little hope of a future with her smile. She had a right to know who it was that she'd travelled with.
“I did. It was easier to let the anger consume me than to face this.” He raised his arms to indicate the house. But it wasn't the house that he meant. It was the emptiness inside it. The all consuming emptiness.
“And now you are in trouble for it?”
“No Genivere. I am far beyond trouble.”
Yorik let a pained smile touch his face. For some reason he found unexpected humour in her words. In the way she was so delicately picking her way around the issue instead of asking the questions directly.
“When I gave in to my anger and began hunting down Mayfall, I threw aside my vows. I disgraced myself. And when I killed him I completed that journey of shame. The only reason I still wear the gold is that there has not yet been a chance for my trial to be held. But that day will soon be upon me and I will surrender my gold and my crest. I only hope that when it is finished I will be permitted to remain within the Order, perhaps as a trainer.” It was strange how easily the words flowed from his mouth. But in the end they were only the truth.
“But there was no doubt that this wizard did these terrible things?”
She didn't understand but then there was no reason she should. Genivere was not of the Order. She had not known the joy of the Lady as she moved through her, nor understood the truth of her words.
“No.” Yorik shook his head. “Mayfall actually boasted of his crimes, as if daring me to come after him. There was never any doubt. But that's not at issue. The Order of the Lady stands for life and love above all. We do not give ourselves over to hatred and anger. We do not kill without need. I should have let my brothers find him and bring him before the courts. Or failing that I should have brought Mayfall back to face justice. I should not have killed him out of vengeance as I did.”
And killed him terribly as he had – though Genivere did not have to hear that. The Order would hear those shameful details when it was time, not before.
“He was a bad man who did terrible things to you and yours.”
Genivere still didn't understand his calling, and she thought she was helping him. Trying to justify what he had done when there could be no justification.
“He was and he hurt a great many people. But my actions cannot be judged on his. I betrayed my word. I failed my Lady. When you walk upon a bridge over a ravine it must hold. It does not matter that there are too many upon it pressing down, that it is old and weathered, that it is lashed by storms. It must hold. There can be no excuses.”
And that was what a paladin was. The unwavering support that held the faith safe and protected it. For a paladin there were no excuses. There was no hesitation or doubt. There could be no retreat and no surrender. And there was also no failure. It did not matter that the enemy was far stronger or more numerous. That there was no chance of victory. A paladin cared for none of those things. When the faith needed steel to defend it a paladin was there regardless, and he fought to the end. But more than that, strengthened by his faith and guided by his vows the paladin almost always won. And if he lost, if the enemy triumphed, it could only mean that the paladin had given his life.
Yorik though had failed to uphold his vows. Though the Lady might have forgiven him, his Order would not forget his failure or ignore it. Nor should they. Because not only had he shown himself to be fickle, unable to stay the course when times became difficult, he had proven that he could not be relied upon.
“That's ...” Genivere struggled for a bit as she searched to find the right word – before she gave up.
“That's a paladin.”
Yorik knew what it was to be a paladin after all. He knew the unreasonable demands that were made of those of the calling. Th
e impossible that was often expected of them. And he knew that most people would rather run a thousand leagues than try to shoulder such a burden. But that was who he was and who he had always wanted to be. It was also who he had failed to be.
“You humans.” She shook her head slowly as if saddened by his words. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly know what it is to be a part of the world. The Mother would never ask nor expect such a thing of any of her children.”
Her words brought a smile to Yorik's face. The first true smile of that day. It was somehow good to hear her criticism. The same criticism he had heard so many times before from his friends as he had begun his training in the Order. They didn't understand either.
“The Lady neither asks for nor expects it either. Our service is a gift to her. Gratitude for the wisdom she brought us. For the care she bestowed upon us. But it is good to hear words of faith spoken once more in this house.”
“And it is good to finally see a smile no matter how thin on your face.” Genivere smiled as she said it.
“And now perhaps it is time to work. Your brothers told me of what you must do and that you did not have a lot of time in which to do it. And since they cannot be here to help I thought I would take their place.”
Genivere placed the basket on the table, opened up the top and showed him the cleaning cloths, brushes and a bar of lye soap, leaving Yorik horrified.
“Genivere there is no need. I can attend to this by myself.”
“Dear Yorik,” she stared straight at him as if he had said something incredibly stupid. “There is every need. You may be capable with that iron bar you call a sword, and you may be able to polish your armour. But no man ever has truly understood what it is to clean a house!”
Chapter Thirteen.
“You are troubled Sir Yorik?”
Yorik looked up from the horizon his eyes had been glued to for the better part of an hour, without ever having taken anything in, to see Genivere staring at him, a question in her eyes. And of course she was right to ask. He had been unfailingly rude to her as they rode, ignoring her as he dwelt on his own doubts and worries. It was only a mystery that it had taken her so long to ask. For four long weeks they had travelled this path, and for four long weeks he had done little more than sulk like a child. She had the right to at least know why.
It wasn't even as if he had good reason. His sins against the Order of the Lady had been put aside for judgement later, and he guessed that later would mean after this entire war was over, which he suspected would be many months or even years away. Stonebow, if they won through and he survived, would only be the beginning in a longer campaign if the leaders were right, and compared with that, trying him for his failings was a trivial thing at best. Especially when he – like all his brothers in arms – might well not survive through to the end. They might not even survive the coming battle.
In part the delay in his trial was also because he had told them of the Lady's guiding him on a mission, something that was extremely rare and considered a blessing. In part it was because Ascollia had asked for him to stand as his own liaison between their respective chapters, which was unheard of. But mainly, he was sure, it was because the commanders had far more important things to occupy their time than sitting in judgement on a single failed paladin.
Either way he was once again with his chapter, freely accepted by all, and while they were riding into battle, it wasn't as if that wasn't what they were trained for. They were paladins and knights, born and raised to fight. And they had been joined in Briarton by the elves, so that what had once seemed a small force was suddenly great indeed.
Seven chapters of paladins and seven chapters of rangers now rode side by side in a single gold column, a dozen soldiers or more wide, and a third of a league long. At least six thousand men, humans and elves – all brothers in arms – and another three or four thousand clerics and wizards. By any standard they were a powerful force, and quite merry with it. The elves especially seemed to have a love of song, and they regaled the others with an endless melody of touching ballads. Not speaking the tongue well, Yorik and most of the other humans didn't understand the songs, but for all that they were pleasant and often he'd found himself humming along.
Yet for four long weeks as things had only seemed to improve, his mood had darkened. And so finally he had found himself heading toward despair, and only his discipline kept him from giving in to it.
His failure to master Elvish was certainly part of his darkness. His teachings in the monastery had been enough to let him read and write it, and even to crudely pronounce the tongue, but the elves themselves spoke not only too quickly for him to follow, but also with a range of accents he'd never heard before, which made it difficult to understand them even when they spoke slowly. They could follow him, but he couldn't understand them without making them repeat everything at least three or four times. That was a worry for someone who was supposed to act as a liaison, but he wasn't alone. Few of the others of his Order, even those who were far better scholars than he, could follow the elvish tongue in full flight.
Fear of the unknown, and of seeing many of his friends, comrades and heroes falling in the battle to come was also there. That had never happened before. He, like the rest of his Order, had never been to war. They fought for sure, but usually only in small skirmishes where a few paladins might have to take on a dozen or so wrongdoers, but that was completely different from attacking an army of the undead in their own lair. Whatever the outcome of the battle, win or lose, he knew there would be many dead among the Order – among his own chapter – and that was something that he, like the rest of the Order, had never known. Still there was nothing he could do about it.
The sense of wrongness about what lay ahead though – that was the largest part of his darkness however. It had troubled him deeply from the outset, and more with every day that had passed since. Not just as he worried that what they might be doing was a mistake, but that they didn't even know with whom they were fighting. With every day that passed he became more and more certain that it wasn't the Dark One. It simply couldn't be.
His prison was warded with the most powerful spells ever shaped. Spells that would hold even the greatest of demons. If he ever broke through the barrier in Haldesfort he would lose his soul. Just to touch it in any way was to cost him a piece of his soul every time. And to send a necromancer back from his side of his prison to the world he would have to do just that. The Dark One simply wouldn't do that.
No matter how frustrated, angry or desperate he might be, the Dark One was a demon, a form of life. Evil, but alive. The very idea that he might be willing to sacrifice his soul and his life just to be free of his prison was utterly wrong. Demons didn't sacrifice themselves for anything. They clung to life with a grip every bit as fierce as that of a drowning man. They fought for it. It was a part of the reason they couldn't be killed. The held on to their lives with their last breaths and because they were able to, took banishment instead of death at the last. But that left him with the question of who or what exactly they were fighting? Naturally he had no answer.
Perhaps he decided, it was finally time to tell someone else of his doubts.
“Indeed fair maiden. I worry that we are being led into battle against an enemy we do not know. That our enemy is not who he seems, and that we are to be lambs to his slaughter. And that troublesome thought has grown stronger with every day that we have ridden here, and as it has so has my mood darkened. For my rudeness I apologise humbly.”
“There is no need. In truth you are not alone in your worries. Many of our leaders, both elven and human have felt the same, and have said as much. But they have no other course to set. And please, call me Genivere. I am only an acolyte, and not one born of high station.”
“My apologies Genivere. I will gladly call you Genivere, if you would call me Yorik. As I have said before, the Order of the Lady does not accept titles unlike many others. Not for paladins and neither I would guess, for rangers. And w
hile I have no knowledge of your station among your people, I can assure you that you are most definitely a fair maiden. Forgive me please. I meant only to show my respect.”
For once he managed to elicit a reaction from Genivere as she reddened slightly in the face, and he tried to suppress his own smile in return, not entirely successfully. Though it was a most inappropriate thought there was something in Genivere that called strongly to him, and had it been right he would have gladly asked for the honour of courting her. But she was an elf, he a human and a disgraced paladin, and her people would never have accepted such a thing. Still, it was nice to compliment her now and then – especially when his words were only the truth – and let his thoughts dally on what could never be.
The odd thing was how quickly he'd come to think of her not as an elf or even as an acolyte of the Mother, but as a woman. Before he'd met her or any others of her people, he would never have considered such a thing possible, but the more he travelled with her – and with Ascollia too – the more he seemed to forget their differences and just treat them as he would any others. Ascollia was a fine warrior, a worthy leader and a man of good counsel, while Genivere was a beautiful and magical woman of virtue. That they were elves was irrelevant.