“Then you will – once again – have to choose how to respond. And if he needs another lesson in your strength to keep him from despising you, I think you are well-prepared for the task.”
Rondal was silent for a time, considering everything that had been said about his fellow. He didn’t hate Tyndal, exactly, but he still felt wounded about Inarion, and he still resented the younger boy’s blaming him for it. That still stuck in Rondal’s stomach like a bloodworm, every time he thought of him, regardless of how reasonable it was to think otherwise.
“So how do I keep from wanting to stick his head in the nearest convenient bucket and hold it there until he stops wiggling?” Rondal asked.
“You exercise your control. You choose not to. You consider the consequences and plan accordingly. You rise above the petty discomforts of your life and take solace in the pursuit of your goal.”
“So . . . I should just ignore him when he acts like an idiot?”
“Essentially, yes,” Valwyn agreed with a chuckle. “I suppose that is exactly what I’m saying. Ignore it until you can’t. Then intervene forcefully. He respects you, now. He isn’t going to do anything to lose that respect without cause.”
“It’s a lot to let go of . . .”
“For your own good, I urge you to find a way. Such rivalries take time and energy away from your mission. And they sap your strength when it could be used to more noble purposes.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you have three more weeks of intensive training in a wide variety of subjects, many of which will allow you further opportunities to test your strength against your fellow, if you’d like.”
“Are any of them painful or humiliating?” Rondal asked, after chewing his lip in thought.
“Oh, gods yes,” snorted Valwyn.
“Then let’s just see how I measure against him,” Rondal decided. “And if he gets his nose bloodied along the way . . . well, we can just rationalize it as an opportunity to better himself.”
“Yes,” smiled Master Valwyn indulgently, “you do have wit. And intelligence. Say . . . have you ever considered aspiring to the officer’s mysteries . . . ?”
Part III:
ERRANTRY
Bontali Riverlands, Summer
Year One of King Rard I’s Reign
Tyndal
After the boys returned to Sevendor from Relan Cor, their wounds mostly healed, there was a tangible change in their relationship. Far from contesting territory around the castle with innumerable petty fights, they stayed far away from each other when they could.
That wasn’t too hard – though the spring plowing season was over, and vegetable planting was under way, there was still plenty of military work for them to do. And with Lady Alya’s belly growing ever greater with the Spellmonger’s new daughter, the mysterious machinations of the Alka Alon in their new tower, Karshak work crews everywhere and the approaching autumn Magic Fair, Master Minalan did not have much time to spare for them.
Rondal worked with the militia groups at Brestal Tower, teaching the rudiments of infantry to Bovali and Brestali lads, while Tyndal was on duty at the expanding Gatetower complex, where mostly he sat around and watched Master Olmeg and his company of River Folk plant yet more trees in Sevendor’s outer Enchanted Forest.
Even when both boys were at Sevendor castle, they avoided each other. Tyndal was still wary of how furious Rondal had been their last few days at Relan Cor, and while their mutual injuries were healed, their feelings were apparently not. There was something still bothering Rondal, Tyndal knew, something that kept the boy glaring at him whenever they saw each other.
So Tyndal just avoided the glare. He found a way to be elsewhere.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty to distract him other than trees. The girls from Boval Hall, across the road from the Gatetower, never failed to stop by and chat with him, flirting outrageously. He did not try to deter them, despite the fact that some of their fathers would not let his knighthood or his youth keep them from beating him to within an inch of his life.
Tyndal just liked girls, and liked their attention. And he liked how they scrambled over themselves to try to impress him. It was amusing, most days.
He was being amused by two of the young ladies from Boval Hall who were supposed to be planting cabbages when he was called up to the castle with a mind-to-mind summons from his Master. He sadly bid the girls farewell, turned over his duties to the Ancient on duty, saddled up a nag and rode up to Sevendor Castle.
Just as he was leaving the Gatetower, Rondal rode up next to him, late from Brestal Tower.
“So he summoned you, too, eh?” Rondal grunted. “Must be important.”
“Apparently,” Tyndal grunted back. “I won’t complain of a change.”
“Yes, enduring adoring girls and watching trees grow is so arduous,” Rondal said, dryly.
“True, but I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs a bit. I felt for certain that Master Min would have deployed us by now. Things are bad in North Gilmora, I hear.”
“Maybe that’s what’s happening now,” Rondal pointed out.
“Might be,” Tyndal considered. “Only one way to find out.”
The castle doors were thrown open to let the cool spring breezes air it out. Even so, a fire burned on the hearth. The days were warming, but the white snowstone castle seemed to take a long time to realize it.
Master Minalan and Sire Cei were waiting for them in the Great Hall, at the big stone table Sire Cei once broke with his fist and Rondal had had to meld back together.
Tyndal was instantly anxious. He admired Sire Cei, but he always had the feeling that the older knight was looking to catch him in something. Probably just residual guilty conscience from his youth in Boval, he reasoned, but that did not curb his anxiety.
“Well, gentlemen,” Master Minalan said, his big green sphere bobbing merrily over his shoulder like a faithful hawk, “you have learned magic, and you have learned warfare. But you have yet to learn how to be knights.”
Both of them groaned. “Is there some diabolical camp where they beat such things into you?” moaned Rondal.
“If I read another scroll, Master,” Tyndal assured him, “my head may well explode!”
“Nonsense, both of you,” Minalan said, cheerfully. “You now have the skills of a warmage, the abilities of a soldier, but to be a knight . . . that is beyond the scope of either scroll or drill instructor. For that you need instruction in chivalry.”
“So who’s going to teach us?” Tyndal asked, fearful of the answer.
“I am,” Sire Cei said, firmly. “I was squired for nine years before I won my spurs,” he said, proudly. “Squired to one of the most honorable knights in all of Alshar. He inspired in me a love of chivalry that speeds my every action. And I feel compelled to extend those valuable lessons to the two of you.”
“Sire Cei is teaching us chivalry?” Rondal asked, suspiciously.
“None better,” Master Minalan said, a challenge to name one implicit in his answer. “He is regarded among the local knights as a most well-trained gentleman. Therefore I am turning your education over to him for a few weeks, this summer, so that he might pour the finer points of chivalry into your brains. With a hammer, if need be,” he added, menacingly.
“But . . . do we have to learn to joust?” Rondal asked, anxiously. “I’d hate that!”
“There is more to being a knight than tilting,” Sire Cei affirmed. “More than tilting, swordplay, horsemanship, and all of the other traditional duties of the knight. Any man-at-arms can master those.
“No, gentlemen, to be a true knight – to honor and value the codes of chivalry – is to transform the warrior into the nobleman, the soldier into the statesman. Within the institution of knighthood,” he pronounced, “lies the very best aspirations of mortal man and gods alike.”
“As if we didn’t have enough to live up to,” Rondal sighed.
“Master, is this really necessary?” Tynd
al said, shaking his head. “It feels as if we’ve spent a year in training!”
“Not even close, although I’d welcome the chance to have given you a full year,” Master Minalan said, eyeing them both thoughtfully. “You have both done well at what I have tasked you with – apart from a little friction – but fighting and magic are not the totality of how you are to be of use to me. You are two of the first Knights Magi. Others will be looking to you for guidance. It would be helpful to me if you had some inkling of what was expected of you, in terms of chivalry.”
“So we’re just going to stay here and . . . and train?” Tyndal asked, miserably. “I thought for sure we’d be deployed to Gilmora!”
“Gilmora doesn’t need you yet,” Minalan said, shaking his head. “Things are bad there, but they’re static. The goblins have not tried to advance beyond where they were last year. Unfortunately, that means that they’re picking the region clean. Every human they capture goes north, up the Timber Road and into the Penumbra. They don’t come back.
“But they aren’t moving forward, either,” continued the Spellmonger. “That gives us time to build strength, prepare a defense, and determine what their goals are. None of which requires the two of you. So for the next few weeks, until Midsummer, at least, you will be in Sire Cei’s charge. But you won’t be staying here,” he added. “My newest apprentice finds you . . . distracting. No, don’t worry, I’ll deal with her, but for now it would be more convenient if you were away from Sevendor Castle while you learned knighthood.”
“So where?”
“My estate,” Sire Cei said, dreamily. “Cargwenyn. We leave in the morning.”
They made the peaceful journey back to the tiny estate Sire Cei had won at last year’s tournament at the Chepstan Spring Fair discussing chivalry in general, the older knight using the time to lecture them about the codes of ethics and warfare that were the basis of the military class. Once they were at Cargwenyn, however, his manner changed from lecturer to administrator.
Tyndal was impressed with the man’s versatility. He seemed to fit as naturally into the role of country knight of a small estate as he had castellan of a busy castle. He had greeted his pregnant wife - whom he had also won at the tournament - Lady Estret, in the yard of the small manor with a gentle grace and obvious affection that was so vulnerable that it made Tyndal blush to watch.
Then he had tended to his estate’s business immediately afterward, consulting with his steward about important matters before returning his attention to his two young charges. And he had done all of it without seeming overwhelmed by the varied nature of his duties. Indeed, he made that the point of one of their first official lessons.
“The role of a knight in our society is manifold,” Sire Cei explained to them after luncheon in the manor’s “great” hall. “At once a warrior and a landowner, an administrator and leader of men, knighthood requires a tremendous amount of responsibility to do well. And a lot of training and observation of good chivalric examples . . . which the two of you unfortunately lack.
“We’re quick studies,” Tyndal assured him.
“There are some things that cannot be learned from a book, Sir Tyndal,” the older knight said, pouring wine for each of them. “Ten thousand rules of social behavior and responsibility, mostly unwritten. Usually a squire picks them up in service to a knight over the course of years. The Magelord has invested me with the responsibility of . . . shortening that period for you. Considerably.”
“And just what does that entail?” asked Rondal, suspiciously.
“Whatever I decide it entails,” Sire Cei replied, dryly. “Everything a knight does, and how he does it, has meaning and purpose. For instance, the fact that I am serving you wine has meaning.”
“It means I need a drink!” Tyndal agreed.
“It means . . . that this is a serious discussion,” Rondal guessed.
“More,” Sire Cei explained as he swirled the wine around in the opaque glass goblet. “Wine is a luxury, which requires a sophisticated and well-run estate to cultivate, produce, ship, and sell it. It only grows better with age, and the older the vintage, the higher the quality - a suitable symbol for a hereditary class.
“Ale, mead and spirits have different meanings, but when a senior gentleman pours wine for two juniors in rank, it indicates that he is giving them instruction or orders, and that especial note should be taken.”
“That’s what wine means?” Tyndal frowned. That seemed . . . complicated for a mere beverage.
“Not just the wine . . . the wine in context of the situation. If I was your peer, instead of senior, then the nature and tone of the discussion would change. This is the way our society has determined a senior noble instruct junior nobles. If there were oaths of fealty involved, then the context changes . . . and so does the meaning of the service.”
“But . . . why?” Tyndal asked. “Why should wine signify . . . well, anything?”
“Something must,” Sire Cei explained. “Such social cues enrich our conversation, as they are invested in meaning. And wine is a pleasant enough drink for the meaning.
“If we were having ale, however, then the context changes. Our social ranks are removed with ale. As it is more common and less expensive, so does the context of our conversation change to a less-formal nature. It would not be proper to discuss weighty matters over ale. A couple of comrades from the wars, however, can drink over ales. We can talk about our wives, our children, our homes . . . but rarely about our definite plans. Nor would I give you serious instruction over ale. Things all men, from duke to cowherd share in common.”
“How about mead?” Tyndal asked with a grin. “Or spirits?”
“Mead is for celebrations, thank goodness,” Sire Cei said, looking up toward the honeycomb heraldry he had won with his tiny fief. A great deal of his revenue came from those who brewed mead, and he had invested greatly in building a meadery on his fief in fulfillment of his charter. “A bride and groom are supposed to take seven bottles on their honeymoon, and not return until they are all empty, if the union is to be fruitful. A man toasts his love with mead, or a dear friend – an intimate friend. He drinks to the health of a babe or a marriage. In death, mead is signifies mourning and sorrow. A girl’s first bleeding or a boy’s entrance into a trade or profession. Blessing a new home is also appropriate for mead.”
“And spirits?” asked Rondal, curious.
“Business, mostly,” Cei said. He was not partial to spirits himself. “And some men do not hesitate to use the courage from the flask to make bold propositions. And foolish ones,” the knight reminded. “Domains have been lost due to a man being too overcome with spirits and making a rash decision over his life. And in battle, a sip of spirits in the company of gentlemen is considered fortifying, a sign of mutual respect. Or a way to raise morale, particularly if a senior ranked officer does so with his juniors.”
“I remember some at Timberwatch who . . . respected each other a lot,” snorted Tyndal.
“In some cases spirits can drive away the pain and grief of war,” admitted Sire Cei, sadly. “My own father sought such refuge, and paid the price. But we were discussing the customs of wine.”
“What about tea?” Ronald asked.
Tyndal looked disgusted. “Tea? Who the hells cares about tea?”
“Your brother knight makes a point,” Sire Cei agreed. “Offering tea is a sign of hospitality and warmth, accepting it a sign of friendship. That is true in peasant’s hut or king’s castle. And offering milk to a grown man would be an insult, lest he requested it. It would be appropriate to a maid of sufficient youth.”
“This . . . is confusing,” Tyndal said.
“No, it’s not,” Rondal grumbled. “It’s not just what is being shared, but by whom. And where and when. The drink is secondary to the meaning,” he ventured.
“Of course, it’s all so clear to me know,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.
“Exactly, Sir Rondal,” Sire Cei approved. “They are al
l part of a knight’s understanding of the world.”
“So drinking wine in the afternoon would be a different meaning than drinking wine at night?”
“Yes. And the context changes depending upon whether food is involved, and what kind. On feast days, wine is celebratory, a complement to the food. On ordinary days, drinking wine is a way to honor a guest. And while either wine or mead can be drunk as the stirrup cup in parting, wine signifies a more formal character, while mead a more personal.
“The rules change if the drink is between a man and a woman, too, and their relationships of course must be taken into account. If a member of the clergy is present, the rules change again as does the context. Discussing gentleman’s humor in the presence of a priestess of Trygg while drinking wine would be improper, especially before sundown. Drinking spirits with the same earthsister at midnight, however, would be an appropriate time to share such jests. And hear a few in return.”
“So why must a knight know all of this?” Rondal asked.
“It is part of his station . . . not because he drinks wine when he is supposed to, but because he does so and understands why. Hospitality is a noble virtue that all knights should exhibit. Knowing those . . . ciphers helps smooth relations between gentlemen, and allows much of import to go unsaid.”
“It seems to be no more than a method for someone to find offense,” Rondal said, suspiciously.
“Such things have happened,” admitted Cei. “A wise man – and wisdom is another chivalric virtue – knows how to avoid such things by applying yet other social rules. Also context-dependent. A good knight will be adept at avoiding them in the first place. But if circumstance and fortune place him in such a position, he will do what needs to be done. Remember, a knight is a warrior, first and foremost.”
“A warrior with wine,” Tyndal snickered.
“There are many kinds of battles, and wine is but another arrow in your quiver. What a man might gain by the sword he may well lose by the cup, if he is incautious.”
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 28