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 mat 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.
Although I’m not sure how noble the weapons of a bucket and a pitchfork are. . . .
“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.
Well, that’s one trick I’d certainly like to learn.
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.”
He didn’t have any feelings of guilt over the fact that Val wasn’t going to get a nap, not when he knew from Val’s relative freshness that his friend had probably had a good long doze in the darkness. Anda had big, dark rings under his eyes, but Anda was going to be able to get some sleep as well; he wasn’t needed at the tournament at all.
“In that case, let’s get this tourney open, so the hotbloods can start beating on each other,” Val replied heartily. Anda took his leave of them, and they headed for the front of the Keep, where a well-worn stand and a tourney-field had been set up outside the walls. Tournaments were a good place for fighters to demonstrate their skills to a potential employer, and to have a chance to earn some prize money into the bargain. Since this tournament was sponsored by k’Valdemar, the prizes weren’t money, but were Tayledras-produced items that could readily be converted into money - or into dowries - bolts of silk, glassware, and jewelry. The prizes had been on display at last night’s feast, and Darian didn’t doubt that most examples, if not all of them, already had several potential buyers from among Breon’s guests.
Darian climbed up into the grandstand, and looked down at the sea of helmets below him. With the early-morning sun to his right, he couldn’t see faces inside those helmets, only dark eye-slits. It was a little unnerving, but only a little.
It was a good thing he’d memorized a speech for this, too, since fatigue was starting to catch up with him. He smiled, waved, made his speech, and exhorted the fighters to display not only strength and courage, but honor and brotherhood. In fact, there was an award for the fighter who behaved the best on the field and off it. Despite some mental disgruntlement from his owl, who had been awakened for the flight, Kuari’s appearance and wide-winged, silent landing as Darian declared himself by the title Owl Knight raised a cheer from everyone. Kuari then left Darian in a ground-skimming flight down the length of the tourney grounds past every competitor, and disappeared into the shadows of the forests. Exclamations of amazement and murmurs of approval resounded. It seemed Ayshen was proven right yet again. Darian turned the proceedings over to Val, who took over with relish. As Darian’s Champion, Val was going to get to do some fighting against the few knights among the fighters, and he had his eye on the prize to give to his wife. He could have gotten the same sort of prize by just asking Darian for it, but it wouldn’t have been as satisfying to Val to just ask for it, as it would be fun to win it by pounding everyone else into the ground. Darian happily left him to it.
Darian dismounted the grandstand and managed not to stagger as he made his way to the little room he’d been given. It was deep within the Keep, not even a clothes closet by Tayledras standards, with a bare arrow-slit for a window. It was only large enough for a narrow cot, at the foot of which waited a tray with his breakfast on it - but right now, it suited his purposes perfectly. It had a bed, and nothing at the moment was needed more. Now he had no more duties until this evening, when he would be presented to all the guests, preside over the distribution of the prizes, and take the seat of honor at Breon’s right hand at the High Table.
Darian struggled against a heavy weight on his chest; for some reason, he couldn’t open his eyes or even move -
Finally he wrenched his head around, and his eyes flew open.
A huge, translucent cat lay laconically on him, covering him from his neck to his toes, hindquarters spilling over the cot and onto the floor. It looked into his eyes and breathed softly on his face; its breath held the same scent as the winter wind just before a storm.
It looked up suddenly, its shimmery golden eyes wary and alert. Darian found his gaze pulled to the tiny slit of a window.
A raven the size of the huge cat - and just as eerily translucent - peered in through the slit, first one eye, then the other, then tried to force its way into the room.
Impossibly, first the beak, then the head, then the body and wings flattened themselves and oozed into the room with him.
Both cat and raven stared at him, as if expecting him to answer a question of life-or-death importance -
But he had not the faintest notion what the question was.
He fought to cry out, but his throat was frozen -
And he sat bolt upright on the floor, with a shout.
He was alone. No bird, no cat; the heavy weight on his chest had been the cot; he had overset it on top of himself.
Hot with embarrassment, he was just grateful that no one had come in answer to his shouting, or the ruckus he must have made as he fought with his bedding. Still clumsy with fatigue, he managed to fumble the cot upright again, and lay back down, this time to sleep dreamlessly.
The next day he was safely back in k’Valdemar, and although he’d had some doubts about his performance at the feast, Anda assured him that he had done splendidly. “I caught the sarcasm,” Anda said, when he’d expressed his guilt over some of his remarks to one of Breon’s grouchy guests, “But trust me, Lord Talesar wouldn’t recognize irony if you loaded it into a catapult and flung it at him. You did well; people I talked with said they couldn’t believe how patient you were with the old goat.”
Today was a rest day for him; Anda and Shandi were getting their formal reception at Errold’s Grove. Keisha had gone along as moral support for Shandi, figuring that with both of them there, her mother wouldn’t be able to single either of them out for attention.
The first place he went when he arrived was the hot pools; the one thing he truly needed at this point was a long soak. As always, Meeren knew the moment he’d passed the Veil, and he had no sooner gotten settled into the water than the hertasi appeared with cold drinks and finger food.
“Well?” Meeren asked, perching on the rocks beside Darian. “How did it go?”
Darian gave the hertasi a complete description of the events of the past two days, knowing that Meeren would be providing all the details to the other, insatiably curious hertasi of the Vale, and to the kyree who served as their historian. Meeren sat rock-still, interrupting Darian only for questions about details, and at the end let out an enormous sigh of satisfaction.
“Excellent job,” he said, bestowing the hertasi vote of approval on him. “You gave them a good show, and you’ve made a fine impression on Lord Breon’s neighbors. I anticipate more trade agreements from this, especially now that they’ve seen the quality of our goods. We could use more trades for meat; those gryphons are eating the larder bare, and red meat fills them up better than herd birds.” Meeren rubbed his hands at the prospect; when trade agr
eements were conducted in the Vale, he usually served as Ayshen’s assistant - of late he had even conducted them himself under Ayshen’s supervision. Darian often wondered when he found the time to take care of the ekele and his other responsibilities.
Then again - if he couldn’t take care of twenty major things at once, Ayshen would never have picked him as an assistant.
“So tomorrow is the Ghost Cat ceremony,” Meeren went on. “I don’t foresee any problems there.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Darian agreed. “No speeches, for one thing. I’ve been to their sweat-house gatherings before. Anything you say is supposed to be right out of your head, and spontaneous. Nobody minds if you aren’t very articulate.”
Meeren chuckled. “That should certainly suit you,” he teased. “You’re at your best when you’re inarticulate.”
“Oh, thank you,” Darian replied sarcastically. “Have you been taking lessons in sarcasm from Firesong? By the way, you might want to consider adding needlework to your list of potential trade items; most of Breon’s lady-guests were positively drooling over our surcoats.”
“I doubt any of them could afford what we would charge for work like that,” Meeren said dryly. “But I’ll keep it in mind. Who knows? There might be potential in selling small motifs for ladies to add their own work around.”
Having satisfied himself that he had pried everything worth hearing out of Darian for now, Meeren left him to his soak and dinner, pausing only to add, over his shoulder, “Oh, and by the way - good work on the hot spring.”
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