Through the terse phrases that conveyed this, Arcolin could sense the king’s grief. “For these reasons and not in anger, I have bade Duke Verrakai leave the realm with those things of which you know.”
Arcolin wished he had been there; he knew he might never see Dorrin again. They had been friends more than half their lives. He understood why the king had sent her away and why she could not have come south, but her absence made his own responsibility for Tsaia’s defense even greater. He read on: “For this reason I name you Constable of the Realm and, when your contract is up, urge your swift return that we may discuss matters. The unrest in Fintha is spilling over here, with those who would kill every mage coming across the border, both after fugitives and to kill mages in our territory.”
Arcolin sent off an acknowledgment of this letter, offered a few quick suggestions, then wrote to the Aldonfulk prince.
“These Girdish who hate magery will not respect boundaries—and innocent fugitives may transgress by error. It is not one prince’s right, in Law, to state the duty of another. If what I say transgresses Law, instruct me: my hesktak is not with me this year by my own request that he instruct my steward in the north.
“Here is what I know. These mage-haters are dangerous. They have transgressed boundaries between Fintha and Tsaia. They have killed people—even children—for being suspected of magery. They have acted against the command of the Marshal-General yet claim to be Girdish; they have acted against the command of the King of Tsaia and yet claim to be his subjects.
“If Lord Prince Aldonfulk has words of Law that would help me protect my people, human and gnome, I am listening.”
That went off by gnome courier. Then he turned to matters of the Company itself.
The Sobanai soldiers Selfer had rescued from their captors had recovered their strength and had decided that they’d as soon be Fox Company soldiers as take their chances in the mercenaries’ hiring hall. At least they’d be together—and since they were good horsemen and archers, they fitted well into Cracolnya’s mixed cohort. Arcolin took their oaths for the season, with an option to renew them at Midwinter. Arcolin knew they would like to see their former companions rescued, but they also knew it was unlikely any were still alive.
Because of Burek’s relationship and his location in Cilwan, Ferran, Count Andressat, sent regular messages to Arcolin about Cilwanese affairs. Cilwan’s new Council appealed to the Count of Andressat for permission to consider “an arrangement” that would end the boy count’s automatic right to rule when he came of age. Ferran pointed out that the palace and all its contents, including the archives—those not destroyed by Alured or his troops—were the personal property of the line of counts of Cilwan through the ages and must be preserved for him or—if he was not to rule when he came of age—be brought to Andressat for him or paid for. Ferran sent a group of Andressat militia to make that plain; Burek, as Ferran’s acknowledged son, had almost Ferran’s influence. The Council backed down.
So the archives remained where they were, and the Council’s claim that the last count had not protected them and thus his son should not inherit died away. Burek set to work recruiting and training every interested citizen for Cilwan’s own militia force. By the time the Vonja cohort pulled out and the Foss Council cohort announced they, too, would leave in another tenday, Cortes Cilwan looked to Burek for order and defense. Arcolin read over the reports from Burek and from the Foss Council commander with satisfaction. That young man was showing all the talent Arcolin had suspected.
Summer continued dry. He had seen other dry summers and knew the south saw less summer rain than the north, but still the heat was oppressive, and watching the river level drop and drop suggested water shortages to come.
Fin Panir, Fintha
Arvid recovered quickly from the blood loss as he threw himself into the new routine. One night in three he had night duty at the grange, walking the bounds, but some of the yeomen were also watching at night now, and though he slept near the main door, he got some sleep.
He learned to respond to “Yeoman-Marshal” instead of “Arvid.” Most people, he could tell, admired what he’d done, but the families of the men he’d killed turned away when they saw him coming. It didn’t bother him. Men who would kill children—they could hate him all they wanted.
For the rest of the quarter-year, though rumor spoke of unrest in the realm as a whole, the city had no more overt trouble. Some families moved away, true. But Fintha had always been an open city, with some moving back to their vills or one of the other towns as their fortunes changed and new people moving in. Gradually the yeomen of Hudder’s grange settled back into their occupations, no longer guarding the entrance day and night. Arvid quickly mastered the accounting system common to all granges, and his earlier study with Deinar had taken him to all but a few of the articles of the Code of Gird.
“You’re ready,” Marshal Hudder said shortly before Midsummer. “Don’t you think so, Nadin?”
Nadin nodded. “I’d say so, Marshal. An’ if he stays here much longer, folk’ll be thinkin’ there’s no hope for them as wants to work up. None of ’em comes close.”
“Arvid, do you have an idea who might make a yeoman-marshal in your section?”
“Bodin,” Arvid said promptly. “Melthar’s as good in the basics, but he’s slow to learn new things and I don’t think he’s ambitious. Bodin’s quick. Best, he’s committed to the Marshal-General’s view about magery.”
“Lost a niece, didn’t he?”
“Yes. If she’d been his daughter, I’d worry about a thirst for revenge, but Bodin doesn’t show it and I don’t think he could hide it from me.”
Hudder and Nadin exchanged a glance, then Hudder nodded. “He’d be my pick, too. You’re definitely ready, Arvid, if you think about your people that way. Nadin, you’ll take my note up to the Marshal-General this morning; Arvid, you’ll take over the youngling classes.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d taken the classes; the children knew him now as more than the dark-clad stranger who’d rescued them. They bowed when he came into the barton, and the lessons went on as usual until the midday bell and dismissal. When Arvid went back into the grange, the Marshal-General was there, talking to Marshal Hudder.
“There’s a Marshals class being confirmed Midsummer Eve,” she said to Arvid. “You’ll be confirmed then, too. Half of them are coming from outland grange work—I’ll need to interview each one. I’ll interview you now.”
Her look was far less friendly than it had been; he wondered if her wound was paining her or if something else bad had happened. Since he no longer worked up on the hill, he’d heard only what everyone heard about how things were going.
“Come onto the platform,” she said. Arvid stepped up; they faced each other across that space. “Marshal Hudder, fetch the relic.”
The relic in Hudder’s grange was a wooden belt buckle, said to have been worn by Gird in the wars. Hudder took the relic from its niche. “Open your hand, palm flat,” he said to Arvid. Old wood almost as hard as iron, dark as iron with age, but much lighter than iron in his hand when Hudder laid it on his palm. It caught light, as the stick had in the grange at Valdaire, blazing out to light the entire grange, but it did not burn.
You are my Marshal.
“I heard that,” the Marshal-General said. Her voice softened with awe. “The voice of Gird himself. And you do not flinch from it. That is well. Repeat for me the Ten Fingers, Arvid Semminson.”
Arvid repeated them, this time flawlessly. The light dimmed, then brightened again.
“And now the Oath of the Marshalate.”
That, too, he recited. This time the light held steady.
“Marshal Hudder, return the relic to its place.”
As Hudder touched it, the light dimmed and slowly faded away. “Marshal-General—” Hudder began.
She silenced him with a gesture. “Later, Marshal. Let me complete this.” Then, to Arvid: “Arvid Semminson, do you accept the
task Gird has laid on you, to become a Marshal of Gird with all that means?”
“Yes, Marshal-General.”
“Then so it will be, and you will be confirmed in the presence of the Marshalate in the High Lord’s Hall on the first night of Midsummer. We will exchange blows at that time, but we will do so here as well.”
The exchange was but a few touches with staves. Arvid thought the Marshal-General moved more slowly, with a stiffness she had not shown before. When they came down from the platform, he could not refrain from asking.
“No, Arvid … no Kuakgan has come yet. And as Paks described, the wound continues to pain me, sometimes more and sometimes less. I do not know how she bore it so long, and with none who understood it. But with her understanding, I will endure until a Kuakgan comes or Gird calls me home.”
“I wish you well,” Arvid said.
“And I you. You—” Against anything he expected, she put her hands to his face, pulled it toward her, and kissed him on the brow. “If I had had children, I would have been glad to have you as a son. And your Arvi as a grandson.”
In the next few days, Arvid worked even harder as he and Nadin began training Bodin and two others as potential yeoman-marshals. On the day before Midsummer Eve, Marshal Hudder released him from all duties. “Get yourself clean and rested and make sure they’ve the right clothes for you.”
Late afternoon on the day, Arvid and Arvi sat downstairs at the Loaf, waiting for Marshal Hudder, who would present him. Marshal Cedlin and Marshal Hudder walked in together.
“Here he is,” Marshal Cedlin said. “Cheer up, Arvid—you look like a man facing a drubbing.”
“Am I not?” he said. “Do not all the Marshals get their chance?”
“Not anymore,” Marshal Hudder said. “It would take far too long with this many Marshal-candidates and Marshals. No … you’ll have one good bout with three different opponents. Neither of us; you’ll get to surprise someone else.”
“Time now,” Marshal Cedlin said as bells began ringing throughout the city.
Arvid stood, feeling a little shaky in the knees, but that passed as they walked across the inn’s common room. Outside, he was astonished to see yeomen from both granges arrayed in their ranks, carrying their hauks. They marched behind him and their Marshals on the way up to the citadel. Five others from the city were being confirmed that day; their granges also came in support of them. Those from outside had their supporters as well, usually two hands of yeomen.
The High Lord’s Hall was almost full, evening light still coming through the windows. Arvid had noticed the Gird’s Cow group around their stuffed cow outside and now saw them filing in. Arvid had been placed in the second rank, between a short dark fellow from a town on the South Trade Road and a wiry redhead from just north of the river. Once the Marshal-General had greeted the crowd, the candidates recited the Ten Fingers yet again and then the Marshal’s Oath, not quite in unison.
Then the center space was cleared, and three candidates at a time faced an unfamiliar Marshal across the bare floor. Candidates and Marshals both removed their shoes. The exchange was not nearly as simple as Arvid expected. Each pair fought with every standard weapon: hauk, staff, short sword, and then the Marshal’s longsword. Those judging the length of each bout expected actual blows to be landed.
When it came Arvid’s turn, his opponent was a dour black-bearded Marshal from near the eastern border. Arvid took a hard blow to the shoulder but gave one to the Marshal’s hip. With staves he did better, landing several on the Marshal before the Marshal landed one on his ribs. They were both sweating heavily by then. In short sword and longsword, Arvid had the clear advantage; when the Marshal had not made a touch in the time a candle burned from mark to mark, he realized he would have to let the Marshal do so. He lowered his weapon looked the Marshal in the eye, and said, “I am not worthy. Mark me as you will.” The Marshal smiled and drew the edge of the blade lightly down his forearm, drawing a thin bead of blood.
“Your blood honors my blade, for I had not the skill to take it. Alyanya bless you.”
When his turn came around again, he had a different opponent, and then a last one who planted his stave hard on the floor and announced firmly that Arvid had proved himself enough. Those judging the bouts concurred.
In the final test, each had to kneel on the platform before the Marshal-General. She held the ancient sword said to have been Gird’s and laid it to the neck of each. When it came Arvid’s turn, he prayed silently, Do not make a show of this. Please.
His answer was a chuckle from within and a blaze of light around him as the sword touched him. He heard gasps from the others, then excited voices. He could not move for a long moment.
Get up. Now.
He stood up, tingling as if he’d been dipped in snow. Light shifted as he stood. Arianya still held the sword—and it was not the sword that gave light.
Someone cried out down the hall: “Magelord! Traitor! Kill him!”
Someone else said “No! It’s Gird’s light! He’s a paladin!”
The only thought in the chaos of his mind was Gird, you bastard.
In his own light—but it wasn’t his; it was Gird’s or the High Lord’s—he saw Paks, grinning at him. She winked and mouthed some greeting he could not, in his shock, understand. Beyond her, he saw the crowded hall as a mass of pale faces. Some … He stared at them. Some were touched with something he now felt was evil.
Yes. You will know. You have been where they are.
He shuddered even as he accepted that judgment. He had indeed been that angry, that vengeful, that willing to do harm. And he knew himself capable of harm still.
All are. It is a choice. And not always easy.
“I confirm you,” the Marshal-General said loud enough to be heard. “Marshal Arvid, be true to your oath.”
“I swear,” he said. In his head, he felt Gird’s response. He stepped aside to join the other confirmed Marshals, and the next, the fellow from the south, stepped forward. His light dimmed, but his awareness of those too fond of evil remained. Noise continued down the hall, rising and falling with each candidate confirmed.
When it was done, all the new Marshals were greeted first by Marshals, then knights and paladins, and then the other guests. Arvid noticed that aside from the Marshals and others from the citadel, the only people who came forward to greet him were from the two granges he knew best, those whose names he knew.
It was after the turn of night when the Hall emptied into the courtyard, very like the night of the riot back in autumn but for being barely cool, with a breeze smelling of the meadows to the west. From this point, the celebration reverted to the ancient rites of Midsummer. Arvid put his arm around Arvi’s shoulders.
“Want to go out to the bonfire in the meadows?”
“Da—those men who think you’re a magelord. You’re not, are you?”
“No, of course not. You know what I am: both my parents thieves—”
“But I heard that in Tsaia some magelords were in the Thieves’ Guild.”
“Who told you that? I don’t—” He stopped, remembering for the first time since he’d left Vérella the rumors about the Liartian who was supposed to be a noble … and a magelord. “I don’t think so,” he said more slowly. “All the thieves I knew were common as ashes. My parents—” If they were his parents. That thought came to him for the first time. His mother—a street singer, she said, before losing her looks to a jealous rival’s knife. From her he’d gotten his voice, and she’d shaped it with exercises. His father—a thief from birth, from whom he’d learned knifework, wall climbing, silent movement, and poisons. He’d assumed all that was true. But … was it?
“I’m not a magelord,” he said. “I have no magery in myself. That light came from Gird.”
“That’s what I said,” Arvi said. “But the man next to me said Gird wouldn’t give paladin’s light to a dirty thief.”
“Um. What else?”
“He said the Marshal-G
eneral’s gone over to the magelords. He says you’re proof.”
Arvid felt a prickle down his back and turned. A few paces behind him, a man turned his back quickly.
“It’s Midsummer Eve,” he said. “Coming to dawn soon. Alyanya’s most sacred day. However unhappy someone is, surely he’ll have sense enough not to cause trouble today.” He hoped. But after all, what better time to cause trouble than on a day no one expected it? He looked around, then overhead. Here in the courtyard, he could not see the horizon, but the sky seemed murky, the stars that had burned earlier now dimmed.
“Come,” he said to Arvi. “Let’s get you something to eat.” And himself someone to tell, someone who could do something. He guided Arvi toward the side of the courtyard where tables were piled with food. Someone reached out as they passed and put a flower crown on Arvi’s head. Arvid turned and caught a glimpse of a woman handing out flower crowns to other children.
Arvi started in on a pastry stuffed with berries; Arvid chose a meat roll. He saw no one he knew around him now. He felt off balance, uncertain. And then he saw Paks coming, a flower crown lopsided on her head. As in the fall, in the riot, she came directly to him, a broad smile on her face and the silver circle that still made his skin raise up in bumps.
“Everyone’s told me about you and the children,” she said. “I knew Gird had a plan for you.”
“Did he tell you the plan?”
“No. That’s between you two.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I told the Marshal-General I found a Kuakgan, but he’s not here … I thought he would be.”
“I wish he were. I wish she’d go somewhere with more trees—they need trees, don’t they?”
“Yes. He said he’d find a tree to bring with him. But come—let’s go to the bonfire. We don’t have much longer.” She took his son’s hand; he put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they went out to the big field beyond the stable block. The scent of the night-blooming flowers starring the grass filled his nose. With the others they danced the old dances and sang the old songs … Arvid knew the thieves’ words to those tunes better … and watched the sun rise red over the eastern end of the world before walking back to the city.
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