"A knight?" asked Marshal Cedfer. "A captain, perhaps?"
"Maybe." Paks looked at her hands. "I am a soldier, I enjoy swordplay, I want that kind of life. But not just for—for fighting anything, or for show. I want to fight—"
"What needs fighting?" suggested the Kuakgan.
Paks looked at him and nodded. "I think that's what I mean. Bad things. Like the robbers in Aarenis that killed my friends, or Siniava—he was evil. Or that—whatever that held the elf lord. Only I don't think I have the powers for that. But I want to fight where I'm sure it's right—not just to show that I'm big and strong. It's the same as tavern brawling, it seems to me—even if it's armies and lords—"
The Kuakgan nodded. "You've learned a lot, Paksenarrion, besides what most soldiers know. I thought so before, but now I'm sure. Do you know anything of the rangers in Lyonya?"
"No." Paks frowned. "Why?"
"You have fought with the elfane taig. It may be that you can sense the taigin, and if so you would be able to work with them."
"Master Oakhallow—" the Marshal began. The Kuakgan waved him to silence.
"Marshal, I don't question the sincerity of Girdsmen. You know that. We honor the same gods. But some fighters have abilities Gird does not use. She may be one of them." He turned back to Paks. "Paksenarrion, we agree that you have shown ability to fight evil. You have shown a desire to know more of good, and to fight for it. We both think you have been touched by the evil you've fought—not to contaminate you, but in such wise that you should not go back to ordinary soldiering. Do you agree?"
Paks was too bewildered to answer. Marshal Cedfer spoke up.
"Paksenarrion, when you came you said your Duke had recommended additional training—even toward a captaincy. We are prepared to guide you toward such training, but you must choose. I can give you a letter to the Marshal-General at Fin Panir; she will probably take my recommendation and let you study with the training order there. From that you can become a knight in either of the two Girdish orders—or even a paladin, if Gird's grace touches you."
"And I can give you introduction to the rangers of Lyonya," said the Kuakgan. "If you satisfied them, they might recommend you to the Knight-Commander of the Knights of Falk. That would be a few years away, however. But in either case, you would use your skills only in causes of good. If that way of fighting did not appeal, you could always leave."
"You could not take Suli with you, either way," said the Marshal. "That's why I asked. If you had contracted with her, the gnome merchants have told me that they can get you a contract from the gnome prince of Gnarrinfulk. Something in the way of soldiering, I don't know what. But if you aren't taking Suli, then—" He stopped and cocked his head, waiting for her answer.
"But I'm not Girdish," she managed to say. Nothing else came out.
"No. But I daresay that in Fin Panir, at the High Lord's Hall, after training with others of the faith, that Gird would make plain his interest in you." The Marshal leaned back a little in his chair. "I think he has already, Paksenarrion. When I think of the things you have come through—" Paks thought to herself that he didn't know the half of it. She had not told him all about Aarenis. She remembered what the priest of Achrya had said: "near enough a paladin. . . . Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in the growth of a paladin of Gird . . ." And the training at Fin Panir was famous throughout the north. She might become a knight—or even a paladin—she pushed the thought away. It was for the gods to think of such things, not a soldier. But the other way. Rangers—she knew nothing of them. The thought of more powers like the elfane taig daunted her, though she hated to admit it. And years of service, before she might think of the Knights of Falk.
She looked at the Kuakgan again, meeting his dark eyes squarely. "Sir—Master Oakhallow—I honor you—"
"I know that, child," he said, smiling.
"If you have a—" she stopped, knowing what she meant, but not how to say it. If he demanded it, in return for releasing her from guilt for the snowcat's murder, she would go. She saw understanding in his eyes.
"I have no commands for you, Paksenarrion," he said softly. "You have served Brewersbridge well; you have fulfilled my trust in you, and my hope for you. Go with my blessings, whichever way you go."
"Then—" She looked back at the Marshal. Was it for Ambros, who had trusted her with his fears and died beyond her help? Was it for Canna, who had left her the medallion? Or for something else, something she felt dimly and could not define? "I would be glad, sir, of your recommendation," she said formally. The Marshal shot a triumphant glance at the Kuakgan; Paks nearly took her words back. But the Kuakgan's smile was open and friendly. He spoke to her alone.
"Paksenarrion, the Kuakkganni treasure all life created in the first song. We study, we learn, but we do not order a creature from its own way. And the creature itself knows its own way best, unless it is sorely hurt. If the other way had been best for you, you would have known." He turned back to the Marshal. "Marshal Cedfer, we are no more rivals than two men who plant a seed neither of them knows, and argue until it sprouts whether it will be fireoak or yellowwood. The seed knows itself; it will grow as its nature demands, and when the first leaves open, all arguments are over."
To Paks's surprise, the Marshal looked shamefaced. "You're right, Master Oakhallow. I have no right—but I was hoping so, for some good to come of Ambros's death."
The Kuakgan nodded gravely. "And yet you know that good has come of it. The webspinner's priest is gone, and you will clean that filthy place from end to end. Ambros has shown that your training prepares untried lads for the worst of wars, and the best of ends. You live in constant combat, Marshal, and it makes you alert to each advantage—but the gods move in longer cycles, as well. Be at peace, honest warrior." He rose and left the room. For a long silent time, Paks and Marshal Cedfer sat in quiet, contented. Then the Marshal shook himself like a wet puppy and snorted.
"Gird's grace, that fellow could cast a spell on stone. He may have time enough, but I live a normal span, like any man. Paksenarrion, I will write my letter this afternoon. When will you be fit for travel?"
"In a day or so. I'd like to get everything cleaned up."
"Good. I think you should not linger; winter will close some roads soon, and it makes bitter traveling to the northwest. About Suli—do you want me to talk to her?"
"I told her she should talk to you, but she—"
"She doesn't want it; she knows what I'll say. I've said it before. All right. I'll say it again. I can send her to another grange—a larger one—with more women training. Let her know what she can work toward—yeoman-marshal, or something like that. Tell her to come, if you see her." Paks wondered if it would help, but said she would.
Chapter Eighteen
As autumn darkened into winter, Paks rode north and west, into Vérella of the Bells, and west along the Honnorgat, through one town after another, as the river narrowed. She passed from grange to grange, enjoying the hospitality of each, as the Marshal's letter opened the doors. She thought of turning aside at Whitemeadow, and following a branch of the river north to Rocky Ford, and then on to Three Firs. But had her dowry arrived yet? Would she be welcome? She decided to wait until she had her knighthood, and ride home with Gird's crescent on her arm. As she neared Fintha, she tried to think of a more elegant name for the black horse, something suitable for a warhorse, but she had thought of him as Socks from the first, and it stuck in her mind.
Frost whitened the ground the morning she first caught sight of Fin Panir. She had been on the road before dawn, the saddle cold as iron beneath her, and her breath pluming out before. When the sun rose into a clear cold sky, the ground sparkled in rose and gold; the tree branches interlacing overhead glittered with frost. It was like riding inside a pearl. A little wind blew the sparkling frost in swirls before her. Paks found herself grinning, and nudged the black horse into a trot. He squealed and kicked out before settling down. She laughed aloud.
Then the for
est broke apart, and she saw across a bend of the river the spires of the High Lord's Hall, gleaming in silver and gold against the blue sky. Beneath lay a tangle of roofs and walls, multi-colored stone, tiles, sliced into fantastic shapes by the sharp shadows of a winter sun. She rode toward it, yearning.
Within an hour she could pick out the gates. Between her and the walls, a small company of horsemen rode, armor glittering and banners dancing above. When she was near enough, they hailed her.
"Ho! Traveler! Where are you bound?" The leader was deep-voiced, a man of middle height in chain mail with a blue mantle bearing Gird's crescent.
"To the Hall in Fin Panir," said Paks. "I have a letter from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge."
"For the Marshal-General?" he seemed surprised.
"Yes, sir. Can you direct me?"
"Yes, of course. But you might ask at the gates; she may be abroad this morning. You will have left Tor's Crossing early—or did you camp out last night?"
"I left early, sir."
"Well, the Marshal-General's quarters are in the Hall Courts. Take the first left, after the gate, and then a right—go straight past two turns, and then left again under the arch. Someone will take your horse there, and guide you. But, as I said, ask at the city gates if your message is urgent; they will know if she's ridden out somewhere."
"Thank you, sir." Paks lifted her reins and started forward. One of the other riders spoke to the leader, and he lifted a hand.
"Wait a moment—" He looked closely at her. "Are you a Girdsman?"
"No, sir."
He looked puzzled. "You are carrying something of great worth—is it a gift from the Marshal?"
"Gift? No, sir." Paks thought of the jewels she still had, and wondered if that was what he meant. Somehow she didn't think so.
At the city gates, a neatly uniformed guard waved her through after she explained her errand. When she asked, he said that the Marshal-General had gone to the practice fields west of the city, but that she might wait at the Hall if she chose. Paks followed the directions through stone-paved streets of middle width, and arrived at an arched entrance through a wall. Far above she could see the towers of the Lord's Hall. A grizzled older man stepped out of an alcove in the arch and asked her business.
"Marshal-General, eh? She'll be out until noon; can you wait?" At her nod, he stepped forward. "Good, then. I'll get someone to take your horse—"
"I can take him," Paks interrupted. "If you'll tell me where."
His bushy eyebrows rose. "A guest take her own horse to stable? What do you think we are, ruffians?" He turned and bellowed through the archway. "Seli! Seliam!" Paks heard the clatter of running feet, and a boy raced up, panting. "Take this horse to the guest stables, Seli. Have the stableboys see to him." The boy laid his hand on the rein, and Paks dismounted. She rummaged in her saddlebags for Cedfer's letter to the Marshal-General. "Seli will take your saddlebags to the guest house in a few minutes," the man said. "Would you prefer to wait there, or in the Marshal-General's study?"
"Could I—" Paks suddenly felt shy. "I—I haven't been in Fin Panir before," she began again. "Could I see the High Lord's Hall? Is it permitted?"
His face split in a grin. "Permitted! Of course it's permitted. Let me find someone for the entrance, and I'll take you in myself. Haven't been here before, eh? I daresay you've heard tales, though, haven't you?" He turned away without waiting for an answer, and yelled again through the arch. This time another older man answered the summons.
"What is it, Argalt? An invasion of orcs?"
"No. A newcomer, who wants to see the Hall while waiting for the Marshal-General."
"And you want to show him—her, excuse me." The man smiled at Paks. "Gird's grace, lady, you've made Argalt's day. He loves to show off the Hall. And you've bright sun for it, too." He waved them away, and Paks followed the man through the arch and across a cobbled courtyard to the entrance of the High Lord's Hall of Fin Panir.
Broad steps led up to a pair of tall bronze doors, cast in intricate designs. Paks stopped to look at them, and her guide began to explain.
"These doors are not the original—those burned, hundreds of years back, the year the Black Lady fought to the steps here. But these were designed and cast by the half-elven craftsman Madegar. The middle of each door bears the High Lord's Seal—it's inlaid in gold, as you see. All around are the seals of the saints, and a little picture of each one doing something famous. There's Gird, with the cudgel, and Falk with a sword and the tyrant of Celias, and Camwyn riding a dragon, and Dort shearing the golden sheep, do you see all that?"
"Yes." Paks traced the designs with her finger, as far as she could reach. She found Torre and her magical steed, Sertig with his anvil. She stared, fascinated, until the man tapped her on the shoulder.
"Come along in, now, and see the rest."
From the great doors, the Hall stretched away, longer than any grange Paks had seen. The grange at Brewersbridge, she thought, would have fit in sideways, and three more with it. The soaring arches that held the roof were lifted from stone columns like treetrunks springing from the floor. It reminded her, in that way, of the elves' winterhall underground. At the far end, a double platform with a low railing took the place of the usual training platform in granges. On either side a railed gallery with stepped seating offered a clear view of the floor.
But all this she saw later. First she was aware of the great wash of brilliant light, broken into dazzling chips of color, that poured through the great round window in the far end. All along both sides, high windows of colored glass spread fanciful patterns of light on the floor. She turned to the guide, who was chuckling at her reaction.
"How?" was all she could say.
"You had seen glass in windows before?" he asked.
"Yes, but—" she waved a hand at the magnificence.
"It's colored glass, laid in a pattern, and bound in strips of lead. And I'll have you know, it wasn't an elf designed that." Now that the first dazzle had passed, Paks could see that the colored glass made designs—even pictures, in some of the windows. The round window held a many-pointed star in shades of blue with accents of gold. Along the sunny south side of the Hall, she saw Gird with his cudgel striking a richly dressed knight, Camwyn riding a dragon whose breath seemed literal flame, a harper (she could not remember the name of the harper's patron saint) playing to a tree that seemed to be turning into a girl, and Torre partway through her Ride, with half the stones of the necklace turned to stars. The longer she looked at each window, the more she saw. Each had smaller scenes inset in medallions around the main picture. Paks walked over to Torre's window. There was her home, with its six towers, and that must be her sorrowing father with the wicked king threatening him. Here was the stable, with the strange horse standing loose between the stalls, the ring of coals around its neck. A white flower stood for the first trial of her Ride, and three snowflakes for the next. A fat dwarf held the blue ring, and an elf in green held out the branch of yellowwood in flower, complete with two bees. The wicked king's red banner blew from a tower on a cliff. A sleeping baby in a basket floated on a river. At the very top of the window, the stars of Torre's Necklace blazed out of blue glass just as they did in the sky.
Paks tore her eyes away and looked around again. The shadowed, northern side windows were pictures as well. Sertig pounding on his anvil, and Adyan writing the true names of everything in his book. Alyanya, the Lady of Peace, wreathed in flowers, with fruitful vines trailing around her. Some pictures she did not recognize at all. One seemed to be all animals, fitted into every available niche, all mixed together, large and small. One was simply a tree, whose gnarled roots and branches filled up the space above and below, curling and recurling until Paks could not tell how many little rootlets filled even one small section.
When she finally left the windows to look at the rest of the building, it was equally engrossing. The floor was paved with flat slabs of stone in a subtle pattern. Many of the slabs were engraved
with names and dates that meant nothing to Paks—but much to her guide, when she asked.
"That there's Lolyin's marker—he was Marshal-General over a hundred years ago, and converted the King of Tsaia to the fellowship of Gird. That was the great-grandfather of the present crown prince. Under his name is the paladin Brealt. You might have heard of him, since I can see you've been in Aarenis. He freed the captives of Pliuni, and fought two priests of Liart by himself to do it." Paks had not heard of him, but she nodded. The old man went on. "Marshal-Generals and paladins of Gird—and a few others—they have their names and dates put here. Some say their deeds should be added, but the rule is that those who want to know should look them up in the archives. There's not one of them but is worth remembering. Take this—" he led her up near the platform. "This is Gird's own marker, put here by Luap—the oldest we have." The stone was worn in a hollow, and the letters were faint. "In the old way, all that joined the knights of the fellowship, or became paladins of Gird, would spend part of a vigil washing that stone, to keep Gird's name pure. But then they realized they were wearing it down, and only the Marshal-General does it now."
Paks could think of nothing to say. She had never imagined that anything built by men would be as beautiful as the Hall. That soaring space seemed to liberate something inside her, as if it called for wings within. When they came out at last, she blinked in the sunlight, her head still full of what she'd seen.
* * *
She had no idea what to expect of a Marshal-General. The Marshals she had met had been matter-of-fact, much like the Duke's captains. But what she'd seen of feudal commanders, and the splendor of the Hall, led her to think that the Marshal-General might be more—she tried to think of a word—impressive? magnificent? As the servant led her through the passages and up a broad stair to the Marshal-General's office, she felt her stomach flutter.
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