Chapter Twenty-six
Paks came to the grange hall in the padded training armor and surcoat Seklis had provided. Lieth carried her paladin's mail, and the elven blade. Light blazed from the grange hall windows: candles on frames hung high above the floor, more candles set in brackets along the walls and the railing separating the seats from the open space. Paks peeked into the hall on her way to the High Marshal's study: already the seats were filling.
Seklis grinned when he saw her. "Ah—Lady Paksenarrion. Come, meet your fellow examiners. Here's Marshal Sulinarrion, of Seameadow Grange—and Marshal Aris, of Copswith Grange—and Marshal Doryan—" Someone pulled at his sleeve, and he turned away, leaving Paks with three Marshals: a tall brown-haired woman and two men, both gray-haired and dark-eyed. By the time she had them sorted out (Aris was taller, with a wide scar on his forehead), the High Marshal was back, to complete the introductions. Paks was not sure she had them all straight in her mind, but there was no time to worry about it. The great Bells began to peal, and everyone moved into line, with Seklis rearranging as he saw fit.
"You, Suli—and then Seli here—and Paks, you get behind him. There. Gird's grace on all of us."
"Gird's grace," came the response, and they walked quickly into the hall, ranging themselves across the width of it just below the platform.
The seats were filled. Candlelight glittered on jewels, slid along the folds of satin and silk, caught the flash of an eye that glanced, and shone steadily back from the few motionless hands. From the far end of the Hall, a fanfare of trumpets followed the bells into silence. Then the pointers, who would judge the trials, entered in their spotless white uniforms. They came forward, bowing once to the examiners in line, then withdrew in two files to either side. Another blast of trumpets, and the candidates entered in two files, still wearing gray training clothes and training armor. They faced the examiners, bowed, and waited. High Marshal Seklis stepped forward.
"Who presents these candidates for trial?"
"I do." A heavy-set man in the green, rose, and white of the Order stepped into the hall. "Sir Arinalt Konhalt, Training Master of the Order of the Bells."
"Their names?"
As the Training Master spoke each name, the youth bowed. When he had finished, the Marshal-General spoke again.
"Here in the very hall where Luap spoke, and witnessed to the deeds of Gird, Protector of the Innocent and Helpless, we meet to test the fitness of these youths for knighthood. Each shall demonstrate in at least two bouts that he or she is skilled in swordfighting and brave enough to face a naked blade before others. Do you all agree to submit to the judgment of the pointers?" A murmur of agreement came from them all. "Then here is the order of the examiners." Seklis introduced each examiner. "Because we have so many candidates," Seklis went on, "we cannot accommodate all bouts at once. The first five candidates will now choose their examiners." As the candidates moved forward, Paks watched their faces. They seemed very young; she reminded herself that they had had at least two years of knight's training, besides serving as squires. None of the first five chose her; she watched as the examiners and pointers led the candidates back down the hall to the fighting areas. The candidates waiting for their turns began to fidget. They could not turn around and watch; they had to face the remaining examiners and try to feign calmness.
At the sound of trumpets, the first bouts began. Swords rang together, and stone echoed the stamp of booted feet. The nearest bout seemed evenly matched at first. Seklis had said that the examiners began by trying standard stroke combinations. No bout could end (except in emergencies) before fifty strokes, no matter what points were scored; most, he said, took between that and a hundred. Paks tried to keep count, but lost it when someone down the Hall cried out. Heads craned, but the bouts went on. Paks looked back at the pair she'd been watching; now the examiner, a Marshal whose name she'd forgotten, was moving the candidate around the area, gaining points with every stroke. The candidate rallied a moment, lunging again and again. But a final flurry by the Marshal broke that attack, and the pointers called the bout just after another one down the Hall.
As soon as a candidate finished one bout, he had to choose his next opponent. This time Paks was chosen, by the only candidate to win his bout. She followed her challenger halfway down the Hall to their assigned area. For the second bouts, the pointers gave the starting word. Paks grinned at the young man; his look of confidence faded. When he lunged, she caught his blade and shed it quickly from hers, then forced him back with a quick attack. He looked startled, as if he had not expected such a strong attack. Before he could recover his timing and balance, Paks pushed him back again, working him around the edge of their space. But he steadied himself, biting his lip, and managed to hold his ground. Paks tested all quarters of his range, probing but not using her full skill against him yet. She let him move into attack again. He quickened; she matched him, saw his surprise, and finished with a decisive rattle of strokes that got past his guard again and again. He would have bruises under his padding. But he bowed politely, and thanked her.
"Lady, it is my honor to suffer defeat at your hands."
"May it be your only defeat, Sir Joris—" For she had been told his name, the ritual greeting: the first use of their title was by the examiner who passed them.
He grinned. "Lady, if I can learn to fight as you do, it will be. But I thought I had not so much to learn. Are you still learning new things?"
"Joris!" That was his proud father, come from the seats to grip his son's shoulder.
Paks smiled at the older man. "Indeed I am, Sir Joris—and that's a good question. You will learn as long as you know you need to."
"Thank you, Lady Paksenarrion," said the father. "He—"
"Please—" The pointers touched the older man's arm. "Sir—please—not here—we have long to go." Paks returned to the front of the Hall, and the new knight joined his successful comrades in the rear.
Paks lined up behind someone who had not yet been chosen—Seklis's suggestion, so that each examiner would have a short rest between bouts. The second five were already on their first bouts, although one bout from the first five was still going on. She looked around the Hall, trying to spot the Duke, but in that mass of color and movement, she could not find him at first. She tried again. "He's fine," said Lieth in her ear. "I saw them come in."
A few minutes later, another candidate chose her, and she fought her second bout, this one much shorter. At the fiftieth stroke, the spotter named her the victor. This candidate had taken a hard blow to the left shoulder on her first bout, and Paks suspected she had a broken collarbone. Her face was pale and sweaty, but she also managed her bow, and thanked Paks for the honor.
By this time, two of the examiners were out, one with a broken collarbone, and one with a cracked wrist. Paks made her way past three bouts going on, and lined up again. She did not feel particularly tired, and so put herself in line for immediate choice. She had another easy bout, which she drew out to near a hundred strokes for the candidate's benefit, and then watched the last two finish. Now the family sponsor for each new knight carried out the new armor which the knights had earned. While the knights changed into their armor (Paks hoped the woman with the broken collarbone would not have to struggle into a mail shirt), the examiners also changed. Then the crown prince formally greeted each new knight by name and presented the tiny gold symbol of the Order. When he was through, the High Marshal stepped forward once more.
"We welcome these new knights to the Order of the Bells, and ask Gird's grace and the wisdom of Luap to guide them in their service. At this time, any outside challenge may be offered: is it so?"
"Challenge!" A voice called from the far end of the Hall, near the outside door. A startled silence broke into confusion; the High Marshal stilled it with a gesture.
"Name your challenge," he said.
A figure in plate armor with a visored helm stepped into view; at the same time, someone in Verrakai colors stood in the
seats.
"High Marshal, I call challenge on Duke Kieri Phelan. My champion is below: a veteran soldier from his Company."
Again the hubbub, stilled only when the High Marshal shouted them down. By then Phelan was on the floor, surrounded by the King's Squires and his own companions. Paks recognized Captain Dorrin and Selfer, the Duke's squire.
"Phelan?" said the High Marshal. "How say you?"
"For what cause do you call challenge, Verrakai?" The Duke's voice was calm.
"For your treachery to the crown of Tsaia," he yelled back.
"I protest," said the crown prince, from his place. "This is not the occasion; the matter has not been settled by the Council."
"It is my right."
"You are not the Duke," said the crown prince. "Where is he?"
"He was indisposed, your highness, and could not attend."
"Do you claim to speak for him?"
"He would agree with my judgment of Phelan," said the other. "As for challenge, and this challenger, that is my own act."
"Then may it rest on you," said the prince. "I will not permit Phelan to take up this challenge."
"Your highness—"
"No, Duke Phelan. As long as you are a vassal of this court—" Paks saw the Duke's reaction to that; he had not missed the prince's emphasis, "—you will obey. You may not take it up. You may, however, name a champion."
Paks was moving before any of the others. "If my lord Duke permits, I will—"
"A paladin?" asked the Verrakai. "You would champion this Duke—but I forget—you also are his veteran, aren't you?"
"And nothing more," said the other fighter. Paks wondered who it was; she did not quite recognize the voice.
The Duke bowed stiffly to the prince, and the challenger. "I would be honored, Lady, by your service in this matter. Yet all know you came on quest; I would not interfere."
The Verrakai and his attendants had also climbed down to the floor, and now stood opposite the Duke. Paks and the mysterious fighter advanced to the space between them. She noted that the other matched her height, but seemed to move a little awkwardly in armor, as if unused to it. The High Marshal raised his arm to signal them. When it fell, Paks and the stranger fell to blows at once.
The stranger was strong: Paks felt the first clash all the way to her shoulder. Paks circled, trying the stranger's balance. It was good. She tested the stranger's defense on one side, then the other. It seemed weaker to the left, where a formation fighter would depend on shield and shield partner. Perhaps the stranger was not as experienced in longsword—Paks tried a favorite trick, and took a hard blow in return. So the stranger had fenced against longsword—and that trick—before. She tried another, as quickly countered. The stranger attacked vigorously, using things Paks knew could have been learned in the Company. Paks countered them easily. She had no advantage of reach, against this opponent, and less weight, for she had chosen a light blade (as the High Marshal requested) to test the candidates.
They circled first one way, then the other, blades crashing together. Paks still fought cautiously, feeling her way with both opponent and the unfamiliar sword in her hand. She could feel its strain, and tried to counter each blow as lightly as possible, reserving its strength for attack. Suddenly the stranger speeded up the attack, raining blow after blow on Paks's blade. Paks got one stroke in past the other's guard, then took a hard strike on the flat of her blade. This time the sound changed, ringing a half-pitch higher. Warned by this, Paks danced backwards, catching the next near the tip, which flew wide in a whirling arc. She parried another blow with the broken blade, and then dropped it as it shattered, and backed again from a sweep that nearly caught her in the waist.
"Wait!" shouted the High Marshal, but the stranger did not stop. Paks knew Lieth had her second blade ready, but she was backed against the far side of the space. Dagger in hand, she deflected a downward sweep that still drove the chainmail into her shoulder.
The stranger laughed. "You are no paladin. You had the chances, that's all—"
This time Paks recognized the voice. "Barra!" At that, another laugh, and the stranger raised her visor to show that familiar angry face.
"Aye. I always said I could take you—" Again the sword came up for a downward blow.
But Paks moved first. As fast as Barra was, she had the edge of initiative, and slipped under the stroke. Her fingers dug into Barra's wrist, and she hooked her shoulder under Barra's arm, flipping her over. Barra landed flat on her back, sprawling and half-stunned. Paks had her own sword's tip at her throat before she could move. For an instant, rage and excitement nearly blinded her; she could have killed Barra then. But her control returned before she did more than prick her throat. When she could hear over the thunder of her own pulse, the High Marshal was speaking.
"Your challenge of arms, Lord Verrakai, is defeated."
With ill grace, the Verrakai bowed. "So I see. My pardon, lord Duke."
Duke Phelan bowed, silent, and waited while the Verrakai turned to go. Then the Verrakai turned back. "I should have known better, "he said, "than to believe one of your veterans. Are they all such liars, lord Duke—and if so, can we believe this paladin of yours?"
Phelan paled, but did not move, and the Verrakai shrugged and walked out. Then Phelan looked at the High Marshal. "Sir Marshal, my defense is proved by arms, but at the cost, it seems, of something I hold more dear—the good opinion of my veterans."
"Or one of them, lord Duke. It is a rare commander who has not one bitter veteran. And you were defended by one."
"Yes." The Duke came to where Paks still held Barra at sword's point. "Lady, if you will, permit her to rise."
Paks bowed, and stood back a pace, still holding Barra's sword. The Duke offered a hand, which Barra refused, scrambling up on her own, instead. She scowled at him.
"Will you say, Barra, why you chose to serve my enemy?"
"I think you're crazy," said Barra loudly. Someone laughed, in the tiers overhead, and she glared upward, then back at the Duke. "You could have been rich—you could have done more, but you let others take the credit. And I was as good as Paks, but you gave her all the praise. She got all the chances—"
"That's not true." Dorrin strode across the floor to her side. She gave a quick glance at the tiers and went on. "You and Paks were recruits together—true. And back then, that first year, you were probably her equal in swordfighting. But in nothing else, Barranyi, and after the first year not in that."
"I was—you just—"
"You were not. Falk's oath, Barra, I'm your captain; I know you inside out. You made trouble every way you could without breaking rules. You quarreled with everyone. Paks didn't—"
"That mealy-mouth—"
"Mealy-mouth!" That was Suriya, across the floor.
Barra turned dark red. "Damned, sniveling, sweet-tongued prig! Everyone on her side! Everyone—"
"Barra." Something in Paks's voice stopped her. "Barra, you do yourself an injustice here."
"I? Do myself an injustice? No, Paks: you did that. Make a fool out of me in front of your fancy friends. Think you're such an example—" Barra jerked off the helmet and threw it at Paks, who dodged easily. "I'll show you yet, Paksenarrion—you sheepfarmer's daughter. I know about you. You're a coward underneath, that's what—or you'd have had the guts to kill me. Why don't you, eh? You've got the sword now. Go on—kill me." She threw her arms out, and laughed. "Gird and Falk together, none of you have any guts. Well, chance changes with the time, yellow-hair, and I'll have my day yet." She turned away; Paks said nothing, and waved the guards away when they would have stopped her.
"Well," said the crown prince into the horrified silence that followed her exit, "if that's the best witness Verrakai can find against you, Duke Phelan, I think your defense in Council is well assured. That's her own heart's poison brewed there, and none of your doing." An approving murmur followed this. Duke Phelan smiled at the prince.
"I thank you, your highness, for your s
entiments. Indeed, I hope nothing I have done has provided food for that—but I will think on it." Then he turned to Paks. "And you, again, have served me well. Paksenarrion—"
"Lord Duke, in this I am serving my gods, and not you; I am no longer your soldier, though I will always be your veteran. I pray you, remember that: although you have done me the honor to treat me almost as a daughter, I am not. I am Gird's soldier now."
* * *
Although the trouble had come, and apparently gone, without actual danger to the Duke, Paks was still uneasy that night. When the Duke finally retired to his chamber, she held a quick conference with the King's Squires. On no account must the Duke go anywhere—anywhere—without their protection. If she was not available, they must all attend him.
"But Paks, what is it you fear?"
"The malice Barra feels, directed with more skill," said Paks, frowning. "Companions, we have not crowned our king yet; until then trust nothing and no one." When she returned to her own chamber, with Lieth, she found it hard to sleep, despite her fatigue.
Yet in the morning she found nothing amiss. After breakfast in the Duke's chambers, they went to the Council meeting together. Paks noticed, as they came in, that Duke Verrakai was present, and his brother absent. The two elves were there, sitting lower down, this time. She wondered what they had thought of last night's events; they would have to agree that the Duke had kept his temper under trying circumstances.
"I asked for this special session," began the crown prince, "at the request of Lady Paksenarrion, whom you met yesterday. You are aware that she is on quest, searching for the true king of Lyonya. She believes she has found him, and asked that you witness the elf-blade's test of his identity."
"And who is it, your highness?" asked Duke Verrakai.
"I will let the paladin speak for herself." The crown prince waved for Paks to begin.
"Lords, I will give you my reasons briefly, and then the prince's name." She repeated her reasoning, now so familiar, from the elves' claim that the prince had forgotten his past, to the meaning of the message they sent Aliam Halveric about the sword. "As well, when Aliam Halveric gave the sword to Kieri Phelan, to give his wife, the elves replied that the gift was satisfactory. That seemed, to me, to mean that the prince was someone with whom Kieri Phelan, as well as Aliam Halveric, came into contact. Then Garris, one of the King's Squires who accompanied me on quest, told me of his own boyhood times with Aliam Halveric, when Kieri Phelan was Halveric's senior squire." She saw comprehension dawn on several faces around the table, and turned to Duke Phelan before anyone else could speak.