"But why can't Gird do it himself, if he's—"
"Paksenarrion, you might as well ask why it snows in winter. I did not make the world, or men, or elves, or the sounds the harp makes when you pluck the strings. All I know is that the High Lord expects all his creatures to choose good over evil; he has given us heroes to show the way, and Gird is one of these. Gird has shown men how to fight and work for justice in the face of oppression: that was his genius. It is not the only genius, nor dare I say it is the best; only the High Lord can judge rightly. But as followers of Gird, we try to act as he did. Sometimes we receive additional aid. Why it comes one time and not another, or why it comes to one Marshal and not another, I cannot say. Nor can you. Nor will you ever know, Paksenarrion, until you pass beyond death to the High Lord's table, if that happens." He gave her a long look. "And I think that you blame Gird because you are still blaming yourself for these deaths. Is that not so?"
Paks looked down. She could still hear Canna's voice, that last yell: "Run, Paks!" And she had run. She could still hear the others. "It might be," she said finally.
"Paksenarrion, Gird does not kill the helpless—someone alive, with a sword or club or stone, does that. If you still think, after the time you have been here, that the followers of Gird act that way—"
"No, sir!"
"—then you should leave at once. But if you see us trying to teach men and women how to live justly together, and defend their friends and families against the misuse of force, then consider if that is not your aim as well. Gird may ask your life, someday, but Gird will never ask you to betray a friend, or injure a helpless child. Consider the acts of your Girdish friend, and not her death, and ask yourself if these were good or bad."
"Good," said Paks at once. "Canna was always generous."
"And so you are rejecting Gird because he has not acted as you would—is that it?"
Paks had not thought that clearly about it. Put that way it seemed arrogant, to say the least. "Well—I suppose I was."
"You are not rejecting his principles, it seems, but the fact that they aren't carried out?"
Paks nodded slowly, still thinking.
"Then it seems, Paksenarrion, that you ought to be willing to try to carry them out." His mouth quirked in a smile. "If the rest of us are doing so badly."
"I didn't say that!"
"I thought you just did. However—" He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "If you don't think we are too corrupt, perhaps you will give us the benefit of your judgment—"
"Sir!" Paks felt her eyes sting; her head was whirling already.
"I'm sorry." He actually sounded sorry. "I went too far, perhaps—I forgot your leg. We'll talk again later—we must get you upstairs and let the surgeon see that."
"See what?" A voice in the doorway interrupted. Paks tried to turn her head, but felt too dizzy. Her ears roared.
"She's got a small wound, Arianya," said the Training Master.
"Not that small," said the voice. "It's bled all over your floor, Chanis. Better take a look."
Paks tried to focus on the Training Master as he came back around the desk to kneel beside her chair. Her eyes blurred. She heard the two Marshals talking, and then another excited voice, and then felt a wave of nausea that nearly emptied her stomach. She clamped her jaw against that, and roused enough to know that they were carrying her along the passage. Finally the motion stopped, and her stomach quieted. When she got her eyes working again, she was lying flat on a bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was dry, and tasted bad. She rolled her head to one side. That was a mistake. Her stomach heaved, and she hardly noticed the pail someone pushed under her mouth until she was through.
From a distance, someone said, "If she had the sense to match her guts, she'd be fine—"
"I don't call fainting from a simple cut like that guts, Chanis."
"She didn't, and you know it. We all pushed as hard as—"
"Well, however you say it. I still think—"
Closer, someone called her name. "Paksenarrion? Come on now, quit scaring us." She felt a cup at her lips, and drank a swallow of cold water. Her stomach churned, but accepted it. She opened her eyes again to see the Marshal-General's flint-gray eyes watching her. Before anyone else could speak, Paks managed to force out her own message.
"I want to join—the Fellowship—even if you send me away."
Silence followed this. The Marshal-General stared at her. Finally she spoke.
"Why now?"
"Because I was wrong about him—Gird. And so—and so I want to join, and do better."
"Even if I send you away? Even if you never go beyond yeoman?"
"Yes." Paks felt as stubborn now on this ground as she had before on others.
"I hope you feel the same when you've remade a couple of skins of blood." The Marshal-General sat back, and grinned. "Gird's ten fingers! Did you have to lose half the blood in your body to learn sense?"
"I didn't," said Paks. She had the curious feeling that her body was floating just above the bed. She knew she understood more than the others, only it was hard to speak. "It isn't lost—it's not in the same place, is all."
"And you're wound-witless. All right. If you still want to make your vows when you're strong enough, I daresay Gird will accept them. But that will be some time, Paksenarrion. For now you must rest, and obey the surgeons."
Not until some days later did Paks hear the full story of that day. She had had no visitors at first but the surgeons, the Training Master, and the Marshal-General. Finally the surgeons agreed that she could move back to her own room. She was surprised at how shaky she felt after climbing the stairs—from one simple cut, she thought. She sat down hard on her bed, head whirling, and leaned back against the pillows. Rufen and Con woke her some time later when they discovered her door open and looked in to see why.
"Paks?"
She woke with a start; the last sunlight came through her window. "Oh—I forgot to shut the door."
"Are you all right? You look pale as cheese," said Con. Paks gave him a long stare.
"I'm fine. I just—dozed off."
"The Training Master said you were back. He said not to bother you, but your door was open—"
"That's all right." Paks pushed herself up. She wondered what they were thinking about, and felt her ears going hot.
"I've never been so mad in my life," said Con, moving into the room to sit at her desk. "I'd have taken Cieri apart if I could have—"
"Instead of which, he dumped you—how many times?" Rufen leaned against the doorframe, smiling.
"That doesn't matter. Listen, Paks, if they'd thrown you out, I'd have—have—"
Paks shook her head. "Con—it's all right."
"No, it's not. It wasn't fair—we could all see that. I couldn't believe it, the way he hounded you—and you the best of us. Gird's flat feet, but I'd have blown up at him days before."
Paks stared at him in surprise. "But I thought you'd be on their side—I thought you'd agree that it wasn't fair for me to be here as an outsider."
Con shrugged. "That! What difference does that make? I've been a Girdsman all my life, and I never will be as good a fighter as you are. It's not as if you were bad: you don't quarrel even as much as I do. No one's ever found you doing something underhand or cowardly. They ought to be glad you're willing to come here at all. And that's what I told him."
"And then what?" Paks could not imagine that scene at all.
"And then he told me I didn't know what I was talking about, and until I did I should kindly keep to my own business, and I told him my friends were my business. And he said I should choose my friends with care, and I said I'd learned more from you since you'd come than from him since I'd been here—" Con stopped, blushing scarlet.
"And then," Rufen put in with a wide grin, "then Cieri said maybe he should have long yellow hair to catch Con's attention, and Con swung on him, and ended up flat on his back. Cieri asked the others what they thought, and apparently ev
eryone was on your side. I wish I'd been there—I knew I'd regret being in that lower class after you got here. I don't know if I could have done any more, but—"
"But you shouldn't have," said Paks, looking at Con. "He's—he's the weaponsmaster, you shouldn't argue with him."
"But he was wrong," said Con stubbornly, his eyes glinting. "Paks, if you've got a fault it's that you're too willing to be ruled. I know what you'll say—you'll say that's how a good soldier is. Maybe so, for a mercenary company. But we're Girdsmen; Gird himself said that every yeoman must think for himself. I don't care if Cieri is the weaponsmaster, or the Training Master, or the Marshal-General, if he's wrong, he's wrong, and if I think he's wrong I should say so."
"Just because you think he is wrong doesn't make him wrong," argued Paks. "How do you know you're right?"
"I can tell unfairness when I see it," growled Con.
"How do you know?" Paks persisted. "Sometimes things seem unfair when they happen, but later you can tell they weren't—so how do you know when something is truly unfair?"
"Well, when it's—I mean—by Gird, Paks, it's easier to know than to say. I know Cieri was unfair to you; he kept picking at you, trying to make you mad, and then when you got mad he blamed you for it. And you were hurt, dripping blood all over, and he didn't even offer to heal it for you."
Paks shrugged. "If he thought I was wrong, he wouldn't."
"But it was his fault. And so it wasn't fair. Don't you know anything? Didn't you ever have brothers or someone in your Company that kept trying to put things on you—surely you know what I mean."
Paks shrugged again. "Con, I know enough to know that looking for the final fault, who's really to blame, just keeps trouble alive longer. I shouldn't have lost my temper, no matter what. If he was wrong to push me that far, it was still my fault. And the Marshal-General told me when I came that they were reluctant to train someone who had given no vows of service."
"But now you're joining the Fellowship, is that right?" asked Rufen.
"Yes. The surgeon says I should be up to a bout at Midwinter Feast."
"How bad is your leg?"
"Not bad. They stitched it up; it's healing clean. It's mostly blood loss; I should have tied it up tighter to begin with." Then she thought of something else. "Con—did some dwarves show up at the field after I left?"
Con looked startled. "How did you know about them?" Then he grinned broadly. "That was something, let me tell you. Two of 'em came marching up, right into the class, in the middle of the row we were—anyway, came into the class, and interrupted us. I can't talk like they do—all that 'it is that' and 'is it that it is'—but the long and short of it was that Cieri had asked them to come and demonstrate axe fighting, and they were ready. Cieri told them he'd dismissed his student, and they grumped about being called out for nothing. So he said they could show the rest of us, and they glared around and said they wouldn't show anyone who didn't have the guts to learn. One of them challenged Cieri himself. Well, we saw some axe-fighting, let me tell you, and that axe you were using won't ever be the same."
Paks felt a guilty twinge of satisfaction. She tried to conceal it; Con needed no encouragement. "Is Master Cieri all right?"
"Oh, yes. He got a scratch or two, but you know he can heal that—it's nothing to him. Anyway, now that you're joining the Fellowship, you'll be coming back to class, won't you?"
"I suppose. I haven't seen Master Cieri." Paks wondered if he would hold a grudge against her.
"You are staying, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll be back with us. That'll be good. And listen, Paks, you keep in mind what I said. As a yeoman, you have a right to think for yourself. You're supposed to—"
"I do," said Paks. "You—"
"You do, and then you don't. I know what you're thinking, about me and the juniors, and you were right, there. You stand against us—the others in the class—when you think differently. But you don't stand against anyone over you—I'll bet you never argued with your sergeant, or captain, or the Duke—"
Paks found herself smiling. She could not imagine Con arguing with Stammel more than once, let alone with Arcolin. But she defended herself. "I did argue with the Duke once—well, not exactly argue—"
"Once!" Con snorted. "And he was wrong only once in three years? That's a record."
She shook her head at him; it was useless to try to explain. She tried anyway. "Con—privates don't argue with commanders. Not unless it's very important, and usually not then. And we don't see everything, we can't know when the commander is wrong."
"So what did you argue—not exactly—about?"
Paks froze. She had never meant to get close to that night in Aarenis again. "I—you don't need to know," she said lamely.
"Come on, Paks. I can't imagine you arguing with anyone like that—it must have been something special. What was it? Was he going to start worshipping Liart, or something?"
Paks closed her eyes a moment, seeing Siniava stretched on the ground, the Halverics at his side, the angry paladin confronting her Duke. She heard again the taut silence that followed the Duke's outburst, and felt the weight of his eyes on her. "I can't tell you," she said hoarsely. "Don't ask me, Con; I can't tell you."
"Paks," said Rufen quietly. "You don't look ready for supper in the hall; we'll bring something up for you." His gentle understanding touched her; she opened her eyes to see them both looking worried.
"I'm all right," she said firmly.
"You're all right, but you're not well. If you're to make your vows at the Midwinter Feast, you don't need to be scurrying up and down stairs again today. It's no trouble—" he went on, waving her to silence. "If we go now, we can all eat up here in peace. Come on, Con." And the two of them went out, closing her door softly and leaving her to her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-two
Marshal-General Arianya headed the table; three High Marshals, two paladins, and five Marshals (three attached to granges, and two from the college itself) completed the conference.
"Will that new yeoman be ready to test for the Midwinter Feast, Arianya?" asked the oldest of the group, Marshal Juris of Mooredge grange.
"I think so. She says she's well enough now, but the surgeons don't want her fighting for another few days."
"That would look good," muttered High Marshal Connaught, Knight-Marshal of the Order of Gird. "Nothing like a candidate fainting in the ceremony."
"She won't faint," said the Marshal-General firmly. Someone chuckled softly, thinking of it, and she frowned around the table.
"It's not that often we bring new yeomen in here," she reminded them. "It's serious to her—"
"I know that," said Marshal Kory, the Archivist. "It just slipped out, Marshal-General."
"Very well. And while we're on the subject, I would like to suggest something else."
"What you and Amberion were chatting about yesterday?" asked Marshal Juris. "If it's what I think, I'm against it."
The Marshal-General glared at him. "You might at least give me a chance to present the idea, Juris." He waved his hand. She glanced around the table. "You know we're desperately short of paladins—" They nodded. "I have word from Marshal Calith down in Horngard that Fenith was killed a few months ago."
A stir ran around the table. Several of the Marshals glanced at the two paladins, who stared ahead and met no eyes. Fenith had been Amberion's close friend, and Saer was his great-niece.
"We need to select a large class of candidates, if we can: the paladins in residence here agree that they can each take on two candidates—"
"Is that necessary?" Juris broke in, looking from face to face.
"I think so." The Marshal-General spread a short parchment in front of her, and ran her hand down the page. "Juris, for the past two hundred years or so, the Fellowship of Gird has had from twenty to thirty paladins recorded at a time. Those on quest vary from fifteen to twenty-five at any one time. We now have on quest only five—" She waited for t
he murmurs to cease, nodded, and went on. "You see? And here in Fin Panir we have only seven who can take on candidates for training. As you know, any of these may be called away at any time. If we can find fourteen candidates—two for each training paladin—it will still be well over a year before any of those are ready to go. And in the meantime, we have no one to train a backup class—"
"I think we should feather that," said Marshal Kory. "If we chose seven now, then they might progress faster, having more of the paladins' time. In a half-year or so, choose more. Then we'd get a few out faster, and have more coming along."
The Marshal-General nodded. "That's a good idea—Amberion, what do you think?"
"I like that better than taking on two novices at once," said Amberion. "But I don't know if that will shorten the time any. Remember that each candidate has had, by tradition, all the time a single paladin-sponsor can give. We dare not test these candidates any less because times are desperate. It is in desperate times that we need most to be sure of them."
"What list do we have?" asked High Marshal Connaught.
"A short one." The Marshal-General rubbed her nose. "I sent word to all the granges last spring, when Fenith wrote that Aarenis would be at war by summer. We talked of this last year, remember? But we've lost eight paladins in the past year—"
"Eight!"
She nodded gravely. "Yes. We all know that great evil has been moving in Aarenis and the Westmounts. Nearer home, we have seen outbreaks again in eastern Tsaia. Some reports indicate serious trouble in Lyonya. Marshal Cedfer, of Brewersbridge, reported that a priest of Achrya had been laired between his grange and the gnome kingdom nearby. Apparently he had preyed on nearby farms and caravans using spellbound robbers."
"They'd say they were spellbound," muttered Juris.
"That may be, of course. I have only his report to go by. But Brewersbridge has been a healthy community for years—since Long Stones, at least. If Achrya can have a priest there, where else may we not expect trouble?"
"What happened to the paladins, Amberion?" asked Marshal Kory.
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