Deeds of Honor

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Ah. I know you think that, but I still do not see—"

  The argument was years' long, ever since he had become Knight-Commander, and he had prevailed so far without using the last thrust he knew...one that he knew would wound the king. His king. Who held his oath twice over. But if the king could not, or would not, understand the importance, he would use it now.

  He waited, ignoring the king's evident impatience, examining all his motives and knowing some might be hidden from him. Was any of this vengeance, for what the king had done to him? Was there any malice in his heart for this king? And was it necessary that the king understand why that lesson was so important? He found no desire for vengeance, no desire to prove the king wrong in those decisions that had cost so much. And for the future of the realm, for this king and the next and the next after that...yes, it was necessary.

  Another deep breath, and he began. "Sir king, allow me one more explanation, if you will."

  "Certainly, Cousin—if you think you must exert yourself, but surely it can wait."

  The Knight-Commander searched himself again. No. "Sir king, I believe it cannot wait." From the king's shift of expression, he understood that; his brows rose and his lips parted. "Please," the Knight-Commander added. He reached toward the king, and the king took his hand.

  "I am listening," the king said.

  "They must learn what is in them, to learn how to live," the Knight-Commander said. "When I was...young...I did not know. And that led me to those acts we know of, and though the king has forgiven me, set me in a place of honor, the fact remains that many deaths lie at my door, which had I been wiser might not have died."

  "Beclan, we've talked about this—"

  "Yes, but not in this wise. And I did not understand it even after it happened, until that duel." The first actual duel, the one he had told the king something about, but not all. "What I felt in myself, when I was young, I saw clearly only when I saw it in another. In that duel. And it is time you know more about that duel."

  "You never told me who," the king said. "Will you now?"

  "Yes," the Knight-Commander said. "For as it came out, it did both me and the young man good, and you can see the good yourself so you will not doubt him."

  The king paled. "You cannot mean—"

  "Juris, yes. Your son and heir."

  "He never told me."

  "I told him not to. I told him, as I tell the young men now, to mind their own honor. To struggle within themselves, pray to Gird and the High Lord for guidance, but grow into men, for a man's honor must grow from himself, not be a weaker shadow of someone else's. Juris did me small harm, and learned much of his own temper, which was to his good. And you see him now, seven and thirty winters grown, trustworthy in all he does, sound of judgment and temper. Would you have trusted him then, knowing—?"

  "Who challenged whom?"

  "He was very angry, sir king, when I forbade him something, saying he was too young and not able. He challenged me."

  "And you accepted...why?"

  "I was angry, too. He said things...about me, my family—both families, in fact—and I had more temper then, perhaps, with the death of my first son, than I should have had."

  "Will you tell me what he said?"

  "Why? It is over and done long years ago. He was young and rash, like many others...like yourself, as we both recall."

  The king's lips thinned, but he nodded. "So I was."

  "So are nearly all the young fit to be knights. Courage is rashness under discipline. What I learned then, connecting Prince Juris's reactions to mine in the past, and to many others I had seen, was how hard it is to help the young and rash learn what they most need—who they really are, what strengths and weaknesses they have, and how ignorance of themselves can destroy their lives and others when they hold the power of life and death. And I learned how to open their eyes to it, in the one way that I believe to my core works: believing themselves in mortal danger and then...understanding what killing is."

  "I learned early what killing is, when our uncle was killed before my face."

  "Yes, sir king, you did learn about mortal danger and the aftermath of killing...but with respect, it was not you who killed. Roly Serrostin would have told you the difference, if you had asked."

  The king looked thoughtful. "He tried once, but...but I thought he was the lucky one. He wasn't held helpless; he could fight."

  "All who live through attacks like that are lucky. You and Juris and Roly."

  "And you think everyone needs to kill?"

  "No. Everyone needs to be brought to the point of decision, in a way that allows a decision to be made. As with this conversation, sir king. Do you—does the person—act out of necessity, or out of some other motive? Before it is life and death for many—before a knight receives his spurs and his insignia—that knight-candidate should have been brought to the point of knowing his—or her—deepest desires and temptations. Here and now, telling you this, I know I am not speaking out of resentment of anything in the past—for I feel none now—or fear of your power—or anything but the desire to make clear why this trial, or one very like it, should continue after I die."

  "You are not going to die yet..."

  "I hope not. I hope to see this class be knighted, those that should be."

  The king raised an eyebrow. "How many, since you have been Knight-Commander, have you struck from the list?"

  "I?" The Knight-Commander met his king's gaze directly. "I have never struck anyone from the list, sir king. After this class, those who know themselves unworthy withdraw."

  The king's brow furrowed. "That seems unlikely. Not all of them face the blade. Nor will rogues withdraw on their own, will they?"

  "These are not rogues, sir king. All candidates pass an examination with the Marshal of their home grange; they are watched closely through their training, as you must remember from your own. They're as good as we can find. But they do not know themselves yet as a good knight must." Now the Knight-Commander grinned. "As for the rest, the effect on those who do not wield a blade in the exercise—there's the wonder of it, sir king; even so they come to that decision on their own."

  "Is it your magery? Are you putting them under a glamour?"

  "No. I do not; it would not be fair, and I do not need to. The soul's mirror is well-lit and polished, I believe, and few who are forced to face it leave untaught. This exercise holds that mirror up to each of them."

  "And you have concerns about some of this class?"

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "I will not tell you now. Give them time. I might be wrong, after all."

  The king squeezed the Knight-Commander's hand and laid it back on the blanket. "You are the least wrong of all my kin and Council," he said. "It has been annoying, how often you have been right, especially considering your distant past." He stood, then slowly sat back down again. "Tell me, Beclan...do you think Juris will be a better king than I?"

  The Knight-Commander reflected in an instant that this king certainly had a gift for asking the most awkward question of those possible. "Yes," he said. "I think he will. He has had a father all his life long, and you were orphaned young. Your uncles did their best, but they were not kings, as your father was and you were destined to be. You have been a good king, Mikeli. You stopped the massacres. Juris may be a great one, and certainly apt to face any of the challenges you faced."

  "I pray he is," the king said. "And I thank you for your honesty." He looked away and then back. "You look tired, Beclan; I hope the physician is wrong about your heart, for I both love and value you."

  "Thank you, sir king," the Knight-Commander said. He closed his eyes, and eventually slept.

  * * * *

  In a hand of days, he was up once more, dressed formally in the surcoat of Knight Commander, back in his own quarters. The king had, quite properly, appointed another as a temporary substitute, so the knight-candidates' training had not been interrupted. The Knight-Commander knew that it wo
uld not be long before that appointment became permanent. Dorthan Arcolin, Jandelir Arcolin's second son, had served as a captain in his father's mercenary company: he, the Knight-Commander thought, would understand about the lesson, whether he agreed to continue it or not.

  The class of seniors, when he met them next, stared at him, a little discomfited. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "You have the first vigil tonight: I am sure you are prepared." A mumble of affirmation. "Good, then. We will return for the moment to what I intended to say after lunch the day of our last meeting. You know—you have been told repeatedly—that the Bells is a Girdish order of knights, and that a Knight of the Bells must be everything a knight is meant to be: a strong, skillful warrior, apt in all weapons of knighthood, of undoubted courage and unstained honor, faithful in oath, obedient to the commander. And also everything a follower of Gird is meant to be: honest, trustworthy, responsible, upholding the Code of Gird...although for Knights of the Bells, that is amended to 'The Code of Gird in Tsaia'."

  Respectful nods from all of them, but no one spoke.

  "So in your vigils this half-quarter, you will pray Gird's aid to discern where you fall short of that ideal, and whether—by the time you might be granted your spurs and insignia—you will be able to give your oath in complete honesty. In this first vigil, you will pay particular attention to what you experienced at our last meeting..."

  Semmis had raised his hand. At the Knight-Commander's nod he spoke. "Sir, the king made it very clear what he thought of us—and we concluded among ourselves that we were all at fault. Does not that make us all unworthy to become knights?"

  The Knight-Commander shook his head. "No, for who is without fault? We can but strive to know where we are likely to go wrong, and in foreknowing be more able to hold to Gird's example." He paused and looked along the table before continuing. None of them spoke.

  "What I say now is true of all the vigils, in each of which you will concentrate on a different aspect of your own character. Some of you, in your vigils, may decide that you are not suited to membership in the Bells, though it has been your goal these several years. Indeed it is not uncommon for someone to withdraw his candidacy during the period between half-Winter and Midwinter, when through prayer he realizes he is not and cannot be what a Knight of Gird should be. And should that knowledge come to any of you, there is no dishonor—rather the reverse—in facing that truth and withdrawing."

  A long pause, in which it seemed he was the only one breathing. Then Joris raised his hand, and spoke.

  "Sir, the last time we met you were talking about the way we reacted to the duel—to your setting it up, and your challenge to Semmis, and so on. But that was the first time we had seen a duel, so...does not that contaminate our reactions?"

  "How would it?"

  "Well...I mean...it was a surprise, sir. We didn't know it was coming."

  "You are unlikely to know when your first time to face a live blade is coming. I did not. Semmis did not. What you feel then is unexpected. After the lesson, you know what you felt, and you can consider that in light of your necessities. You can decide if—and how—you will manage it next time."

  Another silence. It was important to give them time to think, though not too much. He wished he'd been able to come the day before, but at least he was here before they began the vigil.

  "Knights are those others look to in extremity," he said. "Knights command others, within a few years. So they must be able to make sound decisions quickly. It is not age alone, for there are men with sons your age who cannot take command of themselves and others. Nor is it all inborn. Even Falkians, who believe in the importance of blood more than we Girdish do, know it must be trained."

  "Do they do this, sir? Demonstrate a duel?"

  He frowned. "I do not know. I do know that many of them are part-elven and are older when they enter, with more experience. Though not all." For a moment the scene at the palace in Chaya, his first sight of elves and half-elves, when he was newly reft from his family and made Kirgan Verrakai, came to him. He shook himself. "But what the Falkians do is not to the point, gentlemen. The point is what happens in any situation that excites your emotion in the presence of danger, and how prepared you are to act as a Knight of the Bells should. Think on that, this night, during your vigil, and pray Gird give you the knowledge of yourself that you need."

  For an instant he felt as if someone had thrown him down and sat on his chest. His vision darkened. He felt his heart beat heavily, then pause, then beat again. His vision cleared slowly. All the students were staring at him, wide-eyed now. What had just happened? What did they see?

  "I believe," he said, holding himself erect in his chair against the pain, "I would like one of you to call my yeoman-marshal." His voice, he was glad to notice, sounded like himself: calm, steady, clear. Then his vision darkened again; he felt hands, firm and gentle hands, lifting him from the chair, and a student's voice—but which?—calmly telling the others what to do. He would make a good knight, that one.

  Another voice, calm, steady, and clear spoke to him: Well done, Beclan. Very well done. He knew that voice, rarely heard but always trusted, and relaxed into it.

  * * * *

  Dorthan Arcolin, recently confirmed as Knight-Commander of the Bells, sat behind the great desk in his office and looked at the young man standing before him in the uniform of a knight-candidate. Soldan Masagar, grandson of the baron who held a domain bordering the gnome princedom of Arcolinfulk.

  "You had a question about the ritual?" he asked.

  "No, sir." Soldan looked down for a long moment, then met Dorthan's gaze. "I have a request. I...I want to remove my name from the list of candidates for knighthood."

  Dorthan frowned. He would not have expected this from a Masagar: stubborn as stumps, his father had said of them. "You have a reason for this? You have worked hard these years to become a knight..."

  "Yes, sir. It is that in the vigil...I knew...I knew it was not for me."

  "Which of the vigils, then?" Dorthan tried to remember what he had heard about Soldan as a boy from his father. Almost nothing, except that the boy had learned enough of the gnome language to impress Dattur, the gnome hesktak of Arcolinfulk, to his father's surprise. How that could relate to this...he had no idea. He wished his predecessor had lived long enough to tell him which of the candidates had concerned him.

  "The first, sir. The one after...after the former Knight-Commander...the former Duke Verrakai died. I hoped...I prayed again, at the second vigil and the third...but it's not right."

  "I have heard no complaints of you," Dorthan said. "Your record is good."

  "Yes, sir, but that is not enough. I understand that now. It is how I feel about magery." Soldan glanced away then back at Dorthan. "I—during the duel—I was not watching the Knight-Commander for injuries, but to be sure he did not use magery. I worried about Semmis, not him, even though he was older. I did not notice how badly he was wounded until afterwards. And I know—from the vigil—in a crisis, sir, I would always trust someone without magery over someone with it. The Code says that is wrong. Maybe, someday I can change. I will try. But for now, I should not be knighted."

  Dorthan nodded. "I believe you are right, Soldan. I will remove your name from the list, and I honor your truthfulness. Do you wish me to write your father?" He hoped that was the right protocol; his predecessor had left no instructions.

  "I must tell him myself. May I go now? Tonight? I have...I have packed..." Soldan's face was rigid with misery and shame; his eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  "Does your family keep a house here in Vérella?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then you certainly may not start a long journey in the dark in winter. You are not leaving in disgrace, Soldan. Your honor is unstained. Many good men are not Knights of the Bells."

  Soldan started to shake his head; Dorthan held up his hand.

  "I insist. You are withdrawn as a candidate for knighthood, yes, but you are still under my command u
ntil safely returned to your family. It's in the contract."

  "That's—true—sir."

  "In my judgment, you have shown courage; you have nothing to be ashamed of." Dorthan reached for paper and pen, poured a little water in the ink dish, rubbed an inkstick in it, and started writing. "You will spend this night—if you do not wish to stay here—in Duke Arcolin's city house, and you will have an escort from Arcolin for the journey north. I'm writing a note to the house-wards, and one to the Master of Horse, to issue you a mount and pack animal to take your things over there. And someone familiar with the route to help you find it since it's already dark—I don't think you've ever visited it."

  "Thank you, sir, but I don't really need—"

  "Orders, Soldan, remember. Now, this season, so close to Midwinter—I doubt you'll make it home in time for that. You should plan to stay in Duke's East until a break in the weather. I know you will be welcome to stay with Duke Arcolin."

  Dorthan saw Soldan relax a bit, muscle by muscle, as he heard these arrangements being made. Clearly he trusted Dorthan, perhaps because an Arcolin was a known quality in the north. His own doubts about his readiness to command the Bells, one of the youngest ever named to that position, eased as well. As the king had said, his experience with troops had given him what these young men needed most. Here was proof of it. He completed the notes, handed them over, then came from behind his desk and sent Soldan off with a blessing.

  When Soldan left his office, Dorthan shook his head as he sat down again, still baffled by what Beclan had told him about the dueling lesson. It made no obvious sense to him; his own first experience of mortal danger had been in battle. How could it have such effect on someone who had not been in personal danger?

  And yet it had, on Soldan. How had Beclan come to think of it? What else did he know? Dorthan's father had told him much of Beclan, born a Mahieran, then forced into the Verrakai name. He was learning more from Beclan's own journals, kept in a secret drawer in this very desk, a secret Beclan had shared in the hand of days between the duel and his death.