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.
22
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 the 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.