“It’s too soon, Marshal-General,” said Juris, and several other heads nodded. “I grant she may be what you say, but what do we know of her as a Girdsman? Nothing. She’s not even a member of the Fellowship yet. How can you think of giving this honor to an outsider?”
“But she won’t be an outsider after she takes her vows,” said the Marshal-General.
“No, but—” Juris squirmed in his seat. “I know we need candidates. But we need the best candidates. We need to be sure they’re strong Girdsmen first, and then—”
“Watch them get spitted by better fighters?” The Marshal-General’s voice sharpened. “Right now this outsider, as you call her, can outfight most of the Marshals here, unless they use their powers. I’ve seen her—Amberion has seen her—ask Cieri.”
“Why isn’t he here?” asked Juris.
“He will be—he had a problem.” The Marshal-General folded her hands on the table. “Juris, I know it’s not usual. But we haven’t found anything wrong with her. Gird knows we’ve tested, prodded, tried—Cieri had to set her up for days to make her lose her temper even once. And then she agreed she was wrong. Of course she’s not perfect—no one is. Of course we wish she’d been Girdish all along, come up through the grange training. But allowing for that, she’s the best candidate on the list. And if anything is amiss, it will come out in the stress of training, or in the trials. It’s not that we’re choosing her over someone else—we haven’t got anyone else.”
Juris shook his head. “Arianya, you’re wrong—and I don’t think I can convince you. Suppose she is a potential paladin, that Gird will approve and call. But right now what she is, is a good soldier and a novice Girdsman. I don’t care if she knows all the answers, can recite the Ten Fingers backwards and forwards: she hasn’t experienced a grange. If she’s so good, send her to me—or to another grange—for a half-year. Let’s see how she does as a yeoman among yeomen. We’ve had unpleasant surprises before.”
“Gird’s gut, may the ale hold out! If I had a half-year, Juris, I’d send her. But we don’t have it.”
The argument went on some time, but the shortage of paladins won over caution. “We must have the candidates,” said the Marshal-General finally. “We must. She will be with the others here, under our protection. Unless you can suggest a better, Juris, I must insist—”
“All right.” He frowned, sucking his cheeks, but finally nodded. “All right, then. But be sure you do ward her, Marshal-General. Don’t rush that one through the training. She’s not a knight yet, remember, and she’s never had that sort of training.”
Paks, called to the Marshal-General’s office, knew nothing of the argument. She expected to be told more details of the ceremony that would make her a Girdsman. She found the Marshal-General, the Knights-Marshal of both orders, and a stranger waiting for her.
“Paksenarrion, there are High Marshal Connaught, High Marshal Suriest, and Sir Amberion, a paladin of Gird presently attached to the Training Order. Please sit here.”
Paks sat where she was told, her heart pounding. What now? Was she suspected of something so bad that it would take two High Marshals and a paladin to deal with it?
“You have not changed your mind about joining the Fellowship?” asked the Marshal-General.
“No, Marshal-General.”
“You are ready to accept Gird as your patron, as you now accept the High Lord’s dominion?”
“Yes, Marshal-General.”
“Do you feel any particular—um—call, such as we have talked about in the past days?”
Paks frowned. “Marshal-General, I have felt something, something I could not define, for some time. It began in Aarenis, when I was still in Duke Phelan’s Company. I felt the need for a different kind of fighting—but I’m not good with words, Marshal-General. I don’t know how to say what I feel, but that here it seems right. I feel that it’s right for me to join the Fellowship of Gird; I feel that here I will find the right way to be the fighter I always wanted to be.”
“You told Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge that you didn’t want to fight for gold alone—you wanted to fight against ‘bad things.’ Is that still true?”
Paks nodded. “Yes, Marshal-General.”
“Paksenarrion, I have talked to Marshal Chanis and Marshal Cieri about your progress, and with these High Marshals and Sir Amberion about that and your past. They needed to hear what you have said from your own mouth.” She looked at the others. “Well?”
One by one they nodded. Paks watched their faces, confused. What could she have said that was wrong? The Marshal-General tapped her fingers on her desk. Paks looked back to her.
“Paksenarrion, you must know—there’s no way you couldn’t know—that you are one of the best young fighters in the training company. Cedfer was right to send you. You can qualify easily for either of the knightly orders, if that’s what you want.” She paused, and Paks held her breath. The Marshal-General resumed. “Or—there is another possibility. Ordinarily I would not make this offer to someone who is not yet a Girdsman—in fact, ordinarily it comes only to those of proven service to Gird. But from the reports I’ve received, Gird has accepted as service several of your deeds in the past. The Training Council has agreed to it. So—would you accept an appointment as a paladin candidate?”
Paks felt her mouth open. She could not speak or move for an instant of incredulous joy. She saw amusement on their faces, felt her ears flaming again. “Me?” she finally squeaked, in a voice very unlike her own. She swallowed and tried again. “You mean—me? A—a paladin candidate?”
“You,” said the Marshal-General, now smiling. “Now—this is not an order; if you don’t feel you can say yes, then refuse. We will not hold it against you—indeed, there are those who think you need more experience.”
“But—but I’m so young!” Paks could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Her heart was moving again, bounding, and she felt she could float out of her chair. “I—”
“You are young, yes; and you will be a novice yeoman, which is worse. But if we didn’t think you could be a paladin, Paksenarrion, we would not suggest this.” The Marshal-General turned to Amberion. “Sir Amberion, you might just tell her what the training is like, while she considers this.”
Paks turned to the paladin, a tall, dark-haired man somewhat younger than the Marshal-General by his looks. His open smile was infectious. “Paksenarrion, paladin-candidates receive training simultaneously as knights and as Gird’s warriors. Each candidate is attached to one of the knightly orders, but spends much of his or her time with a paladin sponsor. The training is lengthy and intensive; the candidate must be tested in many ways, for any weakness could open a passage for evil. And even then, the candidate may fail, for the final Trials require proof that the gods have bestowed on the new paladin those powers which paladins must have. Of the few who begin this training, more than half never become paladins.”
“It means, as well,” said the Marshal-General, “giving up all thought of an independent life. Paladins are sworn to Gird’s service; they own nothing but their own gear, and must go wherever Gird commands, on whatever quest Gird requires. For many, these restrictions are too onerous; even we Marshals have more freedom. So we do not expect that all to whom we offer candidacy will take it—or complete the training—and we respect those who withdraw no less than those who go on.”