Paks tried to control her excitement, but she could not think of anything but her oldest dreams. Paladin. It meant shining armor, and magic swords, and marvelous horses that appeared from nowhere on the day of the Trials. It meant old songs of great battles, bright pictures in her mind like that of the paladin under the walls of Sibili, all brightness and grace and courage. Another picture moved in her mind, herself on a shining horse, riding up the lane from Three Firs to her father’s farm, with children laughing and cheering alongside. Her mother smiled and wept; her brothers gaped; her father, astonished, finally admitted he had been wrong, and asked her pardon. She blinked at that unlikely vision, and returned to hear the Marshal-General saying something about opportunities to change her mind later. But her mind would never change, she vowed. When the Marshal-General paused, she spoke.
“I am honored, Marshal-General; please let me try.”
The others looked at each other, then back to her.
“You are sure, Paksenarrion?”
“Yes, Marshal-General—if you are. I can’t believe it—” She fought back a delighted laugh, and saw by their faces that they knew it. “Me—a sheepfarmer’s daughter—a paladin-candidate!”
Now they laughed, gently. “Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal-General, “we are pleased that you accept the challenge. Now let me explain why we are taking a chance on hurrying you.” Quickly she outlined the situation: the shortage of paladins, the growing assaults of evil power in several areas. “You see, we must replenish the ranks—as fast as we can—or risk having no paladins to train new ones.”
“How long does the training take?” asked Paks.
“It depends in part on the candidate’s previous status. For you, it means becoming a knight first, and then a paladin—more than a year, likely two years. It means some isolation—paladin candidates withdraw from the main training order, sometimes for months at a time, for meditation and individual instruction. Not all the candidates progress at the same rate. Do not be surprised if someone finishes before or after you who begins the same night.”
“We will be taking the vows of the new candidates the same night you become a Girdsman,” said the Marshal-General. “This is unusual—as I said—but I feel that it is even more important for your vows to be public. Then—if anything happens—” But Paks was determined that nothing would happen—everything would go well. At that moment, she would have done anything they asked, for the sheer joy of having a chance to prove herself a worthy paladin-candidate.
She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she went down. As she came through the arch to head for her quarters, she nearly ran into Argalt. She had spent a couple of evenings with him and his friends at a nearby tavern. He grinned at her.
“Well—so you haven’t been sent away, eh?”
“No.” Paks felt like bouncing up and down. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him; they had said nothing about keeping her selection secret.
“It must be good news. How about sharing a pitcher later?”
“I can’t.” Paks couldn’t contain it any longer. “I have so much to do—you won’t believe it, Argalt!”
“What—did they select you for paladin-candidate, now you’re joining the Fellowship?”
Paks felt her jaw drop. “Did you know?”
He laughed. “No—but it’s what I would do. Well, now, sheepfarmer’s daughter, I’m glad for you. And you so stiff when you came—remember what I said?”
“Yes—yes, I do.” Paks threw back her head in glee. “I have to go—I have things—”
“To do, yes. I heard. I’ll be watching you, now. You’d better show us something.”
Paks had never imagined Midwinter Feast in Fin Panir. Back home, it had meant a huge roast of mutton, sweet cakes, and the elders telling tales around the fire. In the Duke’s Company, plenty of food and drink, speeches from the captains and the Duke, and a day of games and music. Here, the outer court erupted at first light with all the juniors starting a snow battle. Paks took one look at the fortifications, and decided that they must have stayed out half the night building them. When the Training Master came out to quell the riot, he was captured, rolled in the snow, and rescued only when Paks led the seniors in an assault on the largest snow-fort. But by then he had agreed (as, she found later, was the custom) that the juniors had the right to demand toll of everyone—of any rank—crossing the court. Those who refused to pay were pelted with snowballs; some were even caught and held for ransom. The day was clear, after several days of snow, and no one could possibly sneak across the yard undetected.
The feasting started with breakfast. In place of porridge and cold meat, the cooks offered sweet cakes dipped in honey, gingerbread squares, hot sausages wrapped in dough and fried, and “fried snow,” a lacy-looking confection Paks had never seen. All day long the tables were heaped with food, replenished as it was eaten. And all day long the feasters came and went, from one wild winter game to another.
Paks had been told that she was free until midafternoon. With that, she joined a group that rode bareback out onto the snowy practice fields, where they jousted with blunt poles until only one remained mounted. Paks lost her pole early, but managed to stay on the black horse for most of the game, winning her bouts by clever dodges, and a quick straight-arm. She did not recognize the woman who finally shoved her off into a snowdrift; she floundered there, laughing so hard she could not work her way out for several minutes. After this, they tried to ride in a long line, all holding hands and guiding the horses with their legs. Soon they were all in the snow again, and after another few tricks they came back for more food.
Now the tables held roasts and breads as well as sweets. Paks piled her plate with roast pork and mutton, a half-loaf of bread yellow with eggs. Four juniors staggered in, their faces bright red with cold. Behind them came the dwarves she had met, eyes gleaming. They saw her, waved, and came to sit across from her.
“Is it that you have recovered, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter of Three Firs?” asked Balkis.
“Yes, indeed,” said Paks. “But the surgeons didn’t want me fighting until after today.”
“Ah, we have heard that you make adoption into the Fellowship,” said Balkis, stuffing a leg of chicken into his mouth. “This will make it that you are blood-bound to the others, is it not?”
Before Paks could answer, the woman who had dumped her in the snow slipped into a chair beside her, and answered the dwarves. “No—it is not that, rockbrothers. Ask not the child of the father’s business.” To Paks’s surprise, both dwarves blushed. She looked at the woman in surprise.
“You’re the one who—”
“Yes.” The woman grinned as she took a sweet cake from a tray. “I’m the one who dumped you. I’m Cami, by the way—that’s what everyone calls me, but my real name is Rahel, if you need it.” She said something in dwarvish to the dwarves; Balkis looked startled, but the darker dwarf burst into laughter. Paks eyed her. Cami (or Rahel) was small and dark, a quick-moving woman who reminded Paks a little of Canna.
“Why are you called Cami if your name is Rahel?” asked Paks.
“Oh that. Well, it started when I came here. They used to tease me that I should have been Camwyn’s paladin instead of Gird’s—”
“You’re a paladin?” Paks had not thought of any paladin being so light-hearted; Cami seemed almost frivolous.
“Yes.” Cami stuffed the rest of the cake into her mouth, and then spoke through it. “It was what I did when I was young and wild. I won’t tell you; you don’t need ideas like that. But they started calling me Camwynya, only that was too long, and then Cami. You’re a candidate, right?”
“After tonight,” said Paks.
“I thought so. It’s good that you know these rockbrothers already—”