“I don’t, really—” began Paks, but Cami shushed her.
“Better than many do, I can tell. Balkis Baltisson, I will speak no more dwarvish, for this lady knows it not, but it is not the blood-bond of brethren that she joins this night.”
“Not? How so? It is the Fellowship of Gird.”
“Yes. The Fellowship is the blood-bond of Gird with each yeoman, sir dwarf; not each with the other.”
“But it is that brother of brother is brother,” insisted the dwarf. “It is that makes the clan-bond, the blood-bond.”
“It is that for dwarves,” said Cami. “For man it is other. The bond is like that of the Axemaster for each member of the clan, not between members.”
“It is not possible to have one without the other,” said Balkis, his eyes flashing. “If the Axemaster accepts adoption from any outlander, the outlander is blood-bound to the clan. All of it.”
Cami shot Paks a quick look. “Paks, no one has ever convinced dwarves of this—and I won’t—but I’ll keep trying.” But now the second dwarf spoke for the first time.
“Lady Cami, you know me, Balkon son of Tekis son of Kadas, mother-son of Fedrin Harasdotter, sister-son he of the Goldenaxe, but to this lady I have not spoken in my own name.” His voice was higher than Paks expected when speaking Common, midrange for a man, but much higher than Balkis’s.
Cami nodded politely, and Paks copied her, wondering if she should state her own name again.
“You say this lady is to be paladin as you are?”
“Yes,” said Cami, with another quick look to Paks.
“Last time we saw Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, she had hurt of an axe, and no healing of Marshal. That I thought was disgrace, or punishment. To be candidate must be honor, is it not? Why this then?”
Now it was Paks’s turn to blush. She did not know how much Cami knew of the whole situation. But someone had to explain.
“Sir—sir dwarf,” she began, copying Cami’s style of address, “I said then it was not unfairness of the Marshal—”
“But we thought it so. It might be you did not know, being nedross.” At that word, Cami choked on her food, and shook a finger at the dwarves. Paks, confused, waited for a moment, then went on.
“It was not unfairness. I told you they thought I had taken value from them in training, and had not returned value.” Now they nodded, and she hurried on. “So they said if I wished to stay I must make a commitment; I was willing to make it, even if they did not let me stay, for the truth I felt of it.”
“Truth.” Balkon looked at her sharply. “It is that you have that power to see truth itself?”
“She might,” interrupted Cami. “And not even know it. Nedross, indeed!”
“What is that?” asked Paks.
“I hope,” said Cami severely, “that they’re using it in the gnome sense, unwilling or unable to see insult, and not in the dwarf sense of cowardly.”
Both dwarves burst into speech, protesting.
“It is not that we—”
“That is not what we—”
Balkon shushed his friend, and continued. “Lady Cami, Lady Paksenarrion, we did not think that this lady, this lady who would use an axe, would be cowardly. No—only that it is not always the same for man and dwarf when words be said, that some should be taken and others not. If it is that we make mistakes, and think someone unfair to this fine lady, who would use an axe, Sertig’s first tool, then we ask pardon of the lady, but we are glad to see that she has honor now in this house, and is blood-bound to a clan we honor.”
Paks was thoroughly confused. Cami turned to her with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d advise you to accept their good wishes, and apologies, and be glad you have found dwarven friends. They truly did not mean to say you were cowardly.”
Paks smiled at them. “Sirs, I know not your words, but I thank you for your good wishes.”
They both grinned back. “That is very good,” said Balkon. “And if you wish to learn, we still will teach you what we know of axes.”
Paks nodded. “If I am permitted, in my training, I will ask it of you.”
“Paks!” Aris Marrakai had come up behind her, with several of his friends. He shuffled from one foot to another when she turned. “I—I brought you something.”
“Aris—you shouldn’t have—” Paks took from his hand a carefully worked leather pouch, fringed and decorated with tiny shells. “It must have cost—”
He shrugged. “Not that much. And anyway, Rufen told me that paladins never have any money and can’t buy things, and so I thought maybe you’d keep it and—and remember us.”
“I’d remember you anyway, Aris,” said Paks. “But thank you—I will treasure this.” She knew already what would go in it: Saben’s little red stone horse, and Canna’s medallion. Aris darted away; Paks met Cami’s eyes.
“It isn’t quite that bad,” said Cami. “We don’t get rich, but we can buy a fruit pie occasionally.”
“That’s good,” said Paks. “I like mushrooms, myself.”
“Then pray you aren’t assigned to the granges west of here for your grange duty,” said Cami, laughing. “Dry and high—not a mushroom for days and days.”
“When do we have grange duty?” asked Paks.
“Just before the Trials,” said Cami. “You may find it strange; you’ve never been in a normal grange, have you? No—then it’s even more important for you. We all must know what limits Marshals face, and granges, and not think because we are gifted with powers that it’s so easy for others.”
“Cami!” The hall was filling now, as more and more cold revellers came in for warmth and food. Paks was startled to see the Training Master grab Cami by both shoulders and hug her. “Gird’s right arm, I thought you were still in achael!”
“Through Midwinter Feast? Master Chanis, even the High Lord wouldn’t keep me in achael through the best day in the year!”
“I suppose not. Are you out, or just on leave?”
“Out. Gird’s grace for it, too; if I had missed Midwinter’s Feast, and the installation, I’d have burst something.”
“And are you fit to sing, Cami?” asked Sir Amberion, who had followed the Training Master into the hall. Cami looked at Paks.
“Ask Paksenarrion—I only dumped her a couple of times this morning.”
Paks could not help grinning. “Only once—”
“Ah, but who stuck her foot in your black’s ribs, in the line, to make him crowhop? And you flew off then, too.”
“Was that you?” Paks joined the roar of laughter.
“It was,” said Cami, “and I could do it again. Fit to sing? By the dragonstongue, I could sing and blow the lo-pipe at the same time.” Again laughter, and Paks saw someone scurry away, yelling that a lo-pipe was coming up. But as she watched Cami move a tray out of her way and settle onto the table, the Training Master touched her shoulder, and beckoned. Paks followed him away from the hall.
The rest of the day she spent in preparation for the night’s ceremonies. She had to change into the plain gray of the training company, but the steward handed her, as well, the white surcoat of a paladin-candidate. She would have to change hurriedly between ceremonies. Paks had lines to learn, and, like the Finthan youngsters who were making their final vows that night, she spent some time in the High Lord’s Hall in meditation. When spectators began arriving, the group was led away to a small bare room off one end. Paks felt her stomach tightening. Her mouth was dry. The others in this room were not the paladin candidates, but junior yeomen making their vows as senior yeomen—the honor of taking these vows at Midwinter Feast in the High Hall came to those whose grange Marshals had recommended them. Most were about the age Paks had been when she left home—eighteen or nineteen winters. They eyed her as nervously as she watched them.
The summons came with an ear-shattering blast of trumpets, as High Marshals Connaught and Suriest opened the door and called them out. The High Lord’s Hall was brilliantly lit by hundreds of candles. The spectators sat and stood on either side of the wide central aisle. With the others, Paks stood just below the platform. The trumpet music ended, followed by an interlude of harps. Then another trumpet fanfare introduced the Marshal-General, resplendent in a white surcoat over her armor, with Gird’s crescent embroidered in silver on the breast. Following her were the other High Marshals presently at Fin Panir, all in Gird’s blue and white. Behind them came those visitors who would be honored during the ceremonies: two Marshals of Falk, in long robes of ruby-red, with gold-decorated helms set in the crooks of their arms. A Swordmaster of Tir, in black and silver; Paks remembered the device on his arms from Aarenis. Last of all came the seven paladins resident and whole of limb in Fin Panir, each in full armor, carrying Gird’s pennant.