Knights Magi (Book 4) (37 page)

“How so?  I always thought valor belonged to the bold.”

“Valor belongs to the
winner
,” countered Valwyn.  “Valor becomes vainglory when it serves no purpose.  Valor in a losing cause might be noble, but it will not be rewarded.  As we were discussing your entrance into the Mysteries, it was pointed out repeatedly that you have the mind to plan and plot and lead and figure in ways Sir Tyndal never will.”

“In all fairness, Master
Valwyn, Sir Tyndal is not incompetent,” Rondal found himself saying.  “In fact he can be quite surprising about his competencies, sometimes.”

“It’s not a matter of competence versus incompetence.  It’s a matter of degrees.  Don’t mistake me, Sir Tyndal’s style of valor is noble, and it makes him a worthy warrior.  But if he did not have men of determined character and clear mind to point him at the foe, could he be trusted to find him on his own?  Or do what needed to be done when he did?”

“No.  But you think I do?”

“So we believe,” the warmage nodded.  “And believe more strongly now than before.”

“Because I didn’t get myself killed at the Mysteries?”

“Because you went into the Mysteries without vocation, and yet passed through them and became initiated as one of the top candidates in your cohort.  You went in a boy of average strength and flexible character.  You came out harder, stronger, more resilient than before.  You have confidence in how you walk and speak and act, now, because you have a better understand of the outcomes.  And once you understand how things are going to turn out, you can act with confidence, and from confidence comes authority.”

“I don’t particularly want authority,” protested Rondal.

“I didn’t particularly want my
rajira
, when my Talent emerged,” Valwyn pointed out, “but the gods are rarely cooperative with such whims.  You will have authority because you are intelligent, talented, and you know how to learn.  Most importantly – now – you have strength.  You will not stand for a weaker force to assail you.  And you are willing to test that strength in conflict.  Such is the warrior’s way.  Such is the way of the Mysteries.  And such is the way of every successful warlord and general in history.”

“So that confidence is going to make Tyndal respect me?  Leave me alone?”

“Respect you, yes,” agreed Valwyn.  “Leave you alone, likely not.”

Rondal frowned.  “Why the hells not?  Why does he have to—”

“You haven’t figured it out?” chuckled Valwyn.  “He
likes
you, boy.  Despite your antipathy, he genuinely likes you.  More, now that you have shown him your strength, he can admit to liking you and not feel ashamed of the emotion.  You have far more in common than you have differences, even taking your different characters into account.”

“I’m nothing like him!” Rondal said, proudly.

“How many other brave, resolute spellmonger’s apprentices from a rustic mountain hamlet currently occupied by goblins do you know?”

Rondal grimaced.  “Give me a moment to think . . .”

“You two don’t have family.  Not outside your master’s household.  Your loyalties are the same, your ages are near enough alike, your preferences in battle are even well-matched.”

“So why does he have to be such a—?”

“Because he is a sixteen-year-old boy being forced to do a man’s job, and he hasn’t mastered the task yet.”

“Then why do I—?”

“Because you are a sixteen-year-old boy being forced to do a man’s job, and we’ll be mindful that you haven’t mastered the task yet.”

Rondal looked subdued.  “He still . . .”

“Your feuds are destined to be frequent, I have no doubt, and many will stick to memory.  But you will overcome them.  You can, now, because compared to the other things you have overcome, they are minor.  Inconsequential.  Unless you allow them to be consequential.  You are strong, now, Rondal. 

“The Mysteries gave you purpose, meaning, form and order to build your manhood on.  They open us up to tearing down the men we were and building the men we wish to be.  It is a portal to honor, glory, achievement, and most of all strength.  Strength of body, of mind, of character.  That’s something he can’t take away from you – it’s part of you – and that is something you have now forced him to respect.”

“So what if he keeps challenging me?  Baiting me?”

“Then you will – once again – have to choose how to respond.  And if he needs another lesson in your strength to keep him from despising you, I think you are well-prepared for the task.”

Rondal was silent for a time, considering everything that had been said about his fellow.  He didn’t hate Tyndal, exactly, but he still felt wounded about Inarion, and he still resented the younger boy’s blaming him for it.  That still stuck in Rondal’s stomach like a bloodworm, every time he thought of him, regardless of how reasonable it was to think otherwise.

“So how do I keep from wanting to stick his head in the nearest convenient bucket and hold it there until he stops wiggling?” Rondal asked.

“You exercise your control.  You choose not to.  You consider the consequences and plan accordingly.  You rise above the petty discomforts of your life and take solace in the pursuit of your goal.”

“So . . . I should just ignore him when he acts like an idiot?”

“Essentially, yes,” Valwyn agreed with a chuckle.  “I suppose that is exactly what I’m saying.  Ignore it until you can’t.  Then intervene forcefully.  He respects you, now.  He isn’t going to do anything to lose that respect without cause.”

“It’s a lot to let go of . . .”

“For your own good, I urge you to find a way.  Such rivalries take time and energy away from your mission.  And they sap your strength when it could be used to more noble purposes.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you have three more weeks of intensive training in a wide variety of subjects, many of which will allow you further opportunities to test your strength against your fellow, if you’d like.”

“Are any of them painful or humiliating?” Rondal asked, after chewing his lip in thought.

“Oh, gods yes,” snorted Valwyn.

“Then let’s just see how I measure against him,” Rondal decided.  “And if he gets his nose bloodied along the way . . . well, we can just rationalize it as an opportunity to better himself.”

“Yes,” smiled Master Valwyn indulgently, “you do have wit.  And intelligence.  Say . . .  have you ever considered aspiring to the
officer’s
mysteries . . . ?”

Part III
:

ERRANTRY

Bontali Riverlands, Summer

Year One of King Rard I’s Reign

Tyndal

After the boys returned to Sevendor from Relan Cor, their wounds mostly healed, there was a tangible change in their relationship.  Far from contesting territory around the castle with innumerable petty fights, they stayed far away from each other when they could. 

That wasn’t too hard – though the spring plowing season was over, and vegetable planting was under way, there was still plenty of military work for them to do.  And with Lady Alya’s belly growing ever greater with the Spellmonger’s new daughter, the mysterious machinations of the Alka Alon in their new tower, Karshak work crews everywhere and the approaching autumn Magic Fair, Master Minalan did not have much time to spare for them.

Rondal worked with the militia groups at Brestal Tower, teaching the rudiments of infantry to Bovali and Brestali lads, while Tyndal was on duty at the expanding Gatetower complex, where mostly he sat around and watched Master Olmeg and his company of River Folk plant yet more trees in Sevendor’s outer Enchanted Forest.

Even when both boys were at Sevendor castle, they avoided each other.  Tyndal was still wary of how furious Rondal had been their last few days at Relan Cor, and while their mutual injuries were healed, their feelings were apparently not.  There was something still bothering Rondal, Tyndal knew, something that kept the boy glaring at him whenever they saw each other.

So Tyndal just avoided the glare.  He found a way to be elsewhere.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty to distract him other than trees.  The girls from Boval Hall, across the road from the Gatetower, never failed to stop by and chat with him, flirting outrageously.  He did not try to deter them, despite the fact that some of their fathers would not let his knighthood or his youth keep them from beating him to within an inch of his life. 

Tyndal just liked girls, and liked their attention.  And he liked how they scrambled over themselves to try to impress him.  It was amusing, most days.

He was being amused by two of the young ladies from Boval Hall who were supposed to be planting cabbages when he was called up to the castle with a mind-to-mind summons from his Master.  He sadly bid the girls farewell, turned over his duties to the Ancient on duty, saddled up a nag and rode up to Sevendor Castle. 

Just as he was leaving the Gatetower, Rondal rode up next to him, late from Brestal Tower.

“So he summoned you, too, eh?” Rondal grunted.  “Must be important.”

“Apparently,” Tyndal grunted back.  “I won’t complain of a change.”

“Yes, enduring adoring girls and watching trees grow is
so
arduous,” Rondal said, dryly.

“True, but I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs a bit.  I felt for certain that Master Min would have deployed us by now.  Things are bad in North Gilmora, I hear.”

“Maybe that’s what’s happening now,” Rondal pointed out.

“Might be,” Tyndal considered.  “Only one way to find out.”

The castle doors were thrown open to let the cool spring breezes air it out.  Even so, a fire burned on the hearth.  The days were warming, but the white snowstone castle seemed to take a long time to realize it. 

Master Minalan and Sire Cei were waiting for them in the Great Hall, at the big stone table Sire Cei once broke with his fist and Rondal had had to meld back together. 

Tyndal was instantly anxious.  He admired Sire Cei, but he always had the feeling that the older knight was looking to catch him in something.  Probably just residual guilty conscience from his youth in Boval, he reasoned, but that did not curb his anxiety.

“Well, gentlemen,” Master
Minalan said, his big green sphere bobbing merrily over his shoulder like a faithful hawk, “you have learned magic, and you have learned warfare.  But you have yet to learn how to be knights.”

Both of them groaned.  “Is there some diabolical camp where they beat such things into you?” moaned Rondal.

“If I read another scroll, Master,” Tyndal assured him, “my head may well explode!”

“Nonsense, both of you,” Minalan said, cheerfully.  “You now have the skills of a warmage, the abilities of a soldier, but to be a knight . . . that is beyond the scope of either scroll or drill instructor.  For that you need instruction in chivalry.”

“So who’s going to teach us?” Tyndal asked, fearful of the answer.

“I am,” Sire Cei said, firmly.  “I was squired for nine years before I won my spurs,” he said, proudly.  “Squired to one of the most honorable knights in all of Alshar. 
He inspired in me a love of chivalry that speeds my every action.  And I feel compelled to extend those valuable lessons to the two of you.”

“Sire Cei is teaching us chivalry?” Rondal asked, suspiciously.

“None better,” Master Minalan said, a challenge to name one implicit in his answer.  “He is regarded among the local knights as a most well-trained gentleman.  Therefore I am turning your education over to him for a few weeks, this summer, so that he might pour the finer points of chivalry into your brains.  With a hammer, if need be,” he added, menacingly.

“But . . . do we have to learn to joust?” Rondal asked, anxiously.  “I’d hate that!”

“There is more to being a knight than tilting,” Sire Cei affirmed.  “More than tilting, swordplay, horsemanship, and all of the other traditional duties of the knight.  Any man-at-arms can master those. 

“No, gentlemen, to be a true knight – to honor and value the codes of chivalry – is to transform the warrior into the nobleman, the soldier into the statesman.  Within the institution of knighthood,” he pronounced, “lies the very best aspirations of mortal man and gods alike.”

“As if we didn’t have enough to live up to,” Rondal sighed.

“Master, is this really necessary?” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “It feels as if we’ve spent a year in training!”

“Not even close, although I’d welcome the chance to have given you a full year,” Master Minalan said, eyeing them both thoughtfully.  “You have both done well at what I have tasked you with – apart from a little friction – but fighting and magic are not the totality of how you are to be of use to me.  You are two of the first Knights Magi.  Others will be looking to you for guidance.  It would be helpful to me if you had some inkling of what was expected of you, in terms of chivalry.”

“So we’re just going to stay here and . . . and train?” Tyndal asked, miserably.  “I thought for sure we’d be deployed to Gilmora!”

“Gilmora doesn’t need you yet,” Minalan said, shaking his head.  “Things are bad there, but they’re static.  The goblins have not tried to advance beyond where they were last year.  Unfortunately, that means that they’re picking the region clean.  Every human they capture goes north, up the Timber Road and into the Penumbra.  They don’t come back.