The Deed of Paksenarrion (111 page)

“Yes,” said Cami slowly. “Some evils need that direct attack, and we must be able to do it, and to lead others in battle. Did you ever wonder why paladins are so likeable?” It seemed an odd remark, and threw Paks off-balance. Apparently others were confused as well, by the stirring in the room. “It’s important,” said Cami, now with that grin that pulled them all together. “We come to a town, perhaps, where nothing has gone right for a dozen years. Perhaps there’s a grange of Gird, perhaps not. But the people are frightened, and they’ve lost trust in each other, in themselves. We may lead them into danger; some will be killed or wounded. Why should they trust us?” No one answered, and she went on. “Because we are likeable, and other people will follow us willingly. And that’s why we are more likely to choose a popular yeoman-marshal as a candidate than the best fighter in the grange.”

Paks dared a sideways glance. From the thoughtful and even puzzled faces around her, the others had never considered this. She herself, remembering the paladin in Aarenis, realized that she had trusted him at once, without reservation, although the Marshal with him had annoyed her.

“But you see how dangerous that could be, if someone wanted to do evil,” said Cami, breaking into her thoughts. “We choose from those with a gift for leadership, those people will follow happily. Therefore we must be sure that you will never use that gift wrongly. Another thing: because we come and go, we make demands on those we help for only a short time. It’s easier for them to follow us quickly, and then go home. Never scorn Marshals: when we have left, they must maintain their yeomen’s faith. Perhaps we showed them what was possible—but we left them with years of work.”

As for the powers legend had grafted onto paladins, in reality there were four.

“We all have powers, but not all of us have them equally,” said Amberion one day. “Any paladin can call light—” A glow lit the end of his finger. “It is not fire, which gives light by burning, but true light, the essence of seeing. There are greater lights—” At his nod, Cami suddenly seemed to catch fire, wreathed in a white radiance too bright to watch. Then it was gone; all the candidates blinked. “More than that,” Amberion went on, “some paladins—but not all—can call light that will spread across a whole battlefield.” Paks remembered the light in Sibili. “It is the duty and power of a paladin,” said Amberion, “to show the truth of good and evil—to make clear—and that is what our light is for. It is a tool. Sometimes we use it to prove our call, but it must never be used for the paladin’s own convenience or pride.”

“But how do you make the light?” asked Clevis, one of the other candidates.

“We do not make it. We call it—ask it, in Gird’s name. Later in your training we will graft this power onto you, for awhile, so that you can learn to use it—but it will not be your power until you are invested as a paladin, in the Trials, and the gods give or withhold your gifts.”

“You mean we won’t know until then?” asked Harbin.

“You knew that, surely?”

“Well, yes, but—” He shook his head. “It seems a long time wasted, if we don’t become paladins. Can’t you tell earlier?”

“We can tell if you are doing badly,” said Amberion. “But we have no power over the gods’ decisions, Harbin. We prepare the best candidates we can find as well as we can, and then present them. Then they choose—why, we do not know. That’s one reason the failing candidates are honored: it does not mean they are not worthy; they are the best we could find. Even those who withdraw from training are honored for having been chosen to attempt it. Any one of you—” he looked around the small group. “Any one of you would make a fine knight in any order. Most of you would make a fine Marshal—one or two, perhaps, are too independent of mind—but you would all do. But to be a paladin requires more than weaponskills, a gift for leadership, the willingness to risk all for good, the deep love of good and hatred of evil. Many good men and women share these with you. Beyond that, you must have the High Lord’s blessing on that way for you, as shown by the gifts you receive in the Trials.” They thought that over for some minutes in silence.

Saer, a black-haired woman with merry blue eyes, explained the gift of healing, second of the paladin’s special abilities. This too was a gift, to be prayed for; the gift might be withheld at times. As well, it required knowledge of wounds and illness, the structure of the body and its functions. Paks would like to have asked her about Canna’s wound—had she healed it, and was that any proof of Gird’s favor?—but she was shy in front of the others. After a short discussion, in which she took no part, they passed on to other matters.

Sarek, who reminded Paks of Cracolnya in the Duke’s Company, with his stocky body and slightly bowed legs, explained about the detection of good and evil. “A paladin can sense good and evil directly,” he began. “Now you might think that makes everything simple: on one side are the bad people, and you kill them, and over here are the good people, and they cheer for you.” Everyone laughed, including the other paladins. “It would be nice,” he went on, “but that’s not how it works. Normally you will experience people much as you do now—liking some, and not liking others. Most people—and that includes us, candidates—are mixtures, neither wholly evil nor wholly good. But if you are close to someone intent on evil—an assassin, Achrya’s agent, whatever—you will know that evil is near and be able to locate it.

“That’s not the same as doing anything about it,” he said, again waiting for the laughter that followed. “You must learn to think. Suppose you are trying to decide whom to trust in a troubled town. An evil person may lie, but he might tell the truth, if truth serves his plan. A good person may lead you wrong, being good and stupid. You, young candidates, are supposed to be good—and smart.” Again they laughed. “But more of this later. Only realize that like any gift, it is a tool—and you must learn to use it carefully, or it can slip in your hand.” He gave them a final grin, and waved Cami up.

“Most important of the gifts,” said Cami, now more serious than Paks had ever seen her, “is the High Lord’s protection from evil attack. Of course you can be killed—we are human, after all. But as long as you are Gird’s paladin, your soul cannot be forced into evil by any power whatever. All magical spells that assault the heart and mind directly will fail. No fear or disgust, no despair, can prevent you from following the High Lord’s call if you want to follow it. Moreover, you can protect those with you from such attacks. This is one reason our training is so long and so intense—for this, of course, we cannot test in training. We must be sure you
do
want this with a whole heart, that you are indeed under that protection, before you go out to battle the dark powers of the Earth.”

For that reason, they were told, their every act and word would be scrutinized; even small faults could reveal flaws too dangerous to be granted such power.

“But would the High Lord grant the powers to someone unfit to bear them?” asked one of the candidates.

“No. But evil powers might grant a semblance of such. It is hard to explain—though you will understand if you succeed—but during your training you are more open to evil influence than before. We must so harrow your minds, and as in a harrowed field both sun and frost strike deeper, so in your minds both good and evil can strike a firmer root. That is why you are kept apart from the others, once you begin the final training, and why you are always in the company of your sponsor, who can sense any threat and protect you from it.”

“But we’re supposed to be more resistant anyway,” grumbled Harbin. Paks agreed, but said nothing. It almost sounded as if they were weaklings.

“You are—you were—and you will be,” said Cami. “But right now, and for the time of your training, we are looking for weakness—searching for any crevice through which evil can assail your hearts. And we will find things, for none of us is perfect, or utterly invincible, except in the High Lord’s protection.” Paks wondered uneasily what weakness they would find in her, and what they would do about it.

“And,” added Sarek, closing that session with a laugh, “remember that while a demon can’t eat your soul, once you’re a paladin, any village idiot can crack your skull with a rock. By accident.”

Other such discussions followed. They learned that paladins never married unless—and this was rare—they retired from that service to another. Yet although celibate on quest—Paks saw someone frown, across the room, and wondered if he would drop out—they might have lovers in Fin Panir or elsewhere, as time allowed. “But those you love most are in the most danger,” pointed out Amberion. “Choose your loves from those who can defend themselves, should Achrya’s agents be seeking a weapon against you. We are here to defend the children of others—not to protect our own. And if we had children, and were good parents, we would have no time for Gird’s work.”

Soon Paks knew the paladins as people. She knew the room would bubble with excitement when Cami arrived, that Saer brought with her an intensity and mysticism almost eerie to experience, that Sarek’s jokes always had a lasting sting of sense, that Amberion was the group’s steady anchor. She, like the others, opened up under Kevis’s warm and loving regard; and like the others she found her determination hardened by Teriam’s stern logic. Garin, last of the seven, left on quest shortly after his sponsored candidate withdrew—the first of their group to fail. Paks had not known Amis well, and did not know why he had left. She knew less of the candidates than she’d expected, for when not in classes together, they were each with a sponsor or learning to meditate alone.

But even so she was conscious of a difference between these young Girdsmen, long committed to their patron, and herself. Matters that she thought trivial were cause for hours of discussion, and the simple solution she always thought she saw never satisfied them. They picked away at the motives they claimed lay behind all acts, creating, Paks thought, an incredible tangle of unlikely possibilities. She had imagined herself committed to the defense of good . . . but was good this complicated? If so, why was Gird the patron of soldiers? No one had time to think of definitions and logic in the midst of a battle. The way Sarek had said it first made the most sense to her: here are the bad people, and you kill them; there are the good ones, and they cheer for you. Surely it was only a matter of learning to recognize all the evil. She prayed, as Amberion was teaching her to do, and said nothing. She was there to learn, and in time she might understand that other way of thinking. She had time.

Busy as she was, Paks had almost forgotten the mysterious scrolls when she received a summons to the Master Archivist, Marshal Kory. She found him at a broad table set before a window, with the scrolls all open before him.

“Paksenarrion—come and see the treasure.” He waved his hand at the array. “Amberion tells me you had no idea what you brought?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if it were all you ever brought here, Paksenarrion, the Fellowship of Gird could count itself well repaid. We have all examined these—all those of us in Fin Panir with an interest in such things. I believe—and so do many others—that these scrolls were penned by Luap himself, Gird’s own friend. How they got where you found them I doubt we will ever know for certain.”

“But how can you know what they are?”

Marshal Kory grinned. “That’s scholar’s work, young warrior. But you would know a sword made in Andressat, I daresay, from one made in Vérella—”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we have ways to know that the scrolls are old. We have copies of Luap’s chronicles and letters; we compared them, and found some differences—but just what might have come from careless copying. And these scrolls contain far more than we have: letters to Luap’s friends, little sermons—a wealth of material. We think the writing is Luap’s own hand, because we have preserved a couple of lists said to be his—and one of the letters here mentions making that list of those who fell in the first days of the rebellion.”

Paks began to feel the awesome age of the scrolls. “Then—Luap really touched those—I mean, he was alive, and could—”

“He was a real person, yes—not a legend—and because he writes so, we know that Gird was real, too. Not that I charge you with having doubted it, but it’s easy to forget that our heroes were actual men and women, who got blisters when they marched, and liked a pot of ale at day’s end. Luap now—” His eyes stared into the distance. “That isn’t even his name. In those days,
luap
was a kinship term, for someone not in the line of inheritance. The military used it too. A
luap-captain
had that rank, for respect and pay, but had no troops under his own command: could not give independent orders. According to the old stories, this man gave up his own name when he joined the rebellion. There are several versions with different reasons for that. Anyway, he became Gird’s assistant, high-ranked because he could write—which few besides lords could do in those days—and he was called Gird’s luap. Soon everyone called him ‘the luap,’ and finally ‘Luap.’ Because of him, no one used luap for a kinship term after that; in Fintha the same relationship now is called ‘nik,’ and in Tsaia it’s ‘niga’ or ‘nigan.’ “ The Archivist seemed ready to explain the origin of that and every other term, and Paks broke in quickly, sticking to what she understood.

“And he speaks of Gird?”

“As a friend. Listen to this.” Marshal Kory picked up one of the scrolls, and began to read. “’—and in fact, Ansuli, I had to tell the great oaf to quit swinging his staff around overhead like a young demon. I feared he would hit me, but soon that great laugh burst out and he thanked me for stopping him. If he has a fault, it is that liking for ale, which makes him fight sometimes whether we have need or no.’ And that’s Luap talking of Gird at a tavern in eastern Fintha. I’m not sure where; he doesn’t name the town.”

Paks was startled. “Gird—drunk?”

“It was after their first big victory. I’ve always suspected that the reason several of the articles in the Code of Gird dealt with drunkenness is that Gird had personal knowledge of it.” He laid that scroll down and touched another with his fingertip. “We have had the copyists working on these every day. It is the greatest treasure of the age—you cannot know, Paksenarrion, how it lifts our hearts to find something so close to Gird himself. Even when it’s things like that letter—that just makes him more human, more real to us. And to have in Luap’s own words the last battle—incredible! Besides that, we now have a way to prove whether or not these scrolls are genuine. Have you ever heard of Luap’s Stronghold?”