Kings of the North (14 page)

“He was wrong about that,” Dorrin said. “Look—you know the
merin
of wells and springs, don’t you?”

“ ’Course, m’lord, everyone knows about them.”

“And Alyanya, the Lady of Peace?”

“Ye-es.”

“Gird was a farmer in a village, just like you,” Dorrin said. “He put flowers at the well, just like you. He blooded the spade and the plough, first time in the ground, just like you.”

“Yes, but—but he’s dead.”

“He did a lot of good things before he died,” Dorrin said, with a glance at the Marshal-General. “You should learn about them.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want you to have a good life,” Dorrin said. “And I think it would be good for you to learn about Gird, at least.”

“Could Gird heal our well like it was, if he wasn’t dead?”

“I don’t know,” Dorrin said with another glance at the Marshal-General.

“ ’Cause you did, m’lord, and you freed us from the old duke, and now we have water and our childer an’t cryin’ for food. We don’t know Gird.”

“Tell you what,” Dorrin said. “I’ll have a Marshal of Gird at the big house, and maybe the Marshal will come visit you—not to poke and pry, just visit—and maybe someday you’ll want a Marshal nearer than that.”

“Guess I don’t mind that,” said a woman with a baby slung on her hip.

“Now let’s see the rest of this—you’ve done so much work in so little time—” The villagers led them from cottage to cottage, bragging on one another. This one had found the stand of reeds, and that
one had found a better lens of clay to seal between the stones, and these two men had gone all the way to a village more than a day away to learn how to use the reeds instead of grass. And would m’lord mind if someone added a room or a shed to their cottage?

“All from a well being renewed,” the Marshal-General murmured.

“It saves them work, and they don’t have that curse operating here,” Dorrin said.

“They have hope again, because of you,” the Marshal-General said. “But they need direction. You might have time to direct this one, but not all your villages. They must learn to make better decisions themselves, not because they were ordered to. Girdish Marshals and yeoman-marshals can teach them.”

“They don’t know Gird,” Dorrin said. “And it’s been less than half a year. Send me a Marshal or two by all means, but let the people see first that I welcome them.”

The Marshal-General shook her head. “It goes against my training to have lords intervene between the people and Marshals of Gird.”

“Particularly when they aren’t Girdish themselves, I expect,” Dorrin said. “And have used magery.”

“That, too,” the Marshal-General said. “Though here, they needed your magery.” She sighed. “I cannot regret inviting Paksenarrion to join the company of paladins, but she certainly did start a cascade of events that still hurtles … somewhere. And I don’t know where.”

“You blame Paks for this?” Dorrin waved her hand at the well, the village.

“Would you say she had no part in it?” the Marshal-General said. “Was the Duke’s Company the same for her being in it, even before she came to Fin Panir?”

“Mmmm … no. She kept Kieri from torturing Siniava, and then—when she left—it was as if by her leaving he recognized Alured’s cruelty …”

“And then she found Luap’s scrolls in that elf place, whatever it was, and brought them to us. Her capture in the far west, all that happened after …” The Marshal-General’s voice faltered; Dorrin glanced over to see tears on her cheeks. “Her healing by a Kuakgan, her time in Lyonya as a ranger, all of that led inexorably, I see now, to her finding that Kieri Phelan was in fact the heir to Lyonya’s throne. Once she named him, once Paks’s sacrifice saved him from the Bloodlord—”
She spat aside. “—all your lives changed. All
our
lives changed. Tsaia and Lyonya cannot be the same. Even Fintha and the Fellowship of Gird cannot be the same. She was the rock falling from the cliff; all our lives were set in motion by that fall.”

“And yet—”

“And yet she is a sheepfarmer’s daughter from somewhere beyond Three Firs, and Three Firs, which I’ll wager you’ve never seen, is nothing but a village stuck to the side of a hill by the roots of its three fir trees. We sent someone there to learn more about her. End of the peddlers’ track, it is, one of a hundred such villages where the good land meets the moors. I heard all about the pig farmer’s family her family wanted her to marry into—the boy was relieved; he was scared of her and is happy with the baker’s daughter.”

Dorrin laughed. “I cannot see her as a wife, no.”

“Nor I. She asked that a sword be sent to her family if she died in Vérella. One will be, for her family deserves to know what she did, but we’re trying to gather the stories of her, as we do for all paladins.”

“Will you tell the bad things?”

“We must.” The Marshal-General looked away. “That is why the stories of paladins are not quickly told, or lightly. I want her to come back to Fin Panir with me and share the tale of her deeds, all of them.”

“The Lady of the Ladysforest, who brought her people to us in our greatest need,” Dorrin said, “offered to rid her of her memories of the worst. She refused. But she does not talk about it.”

“There is a thief in Vérella. Well, he says he’s not a thief—”

“Paks mentioned a thief helping her after—”

“When I sent word that I wanted more of her story, he came to one of the granges and asked to speak to the Marshal. His version has been written down, but it did not prepare me for that circle on her brow.”

“I will miss her when you take her away,” Dorrin said, “but I know she must follow the gods’ call. I do wish I had her touch with children. I have no idea how to be a proper aunt, let alone parent. I brought that tutor from Vérella, as you know, but—what now?”

“You were a child; you must remember—”

“Nothing good,” Dorrin said. “I told you. I do not know how it is possible to have a childhood free of fear and evil. That’s what I want for them, but if there is more …” She shook her head.

“I find it amusing—no, ridiculous—that I, leading a Fellowship which did its best to rid the world of nobles like you and households like this—should be asked for advice by one. And yet, before I was the Marshal-General, I managed a grange, and then a group of granges, as High Marshal. Though I never wanted children of my own, I loved the children of my grange.”

Dorrin glanced at her and saw an expression she associated more with mothers than warriors. “So—do you have advice?”

“Think far ahead, Dorrin. What do you want for them when they’re grown? Surround them with people who are that—the kind of adults you want them to be. Children are such mimics … if they see honesty and fair dealing and kindness, they will copy that.”

“Paks has been here four or five tendays—”

“And you saw how they were when you arrived. Was that a big change?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said, thinking back. “They were improving, I think, before that, but not this exuberant.”

“Do they have chores, or do the servants do all for them? Peasants, you know, teach their children to work.”

“I don’t think they do,” Dorrin said. “I would have to ask the nursemaids.”

“Well, those above seven winters should, in my opinion. We have children in the grange do simple things—things they can see are useful. We think it’s good for them, as long as they’re not overworked and underfed.” They rode on a little ways before the Marshal-General spoke again. “And I know you will want them taught skills of arms, but do not value those over the skills of peace, or make everything a competition.”

“That I understand,” Dorrin said.

“Do any of them have mage-power like yours?”

“Not that I know of,” Dorrin said. “But beyond looking for those who had invaded others, I haven’t looked for it.”

“You must. Like any talent, it must be trained for the right reasons, in the right ways.”

When they got back to the house, they found Paks and the squires at weapons practice, surrounded at a safe distance by fascinated children. Dorrin and the Marshal-General joined them, hot as it was. They had not yet crossed blades; Paks waved the others away to give
them room. Dorrin stretched first, as did the Marshal-General, and then suggested they use practice blades.

They began slowly, with the usual drill, speeding up as each found the other able. They were well matched in height and reach, but Dorrin’s years of battle experience soon told, and she made two quick touches with the blunted practice blade.

“Too much sitting; not enough fighting,” Arianya said, breathing hard. “I should spar with you again.”

“Every day, if you like,” Dorrin said, feeling pleased with herself. Sweat rolled down her back, tickling under her clothes. “But perhaps in the morning or late evening. It’s a bit warm.”

The Marshal-General laughed; her own face was sweat-streaked. “Next time with hauks, if you have them.”

“I’m sure we do, somewhere,” Dorrin said. “Or sticks, if nothing else. And I’m not as practiced with them.”

T
wo days later, the Marshal-General and Paks rode away; the children had cried when they knew Paks was going. Dorrin looked at her squires. They had been brought up in good homes; they must know what children needed. They had not become her squires to learn child rearing, but she needed their experience.

She gathered squires, tutors, and all but one nursemaid together while the children were playing on the lawn outside.

“You know already that I have no children and no experience with them. These children have had a bad start. Leaving aside what they were taught and what was done to them, their parents and elder siblings have all been taken away. Thanks to you—” She nodded at the nursemaids. “—they are better than they were. I have brought Master Feddith from Vérella—tutor to another noble family and recommended by your father, Daryan—to teach the scholarly arts. I have talked to the Marshal-General and Master Feddith at length, but one man and four nursery-maids cannot do it all themselves. Master Feddith has already suggested bringing in older children to provide a more ordinary mix of ages. You squires must understand that you are the only good models of young people these children have ever seen. They will look to you the way you yourselves looked at knights
and squires when you were barely out of shortlings. They will copy you—good for good, fault for fault.”

“Will you want us to … to care for them?” Beclan’s lip did not quite curl, but distaste crept into his tone.

“Not as nursery-maids, of course,” Dorrin said. “But as if they were your younger siblings, when you happen upon them, yes. These children are as impoverished as those in the villages: they have never known any other home or anyone but the family that’s now gone.” She paused to let that sink in. “At times, I may ask you to take one or a small group on outings, under your protection. Think—how old were you when you left the confines of your house for the first time?”

“I don’t remember,” Beclan said. “I can’t remember not knowing both of the nearer villages … the house in Vérella, of course, and I was taken to the prince’s birthday party for the first time when I was—maybe—four winters.”

“They have been here their entire lives. None have been so far as Kindle, let alone Harway. That must change. You will be exotic to them, fascinating,” Dorrin said. “So you must be good elders, as I believe you will be.”

In two turns of the glass, they had worked out a preliminary daily schedule and even—Dorrin insisted—outings at least once a tenday to more distant parts of the domain.

“I’m glad you’re including chores,” Master Feddith said. “It’s something I recommend in every house where I serve, if it’s not already done.”

“They’ve never had to do aught,” the nursemaid said. “By the old duke’s orders, they was born to rule, not serve.” She flushed and ducked her head.

“It won’t hurt them,” Dorrin said. “It may take them awhile to learn, but when they see the squires serving, they will understand—we all serve, one way or another. You know them best right now; all of you and Master Feddith can decide which chores. Keep them busy enough they won’t get into mischief.”

W
ithin a tenday, the children were settling into the new routine, even the youngest doing the simple chores assigned.
Master Feddith discovered that they were all astonishingly ignorant—only the eldest could read at all—and their general knowledge was less, he swore, than that of Serrostin’s stablehands. Yet they were not stupid, he told Dorrin that tenday night.