“Who comes before me in the light of the new sun, and why are you here?” Breon rumbled, in a voice that sounded a little hoarse - no doubt from all the shouted conversation last night. The wording had a weighty air of the ancient about it, a nearly palpable reinforcement that a knighting was anything but a casual lark.
Val answered, as the Senior Knight for this ceremony. “The Knighted Heir of Lord Breon, Sir Valyn, and the Herald-Mage Anda; we present a candidate for the honor of Knighthood, and stand as his sponsors.”
“And has he passed all tests of valor and virtue, of word and deed?” Breon replied, looking sternly down at his son and the Herald.
This time it was Anda who answered. “He has passed all tests and more, by the words of his mouth, and the deeds of his body. It is his actions of virtue and nobility that bring him before you this dawn.”
That last was an acknowledgment that Darian hadn’t been required to undertake any physical trials to prove his fitness for combat. Val had, because he had never actually fought, but Darian had faced - and struck down - the barbarian shaman of the northern Blood Bear tribe that had ravaged Errold’s Grove, and he had done so entirely by himself at the ripe age of fourteen. That alone probably would have qualified him.
Although I’m not sure how noble the weapons of a bucket and a pitchfork are. . . .
“Has he stood his vigil as ordained by tradition?” asked Breon.
The back of Val’s neck flushed with embarrassment at his own lapse, but he answered stoutly, “He has, waking the night through, alone with his thoughts, fasting, and in contemplation of his past and future.”
At that reminder of “fasting,” Darian’s stomach protested his lack of breakfast. At least it didn’t growl.
Breon nodded ponderously. “Therefore present him to me now, that I may see him with my own eyes.”
Val and Anda each stepped to the side, and Darian stepped forward. In his capacity as Herald - in the most ancient sense of the word - Anda presented Darian.
“Here we bring to all eyes and powers Darian Firkin, adopted of k’Vala clan of the Hawkbrothers, founder of k’Valdemar Vale, and worthy candidate for the honor of knighthood.” Anda’s voice rang out with strength, filling the Great Hall without sounding as if he was shouting.
Well, that’s one trick I’d certainly like to learn.
Breon looked down at Darian, and gave him a quick wink. Darian raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment, but otherwise kept his expression properly sober.
“Darian Firkin, adopted of clan k’Vala, founder of k’Valdemar, is it your will that you be presented for the honor and responsibilities of Valdemaran Knighthood?” Breon asked, managing to get through the k’Vala and k’Valdemar without any trouble, though Val said he’d been fumbling the titles in practice. That was one reason why they’d broken up Darian’s name the way they had.
Darian nodded. “It is my will and my wish, Lord Breon,” he said, pitching his voice a little deeper than usual.
“Kneel, then.” Lord Breon held out his hand, and Val put Darian’s sheathed sword hilt-first into his palm. Breon held out the sword hilt-first toward Darian, who knelt and put his right hand on the hilt. “Do you swear, Darian, by this blade which is your honor, that you will use your strength for good and not ill, to aid and not oppress; that you will defend the weak and helpless against those who would oppress them, that you will seek good with all your heart, seek the light with all your soul? That you will serve as an example to those who would follow you, as a rock of fortitude for those who have gone before you; that you will uphold the law when the law is in the right, and oppose the law when it serves oppressors; that you will work for the greatest good, with all you may bring to bear, even in the face of death and fear?”
“I do swear,” Darian replied firmly.
“Do you swear to strive for honor, for courage, for valor, for virtue, all for their own sake and not for the acclaim of the multitude, nor for gain, nor for the power they might bring you?”
“I do swear,” Darian repeated in the same tones of resolve.
“Do you accept the honor of knighthood as a responsibility as well as a title? Will you hold to the standards of all those before who have ever borne the title of Knight?”
“I do so accept it,” Darian said, wondering if Breon knew just how long he had pondered that very question, wondering if he dared take on another responsibility. But he had come to the conclusion that it represented giving his current responsibilities a more recognizable name, and as such, he felt comfortable in accepting it. “And I will hold to those standards, keeping them ever in my heart and mind.”
Breon reversed the sword, unsheathed it, and laid the naked blade once on each shoulder, tilting the sword after each so that the cold steel laid against Darian’s bare neck. “Then accept these blows in token of the ones you shall take that others be spared - and rise, never to kneel to another again, unless you deem that other to be worthy of your profoundest esteem. Kneel only to honor what is holy or in recognition of one whose nobility exceeds the common.”
Darian stood, and Breon sheathed the sword. “Accept from me this blade, Sir Darian, and wield it forever in honor.”
Darian took the sword and belted it on over his surcoat, buckling and latching it securely, then turned to face the group behind him. Once again, Anda raised his voice. “Ladies and Lords, Knights, gentlemen, and guests, I present to you Sir Darian Firkin k’Vala k’Valdemar, Owl Knight of the Tayledras!”
There were enough friends in the crowd - and those who had just recently gained genuine admiration for him, too - that the cheer took on a distinctly enthusiastic note as Darian was escorted by Val and Anda out of the Great Hall, down the special strip of Valdemaran-blue carpet that had been laid for him to walk on.
Once past the doors, Darian sagged a little, and Val slapped him on the back. “To bed with you,” the young man declared. “I’m your champion and representative at the tournament, so you don’t even have to put in a token appearance if you don’t feel up to it.”
“No, I should open it, at least,” Darian responded. “That’s only right.” He grinned and straightened up. “Besides, think of all those young fighters out there who’ve been dying for a look at the weird Tayledras knight - they at least deserve to see that I don’t have two heads. I’ll call Kuari in to land, on my shoulder, you know, give them a show. Then I’ll retire.”
He didn’t have any feelings of guilt over the fact that Val wasn’t going to get a nap, not when he knew from Val’s relative freshness that his friend had probably had a good long doze in the darkness. Anda had big, dark rings under his eyes, but Anda was going to be able to get some sleep as well; he wasn’t needed at the tournament at all.
“In that case, let’s get this tourney open, so the hotbloods can start beating on each other,” Val replied heartily. Anda took his leave of them, and they headed for the front of the Keep, where a well-worn stand and a tourney-field had been set up outside the walls. Tournaments were a good place for fighters to demonstrate their skills to a potential employer, and to have a chance to earn some prize money into the bargain. Since this tournament was sponsored by k’Valdemar, the prizes weren’t money, but were Tayledras-produced items that could readily be converted into money - or into dowries - bolts of silk, glassware, and jewelry. The prizes had been on display at last night’s feast, and Darian didn’t doubt that most examples, if not all of them, already had several potential buyers from among Breon’s guests.