Original: The Pard
How flamebyrd managed to pick the number of the one finished story in my WIP folder I'll never know. This is an old fantasy short story that starts in the middle of the action, is in first person, and is really more poetic than it needs to be. I still like it and always wonder if I'll ever write more in this world.
"Then answer me this. Will you walk upon this earth as my equal or grovel at my feet? Will you be a simple earth turner living hand to mouth or someone who wields a sword with honor? Will you be a just a man or a true Knight?" Sir Jacob asked. His gloved hand held my shoulder to the wall, the metal ridges hard enough to bite.
"Neither. I will be the Pard." The words were sudden, escaping from my lips before I could stop them. I tried to forestall more words, and whatever lunacy had possessed me in those few seconds eased.
"Blasphemy." I saw the blow coming, but pinned as I was, could neither stop it nor dodge.
The bastard didn't even have the decency to remove his gloves. Sir Jacob was hitting an unarmed page: one pinned against the wall by the knight’s considerable strength, and he couldn't even be bothered to remove his gloves. The blow cracked my head against the wall making the world explode in a flash of white and color. I could taste blood on my tongue, coppery sweet inside my mouth. There would be bruises on my face tomorrow, brothers to the ones forming on my shoulder.
"So, the weakest squire thinks to make himself the Knight of a Deity, does he?" Sir Jacob's words were acrid, leaving open wounds upon my soul. He had taken everything else from me: my hopes, my future, and my honor. If Sir Godfrey hadn't come in when he did, this foul excuse for a knight would have had my virtue as well. I would sell my soul to the Dark Lady herself before I give him another part of myself.
"May you rot in the Eighth Hell, you sorry bastard."
The knee that slammed into my stomach was unexpected. My own knees came up instinctively, too late to keep the breath from being forced from my lungs. The blows came hard and fast after that hitting my spleen and ribs, my knees and face. The metal of his gloves left shallow cuts whenever they hit
"Not so cocky now, eh?" A fist splintered my nose, sending pain radiating from the point of contact. "A short, weak, honorless cur like you will never see the rank of Knight." Another punch nearly broke my jaw. "Much less become the Pard." I felt something crack with the sound of breaking wood in my chest and from that point on it hurt even to breathe.
I tried to defend myself as best I could, but I was still pinned to the wall by my shoulder. The assault was relentless, and my own strength, never good to begin with, faded quickly with each blow. In the end I could nothing more than hang there and wait for it to end. My existence narrowed to the space between each blow. I tried to make sure I breathed then, though it was hard with the swelling and the blood. So much blood. I could taste it as it slid down my throat and into my lungs.
Eventually, Sir Jacob tired of this game as all true dogs tire of worrying at something smaller than them. I was dropped to the ground like so much trash, a broken toy to be left where I lay. The impact jarred me badly, and I may have succumbed to darkness. The next thing I saw was Sir Jacob's boot clad feet as he walked back towards the street. He was whistling, as if he had just not beaten someone half his size to death.
I hated him in that moment.
The world narrowed for me then to one goal; survival, that most basic of all bestial instincts. I began to drag myself from the alleyway, one slow painful centimeter at a time. I knew that my best chance of continuing my existence lay at the mercy of some passerby. No one of any repute would journey down a darkened alley. Therefore, I would have to go towards them.
Sheer determination refused to let me die. Every centimeter was a trial. My ribs screamed at every movement I made. My fingers pulled me forward, digging into the cracks between cobblestones to find purchase. It was not long before my fingers were scraped raw, leaving bloody trails upon the ground.
I had to have passed out more than once. I couldn't say just how long I remained dead to the world. At one point I awoke to rain on my face, a gentle warm patter of water that soaked through my clothes. It was comforting in a way, like having angels shedding tears for my pain when all of humanity seemed bent on ignoring it. The darkest part of night came and went. The stars moved through their stately nocturnal pattern.
It was early morning, foggy and damp and chill for all it was well into spring, before I reached the main street. All my strength had been bled away by my struggles. Now I lay in an exhausted heap on the side of the road, another victim lying in the gutter of the city.
A farmer on his way to market, his cart heavy with cabbages and his sturdy farm pony in the harness, passed by with out a second glance. A baker's apprentice stepped over my outstretched hand as he walked by. Someone threw out their wash water a less than a meter from me. I watched the suds and dirty gray water run through the street just beyond my fingers. A city watchman tripped over my prone body, kicking and cursing before he continued on his way.
Only then did the tears come. Hot, bitter tears that stung the cuts and bruises in my face. My eyes slid shut as if weighed by bars of lead. Then I curled onto my side, my arms wrapped around my chest to hold my ribs in, and sobbed. I had struggled against the world… and I had lost.
"What has happened to you?"
The hands that touched me were gently, the voice as lyrical as the morning birds that had greeted the dawn. I was turned over onto my back. My entire body, my entire being, protested the movement. I did not want to be touched. I did not want to be noticed or saved. I wanted to be left alone to die in the gutter like the scrawny, abused mongrel that everyone assumed I was. How ironic then that just as I had turned my back upon the world, fate saw fit to grant me a savior.
"By Alor's cloak, don't move. I shall fetch help."
I wanted to laugh. Move? I had not moved since first morning when the mists had descended upon the city. It was the lady who had moved me, who had in turning onto my side forced my battered body to remind me of why I lay so still. The pain my breathing caused me had dulled. I did not think that this was a good sign.
Curious as to my savior, I decided await her return with open eyes. Such a simple act almost seemed more than my weary body could accomplish. I could only force one orb open, for the other one had swollen shut. This feat, once completed, served to allow me to stare at an arch of pale gray rather than the pitch that was the back of my eyelids. It was not a great improvement.
A single fly that had somehow escaped last week’s unseasonable frosts alighted upon my face. Tiny feet scraped across my cheek. It took more energy than I had to keep my face pointed towards the heavens, so I allowed it to roll towards the side. A large beetle with a carapace of thick green, made its own ponderous way pass my nose.
From the depths of the shadowed alley came a rat, sleek and fat, its coat a glossy black. It crept towards my hand squeaking excitedly. I managed to twitch my bloodied fingers and it hesitated at the edge of shadows. Yellow teeth gleamed as it drew closer, bold despite my movement. I wondered then just how close to death I was that the denizens of the Underworld should approach already.
"Away, Mazarbeth. Go! You do no have him yet and, by Alor, you will not claim him without a fight," my mysterious benefactor said to the rat. The foul creature hissed at her, tiny claws spread wide. I watched in horror as the beast's eyes flashed red, as if in this rodent lived the spirit of the true Mazarbeth, Collector of the Dead. "Do not fight me on this, my friend. We both know you are no match for me."
The foul rodent made one last show of defiance by baring teeth like yellowed ivory. Then it was gone, scurrying back into the shadows from which it came. Hands touched me then, gently attempting to feel the extent of my injuries. I whimpered as fresh pain went through me.
“His hands are like ice. You, go prepare a bed at the temple. I am no healer. Help me see if we can move him without killing him. We can't wait for a healer to be roused. We need to get him out of this weather before he catches his death. Who knows how long he’s lain out here.”
"My Lady..."
"Don't you 'My Lady' me. I don't need your concern. What I need is for you to do what I say. Now help me."
The Lady had a tongue on her. I couldn't help but smile, though it hurt my face and I imagine the expression was a painful thing to behold. The first set of hands, those belonging to the Lady, was replaced by another set. This set was strong and business-like, hurting me but only when it was necessary. I forced my head to roll to one side, needing to see who my benefactors were.
A priest. I blinked, wondering if one of the blows to my head had addled my brains. Then I closed my eyes, and opened them again. The tableau was the same. A large man with the hands and calluses of a tradesman and wearing the gray robes of a novice priest was kneeling over me. I could not see the Lady who had found me. I assumed she was somewhere behind the priest.
"Priest?" My throat was raw and dry with the texture and taste of dirty linen. It was as if I had never spoken words before. I could barely recognize the feeble croaking sound for the word it was. I sucked in a breath as his hands probed somewhere that sent pain shooting through me.
"Not yet, son. I'll be a novice for a few months yet."
"What..." My words were cut off by a gasp of pain. I wanted to know what order he belonged to, but the pain of my broken body blocked the words. Novice priests all wore gray, no matter what god or goddess they worshipped. I did not want to find myself rescued from one death only to face another as a sacrifice.
"My Lady, I believe he can be moved without further harm. His ribs are broken. I would be a happier man if we could wait for a healer to come. They would be able to bind his..."
"Can you carry him?"
"My Lady, his ribs..."
"Can. You. Carry. Him?" Each word was clipped and precise. I heard the novice priest mutter a vulgar curse under his breath. My eyes slid shut and I managed a weak, gasping chuckle through the pain.
"Yes, my Lady. I can."
"Good. Pick him up and let us go. The less people who see us this morn the better off we all shall be." I failed to see why anyone of great importance would notice or care what happened to a failed squire left for dead in a back alley. The novice's arms slid under my knees and shoulders. Muscles prepared to scream in protest.
"This will hurt, my friend."
"I know," I whispered. Then, because I never had learned when not to say more. "But who am I to argue with the Lady?"
That startled a laugh out of the larger man. Then he was picking me up in his arms as if I weighed no more than a sack of flour. Pain raced through me and once more, I knew darkness.
***
The first thing I heard was bells. Lots of bells. They were distant and muffled, but unmistakable in their sound. Thousands upon thousands of bells in every tone and clarity, from the smallest, most delicate golden bell to the giant bronze behemoths that graced the temples all ringing in a cacophony that was somehow harmonic.
The bells...
All at once it hit me what that sound meant. It was the signal of the beginning of the knighting ceremony, and I was missing it. Grief crawled up into my throat, choking me with its strength. I forced my right eye open, the only eye I could get open. My left was swollen, tender, and refused to obey my commands.
I stared up at a ceiling I didn't recognize. Light flowed in from an open window and it fell upon me from an unfamiliar angle. The thick blankets were a comfortable weight upon me, but their very thickness was foreign. I shifted. Pain lanced through me, bringing tears to my eyes, but I ignored it.
"Stay still. You've given the healers fits enough without making things worse."
That was a voice that I recognized, for all that I had first heard it only this morning. The ringing of bells died as I turned my head. It was time to see exactly what my savior, the Lady, looked like.
"You're..." My voice cracked despite the fact I had left such embarrassment behind me years ago. I swallowed against a dry throat. Then there was a metal bowl at my lips and cool water sliding into my mouth. I drank greedily before trying to state my first observation again. "You're short."
Green eyes narrowed in perceived insult. I tried to clarify my statement but a raised hand stalled my words. "Yes, I am neither tall nor willowy. It is generally not accepted in polite company to point that out."
"My apologies." My cheeks grew hot. I had never been one for the language of the courtly tongue, preferring to write my words rather than speak them. It was easier to prevent them from running loose when I set them permanently to paper. "I meant no disrespect."
The lady was short though, shorter than I would have guessed from her sharp tongue and strong will. I had expected someone taller, someone more imposing whose will showed through. Someone more like the ladies talked about in minstrel tales: graceful and flawless, courageous and demure in turn when it was necessary.
She had freckles.
"It is hard to take offense at someone who I pulled out of a back alley not two hours past." She smiled as she spoke, her face relaxing into genuine amusement. "I noticed you didn't call me 'My Lady.' That's a good start. My name is Annice."
"My name is Rale. From Knightsley."
"Well met, Rale of Knightsley." From the open window, the deep sound of a temple bell came through. I watched as this Lady Annice cocked her head to one side listening until the sound died. That sound hurt me in ways she would not understand. "I see the first squire has been claimed. Were you one of those to be squired today?"
"Yes." It hurt to admit it. I had waited so long to be a squire, to be on my way to becoming a knight. I had worked so hard. My family had sacrificed so much. Those of Knightsley did not always find a sympathetic ear in the main court, but I was to be the exception. "I was to be promised to Sir Gerald of Cedarcove. If I had made it to the ceremony."
"How many squires in your year?"
"Thirty-seven. We were a large group this year." Another bell ringing and another sharp stab of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. "I won't even get to see my brothers squired."
My brothers. The other squires. Another pause and I wondered who had been squired with that second bell. There was no set order to who was squired, and fate had as much of a hand in the order as the knights.
The hand on my shoulder startled me enough that there were hints of pain. My body's reminders that I had gone through too much in too short a time. The touch was reassuring, careful of my wounds. "I wish I was better with words. I'd take your anguish from you if I could. I'm afraid I speak to plainly and ask uncomfortable questions too often."
"There is no fault in your words, Lady Annice. It has been a trying day already," I replied. Another ringing of the bells and another squire knighted. When would my name be called? Had I already missed my chance?
"Rale of Knightsley, I have a question for you. Forgive me if I once again ask uncomfortable questions. What did you say or do to provoke such an attack on your person? Whatever it is, rest assured I do not believe you deserved such a beating," Annice said. I closed me eyes, not wanting to see another face when I spoke of my humiliation.
"I dared to rise above my station," I said. It was the safest thing I could say, but I found that it was not enough. Someone should know the truth even in a limited form. "I was thrown out of the squire's ranks yester morn and was offered a chance to return. The price was too high. That did not stop me from be ambitious."
The bells rang again and I jumped slightly. I'd lost track of how many times they had tolled. Six? Seven? Eight? Surely not more than that.
"In what way?" Annice asked. She cocked her head to one side and I was absurdly reminded of hunting dogs trying to puzzle through a new command. The bell rang three times before I could find the courage to tell her of my folly.
"I informed someone that I would not need to return to the squire's ranks. Instead of a mere knight, I would become the Pard."
I expected laughter and was shocked enough by its lack to open my eyes. Annice was watching me, green eyes level and calm. Two more tolling of the bells came and went. I gave up trying to keep track. It didn't matter. Something was happening in the room and it was more important.
"Would you be the Pard if you could?"
There was no hesitation. "Yes."
"Why not the Lion? Or the Boar? Or the Eagle? Or the Griffin?" Annice asked in quick succession. I remained silent, not knowing how to answer. "Why not pick one of the more noble of the Heraldry to aspire to?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I don't know what power possessed my tongue. All I know is I spoke of the Pard."
Another long silence and Annice continued to look at me as if searching for an answer. I had none to give her. Finally she seemed to be satisfied with what she saw. I watched as she got up from the chair beside my bed and went to a chest at the foot of it. She pulled out a cloth wrapped package, long and awkward.
There was no doubt in my mind it was a sword.
"I'm not good with words," Annice said as she laid the cloth wrapped sword on the bed beside me. "And I'll admit I'm not sure what to say. I do know that you are more than you think. If you promise to protect me, to listen to me, to guard my life and honor me with your own, and to try to understand where I am coming from even if you don't agree, I will give you my sword."
"To bear for all your days, here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses." I said. Then at Annice's confused look, I spoke again. "That's how you traditionally end it. I give you my sword to bear for all your days here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses. Everything else is generally at the discretion of the speaker."
Annice smiled. "If you agree to those terms, I will give you my sword to bear for all your days, here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses. Do you accept?"
I smiled though it hurt. Being a landless knight of a noble lady was not as grand as my dream of being a landed knight for the king or the Pard or any of the other heraldic knights, but it was still an honor. I would not turn down Annice's offer. "I accept."
She unrolled the cloth from the sword. It tumbled down beside me on the bed. The blade was plain and unadorned, but I wasn't looking at that. I was staring at the hilt. Staring back at me were the clear, crystal eyes of a snarling panther.
Outside, all the bells rang with a cacophony loud enough that even those in the Eighth Hell could surely hear it. I had just become the Pard.
"Then answer me this. Will you walk upon this earth as my equal or grovel at my feet? Will you be a simple earth turner living hand to mouth or someone who wields a sword with honor? Will you be a just a man or a true Knight?" Sir Jacob asked. His gloved hand held my shoulder to the wall, the metal ridges hard enough to bite.
"Neither. I will be the Pard." The words were sudden, escaping from my lips before I could stop them. I tried to forestall more words, and whatever lunacy had possessed me in those few seconds eased.
"Blasphemy." I saw the blow coming, but pinned as I was, could neither stop it nor dodge.
The bastard didn't even have the decency to remove his gloves. Sir Jacob was hitting an unarmed page: one pinned against the wall by the knight’s considerable strength, and he couldn't even be bothered to remove his gloves. The blow cracked my head against the wall making the world explode in a flash of white and color. I could taste blood on my tongue, coppery sweet inside my mouth. There would be bruises on my face tomorrow, brothers to the ones forming on my shoulder.
"So, the weakest squire thinks to make himself the Knight of a Deity, does he?" Sir Jacob's words were acrid, leaving open wounds upon my soul. He had taken everything else from me: my hopes, my future, and my honor. If Sir Godfrey hadn't come in when he did, this foul excuse for a knight would have had my virtue as well. I would sell my soul to the Dark Lady herself before I give him another part of myself.
"May you rot in the Eighth Hell, you sorry bastard."
The knee that slammed into my stomach was unexpected. My own knees came up instinctively, too late to keep the breath from being forced from my lungs. The blows came hard and fast after that hitting my spleen and ribs, my knees and face. The metal of his gloves left shallow cuts whenever they hit
"Not so cocky now, eh?" A fist splintered my nose, sending pain radiating from the point of contact. "A short, weak, honorless cur like you will never see the rank of Knight." Another punch nearly broke my jaw. "Much less become the Pard." I felt something crack with the sound of breaking wood in my chest and from that point on it hurt even to breathe.
I tried to defend myself as best I could, but I was still pinned to the wall by my shoulder. The assault was relentless, and my own strength, never good to begin with, faded quickly with each blow. In the end I could nothing more than hang there and wait for it to end. My existence narrowed to the space between each blow. I tried to make sure I breathed then, though it was hard with the swelling and the blood. So much blood. I could taste it as it slid down my throat and into my lungs.
Eventually, Sir Jacob tired of this game as all true dogs tire of worrying at something smaller than them. I was dropped to the ground like so much trash, a broken toy to be left where I lay. The impact jarred me badly, and I may have succumbed to darkness. The next thing I saw was Sir Jacob's boot clad feet as he walked back towards the street. He was whistling, as if he had just not beaten someone half his size to death.
I hated him in that moment.
The world narrowed for me then to one goal; survival, that most basic of all bestial instincts. I began to drag myself from the alleyway, one slow painful centimeter at a time. I knew that my best chance of continuing my existence lay at the mercy of some passerby. No one of any repute would journey down a darkened alley. Therefore, I would have to go towards them.
Sheer determination refused to let me die. Every centimeter was a trial. My ribs screamed at every movement I made. My fingers pulled me forward, digging into the cracks between cobblestones to find purchase. It was not long before my fingers were scraped raw, leaving bloody trails upon the ground.
I had to have passed out more than once. I couldn't say just how long I remained dead to the world. At one point I awoke to rain on my face, a gentle warm patter of water that soaked through my clothes. It was comforting in a way, like having angels shedding tears for my pain when all of humanity seemed bent on ignoring it. The darkest part of night came and went. The stars moved through their stately nocturnal pattern.
It was early morning, foggy and damp and chill for all it was well into spring, before I reached the main street. All my strength had been bled away by my struggles. Now I lay in an exhausted heap on the side of the road, another victim lying in the gutter of the city.
A farmer on his way to market, his cart heavy with cabbages and his sturdy farm pony in the harness, passed by with out a second glance. A baker's apprentice stepped over my outstretched hand as he walked by. Someone threw out their wash water a less than a meter from me. I watched the suds and dirty gray water run through the street just beyond my fingers. A city watchman tripped over my prone body, kicking and cursing before he continued on his way.
Only then did the tears come. Hot, bitter tears that stung the cuts and bruises in my face. My eyes slid shut as if weighed by bars of lead. Then I curled onto my side, my arms wrapped around my chest to hold my ribs in, and sobbed. I had struggled against the world… and I had lost.
"What has happened to you?"
The hands that touched me were gently, the voice as lyrical as the morning birds that had greeted the dawn. I was turned over onto my back. My entire body, my entire being, protested the movement. I did not want to be touched. I did not want to be noticed or saved. I wanted to be left alone to die in the gutter like the scrawny, abused mongrel that everyone assumed I was. How ironic then that just as I had turned my back upon the world, fate saw fit to grant me a savior.
"By Alor's cloak, don't move. I shall fetch help."
I wanted to laugh. Move? I had not moved since first morning when the mists had descended upon the city. It was the lady who had moved me, who had in turning onto my side forced my battered body to remind me of why I lay so still. The pain my breathing caused me had dulled. I did not think that this was a good sign.
Curious as to my savior, I decided await her return with open eyes. Such a simple act almost seemed more than my weary body could accomplish. I could only force one orb open, for the other one had swollen shut. This feat, once completed, served to allow me to stare at an arch of pale gray rather than the pitch that was the back of my eyelids. It was not a great improvement.
A single fly that had somehow escaped last week’s unseasonable frosts alighted upon my face. Tiny feet scraped across my cheek. It took more energy than I had to keep my face pointed towards the heavens, so I allowed it to roll towards the side. A large beetle with a carapace of thick green, made its own ponderous way pass my nose.
From the depths of the shadowed alley came a rat, sleek and fat, its coat a glossy black. It crept towards my hand squeaking excitedly. I managed to twitch my bloodied fingers and it hesitated at the edge of shadows. Yellow teeth gleamed as it drew closer, bold despite my movement. I wondered then just how close to death I was that the denizens of the Underworld should approach already.
"Away, Mazarbeth. Go! You do no have him yet and, by Alor, you will not claim him without a fight," my mysterious benefactor said to the rat. The foul creature hissed at her, tiny claws spread wide. I watched in horror as the beast's eyes flashed red, as if in this rodent lived the spirit of the true Mazarbeth, Collector of the Dead. "Do not fight me on this, my friend. We both know you are no match for me."
The foul rodent made one last show of defiance by baring teeth like yellowed ivory. Then it was gone, scurrying back into the shadows from which it came. Hands touched me then, gently attempting to feel the extent of my injuries. I whimpered as fresh pain went through me.
“His hands are like ice. You, go prepare a bed at the temple. I am no healer. Help me see if we can move him without killing him. We can't wait for a healer to be roused. We need to get him out of this weather before he catches his death. Who knows how long he’s lain out here.”
"My Lady..."
"Don't you 'My Lady' me. I don't need your concern. What I need is for you to do what I say. Now help me."
The Lady had a tongue on her. I couldn't help but smile, though it hurt my face and I imagine the expression was a painful thing to behold. The first set of hands, those belonging to the Lady, was replaced by another set. This set was strong and business-like, hurting me but only when it was necessary. I forced my head to roll to one side, needing to see who my benefactors were.
A priest. I blinked, wondering if one of the blows to my head had addled my brains. Then I closed my eyes, and opened them again. The tableau was the same. A large man with the hands and calluses of a tradesman and wearing the gray robes of a novice priest was kneeling over me. I could not see the Lady who had found me. I assumed she was somewhere behind the priest.
"Priest?" My throat was raw and dry with the texture and taste of dirty linen. It was as if I had never spoken words before. I could barely recognize the feeble croaking sound for the word it was. I sucked in a breath as his hands probed somewhere that sent pain shooting through me.
"Not yet, son. I'll be a novice for a few months yet."
"What..." My words were cut off by a gasp of pain. I wanted to know what order he belonged to, but the pain of my broken body blocked the words. Novice priests all wore gray, no matter what god or goddess they worshipped. I did not want to find myself rescued from one death only to face another as a sacrifice.
"My Lady, I believe he can be moved without further harm. His ribs are broken. I would be a happier man if we could wait for a healer to come. They would be able to bind his..."
"Can you carry him?"
"My Lady, his ribs..."
"Can. You. Carry. Him?" Each word was clipped and precise. I heard the novice priest mutter a vulgar curse under his breath. My eyes slid shut and I managed a weak, gasping chuckle through the pain.
"Yes, my Lady. I can."
"Good. Pick him up and let us go. The less people who see us this morn the better off we all shall be." I failed to see why anyone of great importance would notice or care what happened to a failed squire left for dead in a back alley. The novice's arms slid under my knees and shoulders. Muscles prepared to scream in protest.
"This will hurt, my friend."
"I know," I whispered. Then, because I never had learned when not to say more. "But who am I to argue with the Lady?"
That startled a laugh out of the larger man. Then he was picking me up in his arms as if I weighed no more than a sack of flour. Pain raced through me and once more, I knew darkness.
***
The first thing I heard was bells. Lots of bells. They were distant and muffled, but unmistakable in their sound. Thousands upon thousands of bells in every tone and clarity, from the smallest, most delicate golden bell to the giant bronze behemoths that graced the temples all ringing in a cacophony that was somehow harmonic.
The bells...
All at once it hit me what that sound meant. It was the signal of the beginning of the knighting ceremony, and I was missing it. Grief crawled up into my throat, choking me with its strength. I forced my right eye open, the only eye I could get open. My left was swollen, tender, and refused to obey my commands.
I stared up at a ceiling I didn't recognize. Light flowed in from an open window and it fell upon me from an unfamiliar angle. The thick blankets were a comfortable weight upon me, but their very thickness was foreign. I shifted. Pain lanced through me, bringing tears to my eyes, but I ignored it.
"Stay still. You've given the healers fits enough without making things worse."
That was a voice that I recognized, for all that I had first heard it only this morning. The ringing of bells died as I turned my head. It was time to see exactly what my savior, the Lady, looked like.
"You're..." My voice cracked despite the fact I had left such embarrassment behind me years ago. I swallowed against a dry throat. Then there was a metal bowl at my lips and cool water sliding into my mouth. I drank greedily before trying to state my first observation again. "You're short."
Green eyes narrowed in perceived insult. I tried to clarify my statement but a raised hand stalled my words. "Yes, I am neither tall nor willowy. It is generally not accepted in polite company to point that out."
"My apologies." My cheeks grew hot. I had never been one for the language of the courtly tongue, preferring to write my words rather than speak them. It was easier to prevent them from running loose when I set them permanently to paper. "I meant no disrespect."
The lady was short though, shorter than I would have guessed from her sharp tongue and strong will. I had expected someone taller, someone more imposing whose will showed through. Someone more like the ladies talked about in minstrel tales: graceful and flawless, courageous and demure in turn when it was necessary.
She had freckles.
"It is hard to take offense at someone who I pulled out of a back alley not two hours past." She smiled as she spoke, her face relaxing into genuine amusement. "I noticed you didn't call me 'My Lady.' That's a good start. My name is Annice."
"My name is Rale. From Knightsley."
"Well met, Rale of Knightsley." From the open window, the deep sound of a temple bell came through. I watched as this Lady Annice cocked her head to one side listening until the sound died. That sound hurt me in ways she would not understand. "I see the first squire has been claimed. Were you one of those to be squired today?"
"Yes." It hurt to admit it. I had waited so long to be a squire, to be on my way to becoming a knight. I had worked so hard. My family had sacrificed so much. Those of Knightsley did not always find a sympathetic ear in the main court, but I was to be the exception. "I was to be promised to Sir Gerald of Cedarcove. If I had made it to the ceremony."
"How many squires in your year?"
"Thirty-seven. We were a large group this year." Another bell ringing and another sharp stab of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. "I won't even get to see my brothers squired."
My brothers. The other squires. Another pause and I wondered who had been squired with that second bell. There was no set order to who was squired, and fate had as much of a hand in the order as the knights.
The hand on my shoulder startled me enough that there were hints of pain. My body's reminders that I had gone through too much in too short a time. The touch was reassuring, careful of my wounds. "I wish I was better with words. I'd take your anguish from you if I could. I'm afraid I speak to plainly and ask uncomfortable questions too often."
"There is no fault in your words, Lady Annice. It has been a trying day already," I replied. Another ringing of the bells and another squire knighted. When would my name be called? Had I already missed my chance?
"Rale of Knightsley, I have a question for you. Forgive me if I once again ask uncomfortable questions. What did you say or do to provoke such an attack on your person? Whatever it is, rest assured I do not believe you deserved such a beating," Annice said. I closed me eyes, not wanting to see another face when I spoke of my humiliation.
"I dared to rise above my station," I said. It was the safest thing I could say, but I found that it was not enough. Someone should know the truth even in a limited form. "I was thrown out of the squire's ranks yester morn and was offered a chance to return. The price was too high. That did not stop me from be ambitious."
The bells rang again and I jumped slightly. I'd lost track of how many times they had tolled. Six? Seven? Eight? Surely not more than that.
"In what way?" Annice asked. She cocked her head to one side and I was absurdly reminded of hunting dogs trying to puzzle through a new command. The bell rang three times before I could find the courage to tell her of my folly.
"I informed someone that I would not need to return to the squire's ranks. Instead of a mere knight, I would become the Pard."
I expected laughter and was shocked enough by its lack to open my eyes. Annice was watching me, green eyes level and calm. Two more tolling of the bells came and went. I gave up trying to keep track. It didn't matter. Something was happening in the room and it was more important.
"Would you be the Pard if you could?"
There was no hesitation. "Yes."
"Why not the Lion? Or the Boar? Or the Eagle? Or the Griffin?" Annice asked in quick succession. I remained silent, not knowing how to answer. "Why not pick one of the more noble of the Heraldry to aspire to?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I don't know what power possessed my tongue. All I know is I spoke of the Pard."
Another long silence and Annice continued to look at me as if searching for an answer. I had none to give her. Finally she seemed to be satisfied with what she saw. I watched as she got up from the chair beside my bed and went to a chest at the foot of it. She pulled out a cloth wrapped package, long and awkward.
There was no doubt in my mind it was a sword.
"I'm not good with words," Annice said as she laid the cloth wrapped sword on the bed beside me. "And I'll admit I'm not sure what to say. I do know that you are more than you think. If you promise to protect me, to listen to me, to guard my life and honor me with your own, and to try to understand where I am coming from even if you don't agree, I will give you my sword."
"To bear for all your days, here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses." I said. Then at Annice's confused look, I spoke again. "That's how you traditionally end it. I give you my sword to bear for all your days here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses. Everything else is generally at the discretion of the speaker."
Annice smiled. "If you agree to those terms, I will give you my sword to bear for all your days, here, now, in the sight of all the gods and goddesses. Do you accept?"
I smiled though it hurt. Being a landless knight of a noble lady was not as grand as my dream of being a landed knight for the king or the Pard or any of the other heraldic knights, but it was still an honor. I would not turn down Annice's offer. "I accept."
She unrolled the cloth from the sword. It tumbled down beside me on the bed. The blade was plain and unadorned, but I wasn't looking at that. I was staring at the hilt. Staring back at me were the clear, crystal eyes of a snarling panther.
Outside, all the bells rang with a cacophony loud enough that even those in the Eighth Hell could surely hear it. I had just become the Pard.