Tarot Campaign

Interlude          Graduation

The Ball
Paris stared at the woman in the mirror; no mere changeling, this was a fairy princess. The figure in the mirror, in time with her, raised one arm to brush a black curl into place. The white lace of the cuff of the sleeve hung two feet below her wrist, making it seem that her hands were tracing magic lines in the air. The lace continued up the arm of sleeve to the shoulder, where two puffs of fabric concealed her shoulders. The tight bodice was also white, but brocaded with tiny bits of silver to catch the light. It was scooped front and back to the same level; lower in front than Paris had ever worn, but right for a fairy princess. The skirt, made of a material softer even than velvet, was midnight black, and swirled outwards at the slightest turn. Covering the boundary between white and black was a polished white leather sword belt, allowing her to carry her required sword. Even the shoes were a white brocade, elegant, though they would never be seen.

Her badge was pinned to the shoulder strap. Around her neck, a small gold chain, with a pendant holding a tiny green stone midway between her cleavage and her chin. She recalled the final fitting earlier that day, when the Princess Carline came to see the process. "No, it still doesn't look right," she said, musing to herself as the dressmaker and assistants fussed, and Lady duGryphon looked on. "Too great an unbroken expanse of skin, here," she said gesturing at Paris, and she smiled. "I know just the thing," she said pulling out a small box from her sleeve. She had fastened the necklace around Paris before she could object.

"Your Highness," Paris interjected. "This is not something I'm entitled to. I thank you, but..."

Carline interrupted, fire in her voice but laughter in her eyes. "Are the gifts of a daughter of Bran to be refused? Are her orders not to be followed?" She relaxed her face into a smile, and placed one hand on Paris' shoulder. "Paris. Tonight, you are entitled to everything anyone else there is entitled to. And you must act like it. This is also something you are being tested on." She leaned back. "Let me show you something else we had made."

She nodded to the seamstress, who opened up another box. She pulled out a simpler outfit, a plain white surcoat and white pants. "For your knighting ceremony," she said simply.

Paris looked long at the knighting garments, reaching out one hand to lightly touch their fabric. She took a deep breath that shuddered somewhat as she released it. It still took a moment to find her voice. "My -- knighting -- ceremony," she said, almost whispering. Then, leaving that, her hand brought the froth of white sleeve lace up, skimming her bodice and halting to lightly touch the stone at the base of her throat as she looked across at Carline. "Have - have you ever had a wild and impossible dream come true? I -- have no words that seem adequate. But -- I - I thank you, your Highness, most gracious daughter of Bran."

Again Lorraine kept Paris and Cordelia in her room after their escorts had arrived. "It's very important for a girl to make a proper entrance," she said smiling, and checking her appearance for the hundredth time. Cordelia, Paris knew, was being escorted by Alain; her brother Rodric was escorting Cynthia. In neither case was there a romantic relation, but it seemed better not to escort a sibling on this night. Jules, of course, would be escorting Lorraine.

The three young men turned as they entered. Paris looked at Ewen, resplendent in copper brocade and faded gold that brought out all the warmth in his hair and face. The smile on his face as he looked at her brought her an unexpected warmth as well. "Miss Paris," he managed to choke out after swallowing once [and biting his arm, stanching the bleeding], "you look lovely. Magical." He extended a hand to escort her.

"I feel like I've been sprinkled with magical dust tonight, Lord Ewen," Paris smiled up at him. "I have such wonderful fairy godmothers!"

After a moment, they both managed to look away to see how the others were doing. Just as Paris' new dress followed the Princess' fashion of flowing sleeves, the young gallants had started borrowing from the styles -- both in armor and in silhouette -- that reflected the tastes in Pelier. And all looked good. Regular horse-back riding gave a man well-turned legs, shown off nicely in fitted leggings, fine, soft-leather footwear, and tunics considerably shorter than those worn by their fathers'. All wore the fashionable high collar notched at the Adam's apple, sleeve and tunic cut to emphasize broad shoulders and narrow waists. Ewen had chosen to wear tight undersleeves emerging from flowing false sleeves that moved as though he wore a cape and were embroidered subtly overall with medallions featuring his family coat, the blue standing up well against his autumnal colours. Alain had apparently decided to blend with the Givance preference for reds; his pleated tabard was cinched in front by his sash but flowed loose in back, also cape-like (and occasionally daringly revealing). Not as leg-proud as the other two, he had chosen dark thigh-high boots gartered at the knee with a ribbon featuring his family's arms, echoed in the brooch that pinned a collar-chain in place on his right shoulder. His full sleeves, in contrasting blue and red stripes, tightened just below his elbows into laced cuffs. Jules had exaggerated his normal breadth with pumpkin sleeves in bright gold, puffing out above the normal tight sleeve that matched the bright blue velvet of his tunic -- embroidered largely with the rampant horse of his family crest. His fitted blue leggings merged visually with his half boots, dyed a matching blue. Overall he'd thrown a light crimson cape. The men flowed as they moved just as elegantly as the ladies did.

[GM: Paris understands that at the ball, the young men who have been picked as escorts wear a yellow sash. The ones that are eligible friends of the debutantes wear white sashes. Those men not in sashes are in-eligible: family members, etc. Although you expect the Prince and Duke not to be wearing sashes. And, yes, this is based on the debutante ball I attended. :) Paris will not be "presented" as a part of the debutantes of the season; that did not seem appropriate to Lady Gryphon.]
[S: I had no idea that a debutante ball marked _men_ for the 'marriage mart' as well. Wow! Sashes, huh? Learn something new every day!]

Paris noted the yellow sashes that proclaimed the three men escorts this evening. Next dance, she thought, they will all be wearing the swords of knighthood -- and having to dance in them as well. Absently her free hand touched her own sword and a smile of amusement lit her face.

"Miss Paris and her escort, Lord Ewen deLacey," the herald at the door intoned as they entered the waiting room before dinner. As had happened those months before, she was hit by the wall of noise as people stood around and spoke. But this time her ears were more attuned, she could pick out different conversations as they passed, make small talk as she passed different groups, notice who was where and who was laughing at what. And, unlike before, Ewen was always at her side as they moved along, making the circumstances much more comfortable. She noticed Sir Avenal arriving late, and their paths did not cross.

At dinner, the escorts were supposed to sit with the girl's family. For those whose parents were not at Westmore, the duGryphons acted as surrogates, so Paris and Ewen found themselves at a large table with a lot of their friends, Lorraine, Cordelia, and two other girls and their escorts. The Prince and Princess sat at the head table; the Prince escorting the Duke's mother and the Duke escorting the Princess. Dinner was, quite simply, fun.

In the ballroom, before the dance, the debutantes were presented to society. Paris applauded along with the others as her friends paraded to the front of the room and curtsied deeply, announced by the Herald. The music started, and their escorts moved smoothly forward to start the first dance. After the first half-dozen bars, the other unmarried women and their escorts joined them on the floor, and Paris found herself swept up by Ewen into an entirely wonderful dance. At the end, he escorted her off the floor to his family; she barely noticed that the Duke and Princess had also joined in this dance.

The second dance was between the escort and the girl's mother, and between the girl and the father of her escort. Paris curtsied to Sir Justin, studying his face. Definitely Ewen's face was much his father's, though his eyes were more from his mother. Older, lined by more than just weather, Sir Justin extended his arm. Ewen bowed slightly, saying, "I will just relax for a few moments," when there was a preemptory throat clearing. They turned to discover the Princess Carline there, and all hurriedly bowed and curtsied. "Miss Paris," she said with a straight face, "would you mind terribly if I stood in for your mother and danced this dance with your handsome young escort?" The Duke made a similar request to Baron deLacey to be allowed to dance with his wife.

"I would not mind, your Highness. It is an honour," curtsied Paris. She dimpled. It was so funny to think of the Princess as a surrogate mother -- but a fairy godmother she was and ever should be after this night. "So magical," Paris whispered to herself as she turned again to Sir Justin, smiling happily at him.

After the first two dances, there were no required ones until the eighth dance, which would again be with the escort. The pattern was always that the young man would ask the escort first, and then the lady. She noticed, as she was dancing with Rodric, that the Duke and the Prince were also circulating, dancing with each of the debutantes. Her seventh dance was with the Duke.

At the end of the eighth dance, the orchestra took a break. With a rapidly pounding heart, Paris turned to Ewen. "I could use a breath of fresh air, my Lord." She caught him by surprise, a surprise that slowly turned to a smile. "I know just the place," he said softly, extending his arm.

They had to go a little further into the garden, as much of the room had emptied out into the relatively cooler night air. The moon was low in the east sky, nearly full and brighter than she remembered it. It was not jasmine tonight; there was hardly any smell, but there was the chirping of crickets that she could hear against the blood in her ears. He looked at her with some concern, eager yet worried. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly. She looked up at him and leaned slightly forward.

The first kiss was quick, followed by another and another that lasted longer and longer. His arms encircled her, keeping her balance. It was a mix of laughing and crying, as some reserve in her broke; exciting and terrifying all at once. She pulled back, searching his face, wondering if she had done it right. His eyes glistened and his face was as flushed as hers felt. "Best two out of three?" he asked with a smile that made her laugh -- just as she was about to ask if she had done it right -- and made her kiss him right back. She knew she had always liked it when maman and papa had kissed, now she knew why maman went running to kiss papa.

There was a noisy rustling in the garden behind them, and they stopped kissing long enough to see that Sir Gryphon was moving noisily through the garden, stopping near them. "Yes, great view of the moon from here, isn't it?" he said jovially. "I can see how one would admire it. Brighter than I ever remember seeing it." He looked back to the ballroom. "Ah, sounds like the orchestra is tuning up. We ought to be getting back to the dance, now shouldn't we?" Paris was startled as Ewen agreed and began to steer them back. 'It couldn't have been that long, could it?' she thought.

But it was clear as they went back in that it had been that long, although no one seemed to notice. She danced with renewed vigor, an energy she hadn't known; and all the colors in the room seemed brighter, the sounds sharper, as if she were back in Tarot. The next to last dance was with the Prince, and despite the hours that had gone by she never felt so light, never danced so well as she did that dance. She had wondered, earlier, if she would laugh or cry when her turn came, but all she had in her was laughter.

And the laughter seemed magical too. She looked into her Prince's face, smiling softly, hoping that he had found some ease from his cares in this night. She couldn't help it; she wanted so to share this feeling of joy, of magic with everyone she touched.

The last dance was with Ewen again. It was maddening, being that close and touching; their eyes locked on each other, and not kissing. It was joyous, being that close. The music ended, and she remembered to applaud the orchestra with the others.

When the time came and she gave Ewen her hand for their final farewell, Paris gave the formal thanks with a murmured addition, "and thank you too for sharing your magic with me."

They were back in Lorraine and Cordelia's rooms, where she would change back out of the magic garments into everyday clothes. As the door closed, Lorraine squealed. "All right, Paris! Out with it! All the details!"

"What? What!?" answered Paris in mock dismay and some genuine bewilderment. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oooh! You tease!" Lorraine came over and shook her gently. "Father had to go out in the garden after you, you naughty puss! Tell us all about it!"

Paris wrapped her arms around herself and looked up towards the ceiling, smiling and biting her lip at the same time. She couldn't keep from dimpling as the memories played across her face. "Don't fairy godmothers know the magics they conjure up?" She teased gently. "We -- Ewen and I -- we -- oh, Lorraine, kissing is -- wonderful, exciting, fun, scary, and everything you ever said it would be! And kissing Ewen is --- I - I didn't believe -- that is, it didn't seem to be long at all. Really. I didn't know -- that is, I had no idea Sir Gryphon would have to ... and he was so nice about it. Oh, Lorraine!" Paris shook herself happily and twirled across the room. "I feel like I could dance forever!" She came to a stop, dropping her hands to smooth the folds of her skirt as it settled into place in the wake of her movement. She looked down at its darkness, her black curls dropping to partially screen her face. "I've been here long enough to know that this is real, that a pinch won't wake me up, that this is really me -- Paris, once of Jouet. But," she smiled radiantly at the other girls, "even if I were to wake up a cinder girl on the morrow, I would know that I have danced with Our Duke, I have danced with my Prince, I have been wonderfully kissed by one of my dearest friends, and I have the most marvelous fairy godmothers in the world!"

The Next Day: Between Tests
There were sharp-eyed questioners in a panel on all kinds of things Paris had been studying--law, history, et. al. The interesting one was the Courtly Graces test. The Duke's mother sat on that panel; sharp faced, grey hair, lines making her look much older than she should, but nonetheless there on the panel. The test was done both in court clothes--for Paris, a dress--and armor. What's interesting was that the two others on the panel looked to the Duke's mother for Paris' test in armor; they hadn't the faintest idea what a woman in armor should do but were willing to defer to her. It appeared that the Duke's mother was judging Paris on the same improvised maneuvers that Lady Gryphon instructed her in. Either the Duke's mother and Lady Gryphon thought exactly alike, or the two agreed in advance what a lady-knight should do.

[GM: Pat doesn't know what the proper ladylike maneuvers in armor should be, but he suspects a curtsey is right out of it. :) ]
[S: If one has good balance, the most effective grace is, in fact, a modified curtsey. Men _always_ bow; but women in the SCA (where, admittedly, very few wear _full_ armor -- albeit some do; but all the female fighters I know wear full leg armor (with boots instead of sabatons on the feet) and full breastplate and shoulder plate) manage this in the awkward leg armor. It requires good balance -- just as a curtsey does. Basically, the rear leg goes back (almost like a ballerina's bow) and the female warrior bends both knees and sinks down, back straight and head bowed. How low she sinks very much depends on her leg strength and on the fit of her armor. In fact that is the case in a curtsey as well, although the woman also may incline her torso forward in a regular curtsey. Most women, though, are taught to curtsey more deeply than their leg strength can tolerate, which is why they sometimes require a hand to provide just that extra balance to allow rising. Paris -- now that she's had practise -- probably has both the strength and the grace to curtsey quite deeply in a dress, and do a graceful 'dip' in armor. Making sure you stay balanced over your center of gravity -- and that your legs are well place to leverage the rise are the real tricks that had to have been practised. Lady duGryphon probably decided on a not terribly deep dip -- despite Paris' strength -- because of the noise plate armor makes. The same should be true for the man's bow. Minimizing the clash of metal against metal by non-dramatic movement is always good. For a man, going down on one knee can look very elegant -- but then -- if he is in armor -- he has the same problem that a woman in a deep curtsey has: does he have the leg strength (and is his armor well enough fitted not to clash and clang too obstreperously) to rise by himself?]

Dismissed at last, Paris closed the door behind her and nodded to the page waiting in the hallway to run fetch the next candidate. As the lad dashed off, she leaned her forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar. Somehow the hall seemed cooler than that room she had left -- despite the fact that she knew there was no difference in this castle. It had been the intensity, as if someday people's lives might depend on what she knew. Paris breathed deeply. The Law and History had been OK. After all, she'd nearly memorized those books Prince William had given her. But there was still a lot she had not yet learned in heraldry, in tactics, in estate management, in -- oh, it seemed like there were a thousand things she could only guess at opposed to the things she knew. There'd been that one question, for instance.... She'd have to go hunt up a herald and ask where she could read more about that; it had been interesting.

Paris wandered down the corridor towards the old familiar courtyard. Things were going so fast now. In just a few days, it would all be over, the tests, the classes, the wonderful watchful eyes of the duGryphons. Paris closed her eyes in something close to a prayer. If only she could do well enough to honour them. And her Prince. If only...!

"Paris?" Ewen's voice. She opened her eyes. There he was, on the bottom step to the courtyard. With Rod. It almost looked as though they'd been waiting for her. Ewen galloped up the stairs. "Paris! I thought they were going to keep you forever!" She looked down into his face and remembered how near he had been last night. So -- close. "Y-you," her voice was a little hoarse before she pulled it into rein, "You and Rodric got earlier slots than I did on some things, didn't you?" "Yes," he grinned. "I suspect Rod likes to turn the questions on the questioners. But -- now we were thinking you might like to see what's left of today's Festival. It's OK if we go out in a group," he was leading Paris back down the steps as he talked, to where Rodric stood.

The taller boy nodded. "Cordelia's been bugging me to take her out to listen to the musicians again. And Lorraine said that Jules would come again too. And Sylvan. The rest of us are still at catechism." He nodded back the way she had come. "But she made us promise to send you up to change. She said you'd feel better."

"Would you like to come?" Ewen asked, his eyes intent on hers. Paris could tell that he again held that peculiar mix of eagerness and concern, as thought she might have had second thoughts about the evening before. "I'll come happily," she smiled, meeting his gaze warmly, her voice warm as well.

"There you are!" Lorraine trilled as Paris entered her rooms. "Hot damp towel to face, neck and arms. Testing's not dirty work but, oh, I know how tense the fellows are coming out of there." She chattered on, wriggling Paris out of her 'student garb' and back into the silver and blue dress of the first Harvest Festival. "Now this -- and this," she puttered over Paris with the deftness of practice. "The idea is to forget the tests; today's are done, tomorrow's aren't come, relax and have fun. There!" With satisfaction, she pushed Paris gently over to the mirror and adjusted them both. Paris laughed. "Don't you ever get tired of having such a slow pupil, my friend?" Lorraine's eyebrow went up and her mimic voice sounded, "But I trust you do me proud, girl!" and she broke into a grin. "Come, it's time to show ourselves."

Lorraine appropriated both Sylvan and Jules and surged after Cordelia and Rodric, leaving Ewen and Paris to follow in their wake. As they emerged through the Palace gateway, the guard said, "Lords and Ladies, I am instructed to remind you to stay to the main street." Paris glanced at Ewen and he looked knowingly into her eyes. They both scanned the crowds as the group merged into the throngs of festival-goers. It took a few moments of walking, then Ewen commented in a low voice, "Guards in livery and off-duty soldiery seem very much more in evidence this time. Looks like our Duke does not intend to let anything interfere with proper festivities. I think it's all right." Paris nodded. She'd seen the liveries, but Ewen had a far better familiarity with the military in Westmore than she had had.

Shortly Cordelia and Rodric stopped to watch a bardic competition, lute and harp. They weren't playing dance tunes; rather, an intricate point counterpoint with steadily increasing speed. The Givances and Sylvan seemed fascinated. Ewen touched her arm and nodded. She glanced over to where he'd indicated. Lorraine had coyly maneuvered Jules to the fortuneteller's booth next over and, with a wink and a gay wave, pulled him in. Ewen looked back down at Paris and grinned. "Shall we walk a little on our own while they're occupied?" He offered her his arm as the audience broke into spontaneous applause at a bit of virtuoso harping.

They strolled. Paris commented on how dear and funny and impossible it had seemed to imagine Princess Carline as 'mother.' Ewen commented that it certainly seemed to impress Justin the right way. Paris asked if change was still a problem for Justin, now. Ewen stopped and bought them a fruit drink from a street vendor. "Most refreshin', sahr. Jest th'thing for refreshin' the pretty lady, sahr."

Holding her drink as Ewen paid the vendor, Paris looked up and then around. Ewen noticed and frowned in concern. "Is there something wrong, Paris." She studied the area and then answered, "No. No, it's just that I realized that I know this place. If we climb up there," she gestured lightly to an open hayloft, "we can sit and watch for the others to catch up."

Ewen grinned. "It's shaded. We've drink enough. Why not?"

Paris picked up her skirts in one hand and slipped through the vendors and to the building in back. Without much trouble, she found the access Calais had used to examine the loft. And then had to wait, an only partially mock pout on her face as Ewen insisted on taking the drinks up to the loft himself and then helping her. "You're not in climbing clothes, you know." His laugh was infectious. But he held her steady with a firm grip and an intent expression as she maneuvered her skirts in climbing.

Paris settled into a nest of hay where she could conveniently peer over the quarter wall of the loft's window. Ewen settled close enough to keep watch as well. Lightly he said, "Which of your adventures took place here, Paris?" Momentarily startled she looked at him and then back down to the street. "There, down there," she answered quietly. "That's where I was 'jumped.' It seemed -- a little adventure -- at the time. I -- wanted to look at it from a different perspective. So -- many things have changed perspective -- since I first came to Westmore." She met his gaze, then smiled. "I wanted to thank you -- again -- for last night. Though there wasn't a speck of what people know now is magic there, it was probably the most magical night I have ever lived."

His eyes were almost too intense on her, but his smile relieved things a little. "Oh, I don't know," he said softly. "Rod claims he had to tie a cord to my waist so I wouldn't float away. I think there was all the magic I could ever want." His grin grew even wider. "I don't think I came to earth until the second question this morning. Or maybe they were just repeating the first question."

He glanced away out the window, smile fading. "Some 'little adventure.' Say," he said, looking comically around, "your invisible lion isn't watching us now, is he?" More seriously, but still smiling, he looked into her eyes. "He's not going to jump me if I try to kiss you again, is he?"

Paris laughed. "We wouldn't know if Hobbes was around unless he jumped you. He can't be seen, heard or even smelled. But I think that he talks to Rhori somehow -- even over distance -- and that he would not jump until Rhori told him to. And that would depend on how Rhori interpreted whatever description Hobbes gave. I have no idea what a lion would think of kissing." Again her colour rose, but she met his gaze with clear eyes and a smile playing 'round her mouth.

"If Rhori asks what we were doing when I go home tonight, then I will know where the lion was. But," she smiled and leaned towards him, her voice gradually dropping, "I'm prepared to risk that..."

"Here, lion lion lion," he whispered as he leaned in to kiss her.

Last night was not an aberration; this kiss was just as exhilarating as those last night. Although being seated had both advantages and disadvantages over standing in a garden. She could, when the loft got to spinning slightly, lean her head on his shoulder more easily and listen to his breathing.

A pigeon in the loft looked around. 'Lion? What lion?' it thought, looking nervously around. 'Maybe it would be best to fly to another loft for a few moments,' and it slipped out the rafters and across the street.

A few minutes later.
"It's funny," he mused, nestled comfortably close to her, looking out over the street, the fair still going strong although the sun was no longer visible through the buildings. "None of the town is familiar, but all of the fair is. First one I really remember was, oh, I must have been 5 years old. There was a juggler, and I thought he was really funny. He pretended to pick up all kinds of things just sitting around and toss them into the air. I found him again a couple years later, he had the same things just happening to be around him. Props. All carefully planned as part of his act, of course. I was more interested in the tournament then, spent most of my time watching them, and thought he was pretty stupid. Last year, I saw him again, still doing the same act. With a bunch of kids, 5 or 6 years old I guess, laughing away at his antics." He was quiet for several moments. "I remember thinking that was all there was to magic, an act." He squeezed her gently. "I was really, really wrong." He paused again. "You must have gone to fairs too. What do you remember about them?"

"There were gathers at -- Baron duBois's castle," Paris closed her eyes briefly to rid herself of that final image of the Baron's face shattering under Carline's fingers. "Well, we thought it a castle though it really was just a large manor. The Baron encouraged those traders brave enough to come so far West to try to make it when the villages were delivering his tithe of the autumn harvest. Farmers brought animals as well, to sell or trade before the slaughter season so that there'd be some variety through the winter. And excess produce could be bartered with the traders. I helped drive Jouet's taxes there the last couple years. It was one of the ways I could still hang around the stables and get to know the Baron's soldiery and his Great Horses. He had two, I remember. A sorrel with white socks and an older dappled grey getting a bit light around the muzzle. One of the barn cats -- black with a white nose -- liked to sit on his back -- even when he was saddled." Paris smiled at the memory.

"I remember that Papa took Calais and me a few years before he died. We were -- oh, maybe 10. And he must have gone many times before because the stable master knew him. Calais had slipped away to play with the Baron's fool -- he has always been fascinated with slight-of-hand -- just before Papa decided to introduce us to the stable master -- Jean Marshall. It was sort of funny 'cause Papa had already said "my son and" before he realized that it was only me standing there. He winked at me and finished with "and best helper", so I knew he wasn't mad and Calais wouldn't get in too much trouble. So I was a boy to Jean Marshall for -- well, I'm not sure he ever found out the switch. The same fever that killed Papa took him too, I was told. But for me, gather time was always and ever a chance to watch the soldiers practise and time spent with the smells and sounds of trained horses. I think that Sir Gryphon was a little surprised that I could ride even as much as I did when I first came here, but that was because of Jean Marshall and Jean deJean who took over after. From before all the Change."

He grinned ear to ear. "Silly Jean Marshall. Not knowing you're a girl," and he kissed her again.

Paris put the fingers of one hand lightly against his chest and leaned herself back, away from him. Grinning, she teased, "Did you know I was a girl when I first turned up on the training grounds?" She straightened and grew thoughtful. "Given the work Fate seems to have for me, it doesn't seem that it would have made much difference if I had been a boy." She glanced at him and her eyes began to twinkle. "Of course I have noticed lately that I rather like being a girl."

He grinned back at her and kissed her quickly. "When you first showed up...I remember Jules saying something like 'he looks like a girl.' I thought he was a jerk for saying that, but that was his way. 'Course I didn't think you actually were a girl until Gryphon said so. And I was really pleased when you knocked the braggart over." He stole a quick glance down at the street. "Funny, he's changed a lot these last few months."

Unable to not think about Jules' secret in this particular place, Paris tried to keep the touch of wariness out of her voice as she asked, "What do you mean? I know him so little. How has Jules changed?"

Ewen had to think a moment. It apparently helped his concentration to caress her hand with his fingers. "I don't know. I think he's now thinking about what's right, not just what's right for Jules. If you see what I mean."

Ewen's fingers on her hand were giving her a strangely shivery feeling, exciting and scary in its own way. She put her hand over his to stop the movement. If they'd had been "too long" in the garden last night, then they'd probably been too long away from their friends now. "Ewen, I think...," and she glanced out the window.

"Uh oh," Ewen said. "Looks like there's a hunting party out after us." He gestured down to the street where their friends were moving purposefully through the crowd, scanning it to locate them. "Let's sweep around and take them from behind." He leaped down from the loft to catch her as she came down, and for a moment their attack stalled as they held each other close. With an exaggerated stealthy motion, he moved to the back door of the building and around the side, trying to inconspicuously get to the street behind and come up to catch them.

Shaking her skirts out, dust particles gleaming in a sunbeam, Paris followed.

Serious Tirade
Paris had seen the looks her friends had given them when Ewen and she rejoined 'the hunters' at the Festival; quizzical, smug, knowing, titillated, scandalized, triumphant. It was hard to put a name to any given 'look', each reacting according to type. Paris had felt herself blushing somewhat even though they were all too polite to make outrightly embarrassing comments. They hadn't been gone that long.

Taking Ewen's arm for the return to the castle still brought that new shivery sensation and a more rapid heart beat, and it was impossible to meet his eyes without that flash of warmth. Part of her wanted that to continue, to flirt gaily all the way back to the palace. But Paris had started to think.

"'Here, lion, lion, lion'? 'Prepared to risk it'? What in all the world do you think you are doing!?!!!" Serious hissed in Paris' head. "Yes, we had agreed to attempt a learning process, BUT-- has this much-longed for, much ballyhooed, much negotiated experience of 'a kiss' lost us to all propriety?! This has not been 'a kiss!' This has not been an experience to be rationally analyzed. This has been license to be a cat-in-heat rolling in the hay!!" Without missing a beat the tirade continued. "Last night was almost acceptable. Lord duGryphon made it so. But only barely! I'd have thought that was sensation enough for anyone! But, no!!! Without taking time for analysis.... Without Lady duGryphon's supervision, you seek any and every opportunity to repeat that - that -- THRILL!! Without Sir Gryphon to keep it within bounds. Without any thought for what this could do to the reputation of Lady Knights. Without any consideration of how the duGryphons, our Prince, even Jules Chivar! have safeguarded our honour and reputation! To what purpose!?! Yes! I admit it! Ewen is a wonderful man to kiss. But we already had Lorraine's assurance of that. What now are you trying to achieve! To get Ewen's emotions so entangled with ours that there is no going back? To get more physical?! Better to have stayed within my 'bookish' ideals than run so wild that we tempt even wilder behaviour. You know where lack of discipline can lead. Disregard of others' needs. Dishonour! Disgrace! THINK! Did you not find in the dancing last night that -- afterwards -- the touch of any interesting man brought an echoing thrill. Even our Prince! How can you allow this? Have you thought of anything at all besides sensation!?!!!"

The noise in her head was so strong that Paris could barely hear Real Girl's gathering protest. "We did not roll in the hay. We could have wandered over to one of the little parks -- if we'd be willing to disobey the Main Street order. The loft was simply convenient. You were the one who wanted the tactician's view. You didn't hear me protest when you considered analyzing that battle for him."

Serious interrupted. "I would NOT have! I would not have so betrayed my word!! You are hiding from the point!"

RG: "We'd agreed to try. Learning is not based on one attempt. How else can we analyze the experience, discover whether or no it continues to feel Right, what discipline it needs? Did you intend to shoot but one arrow and count yourself an expert thereafter? To impose the ideal of celibacy again with only a single bow to the norm? Even Lorraine said that wasn't natural."

S, disgusted: "A cat in heat is 'natural.' 'Natural' is something that needs discipline! Those sensations have no discipline. The are a temptation to discard discipline and find out what other sensations are available."

RG, stung: "Without temptation there is no discipline. There is only rote behaviour. There is no honour in discipline without temptation! There is no virtue without temptation. There is only ice in your veins. We haven't done anything wrong! You did your job! Yes, the touching, the kissing, the reactions to - to just being so close -- to a man who - who cares about Paris, who finds her attractive enough to have waited all this time, who wants to experience these same sensations with me -- a good man -- is exciting, marvelous, breath-taking. Why should we be a snow queen? Having those feelings, experiencing this real piece of living -- is NOT giving into temptation. What is there to be ashamed of in actually having honest and earth-bound feelings? What have we done really wrong?"

S, exasperated: "Just been herded by Sir Gryphon, abandoned the protection of this group, kissed for longer even than the first time -- in a haymow like any milkmaid, let yourself be held -- wanted to be held, touched, fondled -- at any excuse. Would you be willing to tell Lady duGryphon or Princess Carline about this afternoon?"

RG: Those are not wrongs; those are real feelings and learning experiences that caused no one harm. It's entirely possible that both the Princess and the Lady would understand real feelings -- better than you do. Besides, Lorraine doesn't tell everything."

S, sternly: "Yes, and we know what pain that causes. These are the closest we have to a mother. Should we be ashamed of anything before them!?! Lady duGryphon told us on our very first night that we were going to be held to higher standards than anyone else -- because, as we well know now, we are establishing a standard that has not existed since Queen Branwen. What standard has this afternoon represented?"

RG: "We have made Ewen happy. We have learned a bit more about him and about ourself, about life ..."

S, in a quietly dangerous voice: "And do you intend to make him happy for the rest of our life?"

RG, gasped: "Don't. It's too soon for any such thought. Don't! That is not fair. Not to Paris, not to Ewen. We are still learning. Learning does not mean committing. We don't want to commit too soon. There's so much more to learn before such thoughts are possible. That's your province!"

S: "Then for Honour's sake, start thinking! Practise if you must. But within bounds as carefully laid as if Lady duGryphon had set them. It is for our own protection; she was so right about that!"

RG, glaring: "Bounds are your province too. I intend to learn all I can. And if it does not feel Right, then say so then. Do not cry wolf when the lessons merely make you uncomfortable, lest you cry 'Wrong!' so often that it can no longer be heard."

S, quietly: "Beware lest discomfort be a mark of the 'small wrong', which you ignore in defense of not participating in the 'great wrong'." An echo of Lady duGryphon's disapproval sounded in Paris' mind: "Only a great wrong, Paris? Not a little wrong? You would let those go by?"

RG: "One gets bruises in riding and battle training, sore eyes and confused mind in book studies, there's even discomfort in the give and take of 'courtly' conversation. It is part of the learning experience. Those are discomforts I protest and you push me through in the interests of duty, you say. Learning about our emotional strengths and weaknesses should be no different."

Paris closed her eyes for a moment. As long as she didn't end up hurting Ewen. That was the most important thing. Somehow there had to be a way to get these needs to feel and experience working together with her inevitable respect for discipline. Somehow....

The Next Day: Prelude to the Tournament
Well before the tournament, Lord duGryphon told Paris that she should not try to heal anyone that might be injured at the tournament. They will have healers standing by, so she doesn't need to worry about it. He also mentioned during the discussion that the Duke was loaning them some mages to check to see that none of the field was magically enhanced; something they've never had to worry about before.

Paris nodded. "I have already told my adventuring companions that they are not to use any of their magics on my behalf. I had to make it very clear to them that the tournament will be nothing like the battles they are accustomed to seeing me fight: when all of our lives are in danger. I had not thought about my own power of healing. You are right to warn me; I might have tried -- given that we are using real weapons and our opponents are actually innocents. I -- find it hard sometimes -- to not -- try to pull my blows. I -- do not fancy -- causing damage to any of my friends. The healers' presence will put that worry in scale. Thank you, my lord."

The Tournament
Paris was the last to arrive at the tournament field for what, with any luck, would be the longest day of her life. Even with getting up in the pre-dawn darkness, the distance of Jouet square from the grounds set up on the other side of the palace meant that the others would all be assembled before she arrived. In the manner she had come to know through Lord duGryphon's classes, the boys were all excitedly shouting at one another, getting ready for the day's trials. Paris tried to move forward to see the match board to see who her first opponent would be.

One loud voice in particular was cutting through the rest. "I'm gonna love showing you rich kids how to use a sword. I'm the meanest son of a bitch here." Paris looked at the speaker, a young man she had first seen yesterday at the riding trials. Lord Rupert Ravun, she recalled. The tournament had about a hundred people in it, including both about 30 knight candidates (of which eight were seniors from duGryphon's class) and those who aspired to knighthood in a couple of years, there for the practice. Ravun was one of those trying for knighthood. She remembered him from the day before, a barely adequate rider who spent most of the day trying to psych out the other candidates by showing he could pick up hugely heavy things.

She could hear Rodric comment dryly, but loud enough to be heard. "Well, far be it from me to argue with you about your mother."

There was a chorus of badly concealed snickers as Rupert turned to snarl at Rod. He stopped partway through his turn, having spied Paris. "Well, well, what have we here? Come to get us ready for the trials?" He exaggerated grabbing at his crotch. "Or are you the prize for the day?"

"I don't believe you've met Paris," Jules interrupted quickly, stepping up beside Rupert. Behind them, Paris could see Ewen stiffen and Rodric place a hand on Ewen's shoulder. "She is one of our classmates. I believe, according to the board up there, she is your opponent in the first round."

Paris couldn't help but stare -- at Jules and Ewen and Rodric. Their body language certainly seemed to be saying that they were willing to defend her -- as their classmate -- as subtly as Jules could manage. The revelation almost took her breath away. It was a moment before even Rupert's next words registered for her.

Rupert laughed uproariously. "A girl! So, darlin'," he leered at her. "You gonna bed me if I win?" He put his best snarl on his face. "Listen, girl. I'm not like those pansies you been dancing with. I've been down in orc holes. Got silver cards, made me stronger than any of the rest of you. You better run now, before I club you unconscious and drag you away." He turned around before she could react. "A girl! They're going to let a girl fight!" His cronies around him congratulated him on such an easy first round, a "gimmee."

Paris tried to observe dispassionately. This -- person -- was so alien to what she had come to accept as the norm in lordly gentlemen that it was hard to believe that he had a title. She said nothing.

Quietly, Jules leaned close to her to whisper. "As I believe Lord duGryphon once said to you when you faced another obnoxious opponent, 'Clean his clock, missy.'"

Her eyes met his in quiet appreciation of the joke. The faintest of smiles touched her lips and she gave the very slightest of nods.

Paris left to go to the tent she had been assigned to suit up. The two women, chosen from among Lord duGryphon's strongest servants, were there waiting for her. "Good luck, Miss Paris," the elder one said as they finished. "We're rooting for you."

Paris looked at them both earnestly for a long moment. Her voice was quiet. "Thank you. Thank you very much. Lord duGryphon has taught me well and I intend to do my best -- for him," her eyes lingered on the woman who had spoken and she smiled," -- and for all my friends. Thank you."

It was still early in the day when the first bouts began. Paris moved out of her tent wearing the heavy tournament plate, into the still cool air. The Duke's box was only occupied by the judges, Armsmasters from not just the Duke's service but the First and Third Royal cavalry as well. A few commoners were in the stands, and to the right of the box was the noble area, with parents and all the girls from the duGryphon's class, cheering on their chosen knights with all the decorum (or lack thereof) Lady duGryphon would allow.

To speed the trials, there were several judges and several fights going on at once. It was a double elimination tournament; two losses were required to remove a combatant. The last bout would be fought to the best two out of three. She and Rupert were called forward by one of the judges, who held his staff up for the two of them to place their swords on. She could see Rupert was wearing three brightly colored scarves, apparently favors from three different young women. He glared at her through the small eye holes. "Bet you always wanted to be in the army because that's the clothes your momma always brought home."

The judge moved his staff away with a sharp "begin!" With a roar, Rupert swung at her. He missed and Paris slotted him neatly in the chest, about as forceful a blow as possible without actually stunning him. His surprise was so complete that the judge had declared Paris the winner before the braggart had even realized he'd been hit.

Her second bout was against another she had never met, but she thought was one of Ravun's cronies. "So," he sneered at her, "your second and last bout. I'll smack you down too, as fast at Rupert. Good thing you've got small breasts or they'd never fit in that armor." [Apparently, he had not seen the previous bout or score, but had simply assumed the outcome.]

Calmly, Paris surveyed him. She hadn't deigned to notice his buddy's bedroom suggestions -- and that had been just a slight effort: she'd been almost startled to realize that she'd grown accustomed to being treated with knightly courtesy. This one deserved even less notice. Inside, a little bit of her grinned. As fast as Rupert, hmmm?

This puffed pigeon swung wild and wide. Paris watched the blade go by and smoothly moved in with her own swing. A small smile crossed her face as she realized that she'd done him the same service she'd done Jules in his first fight with 'a girl.' He would feel his loss of the fight more, perhaps, even than his friend Rupert.

He was not, however, made of as stern stuff as Jules. Her opponent lay there groaning, until four burly men arrived to carry him off the field to the physician's tent. Paris turned to look towards some noise, intending to leave the field. But she noticed one of the bouts turn into a fracas. When it finished, two guards were pulling Rupert away, as Jules was helping the judge back to his feet. After assuring himself that the judge was unharmed, he noticed Paris standing there. Jules smiled through his open faceplate. "It appears young Lord Ravun has been disqualified for attacking through the judge, and before the command was given. And, gee, all I said was 'Beat by a girl, eh?'" He looked to where the complaining young man was being taken away. "I don't much like him. Don't think Lord duGryphon likes him much either, to have him fight you and me in the first two rounds." In order to qualify for knighthood, combatants had to demonstrate proficiency with weapons, as judged by the panel of Armsmasters. Generally, only those that survived to the fourth, or occasionally the third, round were considered proficient.

Paris answered thoughtfully. "It may not be a matter of 'like'. To an ordinary person two knights probably look much alike .. so a knight is as much measured in their eyes by the behaviour of other knights as by his own actions .. in all things. I think Sir Gryphon wanted us to make sure that that measuring stick is in no-wise diminished."

As they were watching, Rupert shook himself free of the two guards and, with a roar, turned with his sword. He started to charge forward, when the sword flew out of his hand. Lord duGryphon, an Armsmaster in his own right, finished the disarm with the placing of his sword between the young man's legs. With a crash the boy slammed into the ground, and Gryphon stood with one foot on the back of the armor and spoke quietly. From where they stood, they couldn't hear what he said, but the young man ceased objecting as the guards led him away. "Carry on," Lord duGryphon said gruffly to the field. Behind him, Paris could see Lorraine with a big smile on her face.

Paris smiled at Jules, including him in her pride in their teacher's undoubted prowess. "We can be proud that Sir Gryphon is willing to be measured with us."

Jules looked at her quizzically. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Paris' smile twisted just a little. "Call it hero worship on my part, Jules. I think Sir Gryphon himself is a standard I'd like to live up to. I have a great deal of admiration for the knights I've trained with: your father, Sir Reginald Givance, and Sir Gryphon."

[GM: This is one of those points that clicks over Paris' knowledge of thinking like a noble. Jules is simply mystified by her hero worship of these people that he knows well; he is a knight as well, well, in a couple of days. Hopefully Jules' comment didn't seem out of place to you.]
[S: No, it didn't. Nor did it to Paris as soon as he said it. That's the wry smile: she realized that she'd slipped and was a bit chagrined at herself. She rather hopes that Jules will accept the compliment to his sire and the other knights and _not_ be too mystified. Surely Jules 'hero-worshipped' his father when he was a little boy? After all, he's admitted to once having expected to do pretty much the same sort of job his father did (my interpretation) Before the Change. Yeah -- he's too big (and perhaps still too egotistical) to admit to hero worship _now_, but he probably won't look down on her for having admitted hers.]

Her third fight was against one of the younger students from her class, William she remembered. He was one of the best of the young students; if he continued developing he'd be the one to beat at the tournament in two years. Her greater reach and speed, though, decided the battle quickly. He stood up at the end of the bout, dusting himself off as the judge declared Paris the winner. "Miss Paris," he managed to say, attracting her attention. He then saluted with his sword. "Well fought, Miss Paris."

With dignity, Paris returned the salute. "An honour, Lord William. It was a good fight. Thank you for sharing it with me!"

He inclined his head slightly, so as not to overbalance himself. "Thank you, Miss Paris," he said, and turned to move away, smiling. He was going to get out of the armor and enjoy himself at the rest of the festival. He didn't have to do this for real for another couple of years.

The morning wore on as the stands filled up. She noticed all of the seniors had made it through the fourth round, so that all had likely passed. After the fourth trial, they reduced the number of fights to just two at a time. "Big crowd," Ewen said, as they both sat on sturdy benches in the waiting tent, acceptably far apart. "Usually it doesn't get this big until the afternoon at the Armsmaster trials. The demonstrations they put on are pretty entertaining." He grinned at her. "I saw a lot of off duty soldiers there. I think they've come to see how a certain knight-candidate fights. Makes me almost as nervous as dancing."

"Dancing doesn't make you nervous anymore," Paris smiled. "I daresay many soldiers and officers are interested in seeing the new batch of officer-potential." She grew sober. "These days it may be more important to them than ever that we be good...."

Ewen grinned at her. "Yes, I can't understand why I suddenly like dancing. Must be some strange sort of fever." [He is not going to let her stay serious.]

Paris grinned back, laughter underlying her voice. "Shall I call a physician? Are you well enough for this contest?" Then she moved into mock seriousness. "You don't 'suddenly' like dancing, my friend. You've done your best to make it very special." There was warmth in the eyes that met his, and the grin had softened. "But I was wrong when I compared it to fighting long, long ago." She hit her armored shoulder with her gauntlet just enough to give a crisp metallic ring. "It just wouldn't be the same dancing in this." Her colour had risen by the time her words came to their end.

His eyes were intent on hers. "No," he said quietly. "It wouldn't be nearly the same." His smile leaped back onto his face. "And Lady Gryphon would have a fit. With those boots, I'd never learn not to step on your toes."

Paris giggled. "Rodric said that being stepped on while dancing was nowhere near as bad as fighter practise. He helped a lot towards my getting over my nervousness dancing when he said that."

Soon, it was down to just four and she found herself facing Rodric. He knew how she fought, was smart, and it was the closest fight she had all day. She could hear, but didn't dare look at, Ewen and Jules having at it in the other bout. She had missed her swing on her free phase, and found the two of them going into segment 12 both ready to swing. Rodric looked to her side, over her shield, and said, "Yes, Lord duGryphon?"

Paris continued watching Rodric, not letting her guard slip. Don't look, she told herself. If Sir Gryphon is there, he will make himself known. The old fox caught me this way once; don't let the young fox say I didn't learn.

[GM: Ah, I was wondering if you'd remember his father's trick. Poor Rod, Dad told him to save the trick for when he really needed it. :) The drawback to the trick is that to pull it off right, you really have to look away. It looks like it leaves his chest open -- i.e. you can attack the chest hit location without his shield getting in the way. Is that clear?]
[S: I wondered. It certainly _read_ as though Rod had looked away -- which puts him in the same boat where he was trying to put Paris. So: placed shot chest, I think. 'Scuze me. I need to go look at a book. I don't have memorized what the minuses are. Oh. Who needs a book when Steve's playing down the hall? He says I recall rightly: -3. OK! Roll a 7. That's -- oh, that's another hit an 11, crit a 1. Chest. For 10 and 30. Oh, Rodric needs to _talk_ to his dad about 'giving away family tricks.' Does Rod get a chance to try and block? He can't be _completely_ distracted as, for the trick to work, he _has_ to be able to tell when Paris turns towards his proposed distraction (assuming she had).... Paris is OCV 10.]

Neither Rod's sword nor shield could get in the way quickly enough, and the solid hit clanged on the armor, driving a noticeable grunt out of the young man. He recovered quickly, and as the judge declared Paris the winner, he stiffened into the kind of formal partial bow one could do in full plate. Paris similarly tried to return his gesture, when he sprung forward, catching her by surprise. He enveloped her in a big bear hug, laughing and pounding on her back. "All right girl! Well done!" He moved away slightly, one hand moving to his side. "I think you cracked a rib there, though. Now you go beat that other fellow and win the tourney. No shame in being beat by the best." He looked over to where the other fight was winding down. "It looks like you have to fight..." [Cliff-hanger music. Evil GM!!! :-)]

Paris wanted to tell him to go get his ribs taped, that she hadn't wanted to hurt him, that he was a wonderful friend, but something in his voice swung her around to see...

"Graduation" copyright 1999 P.Shea & S.Knowles. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.