The Deed of Paksenarrion (100 page)

“You fought in the north, or in Aarenis?”

“In Aarenis. For three seasons.” Paks stopped, uncertain how much to say about those years.

“Cedfer says the Duke evidently favored you—had given you some important missions. Can you tell me about them, or would that violate a secret of the Duke’s?”

Paks shook her head. “No. Nothing secret—I don’t know how much to say. The last year, I was acting corporal for awhile, when Seli was hurt. And I helped capture Siniava.”

“Siniava. Then—wait—” The Marshal-General’s face furrowed for a moment. “Did you meet a paladin in Aarenis? Fenith?”

“Yes, my lady.” Paks didn’t want to talk about that, either: the one time the Duke had not lived up to her image of him.

“You’re
that
Paksenarrion!” The Marshal-General stared at her. “Fenith wrote about you—you took on a priest of Liart, and lived! Gird’s grace, child, I hadn’t heard of such a thing. Neither had he. He sent the High Marshal to your Duke to find out about you, and the Duke nearly took his head off for suggesting you might not be what you seemed.”

“He did?” Paks didn’t remember any such thing.

“I suppose your Duke didn’t tell you. Fenith also said you were the one to spot Siniava in shapechange. He thought it had something to do with a Gird’s medallion you carried—a gift of a friend, he said—”

“Yes.” Paks did not want to discuss Canna’s gift, which she had not worn since the night Siniava died.

“You told him, I understand, that you would stay with the Duke’s Company—yet here you are on our doorstep. What happened?” The Marshal-General’s eyes were as shrewd as the Kuakgan’s; Paks realized that there was no way out of this but the long one—the whole truth. Haltingly, at first, she began to tell of the last year in Aarenis. The Marshal-General did not interrupt, and the pressure of her attention kept the tale flowing. When a servant carried in a tray of food, bowls of stew and a couple of loaves of dark bread, Paks stopped. The Marshal-General spread the food on the table, and waved the servant out.

“Gird’s grace be with you, Paksenarrion, and with me, and may we gain strength to serve the High Lord’s will. Go on, now, and eat.” She took up her spoon and began. Paks did the same. After the stew was mostly gone, the Marshal-General looked up. “I can understand why you left, and why you were reluctant to leave. But I am still not sure why you quit wearing Canna’s medallion. Do you know?”

Paks laid down the hunk of bread she’d picked up. “I thought—it seemed that it—it led me into things. Trouble. I never knew if it—if I—how they happened.”

“It led you into trouble? And you a mercenary?” The Marshal-General’s voice had an edge of scorn. “You had not chosen the most peaceful life.”

“No, my lady. But I don’t know what it did, or didn’t do. I don’t know if it healed Canna, or didn’t, or if it really saved me from the man in Rotengre—”

“Wait. You haven’t told me about that yet. Canna is your friend who died and left it to you, isn’t that so? What’s this about healing?”

Paks felt the sweat cold on her neck as she began to tell the Marshal-General about their flight from Dwarfwatch. Knowing that she would insist on hearing those parts of the journey that made Paks the most nervous didn’t help. She had not mentioned the prayers over Canna’s wound to anyone but Stammel; it came no easier now. The Marshal-General seemed to grow more remote and august as she listened.

“You, no follower of Gird, suggested praying to Gird for healing? Don’t you think that was presumptuous? Had you planned to join the fellowship afterwards?” Paks had not thought of it like that at all.

“My lady, we had need—I didn’t know much of Gird, then, and—”

“Your friend had not told you? And she a yeoman?”

Paks shook her head. “We didn’t talk about it much; she was our friend. We knew she was a Girdsman, and she knew we had our own gods.”

“You know more of Gird now, I’ll warrant—what do you think now, of such a thing?” Paks thought a moment.

“I don’t think Gird would mind—I can’t see why he would. If he had been a nobleman, perhaps, but—why would it be wrong to try? Healing is good, and Canna was one of his yeomen.”

The Marshal-General shook her head slowly, but more in doubt than disagreement. “I’m not sure, child. What happened?”

“That’s what I don’t know.” Paks remembered clearly Canna’s yelp of pain, and then the seeming improvement in her condition. “It didn’t go away at once,” she went on, carefully telling the Marshal-General everything. “But she had been getting weaker, and feverish, and she was stronger afterwards. It looked cleaner and drier the next time we changed the bandage. But you see, we’d found some ointment in that farmstead, and used that too. I don’t know which worked, or why.”

“You didn’t tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith,” said the Marshal-General.

“No—I wasn’t sure—”

“Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?” That, too, Paks told, even Captain Dorrin’s remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.

“Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?”

“No, my lady. Falkian—or that’s what one of the sergeants said.”

“I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for you?”

“I didn’t—I was frightened of it, lady. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?”

Paks shook her head vigorously. “Oh no. I—”

“You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance.”

“I didn’t want to, not then. I—I suppose I wished that it would just—just be over. I kept thinking about them—”

“Canna?”

“And—and Saben. He was my—our friend, that was with us.”

“Your lover?”

“No.” The old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again, the Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.

“Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion—with surviving the blow of Liart’s priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the enchantments when Siniava tried to escape—don’t you think that there’s clear evidence of Gird’s action in your behalf?”

“I don’t—I can’t be sure—”

“Gird’s teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?” The Marshal-General glared at her. “D’you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and explain everything in words a sheepfarmer’s daughter can understand?”

“No, my lady.” Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. It wasn’t fair; she only wanted to be sure . . . if the gods had a message, surely they’d make it clear. She heard a gusty sigh.

“How old are you, Paksenarrion?”

Paks counted it out aloud. “I was eighteen winters when I left home—and then nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty—twenty-one after Dwarfwatch—near twenty-two, my lady.”

“I see. Are you set against the fellowship of Gird?”

“Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more—but you see, my family was not Girdish. And I still think it’s better to abide the gods you know—”

The Marshal-General sighed again. Paks looked up to find her gazing out one of the narrow windows, her face stern. After a long moment she turned back to Paks. “We are not,” she said firmly, “a training camp for those who want fancy skills to show off.” Paks felt her face reddening again. “If what you want is an accomplishment to display—like someone stringing another pearl on a necklace—you don’t belong here, and I won’t lend Gird’s name to it. Those we train must go out as Gird’s warriors, to serve the lands and defend them against the powers of evil. They must care, Paksenarrion, for this cause more than their own fame. Those sworn to the fellowship of Gird I have ways of testing. If you persist in remaining aloof, I must assume that your dedication is unproven. I will not—absolutely not—let you take advantage of this company, and go off boasting that you trained with the Company of Gird at Fin Panir, unless you can show me what you will pay. Not in money, young warrior, but in your life.”

Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time, wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook her head ruefully.

“I don’t know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in Brewersbridge—there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a squire to me. I knew I didn’t know enough to be her—her commander, or whatever, but also—I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see. To wear a sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps—but she didn’t know what it cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell her, tried to get her to join a regular company, as I had—”

“And did she?” The Marshal-General’s voice was still remote.

Paks shook her head. “Not as far as I know. I tried—but she wanted adventure, she said. It would be too dull, she didn’t like people yelling at her; she said she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge.” Paks stopped before saying, “She had a very bad father, my lady.”

“You ran away from yours.”

“Oh, well . . . he wasn’t like that. But I see what you mean—you think I want to—to make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong. You’re right. But—I can’t swear to follow Gird until I know—until I’m sure of myself—that I can do it.”

“That’s coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn’t seem to trust Gird—”

Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. “I don’t—I mean, you all say Gird is a saint, and I won’t argue. But
I
don’t know Gird—I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other gods and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?”

The Marshal-General’s eyebrows went up. “You would not believe the evidence of the medallion?”

Paks set her jaw stubbornly. “I’m not sure. And I won’t swear to something I’m not sure of.”

To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. “Gird be praised, you are at least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny—but it may take Gird’s cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The gods grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter.” She sat forward, leaning her forearms on the table between them. “Now, what sort of training did you look for?”

Paks could hardly believe her ears. “You mean—you’ll let me stay?”

“Let you! By Gird, I’m not likely to let someone like you wander the world unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you’ll stay.”

“But if I don’t—”

“Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me cause to send you away. When—notice that I do not say if, being granted almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird’s grace—
when
you find that you can swear your honor to Gird’s fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?”

Paks blushed. “No, my lady. I’m sorry, I—”

“Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn.”

“Well—everything about war—”

The Marshal-General whooped. “Everything? About war? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at once.”

“I meant,” muttered Paks, ears flaming, “weapons-skills, and things about forts—things the Duke’s captains knew about, like tunnels—”

“All right,” said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I see what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you’re serious. Well, then. I’ll assign you to the training company. Many of them are younger than you—nobles’ youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They’ve been someone’s squires, and now they’re preparing for knighthood. Some have come up through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. You’ll be assigned space in the courts—we don’t have open barracks, for you’ll need to study alone. You do read, don’t you?” At Paks’s nod, she went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. “Weapons practice daily—the senior instructor will assign the drills once he’s examined you. Riding—do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You’re a few weeks behind one group; they arrived just after harvest. That’s when we start the new cycles. But we’ll see if you can catch up to them.” She looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. “What weapons do you have?” she asked.

“This sword,” said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. “Another one, not so good—”

“That one’s magical,” said the Marshal-General. “Did you know?”

“Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battleaxe.”

“Do you use all of them?”

“No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well.”

“And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use your own weapons. The weaponsmaster will assign you weapons for training; yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Your clothes—” She glanced at Paks’s traveling clothes. “We have training uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We discourage display of jewels and such, but you don’t look the type to show up in laces and ribbons.”

“No, my lady.”

“Very well.” She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. “Take this down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. He’ll assign your quarters, and see that you’re set up with the instructors. You will take your meals in the Lower Hall—by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder races, have you?”

“Elder races—you mean elves and dwarves?”

“Among others. We have quite a few here—you’ll be meeting them. Don’t get in fights with them.”

“Oh no.”

“Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird’s grace be on you, and the High Lord’s light guide your way.” She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on the table edge.