The Deed of Paksenarrion (125 page)

“Are you hungry?” asked Haran abruptly.

Paks flinched at the tone. Why was Haran angry with her? She nodded, without speaking.

“Well, what do you want? There’s roast mutton—”

“Good.” Paks looked around the room. “It’s not—my room—”

“You didn’t think you were with the other candidates, did you? After that—” Haran looked at her, another look Paks could not interpret. “You’re in the Marshal-General’s quarters, in a guest room. When she’s sure—” her voice trailed away.

“Sure of what?” Worry returned, a faint icy chill on her back.

“Sure that you’re well. I’ll be back shortly with food.” Haran left the room, and Paks looked around it. The bed she lay on was plain but larger than the one in her quarters. A window to her right let in daylight sky, a smooth gray. Several chairs clumped around a small fireplace opposite the bed.

Haran returned with a covered tray. “Have you tried to get up? If you can sit at the table—” But Paks could not manage this. Haran packed pillows behind her shoulders with a briskness that conveyed disapproval, put the tray on her lap, and went out again. Paks struggled with the food and utensils. She could not grasp the fork properly; it turned in her hand. By the time Haran returned, with a tray for herself, Paks was both annoyed and worried.

“Marshal, I’m sorry, but I can’t—” as she spoke, the fork slipped from her grasp entirely and clattered on the floor. Haran stared at her.

“What is it? Can’t you even feed yourself?”

“I—can’t—make it work.” Panting, Paks fought with the knife and a slice of mutton. She felt as clumsy as an infant just learning to reach and grab.

“You’re holding that like a baby,” said Haran, with exasperation. “All right. Here—” She put down her own tray and came to the bed. “I don’t see why you can’t—” And with a few quick motions, she cut Paks’s meat into small bites and retrieved the fork from the floor. “Now can you do it?”

Paks stared at her. She could not understand Haran’s hostility. “I—I hope so.”

“I, too.” Haran strode back across the room, shoulders stiff, and began eating her own meal without another word. Paks tried again with the fork. Her hands felt as big as pillows, and it was hard to get the food to her mouth. After a few more bites, she stopped, and lay watching Haran eat. When the Marshal finished her own meal, she came to take Paks’s tray.

“Is that all you’ll eat? I thought you were hungry.”

“I was. I just—”

“Well, don’t decide you want more in an hour or so. Finish your water; you need it.” She stood over Paks until the mug was empty, then snatched it away. In a moment she had left the room, carrying both trays. Paks sank back on the pillows, still confused. What could she have done while unconscious to anger someone she’d only met once before? A knock on the door interrupted her musings. She spoke, and recognized the Duke’s voice.

“Come in, my lord.”

He opened the door and entered quietly. “Where’s your watchdog?” Paks could not think what to say, and he went on. “That Marshal who keeps your door. Haran, I think she’s called.”

“She’s taking trays back.” Paks felt, as she had when a recruit, the menace of the Duke, the sheer power of the man. He prowled around the room like a snowcat, tail twitching.

“I’ve been wanting to see you, and they keep saying wait.” He turned to her. “Are you well? How are they treating you?”

“I don’t know. I just woke a little while ago. I can’t feel much of anything . . .”

“That’s for the best, I’d think, after what they—I tell you, Paks, I came near to killing the lot of them.”

“What?”

“To see you like that, with all of them working over you. I feared for you.”

“My lord, they had to—” Now she remembered more, and fear grew in her.

“Hmmph. Have you been up yet?”

“No, my lord. I couldn’t get up to eat.”

He shrugged. “It’s been some days; the weakness is normal after so long asleep.”

“I wish I knew—” In his presence, still more of the warnings came clear, and the emptiness inside was no comfort at all.

He looked sideways at her. “What?”

“If I will be all right again. I don’t know how I’ll know. And now that I remember what they did, I can’t think of anything else.”

He sat near the bed, and laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t fret about it. You remember that worries before a battle don’t help. When it’s time, when you’re stronger, then you’ll find out.”

“But what do you think, my lord. Do you think it’s gone?”

He sighed, and did not ask what she meant. “Paks, from what I saw, they stirred the very roots of your mind with powerful magicks. From such stirring nothing would be safe. You don’t look different, bar being pale from days in bed, but I can’t tell by looking. The test of a sword is not its polish, but its temper.”

“I want to be . . . myself.” Paks whispered the last, thinking.

“You are yourself, Paks, and always will be. Yet people change with time, with age—”

“Not like that. I can’t stand it, my lord, if I can’t—if I become—”

“Paks.” His grip on her arm tightened. “Look at me.” His face, when she looked, was as grim as ever she’d seen it, his eyes hard. She feared him suddenly. “Paks, you are yourself, and you can stand whatever comes. I swear to you. I was not always a duke, I had—”

“But you were always brave, always a warrior!”

“No.” His gaze slipped past her into an immeasurable distance. “I will not tell you that tale now, but no: I was not always brave. And you do not yet know you have lost anything. Take heart, Paks, until the time comes.”

“But why does Haran dislike me so?”

“Haran?” His face relaxed, puzzled. “I don’t know. The Marshal-General assigned her here; perhaps she’d rather be elsewhere. Has she been unkind?”

“No. But she seemed not to like me, or something I’d done.”

“My lord Duke!” Haran’s voice, from the doorway, was indignant. The Duke turned slowly. Paks saw the muscles bunch in his jaw.

“Marshal Haran.” His tone would have warned anyone in his Company.

“What are you doing with her?”

“I? I came to see how she was, and found her awake and willing for company. Have you an objection?”

“No. I would have sent, later, to tell you she was awake—”

“Thank you. As you see, I found out for myself.”

“I had to take the trays back—” Paks realized Haran was defensive.

“No matter.” The Duke waved, as if a squire were apologizing for an overdone loaf of bread. “Tell me, if you can—is the Marshal-General satisfied with her recovery?”

Haran bristled visibly. “I can’t speak for the Marshal-General. She knows best. But she did say—” a sharp glance at Paks, “that the evil was safely destroyed.”

“And at what cost?”

“That she did not say.” Marshal Haran sat down near the fireplace. “Whatever the cost, it would be worth it.”

“Whatever?” The Duke turned to her, his hand still on Paks’s arm.

“Duke Phelan, I am a Girdsman. A Marshal. The most important thing is that evil be defeated—destroyed. Nothing else matters. Whatever stands in the way—”

“A life?” asked Phelan softly.

“Yes.” Haran looked stubborn, her brow furrowed. “I have risked mine. Any Girdsman knows the risk: we are to serve good, and only good.”

“Ah, yes. Good. Are you sure you know good?”

“Of course.” Her chin was up; she met his look boldly.

“Yes. Of course. You are sure, Marshal, that you know what is good, but I am not so sure.” He paused, as if waiting for her comment, but she said nothing. “I have not been sure, for some years, that you Gird’s Marshals really do know good from evil, and as yet nothing I’ve seen here has convinced me.” His hand left Paks’s arm; she could feel the taut control of that movement. “You do not, perhaps, think I have any such standards myself. But I assure you, Marshal, that a professional soldier, as I am, has had more combat experience than you. I have seen men and women under great stress, repeated stress. And I know those soldiers more thoroughly than you ever will.” He paused again. Haran looked furious, but still said nothing. “Paks is one of them.”

Paks stirred, and said, “My lord—”

“Paks, this is not your argument; you but furnish the opportunity. What I am saying, Marshal, is that you have known her but a short time; I have known her for years. You have seen her in one trouble; I have seen her in many. I know her as someone trustworthy in battle, in long campaigns, day after day. You see some flaw—some little speck on a shining ring—and condemn the whole. But I see the whole—the years of service, the duties faithfully performed—and
that
is good, Marshal. Is there one of us with no flaws? Are you perfect, that you indict her?”

“I don’t—I never said—”

“Not you personally, but the Girdsmen here. You’re one of them; you said so.”

“Well—I—” Haran looked at Paks, then back at the Duke, clearly gathering herself for an attack. “She’s supposed to be so special—”

“What!” Paks flinched at the Duke’s tone even though he spoke to Haran.

“She came only last fall; she was paladin candidate after Midwinter Feast. That’s different, if you like! Promising, they all said. Remarkable. Chosen to go on quest, when she’s not even past her Trials. And then she gets herself captured, like any half-wit yeoman without battle experience, and rather than die honorably, as most yeomen would have done, she cooperates with the kuaknom and is contaminated by Achrya.” Haran slapped the table and drew another breath. “And now they make this fuss over her—I can understand it from you, who aren’t even Girdish, but the others! It makes me sick!”

“Haran!” None of them had noticed the Marshal-General’s arrival. She looked almost as angry as the Duke. Haran paused, then shook her head.

“Marshal-General, I’m sorry, but I don’t care. It’s true. Paksenarrion should never have been accepted as a candidate; she wasn’t fit, she hadn’t served long enough. Of course the evil had to be rooted out; if something was lost, she’ll just have to live with that. It’s nonsense anyway: if she had had sufficient courage, there would be no danger of losing it. I don’t see all this pussyfooting. It’s not that she’s special, it’s that she’s had special treatment. And far too much of it!” Haran turned on her heel and stalked out. The Duke moved to follow, but the Marshal-General held up her hand.

“Please, my lord Duke! Hear my apology first, and allow me to discipline my own.”

“I’m listening,” he said grimly.

“I am sorry—I did not know Haran felt that way, or I would never have had her here. I wanted Paks to have Marshals, whose oath of secrecy I could trust, caring for her. I knew Haran was a bit prickly—she always has been; it’s why she has no grange—but she has always been fair before.”

“Well, then. And what of Paks?”

The Marshal-General came past him to Paks. “To you, as well, I apologize for Marshal Haran’s words. May I ask if she has done you any harm?”

“No, my lady.” Paks still felt numb from the force of Haran’s attack.

“No harm but to bully and insult her,” put in the Duke.

“My lord, I understand that.”

“Good. Marshal-General, I came hoping you would be here as well as Paks. Can you tell yet what has happened to her?”

Paks watched the Marshal-General’s face, hoping for reprieve from imagined dooms, but it was still and unreadable. “No, my lord,” she said to Phelan. “I cannot tell. It is early yet, and she is still recovering.” She turned to Paks again, her expression softening. “Paksenarrion, you must have realized, from what Haran said, that some fear you have been badly damaged. I would not lie to you: as I warned you before, great loss is possible. But I think we will not know until you have regained your strength. We worried because you lay senseless so long, but that may mean nothing. Please tell me if you feel anything different in yourself at any time.”

“I—I couldn’t eat—” Paks said softly.

“Couldn’t eat? What was wrong?”

“I couldn’t—couldn’t hold the—” Suddenly she began to cry, and tried to smother it. “—the fork—I couldn’t cut—I dropped—”

“Oh, Paks!” The Marshal-General took her hands. “Don’t—It will get better. It will. You are weak, it’s too soon—”

“But she said—like a baby—” Paks turned into the pillows, ashamed.

“No. Don’t say that. She was wrong. It will come back, faster than you think.” The Marshal-General looked aside; Paks watched the line of her jaw and cheek. “If you keep trying, Paks, it will come back.”

“All of it?” asked the Duke softly, echoing Paks’s thought.

The Marshal-General’s lips thinned. “My lord Duke, please! We cannot know yet. It will do her—or you—no good to worry about that now.”

“But she cannot help it, Marshal-General. Nor could you, if you were in that bed, and she beside it. I, too, tried to tell her not to worry about the future, but that’s empty wisdom no one can follow. What can she think about, save this? Nothing but knowledge will ease her.”

“I have no knowledge,” said the Marshal-General. She shook her head, and met Paks’s eyes again. “But believe this: I do not think as Haran does, nor do your other friends. And Haran will not think that way long. Only someone of great courage and strength could have held off that evil so long, once it entered.”

A knock on the door interrupted them again. Marshal Belfan, whom Paks had known before the journey to Kolobia, put in his head. “Now or later?” he asked.

“Come on in, Belfan.” The Marshal-General got up. “Paksenarrion is awake, but weak.”

“So Haran said. Gird’s grace to you, Paksenarrion, my lord Duke. Old Artagh says first snow by morning, Marshal-General.”

“Winter starts earlier every year,” grumbled the Marshal-General; Belfan laughed. He had an easy way with him, and hardly seemed a Marshal most of the time.

“You said that last year,” he said. “It comes,” he said to Paks and the Duke, “of having a Marshal-General who grew up in the south.”

“In Aarenis?” asked the Duke, clearly surprised.

“No. Southern Tsaia.” The Marshal-General was smiling now. “Around here they call any place where it doesn’t frost the Summereve flowers the south. Gird knows I like hunting weather as well as anyone, but—”

“You’re getting older, Marshal-General, that’s what it is.” Belfan stuck his hands in his belt, chuckling. She gave him a hard look.