The Deed of Paksenarrion (130 page)

She went on. Far over her head leaves rustled in a light wind, but it was quiet below. Under one tree she heard a throbbing hum, and looked up to see a haze of bees busy at the tiny yellow flowers. At last she heard the remembered chuckling of the Kuakgan’s fountain, and came into the sunny glade before his dwelling. It was the same as on her first visit. The low gray bark-roofed house lay shuttered and still. Nothing moved but the water, leaping and laughing in sunlight over a stone basin.

Paks stood a moment in the sunlight, watching that water. She thought of what she’d told the soldier, and how the lie had felt like truth when she told it. But there was no help for her, not this time. The Kuakgan had nothing to do with what she had lost. Kuakkgani didn’t like warriors anyway. Still—she had to stay, at least until night. She could not go back to the village. Maybe she could sneak through the grove and escape to the open country beyond. Paks sighed. She was so tired of running, tired of hiding from those who’d known her. Yet she could not face them. Make an end, she thought.

She slid out of the pack straps, and dug into the pack for her pouch of coins, the reserve the Marshal-General had given her. To it she added the coppers and two silvers from her belt-pouch. A tidy pile. Enough to live on for a month, if she were frugal; enough for one good feast, otherwise. Her mouth twisted. She scooped up the whole pile and dumped it in the offering basin; the clash and ring of it was loud and discordant. She looked in her pack for anything else of value. Nothing but her winter cloak, an extra shirt, spare boot-thongs—no—there was the ring Duke Phelan had given her the day he left Fin Panir. “Send this, or bring it, if you need me,” he’d said. Paks stared at it. She didn’t want it found on her when she—She pushed the thought aside and tossed the ring onto the heap of coins. She looked at her pack and decided to leave that too. The Kuakgan would find someone who needed a cloak and shirt. She piled the pack on top of the money, and turned away, wondering where she could hide until nightfall. Perhaps she should start through the grove now.

Across the clearing, at one end of the gray house, the Kuakgan stood watching her, his face shadowed by the hood of his robe. Paks froze; her heart began to race. His voice came clear across the sound of the fountain, and yet it was not loud. “You wished to speak to the Kuakgan?”

Paks felt cold, but sweat trickled down her ribs. “Sir, I—I came only to make an offering.”

The Kuakgan came closer. His robe, as she remembered, was dark green, patterned in shades of green and brown with the shapes of leaves and branches. “I see. Most who make offerings here wish a favor in return. Advice, a potion, a healing—and you want nothing?” His voice, too, was as she remembered, deep and resonant, full of overtones. As if, she thought suddenly, he had spent much time with elves. His eyes, now visible as he came closer, seemed to pierce her with their keen glance.

“No. No, sir, I want nothing.” Paks dropped her gaze, stared at the ground, hoping he would not recognize her, would let her go.

“Is it, then, an offering of thanks? Have you received some gift, that you share your bounty? Not share, I see, for you have given everything—even your last copper. Can you say why?”

“No, sir.” Paks sensed that he had come nearer yet, to the offering basin, still watching her.

“Hmm. And yet I heard someone very like you tell a soldier that she wished to speak with me, to ask me a question. Then I find you in my grove, filling the basin with your last coin, and even your spare shirt—and you have no question.” He paused. Paks watched as the shadow of his robe came closer. She shivered. “But I have questions, if you do not. Look at me!” At his command, Paks’s head seemed to rise of its own accord. Her eyes filled with tears. “Mmm, yes. You came to me once before for advice, if I recall. Was my counsel so bad that you refuse it now—Paksenarrion?”

Paks could not speak for the lump in her throat; tears ran down her face. She tried to turn away, but his strong hand caught her chin and held her facing him.

“Much, I see, has happened to you since I last saw you. But I think you are not a liar, whatever you’ve become. So you will ask your question, Paksenarrion, and take counsel with me once again.”

Paks fought the tightness in her throat and managed to speak. “Sir, I—I can’t. There’s nothing you can do—just let me go—”

“Nothing I can do? Best let me judge of that, child. As for going—where would you go, without money or pack?”

“Anywhere. East, or south to the hills . . . it doesn’t matter—”

“There’s enough dead bones in those hills already. No, you won’t go until you’ve told me what your trouble is. Come now.”

Paks found herself walking behind the Kuakgan to his house, her mind numb. She saw without amazement the door open before he reached it; he ducked slightly to clear the low lintel. Paks ducked too, and stepped down onto the cool earthen floor of a large, long room. Across from her, windows opened on the grove which came almost to the Kuakgan’s house. The ceiling beams were hung with bunches of pungent herbs. At the far end of the room gaped a vast fireplace, its hearth swept and empty. Under the windows were two tables, one covered with scrolls, and the other bare, with a bench near it.

“Come,” said the Kuakgan. “Sit here and have something to drink.”

Paks sank onto the bench and watched as he poured her a mug of clear liquid from an earthenware jug. She sipped. It was water, but the water had a spicy tang.

“Mint leaves,” he said. “And a half-stick of cinnamon. Here—” He reached down a round cheese from a net hanging overhead. He sliced off a good-sized hunk. “Eat something before we talk.”

Paks was sure she could not eat, but the creamy cheese eased past her tight throat and settled her stomach. She finished the cheese and the second mug of water he poured her. By then he had sliced a half-loaf of dark bread and put it in front of her. She took a slice; it was nutty and rich.

Master Oakhallow sat at the end of the table, his hood pushed back, eating a slice of bread spread with cheese. Paks glanced at him: the same brown weather-beaten face, heavy dark eyebrows, thick hair tied off his face with a twisted cord the color of bark. He was gazing out the window beside him, frowning slightly. She followed his gaze. A black and white spotted bird clung to the trunk of the nearest tree; as she watched, it began to hammer on the bark. The strokes were loud and quick, almost like a drum rattle. Paks wondered why its head didn’t split. She’d never seen anything like it, though she had heard that sound before without knowing its source. Bark chips flew from the tree.

“It’s a woodpecker,” he said, answering her thought. “It seeks out insects under the bark, and eats them. A forest without woodpeckers would be eaten by the little ones devouring the trees.”

Paks felt her muscles unclenching, one by one. “Is it—are there more than one kind?”

The Kuakgan smiled. “Oh, yes. Most of them are speckled and spotted, but some are brown and white or gray and white, instead of black and white. There are little ones and big ones—bigger than this—and many of them have bright color at the head. This one has a yellow stripe, but it’s hard to see so far away.”

“How can they pound the tree like that without hurting themselves.?”

He shrugged. “They are made for it; it is their nature. Creatures are not harmed by following their natures. How else can horses run over rocky ground on those tiny hooves? Tiny for their weight, I mean.” He reached to the jug and poured another mug of water for Paks, and one for himself.

Paks took another slice of bread. “I heard a bird when I came in; it sang three notes—” she tried to whistle them.

“Yes, I know the one. A shy bird. You’ll never see it; it’s brown on top, and speckled gray and brown below. It eats gnats and flies, and its eggs are green patterned with brown.”

“I thought most birds—except the hawks and carrion-crows—ate seeds.”

“Some do. Most sparrows are seed-eaters. There’s one bird that eats the nuts out of pine cones. Watch, now—” He took a slice of bread and crumbled it on the broad windowsill, then took a slender wooden cylinder from his robe and blew into it. A soft trill of notes came out. Paks saw the flickering of wings between the trees, and five birds landed on the sill. She sat still. Three of the birds were alike, green with yellow breasts. One was brown, and one was fire-orange with black wings. Their tiny eyes glittered as they pecked the crumbs and watched her. When the bread was gone, the Kuakgan moved his hand and the birds flew away.

Paks breathed again. “They’re so beautiful. I never saw anything so beautiful—that orange and black one—”

“So. You will admit that you haven’t seen everything in this world you were so eager to leave?”

She hunched her shoulders, silent. She heard a gusty sigh, then the scrape of his stool as he rose.

“Stay here,” he said, “until I return.”

She did not look up, but heard his feet on the floor as he crossed the room, and the soft thud of the door as he closed it behind him. She thought briefly of going out the window, but the grove was thick and dark there as the sun lowered. The spotted bird was gone, the hammering coming now from a distance. She put down the rest of her slice of bread, her appetite gone. The room darkened. She wondered if he would be gone all night; she looked around but saw no place to sleep but the floor. From the grove came a strange cry, and she shivered, remembering the rumor that the Kuakgan walked at night as a great bear.

She did not hear the door open, but he was suddenly in the room with her. “Come help me bring in some wood,” he said, and she got up and went out to find a pile of deadwood by the door. The last sunglow flared to the west. They broke the wood into lengths and brought it in. He lit candles and placed them in sconces along the walls, then laid a fire in the fireplace, but did not light it. He went out again and came back with a bundle that turned out to be a hot kettle wrapped in cloth. Inside, a few coals kept several pannikins warm. As he unwrapped the cloth, a delicious smell of onions and mushrooms and meat gravy rose from the kettle. Paks found her mouth watering, and swallowed.

“Hebbinford’s best stew,” he said, setting the dishes out on the tables. “And you were always one for fried mushrooms, weren’t you? Sit down, go on—don’t let it get cold. You’re too thin, you know.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Paks miserably.

“Nonsense. I saw your look when you smelled those mushrooms. Your body’s got sense, if you haven’t.”

Paks took a bite of mushrooms: succulent, hot, flavored with onions and meat. Before she realized what she was doing, she saw that the mushrooms were gone, and so was the stew. She was polishing the bowl with another slice of the dark bread. Her belly gurgled its contentment; she could not remember when she’d eaten so much. Not for a long time, not since—she looked up. Master Oakhallow was watching her.

“Dessert,” he said firmly. “Plum tart or apple?”

“Apple,” said Paks, and he pushed the tart across. She bit into the flaky crust; sweet apple juice ran down her chin. When the tart was gone, the Kuakgan was still eating his. Paks cleaned her chin with a corner of the cloth that had been around the kettle. She found herself holding another slice of bread, and ate that. She felt full and a little sleepy. He finished his tart and looked at her.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now. You’ll want to wash up a bit, and use the jacks, I expect. Let me show you—” He touched a panel beside the fireplace, and it slid aside to reveal a narrow passage. On one side was a door, through which Paks caught a glimpse of a bunk. On the other, a door opened on three steps down to a stone-flagged room with a channel along one side. Paks heard the gurgle of moving water, and the candlelight sparkled on its surface. “Cold water only,” said Master Oakhallow. “There’s the soaproot, and a towel—” He lit other candles in the chamber as he spoke. “If you’re tired of those clothes, you can wear this robe.” He pointed to a brown robe hanging from a peg. “Now, I’ll be out for awhile. When you’re through, go on back to the other room. Whatever you do, don’t go outside the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paks. “I won’t.”

“Good.” He turned and went back up the stairs; Paks saw the light of his candle dwindle down the passage.

The little room was chilly and damp, but smelled clean and earthy. Paks started to wash her hands, gingerly, but the cold water merely tingled instead of biting. She splashed it on her face, started to dry it, then glanced warily at the door. Surely he was really gone. She went up the steps and looked. Nothing. She came back down and looked at the water for a moment, then grunted and stripped off her clothes: she felt caked in dirt and sweat. She wet the soaproot and scrubbed herself, then stood in the channel and scooped water over her soapy body. By the time she had finished, she was shivering, but vigorous towelling warmed her again. She looked at her clothes and wished she had not put her spare shirt in the offering basin. Her clothes were as dirty as she had been. She looked at the brown robe, then took it off the peg. It felt soft and warm. When she came from the jacks, she looked at her clothes again. She wondered if she could wash them in the channel, but decided against it: she needed hot water and a pot. She shook them hard, brushed them with her hand, and folded them into a bundle. She slipped her bare feet back into her worn boots and went up the steps, down the passage, and into the main room.

The Kuakgan had lit more candles before he left, and the room had a warm glow. He had drawn shutters across the windows; she was glad of that. She sat down at the table to wait, wondering how long he would be. She thought of where she’d expected to be this night—alone in the hills, perhaps to see no dawn—and shivered, looking around her quickly. This was pleasant: the soft robe on her shoulders, the good meal. Why didn’t I ever—? I could have bought mushrooms at least once—She pushed these thoughts away. She wondered where the Kuakgan was, and if he’d bought the meal with her offering. And most of all—what was he going to do? She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn’t.

She eased into sleep without knowing it, leaning on the table; she never knew when he came in. When she woke again, she was wrapped in a green blanket and lying on the floor against the wall. The windows were unshuttered and sunlight struck the tree trunks outside. She felt completely relaxed and wide awake at the same time. Her stomach rumbled. She was just unwrapping the blanket when the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight.