The Deed of Paksenarrion (140 page)

“Oh, aye. Said I’d attacked him for no reason. Wanted me up to the Count’s court. Couldn’t have gone, anyway. I had all those trees to trim up for the new work on the town hall. Anyway, he told Sir Felis what I did—and I told Sir Felis what he’d said—and Sir Felis told me to go home, and sent him away.”

“I heard he told you to go home and stay there and not break any more arms.” The Kuakgan’s voice was quiet.

“Oh . . . he might have. Something like that. But you know, sir, I don’t go breaking arms for no good reason. Not like some. But a liar like that. And Paks. Well, even if it was true, he shouldn’t be saying it. Not around here, anywhere, where folks know her.” Mal stared at the tabletop. “No, the one who got mad was the Marshal. You’d think I was a yeoman, the way he gets after me. I said the man was a liar, and he said even so, and I said he needed more than his arms broke, and he said—”

“I said, Mal, that if anyone needed to defend Paksenarrion’s name, it would be the Fellowship of Gird.” The Marshal stood beside the table, his eyes challenging.

“And I said you hadn’t broke his arms yet, and I was glad to.” Mal sat back and grinned, the wide gap-toothed grin that Paks remembered so well, then pushed himself to his feet and wandered away.

“Paksenarrion. I’m pleased to see you again.” The Marshal’s unasked question
What are you doing with the Kuakgan?
hung between them.

“And I you, Marshal Cedfer,” said Paks. “Will you eat with us? I just arrived in town.”

“So I heard from Sergeant Cannis. I’ll sit with you; it’s a drill night.” He paused, then asked. “Will you be coming to drill?”

“Not tonight, I think, Marshal.” Paks did not elaborate.

“Ah. You’ve journeyed long today, I imagine.” He looked at her, then around the room. “You’ve found our busiest season, this time. You’re—” he looked sharply at the Kuakgan. “There’s a place for you at the grange, any time,” he said formally. “Even without any notice from the Marshal-General—”

“Marshal, I thank you. I will be traveling on tomorrow; I’m heading north, to the Duke’s stronghold. And tonight—”

“You’re staying in the grove.” He sighed. “Perhaps it’s best. But I hope you will come by the grange before you leave. We still count you in our fellowship—here in Brewersbridge, perhaps, more than elsewhere.”

Paks was moved. She had still feared Marshal Cedfer’s reaction. “Sir, I will do so. I have been with the rangers in Lyonya this summer—”

His face lightened. “Indeed! Very good. And did you—” He stopped, and she wondered if he had been about to ask about fighting. “I mean,” he amended, “if it’s not breaching some vow of your service, I wondered how things stand in Lyonya. You may have heard rumors here—”

“Yes.” Paks was glad the conversation turned this way. “I cannot say much, since I spent my time in the southern forest. But my companions were concerned about some threat to the realm as a whole. They even mentioned trouble coming from Tsaia.”

“Tsaia! From us? Surely not. These kingdoms have been at peace for generations. We have no designs—”

“Nor they, I assure you,” said Paks. “They mentioned only rumor, as you have had here. They didn’t understand it, but feared the work of—” she paused and looked around the busy room. “Achrya,” she said softly.

The Marshal’s face tightened, and the Kuakgan frowned.

“That one,” said the Marshal. “
Her.
Well, it might be so. That was her agent near here. Yes, and her doing with the other moneychanger, as I recall. Well. If she’s active again . . .”

“Is she ever inactive?” asked the Kuakgan. “And would anything please her better than trouble between friends?”

“You’re right,” said the Marshal. “Gird’s cudgel, this will be
a mess if that happens.” He looked at Paks. “Well, if you’ve been with the rangers, I expect you’ve learned some archery.”

“Yes.” Paks wondered if he would ask her to demonstrate, but he shook his head, and got up.

“I have drill, as I said, and must get ready. If you change your mind, Paksenarrion, you’ll be welcome.” He waved as he went out.

The Kuakgan raised his mug in salute. “I told you once the Marshal would surprise you. You have come far, Paksenarrion, since last spring.”

“Yes.” She looked into her own mug, drained it, and refilled it.

“Yes, but? Not all the way, eh?” She did not answer, but shook her head briefly. “Does it bother you so much, now?” he went on.

“No. Not really. I wish for it, but I can do without it.” She traced a design on the table with one finger. “I wonder, though, what would happen in serious trouble—”

“You don’t consider a daskdraudigs serious?”

Paks looked up, startled. “You knew about that?”

“Mother of Trees, did you think I’d send you off like that and not pay attention? Yes, I know about it. I know you didn’t kill it yourself, and I know you did face danger steadily.” He paused to drain his own mug. “Ah . . . here comes the food.” Neither of them spoke while a serving girl laid the trays on their table: roast meat, gravy, mushrooms, bread, and cheese. A dish of onions, and one of redroots, and one of stewed pears. Finally she left, taking the empty jug, and promising to bring another. “I know you didn’t panic, Paksenarrion, when you might have. And they tell me you were able to sense the daskdraudigs before anyone else.”

“Yes.” Paks was piling meat on a slab of bread. “I was still frightened, you know. But I kept thinking of what you’d said, and then what I’d been taught of fighting—this arm here, and that step there—and I was able to keep on.” She bit into the food. “I threw up afterwards,” she said around a mouthful of bread and meat. “The first time, at least.”

“Yes. But you were able to keep on. Good.” They ate in silence awhile. Paks was just about to say something, when Sevri came to the table. She had grown even more over the summer.

“Paks? Dad says you aren’t staying with us—I could’ve found room—you could’ve slept with me.”

“Sevri. Are you tired of everyone saying how you’ve grown? Are you still working mostly in the stable?”

“No, and yes. I do some in the inn, too, but I like the stable work better.” She had the same friendly smile as before. “Are you all right, Paks? You look different without your sword.”

“I’m fine. When did they start telling everyone not to wear a sword?”

“Over the summer. It’s helped a little, with the caravaners. We’ve had fewer fights.” She glanced at the Kuakgan. “I’m sorry, Master Oakhallow, that I didn’t greet you—”

“No matter.”

“Do you still have the black horse, Paks? Or did you get another?”

“I’m traveling on foot right now,” said Paks carefully. “I left Socks in Fin Panir—they said they’d keep him until I came for him.”

She could see the thoughts passing through Sevri’s eyes, but Sevri finally said, “I hope he’s all right. I remember how scared I was of him at first, and by the time you left I could feed him from my hand.” She looked at Paks’s clothes curiously. “Are you a ranger now? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I spent the summer as a ranger. Now I’m going to see Duke Phelan.” Paks tried to think of something comforting to say, and couldn’t. Sevri sat in silence a moment, and then got up.

“I’d better get back to work. We’re feeding one of the caravans, too, and they’ll be sending in for it any minute.” She started away, then turned back for a moment. “I’m glad you’re here, Paks. I hope you come back.”

“Sevri’s talked of joining the grange,” said Master Oakhallow. “She’s said she would like to be like you.”

Paks shivered. “She shouldn’t. She’s too—”

“She’s tougher than you think. She’d make a good fighter—in some ways like you—though I think she shouldn’t plan to make her living at it. But if trouble comes here—she could fight, I think, and well.”

Though it was nearly dark when they left the inn, the streets were just as crowded. Paks felt sleepy and full: the meal she’d eaten, on top of the long day’s march, had her longing for a bed—any bed. But the Kuakgan, when they came to his house, laid a fire and lit it. He seemed wide awake and ready for a long talk.

“The seed you brought me is indeed rare,” he said. “I have no arissa in the grove, and I am glad to have the chance to sprout one. Did you see it in bloom?”

“Yes.” Paks yawned. “Like—like great lights, high in the forest. Not the sort of flowers most trees have.”

“Tell me something of the forest you traveled.” Paks wanted to sleep; she yawned again, but began to talk of her summer’s work, remembering as best she could the trees, flowers, vines, birds, and animals. The Kuakgan interrupted now and then with questions. Then he asked about the daskdraudigs.

“It felt—bad. Sick.” Paks felt itchy talking about it. “I felt it, inside my head—I fell down, at first.”

“And then?”

“And then I could tell which direction. Not very well.” She described the search for the daskdraudigs, and the fight when it was found. She was wide awake again. The Kuakgan sat crosslegged in front of the fire, staring into it as she talked. When she was done, he turned to her.

“Paksenarrion, do you have yet any hope of being made a paladin?”

Paks stopped short. “I—haven’t thought of it.” That was not quite true, for the rangers had prodded her to acknowledge and use her gifts. She could not quite believe their hints; she could not wholly disbelieve, when she looked at Ansuli, obviously healed and free of pain. She thought of it then, thought of the dream she had had, of the pain when it died. Had it died? Once, yes, and then it had sprouted again, as a dead seed revives in spring. But was it the same dream, or another?

“You said you considered yourself once more a warrior. A warrior for what, or with whom?”

“I—” She stopped. “I have to say? Yes. A warrior for—for good.”

“Still that.”

“Yes.”

“Which means a paladin, to you? Or a knight of Gird, or Falk, or Camwyn or some such?”

“It means—just what I said. To fight, but only for what I think is good.”

“What
you
think is good? Not at the direction of others?”

Paks thought hard. “Well—no. Not really. Not any more. But if the gods—if I knew that the gods said—”

“Ah. But no man or woman.”

“No.” As she said it, she felt herself cut off from all the warriors she’d known—for she was forswearing allegiance to any lord, any captain, any king, even. Could she consider herself in the fellowship of Gird, if she would not take the orders of the Marshal-General? She shivered a little. Did she mean it? Yes.

He sat back, as if satisfied, and turned again to the fire. “Did the elves tell you, Paksenarrion, of the origin of paladins?”

“No, sir.” Hints, yes, but nothing clearer for her questions; she had finally quit asking.

“Hmmmm. Once the gods themselves chose paladins, chose them from among those mortals who desired good and would risk all danger to gain it. The gifts which all expect paladins to have were given by the gods, some to one, and some to another, as they grew into their powers. The heroes whose cults have grown up over the world—some of them now called saints—were chosen and aided the same way. Or so it is said. But after awhile, the cults themselves began to choose candidates, and prepare them, and—so it is said—began to intervene between the gods and the paladins. Although, once chosen, the paladins were supposed to take their direction from the saints or gods—” Paks thought of Amberion. Had Gird truly told him to take her to Kolobia? Or the Marshal-General?

“I’m not attacking the Girdsmen,” the Kuakgan said slowly. “Though it must sound like it. The fellowship of Gird has done much for these kingdoms, and the fighters it trains have at least some care for the helpless. But what was once a grace bestowed freely by the gods—flowers wild in the field and woods—has become a custom controlled by the clerics: flowers planted in safe pots along a path. The flowers have their virtue, either place, but—” He stopped and looked at her.

“It may be, Paksenarrion, that once in a while the gods decide to do things
their
way once more. If you are, as you declare, no longer depending on man or woman for your guidance of good and evil—and yet you have, as you’ve shown, some of the gifts found in paladins—” She wondered how he knew that, but if they’d told him about the daskdraudigs . . .

Paks ducked her head. “I—don’t know. I don’t know how I would know.”

“There’s that. A paladin unbound to some knightly order or cult is rare these days. And a Kuakgan is hardly one to know much of these things.” Paks found that hard to believe, at least of this Kuakgan. “When you were here last,” he went on, “you left everything you came with in the basin. Willingly, at that time.”

“Yes.” Paks did not like to think of that mood, even now.

“Hmmm. But you gave a gift you had no right to give.”

“Sir?”

“This.” He held out to her the Duke’s ring, the foxhead graved on the black stone. “This was not yours to give, Paksenarrion, and I cannot accept it.”

Paks stared at it a moment, then at him. “But, sir—”

“Take it. You are going to him; you can take it back.” He held it until she reached out, then dropped it in her hand. “Put it on.” Paks slipped it onto a finger. She had not expected to see that ring again. She turned it with her thumb until the seal was inside, invisible, the way she had worn it before.

“You have been well enough to fight,” the Kuakgan went on. “You seem to be wholly well in body, and you are well enough in mind to sense evil and good—a gift that cannot work when the mind is clouded. Do you still desire that joy of fighting you had before, or can you see it as a danger—as a temptation to fight without cause?”

“Sir, I have had enough experience to know what comes of fighting for the joy of it alone. It is not that. But I still wish I could feel the joy when it’s needed. Or perhaps I should not say needed, since I can do without it, but—I heard a woodworker, sir, say how much he liked the feel of his plane slipping along the grain of the wood, and the smell of the shavings. My father liked being out with his sheep—I can remember him standing on the moor, drawing in great breaths of that wind and smiling. Isn’t that natural, in a craftsman, to enjoy his work as well? And I wish for that, to enjoy it sometimes. To pick up a sword with pleasure in its balance, not always overcoming fear of it.”