The Deed of Paksenarrion (141 page)

“Is the fear any less?”

“I think so. Or else I am getting used to it.”

“Yet you haven’t asked me, Paksenarrion, if I have any healing magic to restore this to you.”

“No, sir. You have done much for me already, and—I thought—if you wished to do more you would say so.”

“Yes. I don’t know. What I can do has been done.” Paks felt the certainty of this, and braced herself to carry her fear forever. “But,” he went on, “there may be more you can do. You have spent a summer with elves and part-elves and the powers of the forest. I think you have spent it well—not thinking only of fighting, but learning, as you could, of the natural world. I cannot promise success—but if you have the courage to try a desperate chance, it may return your joy in your craft.”

“I will try,” said Paks at once.

“I have not told you what it is.”

She shook her head. “No matter. I will try.”

“Very well.” He stood up and moved to the woodbox. “I have saved these from the spring; they’ll be dry by now.” He began to stack short lengths of wood by the fireside. “This is eart’oak—to look at, much like any red oak. The elves call it fireoak. And here are two lengths of blackwood—don’t worry, not long enough for a bow, even for a child. I wouldn’t burn bowwood. And—let me think. Yellowwood, shall it be, or rowan? What do you remember best, Paksenarrion, about your visit here this spring?”

She tried to think; the bees that had come in to the honeycomb came to mind. “Bees,” she said. “You sang them away.”

“From yellowwood honey. Very well.” He pushed most of the existing fire to one side of the wide hearth, and quickly piled the sticks he’d selected in its place. Then he lit them with a brand from the fire. Paks flinched: flames roared up from the tiny pile as if it had oil on it. They were bright, brighter than the yellow flames on the other wood. The room came alive in that dancing light. “It won’t last long,” said the Kuakgan, turning to her. “You must name your gods, to yourself, at least, and place your hands in that flame. The heartwood of fireoak, for courage, and blackwood for resilience and endurance, and yellowwood for steadfast loyalty to good. Quickly!”

Paks could not move for an instant—the magical flames were too bright and hot. She could feel the sweat break out on her face, feel the clenching of her stomach, the roiling wave of fear about to sweep over her. She spread her hands in front of her and leaned to the fire.

The flames leaped up joyously to engulf her. She would have jerked back, but it seemed too late—the fire was too big. If I’m going to burn, she thought, I might as well do it all. She had forgotten to ask what would happen—if the flames would really burn—if they would kill her—and it was too late. Gird, she called silently, Gird, protector of the helpless. And it seemed to her that a stocky powerful man held his hand between her and the flames. And her memory brought her another vision, and other names: The High Lord—and the first man stepped back, and trumpets blew a fanfare, and in the fire itself a cup of pure silver, mirroring the fire—Take it—said a voice, and she reached into the flames to find herself holding a cool cup full of icy liquid—Drink—said the voice, and she drank. Flames roared around her, hot and cold together—she could feel them running along her arms and legs. A wild wind shook the flames, drums thundered in her feet: she thought of horses, of Saben, of the Windsteed, father of many foals. She rode the flames, leaping into darkness, into nowhere, and then across endless fields of flowers, and the flowers at last wrapping the flames in coolness, in sweet scents and breaths of mint and cinnamon and spring water. Alyanya, she thought at the end. The Lady of Peace—strange patron for a warrior. And kind laughter followed, and the touch of healing from the Lady’s herbs. Then she thought of them all together, or tried to, and the flames rose again like petals of crystal, many-colored, closing her off from that vision as the Hall’s colored windows from the sky. Higher they rose, and higher, and she walked through them, wondering, until she saw in the distance an end.

And recovered herself sitting on the cold hearth of the Kuakgan’s house, with every bit of wood consumed to ash. The Kuakgan sat beside her, as she could feel, in the darkness. She drew a long breath.

“Paksenarrion?” He must have heard the breath, and been waiting for it. She had never heard him sound so tentative.

“Yes.” It was hard to speak. It was hard to think. She was not at all sure what had happened, or how long it had been.

He sighed, deeply. “I was beginning to worry. I feared you might be lost, when you did not return at once.”

“I—don’t know where I was.”

“I do not propose to suggest where you were. How are you?”

Paks tried to feel herself out. “Well—not burned up—”

The Kuakgan laughed. “And not burned witless, either. That’s something, I suppose. Let me get a light—”

Without thinking, Paks lifted her hand: light blossomed on her fingertip.

“Mother of Trees!” The Kuakgan sounded amazed. “Is that what happened?”

Paks herself stared at the light in confusion. “I don’t know what I did! I don’t know—what is it?”

“It’s light—it’s a light spell. Some paladins can do that—haven’t you seen it?”

When she thought of it, Paksenarrion remembered the paladins making light. “Yes, but then—”

“Then what? Oh, I see. Well, as I half-suspected, you are a paladin outside the law, so to speak. Human law, that is.”

“But it can’t—I mean I can’t—and anyway, how do I do it? Or stop it?” She was still staring at the light; she was afraid to look away or move her hand.

“Just a moment.” The Kuakgan rose and took a candle from the mantle, and touched it to her hand. Nothing happened. “Ah.”

“What?”

“It’s true spell-light, not witchlight. Witchlight lights candles, but not spell-light.” She could hear him rasping with his flint and steel. The candle flared, a yellow glow pale beside her hand. “Now you don’t need it. Ask for darkness.”

“Ask who?” Paks felt stupid.

“Whom did you name? Whom were you with? You’re a paladin, remember, not a mage: you don’t command, you ask.”

—
Please—
thought Paks, still in confusion. The light vanished. A bubble of laughter ran through her mind. “But do you mean it?” she asked the Kuakgan, turning to watch him as he lit more candles. “Do you mean I really
am
a paladin, after all that’s—” Her voice broke.

“I am no expert on paladins,” he said again. “But something certainly happened. I know you aren’t a Kuakgan. We both know you aren’t a Marshal of Gird. You aren’t a wizard. Nor an elf. That leaves few explanations for your gifts and abilities. Paladin is the name that fits best.”

“But I was—” She didn’t want to say it, but knew he would understand.

“Hmmm. I used to wonder how the paladins of Gird could be considered protectors of the helpless when they had never been helpless. Rather like asking the hawk to feel empathy for the grouse, or the wolf for the sheep. Even if a tamed wolf makes a good sheepdog, he will never understand how the sheep feel. You, Paksenarrion: you are most fortunate. For having been, as you thought, a coward, and helpless to fight—you know what that is like. You know what bitterness that feeling breeds—you know in your own heart what kind of evil it brings. And so you are most fit to fight it where it occurs. Or so I believe.”

Paks stared at the finger that had held light. She wanted to argue that it could not be true—she had been too badly hurt—she had too much to overcome. But far inside she felt a tremulous power, a ripple of laughter and joy, that she had not felt before. It was much like the joy she remembered, yet greater, as the light of her finger had been greater than candlelight.

The road north from Vérella seemed vaguely familiar, even after three years. Paks stayed most nights in village inns; the fall nights were cold. She made good speed during the days, but did not hurry.

As she came over the last hill before Duke’s East, a cold thin rain began to sift down through the trees, dulling the brilliance of their changing leaves. Paks grinned to herself: so much for her imagination. She’d hoped to arrive at Kolya’s looking fairly respectable. She unslung her bow, and put the bowstring in her belt pouch to keep it dry. At least she wouldn’t have to stay on the road if it got muddy, as she had in the Company. She pulled the hood of her cloak well over her face and trudged on. It grew colder. She had to blink the rain off her eyelashes every few minutes. At least it was downhill, she told herself. The rain came down harder. The slope levelled out, and Paks began to look for the village ahead. There. There on the right was the stone cottage with apple trees around it, Kolya’s place, and there ahead was the bridge, with the mill upstream.

Paks looked at her muddy boots and wet cloak, and decided to go on to the inn. Kolya wasn’t expecting her—might not recognize her—Paks turned away from the gate and went on. Under the bridge the water ran rough and brown. They must have had rain up in the hills, she thought. The stones of the bridge were bluer than she remembered.

Although it was still daylight, few people were in the street. Light glowed behind curtained windows. Paks turned left out of the market square, toward the inn. It loomed ahead, and she hurried toward it, thinking of warm fires and a hot meal. The inn door was closed tight against the wind and rain, but swung easily when she pushed it. Paks slipped through and closed it behind her. The common room was bright with lamps and the fire on the hearth. Her wet cloak steamed. She blinked the rain out of her eyes as she pushed back her hood.

“Well, traveler, may I help you?” The wiry innkeeper looked just as he had the year she left. Then she had been an awed recruit, wondering if she would ever go there casually, as the veterans did.

“Yes,” said Paks. “I’d like a meal and a bath—”

“A room for tonight, as well?”

“I’m not sure.” Paks shrugged out of her pack and cloak.

“It’s late to be starting out again in this weather—” He stopped suddenly, and Paks saw he was looking at the black signet ring on her right hand. He looked up, frowning. “You’re one of the Duke’s—?”

Paks nodded. “I was with the Company. The Duke gave me this, the last time I saw him, and said to come if—when I had—finished something.”

The innkeeper’s eyes were shrewd. “I see. And you were planning to make his stronghold by tonight, eh?”

“No. Actually, I planned to visit a friend here in town first. Kolya Ministiera.”

“Kolya! A friend of yours—might I ask your name?”

“Of course. Paksenarrion.” She could not interpret the look on his face, and did not care to try. They would all have heard some story or other. She busied herself with the fastening of her pack. “I was in Arcolin’s cohort.”

“Yes. I’ve—heard somewhat—” He looked hard at her a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was brisker. “Well, then. Food and a bath—which would you first?”

“Bath,” said Paks. “I’ve clean clothes in here, but I’m mud to the knees. And do you have anyone I could send with a message to Kolya?”

“My grandson will go. Do you wish writing materials?”

“No. Just ask him to tell her that I’m here, and would be glad to see her again.”

“Very well. Come this way, and I’ll arrange your bath.”

A short time later, Paksenarrion was scrubbing the trail grime off with a linen towel, hot water, and the scrap end of scented soap she’d bought in Vérella. When she was done, she poured the rest of the hot water over herself, then dried in front of the little fire in the bathing chamber. She’d hung her clean clothes near the fire to take the chill from them. They felt soft and warm when she put them on. She counted the coins in her purse and decided that she could afford a good dinner. When she came back down the passage to the common room, she felt ready to face anyone. The big room was empty, but for a serving girl. Paks chose a table near the fire, leaning her bow against the wall. The girl came to her at once.

“Master said would you want a private room to eat in?”

“No,” said Paks. “This will be fine. What do you have?”

“Roast mutton or beef, redroots, white cheese or yellow, mushrooms with gravy, barley pudding, meat pasties, pies—”

“Enough,” said Paks, laughing. “Let’s see—how about roast mutton and gravy, barley, mushrooms, and—do you have soup?”

The girl nodded, “We always have soup. If you’re cold, I can bring mulled cider, too.”

“Good. I’d like that.” The girl left the room, and Paks pushed the bench closer to the wall so that she could lean against it. She stretched out her legs to the fire. The fire murmured to itself, occasionally snapping a retort to some hissed comment. She could hear the rain fingering the shutters, and the red curtains on the windows moved uneasily, but by the fire she was warm and felt no draft. She wondered what Kolya would say to her message. What had Kolya heard? Her eyes sagged shut, and she slipped a bit on the wall. She jerked awake and yawned. This was no time to go to sleep. She ought to be thinking what to say to Kolya, and to the Duke.

The door opened, letting in a gust of cold wet air and a tall figure in a long wet cloak. Paks thought at first it might be Kolya, but as the woman came into the light, Paks saw that she was younger, and certainly had both arms. A man came in behind her. The woman threw back the hood of her cloak to reveal red-gold hair, stylishly dressed. Under her cloak she wore a simply cut gown of dark green velvet, and when she drew off her gloves, she wore rings on both hands. Her companion, who seemed vaguely familiar to Paks, wore black tunic and trousers, and tall riding boots. Paks wondered who they were—they belonged in some city like Vérella, not up here. Before she thought about it, she had turned the Duke’s ring round on her finger so that only the band was visible. The serving girl had appeared as the door closed, and led the pair at once down a passage toward the interior of the inn. They must be known, then, thought Paks. She felt uneasy as they crossed the common room to the passage, but they did not seem to look at her.

“Here you are,” said the innkeeper, breaking into her thoughts. The platter of food steamed, and smelled good. “And Councilor Ministiera sent you a message—she’s in a meeting right now, but would be pleased to have you stay with her. She’ll come here when she’s through with the meeting.” Paks thought that Kolya’s invitation impressed him. “This room is often crowded from suppertime on, and noisy—if you’d prefer a quieter place to wait, I have several rooms.” Paks thought about it, and decided she would rather not see Stammel just yet.