The Deed of Paksenarrion (157 page)

“No.” It was astonishingly hard to say, to actually open her mouth and claim what she was, among strangers. “I am a paladin.” At least it sounded all right.

They stared. Finally the commander said, “A paladin.” He sounded unconvinced. Paks was not surprised. She was uneasily aware that she was going to have to prove it to them. “Could you tell me,” he went on, “why a paladin should come here, where we have no need of one?”

“Because you lie between where I was, and where I must go,” she said crisply.

“Oh. And where is that, if you please?”

Paks met his gaze steadily, and his eyes fell first. “I don’t think,” she said finally, “that that is your concern. If you know anything of paladins, you know we must answer the call at once, and without question. Nor do we answer questions without need.”

He nodded. “Yes. I knew that. I just—wondered. But—” He looked her up and down. “I had heard things, last year at court. I mean—no offense meant, but—I heard of a Phelani veteran who went to Fin Panir to become a paladin, and failed. Left Fin Panir. Was wandering around as a—” He paused delicately.

“Coward?” suggested Paks, amazed that she could. He glanced quickly at her, and nodded. “Well,” she went on briskly, “you have heard a lot, it seems. Some of it was true. It is also true that wounds heal, and cowards can regain their courage. And it is true that now I am a paladin. When the Marshal-General came to Phelan’s stronghold—”

“What?!” The commander looked even more flabbergasted. “The Marshal-General of Gird?”

“Yes. He summoned a Marshal, on my advice, and she came.”

“Well. I would never have thought. Phelan hates the Girdsmen.”

“He did at one time. No longer. A grange is being built there.”

“I can scarcely credit it. And you—you say you are a paladin. Have you any proof?”

Paks smiled, and called light. It lit the room far more brightly than the meager daylight until she damped it, and the commander nodded. The younger knight looked shocked, and blinked warily.

“I have seen such light before,” said the commander. His voice had warmed. “Well, then Lady Paksenarrion—you may indeed go on Gird’s business. But why do you conceal yourself?”

“I travel as I am bid, my lord; Gird himself was a plain man, and I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter. When Gird chooses to have me recognized, I daresay I will be.”

“A good answer. A good answer indeed. We are honored by your presence, and will do whatever we can for you. You will cross the river?” She nodded. “Then by your leave I’ll send Regnal here to arrange a ferry. Can you wait until morning? I’d be glad to have you at our table this night.”

Paks felt no restless urging, and was glad to stay the night. If she had to ride in another boat, she wanted to do it in daylight anyway. The commander set a good table, and Regnal had recovered enough from his surprise to be good company as well. They were full of gossip about the state of affairs in Lyonya.

“I’m not asking, you understand,” said Ganarrion Verrakai. “But it will take a paladin, I’m thinking, or a company of them, to save Lyonya from years of chaos—even war. All I’ve heard for the last half year is how sick the king is. And how muddled the succession will be. And if Lyonya falls apart—our best ally—then it won’t take long for Pargun to move, I’m thinking.”

“Not long at all.” Regnal drained his glass, and stared at the table. “My grandfather was killed by Pargunese—you won’t know this, Lady Paksenarrion, but that was when the Tsaian crown prince was killed as well, and your Duke Phelan captured the Pargunese commander. That was before he got his lands. Pargun has always wanted this territory.”

“Yes, but it’s worse than that.” Verrakai shoved his glass around on the tablecloth. “I remember my grandfather’s tales of the old evil, before Tsaia and Fintha joined Lyonya and Prealith to fence it out. With Lyonya in trouble, it could erupt right in the middle of the Eight Kingdoms, instead of hanging about the fringes. It wasn’t that long ago, when you think of it, that they fought at Long Stones. I daresay the Master of Torments would like another chance at the inner realms.”

“Or
her,
” said Regnal. He glanced at Paks. “By what I’ve heard, you know as much about the webspinner’s ways as anyone can, and live.”

Paks nodded. “Yes—and I see what you mean.”

“By my thinking,
she
probably had something to do with the prince being lost like that,” said Verrakai. “No one says so, true, but something evil came to the queen and the prince. If he hadn’t been lost—”

“No, I think it was the king dying while the princess was still so young,” argued Regnal. “She had the taig-sense, but with no guidance, she never learned to use it fully.”

“But that was from grief. If the queen hadn’t been killed—”

“When was this?” Paks had heard the story outlined, but was not clear on the earlier details. The rangers had concentrated on more recent problems, including the king’s illness.

“Oh, let me think.” Verrakai stared at the table. “I was only a boy when it happened. Forty years, it must be, or fifty. Somewhat around there. Do you know the tale at all?”

Paks nodded. “The queen and prince were going somewhere, and attacked. She was killed, and he was never found. Is that right?”

“Yes. He was a little child, and the princess only a baby; she had been left behind, being too young to travel.”

“The thing is,” put in Regnal, “that there’s no one else in the line who has enough elven blood. And there’s so many that don’t want it, because they don’t know what it does—” He glanced at Verrakai, who reddened.

“Don’t look at me, young Kostvan. I’m no elf-hater; that’s my uncle. I’ve met rangers enough, working for the court, and I know what they mean by taig-sense. I still think Gird’s guidance is enough, for human folk at least, but I admit that Lyonya’s different. It’s a joint kingdom, and the elves have a right to be in the kingship. And where you have elves, you have taigin. But even in Lyonya there are humans who fear more elven influence. And so they don’t care, and so they have had two kings, now, with not enough taig-sense to hear thunder before a storm, and no one coming who has any more.”

Listening to this, Paks had a curious sensation, a tingling of the mind, which forced her attention more strongly on what was said. For some reason she did not yet understand, it was important to what she was to do. But now Verrakai was smiling at her.

“What they need, maybe, is a paladin ruler instead. That hasn’t been tried yet. By Gird, if you can sense good and evil directly, I’d think that would work as well as taig-sense.”

Paks knew from her own experiences in Lyonya that it was not the same, but didn’t want to explain all that. She merely laughed a little. “Paladins are called to harder seats than thrones, good sir. Granted that rule is not easy; but we are not trained for rule and judgment, but for sharp conflict.”

“It might be better the other way. But I am not one to quarrel with the gods’ ideas, only I hope something changes for the better in Lyonya, and soon. We have had bands of orcs around here, and worse things seen at a distance. If there’s serious trouble ahead, I’d as soon our allies were in shape to help.”

In the morning, Paks and the red horse were ferried across the Honnorgat, its wide surface pewter colored between ice that still clutched each bank. On the far side she mounted, and rode on thoughtfully. She had noticed that her mail shirt was brighter than the day before. No one had polished it, or the rings and buckles of her tack, which were also gleaming. She wondered if her gear were beginning to take on the gleaming cleanliness she had noticed on other paladins.

South of the Honnorgat the land was more settled and richer. She passed through many little villages, and by noon was riding into a larger town. The red horse came to a stop before a handsome grange just as a Marshal stepped out the barton gate.

“Gird’s grace, traveler,” said the Marshal, eyeing her keenly. “I’m Marshal Pelyan. And you—?”

“Paksenarrion,” she answered. “A paladin of Gird, whose protection lies on all this land.”

His eyes opened a little wider, but he merely nodded. “Welcome to our town. Will you take lunch with me?”

“With honor.” Paks had already found that a paladin’s hunger differed in no way from that of an ordinary soldier. She swung off the red horse, and looped the reins over her arm. “Is there a stable?”

“Around here.” He led the way to the back of the grange, and waited while she made the red horse comfortable in a box next to his own brown warhorse. “You have traveled hard,” he said, as he preceded her out the stable door.

Paks shrugged. “Not too bad.”

“Mmm. Some would consider any travel this time of year hard. But not you, I suppose.” They had come to an inn, and he entered, waving his hand at several men who looked up. A landlord came forward, looking at Paks curiously. The Marshal forestalled any questions by asking him for a quiet table. When they were seated, he leaned forward in his chair. “I know I asked for assistance,” he said softly, “but I didn’t think it required a paladin. Is it really that bad?”

Paks was startled. She had had no feelings about this town at all, and no sense that she was called to do anything here. “Marshal, I’m not here in answer to your call—that I know of. It’s true I’m on quest, but somewhere else.”

“I see.” He looked somewhat relieved. “Do you—would you know if my message was received in Fin Panir?”

“No.” Paks shook her head slowly. “I haven’t been in Fin Panir for over a year.”

“Oh.” Now he looked dismayed. “Blast. I wish I knew—” He stopped as the landlord came to take their order, and quickly told the man to bring stew and hot bread. When the landlord moved away, he began again. “Sorry—should have let you order. But I’m that worried, you see. And then you came in, just when I was thinking I’d have to ride at least to Vérella myself.” The landlord came with their food, two huge bowls of steaming stew and two loaves of bread. Paks began to eat. The stew was good; she finished it all, and mopped the bowl clean with a hunk of bread.

The Marshal insisted on paying for their meal, and said nothing more about his problems until they were near the grange, and the street empty around them. “I don’t mean to delay you,” he said, “but if you have a little time, perhaps you could just tell me if I should ride out myself. It’s very vexing, is what it is—”

Paks herself was curious what sort of problem could bother him so, and what kind of help he’d asked for. She agreed to take a cup of sib in his office and listen.

“This is solid old Girdish territory,” he began. “Has been for generations; we had a grange here before Tsaia claimed it. So we’ve always had a strong yeomanry. But as we’re close to Lyonya—Harway, maybe a half-day’s walk east, is on the border—we’ve had plenty of Falkians, too. I’ve nothing against them; they’re quiet, law-abiding folk, and brave enough in trouble. But this trouble in Lyonya—well, now, folk here are beginning to worry. When the first few Falkians came in wanting to join the grange, I admit I was pleased about it. After all, that’s what any Marshal hopes to do, is increase the strength of the yeomanry. The Falkian captain even joked with me about it, wanted to know my secret. But along about last spring, it went beyond any jokes. They’ve closed their field—that’s like our grange—and the captain’s left. There’s a sergeant now, for the few commons left. And our grange is stuffed with ex-Falkians.”

“Why do you think they changed?” asked Paks. It still didn’t seem much like a real problem to her.

“Lyonya. I think they wanted to show their loyalty to Tsaia, where the court’s Girdish. They don’t say so, of course. I wouldn’t take ‘em if they did. That’s a bad reason to change patrons, just for policy like that. And that’s part of my problem: all these so-called Girdsmen. I don’t have the arms for that many, or the money and time to get arms. Of course the Falkian captain didn’t send the arms along with them—very properly, too: I certainly never sent arms with a yeoman who left the grange. But they talk, talk, talk, all the time, worrying themselves—and me—and I have only one yeoman-marshal, and she’s been sick. Then there’s the visitors.”

“Visitors?” Paks asked politely, since he had paused as if waiting for her question.

“Yes.” He made a sour face. “Close as we are to the border, you see, families here and families there have intermarried and so on. With all this uncertainty in Lyonya, they’ve come over here until it settles down—if it ever does. As I said, we’re a long-settled area. It’s not easy to absorb several hundred more people all at once, and no knowing when they’ll leave. Families going short call on the grange for help; we had a good harvest, but most of these people came just after harvest—not during the working season, when they could have made the crop bigger. I wrote Fin Panir back in the spring about getting another yeoman-marshal or Marshal, and maybe starting another grange. They said wait and see what happened. What’s happened is that I’ve got a grange full of people, less than half of them my own, and not enough arms, or time to train, or anyone to work with. I suppose it’s not a paladin’s concern—” He looked at her sadly.

“Tell me about your yeoman-marshal,” said Paks, trying to think what she could do in a short time. “Did you say she was sick?”

“Well, she’s not so young any more, and she’s had lung fever last winter and this winter both. This last time, she never really got well.”

“Why don’t I take a look?” said Paks. Then she thought again. “Of course, you’ve tried a healing—?”

The Marshal shook his head. “She didn’t want one, she said. She’s been low in her spirits this last year or so—and that’s another thing, but I’ve had no one to talk to, and been too busy to go anywhere. Something’s bothering her—”

“Would she talk to me?”

“I imagine so. A paladin, after all. On a quest. It might interest her.”

“Can’t you appoint another yeoman-marshal?”

“Well—yes, I could, but—everyone knows Rahel. She’s been here since before I came. As long as she’s—and it’s not as if we were actively fighting—”

“Where is she?” asked Paks.

“Along here.” The Marshal rose and led the way along a passage inside the grange. He stopped outside a door, and rapped on it. Paks heard a chair scrape inside, and a heavy cough, then a tired voice responding. “It’s the Marshal,” he said. “We have a visitor, Rahel—a paladin.”