The Deed of Paksenarrion (162 page)

Paks nodded, and spoke. “Yes, my lord. Those are the runes on this blade.” She glanced at the king. “Shall I draw it now, sir king?”

“Wait,” he said, looking at the elf. “There is more to this?”

“Yes. The runes can be read several ways, but they were set in the pattern that high elves would read as ‘Guard this royal treasure, and the mountains will rejoice.’ The royal treasure, of course, being the prince himself. The exact shape and size you see is that chosen by the queen for her own convenience—that’s why it looks slender for a grown man’s weapon.”

“I don’t understand,” said the king slowly, “how it can have been sealed to the prince, yet not sealed to the prince? And what difference does it make now?”

Amrothlin smiled, but gently. “Sir king, at its making it was spellbound with the prince’s name. That meant that no other would ever awaken its full powers. As well, the queen had sent, with her request, a bit of cloth with one drop of the prince’s blood, and a few hairs of his head. But the final binding, which would make the prince the knowing master of the blade, had to wait until he was old enough to grasp it and speak clearly the words of the ritual. Had their journey been completed, the prince would have been master of the sword. As it was—the prince and queen disappeared, and the sword was lost.”

“Yes, but it’s here.” Belvarin had pushed his way to the front. “It’s here now. Where has it been?”

“As for that, Sier Belvarin, I don’t know the whole story. For many years it was lost—perhaps stolen by the raiders who attacked the party, or perhaps thrown far into the wood by the queen herself. But I next heard about it when Aliam Halveric sent word to the Ladysforest that he had found an elf blade near three murdered elves, between Chaya and his own lands. His description was exact; it could be no other.”

“But you didn’t tell him what it was,” blurted Paks. “He didn’t know, did he?”

“No. Although—” Amrothlin looked away for a moment. “We did not tell him. At the time, sir king, your brother Serrostin had recently come to the throne. We feared that such a relic, at such a time, might stir—might cause unrest. It seemed to us that elves were less and less welcome at court. We feared haste, and the consequences of haste.”

“But—” Sier Halveric looked bewildered. “But Aliam never told me about any sword. If he’d told me, I might have remembered—”

The elf sighed. “Sier Halveric, we know that. Aliam had a distaste for talking to you about it.”

“You kept him—”

The elf bowed slightly, his eyes glinting. “And if we did, Sier Halveric, it was many years ago, and for reasons we thought wise. We advised Aliam Halveric to give it to the one it was made for—”

“The dead prince?” the king broke in.

“You wanted it sent to his memorial?” asked someone else.

“As you wish,” said the elf. Paks felt a curious twist in her mind. The elf’s mouth was quirked a little, as if he were secretly amused. But he went on. “Then he told us he was planning to give it to Phelan of Tsaia, as a wedding present, because his betrothed’s name was Tamarrion, or ‘light of mountains,’ two of the runes. We told him that was well enough.”

“And when his wife was killed,” said Paks in the silence that followed, “the sword was recovered, and hung on his wall until I took it in need.”

“Why?” asked the king.

“My lord, Duke Phelan’s steward of many years was actually an agent of—” She hesitated to speak that name, and paused for another one. “—the webmistress,” she said finally. “He feared my power to detect evil, and tried to kill the Duke and me before I could expose him. No one wore sword to the Duke’s Hall; the steward grabbed one from the wall, and I happened to take this one. It was happy to drink his blood.”

“I see. And you, not knowing its past, bore it away, and returned it here.” The king leaned back, looking even more tired. He drained the goblet Lieth held.

“My lord king, I am sure, now, that I was sent here to return it to its rightful place.” The elf stirred beside her, but Paks went on. “I don’t know what it can do for you, but such a source of power must be—”

“No.” The king shook his head.

“No?”

“No. You were sent here, Lady, that I do not doubt. And I do not doubt that you were sent here with the sword to some purpose. But just the return of it—no. What good will such a sword do, when the one for whom it was made has long died?” He rolled his head sideways to meet the elf’s eyes. “Tell me, sir elf—what can such a weapon do, without its master?”

“It is as you see it, sir king. A fine weapon—I’ve no doubt the lady has found it so—and particularly apt against certain evils.”

“Would it be useful to anyone?”

“I think not. It was made in good, for good; it has been used by good, to some purpose. It would not, I think, fight well in a wicked hand.”

“How would it be different in its master’s hand?”

“My lord king, I know not all its powers. I had no need to know, when it was forged; in fact, I was far away at the time. Like any elf-blade, it gives light when its master draws it: more, if dire evil is near, or if its master’s name is in doubt.” Paks shifted now, remembering the flare of light from that blade every time she’d drawn it.

“Then if someone drew it,” said the king slowly. “If it lit, would that prove anything?”

“It might—I don’t know what spells my sister—your queen—put into it.”

“I don’t remember it lighting up when
she
drew it,” said Tekko suddenly. Everyone turned to stare at him. “Many’s the time I’ve seen her with it, too, and I don’t recall any light.”

“I will tell you all my thought,” said the king, raising his voice with an obvious effort. “Here is a paladin come to Chaya, in our deepest need. You know I am dying; I have no heir. Lyonya faces many troubles—between human and elf, between our borders and our allies, with Pargun and Kostandan to the north. This paladin—” he reached out and caught Paks’s sleeve, “—has been named elf-friend. She is Gird’s warrior, and known to powerful lords in Tsaia and Fintha; this would make our allies happy. The rangers say she can sense the taigin, which I have never done, to my shame and sorrow. And she comes with a treasure of our house, with the sword my eldest brother’s wife carried, and which was made, we now know, for her son, who should have been our king. Let her draw the sword—let us see whether it lights for her. If it does—and I believe it will—then I suggest we have found my heir. Can anything be better than a paladin, bearing an elf blade, a friend of elves with taig-sense, to rule in Lyonya?”

Paks turned to him, appalled. “My lord, no!” She heard the rising murmur behind her. “I am no ruler; I am not even noble-born.”

“If the gods choose you as a paladin, should I quarrel with your birth?” His voice carried over hers and the hubbub. It stilled as he went on. “Lady Paksenarrion, you have been tested and tried in ways that prove your fitness to wear Gird’s crescent—or a crown. I command you now: draw the elf blade made for the heir to this throne, and show us all what it says.”

Paks looked around the room, seeing consternation change to anticipation on all the faces. She looked back at the king, soberly. “Sir king, as a paladin, I am bound to honor the gods’ commands above all others. But your command does not conflict with theirs. In the name of the High Lord, and Gird his servant—” As she slipped the sword from its scabbard, it flared blue as it had since she first pulled it from the wall. A shout went up.

“You see?” said the king quietly, beneath it. Paks shook her head, felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

“My lord king,” she said, as the noise began to die down. “I fear you have chosen the wrong person even so. I feel no call from my gods to accept this task. Many paladins find their swords give light when drawn.”

“Lady, your modesty becomes you.” The king’s eyes were alight. “Yet see what a solution you are to our problem. A paladin: therefore untainted by evil ambition. A paladin of Gird, which will reassure our neighbors to the west, and warn those to the north. You can sense the taig. You are acceptable, I daresay, to the elves—” He glanced up at Amrothlin. The elf bowed slightly.

“Paksenarrion is, indeed, an elf-friend,” he said. “We do not advise on succession, as you know, sir king; but if she held the throne we would not object.” Paks gave him a sharp look, seeking for something more behind the words, but his face was smooth and unreadable.

“But I’m not of your House,” she insisted. “I’m not Lyonyan at all, or even part-elf—”

“No, but you’re honest, brave, and have the power of paladins. These will serve well enough. What has my heritage brought?” The king sounded both tired and bitter. “My Council has not agreed these last two years on a successor. I have found one with more ability than any of their candidates.” He looked out at the others in the room. “Would you dispute that, Council members?”

“Not I, my lord,” said Sier Halveric quickly. Others murmured agreement, but Sier Belvarin frowned.

“What if she’s an agent of Tsaia, my lord? She has been a member of that Phelan’s company—he’s a Tsaian Duke, after all.”

“A paladin?” The king looked shocked. “Belvarin, she’s an agent of the gods—that’s all.” Belvarin looked unconvinced, but nodded. The king turned back to Paksenarrion. “Lady, before the Council and assembled nobles of my realm, and the elves as well, I ask you—I beg you—to take the throne when I die. You can do no worse than I, and I think you must do better, with the gods gracing you as they have. This kingdom—this green land—is the strong heart of the four southern kingdoms. If we—if it falls—then evil is free to ravage Tsaia and Prealith, not to mention the Ladysforest.”

Paks knelt beside him. “Sir king, I grieve—for you, for this kingdom in distress. But—”

“Someone must, Paksenarrion,” the king said more softly. Paks saw his eyes dull with approaching pain. “Please—save it—no one else—” His head sagged. She felt the mingled awe and terror of the others like a cloud.

“Sir king—” Her hand on his conveyed nothing; she had no power to give. She felt the live flesh stiffen, the skin hardening subtly under her fingers like cooling wax. A rustle filled the room. When she looked aside, they were all kneeling, even the elves.

Esceriel moved first. He took a corner of the king’s cloak and covered the face. Paks looked up to see tears on his cheeks. He leaned his head against the dead king for an instant, then met her eyes. His gaze carried both challenge and admiration.

“My lords and ladies,” said Esceriel slowly. “Our king is dead. He—”

“Our king,” interrupted Amrothlin with the slightest emphasis on
our,
"was a brave and great man. We honor his memory.”

The squires stood; Paks also rose to her feet. Esceriel finished arranging the king’s hands beneath the cloak. He nodded to the group. “Our king has died; he made one last request. I am no longer King’s Squire; I am on no Council. I have no right to know, but the king was dear to me, and I would ask whether you will honor it.”

“I see nothing else,” said Sier Halveric, clambering up from his knees. Others rose as well. “I thought it was a good idea then, and now—Falk rest him well—it’s the only thing to do.” A low murmur ran around the room, obvious agreement. Even Belvarin shrugged and nodded. Amrothlin gave Paks a keen glance, then a quick bow.

“I have said already that the elves would have no quarrel with such a succession.”

“Will you then accept this charge?” asked Sier Halveric, coming forward to confront Paks. “Our land is in need—desperate need—and you have been sent to help us. So much you have said yourself. We offer you the crown for your lifetime, knowing that no harm will come to us on your account.”

Paks glanced at the dead king, then looked the Halveric full in the face. “Sier Halveric, I respected your king. I respect your need. But I am bound to obey the calls of my gods. I cannot discuss this here, with your king still—”

“I am sorry you think we have something to discuss,” said Sier Halveric. “I had hoped—”

“My lord, if I took the throne, you might find me less biddable than you hoped.”

A brief smile lightened his face and made him look more like Aliam. “Lady, if it would persuade you to save our kingdom, I would not mind if you crossed my every whim. Yet I understand; it is not seemly, if you cannot accept without reservations, to discuss it here and now.” He turned to the others. “As senior Councillor present, I ask the steward to announce the king’s death.” The steward bowed low and withdrew. Sier Halveric turned back to the others. “And if the squires would stand guard, as we pay our respects, I will send for the others who should come.” He was the first to kneel before the king, and lay his lips a moment on the cloaked face. The others came up, one by one, to do the same. Then they left, and the squires lifted him back to the carrying chair, to take him to his chambers for the formal laying out.

Paks stood until they were out of the room, then faced the group of elves who remained. Their faces were unreadable, even for her. Amrothlin spoke.

“You are very tired, Lady Paksenarrion. Will you council with them, or rest?”

Paks wanted to fall asleep where she stood. She reached in thought for the High Lord and the others. Strength flowed into her, leaching the tiredness away. She smiled at the elves.

“I can sleep when this is settled. The gods give strength when it’s needed, as you elves know well, who rarely sleep at all.”

“Few are the humans who drink from our springs,” said Amrothlin gravely. “But then, few are the humans who have touched an elfane taig directly. Will you say what you have decided?”

“I will say what the gods would have me do, when I know what that is and the Council is assembled,” replied Paks.

Outside, Sier Halveric waited for her. “I am sure you are tired, Lady Paksenarrion. If you would rest and pray before meeting with us, we will wait. But the realm’s great need requires that we not sit long in uncertainty—may I ask that you speak with us when you can?”

“My lord, if the Council is ready to meet, I will come now. But did you not say that you had messages to send? If some must come from a distance, I would sleep a little.”