The Deed of Paksenarrion (171 page)

“Well—yes—but—”

“If you want to talk policy with elves, Paksenarrion, you must be ready to see all the truth and speak it.” She turned back to Aliam. “Had it been only that, I would worry little. But you know—all of you here know—that it went farther than that. Much farther. We do not want—
I
do not want—the man who helped Alured reduce the coastal cities to show the same character in Lyonya. We would agree to no one’s rule, who had done such things, elf or human. Elf least of all, for in this realm where so many fear us, even hate us, an elf’s misrule could finally breach that old agreement between human and sinyi. Should we prove ourselves what so many already say we are? Arrogant, cold, uncaring, quick to anger? Should we risk confusion with the iynisin, to give space to his taste for cruelty?”

“Lady, no!” Again Paks broke in. “Please—let me tell you what I know of my own experience—”

The Lady looked at her without smiling. “Paksenarrion, I will listen. But I realize he is capable of love, and caring, for a few. You remind him of his wife, I daresay, or even his daughter; you have seen the private side of tenderness which all but the worst men have. As a king, it is the other side, the outer, that concerns us here.” Paks, immersed in the power that flowed from the Lady as steadily as water from a spring, inexhaustible, nonetheless found herself able to perceive more clearly what indeed the elven nature was, and what its limitations. Firstborn, eldest of the Elder Races, immortal, wise as the years bring wisdom, elves were due reverence for all this . . . and yet not gods or demigods, however powerful. Created a choir of lesser singers by the First Singer, they were so imbued with harmony that they endured conflict only in brief encounters, resolving such discords quickly, in victory or retreat. It was not weakness or cowardice that made them withdraw, again and again, when evil stalked their lands, but that they were made for another purpose. This was their gift, with living things or elements or pattern itself to repattern into beauty, endlessly and with delight. From this came their mastery of healing, of the growing of plants, the shaping of the taigin, for they alone, of all peoples of the world, could grasp the entire interwoven pattern of life the High Lord designed, and play with it, creating new designs without damage to the fabric. So also they enchanted mortal minds, embroidering on reality the delicate patterns of their imaginings.

Yet powerful as they were, as powerful as music that brings heart-piercing pain, tears, laughter, with its enchantments, they were as music, subordinate to their own creator. Humans need not, Paks saw, worship their immortality, their cool wisdom, their knowledge of the taig, their ability to repattern mortal perceptions. In brief mortal lives humans met challenges no elf could meet, learned strategies no elf could master, chose evil or good more direct and dangerous than elf could perceive. Humans were shaped for conflict, as elves for harmony; each needed the other’s balance of wisdom, but must cleave to its own nature. It was easy for an immortal to counsel patience, withdrawal until a danger passed . . .

She took courage, therefore, and felt less the Lady’s weight of age and experience. That experience was elven, and not all to her purpose. Kieri Phelan himself was but half-elven; his right to kingship came with his mortal blood. And as she found herself regarding the Lady with less awe, but no less respect, the Lady met her eyes with dawning amazement.

“I will grant your ideas,” Paks began slowly. “Others have said I look much like Tamarrion. It may well be that he has turned a kinder face to me than to strangers. But I am not speaking—now—of his treatment of me.” The Lady nodded, and Paks described the Duke’s generosity to his own, from recruits to veterans, and to others who had served him, however briefly.

“That last year—” Paks took a breath before she said it. “He was wrong, Lady. I will say that, and Lord Halveric knows I bear the Duke no grudge. He was wrong to support Alured as long as he did; I think from what I saw that he was unhappy about it, but had given his word, not knowing what Alured would do. Any man is wrong to be unjust, whenever he is. But did you not say, a little bit ago, that you had been wrong? And the Halverics said they had been wrong.”

The Lady stiffened; Paks heard the Halverics gasp. Before the heavens fell, she rushed on.

“He was wrong then; I have been wrong, too. But he has asked the Marshals of Gird back, Lady, and apologized for sending them away. He said before the whole Company that he had erred, that he had been hasty in anger. Does that sound like an arrogant man, a man eager to judge harshly, delighting in cruelty?”

The Lady sat long without answering; twice Paks opened her mouth to speak, and shut it again, fearing she had already said too much. Finally she gave a little shake, like someone waking from a reverie, and turned to Paks with a smile.

“It speaks well of any man to gain the love and respect of a paladin. You are not lying about this, though you may have put the best face on it that you could. I did not know he had called in the Marshals. If he admitted his errors—then—I have less fear, though I am not confident. At least he might not be an evil king.”

“Kieri’s a Knight of Falk, too,” said Aliam. “At least, he was knighted, though he never took the vows and wears no ruby. Good thing, too, or it’d have given him a fit of conscience when he became a Girdsman.”

“He’s not a Girdsman,” said Paks.

“What? Of course he is—or was—and I suppose is again, if he’s made his peace with them.”

Paks shook her head. “No, my lord. He talked to the Marshal-General in my presence. He supported Tamarrion in the Fellowship, and encouraged it, but he never took the vows. He told the Marshal-General that he had always felt withheld from such vows.”

The Lady sat forward, eyes bright. “He said what? Say exactly what you remember, Paksenarrion.”

“He said that he had been drawn to both—to Falk and to Gird—but that he felt something about other vows awaiting him, and he could not swear with a free heart. And the Marshal-General told her Marshals that she was content—that she did not seek his vows.”

“Ahh.”

“But why does that matter?” Paks looked at her curiously.

“I am not sure. If it means what it could mean—” the Lady smiled again, and shook her head. “I speak in riddles, you think, as elves are wont to do. Indeed I do, for I have nothing but surmises. But if—and remember that I said
if
—what has withheld him from these vows is a memory of his true nature, even a slight memory, that can be, perhaps, restored.”

“But I thought Lyonyan kings could be Falkians—can’t they?”

“It has been so—and true of the last two kings, indeed. They were but human. A king of elven heritage, aware of the taig by that blood, would follow the High Lord, as you call him, directly.” She sighed, then moved her shoulders. “You have told me much I did not know. It may be that he can become king. I accept, Paksenarrion, your description of your quest: to find the true king of Lyonya and restore him. I accept your decision to prove my grandson, whom you know as Duke Phelan, by the sword’s test. But before I agree to his crowning, I wish to see him myself. If he can become what he was meant to become, my powers will aid him. If not—we shall hope for better things than I fear.”

The Lady rose; Paks and the Halverics, trying to stand, found themselves unable to move. The Lady’s voice was kindly, now, its silvery music warmer than before.

“It will make your task no easier, that all know the Ladysforest has moved to enclose your steading; as I shift the border in return, you will find that none of your people remember a summer’s afternoon in winter. For you, I leave you such memories as you need—and from Paksenarrion I withhold no truth. You will not be troubled by any elves of my Household—”

Paks suddenly thought of the evil plots Achrya had woven for the Duke before now—had all this, for near fifty years, been one—? She wanted to ask the Lady, wanted to explain—but gentle laughter filled her mind.

“Be at ease, paladin; others, too, can see a web against the light.”

A knock came on the door; Paks and the Halverics looked blankly at each other. Between them a bowl of apples and a tiny glass flask with a spray of apple blossoms filled Aliam’s study with the mingled odors of spring and fall.

“What is it?” Aliam finally croaked.

Cal Halveric put his head in. “It’s getting late, sir—did you wish to dine here? Shall I sit for you in Hall?” Paks looked at the small window; outside it was full dark.

The three of them looked at each other, still dazed; Paks saw Caliam look at the apple blossoms with disbelief, and then at her. She inhaled that delicate odor, then shook her head. Aliam took a long breath, then thumped the arms of his chair with both hands.

“No—we’ll be down. In a few minutes. Cal—do you—?” But he stopped himself, and turned to Estil. She smiled, and touched his hand, holding her other out to Paks.

“I thank you, my dear, for a very—interesting—discussion,” she said. Paks could see in her eyes the memory of the Lady’s visit. “I am sorry you must leave as soon as you say, but in the meantime, enjoy our hospitality.”

“With all my heart,” said Paks. Estil laughed, in her eyes, and they rose, less stiffly than Paks had expected. The squires looked curiously at them as they entered the Hall, where everyone waited at the tables. Now, at evening, more of the seats were filled. Cal and his brothers and their wives sat at the head table with their parents and Paks; the older children fitted in where they could, and the little ones tumbled around them. The Hall rang with laughter and talk. Paks did not miss the many glances sent her way; she knew when one of the younger children sneaked behind her and boldly touched the hilt of the sword. Estil saw that, and snatched the girl back.

“You! Suli, you rascal—you do that with the wrong person someday, and you’ll lose a hand, if not your life. You know better than to touch a warrior’s weapon.”

“It’s pretty, grandmother—I just—”

“You just indeed! If you want to speak to a paladin, go ahead—there she is—speak—” And Suli, both frightened and thrilled, was thrust forward to face Paks, who had turned to watch this.

“I-I’m sorry,” she quavered. Paks heard one of the boys giggle from a safe distance. Suli threw a sulky glance that way, and then stared at Paks.

“Your grandmother’s right,” Paks said, bending down to face the child. “I will not hurt you, but another might. And did you know that some weapons are magical? A sword might hurt you, if you were not its true master. You have a bold heart, and that is good—only learn from your grandmother to let a wise head guide it.” The child blushed, and Paks turned to see the other children beyond her. “And for you others—it is easy to laugh when another is in trouble—but another’s folly does not make you wise. In this family I would expect you to defend one another.” To her surprise, a boy about Suli’s size came forward at once.

“I only laughed because she is never afraid,” he said stoutly. “If that was wrong, I’m sorry. But if you had tried to hurt her, I would have come.”

Paks smiled at him. “I’m glad you would help. I said what I did because when I was helpless and in trouble, some laughed at me.”

“You? I thought—can a paladin be helpless?”

“I was not born a paladin, lad. Even now, I expect there are things I cannot fight except by faith.”

“I will not laugh again,” said the boy seriously. “Suli—”

“It’s all right.” Suli put her arm around him. Paks realized suddenly that they were twins. Both of them grinned at her, and then Suli poked her brother in the ribs. They tumbled back, laughing and sparring.

“Ruffians,” said Estil calmly. “Those two are wild as colts.”

“’Tis because you spoil them, Mother,” said a woman down the table. “Every time I come, you—”

“Well, they’re good-hearted ruffians,” said Estil. “And the only twins in the family. Gods grant we don’t have more, the way they are, but still—”

“At home,” their mother went on, looking down the table to Paks, “I keep them in more order—when they aren’t running off in the woods. But since we spend half the year here, why—”

“Now that’s unfair.” The tall man beside her grinned. “Shall I tell them all what you said when we packed this time to come?” The woman started laughing, and he went on. “She was so glad we were coming, because then when the twins did something, she could blame you.”

“Yes, but—”

“And, she said, they were better behaved when we left than when we came.” He tapped his wife’s nose. “So you see what you get?”

She shrugged, grinning, and made a face at Paks and Estil. Paks was amazed. She had never been in such a family—had not, she thought suddenly, been in any family since leaving home. There were at least a dozen children in the hall, and more had been carried off after falling asleep. Three or four generations lived here—happily, as it seemed. She looked at Estil—grandmother certainly, and maybe a great-grandmother—and still tall and broad-shouldered. A formidable bowman, her husband said. How had she done it? Paks could not imagine having all those children (for there sat Caliam, Haliam, and Suli—married to a Tsaian but home for a visit—and she had heard of others), managing such an estate, and still finding time to stay fit in weaponscraft. She shook her head; Estil noticed and turned to her.

“Is it too noisy for you, Paksenarrion? We’re a noisy family; always have been. Aliam and I love talk and music as much as life itself.”

“No, I just—I never—this is very different,” said Paks lamely.

“It’s just a family. Bigger than most, I suppose—and when you count in the others—” She looked around. The side tables were still full: Paks saw men and women in working garb.

“Does everyone eat here, my lady? Every meal?” She had thought that in rich houses, the master and mistress and family ate alone.

“Oh no. Some live in their own cottages; some prefer to eat somewhere else. But in winter, we keep a good fire here, and anyone is welcome. Evening meals in winter are usually a crowd. My sister from northern Lyonya says it’s like a barracks, but we like it.” Estil smiled. Paks heard the chime of harpstrings from somewhere, and looked around. Caliam’s oldest son had brought a harp to the hall, and now tuned it. The tables began to fall silent. When he was ready, he brought the harp to Aliam, and bowed.