The Deed of Paksenarrion (186 page)

Then those in front saw, and did not believe, but recoiled even in disbelief against those behind. For the burnt bloody holes where the rocks had been disappeared, as a wave swept across lines on sand erases them, gone without mark or scar. At the movement, the priests turned, saw, and gaped in equal disbelief. One by one, other wounds healed, changing in the sight of those watching to unmarked skin. Finger by finger, her misshapen hands regained their natural shape. With a cry, the two guards dropped her, flinging themselves back. One of the priests cursed, and raised his whip, but when he swung, it recoiled from her and snagged his own armor. The other drew a notched dagger, and stabbed, but his blade twisted aside. She lay untouched, unmoving.

Now turmoil filled the hall: those behind wanting to see what had happened, those in front frantic to escape the wrath of Gird they were sure would come. The priests called other guards, who yanked her upright, head still lolling—now all could see that Liart’s black brand no longer centered her forehead. Instead, a silver circle gleamed there, as if inset in the bone itself. At that, the priests of Liart shrank away, their masked faces averted from the High Lord’s holy symbol. The terrified guards would have dropped her, but the priests screamed obscenities louder even than the crowds’ noise, and sent them away with her, out the same entrance through which they’d brought her earlier. And then they drove the crowd away, in a rage that could not disguise their own fear.

Chaos scurried through the warrens of the Thieves Guild, panic and disruption, as those who had seen tried to convince those who had not, and those who would not listen tried to find someone to believe. Some fled to the streets: black night, icy cold with a sweeping wind, and patrols of cold-eyed Royal Guards sent them back into the familiar warrens, even more afraid. Factions clashed; old quarrels erupted in steel and strangling cord. Those who had arranged to take the paladin’s body outside the city walls wrapped her in a heavy cloak and carried her gingerly, carefully not looking to see if that healing miracle continued, eager to get this terror out of their domain.

And at every grange of Gird, the vigil continued until dawn.

Kieri Phelan rode away from Vérella that dark night in an internal storm of impotent rage and frustration. He had been captured by a ruse he should have seen through—taken in by the plea of one of his veterans. That was stupidity, and he didn’t excuse himself that he was distracted by the day’s events. So he was Lyonya’s king—that didn’t mean he could let his mind wander. And then he’d been rescued—beyond his hopes—by another veteran—by Paksenarrion, now a paladin of Gird. She had freed him, and his squires, but she herself was now a prisoner—for five days, she had agreed to suffer whatever torments the priests of Liart inflicted. And he had agreed to that, because he could do nothing else. She made the bargain with the Liartians, and her oath bound him. He shifted in the saddle, glad of the darkness that covered his expression. What must they all think, of a king that would sacrifice a paladin to save his own life?

And yet—he had to admit she was right. He knew who he was, now: the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne, a half-elf, torn from his birthright by slavers. No one else could do what he must do—restore the frayed taig of Lyonya, and the alliance of elf and human, clean the forests of evil influence. Lyonya needed its king—needed
him—
and he could not deny a paladin’s right to follow a quest to its end. But Paksenarrion—dear to him as his own daughter—his heart burned to think of her in their hands. All he had seen in thirty-odd years of war came to him that night, and showed him what she must endure.

He forced his mind to his own plans. If she had bought his life, he must make use of it. Selfer would be far north of Vérella by now, riding hard to meet Dorrin’s cohort and bring them down. Dorrin herself, in Vérella, would have fresh mounts ready for them, and a royal pass to follow him. Kostvan had agreed to let Arcolin pass through, if it came to that, and would be alert in case the Pargunese tried to take advantage of his absence. He thought ahead. Surely the enemy would strike before he reached Chaya—but where? Not in the Mahieran lands close to Vérella, nor in the little baronies of Abriss or Dai. East of that, in Verrakai domain? At the border itself? In Lyonya? He thought over what Paks had said about Achrya’s influence there—some thought of him as a blood-thirsty mercenary. He had no clear idea of the river road in his mind; he’d always gone south to visit the Halverics, cutting eastward from below Fiveway to go through Brewersbridge and avoid Verrakai altogether.

At Westbells, the High Marshal and Phelan both stopped to wake Marshal Torin and hand over Paks’s gear. Seklis did not explain much, and Marshal Torin, sleepy-eyed and bewildered, did not ask. Kieri touched that bright armor for the last time, as he thought, and prayed to all the gods that Paks might be spared the worst. The first glimmer of light seeped into the eastern sky as they rode away. Around him the ponderous hooves of the heavy warhorses—twenty of them—shook the earth. Behind were the lighter mounts of the infantry and bowmen, and then the pack train. Kieri’s mouth twitched, remembering Dorrin’s sulfurous comments on the pack train. He would have minded more, except that their slowness gave Dorrin a better chance to catch up. He thought where Selfer would be, on the road he knew best—changing horses, gulping a hot mug of sib, and starting off again, faced with Crow Ridge to climb.

As the day brightened, Kieri glanced around to see what his escort looked like in the daytime. Twenty massive gray warhorses, twenty plate-armored knights with spears and swords. Already the heavy horses were streaked with sweat; they were meant for power, not distance. Twenty mounted infantry, on gray horses much smaller than the warhorses; these carried short swords, with shields slung to the saddles. Ten mounted bowmen, on the same light horses, with the short, sharply curved bow of the northern nomad, to be used mounted or afoot: an excellent bow in the forest, as well. All these were in rose and silver or gray, the royal colors of Tsaia. His own tensquad, still in Phelani maroon and white, mounted on matched bays (how had Dorrin accomplished that, he wondered?), with Vossik at their head. The King’s Squires from Lyonya, whom he hardly knew, but for Garris: they rode close around him, with the royal pennant of Lyonya displayed. And the two Marshals: High Marshal Seklis, and Marshal Sulinarrion, both in Gird’s blue and white, with the crescent of Gird on chest and cloak. Behind came the pack train—servants, supplies, more than forty beasts extra, which the Tsaian Royal Guard insisted on.

Kieri looked around for the Royal Guard cohort commander. He had met the man the previous afternoon, before leaving the palace, but could not recognize him among the other knights. But the man caught his eye, reined his horse close, and bowed.

“My lord? You wish to rest?”

Kieri nearly laughed, but managed to hide it. “No, Sir Ammerlin. I’m used to longer rides than this. I wanted to ask, though, what your usual order of march would be.”

Ammerlin frowned. “Well—it’s rare that we travel far; we’re the Royal Guard, after all, and we stay with the prince. We should breathe the horses soon, my lord. If they’re to go far—”

“I suppose Lyonya is far,” said Kieri. It seemed to him that the pace had been but a crawl—a man could have walked the distance as fast—but he knew better than to push another man’s command beyond its limits. Ammerlin bowed in the saddle.

“I thank you, my lord.” He returned to the head of the column, spoke to the cohort bugler, and a quick signal rang out. Kieri tossed a hand signal at Vossik that halted his own tensquad in their tracks while the Royal Guard straggled to a halt. High Marshal Seklis grinned at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Marshal, my company doesn’t know their signals.”

Seklis laughed. “My lord, your company could probably keep an even interval without any signals at all—couldn’t it now?”

“It might,” said Kieri. Ammerlin had come back, on foot. “How long will we rest?” asked Kieri.

“A quarter glass or so, my lord. I need to check on the pack animals, and make sure everything is holding up well. And each rider checks his own animal.”

“Then I’ll walk around a bit.” Kieri swung off his horse to find that Lieth was already down and holding his rein. “You’re quick,” he said, smiling. She looked down.

“My lord king, not quick enough.”

He knew what she meant; the afternoon before, when they were all captured. He laid his hand on her arm. “Lieth, I will not ask you not to think of it—I think of it every moment. But I need my squires alert now—here—so I will ask that you think of it in the back of your head. Let you not reproach yourself for the past—for all of us have failed someone somewhere.”

She met his eyes, her own full of tears, but nodded. “I will not speak of it again.”

“We
will
speak of it again, Lieth—to the whole court of Lyonya—but first we will get there.” At that she managed a smile, and he walked off the road to the snowy verge, stamping his feet. Suriya and Garris flanked him on either side; Vossik he found close behind him whenever he turned.

The pause lasted longer than a quarterglass, for some of the pack animals needed their packs reset. Kieri contained his annoyance, to Ammerlin’s evident relief. High Marshal Seklis was less restrained. “I’ve wondered, Ammerlin, how you could possibly get to the field in time for a battle, and now I see you couldn’t.”

Ammerlin reddened. “We could, close to Vérella, but—”

“Gird’s shovel, man, you’re not an honest four hour ride from Vérella yet!”

“But we had to pack for a journey—”

“I daresay the expedition to Luap’s stronghold had less baggage, and they meant to be gone a year,” returned Seklis.

“High Marshal,” said Kieri quietly, and shook his head. Seklis subsided; Ammerlin stalked off, still angry. “Don’t bait him,” said Kieri. “We will need his goodwill, when they attack us.”

“You think they will?”

Kieri shrugged. “Why else would they have let me go? Paksenarrion said—and it makes sense—that two powerful evils do not want me on the throne of Lyonya. I’m not sure why they didn’t kill me at once—but they must intend to do it, and this journey is the best time.”

“Then why didn’t you wait in Vérella for your company?”

Kieri looked at him sideways. “Marshal, if I had brought down my whole Company—and the gods know what a comfort that would be to me now—do you think I’d have had leave to march it through Verrakai’s lands? And what would the Lyonyans think, when I arrived declaring myself their ruler with my own personal troops around me? And what would have happened in the north, where my Company stands between Tsaia and the northern perils? No—that would never do.” Seklis and Sulinarrion nodded. “As you know, I did ask—and get—permission to bring one cohort down; if the Royal Guard is slow enough, Dorrin may catch us up before the border.”

“How fast can they travel?” asked Sulinarrion.

“They’ll be in Vérella three days after they start,” said Kieri, then grinned at their expressions. “Mounted, of course.”

“Mounted on what?” asked Seklis when he got his breath back. “Flying horses?”

“No—and not warhorses, either. Good, solid nomad-bred beasts. Ugly as sin, and legs like stone.”

“What do you use for supply?” asked Sulinarrion.

“For a cohort? A ten-mule string, usually, for a week’s journey. Double that for speed. More if there’s a lot of fighting, because I don’t like to leave my wounded behind; I’ll hire wagons, mule-drawn, if necessary.”

“Umph.” Sulinarrion seemed impressed. “So some of what I heard from Aarenis could be true.”

“That depends on what you heard.”

“That your Company marched from the upper Immer to Cortes Andres in less than twelve days, including fighting.”

Kieri counted on his fingers. “Ten days, it was, from Ifoss to Cortes Andres. Yes. No wagons, though, until we captured some of Siniava’s on the north border of Andressat. But that march wasn’t bad—ask Vossik here.” He smiled at the sergeant, and the Marshals turned to him. In answer to their questions he shook his head.

“No, Marshals, my lord’s right. That was across high ground, mostly, and easy enough. I’d say that march through the forest, or across Cilwan, was worse.”

“The weather was,” said Kieri, “and we had walking wounded, too. And what about that last stretch in Fallo?”

Vossik grinned. “I was hoping to forget that, my lord. That damned mud—those Fallo roads haven’t got no bottom to ‘em at all, and the fields was wet as creeks. Seemed like we’d been marching forever by then.”

Ammerlin came back and bowed stiffly to Kieri. “My lord, we are ready to ride when you please.”

“Thank you, Sir Ammerlin,” Kieri replied. “I would like to meet the other knights before we begin—it’s easier to recognize those you’ve met in daylight, I find.”

Ammerlin relaxed slightly. “Certainly, my lord.” He led Kieri to the group of heavy knights waiting to mount. Kieri shook hands with each, noting their strength and apparent determination.

“It’s been so long,” he said, “since I have campaigned with heavy cavalry that I have forgotten much. Sir Ammerlin, you must be sure to tell me when the horses should rest, and what must be done. A mounted infantry company moves very differently.”

Ammerlin thawed another fraction. “My lord, I am sorry that we cannot move faster; the prince said your journey was urgent, and must brook no delay. I know the Marshals think we are soft, but—” he patted his own horse, “these fellows were never meant for speed or distance. Yet in close combat, they are a powerful defense; we can ride down lighter cavalry without getting far away from you. We cannot, it’s true, ride into a heavy polearm company, but—”

“If we run into that,” said Kieri, “we’ll have to go around. Believe me, I appreciate the prince’s care in sending such an escort. But to make the best use of it, you must advise me.”

Ammerlin appeared to give up his resentment completely. “Well, my lord, they can work all day—if it’s slow—or a short time, if it’s fast. That’s the choice. I’d choose to go at their walking pace—a little slower than the light horses—and rest them at least every two glasses. And a long break at noon, of course.” Kieri, calculating this without moving a muscle, began to be sure that Dorrin would catch them before the border. “If we try to move out faster,” Ammerlin went on, “we’ll have a third of them lame in two days, and then what?” Leave them behind, Kieri thought, but did not say. He knew he would need them.