The Deed of Paksenarrion (86 page)

He smiled. “Your courtesy is appreciated. But you could not have come nearer than I wished. Enough: you came with a purpose. What troubles you?”

Paks did not want to meet his eyes. “Sir, I did not take the time to tell you all that happened on our way across the mountains—”

“You had no need to tell me all, or anything you would not,” he interrupted. “But you shied from some part of your tale, and it speaks in your eyes yet. Is it this you came for?”

Paks felt her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She wished she had gone to Marshal Cedfer. She wished she had done nothing at all. From everything she had heard of the Kuakkganni—their deep love of wild things, their distaste for men’s arts, their contempt for war and soldiery—she was in danger now, danger against which her sword was no protection. She ducked her head lower yet.

“Yes, sir. It is. I—did something, sir, and I—I can’t—I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you sure,” he asked, “that I am the one you wish to talk to? You have spent much time lately with Marshal Cedfer. You are not kuakgannir; I have no claim on your actions.”

“I’m sure,” said Paks, fighting the tremor in her voice. “It—has to do with—with the elf, and wild things, and he—Marshal Cedfer—he would think it silly. I think.”

“Hmm. By elf, I presume you mean Macenion? Yes. And wild things. I doubt, Paksenarrion, that he would think it silly, but I am more used to dealing with those than he. Now—” His voice sharpened a little, and Paks flinched at the tone. “If you can spit out your tale, child, and let us see what it is, perhaps I can be of some use.”

Paks took a deep breath, and began, haltingly, to tell of the night in the pass. The Kuakgan did not interrupt, or prompt her. When she told of the coming of the snowcat, she felt through the bones of her head the sharpening of his gaze and struggled on.

“Then he—Macenion—told me to use the ring—”

“The ring?” His voice might have been stone, from the weight of it.

Paks held out her hand, and withdrew it. “This ring, sir. He said it was made to control animals.” She explained how she had caught Macenion’s horse, and how that had upset him, how he had cast a spell to identify any magic item, and had found her ring.

“You did not know that before?”

“No, sir. I thought the horse came because—well—I like horses. Star always came to me.”

“Mmmm. So, you had a ring made to control animals, and you used it on a horse without knowing its power. Where did you get it?”

“From the Duke, sir. He—he gave it to me, at Dwarfwatch last year, for bringing the word to him.” Suddenly tears ran from her eyes as she thought of the honor of that ring, and how she’d used it.

“Did he know what it was, do you think?”

“No, sir. It was part of the plunder from Siniava’s army that we’d beaten. He said he chose it for the form—the three strands for the three of us that went—”

“The others?”

“Died, sir.” She expected him to ask about that, but he did not. Instead, he returned to her original story.

“So then you were faced with the snowcat. Had you heard of one before? No? And Macenion told you to use the ring. How?”

“He said, sir, to make—make the cat hold still. Not jump at us or the horses. And it worked—” Paks could feel, in memory, the surprise of that. She had really believed her ring was magic until the great beast crouched motionless on the trail before them, the snowflake dapples on its coat blending with the falling snow. “And then he—told me how dangerous it was—”

“You didn’t see that for yourself?” The Kuakgan’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

“Sir, I could see that it was a hunting creature, and big—but it was so beautiful. I didn’t know about the magic it had, until Macenion told me. He said we had no chance—and—” Paks faltered again.

“Go on.” The Kuakgan was implacable.

“He told me to—to hold it still—and—” Paks squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. “And he took his sword—and killed it.”

There was a long silence. Paks dared not move or speak. Her skin prickled all over.

“You held it still, by magic, while Macenion killed it? Helpless?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paks faintly. “I—I knew it was wrong. I asked him—”

“What!” The word shook the ground with power.

“I asked him not to,” whispered Paks. “But he said—he said it was the only way—then—and I—I shouldn’t have, sir, I know that, but what can I do now?”

Another long silence. “And men wonder,” the Kuakgan said finally, in a quiet voice worse than a shout, “why evil roams the land. I should hope you knew it was wrong. Wrong, yes: bitterly wrong. And I assure you, Paksenarrion, that Marshal Cedfer would not think light of this. It was an evil deed, and whatever else they may be, the Marshals of Gird abhor evil. Do you claim, as your defense, that it was Macenion’s fault, because he told you to do so?”

“No, sir,” said Paks. “I should have thought—he told me, later, when I spoke of it, that I could have used the power to send the beast away—”

“Macenion said that? After telling you to do it in the first place?”

“Yes, sir. I know it was my doing. I know it was wrong. But—what now? I thought you would know what to do.”

“To make amends?”

Paks nodded. “I thought—even—I had dishonored my sword. I should—give it up, if you said so: not be a warrior.” She had come to that, after dreaming that the victim had been the black horse.

“Look at me.” Paks could not resist the command, and met the Kuakgan’s dark eyes, her own blurred with tears. He looked every bit as angry as she had expected. “You would give that up? Your own craft in the world? You take the injury so seriously?”

“Yes.” Paks fought again for control of her voice. “Sir, it was
wrong.
I have not slept well since. How can I be—what I want, if I could do that?”

“But you are a soldier,” he mused. “I judge you are a good one, as soldiers go. Have you any other skill?”

“No, sir.”

“I think, then, that you must stay so. Kuakkganni do not hate soldiers, but the necessity of war. If you have dishonored your sword, you must cleanse it with honorable battles. As for amends—the snowcat is dead, and by now the eagles have feasted. Nothing can change that.” He looked closely at her, and Paks nodded. “As I said, I have no responsibility for your actions. But if you will be bound by me, I will take a blood payment from you. Give me the ring, with which you bound the snowcat, so that you cannot misuse such power again.”

Paks froze. Give up this ring? Her hand closed on it. She could hear the Duke’s voice as he gave it, feel the throb in her injured leg.

“I will not compel,” said the Kuakgan. She could feel, however, the withdrawal behind his words. She unclenched her hand, staring at the ring’s twisted strands that meant so much more than power over animals. Then she pulled it from her finger, feeling the tiny ridges for the last time, and laid it in the Kuakgan’s waiting palm. His hand closed over it. She felt a cold wave sweep through her heart: that ring she had never meant to lose, save with her life.

“Child, look at my face.” She looked again; he was smiling gravely. “You did well, Paksenarrion. I think the evil was not rooted too deeply in you, and this may have it out. Choose your companions with more care, another time, and trust your own honor more. No one can preserve it but you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go now. You have much to do, if you would accomplish what the Council set you—and train that black horse you’ve been busy with.”

Paks started. She had forgotten, until then, that she had been using the ring on the black horse.

The Kuakgan gave her an open grin. “We will see whether Macenion was right, and all your skill with horses mere ring-magic. I think myself you have a way with animals, ring or no. And you can trust yourself, now. Is it not so?”

“Yes, sir.” Suddenly Paks felt much better. She had not known how much it bothered her to control the horse with the ring.

“You may take a few extra bruises, but—I heard from Sevri the care you gave your pack pony when you arrived. Such care, Paksenarrion, and not magic, will accomplish what you hope for.” He took her shoulders and turned her away from the fountain. “And there’s your path out. Don’t stray from it—and don’t look back.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Paks. She walked toward the white stones, and along them to the lane.

Lighter in heart, Paks headed for the inn, thinking of what had passed. Her finger felt sore and empty without her ring. She would not have bartered it for food if she had been starving. But the Duke, she felt, would rather have had her give it up than keep it in dishonor. She turned aside from the inn door, and went around by the stableyard. Sevri was currying a trader’s heavy cart horse outside. Paks went into the stable. Star pushed her head up over the stall side, and Paks scratched her absently, watching the black. He seemed more relaxed; he stood at ease, nose resting on the stall door, tail switching at intervals. Paks fed Star half an apple and took the rest to him.

He stiffened as she neared the stall, then caught the scent of apple. Paks held it on the flat of her hand. His nostrils quivered; his lip twitched. Slowly he reached out and lifted it from her palm. She reached up and scratched him, just as she would Star. Still crunching, he leaned into the caress. Paks murmured to him, the meaningless, friendly talk that soothes, and watched his eyes slide shut. She heard Sevri behind her in the aisle, leading the cart horse to its stall.

All at once Paks decided what to do. “Sevri?”

“Yes? Do you need something?”

“Only to tell you something.” Paks paused. It wasn’t going to be easy. She liked the girl. “Sevri, I—haven’t been fair with you.” The girl’s face was puzzled. “The smith was right, Sevri, about this horse. I was using magic on him. To quiet him.”

“What kind of magic?” She seemed more interested than surprised.

“A ring. It worked to quiet animals—to control them. That’s why I could work with him at all.”

“Oh. Are you using it now? Which ring is it?”

Paks spread her hand. “I don’t have it any more. It was the gold one. I’m sorry, Sevri, I should have told you—”

“Why? All horse trainers have their secrets. And you weren’t using it to hurt him. What happened to your ring? Was it stolen?”

“No. I gave it to Master Oakhallow.” Paks was surprised at the girl’s reaction. “But Sevri—your family are kuakgannir, aren’t they? I thought you would think it wrong.”

Sevri shrugged. “I don’t think you needed it. Master Oakhallow says the heart shows in all things. You were always kind to Star and the black, and that’s what works with horses. If you used the ring to quiet him until he could trust you—it shortened your work, that’s all.”

Paks felt a wave of relief. She had feared the girl’s disapproval more than she knew. “I—I thought you should know, that’s all.”

“I’m glad you trust me,” said Sevri seriously, older than her years. “But I wouldn’t tell those others. Let them think what they will. If they knew you’d had one magic ring, they might come looking for others. I learned that working here in the inn.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Paks. “Thank you. But now I suppose we might as well see how the training has gone, and bring him out.”

To her surprise, the black horse was no worse than any other morning. Paks had just finished grooming him and turned to reach for the saddle, when she saw the Kuakgan beside her.

“You are doing well with him,” said the Kuakgan. Paks could find nothing in his voice but polite interest. “Have you been able to cure the injuries he received earlier?”

Paks laid a hand on the horse’s shoulder to steady herself. She had not thought to see the Kuakgan again so soon; her breath came short. “Sir, his mouth healed quickly, but—there’s one thing. He has deep scars on his hind legs, and I don’t know what can be done for them.”

“I’ll take a look.” At the Kuakgan’s touch, the horse relaxed even more, and did not flinch even when the Kuakgan ran his strong hands down the hind legs. He paused when he came to the scar on the near leg. “A rope or wire cut him deeply here; it’s a wonder he was not crippled by it. The wound healed cleanly, but the scar has grown to hamper the action of the joint a little. Do you find he sometimes seemed to drag his hoof there?”

Paks shook her head. “I’ve never seen it myself. But Marshal Cedfer says he does so, when I’m training with him.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps I can ease that for him.” Paks did not see him do anything, but he laid his hand over the scar a long moment, and then on the other leg. “Now,” he said, as he straightened up, “I would see you ride, young woman.”

Paks felt her belly clench. Would he make the horse rear and buck? Run away? She was sure he could do that. Or would he criticize what Marshal Cedfer had taught her? Her fingers felt huge and clumsy as she set the saddle on the horse’s back, arranged the crupper and breastband, girthed up, and bridled. The Kuakgan inspected the tack, running the leather through his hands, touching the bit with his fingers. At last there was nothing to do but mount. The horse had picked up Paks’s tension, and stiffened his ears, but he stood still while she gained the saddle.

Once up, habit reasserted itself, and she gave to the horse’s movement. She rode around the stableyard twice, then made a few circles and other figures around the dungheap. She looked at the Kuakgan; he gestured for her to ride outside. Paks sighed, nodded, and guided the black through the gate.

The Kuakgan led her out of town, eastward. Paks followed, the black horse stepping along lightly. He turned as she caught up with him.

“I think you have done well so far,” he said. “Ride ahead, now, and turn back when you come to the edge of the grove.”

Paks nudged the horse into a slow trot, halted and turned where she was bid, and rode back.

“He should have no more trouble with those scars,” said the Kuakgan. “He’s moving easier. Could you feel it?”

“It seems springier, somehow.”

“Yes, and he will be able to do some of those fancy things the Marshal would like to teach you. Too bad they’re used for fighting only. If it did not risk his death or yours, I’d be happier about it.” He smiled up at her. “But you and he were meant to be so, perhaps. I wish you well, Paksenarrion. You may come again to the grove, if you wish; you have a definite talent with animals. That is, in part, what hurt you so when you misused it.” He waved and turned away. Paks sat still, and watched him cross the road and enter the grove by leaping the wall. She almost called a warning, then realized that it would hold no perils for him. He had disappeared among the trees when she lifted the reins and rode to the grange along the street for the first time.