Oath of Gold

2

So passed the rest of that day, with the warm spring sun and the silence unknotting the muscles of back and neck that had been tight so long. They came on a tiny trickle of clear water, and drank; for awhile in the early afternoon they sat near a mound of stone, and Paks fell asleep. When she woke, the Kuakgan was gone, but before she had stretched more than twice, she saw him coming through the trees. From time to time her mind would reach for the memory of yesterday’s pain, but she could not touch it: it was as if a pane of heavy glass lay between that reality and this. She could not think what she might do next, or where to go, and at last she quit trying to think of it.

They came back to the Kuakgan’s house in the last of the sunlight. Paks took her clothes, now dry, from the bushes, and folded them in her arms. She felt pleasantly tired, and slightly hungry. The Kuakgan smiled.

“Sit here in the warmth, while I bring supper,” he said. “Or will you come with me?”

Paks thought of the inn, and the misery returned full strength. This time she felt the tension knotting her brow and hunching her shoulders, and tried to stand upright. But before she could frame an answer, the Kuakgan shook his head.

“No. Not yet. Stay. As I feared, it will take more than one day of healing.” And he was gone, across the glade and along the path to the village.

She sat trembling, hating herself for the fear that had slammed back into her mind. She could not even go to an inn—even here, where she had had friends, and no enemies. She stared at her hands, broad and scarred with the years of war. If she could not hold a sword or bow, what could she do? Not stay forever with the Kuakgan, that wouldn’t do. Her hand felt for her belt pouch, and she remembered that she’d put it in the offering basin. Everything was gone; everything from those years had gone as if it had never been. Warriors can’t keep much, but that little they prize; the loss of the last of her treasures to the kuaknom still hurt: Saben’s little red horse, Canna’s medallion. Now she had not even the Duke’s ring left (the third ring, she thought ruefully, that he’s given me and I’ve lost somehow.)

As before, she wasn’t sure how long the Kuakgan had been gone when he returned. He was simply there, in the evening dimness, carrying another kettle. She forced herself up as he came toward her. He nodded, and they went into the house together. This time she helped unpack the kettle, and made no protest at eating. He had brought slices of roast mutton swimming in gravy, redroots mashed with butter, and mushrooms. Again. She looked up, to say something about the cost, met his eyes, and thought better of it. She ate steadily, enjoying the food more than she expected to, but fearing the questions he would surely ask after supper.

But he said nothing, as long as she ate, and when she finished, and stacked her pans for return, he seemed to be staring through the opposite wall. His own dishes were empty; she reached for them, wiped them, and put them in the kettle. He looked at her suddenly, and smiled briefly.

“You’re wondering when I will start to question you.”

Paks looked down, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“I had thought tonight. But I changed my mind.” Along silence. Paks looked away, around the room, back to his face. It was unreadable.

“Why?” she asked finally.

He sighed, and shook his head. “I’m not sure how—or how much—to tell you. Healing is a Kuakganni craft, as you know.” Paks nodded. “Well, then, one part of the healing craft is knowing when. When to act, and when to wait. In the case of humans, one must also know when to ask, and when to keep silent. You are not ready to speak of it, whatever it is.”

Paks moved restlessly. “You—I would have thought you’d have heard something—”

“Hmmm.” It became as resonant as his comments to the bees. Paks looked at his face again. “I hear many things. Most of them false, as far as talk goes. Brewersbridge is a little out of the way for reliable news.” He looked at her squarely. “And whatever I might have heard, what is important is you, yourself. Just as you, yourself, will heal when you are ready.”

Paks looked away. She could feel the tears stinging her eyes again.

“There. You are not ready, yet. Don’t worry; it will come. Let your body gain strength for a few days. You are already better, though you don’t feel it.”

“But I couldn’t go—” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

“But that will pass. That will pass.” She felt a wave of warmth and peace roll over her mind, and the pain eased again.

But several nights later, the dream returned. Once more she was fighting for her life far underground, tormented by thirst and hunger and the pain of her wounds. She smelled the rank stench of the green torches, and felt the blows of knife and whip that striped her sides. She gasped for breath, choked, scrabbled at the fingers knotted in her throat—and woke to find the Kuakgan beside her, holding her hands in his.

Soft candlelight lit the room. She stared wildly for a moment, lost in the dream, trembling with the effort of the fight.

“Be still,” he said softly. “Don’t try to talk. Do you know me yet?”

After a minute or two she nodded. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and she worked it around. “Master Oakhallow.” Her voice sounded odd.

“Yes. You are safe. Lie still, now; I’ll get you something to drink.”

The mint-flavored water cleaned remembered horrors out of her mouth. She tried to sit up, but the Kuakgan pushed her down gently. A tremor shook her body; as she tried to fight it off, the pain of those wounds returned, sapping her strength.

“You still have pain?” he asked.

Paks nodded.

“How long ago were those wounds dealt?”

She tried to count back. Her mind blurred, then steadied. “From—it would have been last summer. Late in the summer.”

“So long?” His eyebrows rose. “Hmm. What magic bound them?”

Paks shook her head. “I don’t know. The paladin and Marshal both tried healing. It helped, but the—the kuaknom had done something to them—”

“Kuaknom! What were you doing with them?”

Paks looked down, shivering. “They captured me. In Kolobia.”

“So. I don’t wonder that you have grave difficulties. And they dealt these wounds that pain you now?”

“Not . . . exactly. It—” As the memory swept over her, Paks could not speak. She shook her head, violently. The Kuakgan caught it, and held her still.

“No more, then, tonight. Sleep.” He answered the fear in her eyes before she could say it. “You won’t dream again. That I can still, and you will rest as you did the first night, and wake at peace. Sleep.” She fell into his voice, into the silence beyond it, and slept.

In the morning she woke rested, as he had promised. Still the shame of her breakdown was on her, and she came to the breakfast table silently and did not smile.

“You will not have those dreams again,” he said quietly, as she ate. “When I release your dreams again, those will be healed. This much I promise. I have waited as long as I could for your body’s healing, Paksenarrion; it is now time to begin on the mind. Whatever ill you have suffered has clearly injured both.”

She nodded, silent and intent on her bread.

“I will need to see these wounds you spoke of.” He reached for her arm. Paks froze an instant, then stretched her hand out. He pushed up her sleeve. The red-purple welts were still swollen. “You have more of these?”

“Yes.”

“Many?”

“Yes.” Despite herself, she was shivering again.

“And they are all over a half-year old?” Paks nodded.

“Powerful magic, then, and dangerous. Have they faded at all? How long did it take for them to heal this far?”

“They . . . fade sometimes,” Paks said softly. “For a week or so, as if they were healing. Then they swell and redden again. At first—I don’t know how long it was. I think only a day or so, but I lost track of time.”

“I see. Have any true elves seen this?”

“Yes. One that came with us. He thought they had used something like the true elves use to speed and slow the growth of plants.”

“Ah. It might be so, indeed. Perverted, as they would have it—to heal quickly partway and then stay so. But why that far?”

Paks fought a desire to roll into a ball like a hedgehog. It was harder to speak than she had expected; that was hard enough. “So—so I could fight.”

“Fight?” The Kuakgan paused. When she said nothing, he went on. “You said they did not deal these wounds themselves. They wanted you able to fight, but hindered. And now you cannot fight. Was that their doing, too?”

“No.” She could not say more. She heard the Kuakgan’s sigh.

“I need to try something on one of the wounds. This will probably hurt.” He took her arm, and held it lightly. Paks paid no attention. She felt the fingers of his other hand running along the scars. After a moment she felt a trickle of cold in one, then heat in another. The feelings ebbed. She glanced at his face; it was closed and remote. A savage ache ran up her arm from the wrist, and was gone instantly. A pain as sharp as the original blow brought a gasp from her; she glanced at her arm; the scar was darker than ever. Then it passed, and the Kuakgan’s eyes came to focus on her again.

“The true elf was correct in his surmise. These will heal no better without intervention. Did he try?”

“He said he had not the skill. He had known one who had, but—”

“I see. Paksenarrion, this will take time and patience. It will not be easy for you; it is a matter of purifying the wounds of the poison they used. If you can bear the pain a short while longer, you should be strong enough in body for the healing. Can you?”

Paks forced a smile. “After these months? Of course.”

His face relaxed briefly. “Good. And now we must come to the other—it’s not for this pain that you were ready to throw away your life. What else did they do to you?”

“Do I have to—? Now?”

“I think so. Healing those—getting that poison out—will take strength from us both. I must know what else is wrong, what reserves you have, before I start that.” He started to gather up the remains of breakfast, though, as if it were any other morning. Paks sat where she was, unspeaking. After brushing crumbs onto the windowsill for the birds, he turned back to her. “It might be easier outside. Sunlight cleanses more than dirty linen. Come walk with me.”

They had wandered an hour in the grove before Paks began to speak, starting with her first days in the training barracks at Fin Panir, and the sun was high overhead when she came to the kuaknomi lair. Even in the bright sunlight (for they had come again to the glade) she felt the darkness and the foulness of that place. Her words came short, and halted, but the Kuakgan did not prompt her. The fountain’s chuckling filled the silence until she spoke again.

“I could not say his name,” she said finally. “I couldn’t call on Gird. I tried, at first. I remember that. But after awhile . . . I couldn’t say it. And I had to fight: whenever I woke again, they were there, and I had to fight.” She told what she could remember of the battles in the arena, of her horror at seeing the great bloated spider that devoured those she defeated. “After awhile, I don’t remember more. They said—those who came and found me—that I was wearing enchanted armor, and wore Achrya’s symbol around my neck.”

“Who found you?”

“Others in the expedition: Amberion, Marshal Lord Fallis, those. I don’t remember that at all. They told me that after a day I was awake and talking to them clearly, but the next I remember is walking along a trail in another canyon, and finding the way to Luap’s stronghold.”

“So it was real—you found it?”

“Oh yes, it’s real. A great citadel, deep in the rock, full of all kinds of magic.” In her mind’s eye the dark lairs were replaced by that soaring red rock arch between the outpost and the main stronghold. “We’d hardly be back to Fin Panir by now had it not had magic. That’s how we came.”

“Magic, then, but no healing?”

Paks stopped short. “No. Not for me, anyway.” She went on to tell him what had happened when she returned to Fin Panir. How the Marshal-General had said she was deeply tainted with kuaknomi evil, and how she had come at last to agree. She shivered as she spoke, and the Kuakgan interrupted.

“Let’s go back for supper. It’s late.” Already the sun was far behind the trees. When they came to the house, Paks feared to stay alone, and could not say it. But instead of leaving her, the Kuakgan came in and brought out bread and cheese. They ate in silence, and he seemed abstracted. After supper, for the first time, he lit a fire on the large hearth, and they sat before it.

“Now go on,” he said. “But don’t hurry yourself. What did your Marshal-General propose to do? Why did she think Gird had not protected you?”

“She didn’t say why,” said Paks, answering the last question first. “But I think they believe I was too new a Girdsman, and too vulnerable as a paladin candidate. They’d said we were more open to evil, in our training. She said that fighting under iynisin command had opened a passage for their evil into my mind. It could be taken out, but—” Paks broke off, steadied her voice, and went on, staring into the flames. “She said the evil was so close to the—to what made me a fighter, that to destroy it might destroy that too.”

“And what did she say that was?”

“My courage.” She barely breathed the words, but the pain in them rang through the room.

The Kuakgan hummed briefly. Paks sat rigid as a pike staff, waiting for his reaction. He reached a poker to the fire, and stirred it. Another pause, while sparks snapped up the chimney. “And now you are not a fighter. You think that is why?”

“I know it. Sir.” Paks sat hunched, looking now at her hands locked in her lap.

“Because you know fear? Did you never fear before? I thought you were afraid of me, the first time I saw you. You were afraid of Master Zinthys’s truth spell—you said so.”

“Before I could always face it. I could still fight. And usually I wasn’t afraid. Very.”

“And now you can’t.” His voice expressed nothing she could take hold of, neither approval nor disapproval.

“That’s right. As soon as I could get out of bed again, afterwards, I tried. But my own armor frightened me. Weapons, noise, the look on their faces, all of it. It was some little time before I could walk well, and I was clumsy with things at first. The Marshal-General had said that might happen, so when I picked up my sword and it felt strange, I wasn’t upset. At first. But then—” She shook her head, remembering her first attempt at arms practice. “It was just drill,” she said slowly. “They knew I’d been hurt; they wouldn’t have injured me. But I couldn’t face them. When that blade came toward me, I froze. They told me later that I fainted. It didn’t even touch me. The next day it was worse. I started shaking before I got into the practice ring. I couldn’t even ride. You know how I loved horses—” she looked up, and the Kuakgan nodded. “My own horse—the black I got here—I couldn’t mount him. Could not. He sensed my fear, and fretted, and all I could think of was the size of his feet. They all thought it would help somehow, so they lifted me onto a gentle little palfrey. I sat there stiff, and shaking, and as soon as she broke into a trot I fell off.”

“And so you left them. Or did they throw you out?”

Paks shook her head. “No. They were generous. The Marshal-General offered to have me stay there, or train me to any trade I wished. But you know, sir, that Gird is a fighter’s saint. How can they understand? It’s not right, and Girdsmen know it. And the Duke—” Her voice broke again.

“Was he there?”

Paks fought for control. “Yes. He came when he—when they told him I—what they might do. He said he would take me then, as a captain or whatever. But—I knew—they were right. Something was wrong. It had to be done. I still think so. And he was there after, when we knew it had gone badly. He gave me—”

“That ring you left in the basin.” Paks nodded. The Kuakgan sighed. “Your Duke is a remarkable man. He has no love for the Girdsmen in general, and the Marshal-General in particular. He must think a lot of you.”

“Not now,” said Paks miserably.

“He gave you the ring afterwards, did he not? After he knew what had happened? Don’t underestimate your Duke, Paksenarrion.” He stirred the fire again. “I saw him once, long ago. I wondered then what sort of man he would be. I have heard of him, of course, in the years since, but only what anyone might hear. For the most part.”

“Why does he dislike the Girdsmen so?” asked Paks.

The Kuakgan shook his head. “That’s not my story to tell. I have it only by hearsay, and may have it wrong. Perhaps he will tell you someday.”

“I . . . don’t think so.”

“Because you think you’ll never go back? Nonsense. In courtesy you must see him again, and ease his concern.”

“But—”

“You must. Whether you draw sword for him again or not, Paksenarrion, you cannot leave him wondering whether you are alive or dead. Not tonight, no, nor tomorrow—but you must go. And when you go, you will agree with me on that.”

Paks said nothing. She could not imagine going to the Duke’s hold with her fear still unconquered. Unless she regained her courage, and could fight, she could not face the Duke and her old companions.

“One thing more, tonight, and then you will sleep. What was it like, when you first thought your courage gone? How did you know it?”

Paks thought how to describe it. “When I first trained, with the Duke,” she began, “I could feel something—an eagerness—in the drill. When Siger—the armsmaster—threatened with his blade, I felt it rising in me. Excitement, eagerness—I don’t know how to say it, but I wanted to fight, wanted to—to strike, to take chances. When he hit me, the pain was just pain, like falling. Nothing to be afraid of, or worried about. And after that, in the battles—I was scared, the first year, but even then that feeling was inside, to draw on. As soon as the fight started, it seemed to lift me up, and carry me along. It never failed me. Even in the worst times, when we were ambushed, or when Macenion and I faced the old elf lord, I might think that I was likely to be killed, but it didn’t affect my fighting. Unless, perhaps, I fought all the better for it. That’s how we all were; those that feared wounds or death left the Company. That danger was our life. Some, indeed, loved the fighting so much that they were kept from constant brawling only by the rules. I had had one trouble with brawling; I didn’t want more. I liked my fights for a reason.” Paks stopped again; she was breathing faster, and her mouth was dry. The Kuakgan rose and brought the jug of water. They each had a mug of it, then she went on.

“At Fin Panir it was like a dream. Everything I’d ever thought about, when I was a girl: the knights, the paladins, the songs and music, training every day with warriors known all over the Eight Kingdoms. There were none of the—the things that bothered me, in the south. We would fight only against true evil. And I met real elves, and dwarves. I could learn any weapon, learn as much as I could. They said I did well; they wanted me to join the Fellowship of Gird, they asked me to become a paladin-candidate. For me, for all that I’d dreamed of, that was—” She stopped, poured another mug of water, and took a sip. “I never dared dream so high, before. It came like a burst of light. All the strange things that had happened in Aarenis seemed to make sense. Of course, I agreed. I felt I was coming to my true home, the heart of my life.”

“And now?”

“It was the happiest time of my life.” Paks drank the rest of her water. “It will seem silly to you, Master Oakhallow, I don’t doubt. A sheepfarmer’s daughter with silly daydreams of wielding a magic sword against monsters, a runaway girl joining the mercenaries, still holding that dream somewhere inside. I couldn’t make them understand, in Fin Panir; maybe it’s so silly it doesn’t matter. But I had tried to learn my craft of fighting well enough to be of use, and there, where all were dedicated to honor and war—there I was happy indeed.”

“I don’t think it was silly,” said the Kuakgan. “Such a dream is most difficult to fulfill, but it is not silly. But tell me, now, what it was that changed, after the Marshal-General did whatever she did.”

“It was gone, that’s all. That feeling or whatever that came when I was fighting. It was gone, and left emptiness—as if the ground suddenly disappeared under one foot, and left me with nothing to stand on. I had no skill and no courage to cover the lack. I thought at first it would come back; I kept trying. After awhile I could move better, and control my sword, but as soon as I tried to fence with someone the emptiness seemed to spread and spread until all was gone. Sometimes I fainted, as I said, and sometimes—once I ran away, and once or twice just stood, unable to do anything. Now when I try to face something, when something frightens me, I have nothing inside to do it with.”

“So you left Fin Panir and—did you plan to come here?”

“No! Never! I wandered along the roads, looking for work. I thought I could do unskilled work, at least: farm labor, and that. But so many things frightened me—things that frighten no one but a little child—” She wondered whether to tell him about the trader’s caravan, the robbers at the inn, and decided not to. What difference did it make, after all? “I wandered, mostly. I didn’t know this was Brewersbridge until I came to the inn. I would have fled, but a guard thought I was acting strangely and wanted to take me to the keep.”

“Wouldn’t Marshal Cedfer have vouched for you? You said the Marshal-General promised safe-conduct in all the granges of Gird.”

“I suppose he would have, sir, but I couldn’t ask him. I asked, once, in Fintha—they don’t understand. If I had lost an arm or leg, something they could see, they might. But as it is—cowardice—they think of that as shameful weakness, or punishment for great evil. With soldiers it’s even simpler. Cowardice is cowardice, and nothing else. I suppose they’re right, sir, but I can’t—” Her voice broke, and tears burst from her eyes. “I can’t—live with that—with their scorn. The Marshal knew me before—he’d say I wasn’t a criminal—but he’d despise—”

“Enough. I know the Marshal better than that. He is fair, if sometimes narrow-minded. And you are not being fair to yourself. But it is late, and you need rest. We will talk more of this tomorrow. Don’t fear to sleep; your dreams are withheld for the present.”

Paks thought she could not face the morning, but when she woke, she felt more at peace than she had for a long time. She awaited the Kuakgan’s questions. But he said nothing during breakfast, and afterwards called her to walk with him in the grove as usual. The first hour or so passed in silence. As always, Paks found something new to look at every few paces. She had never lived near a forest before, and it had not occurred to her how full a forest could be. Finally he turned to her, and spoke.

“Sit down, child, and we’ll talk some.” Paks sat against the trunk of a tree, and he stretched on the ground nearby. “You are stronger of body than when you came, Paksenarrion; are you aware of it?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks felt herself flushing. “I’ve been eating too much.”

“No, not too much. You were far too thin; you need more weight even now. But the day you came, you could not have endured what you did yesternight without collapse.”

“But that was my mind—”

He made a disgusted noise. “Paksenarrion, your body and mind are as close as the snail-shell and the snail. If you poke holes in the snail-shell, will the snail live?”

“No, but—”

“By the Tree, you must be better, to argue with me!” He chuckled a moment, then turned serious again. “You did not say, when I first saw you, how you planned to die—if you’d thought about it—but it was clear that you were near death for some reason. Some trouble I could see at a glance: your thinness, your weakness. Some seemed clear, more was certain. I began with what was easily cured; good food and rest heal many wounds of body and mind both. Then you were frightened even by that rabbit on the path as you came in. Is that true now?”

“No . . . not here, with you. I don’t know what it would be like outside.” Paks tried to imagine it, tried to see herself walking down a street somewhere. The panic fear she had felt before did not return. “I can think of being somewhere else, at least.”

“Very well. Your body is beginning to heal, and with it the mind heals also.”

“But I thought you said the wounds would need more?”

“Yes. They will. But that will sap your strength again, for a little, and I wanted to build it first. It is a delicate thing, Paksenarrion, to choose the best time. First to gain your trust, so that even the pain I must cause you will not awake the panic. Then to let food and rest do what they may with the parts of your body that were not wounded, so that the strength there offsets—Do you understand any of this?”

“Not really. I would think if the food and rest could heal—”

“It should heal all? Ordinarily it might. But the kuaknomi have difficult magic, and their poisons outlast normal human lifespans. The poison takes the strength from you, and will, until we get it out. And until your body is clean of it, your mind shares the poison.”

“Oh.”

“And you fear what I might do to heal you,” he added shrewdly.

“Yes. Sir, I—I went through that once. They were saying it was in my mind, but the same thing. Evil. Something to be ripped out. And now you—”

“Hmmm. Yes. But I can show you what I will do. Look at that scar on your arm—the one that hurt you so that night.” Paks shoved up her sleeve and looked. It had been redder the following morning, but now had faded to a dull pink. When she prodded it with a finger, it held no underlying soreness.

“Is it truly healing?” she asked.

“Yes. In a few weeks it should be pale as your old scars. I could not use quicker methods, after what they had done.”

“But the others?”

“You remember the pain of that one? It was almost like the original wound, wasn’t it?” Paks nodded. “And you have many others. To work on them all at once will be very painful for you. I could force you into a sleep, but then we are faced with the trouble in your mind. If you still wish to die, you could go then, while I was busy with your wounds. I cannot care for both, alone. I would prefer to have your cooperation, mind and body, before I begin.” He seemed to look past her, over her head, into some distance. “I might have called on another Kuakgan for aid, or on the elves—or even Marshal Cedfer—but until I knew where your trouble lay, and from what cause, I had no right to do so.”

“But you can heal the wounds,” said Paks, confidently.

“Yes.”

“Will that heal the—the other? Is that what caused it, truly?”

“I don’t know. I think you were already weakened so by the wounds, by the poison in them, that even without the Marshal-General’s intervention your mind would have been affected in time. Without probing deeply into it, I am not sure what she did. But anything that would remove a deep-seated evil would be likely to affect other things; evil spreads like ink in water, staining everything it touches. Your body was damaged again, by that: you said when you woke from her treatment you could not walk at first. What I hope is that thorough healing of the body will allow your mind to heal, too. Whether what you have lost will regenerate or not, I cannot tell. But you are already better, in both, and that gives me hope.”

Paks stared at the ground before her. “I’m still scared. Not the pain, so much—that comes anyway—but the other.”

“I know. I can treat one at a time, but that will take months. And I must warn you that the poison itself will resist, given time for it. The last ones will be much harder to cure than the first. Yet to do this, without your free consent, is likely to widen the rift in your mind. It is for this that I waited, hoping that you would be able to trust me.”

“How long would it take?”

“All at once? A day of preparation for me; you would have to keep quiet within doors, and let me meditate. I have most of the materials I need; I could gather the rest today. Then a day or two for the healing itself: I cannot tell, until I have seen and tested each wound, exactly how long. You would be very weak for the first day afterwards, but your strength would come quickly.”

“And I would sleep through it?”

“The healing itself, yes. I would recommend it. Even if you were willing to endure all the pain awake, your reaction could break my attention to the healing.”

“I wish—” she began, and then stopped. She took a deep breath and went on. “I wish it could be done, and over, and I didn’t have to decide.”

His voice was gentle. “No. It is not the way of the Kuakkganni to force a good on someone if there is time for choice. Each creature has its own way to travel; we learn much of them, but we do not change the way. And for humans, the way involves choice.”

“You forced me to eat, that first day.”

“Then there was no time. I had to buy that time, to find out what was wrong. Now you are beginning to heal, and I judge you well enough to make a choice for yourself. I will give you advice, and have, but you are free to follow it or not, as you are free to take what time you need for the decision.”

Paks had taken a twig from the ground, and was digging little holes in the dirt at her feet. She made a row of them, then another row. For a moment she saw them as positions in a formation, then scraped the twig across the design.

“You think I should let you do it now?”

“I think you should ask yourself if you can trust me. I think you should ask yourself if you can trust your own mind to hold on until your body has a chance to heal. If when you are well again you still wish to waste your bones on the hills, I’ve no doubt some orc or wolf will be glad to assist.”

“I don’t, now,” she said very softly.

“Good.”

“I think—I know I want to be well again. If it can happen. If what is wrong is that poison, then—I must let you do it. Whatever it is.”

For the rest of the afternoon, they gathered herbs and other materials from the grove. Most of it was unfamiliar to Paks; the Kuakgan explained little, merely pointing out the plants to take. That evening he went to the inn for food, after telling her to stay inside. When he came back, one of the potboys from the inn was with him; Paks heard his voice outside. The Kuakgan had him leave his burden on the step, and when he had left, called Paks outside to carry it in.

“We’ll need food for several days,” he explained. “You must eat well tomorrow, while I meditate, and I must eat something during the healing.” He unpacked loaves of bread, a small ham, sliced mutton in pans, eggs, and other rich foods.

It seemed to Paks that the next day lasted forever. She had become used to wandering outside; she was restless in the house. The Kuakgan had left the hidden panel open, and she spent some time taking a bath and washing her hair, but that left hours of idleness. She forgot to eat at noon. Sometime in the afternoon her belly reminded her, and she ate several slices of ham, then some cheese. As the daylight faded outside, she wondered if the Kuakgan would appear for supper. The door to his private room had been closed all day; she dared not knock. But she felt it would be discourteous to eat without him.

The last light had disappeared, and she had lit candles in the main room, when he came to the door of the passage. Without a word, he nodded to her, and went to close the shutters. Paks started to speak, but he forestalled her with a fluent gesture of one hand. He laid a fire on the hearth, and lit it. Paks stood, wondering what to do. He pointed to the ham, and then to her. When she offered him a slice, he shook his head, but sat at the table to watch her eat. Her appetite had vanished; the ham lay in her stomach like a huge stone, and her mouth was dry. She looked over at him; he was watching her, his dark eyes warm. That gaze soothed her, and she was able to eat a bit more, and drink a mug of water. At last he reached and touched her hand, and gestured toward her pallet against the wall. She looked toward it, and at once the panic she thought had gone rose in her mind like a fountain, bursting her control. She choked on the breath in her throat, shut her eyes on the tears that came unbidden, and sat with her hands clamped on the table. He said nothing. Time passed. At last she could breathe, could see again her white-knuckled hands, could unclench those hands finger by finger. She did not try to meet his eyes again, but forced her stiff unwilling body to rise from the table and cross the room.

His hands on the sides of her head were dry and cool, impersonal as the bark of a tree. She lay with her eyes shut, rigid and waiting. When the first touch of power came, it was nothing like she expected. It seemed more a memory of recent mornings, of spring itself, of gold sunlight filtering through young leaves. She felt no pain, only peace and quietness, and let herself drift into that light like a leaf in the fountain. She did not know when the dream of light faded.

Return from that beauty and peace was more difficult. A call she could not answer, struggle, confusion, the return of fear. She woke with no knowledge of time or place—for a few moments, she thought she was back in the Duke’s Company, trying to reach the Duke after the Siniava’s attack on Dwarfwatch. “The Duke,” she managed to say. “Saben—” Then she remembered enough to know that Saben was dead, and the Duke far away. The Kuakgan’s face was strange to her, and only slowly did she come to know where she was.

“You wandered a long way,” he said at last. His face was lined and drawn. “A long way indeed. I was not sure you would return.” He reached for her wrist, and felt her pulse. “Much stronger. How do you feel?”

“I—just weak, I think. I don’t want to move.”

“No wonder. You need not, for a time.” He sighed, then stretched. “I wonder that your Marshal-General did not see how bad those were. It may be they’ve gotten worse. But, Paksenarrion, you were almost beyond my healing powers. One of the wounds still had a bit of the weapon in it—a stone blade of some sort—and that one I had to open completely.” He reached for a jug and poured out a mug of liquid. “You must try to drink all of this.” He raised her shoulders and held the mug to her lips. Paks sipped slowly, and finally drained it completely. She was desperately tired. Later she could never remember if that first waking had been in daylight or night.

She slept, and woke again, and slept. Finally she woke to firelight, hungry for the first time, and able to move a little by herself. The Kuakgan was beside her, as always. When she stirred, and spoke to him by name, he smiled.

“You are certainly better. Hungry? I should hope so. Let me help you to the jacks first.”

She wavered when she stood, dizzy and weak, but by the time they had gone down the passage and the stairs, she could support herself along the wall to the jacks. She came back alone, and slowly, still touching the wall. She tried to think, but had no idea how much time had passed. In the meantime, the Kuakgan had set food on the table: stew and bread. She half-fell onto the bench, and propped herself on the table. But she ate the last bite of her food, and was able to walk more steadily back to her pallet.

The next morning she woke normally, no more weak than if she had worked too hard the day before, or fought too long. Her mind seemed curiously empty of all feelings, but her body obeyed her, if a little sluggishly.