Divided Allegiance

12

After so late a night, Paks would have been glad to sleep later than usual, but anticipation of the black horse woke her at dawn. Could she ride it? She felt sure of the power of the ring, but once mounted she could not concentrate on her ring finger. She knew she should be thinking of the brigands, and less of the horse, but the black horse fit her old dream of adventure so perfectly . . . she could almost see herself riding through admiring crowds.

She had hoped to work with it in privacy first, but early as it was everyone in the inn seemed to have business in the stableyard. She began with grooming; the beast had nearly caught Sevri with a massive hoof, and after that his owner had done it. Paks kept her thumb firmly on the ring as she picked up a brush and eased into the stall by its head. The ears were alert but not flattened, and the great dark eye watched her calmly as the horse worked on its ration of grain.

“There now,” crooned Paks, setting the brush to that massive shoulder. “There, quiet, stay calm, black one.” She began to brush, more gently than would do for a thorough grooming, and with a wary eye on the ears. The horse stood taller and more heavily built than the Duke’s warhorses, as tall as Arcolin’s favorite. She worked her way along the ribs, the croup, the rump. Dust and scurf flew; the horse had not been well-groomed for some time. She brushed down the haunches, saw them tense, and concentrated on the ring for a moment. “Nothing’s wrong, horse. I won’t hurt you. Quiet, now, easy—” Bunched muscles relaxed; she saw the fetlock sink deeper in the straw. “You’d like to be out of here, wouldn’t you? Go for a ride? Out in the open air—along the roads—good horse—” Soon she had brushed both sides, the belly (another pause for the ring’s action there), brushed out the heavy tangled mane. She looked up and saw Sevri’s awed face over the stall wall.

“I didn’t think you could really do it,” said Sevri.

Paks grinned at her, thumb firm on the ring. “I wasn’t sure I could myself. Can you bring me a pick?”

“You’re going to touch his feet?”

Paks shrugged. “What if he has a stone? If he’s taken this much, he should take that.”

Sevri handed over a hoofpick. “I just finished Star. Here.”

Paks leaned down beside the near fore, impressed again by the size of those platter-like hooves. “Come on, black one—let’s have a hoof.” She could feel the tension above her, and glanced up to see the horse watching, ears stiffly turned back. “No—come on, now—” She pinched the tendons as she’d been taught, wondering briefly if she should have done this outside a stall, just in case. But the hoof came up, at last, and she cleaned around the frog with her pick. The other front hoof went as well, but as she bent to touch the near hind, the horse squealed and slammed a kick into the stall wall, narrowly missing her. Paks thought a loud NO through the ring, and the horse froze, trembling. She could see the cracked board where the hoof struck, and heard a murmur of voices at the stable door. Sevri urged the watchers away.

Slowly, concentrating on the ring, Paks slid her hand down the hind leg, over slick black hide to the white feather below the hock, and through that heavy hair felt along to the fetlock. The scar was hidden by the thick hair above it—a deep scar, and still sensitive, for the horse blew a rattling breath, despite the ring’s compulsion, as she touched it. Paks straightened. “Easy—I’d warrant you have another on the offside as well. No wonder you don’t like having your legs handled. I wonder what did that? Nothing good. Well, perhaps we can leave that a day, until you trust me more.” She came back to the horse’s head, and scratched under his jaw until the strained look left his eyes. “Surely the smith didn’t do that, holding you to shoe you?” The horse relaxed enough to stretch its neck. Paks slipped out of the stall, shaking a little with the strain of using the ring for so long.

“Will you ride today?” asked Sevri, who was waiting by the door.

“He needs exercise,” said Paks. “But he’s got some injury to his back legs—that’s why he’s so touchy, I think. I hate to ride him out until I can handle those legs, but he’s had as much as he can take, for now. Maybe later.”

Paks went in to breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks of the others. If she was going to lead a group out against brigands, and train a horse, she needed several things from the shops. She made a list during breakfast, and asked Hebbinford where she could find some of the items. When she returned, everyone seemed to be out of the way but Sevri.

“If you want me to leave, as well—” she said shyly.

“No, but don’t get too close. I don’t know what he’ll do. Tir’s bones, I don’t even know how to rig that saddle.” She went into the stable. The black horse nosed over the stall wall; she had not yet touched the ring. Perhaps it was not a true outlaw. Sevri brought the bridle, red leather decorated with copper rings tarnished green. The reins were broad and heavy, and the bit—Paks shook her head.

“I can’t use that! Look at those spikes, Sevri.”

“The warhorses we see here all have bits like that,” said Sevri. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure of this—I won’t use that bit. The Duke didn’t use anything like that. Where can I buy another one?”

“You can use my father’s old one, if it’ll do. He had a hauling team once, before he sold it to a caravaner that was short. Try this—” Sevri brought out an old, rusty-linked bit like those Paks had seen on cart horses. While Sevri shook it in a sandbag to get the rust off, Paks worked at the stiff lacings of the bridle. At last she had the old bit off, and the smooth one in place.

“If he’s used to that mess in his mouth, he won’t take the bit easily,” said Paks. “Let’s see—” And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse threw up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the noise. Sevri darted off for an apple.

“Will this work?”

“It might.” Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the ring. She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit in place, and the crownpiece over the horse’s ears as its teeth crunched the apple. She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was finished, and the last lumps passed down the black throat.

“I hope you can hold him with that,” said Sevri doubtfully.

“With what?” came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there, with Ambros just behind him.

“She changed bits,” said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. “She wouldn’t use that old one—” She nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the aisle.

“That’s a mouthful indeed,” said the Marshal, picking it up. “But what are you using instead, Paksenarrion? That ‘magic’ Doggal mentioned?”

“No,” said Sevri again. “It’s one of my father’s old bits, a smooth one that he used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits.”

The Marshal’s face relaxed. “Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try to use rough bits instead of training to get their horses’ attention. A good horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may.” He took a step forward to look at the horse more closely. “As I recall, Duke Phelan’s troops use horses for transport only. I’m sure you ride—perhaps well—but I thought I could help you with the commands peculiar to warhorses.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” said Paks. “I realized this morning that even the saddles we used are not like this one—” she gestured at the heavy saddle with its tangle of rigging, on a peg nearby.

“You haven’t cleaned it yet,” said the Marshal, frowning.

“No, sir.” Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.

“Hmm. Clean tack, Paksenarrion, is very important. Sevri, bring us a fresh pad, at least. Lead him out to the yard, Paksenarrion.”

With her hand clenched around the ring, Paks led the black horse out. He followed as calmly as Star, for which she was grateful. Her neck prickled as she placed the sheepskin pad. The Marshal handed her the saddle.

“I see you know how to work with a bridled horse—see, Ambros. She’s got her arm in the rein, just as I keep telling you. Now, Paksenarrion, let me explain all those extra straps.” Paks needed the help, but wished it were someone else. “That—yes, that one—is the foregirth. Fasten it first. Good. Now the breastband—see those hooks on the saddle? Yes. Not tight—just lying smoothly. That’s so the saddle cannot slip back under any strain. Now the rest of that—by Gird himself! That fellow didn’t know how to stow his gear. Roll that mess slowly out over his rump—be careful, girl! Yes. Now see that loop on top? The tail goes through that. Wait, though—” The Marshal moved to the horse’s rump and felt of the loop. “Heh. I might have known. Feel this. It’s too stiff; it’s probably rubbed him raw already. We’ll take all this off—” and he began to work at fastenings on the back of the saddle as he talked. “You don’t really need it yet. Oil and clean it—get it all soft—and I’ll show you how to put it back on. In a fight, or traveling in rough country, it keeps the saddle from slipping forward, just like the breeching strap on a pack animal.” He went to the other side, and finished there. “Here, Sevri, take these away.” He watched as Paks checked the stirrup length; she left it unchanged. “Do you want me to hold him while you mount?”

Paks looked at the horse, which suddenly seemed much taller. Yet she had ridden Arcolin’s horse, that once. Her mouth was dry. If the Marshal had not been there, she could have led the horse to a field, where she could hope to land soft. Instead, she sighed inwardly, and thanked him. “I must admit, sir, that this is the biggest horse—”

“You’ve ridden,” he finished. “Yes, I thought it might be.” He took the rein, and the horse stiffened. Paks got her foot in the stirrup, and tried to swing up, but the horse shifted suddenly with her weight. She fell into the saddle with an ungraceful scramble. It was built high and close to her body; she had almost landed on, and not in, it.

“With a horse like this,” said the Marshal, “you need to be quicker. Or else train him to stand.” He stepped back, releasing the rein, as Paks straightened.

The saddle felt strange, as if it were hovering over the horse’s back, and the ground looked very far away. Paks nudged the horse lightly with her heels, and it lunged forward. She thumbed the ring, thinking “Easy!” and it settled again, ears flicking. Paks saw eyes at the inn door, and cursed silently. She could feel the horse tensing under her, the hump in its back that kept the saddle too high. “Settle down, horse,” she said softly. “Settle down, and we’ll go for a walk somewhere.” It took one stiff step, then another. She laid the rein against its neck, to turn it around the dungheap, and it whirled on its hind legs, almost unseating her. “Easy!” she said. Arcolin’s horse had been nothing like this! For a moment she longed for gentle little Star, but she was conscious of the Marshal and Ambros watching. She was a warrior, and this was a warrior’s horse. If she was ever to be a knight—She talked the horse forward, hardly daring to touch it with her heels. Nearly to the cowbyre: she had to turn. Again the light touch of rein, and the lightning spin, but this time she was ready for it.

“You might see what happens if you pull one rein lightly,” called the Marshal. “Those that are trained to spin on one cue usually turn slowly on the other.”

Paks tried a gentle pull, and the horse veered left. It walked more freely now, and she finally managed a circle around the stable yard.

“Now the other way,” commanded the Marshal. This, too, went well, though Paks could still feel a knot of tension in the horse’s back. They walked around the yard once, then twice. She pulled back for a halt, feeling more confident, and the horse reared. Paks lurched backward and grabbed for mane. Someone in the inn door laughed, and cut it off. The horse stayed up—and stayed up—she felt like a fool. How could she get him down? She closed her legs, and the horse leaped forward, snapping her head back. It landed charging, whirling about the stableyard as Paks fought to stay on. The saddle, so uncomfortable before, seemed to grip her. She could hear frantic yells, and the clatter of shod hooves on stone. At last she remembered the ring, and thought “Whoa!” The horse skidded to a stop and stood rigid. Paks was breathless; pain stabbed her side, and her hands were shaking. She had been sure she’d fall. It was hard to believe anything so ponderous had moved so fast. It had seemed easy when she’d seen others riding—she grinned at the memory.

“You can stay on, at least.” The Marshal’s voice broke into her thoughts. “But that beast may still be too much for you. Best not ride through town until you have better control.”

“I—I won’t, sir. I had—no idea—”

“Not well-trained, either.” The Marshal was walking around the horse. “He’s got the makings of a fine animal, Paksenarrion, but he’s been ill-trained, and I would judge ill-used. If you can retrain him, you’ll have a formidable mount.”

“I’m not sure,” said Paks ruefully, “that I’ll be able to figure out how to ride down the road, let alone fight on him.”

“You’re a long way from that, but—a stableyard is not the best place to learn. If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the drillfields behind, and I’ll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the inn, and ride south of town, there’s a ford upstream of the bridge.”

“Thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the reins doesn’t work, what will?”

“May I try?”

“Of course, sir.” Paks slid off, finding it harder than she’d thought to clear the unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one smooth motion.

As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the unleashed power.

“Don’t worry,” said Ambros. “The Marshal’s good with horses.” And indeed, after scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted stiffly around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal’s rein and legs. Paks could not see what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told her.

“To halt, you’ll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That’s all. Right now I wouldn’t use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think you can manage?”

Paks wasn’t at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal swung off as easily as he’d mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after a look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.

“Well, I made a considerable mess, didn’t I? We’d best get at it, Ambros, if we want to keep our welcome—”

“No, Marshal, that’s all right—” Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.

“No, it isn’t. Ambros and I will take care of it.” And to Paks’s surprise, and the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from Sevri, and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back into a heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, and returned with another shovel to help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the yard was tidy once more. “There now.” The Marshal wiped sweat from his forehead, and handed Sevri the shovel. “Paksenarrion, early morning is a good time to train horses. Bring him along after feeding tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks hoped she wouldn’t be thrown before she got to the grange. The Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now had a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse’s performance, why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.

By that afternoon, the tailor’s wife had one shirt ready for her to try on. Paks would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do more work. “See on the inside, lady? The edges there? I’ll turn those down, and they’ll not ravel or be rough—”

“But—”

“Nay, we’re proud of our work, my husband and me—we won’t let such as this leave our hands. But I’ll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain shirts in two days—unless you’d rather have the trousers first?”

Paks thought of all the riding she’d be doing, and asked for the trousers next. Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler’s, and bought a jug of the heavy oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal’s yard, she found the smith forging heavy wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.

The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without help—but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein, but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a corner. Her attempt at a quick mount felt as rough as the day before, but she had gained the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein gently, and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the horse seemed slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of the inn yard and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the village. She found the ford the Marshal had spoken of by following a cow path, and the black horse pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling under his hooves. Now she had reached the lower end of the grange drill field; she could see the Marshal standing near the grange. Ambros, mounted on a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the street as she came up.

“You made it safely, I see,” said the Marshal. “Ambros rides three times a week, and this will give both of you practice in riding with others.”

Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of the other horse.

In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal was as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all occasional riders, Paks hated to trot—but the Marshal insisted that they trot most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, the way she held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped out from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return, without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring, except for grooming and mounting.

She could ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work was excellent for a high-strung mount.

But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once it was the black horse’s neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat. Another time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she’d ridden that day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she used the ring on the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to talk to the Kuakgan about it.

This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking to another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing from where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned to look the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white stones that should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches from her back. She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back, crawling down her ribs. She looked forward, and the clearing was open before her. Master Oakhallow beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she felt the quiet deepen. She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the basin.

“It is well,” said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, “that you did not try to leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my grove unsettling.”

“Sir, it is not that,” said Paks. “But you were speaking to another. I would not intrude.”

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.