Divided Allegiance

21

As the Hall of Luap’s stronghold faded around them, the sound of trumpets seemed to come nearer. Abruptly they were standing on the lower dais of the High Lord’s Hall at Fin Panir, facing the Marshal-General as she came forward between the ranks of knights: the fanfare had just ended. The Marshal-General stopped in midstride, her face a stiff mask. Behind her, the knights drew sword; others burst into shouts, questions, even one scream, chopped off short. The Marshal-General’s arm came up, paused . . . the hubbub stilled, no one moved. Then Amberion spoke, a formal greeting that Paks hardly noticed because she’d realized that Balkon was not with them, and grinned to herself. She had no doubt that he had chosen to return to the Goldenaxe, and hoped his magic worked.

In moments, the Marshal-General had reached the dais, touching each of them, eyes bright. And again the Hall was full of sound: greetings, whispers, comments, the scrape of feet, the rasp of weapons returned to scabbard and rack. To Paks, it seemed noisy as a windstorm after the calm of Luap’s Stronghold. She felt at once submerged in it and remote, a solitary stone washed by contending waves. Eventually the noise receded, the crowds dispersed, and she went to her quarters, hardly noticing the shy greetings and questions of those few students who spoke to her.

A few hours later, the Marshal-General summoned her. When she arrived in the study, she found the Marshal-General and Amberion waiting.

“I have been telling the Marshal-General,” began Amberion, “about your capture and ordeal with the iynisin—the kuaknom—” he said quickly, after a glance at the Marshal-General.

Paks nodded, at once alarmed and defensive.

“I wondered what your plans were, Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal-General. “From what Amberion says, and the way you look, it seems that you may need a rest. Such wounds would slow anyone. Have you thought of it?”

“No, Marshal-General. I did not know if—I mean, I am tired, yes, but I don’t know about rest. Do you mean you want me to leave?”

“No, not that. Amberion thinks you are not fit for a full schedule of training; he thought several weeks of rest would help. There are many things you could do here, without much strain, or—”

“I know what I would like,” said Paks suddenly, interrupting. “I could go home—visit my family in Three Firs. It’s been four years and more.” As she spoke, the longing to go home intensified, as if she had wanted this all along.

Amberion frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly.

“Why not?” Paks turned to him, annoyed. “It’s not that far, by the maps. I’m surely strong enough to ride that far—and there’s no war—and—”

“Paksenarrion, no. It’s too dangerous, as things are with you, and—”

Paks felt a wave of rage swamp her mind. She was not weak, just tired from the fighting and the trip. They kept trying to make her believe something was wrong—” There’s nothing wrong with me!” she snapped. “By Gird, just because I’m tired—and you said anyone might be—you think I can’t ride a few days to see my family. I traveled safely alone on foot, with no training at all, four years ago. Why do you think I can’t do it now? You keep trying to convince me something’s wrong—and whatever it is, it’s not wrong with me!” She glared at them, breathing hard.

“It’s not?” The Marshal-General’s voice was quiet, but hard as stone. “Nothing wrong, when a paladin candidate feels and shows such anger to the Marshal-General of Gird? Nothing wrong, when you have not thought what such a visit could do to your family?”

“My family—what about them?” Paks was still angry. She could not seem to fight it back.

“Paksenarrion, you have attracted the notice of great evil—of Achrya herself. Do you think you can travel in the world—anywhere in the world—without evil knowing? Do you think your family will be safe, if you show Achrya where they live, and that you still care for them? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, be on your mind, that you think clearly.”

Paks sat back, stunned. She had not thought. She shook her head. “I—all I thought was—”

“All you thought was what you wanted to do.”

“Yes—”

“And you resented any balk—any balk at all—”

“Yes.” Paks stared at the tabletop; it blurred as her eyes filled. “I—I thought it was over!”

“What?”

“The—the anger—Amberion can tell you. I thought it was past—that I had—had beaten it—” Paks heard the rustle of clothing as the Marshal-General moved in her seat. She heard Amberion clear his throat before beginning.

“Immediately after we got her out, she had a—I don’t quite know how to describe it. Fallis and I thought we should let her memories return naturally—at least until Ardhiel awoke. But Balkon—the dwarf, you recall—he disagreed, and began telling her some of it. Anyway, I stepped in and interrupted, and Paksenarrion became angry. Very angry. I thought at the time it was the pain of her wounds, and attempted a healing—”

“It did help,” said Paks softly, trying not to cry. “It eased them—and then I could see I was wrong—”

“But whatever it was recurred. A couple of times, in the next days—nothing bad, if it had been someone else, someone more irritable to start with. But it was not like Paksenarrion—not the Paksenarrion we knew. We spoke to her of it, and made allowances for the wounds—which Ardhiel said had been healed so far by some kuaknom magic—and she seemed to have recovered, but for the weakness and exhaustion I spoke of to you.”

“I see.” The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for a blow. “Paksenarrion, what do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just the wounds? It’s not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from illness or wounds.”

“I—don’t know. I don’t feel different—except for being tired. But if Amberion says I am, then—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. In the Duke’s Company, I didn’t get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I did get angry. I can’t tell that it’s any more now than it was then.”

“Our fear,” said Amberion, “was that the type of fighting she did, with the iynisin—the kuaknom—would open a channel for Achrya’s evil—”

“I would hate to think so,” said the Marshal-General. “I would hate that indeed. Paksenarrion?”

“I don’t feel that, Marshal-General. Truly, I don’t—and I care for Gird, and for his cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong—to be angry at you, I mean, but I can control it another time.”

“Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?”

“No.” He smiled at Paks. “She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people, or telling lies—it’s just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same.”

“Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three Firs—” Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked it with a nod and smile. “Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look you over. It may be that rest and good food will bring you back quickly. Don’t start drill again until I’ve talked with you. We may want you to help instruct a beginner’s class.”

Paks left the Marshal-General’s office with mixed feelings. The thought of instructing was exciting—she could easily imagine herself with younger students, as she had worked with recruits in the Duke’s Company—but the prescribed days of rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was restless, and could not relax.

“I’m about to do a dangerous thing,” said the Marshal-General, pulling out a blank message scroll.

“What?” Amberion watched her closely.

“I’m going to write Duke Phelan of Tsaia.” Arianya trimmed her pen, dipped it, and began.

“Phelan? Why?”

“I think you’re right. I think this child is in serious trouble. And I think we don’t know her well enough. Phelan commanded her for three years; he will know which way she’s turned.”

“Then you sensed something too?”

“Yes. Not much, as you said. But deep, and so rooted that it will grow, day by day, and consume her. By the cudgel of Gird, Amberion, this is a sad thing to see. She had so much promise!”

“Has still.”

“Maybe. Right now—we must keep her from leaving, and from hurting anyone else. If she leaves us—” She shook her head. “The only thing standing between Achrya and her soul is the Fellowship of Gird. Ward her, Amberion.”

“I do, and I shall.”

It was some days later that Paks came into the forecourt to find familiar colors there: three horses with saddlecloths of the familiar maroon and white, with a tiny foxhead on the corners, and a pennant held by someone she had never seen before. She lingered, wondering if the Duke himself had come to Fin Panir, and what for, but she had urgent business with the Training Master, and had to go.

Upstairs, in the Marshal-General’s office, she herself was the topic of conversation—if such it could be called.

Duke Phelan faced the Marshal-General across her polished desk, his eyes as cold as winter seawater. “And you want me to help you? You, who could not protect, for even a year, a warrior of such promise?”

Arianya sighed. “We erred, my lord Duke.”

“Tir’s guts, you did, lady! Not for the first time, either! I thought I’d never be so wroth with you again, as when my lady died from your foolishness, but this—!” He turned away, and paced back and forth by the window, his cloak rustling, then came to lean on the desk again. “Lady, that child had such promise as I’ve rarely seen in thirty years of fighting. Your own paladin saw that in Aarenis. You could not ask better will, better courage, than hers. Oh, she made mistakes, aye—beginner’s mistakes, and rarely twice. But generous in all ways, willing—we hated to lose her, but I thought she’d be better off in some noble service. She had a gentle heart, for a fighter. I was glad to hear that she’d come here for training. She’ll make a knight, and well-deserved, I thought. And then—!” He glared at her.

“My lord, we thought—” began Amberion.

“You thought!” The Duke leaped into speech. “You never thought at all. Make her a paladin, you thought, and then you dragged her into such peril as even you, sir paladin, would fear, and without your powers to help her. You think me stained, Girdsmen, compared to your white company, but I know better than to put untrained raw recruits into hot battle. ’Tis a wonder you have any paladins at all, if you throw them away so.”

“We don’t, Duke Phelan,” said Marshal Fallis. “They do not go out untrained. But in her case—”

“She did. Do you even know how young she is? What years you have wasted?”

“Duke—” began Fallis angrily.

“Be still!” roared the Duke. “I’ll have my say; you asked me here for help and you’ll hear me out. I have no love for you these fourteen years, Girdsmen, though I honor Gird himself. Protector of the innocent and helpless, you say—but where were you and where was he when my lady met her death alone and far from aid?” He turned away for a moment, then back. “But no matter. If I can help this girl, I will. She has deserved better of us all.” He looked around for a chair, and sat. “Now. You say she was captured, and is now alive but in some trouble. What is it?”

“My lord Duke, a paladin candidate can be assaulted in spirit by evil powers; that’s why we normally keep them sequestered. We think that in defending herself during captivity she became vulnerable to Achrya’s direct influence. This is the thought of Amberion and Fallis, who observed her at the time they brought her out, and also of Ardhiel the elf, who knows how kuaknom enchantments might work.”

“I see. Then you think she is now an agent of Achrya?”

“No. Not yet.” Arianya met his eyes squarely. “My lord, all we have noticed so far is irritability—unusual for her, for we have known her to be always goodnatured, willing, and patient. It would hardly be noticed in another warrior—indeed, many expect all fighters to be touchy of temper.”

The Duke grinned suddenly. “I am myself.”

“I noticed. But she has not been so since we’ve known her. You have known her longer; we thought you could tell us if she has changed.”

“You want me to tell you if she has become evil?”

“No. She has not become evil, not largely. That I could certainly sense for myself. I want you, if you will, to speak to her—observe her—and tell us if she is changing in the wrong way. Becoming more violent, less controlled—that is a sign of contamination.”

“And if she is? What then will you do?”

The Marshal-General paused long. “I am not sure. She is a member of our fellowship, and a paladin candidate—as such, she is under my command. As she is, she cannot be a paladin—”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but so it is. What is of no account in another may be a serious flaw in a paladin. If she had gone over to Achrya, it would be my duty to kill her—”

“No!” The Duke jumped to his feet.

“Please. Sit down. She has not—I am not saying she has—I am saying if that were true, which is not true. Yet. But if she is changing in that way—if the evil is growing—then, my lord Duke, we cannot tolerate an agent of evil among us. We cannot. Somehow, before that happens, we must prevent it.”

“What can you do? Can you heal her, as you heal wounds?”

“Unfortunately not. Her wounds, indeed, have not yielded to our healing. The elf, as I said, says that this is because of some kuaknom magic used on them. As for her mind. . . . I think that we might be able to destroy the focus of evil—if, indeed, I am not misnaming it—but like any surgery it would leave scars of its own.”

“You speak of magic?”

“If you consider the gods’ powers and magic in the same light, my lord, which I do not. The High Lord has given us—Marshals and paladins both—certain powers. With them I might try to enter her mind and cleanse it.”

The Duke shifted in his seat. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all, Marshal-General, and that’s without any rancor for the past. It’s bad enough that she had to bear such captivity, and such wounds as you describe. That she had to have that filth trying to corrupt her mind. But then to let someone else in, to stir the mess further—”

“Believe me, I don’t like the idea either. But what else is there? If we are right, and the evil is rooted there, and we do nothing, she will come to be such as even you, my lord, would admit must be destroyed. Could anything—even death now—be worse than that dishonor?”

“No, but—I dislike being the means of it. She is—she was, I should say—my soldier, under my command and protection. She has a right to expect more from me—”

“Now?” asked Fallis.

“Yes, now. By the gods, Marshal, I don’t forget my soldiers when they leave. She served me well; I will not serve her ill.”

“My lord, one reason I wrote you was that she had so often spoken of her respect for you. We are not looking for an accuser, my lord, but a friend who knew her in the past—”

“And do you think I will condemn her to you, having known her?”

“I trust you for that. You have always been, by all repute, an honest man—and so she thinks of you.”

“I will not persuade her to your opinions—”

“We don’t ask that. Go, talk to her, see for yourself. If you come and tell me I’m a fool, I will be best pleased by that. I don’t think you will—but do your best for her.”

The Duke ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll tell you what, Marshal-General, you have set me a problem indeed. But you have one yourself. All right. I’ll see her. But I think perhaps I’ll have a new captain for my Company out of it, and you’ll be a paladin the less.”

“That may be so.”

Paks came from the Training Master’s office in the black mood that had begun to seem familiar. She was not to ride out with the others to hunt the following day, and she was not to plan on taking part in the fall competitions. She lengthened her stride, hardly noticing when several students flattened themselves out of her way. At least, she was thinking, I can take Socks out to the practice field. She turned hard right into the stable courtyard, and nearly bumped into a tall man in a maroon cloak. Before he turned, she knew who it was.

“My lord Duke!” She fell back a step, suddenly happier.

“Well, Paks, you’ve come far in the world.” He looked much the same, but he spoke now as if she were more his equal.

“Well, my lord, I—”

“They tell me that’s your horse, the black.”

“Yes, my lord—”

“Will you ride with me? I’d like to see how the training grounds are laid out.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Paks turned toward the tack room, but a groom was already leading Socks out, ready to ride. The horse had recovered his flesh, and showed no ill effects of the expedition. The Duke’s own mount waited, and after they mounted, he rode beside her.

“We were glad to hear,” he began, “that you’d been accepted here. I had two years with the Knights of Falk, and I understand that the training here is as good if not better.”

“It’s thorough, my lord,” said Paks. He laughed.

“Fortification? Supply? Field surgery?”

“Yes, my lord, and more.”

“Good. And you enjoyed it?”

“Oh yes. Last winter was the happiest time of my life—” she stopped suddenly and looked at him. “I mean, my lord, after leaving the Company.”

“Don’t be silly, Paks—you weren’t happy with us, that last year. Few were. Of course you’d like this better. Now—what’s that?” For some minutes they rode in the training grounds, the Duke commenting and questioning on the equipment and methods of training that they observed. Then he turned to her again. “Did they teach you such riding here?”

“No, my lord. That was Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge, where I got my horse.”

“Brewersbridge—that’s in southeast Tsaia, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Paks wondered if he would ask her about the details of her journey across the Dwarfmounts, but he said nothing for a bit. Then—“What’s this journey you’ve been on, that they talk of so? And they said you were captured by some kind of elf—is that so?”

Paks shivered, unwilling as always to remember that too clearly. “Yes, my lord. It goes back, sir, to when I left your Company: in the journey over the mountains, a traveling companion and I were enchanted by the elfane taig, and had to fight a demon-possessed elf underground.”

“By Tir! And you lived?”

“Yes, my lord. And the elfane taig rewarded me with great riches, and gave me also a scroll. It seems that the scroll was written by Luap—it’s very old—and contains much about Gird and his times that was not known, for the scroll had been lost. It was in this scroll that the stronghold of Luap was mentioned, and map besides. So the Council of Marshals, and the Marshal-General, declared a quest that search should be made for this stronghold, and the rumors of lost powers.”

“But why did you go? You were a paladin candidate, isn’t that so?”

“Yes—but they asked if I wanted to. Because I’d brought the scrolls, you see: it was a reward, an honor.”

“I see.”

“They didn’t know, my lord, that I would have such trouble.”

“No, but they might have thought.” He shook his head. “Well, enough of that. How did you come to be captured?”

Paks told the tale as best she might, and the Duke looked grave, but listened without comment. When she finished with Ardhiel’s treatment, he sighed.

“Are you well, then?”

“I think so. They—” Paks looked aside, but no one was near. “My lord, they seem to think not, but I don’t know why. I have lost my temper once or twice—even spoke sharply to the Marshal-General—”

“That’s nothing,” said the Duke quickly. “I’ve done as much.”

Paks grinned, thinking of it. Then she sobered. “My lord, I don’t want to be bad; you know I never did.” He nodded. “I don’t think I am, yet they don’t trust me any more. Just today the Training Master told me not to ride out hunting tomorrow—and not to join in the autumn competitions, either. Is that fair? I haven’t done anything—I’ve been careful—I do all they ask me—I don’t know what more I can do!” Her voice had risen; she took a deep breath and tried to continue more calmly. “They—they say that evil begins as a little thing—too little for me to sense. That it will grow, and consume me, until I become one of Achrya’s minions. But, sir, you know me—you’ve known me all along. Am I so bad?”

Phelan looked at her, a piercing gaze that she found it hard to meet. Then he shook his head slowly. “Paks, I see you much as you were: a good soldier, loyal and courageous. You bear scars that I would not care to have, and you have suffered under both enchantments and blows. I do not see evil.” Paks relaxed, but he went on. “But Paks, I am no Marshal or paladin, to discern evil directly. The gods know I have no great love for the granges of Gird, but they are not evil. I think perhaps you should submit yourself to their judgment.”

“My lord!”

“And if it is not fair, or if you do not agree, leave them. I will not forsake you; as you were my soldier, so you can be again. As I recall, you held the right to return when you left.”

Paks said nothing, and after awhile they rode back silently. She suspected that the Duke had come to Fin Panir because of her—and this was confirmed when she answered a summons late that afternoon to the Marshal-General’s quarters. She was shown to a study she had not been in before, a level higher, with windows on three sides. Amberion, Fallis, Ardhiel and Duke Phelan, as well as the Marshal-General, were all in the room. The Marshal-General began by explaining what they thought was wrong, and what she thought could be done about it, a sort of surgery of the mind.

Paks nodded gravely, trying to pay attention through a numb haze that fogged her mind. Arianya paused, for that nod, then went on.

“So much we think we can do. But that is not the whole story; I want to be fair with you. We are sure that if you live the evil will be destroyed, but some good may be destroyed as well.”

“What sort of good?” asked Paks, her mouth drying with fear.

Amberion looked away, at a tapestry on the outer wall. Arianya glanced down, then met Paks’s eyes squarely. “Paksenarrion, the worst evils come from the degradation of good: in your case, those qualities you’ve worked so long to strengthen. You may not be a fighter afterwards—”

“Not a fighter!” Paks felt the blood leave her face.

“No. I will not lie to you. You may be weak, clumsy, uncertain. You may lose your will to fight—your courage.”

“No!” Paks clenched her fists, anguish twisting her face. “I cannot! You cannot want me to be so!”

“Lady Paksenarrion,” said Ardhiel, “what we want is that you be healed and whole, and free of any taint of evil. But our powers are limited, and it is better to be free of the dark one’s web than be a prince under her control.”

“But—” Paks shook her head. “But you ask that I give up the only gifts I have—chance them—and if I survive a weakling or a coward, what good is that? To you or anyone? My lady,” she said to Arianya, “the granges would not let me in, if I were a coward. I would be better dead, indeed. You say I am not so bad, yet. If I cannot be a paladin, I can still fight your enemies. Then if—if I go wrong, then perform your treatment, or kill me.”

Arianya started to speak, but Duke Phelan interrupted. “Paks, when you were in my Company, you learned that wounds must be treated at once, lest corruption begin. And if the surgeon cuts away good muscle, it’s better than leaving the least infection to spread and engulf the whole body.”

“Yes, my lord, but—”

“Paksenarrion, the Duke speaks truly. If we thought the evil would not spread, or would spread but slowly, we would not try such a drastic cure. But it is the nature of such to spread with awesome speed. You yourself, being damaged already by this poison, cannot perceive how far it has gone already.”

“But my lady—to lose all—and think how long I might live—what could I do? So long in disgrace—”

“It will not be disgrace, Paksenarrion, however it turns out. You have already won honors beyond your years. Nor will any grange of Gird be closed to you: that I promise. And if you have these troubles—and you might not—we will help you find another way to live.”

Paks thrust back her chair and rose abruptly, striding to the window to stand braced against the embrasure, looking out at evening sunlight yellow on the cobbled court and the roof of the High Lord’s Hall across the way.

“I always dreamed of being a warrior,” she said softly. “Silly, childish dreams at first, of being the hero in old songs, with a silver sword. Then Jornoth told me about soldiering, and I was going to be a mercenary, a good one, and earn my living with my sword, and see strange lands, and win honor serving my lord. So I joined Duke Phelan’s Company, and prospered as well, I think, as any recruit. You’ve heard they thought well of me.” She glanced at the Duke, who nodded gravely, then turned back to the outside view.

“I stayed three seasons, but—no fault of my lord Duke, who’s as fine a leader as I ever hope to fight under—I saw things I didn’t want to be part of. So I left, thinking I’d go north and home, and join some castle guard. You know what happened with the elfane taig, and near Brewersbridge. Marshal Cedfer . . . Master Oakhallow . . . they showed me fighting, but for cause, not for a person. My dreams grew—more than being a guard captain instead of a sergeant, I dreamed of fighting as Gird fought—for right, for the protection of the helpless. And you encouraged me: you, Marshal-General, and you, Marshal Fallis, and you, Sir Amberion. You said learn: learn languages, art of weaponry, supply and surgery, fortification—you said all these things were right.” Paks’s voice broke, and her shoulders shook. The listeners were silent, each with his own memories, his own visions. Paks took a deep breath, then another, and turned to face them, tears filling her eyes.

“And then you honored me, sheepfarmer’s daughter, poor commoner and ex-mercenary, beyond all dreams I’d dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a paladin. A paladin! Do you—can you—have any idea what a paladin means to a child on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder, all stars and dreams. A—a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins! And you said ‘Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.’” She stopped for breath again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.

“I could not argue, my lady. I felt you must know; you wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then—to go on quest, with Amberion and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And all of you were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion, that first attack? You said I did well, then.”

“Paks—” he said, but she went on heedlessly.

“And—then I was taken. No, my lords!” She said as both Amberion and Ardhiel started to speak. “I blame you not, I said so before. The evil ones wanted me; it was my weakness or flaw that drew them to me. How could I blame you, who followed into the rocky heart of their lair to free me, outnumbered as you were? No. And while I was thus, in their hands, I tried to pray to Gird and the High Lord for aid, but I had to fight against their servants lest they kill me. I was alone—in the dark—I thought that to fight so—Gird would approve. I thought that was right.”

She looked down, suddenly, and shuddered. “It wasn’t—wasn’t easy.” Then she faced them again. “Now you say that because I fought them, because I didn’t just die, I have opened a passage for great evil. I can’t feel this myself; I don’t know . . . But to chance all I can do, to chance losing all I’ve learned, all I am—that you helped make me—and to think how long I must live if it goes badly . . . Could such a one as I be a—a potter, or a weaver? Oh, better to kill me, my lady, and quickly.”

Silence followed her words; Paks turned again and stared blindly out the window. Then Arianya took breath to speak, but Ardhiel forestalled her. “Lady Paksenarrion, elf-friend, may I tell you a true tale?”

Paks gazed at him, white-faced and desperate. “Yes, Ardhiel; I will listen.”

“We elves, milady, know not death from age, and thus our memories are long, and we see slow processes in the world as easily as you might see the start and finish of a meal. Once, long ago, before ever this Hall was built or men had found their way over the mountains from the south, I walked the green forests with an elf known for the beauty of his voice and the delight of his songs. From him I learned that very air I taught you, milady, when we first met. It was his craft to shape his instruments of living wood—a delicate business, to urge the growth of linden or walnut or mahogany so that it grew fitly shaped for harp or lute or lo-pipe. And to shape it so that in time the complete instrument could be separated from the tree without harm to it or to the creature it grew from. Long years of growth and shaping were required for a single instrument, but long years we elves have in plenty, and delight in filling them with such work.

“In that time, he was growing a harp: not a lap-harp, as might be grown from any angle of applewood or pear, but a great harp, on which he hoped to play before the throne of our king. If you think of the shape of a great harp, you will realize how difficult this would be, for if the harp frame were strong enough to withstand the tension of the strings, removing it would cause severe damage to its tree. I cannot tell you how it was done—it is not my craft—but he caused a part of the tree, the part between the instrument and the main plant, to withdraw, as it were. This process must be complete when the instrument was grown, else it became gross and unmusical, and required shaping with tools, which he abhorred. But if it was begun too soon, the withdrawal weakened either instrument or tree, and could allow woodrot and other decay to attack both.

“It happened that he had just begun shaping his harp-tree when our king determined to wed. Not immediately, for that is not our way; but the courtship and preparation began, and in twenty years or so, as humans would measure time, the wedding day was announced to all elf-kind. It would be another forty years, for the beauty of elf-maidens does not fade or wither, and the king’s subjects would have time to prepare all good gifts for the festival.

“When he heard this, my friend determined that his wedding gift would be the great harp he was then shaping, a kingly gift indeed. He brought me to see it growing, though little I could see: he had to point out which twig would grow to take the fret, and which root-sprout would form the shorter leg. The frame, you see, was to be grown all in one piece: trunk, branch, root, and sprout top-grafted to the branch. In twenty years, I happened by again, and the shape was far clearer. But my friend was dissatisfied. By his craft, he knew that as it grew, it would grow too slowly—it would not be ready for the king’s wedding. I laughed, I recall, and reminded him that elves have no need of hurry. For such a royal gift, the king would be well content to wait. He laughed with me, and seemed reassured.

“But though elves are not by nature hasty folk, we are proud of our crafts, and love ceremony. And ceremony means things done fitly, and in time, and by that love and desire that his gift might be the means of great pleasure at the wedding feast, he was betrayed into haste.

“I know not when he did it, or exactly what he did; he had ways of speeding and slowing the growth of all plants he worked with. Indeed, I’ve seen him grow a lo-pipe in but one season. If it cracked in ten years, what matter, if it served the need to gift a dying man? But somehow he tried to speed the growing of his harp, and the withdrawal of the parent tree, and out of this haste a flaw came into the wood. A part of the withdrawal moved into the harpwood, and weakened it, and the great post that would have to bear the greater strain of the stringing grew awry.

“I well remember the day he showed me, sorrowing, what had gone wrong. Fifty years and more of work, and a little space where the rot crept in had ruined it. To heal that, and reshape the post, would not only take time—years of time—but would also require that the weak part be burned out, regrafted with live wood, and supported while new growth took over. And, he said, ’twas more than likely that it would never grow true in shape, but be clumsy and crooked even if strong enough. Yet to ignore the woodrot would doom the harp and the tree that bore it. I asked him what he would do. He looked at the tree awhile, and said ‘It is not the fault of the wood, which grew true to its nature. I will amend what I can, and tune it as it will bear.’

“Lady Paksenarrion, it is not through your failure that this trouble has come, but we who should have been wiser tried to rush your growth into that beauty we saw possible. Yet now we cannot leave you to perish by our mistake; we must try to mend, though mending is not sure.”

Paks had watched his face as he told the tale, but found it as mysterious as all elven faces; it held surmise but no answers. “Sir—you have always been kind to me,” she faltered. “But need it be now? Could I not go to the green fields, just once, to be a—a memory?”

“Lady, I have known you—I, an elf, who will not die except in battle. You are in my memory and the memory of my people, and there you will not fade in all the years to come when men may forget. We will make songs of you, lady, whatever happens.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Paks miserably.

“Paksenarrion, we cannot force you to this,” said Arianya. “It would be better to do it quickly, but we cannot—and would not—force you. But you cannot wander alone, with this peril on you. Nor, I think, should you be much abroad with others. Whatever you decide, and whatever happens, it need not become common gossip.”

Paks looked from one to another of those in the room, meeting troubled eyes everywhere, doubt and wariness where once she had seen delight and encouragement. Cold despair assailed her heart, more bitter than she’d felt in captivity. Then she had only enemies against her; these were friends. At last she looked at Duke Phelan, leaning against the wall in one corner, arms folded. He gazed back at her, holding her with the intensity of his gray eyes. After a moment, he came to her, still holding her glance at rest.

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” he said. “I will trust you. I will trust you with my Company, the one thing I have built in my whole life, if you desire it. You may come with me, in spite of them, and take command as a captain, and I will trust you, who never failed my trust before, to decide if you can do so in good honor. By my faith, Paksenarrion, you are a good soldier and a good person, and worthy of the trust you have had, and the trust I offer you. You will not fail in this. You have never failed me, and here’s my hand on it.” And Paks felt her hand swallowed in the Duke’s as her face flushed scarlet in relief and joy.

“Tir’s gut, you fools!” the Duke went on to the stunned group. “You’d think you were dealing with a weak, witless chit of a girl who couldn’t do the right thing without being led in strings. Whatever she decides, whatever she is when you wise folk get through with her, she’s got courage enough now, and wit enough now, for the lot of you. If you didn’t think she could be trusted, you shouldn’t have been trusting her.” He turned to Paks. “Don’t cry, captain. My captains don’t cry before outsiders.”

Paks, her hand still clasped in the Duke’s, struggled against a wild mixture of emotions. Joy in the Duke’s trust—that someone still trusted—came to her as a flash of light that let her see what lay within. Her arguments of minutes before showed false as tinsel, though she had believed herself true as she spoke. In a few moments she had mastered that turmoil, and the sudden change of her expression brought silence and attention to the chamber.

“My lord Duke,” she said. “You have given me more than you offered, for by the light of your trust I can see what honor requires. I may never come to serve you again, my lord, as I should to thank you for this gift, but you will live in my memory, however short it may be.”

“Paks—”

“No, my lord. You know what it must be; I would not forfeit your trust. Sir—I would ask your blessing—” Even as she spoke, a prickle of anger stung her; she fought it away.

The Duke wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment. “My child—may all good be with you, wherever, however, whenever—may all evil begone from you forever. And if ever you come to me, Paksenarrion, in whatever state you are, I will help you as I can.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And,” he added with a growl, “I will stay until I see how you fare with these—”

“Thank you, my lord. Marshal-General—?”

“You are ready, then?” Arianya’s eyes were wet, but she rose steadily, and waited the answer.

Paks stepped away from the Duke. She was trembling, but kept her voice firm. “Yes, my lady. It must be done, and, as you say, will be no better done for waiting.”