Oath of Gold

14

Over the next few weeks, Paks divided her time between attending the Duke and leading scouting parties of archers north and east from the stronghold. No orcs showed, but the Duke took no chances.

“I don’t want to take the whole Company into the Lairs,” he explained, pulling out the old charts of those tangled burrows and tunnels. “It would take the whole Company, at least—we never did follow these all the way to the end. We’ll post a guard closer to the Lairs, and ride patrols, and let that be it in this weather.” For hard winter had set in, with a bank of cloud to the north that promised storms of snow.

Although Paks was still uneasy about it, the rest of the Company accepted her unusual status calmly. On patrol, she wore the Duke’s uniform and carried a short sword or bow; her friends had gotten over their shyness, and chatted with her easily. But she lived in the Duke’s Court, with the captains, and ate at the Duke’s table. His armorer was making a set of chainmail for her. She drilled on both sides of the gate: with the captains and the Duke himself at longsword both afoot and ahorse, and with Siger and the others for short sword and bow. She rode in with the Duke to meet with the Councils of Duke’s East and West. Here she learned things about farming that she had never learned on her father’s farm. She began to see how all the crafts and trades in the Duke’s lands fit together, how he could know how much of what supplies to order from Vérella.

In the evenings, she listened as the captains and the Duke discussed not only his realm, but other realms around. She heard the story of his first visit to Kostandan—and why Sofi Ganarrion was willing to help him in Aarenis. Gradually she learned more about the Duke himself—that he had been Aliam Halveric’s senior squire once, that he had won his title and domain after taking command of the Tsaian army after the death of the crown prince, and defeating a Pargunese force along the border. Tamarrion’s sword, she learned, was a wedding gift from Aliam Halveric; Tamarrion herself had been Finthan, from Blackbone Hill.

With maps and models, the Duke and his captains made clear the relationship of the Eight Kingdoms: the forests and hills, the non-human kingdoms of gnome and dwarf. They reinforced the things she’d learned in Fin Panir, and extended them . . . the correct forms of address for different officers in each kingdom, the insignia of all the knightly orders, the little niceties of etiquette at each court. And they asked for her tales, especially of Fin Panir and Kolobia. At first she was shy of speaking before them, but this soon passed.

Day by day, as the Duke recovered from his wounds, and the threat of orc invasion lessened, the mood of the Company changed. Paks thought it was for the better—more smiles, more laughter in the mess hall, but without any less intensity or eagerness in drill. The Duke himself seemed more relaxed, and at the same time more alert. He gave his whole attention to each problem that came up, from the restocking of orc-burnt farms to the blocking of the tunnel in the wine-cellar. Paks had always thought of Arcolin as stern, and Dorrin as remote and severe, but even these captains thawed, showing her the warmth and humor hidden behind their authority. Part of this was certainly due to the actions of the Gird’s Marshal.

Before the midwinter festival, Marshal Kerrin had transferred to the stronghold; her replacement had arrived in Burningmeed. Frost was in the ground before the foundations of the new grange were finished, so she traveled from the stronghold to the villages for services. Paks sometimes rode with her. Although younger than other Marshals she’d known, Kerrin impressed her with her ability. She had served two other granges as yeoman-marshal before training in Fin Panir, and had seen action in western Fintha against the nomads. Her steady, cheerful ways attracted many to the new grange.

The day before Midwinter Feast, Paks rode out with Stammel and a patrol into the hills northwest of the stronghold. As often at midwinter, it was clear, and wind had scoured the snow from the ground. Only a light breeze sifted along the ground, sharp as a sword-edge. Paks kept her face tucked into the hood of her cloak.

A sudden flurry of hoofbeats caught her attention; at the same time the forward scout yelled. She turned to see a red horse gallop out of a gap in the hills.

“A demon horse!” yelled the scout. “It must be! Shoot it!” He yanked his bow from his shoulder.

“No!” Paks twisted to watch as the horse circled the group. “Wait. It’s not evil—”

“Are you sure?” asked Stammel, at her side. She nodded, watching the horse, which has slowed to a springy trot.

“I don’t feel anything evil in it. I would, if it were a demon.”

The others turned their horses to watch. The red horse seemed too slick to have been out in the weather; their own mounts were shaggier. It had white stockings behind, and a white star on the forehead. It pranced around them, blowing long jets of white vapor. Paks noted the size—as tall as her black warhorse, but built more for speed, a little lighter.

“Let’s see if we can catch it,” suggested Stammel.

“Good idea.” Paks waved the others out to form wings, and they tried to pen the horse among them. It flung up its head and bolted, kicking up gouts of snow and frozen earth, and streaking past their horses with a mocking whinny.

“I think it’s some kind of enchanted,” said Stammel. “No ordinary horse—”

“Oh, it’s cold clear weather, and he’s playing,” said Paks. “Just the same as these would, only he’s faster—” She paused as the horse slowed again, out of reach, and looked back at them. “Gird’s teeth, he’s a beauty. I wonder who’s finding that his tether didn’t hold.”

“If that horse has worn a saddle in the past month, I’d be surprised. Not a mark on him.”

“True. And the wild horses north aren’t built like that. Hey, there—” Paks spoke to the horse, which stood with pricked ears watching her and the others. “I wonder if he’d let me come on foot.”

“Paks, you be careful—”

“He’s not evil, I tell you.”

“Evil or not, he’s not acting like a normal horse. At his size, he could put dents in you if he stepped wrong.”

“So could a pack mule.” Paks slid from her mount, and handed the reins to Stammel, who heaved a big sigh. She gave him a quick grin before returning her gaze to the horse. “Don’t follow me,” she said. “Don’t spook him.”

“Did you ever hear about the demon horses that enchant men to ride on them, and then take them away?” asked Stammel as she walked forward.

“Yes, but he won’t.”

“Tir’s gut, Paks, begging your paladin’s pardon, but you’re acting half-enchanted now.”

“It’s all right.” Paks felt sure it was all right, and she moved slowly toward the red horse. It stood still now, balanced neatly on all four legs, watching her. Its long mane and tail blew sideways in the breeze, but it did not stir. She came closer, close enough to see the great eyes, purple-brown, with their oblong irises, and the long upper lashes. The white star was perfectly centered. She paused, looking at the straight legs, flat knees, deep chest—the horse whuffled at her. She felt a nudge of urgency. She took another step forward, and another. The soft dark nose reached out, bumped her hand. “Well,” she said. The horse nudged her again, more firmly. She put a hand to the side of its neck, and it leaned into the caress.

She moved to its side, and it turned its head to watch. A long neck, well-arched; a sloping shoulder, deep heart-girth, long underline. Although lighter built than the black, those powerful hindquarters did not lack for strength. She laid her hand on its back; it stood poised, waiting. She ran her hands down the near foreleg, and asked for the hoof; it came to her hand without resistance. The unshod hoof showed no chipping or splitting, as if it had just been trimmed. When she stood back, the horse turned to her again, and snorted. It was clearly a challenge. Paks felt a surge of excitement. More than anything else she wanted to be on that horse, moving with that speed and power. Was it enchantment?

She walked around the horse, noting strong hocks, muscled gaskins, everything a well-built horse should have, and nothing it shouldn’t. She came again to the head, and started to reach for the lips, to check teeth. The horse threw up its head and gave a snort of clear disgust. Paks chuckled.

“All right. Your age is your business. Gird knows you can’t be too old.”

“Paks—” Stammel’s call carried over the wind. “Don’t get on that beast—”

“It’s all right.” Paks turned to yell back, and the horse blew warm on her neck. She jumped, and glared at it. “Listen, horse—” It whuffled again, and touched her softly. An invitation? A challenge? She raised her hand to its neck again, stroked along it. A real paladin, she told herself, wouldn’t be fooled by a demon horse. So either it’s not a demon horse, or I’m not a real paladin, and whichever it is or I am, I’m going to have one glorious ride.

With no real fear, she moved to the horse’s side and put her hands on its withers. It stood still, merely watching her with one ear cocked back.

“If you buck me off,” warned Paks, “and make me look like an idiot, I’ll chase you from here to the Cold Waste.” The delicate nostrils quivered; the horse did not move. Paks took a deep breath and vaulted up, swinging her right leg wide. The horse stood still as she gained its back and settled herself. She glanced at Stammel, whose face was set in a disapproving scowl. Paks closed her legs gently, and the horse stepped forward. She had not ridden bareback since regaining her powers, and had nearly forgotten the complex shifting of muscles under her. But the horse made no move to bolt, and she adjusted easily. When she nudged with one heel, the horse turned smoothly, angling toward Stammel. Paks stiffened her back, and it halted, perfectly balanced.

“Well,” said Stammel grudgingly, “it’s not acting like a demon horse. They’re supposed to charge off at a run and never stop.”

“It’s not a demon,” said Paks, “but I don’t know what it is.” The horse threw up its head and whinnied loudly. She laid a hand on its neck. “Sorry—I really don’t. Stammel, I’m going to try him out.”

His eyebrows went up again. “With no bridle or saddle?”

“So far he responds to legs alone—we’ll see. If I break my silly neck, you can tell the Duke I admitted it was my fault beforehand.” With that she tapped with her left heel and the horse wheeled to the right. A firmer leg, and it broke to a long swinging trot. Paks took a cautionary handful of mane, and asked for a canter. At this gait, smooth but longer-strided than her other horse’s canter, she guided the red horse through circles and figures of eight with legs alone. It did everything she asked, with smooth flying changes of lead when necessary. And as for feeling—it was, she thought gleefully, the best horse she had ever ridden. Perfect balance, perfect rhythm, suppleness . . . she brought it back to halt near the others.

“All right,” Stammel said. “I’m convinced. But what will you do with him?”

“I don’t know. I—” The horse whinnied again, and Paks ran a soothing hand down the glossy neck. “I suppose I’ll ride him back to the stronghold. If he’s someone’s, they may come by—”

“I don’t think it is. Whatever that horse is and wherever he came from, I think he came for you. Not a demon horse, no—but where do paladins get their horses?”

Paks felt her jaw drop. She had forgotten about paladins’ horses. In Fin Panir, when paladins were confirmed in the High Lord’s Hall, they came out to find their mounts awaiting them in the courtyard. Everyone insisted that the horses appeared—uncalled, but by the gods—and that no one, from the Marshal-General on down, had anything to do with it.

“You’re a paladin,” Stammel was going on. “Stands to reason you’d have a horse of your own. You can’t stay here forever, the way I understand it.”

“No—that’s true.” Paks covered her confusion by smoothing the red horse’s mane. “I—hadn’t thought about it. Maybe—” She leaned over and met the horse’s backturned eye. “Are you a paladin’s horse? Are you my horse?” The head tossed, and a forefoot pawed the ground.

Stammel laughed, a release of tension as much as humor. “Gods above, Paks, we never know what will happen with you around. Can we finish this patrol, or does your fancy horse insist on going home?” The horse blew a rattling snort, and Stammel nodded to it. “Begging your pardon, beastie, but some of us have work to do.”

“He’ll go along,” said Paks. “Let’s get on with it.” And she took the reins of her assigned mount from Stammel, and led the way along their patrol path.

Back at the stronghold that evening, the red horse caused plenty of comment. Paks was hardly through the gates when a crowd gathered to stare. The Marshal, on her way across the courtyard from one barracks to another, stopped short.

“Where did you get that?” she began.

“Came running up to us from far in the hills,” said Stammel, before Paks could speak. “He pranced around as showy as a gamecock, then let Paks walk up to him. I feared it was a demon horse, but she said not, and proved it riding him.”

The Marshal shook her head. “Not a demon horse—by the High Lord, Paks, you’ve surprised us again.”

“Marshal?” Paks swung down, keeping her hand on the horse’s neck.

“I had wondered how you would get your mount—or if you would. You’re different enough that I had no idea—But I never thought one would appear here, in midwinter.”

“Then you think it is—”

“Your paladin’s mount, of course. Of course it is.” The Marshal held a hand out to the red horse, who touched it lightly with his nose, then turned to nuzzle Paks. “I only wonder why he didn’t come at once.”

The horse snorted and stamped. The Marshal looked surprised, then shook her head again. “Paks, paladins’ mounts have powers of their own—I don’t know if Amberion told you—”

“I’ve heard somewhat—”

“Good. Not all are the same. I wouldn’t venture to say what this one can do—but don’t be too surprised.” The Marshal nodded briskly to both Paks and the horse, and strode off.

Paks looked around. No one else ventured to say anything, but she caught many intent looks. “I suppose,” she said finally, “I’d better find you a place in the stable.”

Somewhat to her surprise, the red horse went into a box stall willingly, and began munching hay like any ordinary horse. Paks hurried back to the Duke’s Court to tell him about it.

“I suspect,” said the Duke, “that it means you haven’t much longer to stay here. Your mail is almost finished—”

“Do you feel anything, any call?” asked Dorrin.

“No.” Paks looked around the room. “Not yet. But you’re probably right, my lord. There’s nothing here I’d need a horse like that for.”

“Well, you’re spending Midwinter here, at least, unless your gods lack sense,” said the Duke. “We’ve planned a feast to remember, this year, and I won’t have you miss it.”

Paks thought of her last Midwinter, cold and afraid, in hiding from her past and future both, and smiled against that dark memory. “We will celebrate together,” she said, and included the captains with a quick glance, “the victory of light over darkness, and courage over fear.” The Duke started to speak, but nodded instead.

And when the recruits, freed for the festival days from their usual strict discipline, had the audacity to pelt officers, Marshal, and paladin with sticky fruit pastries, she laughed along with the others. They had been solemn enough when the fires were quenched, and the entire Company stood watch the whole night of Midwinter. On the second day, Paks rode out with the Duke to both villages for the ceremonial exchange of vows. She had not intended to ride the red horse for this, but found him waiting, saddled and bridled, in the forecourt when she came down. The Duke shook his head, then grinned.

“Your gods are pressing you, Paks—best be aware of them.”

“I didn’t plan to—”

“You keep telling me that paladins don’t plan—the gods plan for them. If someone gifted me with a horse like that, I’d never walk.”

“Yes, well—” Paks reached out to stroke the red horse’s neck; it was as slick as if it had just been groomed. “I’d like to know who saddled him.”

“We can ask, but my guess is no one.”

“But horses can’t saddle themselves—” The red horse snorted, stamped, and bumped Paks hard with the side of its head. “Sorry,” said Paks. “I only meant—” The horse snorted again, and the Duke chuckled.

“Come on, Paks; mount the beast before you say something unforgivable.”

Paks swung into the saddle. It felt as if it had been made for her, and the stirrups were exactly the right length. Neither then nor later would anyone admit to having made the saddle (though she suspected the Duke, at first, of having supplied one), or having put it on the horse. Paks followed the Duke out the gate, puzzled but delighted. When they returned that evening, the horse permitted her to remove saddle and bridle, but despite a day’s riding no mark marred that satiny coat. Paks hung saddle and bridle on a rack and went back to the Duke’s Court, still slightly confused.