Oath of Gold

15

She felt that she had always run away before: from home, from the Company in Aarenis, from Fin Panir. Each time she had tried to escape something, and each time the thing she had refused to face confronted her again. This time, she was not running away—she was sent. She was less embarrassed than she’d expected by the troops in formation to see her off. It might be the last time she’d see them, the old friends who had made her what she was. That fanfare the Duke commanded, ringing through cold sunny air from the gate tower, honored the gods she served. And the Duke—his eyes alight as she had never seen them—they had said all they had to say. She wore Tamarrion’s sword at her side, and he had nothing of hers but her prayers. And his life.

Riding through Duke’s East, the red horse pranced, snatching his hooves off the cobbles as if they were coals. They all came out, men, women, and children—waving at her, shy to call. She knew the names, the faces, grinned at them and at herself. It was living the old dream, to ride through a town this way, and if it wasn’t Three Firs, with her own brothers, sisters, and cousins waving and smiling, it was well enough. She felt the horse’s amusement through her legs: he knew; it was why he pranced so, showing her off. He slowed without reining by Kolya’s gate. Kolya nodded slowly, squinting up at Paks in the bright sunlight.

“So—it’s as I heard. You’re going. We’ll miss you, Paks. The Duke, too—” She stopped, her eyes fixing on Tamarrion’s sword. She looked quickly back at Paks’s face. “That, too?”

“Yes. He gave me that—I argued, but—”

“That alone?” Her meaning carried more by look than the words themselves. Paks thought of the talks she’d had, these past weeks, as she waited for the Duke’s gift of mail to be finished to his satisfaction. He had insisted on helmet and shield as well, befitting a paladin of Gird. His offer had been as oblique, yet as clear, as Kolya’s question.

Paks looked ahead, then back at Kolya. “I am not free, Kolya, to answer all calls. There’s better for him.” Paks hoped she was right to say that. “Even if I were free—and would marry—I’m not Tamarrion. It’s not only age, Kolya.”

Kolya sighed. “No. That’s so. It’s that likeness, though, that keeps the thought in mind. Maybe it’s better that you’re going, for that as well.”

The red horse did not move, but Paks felt his eagerness to be gone, his certainty of which way to go. She glanced around a last time. “Kolya, I must go. I can’t linger—”

“I understand. Can you accept the blessing of an old kuakgannir?”

“Of a friend, always.”

“Then may the First Tree shade your path, and shed fruit for your hunger, and the wisdom of all wild things be yours.”

“And may the High Lord’s grace and Gird’s protection be on you, Kolya, and the Lady of Peace bring plenty to your orchard.” They clasped hands, then Paks straightened, and the red horse moved on. Paks did not look back.

Although Paks had imagined being a paladin, she had never seriously thought what it would be like to travel as one. She had had some vague idea that paladins knew from the beginning exactly where they would go, and what they were to do, that they stayed in granges for the most part. She did not know even yet how other paladins moved around; for her it was different. Besides a feeling that they should go south and east, she had no idea where they were going. The red horse chose his own trails, and these did not lead from grange to grange, or along the roads she knew.

South of Duke’s East, they left the now-familiar road that led to Vérella, and struck south-east across wooded country. Paks had already found that the red horse had more speed and endurance than common horses, and she let him choose his own times to rest. That wasn’t often. They came to the Honnorgat downstream of Vérella in three days of hard riding. Paks was stiff and cold, and sat staring at the broad gray river while the red horse drew breath.

“Now what?” she asked it. “You aren’t planning to swim that, I hope. And the bridges are all upstream, as far as I know.” The horse flicked an ear back at her.

Paks stretched and looked around. They were on low water meadows, now covered with frost-dry grass. Along the river itself, a fringe of trees thickened here and there into a grove. Downstream smoke rose from a clutter of huts. Paks thought of that den of thieves in Aarenis and wrinkled her nose. On a low mound still farther downstream a larger building bulked—a keep of some kind, perhaps. Upstream was yet another group of huts, with a stake fence. When the horse pricked his ears, pointing, she could see a herd of dun-colored cattle grazing.

Sound carried well near the river, and she heard the jingle of harness just as the horse threw up his head. A small band of riders jogged her way from the larger building—she had been seen. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said to the red horse. “I hope you haven’t crossed the border to Pargun somewhere in those woods.” But as the band neared her, she was reassured by their colors, the rose and silver of the Tsaian royal house.

“Ho, stranger!” They were just in hail. Paks sat still and let them come. The red horse was alert but unalarmed. She recognized the band’s uniform now—Tsaian Royal Guard—but wondered what they were doing this far from Vérella. The leader wore Gird’s crescent on his chest, and the device of the Order of the Bells. A knight, then, and well-born. Six men-at-arms, trim and fit-looking, rode behind him. When he was within speaking range, he reined in. Paks nodded to him.

“Gird’s grace to you, sir knight.”

His eyebrows rose. “Gird’s grace . . . uh . . .”

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks pleasantly.

“You are from—”

“I have just come from Duke Phelan’s stronghold,” she said. “I am a veteran of his Company, but no longer, as you see, one of them.” Her own garb, chainmail under the plain brown cloak she’d bought in Brewersbridge with her Lyonyan coins, gave him no clue.

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin, obviously confused. “On the Duke’s business, are you?”

“No. On Gird’s business.” That got his attention, and that of the others; they all stared. Paks hoped she hadn’t stated it too baldly, but she felt a push to do so.

“Are you a—a Marshal?” At his question, her horse snorted, shaking its head. That reaction made her grin, and the knight even more uneasy.

“No, sir knight,” she said, trying not to laugh. “I’m no Marshal. Might I ask your name?”

“Oh!” He had clearly forgotten about introducing himself. “I’m Regnal Kostvan, third son of the Kostvan Holding. The Royal Guard has garrisons in all the border keeps right now; that’s why I’m here.”

“Is there trouble along here with Pargun?”

He frowned. “Not to say trouble. Not more than usual. But the way things are going in Lyonya—” He looked hard to see if she knew what that meant. Paks nodded. He went on. “And so we’re to make sure of travelers in this way. Were you planning to cross the river? Because you’d have to have clearance from me to hire a ferry.”

“I have reason to cross, yes.” Paks did not say more. How could she explain that she didn’t know where she was going, or what she was to do when she got there?

“You’d best come back with me to the keep,” he said. Paks felt rather than saw an increased alertness in the men-at-arms. They must have had some trouble, to make them to nervous. “My commander will want to speak with you.”

“I’d be glad to,” she said. “It’s a cold day to talk out here.” As she eased the red horse forward, she saw the men-at-arms tense and relax.

“I’ve heard of one Paksenarrion,” began the knight tentatively. Paks could feel the ears of the others growing longer as he spoke. She laughed, surprised at how easy it was.

“Sir Regnal, it might have been you heard of me, though I claim no particular fame. But I served with Duke Phelan three seasons in Aarenis, and rode to Kolobia with the Girdsmen from Fin Panir—so if that’s what you heard, you heard it of me.”

He glanced at her sideways. His horse was enough shorter that she could tell little of his size. “Yes—I had heard of that. And of some other—” he paused, looking away, then back at her. She nodded.

“You may have heard truth and falsehood both, Sir Regnal. And the truth could be the more unpleasant. I do not speak of it much.”

“I see.” He rode a little way in silence. Then he turned to her again, as they neared a small stone keep whose gate faced the river. “But it is our duty to know what passes here—what manner of man or other being, and with what loyalties. I have heard such things of one Paksenarrion that I would not let that one pass. So these things must be spoken of, and your faiths proved.”

The red horse stopped short at Paks’s thought. She faced the knight squarely. “Sir knight, my faith has been proved already by such trials as I pray you never face.” He reddened, but she went on. “I think you will be convinced, ere I leave, of what ‘manner of man or other being’ rides such a horse in such a way.” She smiled, then, and nudged the horse on. “But it will be quicker to convince you and your commander all in one; let us ride in.” And the long-striding red horse caught up and passed the knight’s, and led the way into the keep courtyard.

Sir Regnal was stiffly correct in presenting Paks to his commander, a heavy-set older man with the intricate corded knots of a cohort-commander on the shoulders of his velvet winter tunic. Ganarrion Verrakai: Paks recalled from the charts in the Duke’s library that this was a second son of the minor branch of that powerful family, second only to Marrakai in influence at court. She bowed, and carefully chose an applicable honorific which recognized his family position as well as his Guards rank.

“Sir nigan-Verrakai.”

His eyebrows didn’t rise, but he did not miss the wording. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. Duke Phelan’s veteran?”

“Yes, my lord. Not presently in his service.”

“Ah, yes. On Gird’s service, you told Sir Regnal?”

“Yes.” She wondered how far they would press.

“Have you any authorization from the granges? From Fin Panir, perhaps?”

“From Gird, my lord,” she said.

This time his eyebrows did rise. Not all the Verrakai, she remembered, were Girdsmen. Some were Falkian, some kuakgannir, and some, it was rumored, followed less honored gods. “But you are not a Marshal, you said?”

“No.” It was astonishingly hard to say, to actually open her mouth and claim what she was, among strangers. “I am a paladin.” At least it sounded all right.

They stared. Finally the commander said, “A paladin.” He sounded unconvinced. Paks was not surprised. She was uneasily aware that she was going to have to prove it to them. “Could you tell me,” he went on, “why a paladin should come here, where we have no need of one?”

“Because you lie between where I was, and where I must go,” she said crisply.

“Oh. And where is that, if you please?”

Paks met his gaze steadily, and his eyes fell first. “I don’t think,” she said finally, “that that is your concern. If you know anything of paladins, you know we must answer the call at once, and without question. Nor do we answer questions without need.”

He nodded. “Yes. I knew that. I just—wondered. But—” He looked her up and down. “I had heard things, last year at court. I mean—no offense meant, but—I heard of a Phelani veteran who went to Fin Panir to become a paladin, and failed. Left Fin Panir. Was wandering around as a—” He paused delicately.

“Coward?” suggested Paks, amazed that she could. He glanced quickly at her, and nodded. “Well,” she went on briskly, “you have heard a lot, it seems. Some of it was true. It is also true that wounds heal, and cowards can regain their courage. And it is true that now I am a paladin. When the Marshal-General came to Phelan’s stronghold—”

“What?!” The commander looked even more flabbergasted. “The Marshal-General of Gird?”

“Yes. He summoned a Marshal, on my advice, and she came.”

“Well. I would never have thought. Phelan hates the Girdsmen.”

“He did at one time. No longer. A grange is being built there.”

“I can scarcely credit it. And you—you say you are a paladin. Have you any proof?”

Paks smiled, and called light. It lit the room far more brightly than the meager daylight until she damped it, and the commander nodded. The younger knight looked shocked, and blinked warily.

“I have seen such light before,” said the commander. His voice had warmed. “Well, then Lady Paksenarrion—you may indeed go on Gird’s business. But why do you conceal yourself?”

“I travel as I am bid, my lord; Gird himself was a plain man, and I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter. When Gird chooses to have me recognized, I daresay I will be.”

“A good answer. A good answer indeed. We are honored by your presence, and will do whatever we can for you. You will cross the river?” She nodded. “Then by your leave I’ll send Regnal here to arrange a ferry. Can you wait until morning? I’d be glad to have you at our table this night.”

Paks felt no restless urging, and was glad to stay the night. If she had to ride in another boat, she wanted to do it in daylight anyway. The commander set a good table, and Regnal had recovered enough from his surprise to be good company as well. They were full of gossip about the state of affairs in Lyonya.

“I’m not asking, you understand,” said Ganarrion Verrakai. “But it will take a paladin, I’m thinking, or a company of them, to save Lyonya from years of chaos—even war. All I’ve heard for the last half year is how sick the king is. And how muddled the succession will be. And if Lyonya falls apart—our best ally—then it won’t take long for Pargun to move, I’m thinking.”

“Not long at all.” Regnal drained his glass, and stared at the table. “My grandfather was killed by Pargunese—you won’t know this, Lady Paksenarrion, but that was when the Tsaian crown prince was killed as well, and your Duke Phelan captured the Pargunese commander. That was before he got his lands. Pargun has always wanted this territory.”

“Yes, but it’s worse than that.” Verrakai shoved his glass around on the tablecloth. “I remember my grandfather’s tales of the old evil, before Tsaia and Fintha joined Lyonya and Prealith to fence it out. With Lyonya in trouble, it could erupt right in the middle of the Eight Kingdoms, instead of hanging about the fringes. It wasn’t that long ago, when you think of it, that they fought at Long Stones. I daresay the Master of Torments would like another chance at the inner realms.”

“Or her,” said Regnal. He glanced at Paks. “By what I’ve heard, you know as much about the webspinner’s ways as anyone can, and live.”

Paks nodded. “Yes—and I see what you mean.”

“By my thinking, she probably had something to do with the prince being lost like that,” said Verrakai. “No one says so, true, but something evil came to the queen and the prince. If he hadn’t been lost—”

“No, I think it was the king dying while the princess was still so young,” argued Regnal. “She had the taig-sense, but with no guidance, she never learned to use it fully.”

“But that was from grief. If the queen hadn’t been killed—”

“When was this?” Paks had heard the story outlined, but was not clear on the earlier details. The rangers had concentrated on more recent problems, including the king’s illness.

“Oh, let me think.” Verrakai stared at the table. “I was only a boy when it happened. Forty years, it must be, or fifty. Somewhat around there. Do you know the tale at all?”

Paks nodded. “The queen and prince were going somewhere, and attacked. She was killed, and he was never found. Is that right?”

“Yes. He was a little child, and the princess only a baby; she had been left behind, being too young to travel.”

“The thing is,” put in Regnal, “that there’s no one else in the line who has enough elven blood. And there’s so many that don’t want it, because they don’t know what it does—” He glanced at Verrakai, who reddened.

“Don’t look at me, young Kostvan. I’m no elf-hater; that’s my uncle. I’ve met rangers enough, working for the court, and I know what they mean by taig-sense. I still think Gird’s guidance is enough, for human folk at least, but I admit that Lyonya’s different. It’s a joint kingdom, and the elves have a right to be in the kingship. And where you have elves, you have taigin. But even in Lyonya there are humans who fear more elven influence. And so they don’t care, and so they have had two kings, now, with not enough taig-sense to hear thunder before a storm, and no one coming who has any more.”

Listening to this, Paks had a curious sensation, a tingling of the mind, which forced her attention more strongly on what was said. For some reason she did not yet understand, it was important to what she was to do. But now Verrakai was smiling at her.

“What they need, maybe, is a paladin ruler instead. That hasn’t been tried yet. By Gird, if you can sense good and evil directly, I’d think that would work as well as taig-sense.”

Paks knew from her own experiences in Lyonya that it was not the same, but didn’t want to explain all that. She merely laughed a little. “Paladins are called to harder seats than thrones, good sir. Granted that rule is not easy; but we are not trained for rule and judgment, but for sharp conflict.”

“It might be better the other way. But I am not one to quarrel with the gods’ ideas, only I hope something changes for the better in Lyonya, and soon. We have had bands of orcs around here, and worse things seen at a distance. If there’s serious trouble ahead, I’d as soon our allies were in shape to help.”

In the morning, Paks and the red horse were ferried across the Honnorgat, its wide surface pewter colored between ice that still clutched each bank. On the far side she mounted, and rode on thoughtfully. She had noticed that her mail shirt was brighter than the day before. No one had polished it, or the rings and buckles of her tack, which were also gleaming. She wondered if her gear were beginning to take on the gleaming cleanliness she had noticed on other paladins.

South of the Honnorgat the land was more settled and richer. She passed through many little villages, and by noon was riding into a larger town. The red horse came to a stop before a handsome grange just as a Marshal stepped out the barton gate.

“Gird’s grace, traveler,” said the Marshal, eyeing her keenly. “I’m Marshal Pelyan. And you—?”

“Paksenarrion,” she answered. “A paladin of Gird, whose protection lies on all this land.”

His eyes opened a little wider, but he merely nodded. “Welcome to our town. Will you take lunch with me?”

“With honor.” Paks had already found that a paladin’s hunger differed in no way from that of an ordinary soldier. She swung off the red horse, and looped the reins over her arm. “Is there a stable?”

“Around here.” He led the way to the back of the grange, and waited while she made the red horse comfortable in a box next to his own brown warhorse. “You have traveled hard,” he said, as he preceded her out the stable door.

Paks shrugged. “Not too bad.”

“Mmm. Some would consider any travel this time of year hard. But not you, I suppose.” They had come to an inn, and he entered, waving his hand at several men who looked up. A landlord came forward, looking at Paks curiously. The Marshal forestalled any questions by asking him for a quiet table. When they were seated, he leaned forward in his chair. “I know I asked for assistance,” he said softly, “but I didn’t think it required a paladin. Is it really that bad?”

Paks was startled. She had had no feelings about this town at all, and no sense that she was called to do anything here. “Marshal, I’m not here in answer to your call—that I know of. It’s true I’m on quest, but somewhere else.”

“I see.” He looked somewhat relieved. “Do you—would you know if my message was received in Fin Panir?”

“No.” Paks shook her head slowly. “I haven’t been in Fin Panir for over a year.”

“Oh.” Now he looked dismayed. “Blast. I wish I knew—” He stopped as the landlord came to take their order, and quickly told the man to bring stew and hot bread. When the landlord moved away, he began again. “Sorry—should have let you order. But I’m that worried, you see. And then you came in, just when I was thinking I’d have to ride at least to Vérella myself.” The landlord came with their food, two huge bowls of steaming stew and two loaves of bread. Paks began to eat. The stew was good; she finished it all, and mopped the bowl clean with a hunk of bread.

The Marshal insisted on paying for their meal, and said nothing more about his problems until they were near the grange, and the street empty around them. “I don’t mean to delay you,” he said, “but if you have a little time, perhaps you could just tell me if I should ride out myself. It’s very vexing, is what it is—”

Paks herself was curious what sort of problem could bother him so, and what kind of help he’d asked for. She agreed to take a cup of sib in his office and listen.

“This is solid old Girdish territory,” he began. “Has been for generations; we had a grange here before Tsaia claimed it. So we’ve always had a strong yeomanry. But as we’re close to Lyonya—Harway, maybe a half-day’s walk east, is on the border—we’ve had plenty of Falkians, too. I’ve nothing against them; they’re quiet, law-abiding folk, and brave enough in trouble. But this trouble in Lyonya—well, now, folk here are beginning to worry. When the first few Falkians came in wanting to join the grange, I admit I was pleased about it. After all, that’s what any Marshal hopes to do, is increase the strength of the yeomanry. The Falkian captain even joked with me about it, wanted to know my secret. But along about last spring, it went beyond any jokes. They’ve closed their field—that’s like our grange—and the captain’s left. There’s a sergeant now, for the few commons left. And our grange is stuffed with ex-Falkians.”

“Why do you think they changed?” asked Paks. It still didn’t seem much like a real problem to her.

“Lyonya. I think they wanted to show their loyalty to Tsaia, where the court’s Girdish. They don’t say so, of course. I wouldn’t take ’em if they did. That’s a bad reason to change patrons, just for policy like that. And that’s part of my problem: all these so-called Girdsmen. I don’t have the arms for that many, or the money and time to get arms. Of course the Falkian captain didn’t send the arms along with them—very properly, too: I certainly never sent arms with a yeoman who left the grange. But they talk, talk, talk, all the time, worrying themselves—and me—and I have only one yeoman-marshal, and she’s been sick. Then there’s the visitors.”

“Visitors?” Paks asked politely, since he had paused as if waiting for her question.

“Yes.” He made a sour face. “Close as we are to the border, you see, families here and families there have intermarried and so on. With all this uncertainty in Lyonya, they’ve come over here until it settles down—if it ever does. As I said, we’re a long-settled area. It’s not easy to absorb several hundred more people all at once, and no knowing when they’ll leave. Families going short call on the grange for help; we had a good harvest, but most of these people came just after harvest—not during the working season, when they could have made the crop bigger. I wrote Fin Panir back in the spring about getting another yeoman-marshal or Marshal, and maybe starting another grange. They said wait and see what happened. What’s happened is that I’ve got a grange full of people, less than half of them my own, and not enough arms, or time to train, or anyone to work with. I suppose it’s not a paladin’s concern—” He looked at her sadly.

“Tell me about your yeoman-marshal,” said Paks, trying to think what she could do in a short time. “Did you say she was sick?”

“Well, she’s not so young any more, and she’s had lung fever last winter and this winter both. This last time, she never really got well.”

“Why don’t I take a look?” said Paks. Then she thought again. “Of course, you’ve tried a healing—?”

The Marshal shook his head. “She didn’t want one, she said. She’s been low in her spirits this last year or so—and that’s another thing, but I’ve had no one to talk to, and been too busy to go anywhere. Something’s bothering her—”

“Would she talk to me?”

“I imagine so. A paladin, after all. On a quest. It might interest her.”

“Can’t you appoint another yeoman-marshal?”

“Well—yes, I could, but—everyone knows Rahel. She’s been here since before I came. As long as she’s—and it’s not as if we were actively fighting—”

“Where is she?” asked Paks.

“Along here.” The Marshal rose and led the way along a passage inside the grange. He stopped outside a door, and rapped on it. Paks heard a chair scrape inside, and a heavy cough, then a tired voice responding. “It’s the Marshal,” he said. “We have a visitor, Rahel—a paladin.”

The door opened. Rahel, the yeoman-marshal, was a hand shorter than Paks, with heavy gray braids wrapped around her head; her face was thin, and she stood slightly askew, like someone with a stitch in her side. Paks was aware of a heavy feeling in the air. “Sir Marshal,” said Rahel, in a voice without resonance. “Paladin—?”

“Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal, with a gesture. “She is on quest, but stopped here for a meal, and a rest.”

“Gird’s grace, Lady,” said Rahel, with obvious effort. “Will you come in?”

“Gird’s strength to you,” said Paks in return. “I’d be glad to sit awhile, if it won’t tire you.”

Rahel smiled without humor. “Nothing tires me, Lady, but living itself.” She stepped back, and Paks followed her into a clean spare room with a small fireplace. Two comfortable chairs, a small table, and a narrow bed piled with pillows furnished it. A mail shirt hung from its stand, and several swords hung from pegs on the wall. That was all. Rahel sank into one of the chairs, clearly short of breath.

“How long have you been sick?” asked Paks.

Rahel shook her head. “I am not sure. I have an old wound—every year or so I used to have lung fever in winter or early spring. I can’t remember when it was that it first started hanging on too long. But last year—it was near midsummer before I could walk to Harway and back in a day. And just after harvest, I got the lung fever again.” She stopped, gasping. Her color was bad, an odd bluish-gray that Paks had seen on men with lung wounds. She coughed again, bending to it. Paks waited, wondering if there were any chance of a healing.

“The Marshal,” Rahel went on when she caught her breath, “he thinks I should let him try a healing. But it’s too late—too much is gone—I—” She coughed again. “I’m too tired,” she said finally. “I fought—years—and I’m tired.”

“Would you let me try to ease the pain for you?” asked Paks.

“Ease—? Not heal?”

“If it can be healed, I will try to heal it. I think you are right, Rahel, that it’s gone too far. But I can ease it for you, for awhile.”

“I didn’t want numbwine,” muttered Rahel. “Can’t think with that stuff—can’t work at all.”

“Not numbwine.” Paks watched her, recognizing the heaviness for what it was, and wondered why the Marshal had not seen it—or if he had just not wanted to see it.

Rahel nodded. “If you will—I’m sorry, Lady—I can’t say the right things—”

“No matter. Would you rather lie down?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind. It’s hard to—” She pulled herself out of the chair, and went to the bed, piling the pillows at one end. Paks wondered briefly if she should tell the Marshal first, and decided against it. Rahel lay against the pillows, her eyes sagging shut. Paks took a deep calming breath, and called on Gird and the High Lord.

As she touched Rahel’s head, she knew at once that no cure would be given. She prayed quietly, hoping to ease the pain, and sensed that Rahel’s breathing had quieted. After a few minutes, she felt a clear instruction to stop, and withdrew her hands. Rahel opened her eyes.

“That—is—much better. My thanks, Lady, for this and for Gird’s grace.”

She looked better, even rested, and Paks fetched her a drink of water from the jug on the table.

“The power is the High Lord’s,” Paks reminded her. “It is lent me, under Gird’s grace; it is not mine.”

“True. Oh, it is easier. If it never got worse than this, I could—” she stopped suddenly, with a surprised look, and fell back. Paks knew at once that she was dead, as she had known that death was near. She straightened Rahel’s body, and called the Marshal.