Oath of Gold

16

“So it has come.” The Marshal did not seem surprised. “I knew it would be soon, but not how soon.” Together he and Paks prepared the body for burial. Paks struggled with her own feelings; she was not used to death save by violence. The Marshal spoke softly as they worked. “When death comes in war, quickly, it is easily faced. So also with many illnesses—either life and health, or death. For most who grow old in peace, the weakness of age comes gently, and death is no longer an enemy. But for her—you saw that scar; I think she had pain from it all along. For two years every breath was drawn in pain. She was too strong to die soon, and knew it might last beyond her strength to face it. That fear—that she might not—began to master her. When you took the pain—”

“I knew it might end—” Paks ducked her head. He touched her shoulder.

“You are a young paladin, and so I will be bold to answer what you did not ask. And even to answer what you fear I might ask. Yes, what you did might have caused her death so quickly. Yet I know you intended neither evil nor her death, and I do not think you killed her. For the healing power comes, as you said, from the High Lord—from him comes the end of pain, not pain itself.”

“You were listening—you knew—”

“I hoped. She wouldn’t let me—and it had gone on long enough. She feared to be weak, and take my help; it had to be someone else.”

“Why didn’t—why didn’t Gird heal that wound in the first place?” Paks was surprised at her own resentment. She knew the danger of that, fought it back. The Marshal finished folding the blanket around the body, laid Rahel’s medallion on top of it, and looked at Paks levelly.

“She wasn’t a Girdsman then. She—” He looked briefly at the body, and back at Paks. “She was a brigand; Gird knows what gods she followed, if any. The Marshal before me here found her near death, in a cave. The others had left her, after dragging her that far. The wound was too old to heal cleanly, even if she’d been a yeoman. Somehow she lived—he was a good herbalist as well—and, when she was stronger, he converted her. Had to, or the local Council would have hanged her.”

“Oh.”

“He made her yeoman-marshal not only for her ability, but to protect her from the yeomen and the town. And she served well, the rest of her life.”

Riding east the next day, Paks thought about what the Marshal had told her. The land seemed settled enough; she saw none of the disruption that war had brought to Aarenis. Few travelers moved on the road, but it was winter, and cold. She came to Harway before noon. Here she was stopped by men-at-arms in Lyonyan green and gold, but they passed her quickly enough when she gave her name.

“Didn’t you serve with the rangers last summer?” asked one of them.

“Yes, with Giron.”

“That’s what I thought. They send those names all around the border. Go on, then, anywhere you like—but if you go to Chaya, you should give your name at the court, and let the king know you’re there.”

“I’ve never seen Chaya,” said Paks.

“Stay on this road and you will—it’s south and east of here, more east than south. You’ve worked with elves; you’ll like it.”

“I’ll ride that way if I can. How would I find the Halveric lands?”

“Which Halverics? That’s a big family.”

“Aliam Halveric—he has a mercenary company—”

“Oh. You were close enough to it last summer—didn’t you know?” Paks shook her head. “Well, it’s far in the south—I haven’t been there myself.”

As she rode into Lyonya, the amount of forested land increased. Bit by bit the fields grew smaller, and the blocks of wood between them larger. Near Chaya itself, a wide belt of forest had been left undisturbed; snow whitened the ground on either hand, though the road itself had been churned to frozen mud. Gradually the trees grew larger, and the spaces between them wider. At the inner edge of the forest belt, Paks reined in to look at the city.

Unlike Vérella and Fin Panir, Chaya had not been built for defense: no proud wall encircled it. Instead, it was as if a grove of noble trees had cleared the ground around themselves, and then been invaded by clusters of bright mushrooms. The mushrooms, Paks realized suddenly, were the buildings: of stone and wood both, brightly painted, with colorful tile roofs. The trees—she squinted upward—were immense, each larger of bole than most houses. The lower bark was cinnamon-red, breaking into plates partway up, where the branches began, and showing pale gray and even white above that. Off to one side of the grove a castle faced the widest part of the open ground, now a snowy field. It looked like a model next to the great trees.

“First time you’ve seen Chaya?” The voice held a little of the elves’ song. Paks turned to see a part-elf in hunting leathers behind her.

“Yes—it’s—not like anything else—”

“No, indeed. Those are the only such trees outside the elvenhome forests. They are a sign that this kingdom is of both kinships.” The part-elf sighed. “As long as it is, they will thrive. But otherwise—”

“Are you one of the rangers?” asked Paks.

“Do you think that is all elven blood has to do in this kingdom?”

Paks did not understand the rancor in his voice. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was with the rangers in the south last summer, and merely wondered if you knew them.”

His face relaxed. “Oh, well, then—I may indeed. I have many friends in the south.” But as it happened he knew of them by name only. They moved on toward the city together, both silent for some distance. Then, as they neared the first buildings, he spoke again. “Have you come from them? Few travel so far in midwinter.”

“I’m a paladin of Gird,” said Paks. “On quest.” He stopped short, and Paks stopped in courtesy.

“A paladin? Have you come to heal the king?”

“I am not yet sure why I’ve been called here.”

“It could not be for better cause. Go and see him, at least.” He looked about, and hailed a youth in green and gold livery. The boy came near, eyes wide, and bowed. “Here—Belvarin will take you. This lady is a paladin,” he explained to the youth. “She must see the king.”

Paks followed the youth through the twisting lanes between trees and buildings to a gate in the castle wall. It surprised her with its size, and she realized again that the trees made it look smaller than it was. She dismounted inside the gate, and led the red horse across a wide court. A stableboy came to take her horse, and she warned him not to tie the red horse.

The boy nodded and walked off, the horse following.

Her escort led her into the main part of the castle, along wide passages. She noticed that the many servants bowed as they passed. She felt the slight tingle that indicated she was near to some act of power. She estimated that they had come to the far side of the castle, on an upper level, when they arrived outside double carved doors. Two nobles in rich gowns greeted her escort, and acknowledged the introduction.

“Paksenarrion—a paladin. Welcome, lady, to the court of our king. I am Sier Belvarin; I hope my son has served you well.” Paks saw a blush redden the youth’s neck. His father was tall and fair, with a red tinge to his hair and beard.

“And I am Sier Halveric. Are you that Paksenarrion who served Phelan of Tsaia?” When Paks nodded, he smiled at her. “Then I daresay you know my nephew Aliam Halveric.”

“Indeed yes, my lord.” When she looked closely at him, something of the eyes seemed like Aliam, but he was much taller, with red-brown hair going silver.

“Have you come to heal our king, lady?” asked Belvarin, with a sour glance at Halveric which Paks did not miss.

“I would offer my healing if it were welcome,” said Paks cautiously. “But the High Lord’s power comes at his will, not mine.”

“I fear, my lady, that you come too late, if such was the High Lord’s purpose in calling you here. Nonetheless, you shall see the king, if you will, and perhaps can ease him.” Sier Halveric smiled at her, and turned to the door.

“Not so fast, Jeris. Have you forgotten what the surgeons said? He must rest, the little he can.”

“Falk’s oath in gold, Tamissin! He’s dying anyway—what harm can a paladin do?”

“But the surgeons—”

“The surgeons! Hmph! And is he better for them, these last months?”

Their voices had risen; Paks was not surprised when the doors opened from within, and a man peered out, scowling. “Lords! Lords! Have you no better place to quarrel than before the king’s chamber? He but barely sleeps at the best of it—” He caught sight of Paks, and stared. “And who’s this? A stranger?”

“A paladin,” said the Halveric quickly. “A paladin of Gird, a servant of the High Lord. The king must have this chance—”

“For healing?” The man sounded more than doubtful. Paks intervened.

“Sir, I am here, in Chaya, by the call of the High Lord, to serve his purpose. But as for the king, I can offer only such prayers as I am commanded to offer.”

He looked her up and down, and relaxed. “Indeed, lady, it has been long since a paladin came to us. We are honored, and the king would wish to welcome you properly if he could. If you can forgive his inability, perhaps you might consider attending him.”

Paks bowed. “By Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, I will do what I can.” She glanced at the other two, who avoided each other’s eyes. “Gird’s grace be on you,” she said quietly, and passed through the opening.

Within, the large chamber was full of light from windows on either side. The king’s bed stood on a low dais; besides a fireplace near it, several braziers filled the air with warmth and the scent of light incense. The king lay propped on pillows beneath a spread worked in gold thread; a matching canopy rose from the bedposts. Paks followed the other man closer. A woman sitting by the bed rose and came to meet them. She wore the insignia of a Knight of Falk, but was dressed in robes rather than armor.

“My lady—you are a paladin? You can save him?”

“I don’t know. I will do what the gods give me the power to do.” Paks looked past her. The king’s eyes were closed; he looked much older than she had been told he was, in his middle fifties. She watched closely as the woman went to the king’s side and spoke softly. He opened his eyes slowly; they were clouded blue. His gaze shifted around the room and found her; he tried to sit up.

“Be welcome in Lyonya, Lady; we are honored to have you at our court. Pardon my inability to rise—”

“Certainly, sir king. May I approach?” He nodded, and waved a hand. Paks came up beside the bed. “May I ask the nature of your illness?”

“We do not know,” said the man behind her. “I am Esceriel, the King’s Squire.” Paks was surprised; he was of middle age. He read her surprise and smiled. “Lady, the King’s Squire is a knight of Falk; so also is Lieth here. But to answer your question, the king’s surgeons know not what his illness is.”

“What I feel,” said the king softly, “is weakness, and pain here—” he touched his chest and shoulder. “My mother had the same thing, and also died of it. The surgeons speak of the heart, and then the lungs—for it seems the air fails me sometimes—and then as well nothing I eat stays with me these days.”

Paks stood by the bed, and took his hand. The skin was thin and dry, a little loose on the bones, like that of a very old man. She almost feared to start her prayers, remembering Rahel’s sudden death, but the pressure of her call forced her to action. When she released the hand, she had no idea how long she had stood there—but the afternoon had passed into evening. Her knees sagged; Esceriel was quick with a stool behind her. The king lay asleep, peaceful.

Lieth brought her a cup of hot spiced wine. “Lady,” she said softly, “I never thought to see such—”

“Nor I,” said Esceriel. “Your power was great.”

Paks shook her head. It felt heavy as a stone. “Not my power, but the High Lord’s. Ah, but I’m tired!”

“No wonder. You’ll have a place here. And he’s asleep, resting well, for the first time in days.”

“But not healed,” said Paks. They looked at her.

“But perhaps—” began Lieth.

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know why; I never know why. But he is not healed, only eased for a time.”

“It’s enough,” said Esceriel firmly. “If you’re strong enough now, I’ll take you to your chamber.”

“Are you sure—?”

He grinned unexpectedly. “You gave us hours to prepare, Lady. You stood there from just after noon until dusk. Can you come?”

Paks pushed herself up from the stool joint by joint. “I can come.”

Her chamber was but two doors from the king’s, a small room with a fireplace, its walls hung with tapestries. A single window looked out over the inner court and gardens, now white with snow. A high carved bed was piled with down-stuffed coverlets; a fur throw lay folded at its foot. Her pack had been set carefully on top of the carved desk.

“Lady, if you need anything, be sure to ask. Servants are on the way with hot water and bathing things. Would you prefer to eat alone, or in Hall?”

“Alone, if that would not be discourteous here. I am somewhat tired.”

“And no wonder,” he said again. “With your leave I shall say you wish to rest undisturbed.”

Paks nodded. “I thank you, sir. But if the king wakes, and wishes to speak to me, I am always at his service.”

“We thank you, Lady, more than you can know. But, Lady—your pardon, but—I did not catch your name—”

“Oh.” Paks realized that the quarreling nobles had not introduced her by name. “I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. Once I was a soldier with Duke Phelan of Tsaia, but now I am a paladin of the High Lord and Gird.”

He bowed. “Be welcome here, Paksenarrion. The Sier Halveric would no doubt have introduced you properly, or Belvarin would but the two of them have little patience with each other.”

“So I noticed.” Paks shook her head.

“It is nothing for a paladin’s concern, of course, but—” Esceriel broke off as two strong youths carried a deep tub of steaming water into the room. Behind them a wizened man bore a carved box on top of a pile of folded towels. “Ah,” he said. “Here’s Joriam with your bath things. I’ll go now; ask Joriam for whatever you need; he can find me at any time.” Esceriel bowed again and withdrew, as did the two youths. Paks met the old man’s dark gaze, intent and curious.

“Well, Lady, we hope to please you,” he began, setting the towels down on the bed, and opening the box to reveal several balls of scented soap. “Here are andrask, figan, and erris soaps; we judge these best for travelers in cold.”

Paks had never heard of andrask and figan; she had once seen erris in a shop, a straggly yellow-flowered herb. The shopkeeper said it was used in soaps and wines both. She watched as Joriam laid the towels and soaps out in a neat row, his every motion precise and ceremonious. He pulled out a tiny drawer in the base of the box, and removed two combs, one of bone and one of horn, which he set above the row of soaps. He glanced at her.

“May I take your cloak, lady?” When Paks nodded and reached for the clasp, he moved behind her to gather it up. Paks unhooked the scabbard of Tamarrion’s sword—as she still thought of it—from her swordbelt, and laid it on the bed. She pulled the swordbelt over her head and tossed it on the bed as well, and began to unlace the fur-lined tunic over her mail. She turned to see Joriam staring wide-eyed at the swordhilt.

“What is it?” she asked, when he did not move.

“It’s—by the High Lord, Lady, where did you come by that sword?” It was more accusation than question; his eyes blazed with anger.

“It was a gift,” she said, watching him closely. “It was given me by Duke Phelan of Tsaia; it was his wife’s sword.”

“Phelan of Tsaia,” he muttered. Then he looked closely at the sword hilt again. “Lady, my pardon—but does this sword have runes on the blade?”

“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “What—”

“How old is this Phelan of Tsaia? Is he a very old man, as old as I?”

“By no means. He is of middle age, perhaps fifty.”

“And you say this was his wife’s sword? How did she come by it?”

Paks began to feel a little annoyance at all these questions, but Joriam’s face was honest. “All I know of it, Joriam, is what I was told. It was his wife’s sword, and was recovered after her death in battle against orcs. She was killed some fifteen years ago. Those who told me are as honest as anyone I know, and I am a paladin. Now—why do you ask these things? Do you know more of this blade than that?”

Joriam’s face contracted to a mass of wrinkles. He shook his head slowly, but answered. “Lady, I can scarce believe my eyes, but—if the runes are the same, this sword comes from this hall—from the queen’s hand, I would have said, many years ago.”

“What!”

“Yes, Lady. You would not be old enough to remember—you may never have heard. But when I was a young man, in service here, that king ruling was the older half-brother of our present king. He married elven, in the old way, to restore the taig-sense to the ruling line.” Joriam looked at her doubtfully. “You are not afraid of elves, are you, Lady? Some Girdsmen are—”

“I am not,” said Paks. “I have friends among the true elves, and I spent some time with your rangers in the south. I respect the taig of tree and forest, and the taig of the kingdom.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Well, then, perhaps the rangers told you of it. Lyonya is both elf and human, kingdom and holder, root and branch—and in health it is ruled by someone who can sense the shift of taig directly. The old king—Falkieri’s father and this king’s father too, of course—his first wife was part-elven, and so Falkieri had enough taig-sense, but just enough. He was wise to marry elven, whatever they said afterwards. Their son showed such ability early, and their daughter too, poor lass.”

“But what happened to them—the son and daughter—or does the throne go to brothers before children?” Paks wondered if the old man were mixed in his wits, for so far the tale didn’t sound like that she’d heard from others.

“No, that’s what I’m telling you. This king, and the one before, are from a different mother, half-brothers to Falkieri. The old king’s second wife was all human; he didn’t think it mattered, with Falkieri healthy and betrothed to a full elf. Anyway, when the first two children were born and weaned, the queen desired to take her son to see her own people. Some kind of elven ceremony; I don’t know. I was too young to be told much. So the queen and the prince left Chaya for the Ladysforest, leaving the princess here with the king. And they were attacked, in the forest near the border, and killed.”

“Killed?” So it was the same story, but told from a different view.

“Yes. When nothing was heard for too long—for the elves would send word of safe arrival, and besides the eastern taig was troubled—search was made, and the wagons and bodies were found. Most of them, anyway. They never did find the prince’s body, but he was small—only four years—and perhaps it was carried off by animals.” He paused to see if she had questions; Paks waved him to continue. “Well, then, you can imagine—I suppose—what it was like. The king was frantic. He and his wife had sworn life-marriage; he refused to remarry, even though it left only one heir, his daughter. And though he tried hard, he never mastered his grief; we think it killed him eventually. The princess was then about nine or ten; the king’s younger brothers were still too young to rule without a regent, so the king’s cousin was named regent for the princess.” He paused again, and ran his hands over the towels on the bed. “Pardon, Lady, but your water will cool. This tale can wait until you bathe.”

Paks looked at him. He seemed near tears; she would not have thought an old man would be so moved by a tale so old. “Perhaps what you tell me is more important that a hot bath,” she suggested.

“Lady, I—I will continue if you wish; I but thought of you cold and tired—” Paks was indeed chilling again, and very tired. Her back felt like a bar of hot metal. She glanced at the tub, still steaming.

“Joriam, I want to hear this, but you’re right—I’m tired and cold and I may not pay close enough attention. But until I hear it, I don’t want you telling everyone about the sword. It may not be the same—and I’m still not sure whose sword you think it is.”

“I will speak to no one, Lady. Only seeing the sword again—it brought back those terrible days—”

“I understand.” She didn’t, but it seemed the right thing to say. “I won’t be long; why don’t you bring something hot to eat—soup would be fine—and we’ll talk again.”

“I’ll take your things to be cleaned,” he said, nodding. Paks struggled out of her clothes while he pulled one tapestry aside to reveal a niche with clothes pegs and drawers set into one wall. From this he took a long soft robe, and hung it to warm by the fire. She wondered if he would try to snatch the sword and take it as he left, but he did not touch it, or the sword belt.

The hot bath eased her aching body, and she had stretched comfortably on a low seat by the fire when Joriam returned with a tray, followed by the same two servants who removed the water and damp towels. He had brought a deep bowl of soup, a plate of sliced meat in gravy, and two small loaves of hot bread, as well as a tall beaker and mug.

“Sit with me,” said Paks, gesturing, “and tell me the rest of this tale.”

“Sit?” he sounded almost scandalized. “Lady, I do well enough.” He leaned against the wall, and went on. “The king died, as I said, when the princess was about nine or ten. His cousin was an honest man—” Paks could tell that Joriam was struggling to be fair to someone he had not liked. “I believe he did the best he could. But, Lady, you know some humans fear elves—have small liking for them—and he himself had no taig-sense at all. He blamed the queen for the young prince’s death—taking that journey—and he disliked the elves at court who would have tutored the princess in taigin.”

“But didn’t he know that Lyonya must be ruled by someone who can sense the taigin?”

“I think he didn’t believe it. Some men are like that—as if blind men could deny sight to others, lacking it themselves. Anyway, our young princess was a fine one, and he did honestly by her, but for that. Only he insisted, since she was the only true heir, that she must marry early. When the elves argued, he sent them away.”

Paks thought back to things Ardhiel had told her. “But isn’t it true that elves and half-elves—even to quarter elves—come late to such growth, and should not marry too early? Especially the women, I thought, for bearing children too young—”

“—can be fatal,” Joriam finished, with some heat. “Yes. And that’s what happened to her, poor lass. The regent and Council insisted she marry at the first legal age, and put it to her that such was her duty. She was as brave as could be, that one, and would dare anything for duty. So she married the year she was crowned queen—married the regent’s son—”

“Scoundrel—” began Paks angrily, seeing a plot of the regent.

“No. . . .” Joriam was more judicious. “I don’t think so. He loved her well, and she had been fond of him from childhood. She need not marry elven, being half-elf herself—all her children would have taig-sense. And he renounced any claim on the crown, should she die. No, I think it was simply fear, fear of the elves—and then they made her marry early, and that killed her. And the child.” Joriam looked down. Paks finished the soup she had started, and began on the meat, waiting for him to regain his calm.

“Then things really began to go wrong,” he said quietly. “As long as she was coming to rule—even though she had no training, she had a strong gift, to sense the taigin. The regent would listen to her. He was honest, as I said, and did her bidding where he could. But after—the old king’s second wife was all human, and from a line with no ability for taigin. With her dead, the Council decided to offer the crown to Falkieri’s younger brothers, now of age, even so. They were both good men, please understand me—they were, as our king is now, honest, brave, and faithful to the kingdom. In another kingdom, that might be enough. In Lyonya, no.”

“What about this king’s heir?”

Joriam snorted. “He has none—not direct. One evil after another, Lady, has stalked this royal house for near fifty years. After him it goes to cousins and second cousins of the old king—half the nobles might have a claim, if it comes to that. War—by the gods, Lady, we have not had war in Lyonya, save along the borders only, since the Compact was made with the elves. Yet now all fear it. It seems nothing will prevent it—and to think of Lyonya at war, the forests fired, maybe . . . and we wonder what the elves will do. It is a joint kingdom, after all.”

Paks nodded. “I see. Now—about the sword. Whose was it?”

“The queen’s, Lady—not the young queen that died, but Falkieri’s elven wife. She carried it; I saw it in her hand, on her wall, when I first came here to serve. That jewel in the hilt—the guards—”

“And runes, you said. What runes?”

“I don’t read runes myself. I remember the shape of two of them, because once when I—” he stopped and blushed. Paks watched him, fully alert now. He blinked and went on. “I had broken something, Lady, and was scolded for it. She was nearby, with the sword partly drawn, and I found myself staring at it.”

“What were the runes like, that you saw?”

“Like this.” With his wetted finger, he drew on the polished wood tray a rude copy of the rune for treasure and something Paks could not read at all.

“Is there anyone else who would know the sword, and could remember all the runes on it?”

Joriam thought. “I’m the oldest servant here, now the elves have gone—”

“Elves gone? Why? How?”

“It was the regent, at first. Later . . . I don’t mean there are no elves in Lyonya, of course, but few now come to Chaya, to the king. They are quick to resent a cool welcome.”

“So would I be, were I an elf,” murmured Paks. Then, louder, “But are there any others?”

“Yes, I think so. The Sier Halveric is older than I, though he doesn’t look it—he’s part elvish, you see. He was much at court in those days. A few others—old Lord Hammarrin, the Master of Horse—he’s near ninety years. Sier Calvary. Tekko, he was Master Huntsman in those days, but he’s been retired these fifteen years. All these would know the sword, but Tekko doesn’t know runes any better than I do.”

Paks had finished her meal; she stretched after pushing the tray farther away. “Well, Joriam, it seems to me that we’d best speak to these others. If I am carrying a treasure of your realm, it must come back to you—isn’t that right?”

He stared at her. “But Lady—you’re carrying the sword—”

“It’s not the first I’ve carried; I doubt it will be the last. If it belongs here, I will give it willingly—”

“But that’s not the point! Lady, please—” His face was troubled. “The sword alone will do us no good. It was her sword, the queen’s, before our troubles began. What I meant was—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m old; I’ve never been anything but a servant here. But if we could find what happened to her—if her sword is still here, perhaps she was not killed. Maybe it wasn’t her body they found. Perhaps she is prisoned somewhere, and could be freed, to return and rule—”

Paks in turn shook her head. “Joriam, I cannot think what could imprison an elf, a queen, for forty-five to fifty years, leaving no trace for searchers, and still leave her alive and fit to rule when found.”

“The—the kuaknom? They say they can take elves—”

Paks felt her face harden, saw the shock on Joriam’s at her expression. “I have been among the kuaknom, Joriam. It is a quick return, or none, from their realms.”

“Lady, my pardon. I did not know.”

“I was captive with the kuaknom for only a few days, and got more scars than in years of fighting in Aarenis. Scars of mind and body both.”

“I am sorry, Lady—”

“No matter. But I must talk to these others. I was called here for some reason—your folk hoped it was to heal your king, but perhaps it was to return the sword instead. I ask your silence on this, Joriam, until those you mentioned are gathered together before witnesses. In such a matter all must be done properly.”

“Yes, Lady. Will you speak with the Steward first? Or Sier Halveric?”

Paks thought. She did not know the ways of power at this court; the quarrel between Sier Halveric and Sier Belvarin had not escaped her, nor the vigilant authority of the king’s squires. And elves were involved, as well.

“I will speak to the king,” she said. “It is his right, to know first. After that, if he is able, he will call what witnesses are needed. But I insist that the elves, also, be here. Surely there is one—an ambassador, perhaps?”

Joriam looked worried. “Across Chaya, Lady, in their own Hall—they do not stay here any longer. But why—”

“Because you say the sword was hers. She was an elf. It is their right too, Joriam. She was one of theirs, and this was hers. Perhaps they have a claim to it.” Paks moved the tray and table away, and pushed herself up. She was still weary, but the bath and food had refreshed her. And the call that had brought her throbbed in her head.