Oath of Gold

17

By the time Paks had dressed in dry, clean clothes, it was full dark outside. Starlight and torchlight glittered together on the snowy courtyard. Joriam waited outside her door, and escorted her to the king’s chamber. Esceriel showed his surprise in raised eyebrows when he opened the door.

“Lady—I thought you were—pardon, you are welcome to enter—” But his voice still held questions.

Paks had put on her shining mail again, and belted on the mysterious sword. “The king?” she asked softly.

“He woke without pain, Lady, and ate with appetite. He has dozed off again—must you wake him?”

Paks met the eyes of both squires. “Let me explain, if you will.” They led the way to a window alcove, and stood near. “My call brought me here,” Paks began quietly. “I do not know the reason. When I found your king so ill, I hoped the call was for healing. As I found, and told you, it was not.” The squires stirred, but said nothing. Paks went on. “While I was setting my things aside to bathe, Joriam noticed what he thought was a treasure of this realm.”

“What! Old Joriam?”

Paks nodded. “Yes. If he is right, perhaps my call was to restore this treasure to Lyonya—perhaps it has some power to aid you that neither he nor I know of. Joriam named several others old enough to recognize it—if, in fact, that’s what it is. But I thought the king himself should decide how this would be investigated.”

Esceriel looked bewildered. “But—Lady—what would you be doing with a royal treasure of Lyonya? Surely Joriam didn’t suggest—I mean, you cannot be a thief—”

“No. But I would like to know myself where this thing has been since it left here—if it did—and how it came where I found it. But you have not asked what it is.”

“No.” Both squires shook their heads. “If you wished to tell us, you would.”

“Do you agree, though, that the king should know first?”

They looked at each other. “I suppose.” Esceriel looked doubtful. “He has been able to do no work for some weeks. The Council—”

Paks shook her head. “No, if this is what Joriam thinks, it is a relic of the royal house. And it involves elves—high elves—and the king must decide what to do.”

“Yes, I see. You’re right. But could it not wait until morning? If the king can sleep through the night, even once—”

Again Paks shook her head, and saw that both of them took the meaning of that refusal. Nonetheless she stated it. “I’m sorry—truly sorry. But as I told you, I was not sent to heal him. He may not live that long, and this, I judge, is urgent enough to disturb even the last of his rest. I will do what I can to ease him again later.”

They nodded shortly, and left her in the alcove, moving quietly to the bedside to wake the king. Finally Lieth beckoned, and again Paks approached the bed. The king’s face showed less strain than before, but his color was no better. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile.

“Lady—I believe you must have some reason for waking me. I am in no pain, but—I feel no strength, either. What is it?”

“Sir king, your old servant Joriam recognized among my gear what he believes is a treasure of your house. If he is right, then the return of this treasure may be my reason here. And since it was elf-made, and belonged to the elven wife of your older brother, who was king many years ago, I believed you should know first, and decide how this is to be handled.”

His eyes gleamed. A faint flush of color stained his cheeks. “A treasure? Elf-made, and the elven queen’s? That would have to be—” He paused, obviously thinking. “Is it a ring, Lady, or a sword?”

“A sword,” said Paks. She did not take it out. He glanced at her side, and she drew her cloak back a little.

He nodded. “It might be—her sword had such a green jewel in the hilt. I remember that much, though I was only a boy when I saw it last. But how did you come by it?”

Paks repeated what she’d told Joriam. The king listened carefully. “I don’t see how it could be the same,” he said then. “How would such a treasure come to a Tsaian mercenary?”

“If I remember correctly,” said Paks, “it was a wedding gift to his wife from Aliam Halveric.”

“Halveric!” The king tried to push himself up. Lieth and Esceriel were quick to lift him and pack pillows behind him. “Could it be that the Halverics—no. I won’t believe that of them!” But his voice held a measure of doubt. Paks was appalled.

“Sir king, I’m sure it doesn’t mean that the Halveric stole it—or had anything to do with the attack. He isn’t old enough—”

“Falk’s blade! That’s right—he’s only a few years older than I am. He wasn’t even at court. Forget I said any such thing—please. It is my weakness, Lady, and the hour . . .” His voice trailed off. Then it strengthened again. “In fact, now I remember that we were pages together when it happened. Of course it couldn’t have been Aliam.”

“The Halverics, sir king, have always been loyal supporters of this house,” said Esceriel quietly.

“Yes, yes—I know. That’s why we were fostered as pages to the Halveric estates. I just—for a moment—”

“In such a surprise, sir king,” said Paks, “anything may come to mind. But, my lord, I think it is important to identify this sword certainly. I have not taken it from the sheath since Joriam spoke; no one here has seen its blade. Can you describe it?”

“Oh yes.” The king nodded. “The hilts—well, I could have seen that, since you’ve been wearing it. On the blade, as I recall, were runes. I don’t remember exactly which. Averrestinil—the queen that was—rarely drew it. And I was just a boy, and seldom at court anyway. The elves would know—if you want to drag them in—and Sier Halveric. Perhaps the old huntsman, if he’s still able to see. Averrestinil enjoyed hunting.”

“Sir king, the elves must be told. They, more than anyone, can confirm whether this sword is the same or another. I know it is of elven make, and magical, but nothing else.” Paks looked at the squires, to find both of them staring at her with glowing eyes. She looked back at the king. “I don’t know, my lord, what good this sword will do—if it is the one that was lost when the queen and prince were killed—”

“Perhaps it will proclaim the heir—the true heir—” began Lieth. “I have heard of such swords—they take light when drawn by the one who is to rule.”

Before she thought, Paks answered quickly, “It can’t be that. It lights up when I draw it—” Then she realized how they might take her words. It was too late. Lieth nodded, smiling, and when she looked, the king was smiling too.

“If so, then perhaps your call was to save Lyonya by taking the throne.”

“No, my lord!” Paks shrank from the idea. “I am a soldier—a warrior of Gird—not a ruler.”

“At any rate, I agree that the sword must be identified and tested. And even by elves.” He sighed. “Would that my cousin were still alive—he was regent for my niece before her death—and he was both cautious and wise with elves. I myself have had little to do with them.”

“Sir king, do you wish us to gather these people here, in your chamber?” Paks felt the need to push for some definite action that night.

“It must be done openly,” mused the king. “A thing of such importance must not be hidden. Yes—bring them here, but give audience to all the Siers, human and part-elven alike.”

“But my lord,” said Esceriel, with a worried frown. “You are not strong enough—”

The king managed a steadier smile. “Old friend, I will be as strong as I must—this grace the gods have given me so far. If this can leave my kingdom in better state—if it can prevent quarrels and bickering such as I hear through my doors daily—”

“We try, my lord—” said Esceriel.

“I know. I know, and I also know why they come. It will be well worth a day or so less life, Esceriel, to leave my kingdom with hope and peace.” He drew a deep breath, that suddenly seemed to hurt, for he stiffened. Paks laid her hand on his, and he smiled again. “No, Lady—I need no more of your strength for the moment. I will save mine for what I must say when they come. Lieth, mix me a warming draught, and call Master Oscarlit. Esceriel, summon these: all the Siers in Chaya, and the kyllan-siers of those who are not here. Also the ranking elf—I don’t know who that is, worse luck, but you can find out easily enough.”

“I don’t know if the elf will come—” said Esceriel.

“They will come if I summon them,” said Paks. “May I, sir king?”

“Yes—do. Assemble them, if you will, in the Leaf Hall. If so many come that would be crowded here, you will carry me down.”

“My lord—”

“Enough, Esceriel. I know I will die soon; I will die happier if this is behind me. Ward of Falk, Esceriel—be on your way.”

“My lord and king.” With a deep bow, and a flashing glance at Paks, Esceriel swept from the room. Lieth, having set some drink to warm on the hearth, bowed also and withdrew to find the surgeon. The king beckoned Paks to bend close.

“Esceriel, Lady, loves me too well. He is my son—a bastard, alas, of a human mother with more taig-sense than I—and the only son of mine to reach manhood. This he suspects, but does not know—and has never reached for power for himself. I love him well, Lady, and if you have comfort for him, I pray you give it.”

Paks felt tears stinging her eyes. “Sir king, what comfort the High Lord permits, I will give. And now I’d best go, and seek the elves.” His eyes sagged shut as she turned away.

Finding the elves in Chaya was not as easy as she had hoped, or as hard as she had feared. No one in the palace seemed to know just where they might be—“They’re uncanny, Lady, and wander about—” She had feared they might all be withdrawn into elvenlands, where she had no entry. But after a cold, miserable trek through the streets of Chaya, she heard a few words of elven outside a tavern. She looked up. The sign, lit by a gleam of light from within, was a harp with a wreath of ivy, and beneath it was the elven rune for song. Paks shoved the door open and entered. Light seemed to fail as she came in, shifting in an instant from clear white to the dim reddish glow of a dying fire. Paks felt her bones tingle with magic. She looked around.

“You come late, traveler.” The tavernkeeper loomed nearby, tall and stout.

“I am looking for someone,” said Paks, in elven. Silence followed. She heard the faint rustle of clothing in one corner, the resumption of breath, where all had stopped for an instant.

“Art thou a true elf?” asked the tavernkeeper in elven. “Art thou of the house of the leaf, or the house of the fountain?”

“I am not,” replied Paks, still in the same language. “Yet I have had friends of leaf and fountain, and have been graced by their wisdom and song. I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, named elf-friend by Ardhiel. I have touched the elfane taig, and lain captive of the iynisin longer than I care to tell, and fought a daskdraudigs when my wounds were healed.”

“I have heard of such a Paksenarrion,” he said. “A servant of Gird Strongarm, so I’ve heard, and a friend of the Kuakgan of Brewersbridge, and of Kieri Phelan of Tsaia.”

“That is true.” Paks waited through another silence. Elves, she thought, could be just as slow as dwarves—but then they thought humans were hasty.

“And what do you search for here?” he asked finally. “You carry such magic with you as would satisfy most humans.”

Paks laughed easily. “I search for someone, not some thing. For someone who can identify what I carry, and tell me its tale. And not only me. I search, as you must realize, for the elves I thought to find in Chaya, the heart of Lyonya the Fair. For this, I was told, was a kingdom of men and elves together—”

“So it was, once, Paksenarrion,” said another voice, from near the dying fire. “Long years ago. But evil betrayed that dream—”

“And good may redeem it,” said Paks. She felt a nudge from within, and called light. In that sudden glare the room showed full of elves—many of them high elves, richly dressed. Her light glittered from jewels on fingers and belts and weapons, gleamed on the gold frame of a great-harp, the silver of buckles and mail. Around the walls ran a pattern of interlacement, set in gleaming tiles.

“You are a paladin, then.” The tavernkeeper’s voice was steady; she had not startled him, at least.

“Yes. And I have come to Chaya on quest, with a call from the gods I serve. This call sent me to find elves—elves who remember the better days, the days when King Falkieri had an elven wife, and two children—”

“Does anyone want those days remembered?” asked the elf in the corner. He sat in a carved chair that resembled a tangle of tree roots formed into a throne; his velvet tunic was embroidered heavily in gold and silver.

“The king does,” she answered. “He sent me to ask.”

“The king? The human king?”

“Yes. He knows he is dying; he wants to leave Lyonya in better hope than now seems likely.”

They looked at one another; Paks felt the intensity of those looks. “And on his deathbed he acquires wisdom that might have saved us had he found it earlier.” That was a part-elf, squatting on the hearth itself.

“Peace, Challm,” said the richly dressed elf. “Wisdom is always worth having, be it never so late. And for a human, whose soul lives after him, it is a priceless gift.” He stood. “Paksenarrion, you will not remember, but you have seen me before.”

Paks shuffled rapidly through her memories, but to no avail.

He smiled. “You were dying in the snow—you had taken such injuries from an evil power our best efforts were nearly too late and too little. And we did you a discourtesy, in casting a glamour on you that made you forget an errand—though I swear, lady, we took the scroll to Estil Halveric faster than you could have done.”

Paks felt her jaw drop. “You! You are one of the elves who found me after—”

“You freed the elfane taig. Yes. Kinsmen, this is an elf-friend indeed. I am glad to see you with such powers, Paksenarrion. From time to time we heard that things went hard with you.” She nodded, speechlessly. “You may withdraw your light if you wish; we have our own.” He was smiling now, and as Paks damped her light, the elflight, similar but with a more pearly glow, radiated from the air around her. It had no source she could see, and cast no shadows. “You asked my name that night,” he went on. “I judged you did not mean any discourtesy, though I was short with you. It went hard to admit that a mere human had done what many elves had tried and failed to do. But now—” He bowed. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Amrothlin son of Flessinathlin, the lady who holds the heart of the Ladysforest, and brother of that queen you spoke of.”

“The queen who—”

“Who disappeared with her son, the prince. Yes. And if my eyes have not faded—which they have not—you bear at your side the very sword—”

Paks had, in the past few moments, forgotten the sword. Now she laid her hand on its hilt. “It is this, my lord, which—”

He nodded. “I know.” His eyes swept the room. “It is time, kindred—time and more than time. We are not hasty, we elves, but the time for mysteries is past, and the time of truth is at hand. I will take six of you: Berris, Gyorlan, Challm, Adreath, Signys, Preliath.” He came to Paks. “When does the king wish our presence?”

“As soon as may be, my lord.”

“Then we shall come now. He made a gesture, and the elflight died. Paks blinked in the darkness, until her eyes adjusted to the red glow in the hearth. Then she turned, hearing the elves around her, and led the way back toward the palace.

They said nothing during that walk—nothing aloud, at least, though Paks surmised that their thoughts were full. At the palace gates, the guards’ eyes went wide when they saw Paks and the others. But clearly they had had their orders, for they swung the gates open and stood at attention. They came to the far side, to the doors of the palace. Lieth stood there, now formal in armor and surcoat of royal green and gold.

“Lady Paksenarrion? It will be in the Leaf Hall; Esceriel called too many lords to fit into the king’s own chamber.”

Paks introduced the elves with her, and Lieth bowed. “Be welcome, my lords and ladies, in the king’s hall. He will be with you shortly.” Lieth opened double doors into a long high room with panelled walls, now brightly lit by many candles. Paks estimated that some twenty men and women waited there. Fires blazed in both fireplaces, and at one end a long chair waited for the king. The elves moved into the room; Paks saw some faces light, and others freeze, to see them. She turned to Lieth.

“Will you need help to bring him down?”

“No, Lady. He insisted on donning his formal mail, and Esceriel and I, and two others of his squires, will bear his chair down. He asked that you stay here, until he comes.”

“Then I will do so.” Paks entered the room. Almost at once, Sier Halveric came to her.

“Well, lady paladin, you have tossed a torch into the oil barrel indeed. What is this, do you know?”

“My lord, I await the king’s command to speak of it.”

He eyed her shrewdly. “And think I should not ask, eh? Pardon, Lady. I’ve been on Council so long, and the king’s been ill so long, that I am too hasty. The king’s business has been our business these many months.”

“I hold no anger, Sier Halveric.”

He nodded. “I hope I am permitted to thank you for easing him. The word has gone that after your care he slept easily for the first time in months.”

“I grieve, my lord, that I was not given healing for him.” Paks wondered if she should say even this much; she knew that others were listening.

“I also.” He bowed and stepped back. Sier Belvarin stood nearby, frowning, and came forward as Halveric left.

“I wonder, Lady, that you would bring elves to the palace. Perhaps you do not know how we feel—”

“I do not know how you feel, Sier Belvarin,” said Paks, with an edge in her voice. “But I know this kingdom is both elven and human, and has been so since humans came here. Elves granted humans land-right here, but the precedence is theirs.” Belvarin reddened, and Paks went on. “Besides, I obeyed the king’s express command to bring them.”

“The king wanted elves?”

“Indeed yes,” said Paks, now with a smile. “I would bring no one here without his consent, human or other. He told me to find and bring them.”

Shaking his head, Belvarin melted back into the crowd. Paks watched him, uncertain. She felt no warning of evil, as she had in Phelan’s stronghold, but she knew something was wrong.

“Lords and ladies.” At the door, four squires carried the king’s chair; he was propped with pillows, gray-faced and gaunt. The speaker was a man in forest green whom Paks had not met. Everyone bowed, while the squires carried the chair forward. In courtesy, no one looked as the squires helped the king from the carrying chair to the one that awaited him. Then they took up their positions on either side of him.

“My lords—ladies—high elves of Lyonya and the elvenlands—” The king’s voice was thin but steady. He took a long breath and went on. “This day a paladin of Gird arrived in Chaya—here, in this palace—and because she is here, I called this assembly.” He took a sip from a silver goblet that Lieth held ready. “She bears with her what may be—may be, I say—a treasure of this house, lost since Falkieri’s queen and heir were killed over forty years ago. If it is so, it may have returned to our aid in this time of need. I called you here to witness the examination of this object, and hear what she knows of it.”

“In the middle of the night?” Paks did not know who that was—a tall dark woman on the far side of the room. But the king smiled.

“Yes, Jonnlith. You all know I have not long to live. The paladin Paksenarrion asked healing for me; it was not granted.” He lifted his hand to still the murmurs that ran around the room. “Enough, please. She eased my pain—more ease than I’ve had since last spring. If the gods have decided that my life is over, who am I—or who is she—to argue? I have no quarrel with her, only great thanks. But in what time is left me, I would learn what I can of this treasure. Paksenarrion, come forward.”

Paks moved toward the king’s chair, aware of the eyes watching her, and bowed. She felt, rather than saw, that Amrothlin followed her closely.

“Show them the sword in its scabbard,” said the king quietly. Paks unbuckled the scabbard from her swordbelt, and held it flat on her arms before her. She saw nothing but interest on most faces, but a few suddenly seemed intent. Sier Halveric. An old man, somewhat stooped, in heavy woolens and a fur-collared cloak. And, of course, all the elves.

“How many think they can name this sword?” asked the king. The Halveric stepped forward.

“Sir king, by the jewel on the pommel, and the shape of the hilts, it is much like the sword that your elder brother Falkieri’s elven wife carried. That blade was rune-marked on the the spine; is this?”

“Wait,” said the king. “Anyone else?” A thin old man in blue shuffled forward, with a younger one supporting him.

“I saw that sword in her hand,” he quavered. “The day she left, sir king, when I led her horse out, and set the lad up behind her, it was belted to her waist. If I can look at the hilts—there was a mark, inside the curve, where the boy had made a scratch with something. She laughed about it, said it was his first mark.” He bent over the sword, and poked a bony finger into the place, searching with his fingernail. “Yes—there it is. Can you see it?”

Paks held the sword for the king to see, and he, too, found the scratch. “Thank you, Lord Hammarrin. Anyone else?”

Now the stooped old man came forward. His face was dark and weathered into a nest of deep cracks, but he moved more lightly than the other. He put out one gnarled hand, and touched the scabbard lightly. “I say it is the same, sir king. It—it feels the same, the way it always did. And the stone’s the same—” He touched that, too, with a wary finger. “I’ve seen this sword many a time—at least, this grip and hilts. But it wasn’t hers, as I remember, but the boy’s—”

“What!” One of the younger lords cried out.

“That’s right,” said Hammarrin, turning toward them again. “I remember she said something about giving it to him someday. But what does it matter?”

“Master Tekko,” said the king, “do you know what runes would be on that blade?”

The old huntsman’s face creased into a gap-toothed grin. “Me, my lord? Nay, the only runes I know are of track and trail. I can read red deer and wolf well enough. It had something on it, I know that, but not what.”

“My pardon, sir king,” said Amrothlin quietly. “May I speak?”

The king peered at him. “You are an elf, sir?”

“Yes.” The elf’s voice held none of the scorn that Paks knew it could convey. “That lady you speak of, the wife of your brother Falkieri, was my sister; this sword and its story are well-known to me.”

A scurry of sound like mice ran through the room. The king raised his hand again, and again took a sip of the cup Lieth held. “By your leave, sir elf, we will hear this tale.”

Amrothlin turned so that the rest of the room could see his face. “Sir king, in the days when the queen bore her first child she asked her family, in the Ladysforest, to forge him a weapon. She foresaw that his life would be full of danger, and wished him to have the protection of such blades as elves are skilled to make. And so the smiths labored, and after that the singers, to bind into this blade what spells would serve him best.”

“But she carried it,” blurted someone. Paks heard the hushing hisses.

“You’re right,” said Amrothlin. “So she did. She judged her son would grow to be a tall man, as most half-elven are, and the sword was made full-size. But—” He looked for a moment at the sword Paks held. “It is possible for such a blade, forged to serve one person in particular, to change size and shape somewhat with need. Until he grew to carry it, she kept it in a form she herself could use. It was safer so, she thought, than lying unused. Another thing—although it was made for him, and sealed to him at its making by elven magics, a more formal sealing was planned for that very trip. After that, it could be used by no one else, but until then, anyone might use it. Should evil handle it, it might be corrupted. So she thought to keep it safe for him, and bind her own mother-spells into it as well.”

“But how did it get to her?” asked Sier Halveric, looking hard at Paks.

“Please, Sier Halveric. Let me finish what I know. The runes on the blade are these: fire, treasure, ward, rejoice, mountain, royal.” As he spoke, he traced them on the air in elflight. Paks saw many of the watchers flinch. He turned to Paks. “Are these the runes?”

Paks nodded, and spoke. “Yes, my lord. Those are the runes on this blade.” She glanced at the king. “Shall I draw it now, sir king?”

“Wait,” he said, looking at the elf. “There is more to this?”

“Yes. The runes can be read several ways, but they were set in the pattern that high elves would read as ‘Guard this royal treasure, and the mountains will rejoice.’ The royal treasure, of course, being the prince himself. The exact shape and size you see is that chosen by the queen for her own convenience—that’s why it looks slender for a grown man’s weapon.”

“I don’t understand,” said the king slowly, “how it can have been sealed to the prince, yet not sealed to the prince? And what difference does it make now?”

Amrothlin smiled, but gently. “Sir king, at its making it was spellbound with the prince’s name. That meant that no other would ever awaken its full powers. As well, the queen had sent, with her request, a bit of cloth with one drop of the prince’s blood, and a few hairs of his head. But the final binding, which would make the prince the knowing master of the blade, had to wait until he was old enough to grasp it and speak clearly the words of the ritual. Had their journey been completed, the prince would have been master of the sword. As it was—the prince and queen disappeared, and the sword was lost.”

“Yes, but it’s here.” Belvarin had pushed his way to the front. “It’s here now. Where has it been?”

“As for that, Sier Belvarin, I don’t know the whole story. For many years it was lost—perhaps stolen by the raiders who attacked the party, or perhaps thrown far into the wood by the queen herself. But I next heard about it when Aliam Halveric sent word to the Ladysforest that he had found an elf blade near three murdered elves, between Chaya and his own lands. His description was exact; it could be no other.”

“But you didn’t tell him what it was,” blurted Paks. “He didn’t know, did he?”

“No. Although—” Amrothlin looked away for a moment. “We did not tell him. At the time, sir king, your brother Serrostin had recently come to the throne. We feared that such a relic, at such a time, might stir—might cause unrest. It seemed to us that elves were less and less welcome at court. We feared haste, and the consequences of haste.”

“But—” Sier Halveric looked bewildered. “But Aliam never told me about any sword. If he’d told me, I might have remembered—”

The elf sighed. “Sier Halveric, we know that. Aliam had a distaste for talking to you about it.”

“You kept him—”

The elf bowed slightly, his eyes glinting. “And if we did, Sier Halveric, it was many years ago, and for reasons we thought wise. We advised Aliam Halveric to give it to the one it was made for—”

“The dead prince?” the king broke in.

“You wanted it sent to his memorial?” asked someone else.

“As you wish,” said the elf. Paks felt a curious twist in her mind. The elf’s mouth was quirked a little, as if he were secretly amused. But he went on. “Then he told us he was planning to give it to Phelan of Tsaia, as a wedding present, because his betrothed’s name was Tamarrion, or ‘light of mountains,’ two of the runes. We told him that was well enough.”

“And when his wife was killed,” said Paks in the silence that followed, “the sword was recovered, and hung on his wall until I took it in need.”

“Why?” asked the king.

“My lord, Duke Phelan’s steward of many years was actually an agent of—” She hesitated to speak that name, and paused for another one. “—the webmistress,” she said finally. “He feared my power to detect evil, and tried to kill the Duke and me before I could expose him. No one wore sword to the Duke’s Hall; the steward grabbed one from the wall, and I happened to take this one. It was happy to drink his blood.”

“I see. And you, not knowing its past, bore it away, and returned it here.” The king leaned back, looking even more tired. He drained the goblet Lieth held.

“My lord king, I am sure, now, that I was sent here to return it to its rightful place.” The elf stirred beside her, but Paks went on. “I don’t know what it can do for you, but such a source of power must be—”

“No.” The king shook his head.

“No?”

“No. You were sent here, Lady, that I do not doubt. And I do not doubt that you were sent here with the sword to some purpose. But just the return of it—no. What good will such a sword do, when the one for whom it was made has long died?” He rolled his head sideways to meet the elf’s eyes. “Tell me, sir elf—what can such a weapon do, without its master?”

“It is as you see it, sir king. A fine weapon—I’ve no doubt the lady has found it so—and particularly apt against certain evils.”

“Would it be useful to anyone?”

“I think not. It was made in good, for good; it has been used by good, to some purpose. It would not, I think, fight well in a wicked hand.”

“How would it be different in its master’s hand?”

“My lord king, I know not all its powers. I had no need to know, when it was forged; in fact, I was far away at the time. Like any elf-blade, it gives light when its master draws it: more, if dire evil is near, or if its master’s name is in doubt.” Paks shifted now, remembering the flare of light from that blade every time she’d drawn it.

“Then if someone drew it,” said the king slowly. “If it lit, would that prove anything?”

“It might—I don’t know what spells my sister—your queen—put into it.”

“I don’t remember it lighting up when she drew it,” said Tekko suddenly. Everyone turned to stare at him. “Many’s the time I’ve seen her with it, too, and I don’t recall any light.”

“I will tell you all my thought,” said the king, raising his voice with an obvious effort. “Here is a paladin come to Chaya, in our deepest need. You know I am dying; I have no heir. Lyonya faces many troubles—between human and elf, between our borders and our allies, with Pargun and Kostandan to the north. This paladin—” he reached out and caught Paks’s sleeve, “—has been named elf-friend. She is Gird’s warrior, and known to powerful lords in Tsaia and Fintha; this would make our allies happy. The rangers say she can sense the taigin, which I have never done, to my shame and sorrow. And she comes with a treasure of our house, with the sword my eldest brother’s wife carried, and which was made, we now know, for her son, who should have been our king. Let her draw the sword—let us see whether it lights for her. If it does—and I believe it will—then I suggest we have found my heir. Can anything be better than a paladin, bearing an elf blade, a friend of elves with taig-sense, to rule in Lyonya?”

Paks turned to him, appalled. “My lord, no!” She heard the rising murmur behind her. “I am no ruler; I am not even noble-born.”

“If the gods choose you as a paladin, should I quarrel with your birth?” His voice carried over hers and the hubbub. It stilled as he went on. “Lady Paksenarrion, you have been tested and tried in ways that prove your fitness to wear Gird’s crescent—or a crown. I command you now: draw the elf blade made for the heir to this throne, and show us all what it says.”

Paks looked around the room, seeing consternation change to anticipation on all the faces. She looked back at the king, soberly. “Sir king, as a paladin, I am bound to honor the gods’ commands above all others. But your command does not conflict with theirs. In the name of the High Lord, and Gird his servant—” As she slipped the sword from its scabbard, it flared blue as it had since she first pulled it from the wall. A shout went up.