Oath of Gold

20

They arrived at Aliam Halveric’s steading just after midday three days later. An escort had met them at the forest border, ten men-at-arms and a boy Paks thought had the family look. He introduced himself as Aliam, son of Caliam, son of Aliam; Paks thought back to Aarenis and realized that Caliam must have had children before that year. She was glad for him. The boy was in his mid-teens, but already wearing mail and sword as if he knew how to use them. Paks was sure he did.

On the way in he said little, only pointing out the steading walls when they came in sight, the location of the mill, the drillfields and exercise lots for horses.

“There’s a good ride south, up in the hills,” he went on, eyeing the red horse with interest. His own mount Paks classified as good but aged. “If you stay that long—I mean—of course you’re welcome to do as you please, but—”

Paks did not wait for his tongue to untangle. “If we are able to stay, perhaps you will show us that ride.”

He nodded, not risking words again. Paks smiled to herself, but kept her face grave. As they neared the steading wall, she noticed the other houses scattered near it—only a few clustered together near the walls. She asked the boy about it. He explained that it served to prevent the spread of fire, and also made it easier for defending archers.

“On either side, I should think,” said Paks. Near the steading, the forest was cleared back more than a bowshot.

“Yes. He said that’s to give those inside a clear shot—the others have to expose themselves.”

“Do you really expect trouble from the forest?”

“No.” The boy shook his head. “Not for years. But my grandfather says to be ready for anything.” He looked sideways at Paks. “Is it true my grandfather knew you before you became a paladin, Lady?”

Paks looked at him. “Yes. In fact, I had to yield my sword to him once.” She saw by the boy’s face that his grandfather had gained in his eyes.

“A paladin?” he breathed.

Paks laughed. “I wasn’t a paladin then. I was a common soldier, a private, in another mercenary company.”

“Yes, but—” he looked confused. “I thought paladins were knights before they were paladins.”

“Not all of them,” said Paks. “I was a common soldier, and then a free sword, and then in the training company at Fin Panir—” She wished suddenly that she had not started this recitation. How could she tell a mere boy what had happened?

“But when my grandfather knew you—” He jumped into the pause. “You were just a common soldier then? Not a squire or knight?”

“No.”

“Oh. What company?”

“Duke Phelan’s, of Tsaia.”

“Oh—I know him. Grandfather doesn’t have that chance often, to capture one of Phelan’s cohorts. And the last time he did, it all turned out bad—I don’t suppose that was when you mean. It was only a few years ago.” Now they were near the gates; Paks did not have to answer that. Ahead, in the opening, Aliam Halveric stood to welcome them, flanked by two taller men that Paks assumed were his sons. He was even balder than before, but he seemed as vigorous as when she’d seen him last.

“Well—Paksenarrion.” He grinned up at her; Paks threw herself off the red horse and found herself wrapped in a bearhug. He let her go, and shook his head. “My pardon, Lady, if you mind it—but Kieri’s told me so much of you, I’d begun thinking of you as our family as well. It’s good to see you looking so well.”

She had never forgotten the warmth that seemed the essence of Aliam Halveric’s character; here on a wintry day it blazed as bright. Now he grinned up at his grandson.

“Get off that horse, you young ruffian, and take our guests’ horses. Will you sit there like the king come visiting?” The bantering tone took the sting out of his words. “Come on in, Paksenarrion—may I call you so? And you squires, of course—be welcome here. Paksenarrion, you’ve never met my Estil—she would have come out, but had something to settle in the Hall.”

“My lord,” said Paks, “I’d best take my horse to stable myself—he’s not always easy to lead.”

Aliam looked at the red horse with open admiration. “What a beauty. Paladin’s mount, eh? I’m not surprised he won’t lead to any hand. Well, come on, then. I’ll show you. Cal, if you’ll take the squires in and show them the rooms; Hali, see to the baggage.” And he strode off, faster than he looked, leading Paks across a large outer court toward an arched opening to the right. She had just time to notice that everything was trim and workmanlike: the court swept bare of snow, the well-cover neatly in place, no loose gear or trash. The stable was equally well-organized. Paks put the red horse into a box stall where water was waiting. As she had found usual, the horse showed no saddle marks. Aliam whistled softly through his teeth.

“Will he let grooms care for him? Or should I warn them off?”

Paks laid a hand on the warm red shoulder. “He hasn’t caused any trouble yet—but if he doesn’t want to be groomed, he’ll push the brush away. Don’t argue. And don’t let anyone try to tie him.”

“No. I’ll tell them.” Aliam went off to speak to the grooms, who were putting the squires’ horses in nearby stalls. Paks looked down the wide aisle, well-lit by windows set high in the inner walls. The red horse nudged her, and she poured the grain Aliam had given her into his box. Then she followed Aliam back across the courtyard into his Hall.

At the door, Estil met them. Paks saw a woman as tall as herself, dark hair streaked with silver, broad shouldered and lithe. She glanced at Aliam, as if for confirmation—he was grinning again, still a head shorter, his hands thrust into his belt.

“It surprises everyone,” he said cheerfully. “Estil, this is Paksenarrion. She’s a paladin now, you know.”

“I know.” Estil smiled, and gave Paks her hand. It was a strong hand, hard with work. “Come in to the fire; if you’re not cold you should be. We have sib ready.”

Paks saw Suriya and Garris already by the great fireplace on one side of the Hall. Garris was talking with one of Aliam’s sons; a dozen other people scurried around, bringing food to the tables.

“It’s a long way from our first meeting,” said Aliam as they came to the fire. “By Falk, I remember you at Dwarfwatch, when you had to give up your sword. Thanks, Cal.” He sipped at his mug of sib; Paks found another in her hand. Her eyes followed Cal Halveric as he moved away and joined Garris and the other Halveric son. He looked perfectly at ease, as if he had never been injured. Meanwhile, Aliam looked around at the others, gathering their attention. “She was in her first term of service then, and like all the young hotbloods. I was half afraid that when that sword came out, she’d use it—but Phelan’s troops always had discipline. Then when the others dropped theirs, she stooped and laid hers down. Very carefully.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen many things in my years of war, but that—that stuck with me. Damned cocky young idiot—and then I had to coax her into giving parole.”

Paks felt herself blushing as she hadn’t for some time. “My lord—”

“I’m not taking anything from you—just that you were already headed somewhere else than a sergeant’s rank in that company. Or any other.” He shook his head again and glanced sideways at her. “I’ll wager it’d be a different matter if I tried to take your sword from you now.”

In the little silence that followed, Paks pushed back her cloak, and shifted the hilt of Tamarrion’s sword forward. Aliam’s eyes followed that movement. Paks smiled. “My lord, I will hand you this sword if you can explain how you got it.”

His face paled. “Gods above! That’s—that’s—Tamarrion’s—”

“No,” said Paks quietly. “This sword was given to her—but it was made for another, for the prince this realm lost many years ago, and the prince we go to seek.”

Aliam sat abruptly, paler than before. “It can’t be.”

“It is. Old men at court recognized it; elves confirmed its forging.”

“But it—but they—no one told me.” His color had begun to come back; now he sounded annoyed. “I asked the elves, blast them, and they said nothing of a prince—”

“No. So they told us. They told you nothing, and told no one else, either. Until a few days ago, when the king lay dying.”

“I don’t—Paksenarrion, will you swear to me that this is truth?”

Paks stared at him, surprised. “My lord, I am a paladin; I cannot lie. I swear to you that what I say is what I know, or have been told by those I speak of.”

“I must believe you.” For an instant, his head sank into his hands, then he looked around for Estil; their eyes met and conveyed something Paks could not read. He looked around at the others, whose interest was clear. “Enough for now. This is a grave word you have brought me; we will take close counsel, Lady Paksenarrion. But first you will eat, and we will speak of other things, less close than this, if you will.”

Still a little confused, Paks nodded. “As you wish, my lord—but I may not delay long.”

“No. I understand that. When we have eaten together, then—but come to the table now, and let us have this time together.”

The meal was what she would have expected from the Halverics—generous, hearty, and far less formal than the Hall implied. A score of soldiers ate at the lower tables—the current watch, Aliam explained. They looked like the Halveric troops Paks remembered: solid, disciplined, experienced fighters. From time to time a glance met hers, and shifted politely away. The King’s Squires had insisted, gently but firmly, on serving the high table—the younger lads, banished to the low, watched with relief and envy mixed. Paks, seated between Aliam and Estil, found the pair a fascinating combination. The tall woman kept up an effortless flow of conversation, while directing service and working her way through a plate piled with food.

“You were with the rangers, weren’t you?” asked Estil. “Then you use a longbow. I keep telling Aliam what a marvelous weapon it is—”

“For women with long arms, yes,” said Aliam a little sourly. “Just because I’m short, she—”

“Nonsense. You shoot well, love, and anyway—”

“I don’t want a cohort of bowmen. No. I’ve said it before. Just because Kieri has one—”

“You see?” Estil smiled at Paks. “He almost started one, years ago, but when he found Kieri had one, he wouldn’t.”

“Had to let the lad do something I didn’t do first.” Aliam speared a slice of meat, and went on talking around it. “He’d have burst himself if I’d turned up with the kind of bowmen Estil would train.”

“Aliam! I never said I’d train your bowmen.” But her eyes were sparkling with delight. Paks eyed her broad shoulders and strong wrists: she could be a bowman. Certainly she was strong enough, and tall.

“And who else? Me? Gods forbid. I’m a swordsman who can shoot a bow when my sword breaks in half.”

“I hadn’t realized that the Duke—that Phelan—was with you so long,” said Paks. “Garris was saying—”

Aliam broke into a laugh. “Oh, that brings back tales. Yes, indeed, Garris was a squire here—”

“And always glad to return, my lord,” said Garris, passing by with a tankard of ale.

“Garris, you’ve been calling me Aliam to my face for twenty years, ever since you were knighted—don’t start lording me now.”

“It’s being here like this—”

“Then sit down. We’ve nearly more squires than eaters—and we’re all nearly full anyway. Sit down, all of you—this is no royal banquet. You’ve all been riding in the cold. Eat.” He waited until they had all found a seat, then turned back to Paks. “Garris, Lady, was the most hare-brained, witless, hopeless lad I’ve ever tried to turn into a warrior.”

“My lord!”

“Until you call me Aliam I can’t hear you, Garris. I nearly sent the boy home a dozen times, Paksenarrion. He was willing enough—generous—never a bit of meanness to him. But he couldn’t keep his mind on anything—he’d fall over a stick in the courtyard, and then stumble on, not even picking it up.”

Aliam turned to Garris, who managed to look like a chidden boy despite his gray hair. “Not to say that you haven’t turned out a fine man, either—I was young then myself, and had less skill at training boys than I thought. I was so damnably sure I knew what I was doing—of course I had to be sure. Any of them—boys or men—would have scented it if I hadn’t, and the whole thing would have fallen apart.” Aliam paused to pour himself ale, offered it to Paks, and then resumed.

“Anyway, there was Garris, amiable as a young pup and falling over his own feet, and there was Kieri, a few years older and made for war as a sword is.” He ate silently for a few moments, then went on. “They made friends, of course. Actually it surprised me. Kieri made friends hardly, in those days; he kept to himself a good deal. Some of the lads I had were court-bred, and full of blood-pride until I sweated it out of them. But Garris followed him around, and followed him around, and in sheer self-defense Kieri began to teach him what I could not.” He looked down the table. “I suppose you told her about Hakkenarsk Pass?”

“Yes, my—Aliam. What I could remember.”

“Garris, I’d wager you remember every miserable step of that trail. I do, save where the knock on my head shook it loose. That’s the trip that changed you, I believe, though you had grown so much that summer already—”

“I had?” Paks was sure Garris hadn’t meant to say that aloud, or in such a tone.

“Indeed yes. Boys don’t always know when they’re changing, Garris, but I saw it. You surprised me all that summer—and so less in the crisis than you might have supposed.” Paks noticed that Garris sat a bit straighter, with a curious expression. Aliam went on. “I had planned to ask your father if you could stay with me until you were ready for the Knights of Falk; after Hakkenarsk, of course, your father insisted that you come away at once.”

“Sir—I always thought you sent me away—I thought—”

“Good heavens, no! Where did you get that idea? Didn’t he tell you?” Aliam shook his head. “I wish I’d known—no, he thought it was too risky, letting you fight in Aarenis any more. I’d have been glad to have you.”

“He said that,” Garris said. “But I didn’t believe him . . . my brothers saw combat as squires, after all. I thought you had finally tired of me . . .” He stopped short, embarrassed, and stuffed meat into his mouth.

“It startled me,” said Paks into the silence that followed, “to hear Garris speak of Duke Phelan as your squire. I think I knew it—the Duke mentioned it this winter—but it didn’t seem real to me. I never imagined him anywhere but in his own place or in Aarenis with the Company.”

“It’s always hard,” said Aliam, “to realize that older people have had other lives before you met them. I remember an elf I knew once, who told me one rainy afternoon about seeing my grandmother picking flowers as a child. I was never able to relax with him after that.” He sipped his ale. “Even though he said she was beautiful.”

Paks opened her mouth, and shut it again. Twice she had tried to get Aliam talking about the young Phelan, as a safe topic they both knew, and twice he had evaded it neatly. She looked sideways at Estil, to find a worried look on that lady’s face. Estil looked quickly along the table, and called to the kitchen for more sweet pies. Paks ate steadily.

As soon as the meal was over, Aliam and Estil led Paks to Aliam’s study. She wondered if he would still hedge about, but as soon as the door was shut, and they were all seated around a table hastily cleared of map scrolls, he began.

“You carry the sword I gave Kieri to give Tamarrion at their wedding, the sword they found on her body after her death. And you tell me now that sword was forged for the prince that disappeared over forty years ago. And that the elves concealed this from me. Is there more?”

Paks told him the story she had pieced together, and ended with the elves’ revelation that the prince had not only survived the attack, but was still alive.

“The true heir to Falkieri’s throne, if he lives—and the elves say he’s alive.” Aliam looked down at his locked hands. “Did they say who he was, or where?”

“No, my lord.”

“You, too, may call me Aliam. Kieri wrote me some of your story; I’ve heard more; you are not so young as your years.”

“I would prefer—”

“Very well. Why didn’t the elves tell me? Why didn’t the elves tell anyone about the prince? Did they deign to say even that much?”

“Yes. They say that whatever damaged the prince made him unfit to rule.”

“Umph. What do they mean by unfit?”

“They didn’t say that.”

“I suppose they wouldn’t.” Aliam got up and moved restlessly around the room. “And you are convinced this is the same sword?”

“My lord, your uncle and several other older men at court recognized it—could describe the runes on the blade without seeing them. Also the elf, Amrothlin, whose sister was the queen, and the prince’s mother—”

“I never told Jeris about finding the sword,” mused Aliam. “I should have thought of that—but it never occurred to me that he might know anything. He’s been at court most of his life, and—”

“The elves said they—desired you not to speak to your uncle about it.”

“Blast them,” said Aliam, not sounding as angry as Paks would have thought. “They’re always so clever. I’ve said often enough you can be too clever sometimes—clever enough to tie your own bootstrings together. And they are sure the prince lived?”

“So they say. But they will not say where or who. That is what I am to find out.”

“You’re sure that is your quest?” asked Estil. “How do you know?”

Paks shook her head. “My lady, the king, as he was dying, asked that I take the throne, because I had brought this sword, and was a paladin. Others agreed. But a paladin is not a ruler; I was not called to rule, but to save the realm by returning its rightful king. I am as sure of this as I am of the call I received in the first place, but I cannot tell you how.”

Estil opened her mouth, but Aliam spoke first. “How do you hope to find him? And what do you think he will be like, after all these years?”

Paks recited the guesses they had come to in Chaya: age, hair color, eyes, and so on. That he had been a servant, and according to the elves had forgotten his past, even his name. “But so many men could fit that description,” she said. “So I thought to trace this sword back, as I could. The elves reported that you had found it, and tried to return it to them.”

“That’s so,” said Aliam, facing her again. “I found it near the bodies of three elves and many orcs. I sent word to the Ladysforest, by the rangers, and got back the message that I should give it to the one for whom it was made.”

“And you had no idea who that was.”

“No. All I knew of the sword was that it was elven.”

“You hadn’t seen it at court?”

“No.” Aliam answered slowly. “I had not been at court yet, when the queen disappeared. I was a page at my uncle’s, along with the king’s younger brothers—the old king’s, that is: they were kings themselves later.”

“Did you know of any such sword?” Aliam shook his head. “Then what did you think, when they told you that?”

Aliam frowned. “I thought it was typical elven arrogance, to be honest. They knew something I didn’t, and were having a joke at my expense. I saw nothing on the scabbard, and then I saw the runes on the blade. It looked like a woman’s blade, and from the runes I judged her name might have been elven. None of the runes fit Estil, or my daughters, and none of them wanted the sword, with that message hanging over it. I wouldn’t sell it, of course, or send it out of my own hall without telling the elves. I daresay they knew that. I thought I’d be left with it until some elven lady walked in to claim it. Then Kieri Phelan came to tell me of his wedding—and his wife’s name was Tamarrion Mistiannyi. Two of the runes—light or fire, and mountains. I thought of that at once, and offered it to him as a wedding gift. Then I told the elves where I’d bestowed it, and they said it was well enough.”

“Yes,” said Paks, “but was it? Sir, this is what I’ve been thinking of. The elves think this sword, once held by its true master, will proclaim him and give him some powers he must have. They told you to give it to him—to the one it was made for. Doesn’t that mean that you could have? That you knew the man who was actually the prince?”

She did not miss the sharp glance that sped between Aliam and Estil. “What would you have done, my lord, if you had known what sword it was? Would you have had any idea where to bestow it?”

“I—I am not sure.” Aliam sat heavily across the table from her. “Paksenarrion, you have brought what you feel is great hope to our kingdom—the hope of finding our lost prince, our true king. But I believe you have brought great danger as well. What if the elves are right? What if this man—now near fifty years, as you said, and without practice at kingcraft—what if he is indeed unfit to rule?”

“My lord, only a year ago, no one would have thought me fit to be a paladin. Not you—not Duke Phelan—not even myself. Least of all myself.” For a moment she moved into those bitter memories, and returned with an effort. “Yet here I am, my lord, a true paladin, healed of all those injuries, and granted powers I had scarcely dreamed of.” She called her light for an instant, and saw the last doubts vanish from Aliam’s eyes. “The gods have given me this quest, to find your king. I do not think they would send me on a vain search. If he is unfit, the gods can cure him.”

Aliam nodded slowly. “You may be right. I pray you are. Do you think the others—the Council and all—will agree to accept him? Assuming you do find him?”

“They have sworn to do so, my lord, and Amrothlin says the elves will at least consider it.”

“Was the Knight-Commander of Falk there? What did he say?”

“He?” Paks considered a moment. She had not paid that much attention to him. “I think, my lord, that he was unhappy that the gods had not chosen a paladin of Falk for this quest.”

Estil laughed. “That’s probably true. But did he give any clues?”

“No—could he?” Neither of them answered, and Paks sighed. “I think, my lord and lady, that you know something you haven’t told me yet.”

“That’s so.” Aliam got up yet again. “Let me put it to you like this, Paksenarrion. If I once met someone who awoke in me a suspicion that he might be the missing prince—let’s say I did—I had then no proof at all. Only that a boy was the right age, with the right color hair, and a face much the same shape as the old king’s. Remember that I had never seen the prince myself; I don’t even remember what his name was—”

“Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan . . .” said Paks, watching him closely.

Aliam’s hand dropped to his side. “Whatever,” he said and waited a moment. “No evidence,” he went on. “None from the boy—who remembered nothing to any purpose—none otherwise. The princess was alive and well then, but an orphan. I could not see—I thought—” He stopped, breathing hard. Paks waited. “Gods above, Paksenarrion, I did what I thought wise at the time—what else can a man do? He might have been—might not—I couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him—how could I? I was not ready to back his claim against his sister: she was well-known, secure, growing into rule, loved by her people, capable—She was my princess—would be my queen. When I was granted this steading, I had sworn allegiance to her father. What evidence did I have? He might have been a royal bastard—or a noble’s bastard—or nothing at all. On the chance, I did what I could for him, kept him in my service, arranged his training, but—”

At that moment the truth blazed in Paks’s mind. “Phelan,” she breathed. “You’re talking about Kieri Phelan!” Everything came together—his age, his coloring, his—

“Yes,” said Aliam heavily. “I am. Kieri Artfiel Phelan, so he said his name when he came. Gods! If I’d only paid attention to Jeris—if I’d even known the lost prince’s name—but I was a boy! Just a boy!”

“But he doesn’t look half-elven,” said Paks. “The others I’ve met—”

“I know. He looks so much like his father—in fact, that’s what I saw first. I thought he was someone’s by-blow, possibly royal, certainly well-bred, one way or another. Even when I thought of it, it seemed impossible, and that was part of it: he didn’t look elven, or show any such abilities. And I was too young to be sure—”

“I don’t know if the name would have convinced us, either,” said Estil. “Falki’s the common nickname, and we knew Kieri as a name from Tsaia or Aarenis.”

Aliam shook his head. “What a mess!” Then he looked at her sharply. “But he can’t be king. Tir’s bones, I’d give my right arm to make him one, but he can’t—”

“Why not?”

“If only I’d known about the sword back then,” Aliam went on heedlessly. “Then, with Tamarrion alive—maybe he could have come back. But—and wait a moment! He can’t be the one—I gave him the sword. Nothing happened.”

“Did he draw it, my lord?”

Aliam thought long and looked at Estil. “I don’t remember—no, I don’t think so. I drew it, to show him the runes. I don’t—now I think of it, I don’t believe he touched it at all. I wrapped it for him—”

“I remember,” said Estil suddenly. “Tamarrion told me, when her first child was born. When he gave it to her, he vowed never to draw it—”

“That’s right; you told me.” Aliam touched her hair. “I remember thinking Kieri was as sentimental as I am. He wanted her to feel that he was taking nothing from her as a warrior, Paksenarrion, and so he vowed never to draw her sword—it was hers, and only hers. But he was so close—surely it would do something—”

Paks sat for a long silent time with both of them watching her. Finally she shook her head slightly. “Perhaps not. Amrothlin said that although the sword was made for him, and would recognize him in some way, it was meant to be sealed to him by elven ceremony. That’s one of the reasons the prince was being taken to the Ladysforest. Perhaps until that ceremony, it would proclaim him if he drew it himself from the scabbard.”

“And he was so close—” Estil’s voice was awed. “So close all those years—it’s hard to believe he never did—”

“Not with him,” said Aliam. “His word’s been good, always.”

“My lord,” said Paks, leaning forward in her chair, “You see that I must know everything you can tell me about him. I must know why you thought he was the prince—and what was against it—and why you think he is unfit to rule—” Estil stirred, but Paks went on. “I must know what you know of his past—all of it—no matter how terrible. If he is the rightful king—”

“It would all fit,” said Aliam. “The sword—they were telling me to give it to him—if I could figure out the riddle. They thought it was well enough, as they said, when I gave it to Tamarrion—perhaps they were sure he’d draw it in time.”

“Well, my lord?” Paks persisted.

“All right. All right.” Aliam sighed heavily. “Estil? What do you have? I know you know things about him he never told me.” Estil ran her hands through her hair, and began.

“He came to us, Paksenarrion, near forty years ago. I can look it up in the rolls, but Cal was a baby just starting to walk strongly. That would be—let me think—thirty-eight years last fall.”

“One of the woodsmen brought him in,” said Aliam. “Found him wandering in the forest. I was butchering that day. Anyway, he said he wanted to work, and it was snowing and all.” Aliam rubbed his nose. “He was a skinny, dirty, red-haired rat, to look at. All bones and rags. Said he’d come ashore earlier that year on the coast, at Bannerlith—he couldn’t say what ship—and had worked his way inland. But no one wanted him through the winter. That’s common enough.” Paks did not say that she knew it. She waited for him to go on, but he nodded to Estil.

“It wasn’t long,” said Estil, “before we had him into the Hall. What I noticed was his neathanded way at the table. Most boys that age—that size—they knock things over, trip on their own feet. He didn’t. I thought he’d make a fine page—we were out of the way and young to get fosterlings.”

“And he was scared—if we have to have it all out, Estil, you can’t deny that. The first night at my table, the lad takes amiss something I said and shrinks back like he thought I’d beat him.” Aliam gave her a challenging look. Estil colored. Then she met Paks’s eyes.

“He did, Paksenarrion. I don’t recall what Aliam said, but Kieri flinched from him. I knew that would make Aliam angry; he’s never mistreated servants, and to have the boy act like that before strangers—”

“—from Aarenis,” Aliam broke in. “Guildsmen—that turned into my first contract.”

“Anyway, I took him out, and spoke to him. That’s when I found he’d been in a Hall before, somewhere else. He thought—” She looked at Aliam as if afraid to say it, but he nodded. “He thought,” she went on with difficulty, “that Aliam had meant him to sleep with one of the guests. As a—a—”

“I understand,” said Paks. Estil nodded.

“I don’t know any polite word,” she said quietly. “Anyway, I told him no, and that nothing like that happened here, or would happen to him with us, and he—he seemed to come alive inside. Then I saw the scars on his head—and later the others he carried—”

“I knew about that,” said Aliam. “He told me much later—that time in Aarenis. Some of it, anyway.”

“Well, he came to the house, then, as a page, and we thought he was about fourteen. Old enough to start learning weaponry. At first we thought it wouldn’t work—”

“I thought he was a hopeless coward,” said Aliam frankly. “Couldn’t have been more wrong; he didn’t understand at first that he was allowed to hit back. Once he realized, nothing could keep him from it. He had no fear at all, as long as he could fight back.”

“And he took in knowledge as a plant drinks water,” said Estil. “And grew—keeping that boy in clothes was a loom’s work in itself. And loyal—he would do anything for Aliam or me. Mind the children, even, which the other squires hated. Cal loved him—they all did.”

“Anything but learn to think. D’you remember, Estil, the trouble we had with that boy? Daring—by all the gods, he had no fear and dared anything, but he wanted to impress everyone. He never broke out in mischief, but he was so certain of himself, so sure he could come out ahead—”

“And the fights,” put in Estil. She smiled at Paks. “He wasn’t a quarrelsome boy, exactly, but then he wouldn’t give in. He didn’t bully the weaker boys—but until he made senior squire, he was always pushing the senior ones. Nip, nip, nip. Then they’d get angry and jump him, and he’d fight until he was out cold or on top.”

“And then I’d have to settle it.” Aliam shifted in his chair. “He took to tactics at once—strategy took longer. It was not in his nature to take the long view. And he wanted power—ached for it. He would never try to take it from me, but gods help the weaker squire—or even cohort captain. That Hakkenarsk Pass thing was typical—he thought out a good plan quickly, carried it out brilliantly, didn’t forget anything vital, and then nearly killed himself trying to stay in control when his wounds went bad. Or the time in Aarenis, the next year, when I let him take that patrol out. The sergeant was supposed to be in command. Ha. Next thing I know, Kieri lost half the patrol into captivity, then enlisted some unaligned peasants, rescued the men, and fought a small battle—and as the sergeant said, it was like trying to lead a galloping warhorse on a thread. It did what needed to be done, but the risk!”

Paks smiled. “But why, my lord, do you think he is unfit to rule? Look at him now—he has a domain in Tsaia. It’s gone from an orc-ridden, outlaw, uncultivated slab of northern hills to a settled, secure, prosperous land under his wardship. Isn’t that some sign of his ability?”

“Yes, but that’s not all. You are not Lyonyan; you may not know what we need in a king—”

“Taig-sense?” asked Paks bluntly.

“Yes, partly that. As far as I know, Kieri has no taig-sense. At all. And that impatience, that quick anger. You know that—you were there in Aarenis. If Tamarrion had lived—he was very different after their marriage. I wish you had known him then; she was well-named, for she gave him light without changing what he was. But she died, and he turned darker than before. He banished the Marshals—I know he wrote something about talking to them again, after you unmasked his steward, but—”

“They’re back,” said Paks.

“What?”

“My lord, I think you do not know all that happened this fall when I returned to the Duke. He invited the Marshals back himself; he and the Marshal-General of Gird conferred in his hall, and they have no differences between them.”

“Well.” Aliam sat back, pursing his lips. “Well. I would never have thought that. I don’t know if it’s enough, but—”

“My lord, I would agree with you that the man we both knew and fought with in Aarenis that last year would not make a good king for Lyonya—or any land. But that was over two years ago. Last year I was a homeless vagrant, afraid of everything and everyone—a true coward, my lord, as you thought Phelan was. Now I have been changed; now I know he has been changed, for I saw the change myself. At the time, I had no idea what the change might mean to him or to others—but it may have made him able to be your king.”

“And the taig-sense?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the sword can restore it. Perhaps the elves can. If his rashness, his anger, are what they feared, and these have diminished, then maybe they will help.”

“Do they know what you know of the changes in him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then they should. The question is how best to tell them.” Aliam turned to Estil. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything but Kieri—as we knew him—and the sword, so near, and—”

“How far is it to the elven kingdom, my lord?” asked Paks.

Aliam looked startled. “Far? I don’t know; I’ve never been. You can’t go there, unless they want you to come.”

“I know, but I thought maybe the rangers could guide me—Amrothlin claimed the queen was his sister; his mother is in the Ladysforest. If I convinced her—”

“Convince an elf?” Aliam looked at her. “Well, you might at that. But Paksenarrion, think: the elves love children as dearly as we do, perhaps more. And yet they knew he lived, and did nothing—they had some reason for that, but I doubt they liked it. For all we know they’ve been arguing that one out for all the years since. It’s not like elves to leave one of their blood in trouble.”

“Perhaps they did help,” said Estil suddenly. “Aliam, remember when Kieri was young here—we had a group of elves come by almost every winter. Sometimes they’d stay for Midwinter Feast. Kieri seemed to like elves as well as any of the squires, and he has said since that elves have done him favors from time to time.”

“Maybe. I still think, though, that if he’s the prince, and half-elven, they will be sore in mind at not having done him much more than occasional favors. Falk’s oath, Estil, the elves of all races honor high birth—”

“When it’s not been corrupted. Remember the bits of elven lore we know—about the kuaknom, and such.”

“That’s not the same thing at all.” Aliam’s face went red. “Kieri may have a hasty temper, but he’s nothing like that. I can’t believe that they let a prince of their blood—”

“Could they have done better than you, my lord?” asked Paks. “If they didn’t want to interfere directly, they knew that you would take good care of him. By all accounts, you took a frightened helpless boy and made a strong man of him.”

“I still—” began Aliam. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. “What is it?” he asked sharply.