Oath of Gold

27

There on her hand lay the Duke’s black signet ring, the same ring she had carried from Fin Panir to the Kuakgan’s grove in Brewersbridge, the same ring she had taken back to the Duke that fall. The others had leaned to see what it was; Paks held out her hand, and watched the faces whiten. No one spoke. Paks flattened the parchment, and saw thin, angular writing she knew at once for blood. She shivered; she knew it must be his blood.

This too she showed the others, handing it around.

“By the Tree—” Kolya was the first to find speech. “What can you do, Paks?”

“Find him,” said Paks grimly.

“But how?”

“They will guide me; they intend it.” She was shaken by a storm of rage and grief, and struggled to master it. For what must come she had to be calm. She took the ring from Dorrin, who was staring blankly at it, and slipped it on her own middle left finger. “Kolya—” The one-armed woman met her eyes, blinking back tears. “Find the nearest Kuakgan—is there one near enough Vérella?”

“For what?”

“To aid him when he travels. I want the taigin awakened for him.”

“Great lords above!” muttered the High Marshal.

Paks shot him a quick glance and went on. “Tell the Kuakgan to ask the taigin of Master Oakhallow: and tell him the three woods are fireoak, blackwood, and yellowwood.”

“You want him to raise the highfire for the Duke?”

“For me,” said Paks quietly. She turned quickly to Dorrin. “Make sure they are ready to ride at once. Whatever it takes, Captain Dorrin: the High Marshal will help you.”

“Indeed I will.” The High Marshal’s expression was as grim as she felt. “Every Marshal in Vérella—”

“And on the way. Sir Marshal, I must speak to you alone.” Dorrin and the others left quickly. Paks took a deep breath but before she could speak, the High Marshal asked:

“Do you foresee your own death, paladin of Gird?”

“I see nothing, sir Marshal, but the direction of my quest. It seems likely that this summons means death. But Girdsmen are hard to kill, as you know—” He nodded, with a tight smile. Paks went on. “Sir Marshal, I ask you these favors. Would you ask the Marshal-General to send a sword to my family at Three Firs when she thinks it safe for them, and such word of me as she thinks it wise for them to have?”

“I will,” he said. “You are sure you will never return there?”

“I knew that before now, Sir Marshal. However this ends, I cannot return; I would like the Marshal-General to know my wishes in this.”

“I will tell her,” said Seklis. “Be sure of that. What else?”

“This time I will not have Gird’s symbols defaced,” said Paks. “I will arrange to return my arms and medallion. If you will leave these in the grange at Westbells, on your way east—”

“You expect to follow?” The High Marshal’s voice was completely neutral.

Paks shook her head. “I expect to follow Gird’s directions, Sir Marshal. I hope to follow, but—to be honest—I expect not.”

He lowered his voice. “It is not the way of the Fellowship to sacrifice any Girdsman—let alone a paladin—without a fight.”

Paks managed a smile. “On my honor, Sir Marshal, they will find they have a fight—though not the one they expected, perhaps. And as well—” she found herself grinning at him, “as well, imagine if one paladin can spoil such a long-laid plot. How many years has that black webspinner been preening herself on the completeness of her webs? And the Master of Torments must have enjoyed what happened to a helpless child. Yet now the rightful king returns, and their attempt to sever Lyonya and Tsaia will fail.”

“If you can find him.” The High Marshal held her gaze. “If you can pay the price.”

“I can find him,” said Paks. “As for the price, what I have is the High Lord’s, and I will return it as he asks.”

“Gird’s grace be with you, paladin,” said the High Marshal formally.

“And Gird’s power rest in your grange,” replied Paks. She bowed and strode quickly from the chamber.

She hardly noticed those who moved out of her way in the passages outside. She was wondering how Phelan had been trapped. Were all the squires dead? Was he himself dead, and this message no more than a trap for her? But she did not believe that—else her quest would lead somewhere else. She would find him easily enough; those who had sent the ring would see to that. She came into the outer court and glanced up to see what light remained. In another glass or so it would be dark. No one questioned her at the outer gate, though the guards greeted her respectfully. She nodded to them and passed into the wide street beyond.

Here she slowed to a stroll, and looked around carefully. The street seemed full enough of hurrying people, hunched against the cold and ducking into one doorway or another. Directly across from the palace gate was a large inn, the Royal Guardsman. On one side was a saddler’s, with a carved wooden horse, gaily decked, over the entrance. Beyond that was a cobbler’s, then a tailor’s shop. On the other side was a scribe-hall, then a narrow alley. Paks walked that way, past the ground floor windows of the inn’s common room. She was aware when someone came out the inn door behind her. She felt the back of her neck prickle with another’s attention. But she walked on, steadily. The footsteps behind quickened. Paks slowed, edging toward the front of the scribe-hall.

“I think,” said a low voice at her shoulder, “that you must be Paksenarrion?”

Paks turned; the follower was a tall redheaded woman, in the garb of a free mercenary. Paks saw the hilt of a dagger in each boot as well as one at her waist.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am Paksenarrion.”

The redhead gave her a scornful look up and down. “You are just as Barra said. Well, and did you get our present?”

Paks raised an eyebrow. “If you mean a certain ring—”

“Don’t play games with me, paladin,” the woman sneered. “If you want to see him alive, follow me and keep your hands off your sword.” She turned away.

“Stop,” said Paks, not loudly but with power. The woman froze, then turned back to her, surprise in her eyes. “Before I go one step, I will have your word on this: is he alive? What of his squires?”

“They are all alive, Phelan and the squires, but they will die if you are not quick.”

“And I should follow so we can all be killed at once, is that it?” Paks forced humor into her tone, and again the woman’s eyes flashed surprise.

“No,” she said sulkily. “The Master would be glad to kill all of you—and will—but you can buy your lord some time, if you dare it.”

“And where do you go?”

“You would not know if I told you. There are places in Vérella that none but the Guild know, and places known only to few of the Guild.” She looked hard at Paks for a moment, and shook her head quickly. “I wonder—perhaps Barra has erred—”

“Is this Barra’s plot?” asked Paks. “Or Verrakai’s?”

“You ask too much. Come.” The woman turned away and walked off quickly. Paks followed, her heart pounding.

To her surprise, they did not enter the alley Paks had seen, but kept to the main streets until they were in the eastern end of Vérella. Then the woman turned into a narrower street, and another. Here was the sort of poverty Paks had seen in every city but Fin Panir and Chaya: crowded narrow houses overhanging filthy cobbles and frozen mud, ragged children huddled together for warmth, stinking effluvium from every doorway. She was aware of the curious glances that estimated her sword’s worth and the strength of her arm rather than a paladin’s honor. The redhead ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, scarce wide enough for their shoulders. It angled around a broad chimney, and opened into a tiny court. Across that was a double door, painted black with red hinges. On this, the redhead rapped sharply with her dagger hilt; a shutter in the door scraped open.

Paks looked quickly around the open space. It was already draped in shadow, overlooked only by the blank rear walls of the buildings that ended here. Paks wondered at the windowless walls, then saw that there had been windows once—they were blocked up, some by brick and others by heavy shutters. She could hear the redheaded woman muttering at the door, and something small scuttling among the debris across the way. Aside from that, and the distant rumble of street noises, it was ominously quiet.

One leaf of the double doors opened, squealing on its hinges. “Come on,” said the woman sharply. Paks did not move.

“I want to see him.”

“Inside.”

“No. Here. Alive.” Paks called light, and it cast a cool white radiance over the grimy stones, the stinking litter along the walls. Several dark shapes fled squeaking into holes.

The woman turned back to the doorkeeper, and muttered again. Paks waited. The door slammed shut, and the woman turned back to her.

“I told you he was alive. You’re only making it worse.”

“On the contrary,” said Paks. “I do what is necessary.”

“Necessary!” The woman spat. “You’ll learn necessary soon enough.”

“That may be, but I will see him alive and well before then.”

“As the Master answers, you will see.” They waited in heavy silence for some minutes. When the doors opened, both sides gaping wide, two files of armed men emerged. The first were dressed in dark clothes, and carried short swords. Behind them came two priests of Liart, their hideous snouted helms casting weird shadows in Paks’s light. But for one being slightly taller, she could see no difference in them. The redhead bowed deeply. The two faced Paks; one of them raised a spiked club.

“Paladin of Gird, have you come to redeem your master?”

“He is not my master, but the rightful king of Lyonya, as you know.”

“But dear to you.”

“To bring him to his throne was laid on me for my quest,” said Paks. “He is no longer my lord, for I am Gird’s paladin.”

“But you are here because of him.”

“Because of Lyonya’s king, yes.”

“The Master of Torments desires otherwise.”

“The Master of Torments has already found that the High Lord prevails.”

A howl of rage answered that, and a bolt of blue light cast from the second priest. Paks laughed, tossing it aside with her hand. “See,” she said. “You have said that he lives, and that you have some bargain in mind—but I am not without power. State your terms, slaves of a bad master.”

“You will all die in torment—” began one, but the other hushed him and stepped forward.

“You killed our Master’s servants in Lyonya,” he said. “You killed them in Aarenis before that. The Master will have your blood for that blood, or take the blood of Lyonya’s king.”

“Death for life?” asked Paks.

“No.” The priest shook his head slowly. “Torment for it, paladin of Gird. Death is easy—one stroke severs all necks, and our Master knows you paladins expect a long feasting thereafter. You must buy the king of Lyonya’s freedom with the space of your own suffering. This night and day one will suffer as our Master demands—either Lyonya’s king, or you.”

“And then you will continue, and kill in the end.” Paks kept her voice steady with an effort.

“It may be so, though there is another who wants your death. Uncertainty is, indeed, an element of torment. But the terms are these: you must consent, and come unresisting to our altar, or Lyonya’s king will be maimed before another dawn, and will never take the throne.”

“Prove that he and his squires live.”

“His squires! What are they to you?”

“You would not know. Prove it.”

One of the priests withdrew. In a short time, the priest and more armed men appeared, bringing Phelan and the squires, all bound and disarmed. One man carried their weapons.

They gaped across the tiny yard at Paks’s light. Phelan’s face hardened as he saw her. Garris sagged between his guards, as if badly hurt. Suriya’s right arm was bandaged, and Lieth’s helmet sat askew above a scalp wound. Selfer limped.

“Paks. I had hoped you wouldn’t come to this trap.” Phelan’s voice barely carried across the court.

“Your ring worked as we hoped.” That was one of the priests.

“A paladin on quest, my lord, has little choice,” said Paks, ignoring the priest and meeting Phelan’s gaze.

“Now you see that we have what we claimed,” said the first priest. “Will you redeem him?”

“All of them,” said Paks. “The squires too.”

“Why the squires?”

“Why should any be left in your hands?” Paks took a long breath. “I will barter for the king, and these squires, on these grounds: one day and night for each—you to restore their arms, and let them go free for those days.”

“Paks, no!” Suriya leaned forward; her guards yanked her back.

“You have no power to bargain,” said the priest. “We can kill them now.”

“And you are beyond your protection,” said Paks, “and I am within mine. If you kill them, Liart’s scum, I will kill many of you—and your power here will fail. Perhaps I cannot save them—though you would be foolish to count on that—but I can kill you.”

“So.” The priests conferred a moment. “We will agree on these terms: one day and night for each—that is five you would redeem?”

“Have you more in your power?”

“No. Not at present. Five, then: five days and nights. We will restore their arms and free them when you are within.”

“No.” Paks shook her head. “You know the worth of a paladin’s word. I know the worth of yours. You will free them now, and on my oath they will not strike a blow against you—”

“Paks—”

“Be silent, Suriya. As it is my choice to redeem you, so you are bound by my oath in this. Take your weapons and return to the palace; guard your lord on his journey and say no more.” She looked from face to face. “All of you—do you understand?”

Phelan’s eyes glittered. “Paks, you must not. You don’t understand—”

“Pardon, my lord, but I do understand—perhaps more than you do. I am not your soldier now. I follow the High Lord, and Gird, the protector of the helpless, into whatever ways they call. Do not, I pray you, make this quest harder than it is.”

He bowed as much as he could. “Lady, it shall be as you say. But when I am king—”

“Then speak as the king’s honor demands,” said Paks, meeting his eyes steadily. She looked back at the priest. “You will not harry them for the days of the bargain.”

“We will not.”

“Then I take oath, by Gird and the High Lord, that when I see them safely freed and armed I will submit without battle to your mastery for five days and nights.”

“Unbind them,” said one of the priests.

“Wait,” said Paks. They paused. “I have one further demand. They shall carry away my own arms, that Gird’s armor be not fouled in your den.”

“I have no objection,” said the priest curtly. He nodded, and the guards untied the bonds. Garris slumped to the ground; Suriya and Selfer struggled to lift him. “Is he dead?” asked Paks.

“Not quite,” said Selfer grimly. Paks prayed, certain the Liartian priests would not let her touch Garris to heal him. She felt a drain on her strength, as the healing often seemed, and Garris managed to stand between the other two. Suriya looked at her, and nodded slowly. When they had all been given their weapons, Paks spoke again.

“Come here—near the entrance—and I will disarm.” Lieth and Phelan warded her as best they could while she took off her weapons and mail. She folded everything into a neat stack, covered with her cloak against curious eyes, and tucked her Gird’s medallion into it. Then she took off Phelan’s signet ring and handed it to him. “My lord, your ring. Take your royal sword, and keep it to your hand after this. Lieth, High Marshal Seklis will take my gear. My lord, you must go at once.”

“Paks—”

“Gird’s grace on you, sir king.” Paks bowed; Phelan nodded, and started up the passage with Lieth guarding the rear. She watched just long enough to see them around the chimney, then turned back to the others. They had not moved.

“It is astonishing,” said one priest, “that Girdsmen are so gullible.” Paks said nothing. “For all you know, that man may be a convert to our Master’s service.”

At that, Paks laughed. “You know better than that of paladins: if he were evil, I would know. I can read your heart well enough.”

“Good,” said the priest, his voice chilling. “Read it closely, paladin, and learn fear.” He nodded, and the swordsmen came forward on either side. “Remember your oath, fool: you swore to come without a battle.”

Paks felt her belly clench; for a moment fear shook her mind and body both. Then she steadied herself and faced them. “As I swore, so I will do; the High Lord and Gird his servant command me.”

The priests both laughed. “What a spectacle we can offer! It’s rare sport to have a paladin to play with—and one sworn to offer no resistance is rarer yet.”

Paks made no answer, and when the swordsmen surrounded her, stood quietly. None of them touched her for a moment, daunted by her light, but when the priests gave a sharp command they prodded her forward, across the yard and into the doorway. Once inside, the priests grabbed her and slammed her roughly against the wall of the passage. Her light had vanished. She felt their assault on her heart at the same time, but trusted that no evil could touch her so. Guards bound her arms behind her and her ankles with heavy thongs, drawing them cruelly tight. Then they dragged her down one passage and another, down steep stairs where every stair left its own bruise, along wide corridors and narrow ones, until she was nearly senseless.

That journey ended in a large chamber, torchlit, half-full of kneeling worshippers. The guards pulled Paks upright, supporting her between them so that she could see the size of the room and the equipment gathered on a platform at the near end. It was grim enough; Paks had seen such things before. She would never come out of here; she would die of it, and worse than that, she would be watched, taunted, ridiculed, as it happened. She tried to think of something else—anything else—and felt a nudge in her back, warm and soft, as if the red horse had pushed against her. When the priests confronted her, she knew her face showed nothing of her fear.

When they introduced her to the waiting crowd, she heard the reaction, the indrawn breath—half fear, half anticipation. A paladin—would the high gods intrude? But the priests reassured them: the fool had consented. Her gods would not interfere. Paks saw the gloating eyes, the moist-lipped mouths half-open. At the back, a dark woman who might have been Barra gave her a mocking grin. As the priests talked on, she saw more and more slip into the hall, drawn by rumor and held by delight. A sour taste came into her mouth; she swallowed against it, praying.

Unlike her ordeal in Kolobia, most of what happened in the next five days and nights remained clear in her mind.

They began predictably, by ripping her clothes off and scattering the pieces as the worshippers laughed and cheered at the priests’ urging. Paks stared over their heads at the back wall of the chamber. Then one priest handled her roughly all over, squeezing and pinching as if she were a draft horse up for sale. The second one began, slapping her face with his studded gloves, pinching her breasts sharply.

Now they called the worshippers forward, encouraging them all to feel and pry, slap and pinch. It was petty, but not less disturbing for that. The sheer enmity of it—the number of sneering faces, strangers to whom she had never done harm, who snickered and giggled as they ran their dirty fingers over her face, poked her ribs, felt between her thighs. She could not imagine being such a person, taking such pleasure. What could have made them what they were?

One youth reached up and yanked at her hair; that began a round of such antics. One would take a single hair and pull it out; others took a handful and pulled again and again. They pulled other hair, jeering when she flinched, and looking to the priests for approval. She felt the first blood trickle down her face; someone with a jeweled ring had scraped it deliberately across her forehead. But the priests stopped him.

“Not yet,” one of them said. “The Master has plenty of time for this one, slave, and more skill than you know. Draw no blood, slaves, at this time—be obedient, or suffer his punishment.” The man in front of Paks paled, trying to hide his bloodstained ring. The priest laughed. “Do you think to hide from the Master, fool? Yet you share our vision: you are only hasty. You will taste her blood later—be obedient.” He confronted Paks, pushing the spiked visor of his helm into her face. “And you, little paladin? Do you fear yet? Do you begin to regret your bargain?”

“No.” To her surprise, her voice was steadier than her limbs. “I do not regret following the commands of my lord.”

“Then we will instruct you,” he said, and made a sign to the guards. “You have seen the punishments in Phelan’s army. See how you like ours.” As he spoke, the guards forced her back over a small waist-high block, looping her wrist bonds through a hook on the floor of the platform. One of them leaned a fist on her chest, and two others pulled her knees down and apart. Paks felt her back muscles straining. The priest who had been speaking slapped her taut belly and laughed again. “It bothered you when our servants pulled your hair? Then we will ease you this far, paladin: you will have no hair to be pulled. You know the term tinisi turin?” The crowd laughed obediently and the second priest came toward her with a razor. “It may not be as sharp as you would like,” he began, “But it has certain—advantages—for our way—of doing things.” As he spoke, he yanked on her braid and sliced roughly at her thick hair. In a moment or two, it fell free; Paks could feel the ragged ends stirring, the cool air on her scalp. He walked away. When he came back, two assistants were bringing with him the little brazier she had seen, and the razor he held was glowing hot. “It cuts well this way,” he said, laying it lightly along her ribs. Paks tried not to flinch. But by the time he had shaved her head and the rest of her body hair, leaving raw burned patches that the chill air rasped, she was shaking. The watching crowd talked and laughed, like people watching a juggler at a village fair. The priest watching her nodded.

“You will learn despair, little paladin; even now you are finding what you did not expect. And now we will brand you with Liart’s mark, that you feel in your own flesh his Mastery.” One of them seized her ears, bracing her head, and the hot iron came down, its horned circle held before her eyes a moment before it pressed her forehead. For an instant it felt cold, as it hissed, then searing pain bored through her head. Tears burst from her eyes; she choked back a scream. The priest laughed. “Now you are Liart’s. You may stay there, while we attend to other matters that need the Master’s touch.”

Paks could see nothing of what happened next; she fought to keep control of her own reactions. She heard a name called, and someone cried out in the crowd. A flurry—a frightened voice, a boy’s voice, and another one pleading, a man’s voice, older. The priest made some accusation; Paks did not attend to the words, but the tone came through. Then the boy’s voice again, frightened and rising to a scream of pain. She heard blows—a whip, she thought—and more screams, then the man’s voice sobbing. Then the priest—cold, arrogant, demanding, and the man’s voice again, in submission. The priest returned to her, and grabbed her by both ears, holding up her head so that she could see the child who hung from his wrists, bloodstreaked.

“See? If we treat children so, think how much worse it will be for you.”

“Gird’s grace on that boy,” said Paks quietly. “The protector of the helpless grant him peace.”

The priest dropped her head abruptly. After that came several torments, repeated careful blows of a slender rod, cuffs and blows with padded sticks and weighted thongs. Then she was untied and thrown to the floor, kicked and prodded and beaten again, not enough to break bones, but until she was dizzy and sick. All the time the crowd watched, jeering at her whenever she cried out. Paks fixed her mind on Gird and the High Lord, on the magical fire the Kuakgan had raised, on the feel of the red horse’s nose in her back.

Next she was shoved over to the platform where the boy hung, now stirring again and moaning. Blood spattered the floor, streaked his body. The guards untied him, and tossed him aside. Paks winced at the hollow thud his body made, hitting the floor, and muttered another prayer for him. The priest slapped her. “Pray for yourself, fool! Better yet, beg mercy of our Master, who is the only one who can help you now.”

“The High Lord has dominion over all the gods,” said Paks, again to her own surprise. The priest signalled the guards, and Paks was jerked off her feet by a rope from her bound wrists over the crossbar. It nearly took her shoulders out of their sockets. The guards untied her ankles, and spread her legs, tying them to either side of the frame, then hauled on the rope until all her weight came on her wrists.

“You,” the shorter priest said, “are not a god, and therefore our Master has dominion over you—or would you dispute that?”

Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging. Paks gasped, “I am Gird’s paladin—your slavemaster has no dominion over me.”

“Gird is not helping you now, paladin,” sneered the priest. “Nor will you hold a sword again, if we disjoint both shoulders and leave them so.”

“Nor is that the limit of our skill,” said the other. “Trussed as you are, we can do anything—and you cannot prevent it.”

Paks answered nothing; she could not breathe evenly. Pain wracked her shoulders and back; she hardly felt the burns and welts that had hurt so earlier. How long had it been? How much more?

“I will show you,” he said. His gloved hands began to move over her body, gentle at first, in mimicry of lovemaking. The crowd laughed loudly as he exaggerated his movements for their benefit. Then his fingers probed her body, finding points that radiated spikes of pain. She could not stand it—had to writhe—could not, for the pressure on her shoulders. Soon she was panting, gasping for breath, tumbled in a roil of pain that brought back the night she’d been attacked at the inn. He stood back, then, and waited until her breathing quieted. Then he did it again. And again. The third time, she passed out.

When she came to, her arms were tied overhead to corners of the same frame, and the shorter priest was lecturing the crowd.

“—you see, you need not maim or kill—not at first. It is the skill, the knowing where to touch, and how hard. Knowing, for example, which child is a father’s favorite.” A pause; alert silence from the crowd. “Knowing how much punishment to give.” Another long silence. “But some of you would already have killed this paladin of Gird—and spoiled our Master’s pleasure by so many hours. Watch and learn—enjoy with us, the power of our Master over all mankind. Not even the hero-saints of old can save this paladin in her pain. We can do anything—anything at all—and we come to no harm, as you see. Our Master has the power—the only power. Our Master shares his mastery with his slaves, if they are obedient. You, too, can have power over even a paladin. Watch—learn—do as we say, and you can make a paladin bleed and cry out. And if a paladin falls to us, how much more easily an ordinary man, eh?”

He prowled the front of the hall, menacing, predatory, and Paks saw those in front shrink back slightly. Their eyes followed him, wary.

“What power is it you want? Is it money? We have her gold. Is it blood? We have it all—you will see it fall for our pleasure. Is it lust? You will have your chance. Is it mastery itself? You will see her cringe before us, and before those of you chosen to assist. Our Master has power—real power—and you can share that power. Everyone else is helpless in the end—helpless like this paladin. Would you have feared her once, with her big sword, her fancy armor?” His voice dripped contempt. The crowd shifted, not quite answering. “Yes, admit it! You would have feared her, up there on the street—yes you would, unworthy slaves! You might have cringed from her—but look now. There she hangs, bound and helpless. What she has, she has because we left it to her.” He waved an arm back at Paks, and some eyes shifted to meet hers and as quickly shifted away.

“You—you there in the third row—you could blind her, couldn’t you? And you—you could cut off her ears. Who would stop you but our Master? Who could punish you but our Master? Who is worthy of your service but—” he paused; the answer came quickly from the crowd:

“Master—Master—Master.” The faces Paks could see were tight with fear, not so avid for the spectacle as before. She felt a surge of pity for them.

“Yes. Our Master: Liart the strong. You must never say his name, unworthy slaves, until you come to his altar to swear your souls to him forever. But you know who he is.” He raised his hand, fist clenched.

“The Master,” came the response.

The priests noticed her open eyes and came to her again. She met their gaze evenly.

“And you are still with us, little paladin?” asked the taller.

“The High Lord is still with us all,” she said. Someone in the crowd hooted, and others laughed. The shorter priest reached out and stroked her sides.

“He hasn’t done well by you, with these scars,” he said. “I’d almost think you’d been given to our Master already.”

“No,” said Paks recklessly, “that was Achrya’s work.”

He slammed his fist into her belly. “Don’t say that name aloud, scum.”

Paks gasped for breath. “You—fear—her?”

Again a blow that took her breath away, and another to her face. One of the priests took up the barbed whip they had used on the boy, and showed it to her. “This will teach you something of our Master; he is bolder than that webspinner.” He slashed it across her body, then her legs, and walked behind her. Five rapid blows split the skin of her back; hot blood sheeted down, dripping from her legs. Paks clenched her jaw against the fiery pain. Before it dulled, they had brought the next torment, a heated chain held carefully in tongs. First around her waist—then each thigh in turn. Paks could smell the charred skin, her charred skin.

Again the crowd was invited up, in groups, to participate. Now the men were urged to arouse themselves. “Not yet,” the priest said, to those fumbling at their trousers. “Wait for that—but go on and enjoy what you can.” They traced her scars and the whip welts with their fingers, poked and prodded every orifice. She saw one man lick his finger after wiping it in her blood. The thought of it made her sick. The priests laughed. “Good, eh? It’s blood like any other—taste it.” Several others did the same thing. Paks thought briefly of the many soldiers she had killed—the blood she had shed—but she had never tasted their blood, never seen soldiers as wantonly cruel. Yet some, she could tell, were more frightened than eager: they took no pleasure in it, their eyes downcast, their faces tense. It seemed a long time before the priests ordered the crowd back to their places.

The taller priest held up an iron that had been heating in the brazier, and flourished it.

“Now that you carry Liart’s brand, we must do worse than threaten your beauty. But if we decorate you with deep burns here—” He touched the inside of her thigh. Pain flared along her leg. “—you might never ride or walk again.” She could not tell how bad the burn was; her whole leg felt afire.

“There are other ways,” said the shorter one, conversationally. “If we show you all of them, I fear you will not be able to appreciate the artistry involved. Perhaps we should demonstrate—” and he signalled to the guards. Paks did not notice where they went. Soon they were back, dragging with them a girl Paks had never seen. She looked to be in her mid-teens, someone’s servant by her clothes. She was gagged and bound, her eyes wild; as soon as the tall priest ripped the gag roughly away, she screamed.

“Shut up!” He slapped her face. “If you scream again, I’ll—” He did not finish the threat; she choked off her cries, and watched him, eyes streaming with tears. He turned to Paks. “From time to time we find our sacrifices in the streets—this girl loitered in an alley, and as we had need, we—borrowed her.” As he spoke, the girl turned her head and saw Paks; her eyes seemed to bulge from her face in panic, and she struggled wildly. One of the guards twisted her arm, and she subsided. “Now, paladin, let me offer another bargain.”

Paks said nothing.

“You are bound to endure five days and nights—let us say, five days and four nights, now—of our Master’s pleasure, whatever comes. But if you will agree that our Master has dominion over all, then we need not waste this girl’s limbs showing you the range of our skill. If, however, you still insist that your gods—whatever you name them—are more powerful, then we must teach you your weakness through her. Did you not name Gird protector of the helpless—and you claim to be his paladin? Yes—but you, a paladin of that so-called protector of the helpless, you cannot save this girl from anything, except by our Master’s name.”

“Please—” The girl’s voice was faint, but she looked straight into Paks’s eyes. “Don’t let them—”

Paks looked away, scanning the crowd, then the priests, then the guards, and finally looking back at the girl. “No,” she said steadily. “I can’t.”

“So,” said the tall priest. “You begin to enjoy our entertainment then? You would like to see more, is that it?” Someone in the crowd tittered.

“No,” said Paks again. “I take no pleasure in giving pain, or seeing pain given.” The girl’s mouth opened again, but Paks spoke first. “I cannot forswear my gods, child. I will pray for you—that Gird and the High Lord protect you, comfort you, and strengthen you, that the Lady of Peace bring you peace in the end—but the Master of these slaves is evil, and I will not praise him.”

“Then she will suffer, and it is your doing,” said the tall priest.

“No. If you harm her, she will suffer because of you. I am not a torturer: you are.”

“But you could stop it, and you refuse to help her.”

“Could I?” Paks managed a smile that seemed to crack her face. “Could I stop it? Have I any reason to trust your word? As long as I am trussed here, you can do as you like—and you like to do evil. Besides, your Master is a paltry fellow; I cannot call him great. Liart the strong, indeed! Liart the coward is more like it!”

“Girdish slut!” The tall priest snatched up the barbed whip again, and laid two strokes on her before the other grabbed his arm.

“She is stronger than you thought, brother—she taunts you into just such haste. See—if she faints, she rests.”

“She will not faint.” The tall priest swiped his hand down the bleeding welts and rubbed it over Paks’s face, then licked his hand. “And if she does we will add every hour to the length of her bargain. Your blood tastes sweet, paladin. Before long we will try your flesh as well.” He turned back to the girl, and his voice calmed.

“There are several ways to cripple without killing, paladin. Some are more . . . artistic . . . than others. Consider this—” He used tongs to pull from the brazier a fist-sized cobble. “A hot stone. Applied to the inside of a joint—say the knee—and bound there, it will burn deeply, and the scars contract, pulling the limb awry. It works best at knee, crotch, elbow, and armpit, choosing the size of stone to conform, of course—” The guards had forced the girl onto her face, and pulled up her skirts. Now the priest set the hot stone against the back of her knee, and the guards quickly forced her leg back against it, and bound it tight with heavy thongs. Her screams echoed off the stone walls. The guards let her go, cutting the thongs that bound her arms, and she thrashed on the floor, shrieking and clawing at her leg.

Paks fought down nausea. She could do nothing; she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on Gird, trying to pray. But she heard the crowd shouting, jeering now at the struggling girl. Something tugged at her, sending a wave of pain through her. She opened her eyes to see the girl clutching at her ankle, trying to drag herself upward on Paks’s body. “Please!” she begged. “Please—stop them!”

“I can’t—” muttered Paks. “But Gird—”

“No! You—!” the girl screamed, clawing now. “You won’t help—curse you—!” She threw herself upward, shaking Paks back and forth in her bonds. Then she collapsed, still screaming. Paks shook her head; tears burned her eyes. Her heart seemed to falter in her chest. The priests waited until the girl’s screams died to sobbing, then the guards pinned her again, cut the thongs, and pulled her leg straight. She gave a final shriek as they knocked the stone loose; it left two charred wounds in her leg as it rolled to the floor; smoking bits of her flesh clung to it.

“Well, paladin—did Gird protect her?” The taller priest nudged the sobbing girl with his foot. Paks did not answer. She fought the black despair Liart sent, forcing herself to think of the king riding eastward, his squires around him. She would not have spent someone else’s pain for that, but even so she did not repent the bargain. After a long pause, he asked, “Do you think he will protect you? Will you fight well, paladin of Gird, with your leg twisted like this? Or imagine your arm—your sword arm—drawn up with scars.” He touched the hollow of her elbow, and her armpit; Paks shivered. “I see you do understand. We need not be in haste to show you, then.” He turned to the guards. “Tie that one, and leave her; we will want her later.”

“No,” said Paks.

“No? You dare give orders here? Or are you agreeing that our Master has dominion?”

“I am not. I am telling you not to hurt her more—she has done you no harm.”

“What of that? It amuses us—and teaches you to know your helplessness. You can save her only by accepting our Master as yours.”

Paks prayed, trying to convey what healing she could across that space, as she had with Garris. But she had known Garris, touched him with healing before. This girl was a stranger. She felt a comforting touch on her own head, as if a firm but gentle hand cradled it for a moment, but nothing that let her suspect she had healed the girl. She could not see the girl’s face, where she lay, but the sobs quieted, and the heaving back was still.

For some time after that, she was left hanging before the crowd; she noticed that it ebbed and flowed, and individuals came and left, to return after an interval. From time to time the priests came to her again, repetitions of the torments already begun. Once they tried to rouse the servant girl, and found her dead; they dragged her body aside. Paks could not be sure of the passage of time. Pain and thirst confused her. Whenever she fell into a doze, they roused her, until she longed for rest more than anything. Then the crowd thickened again.

The guards lit new lamps, and set pungent incense burning in a row of censors. The smoke swirled back and forth. Paks watched it, half-tranced by its intricate patterns that seemed to make pictures in the haze. She had managed not to listen to the priests’ words, even reciting to herself the ten fingers of the Code of Gird. But now as they approached her again, her concentration wavered. Her belly knotted; her tongue seemed too large for her mouth. Two guards cut the thongs that held her wrists, and shoved. She fell forward, slamming into the floor with stunning force. She was just aware when they cut the ankle thongs and her feet thudded down.

The relief in her shoulders lasted only a few moments. Guards yanked her up by the arms and dragged her to the rough stone altar that centered the platform. They bound her again by wrist and ankles, with the rough-hewn stone rasping her lacerated back. The taller priest laid a single flat stone on her belly. He stood back, and the second priest laid another similar stone on her chest. Paks waited; the stones were uncomfortable, but not painful, except where they lay on the burns. She was too relieved to have her head supported at last, and the weight off her arms. Then returning blood seemed to dip her hands in fire for a few minutes. The priests called the crowd forward.

“We will show you a torment that lasts long only with strong sacrifices, such as this one,” said the first. “We will add weight to those stones, a heavy link of chain at a time, until she can scarcely draw breath. Then time alone becomes the tormentor; in the end her breath will fail. And you will help. As you have given to the Master, so in your name will the links be added.”

And each person who came by dropped a coin or so into a pot, naming the number; the guards fed a heavy chain from its coil onto the stones, link by link, one or two or three at a time, as the worshipper gave. One heavy man in a silk robe gave a large silver, and twelve links at once dropped onto Paks’s chest.

The weight forced her back into the stone; before half the crowd had passed, she was finding it hard to breathe. When she tried to keep her chest expanded, they added links to the lower stone, forcing her to use chest wall as well for breath. Her sight dimmed; she let her eyes shut, concentrating on breath alone. She heard the priests’ voices, but could not follow their words. No more links dropped. She struggled, fighting for every breath. Air rasped in and out of her throat. Cold water drenched her face; she choked on it, tried to cough, and could not. Before she quite passed out, they took off a few links. Then they watched as she struggled with that weight. When that, too, exhausted her, they removed a few more links.

She longed for rest, for sleep, but could not sleep with that weight; whenever she dozed, she could not breathe. Again, she had no idea how long this lasted; each painful breath seemed to be an hour away from another. She could hear the voices, hear the clank of metal as they played with her, taking off a link or so, and dropping it back on. She felt other pains, as the priests and worshippers prodded her, spit on her, and tried to provoke some reaction, but all that really mattered was air: the struggle to suck it in, the weight that forced it back out too soon.

As the torment continued, a part of her mind was aware of the differences between this and the earlier captivities she’d endured. That night in the Duke’s cells, when she’d been so sunk in her own misery that she had not even imagined worse than Stammel’s anger. The pain had been real, the fear overwhelming . . . but as the pain and fear of a child stung by a wasp is real. Lost in the moment, the child cannot imagine that the pain will end, or that any pain could be worse. The adult knows better; she pitied the child she had been, so miserable in the dark, alone and afraid, convinced that her chance to be a hero was lost forever. And how Korryn’s punishment had shocked her with its cruelty! She had trembled for days at the thought that she might have been whipped and branded instead. Being stripped publicly had been bad enough.

And from that she had gone to a soldier’s endurance, learning to stave off pain and fear with anger and defiance, linking hope to vengeance. That righteous anger served well against Siniava, or seemed to, when she avenged her friends’ deaths. Yet in Kolobia, that same anger betrayed her to deep evil. She remembered too well that mood, black rage edged with madness, so much less innocent than the panic of the beaten recruit. Under it had been the same fears the child had, disguised but not controlled, a willingness to deal the pain she suffered.

Again, as so often before, her mind filled with the vision of her childhood dream, the bright figure in shining mail, mounted on a prancing horse and waving a sword. It flickered in and out of her sight, shifting in tides of pain and weakness, as it had flickered in her mind’s eye these several years. Now she could see its shadow, the dark nest of fears which had brought it to life. Helplessness, humiliation, pain, a lonely death, and nothing after—she had feared these, and made of that fear a dream of power, of freedom, of untouchable strength and courage. She would never suffer that, because she would be the hero, the one with the sword, the one who was above such suffering.

And here she was, bound helpless before enemies who enjoyed her pain, an example, as they said, of Liart’s power. An example to teach more fear, more hatred, proof that the dream of glory had been false: no power, no bright sword or prancing horse, no protection, even for herself.

But the image of her dream steadied, and did not fade. No one whole wanted to be hurt, wanted to be the victim of such cruelty as held her now. Her fears were as common as a taste for salt or honey, as healthy as the desire for comfort, for love. So much she had learned from the Kuakgan. Now, at last, she accepted her right to share those fears: she did not have to deny them, only master herself.

And this, she saw, her dream had done. She had built against that fear a vision of power not wholly selfish—power to protect not only herself, but others. And that vision—however partial it had been in those days—was worth following. For it led not away from the fear, as a dream of rule might do, but back into it. The pattern of her life—as she saw it then, clear and far away and painted in bright colors—the pattern of her life was like an intricate song, or the way the Kuakgan talked of the grove’s interlacing trees. There below were the dream’s roots, tangled in fear and despair, nourished in the death of friends, the bones of the strong, the blood of the living, and there high above were the dream’s images, bright in the sun like banners or the flowering trees of spring. And to be that banner, or that flowering branch, meant being nourished by the same fears: meant encompassing them, not rejecting them.

She did not know herself when these thoughts linked at last, forming the final pattern, bringing up into her mind the self she had become. It was then as if several selves were present, mysteriously separate and conjoined. Trapped inside her body was the same child she had been, feeling each new torment as a wave of intolerable pain, each ragged scream as a fresh humiliation. The seasoned soldier watched with pity as her body gave way to exhaustion and pain as any body would, feeling no shame at the sight or sound or smell of it, for this was something that could happen to anyone, and she had never inflicted it on others. And someone else, someone newer, refused the soldier’s tactics of defiance, anger, vengeance, and looked into her own fear to find the link to those around her, to find the way to reach those frightened tormentors, the ones not already lost to evil.

In the rare respites, when the priests stopped to harangue the crowd and revive her for more torture, she felt curiously untroubled. Not free of pain, nor free of fear, but free of the need to react to that fear in all the old ways. She had no anger left, no hatred, no desire for vengeance, nothing but pity for those who must find such vile amusements, who had no better hope, or no courage to withdraw. It would all happen to her—all the things she’d feared, every violation of body, everything she’d taken up the sword to prevent—and she consented. Not because it was right: it was never right. Not because she deserved it: no one deserved such violation. But because she could consent, being what she was, and by consenting destroy its power over her and others, proving in her own body that fear’s power came from fear, that greater power could from the same dark roots find another way to the light.

This quietness, this consent, formed a still pool in the center of that violent place. At first, only the priests noticed, and flung themselves into a frenzy of violence against it. But it was not brittle steel to break, or crystal to shatter, but a strength fluid and yet immovable, unmarred by the broken rhythm of her breath, or even by her screams. The quietness spread, from gray eyes that held no hatred for those who spat at her face or tasted her blood, from a voice that could scream in pain yet mouth no curses after, that spoke, between screams, in a steady confirmation of all good.

Those watching could not deny the wounds: they had seen them being dealt: they had helped deal them. They could not deny the sight of blood, the smell of it, the sticky feel of it, the salt taste on too many tongues. They could not deny the stink of burnt flesh, the sight of scabbed and crusted wounds, the dead servant girl, the boy’s back striped and bleeding. This was not the quietness of inviolable protection, for she suffered all that was done to her. They had seen a virgin raped, a soldier’s scars mocked and redrawn in fresh blood. They had heard a paladin scream, as the priests promised.

And yet she did not hate, and yet she did not fear, and yet she said, when she had breath to speak, that the High Lord’s justice would rule in the end. The priests shouted threats, promised more torments, blustered and postured: the silence spread, as a pool rises silently above a new-broken spring when the dry season ends.

One by one the crowd fell still, or joined the mockery with less eagerness. She was so small, after all, broken like that . . . they could think of sisters, cousins, friends they had known, who might be where she was, if she were not there. They had thought it would be satisfying to see a paladin, one of the proud and powerful, brought low. But they knew her story, from the year that cruel rumor spread the tale of her cowardice. She was only a peasant girl, born into poverty. What did it prove to shame a sheepfarmer’s daughter who had known shame already? Some among them had been soldiers, and recognized the scars of a common soldier who has seen hard service. They felt no braver for breaking a soldier’s scarred hands. And those who had first laughed to see a virgin raped—and even those who had joined in eagerly—now looked from the dead servant girl to the other, and found something pitiful in both, something shameful in themselves, that they could take pleasure in such pain. She was no threat to them—why had they ever thought she was a threat? Paladins never threatened the helpless. The threat was elsewhere, in those who wore Liart’s horned circle, who flourished the barbed whips and the heated chains.

By such small degrees the crowd’s mood changed, shifting back in sudden fear when the priests turned their weapons on individuals chosen not quite at random, but slowly, inexorably, turning away from the praise of cruelty to some vague sympathy with suffering. Glass by glass, as the torches burned down and were replaced again and again, as the day passed into night and another day, and another night and day, one and another of those watching came slowly and without intent to a new vision of the world.

Of all this, Paks was hardly aware. At best, she knew what she must do, and why, but those moments seemed few. Pain followed pain in sickening procession; at times even her new insight failed, leaving her adrift in self-disgust or despair. For the most part she concentrated on refusing anger and hatred, accepting the pain as a necessary part of something chosen long before. When they broke her hands, each bone a separate torment, she struggled against her old fear of crippling. She had clung to the hope that if she lived, she would still be whole, able to fight. But she knew better, knew from having lived through it that she was more than a hand to hold a sword. She could live, being Gird’s paladin, with no more than breath, or die whole, of old age, and be nothing at all. The difference lay in her, was her, was what she had become: no one but she could change it. The rapes, that she had feared before as both violation and torment wholly unknown, were then nothing but physical pain, no worse than others. She lost nothing, for she had had nothing, had never invested herself in that, or hoped for that kind of pleasure. It seemed to her that Alyanya came in a dream, and comforted her, but dream, vision, and reality were by then too nearly mixed for clear memory.

Then they held her up once more for the crowd to see. The chamber was crowded with worshippers who had come to see the end of the spectacle. At the priests’ command the guards threw her to the floor.

“Will you admit that our Master commands your obedience?” asked one of the priests, nudging her face with the toe of his boot.

“I am Gird’s,” said Paks, forcing the words out. Her voice was clearer than she would have thought possible.

“You are meat. You are the sacrifice our Master demanded.” The priest’s voice was cold. “If you will not acknowledge our Master, the stones are heating for you.” Paks said nothing. “Do you want to be a helpless cripple?” he demanded.

“No,” she said. “But I do want to be Gird’s paladin.” Again she felt the lightest touch on her head, and a soothing haze came between her and her pain.

The priest snorted. “Gird’s paladin! A bloody rag too stupid to know the truth! Then you will suffer it all, paladin of Gird, just as you wish.”

Pain exploded in her legs as the burning stones were dropped in the hollow of both knees, and her legs bound tightly around them. She clenched her fists, forgetting the broken bones until too late. The pain was sickening, impossible; she retched, trying not to scream.

“And now, paladin? Where is your lord’s protection now?” The priests hauled her up by both arms, forcing weight on her knees.

“The High Lord has dominion,” gasped Paks. “Gird has upheld me here; I have not failed.” She felt herself falling, and willed to fall into that darkness.

The guards held a bloody wreck between them. The crowd smelled burnt flesh, and shivered, not hearing the priests’ final lecture. What had she meant, “I have not failed”? The paladin’s head hung down, slack against her chest, the brand of Liart dark on her forehead. Then the priests gestured, and the guards turned her around. The taller priest cut the cords around her legs, and her feet thumped down. With tongs, the priest yanked the stones from their place, ragged bits of skin clinging to them. The hall stank of it. The paladin did not move, or cry out; she might have been dead. For an instant, no one moved or spoke.

Then those in front saw, and did not believe, but recoiled even in disbelief against those behind. For the burnt bloody holes where the rocks had been disappeared, as a wave swept across lines on sand erases them, gone without mark or scar. At the movement, the priests turned, saw, and gaped in equal disbelief. One by one, other wounds healed, changing in the sight of those watching to unmarked skin. Finger by finger, her misshapen hands regained their natural shape. With a cry, the two guards dropped her, flinging themselves back. One of the priests cursed, and raised his whip, but when he swung, it recoiled from her and snagged his own armor. The other drew a notched dagger, and stabbed, but his blade twisted aside. She lay untouched, unmoving.

Now turmoil filled the hall: those behind wanting to see what had happened, those in front frantic to escape the wrath of Gird they were sure would come. The priests called other guards, who yanked her upright, head still lolling—now all could see that Liart’s black brand no longer centered her forehead. Instead, a silver circle gleamed there, as if inset in the bone itself. At that, the priests of Liart shrank away, their masked faces averted from the High Lord’s holy symbol. The terrified guards would have dropped her, but the priests screamed obscenities louder even than the crowds’ noise, and sent them away with her, out the same entrance through which they’d brought her earlier. And then they drove the crowd away, in a rage that could not disguise their own fear.

Chaos scurried through the warrens of the Thieves Guild, panic and disruption, as those who had seen tried to convince those who had not, and those who would not listen tried to find someone to believe. Some fled to the streets: black night, icy cold with a sweeping wind, and patrols of cold-eyed Royal Guards sent them back into the familiar warrens, even more afraid. Factions clashed; old quarrels erupted in steel and strangling cord. Those who had arranged to take the paladin’s body outside the city walls wrapped her in a heavy cloak and carried her gingerly, carefully not looking to see if that healing miracle continued, eager to get this terror out of their domain.

And at every grange of Gird, the vigil continued until dawn.