Oath of Gold

31

How long she might have sustained the light, Paks never knew. All at once the piercing sweet call of an elvenhorn lifted her heart, the sound she had heard in Kolobia, and never forgotten. She looked east. A wave of silver light rolled down the forested slope, as if the starlight had taken form. Out of the trees rode what none there had ever seen. Tall, fair, mounted on horses as pale as starlit foam, they cried aloud in ringing voices that made music of battle. Rank after rank they came, bringing with them the scent of spring, and the light of elvenhome kingdoms that is neither sun nor star.

The orcs nearest them faltered, looked back, and broke. Before the orcs could run, the first rank of elven knights was on them, trampling them. The flank of the Verrakaien cohort on that side panicked and scattered. One group of elves peeled away, harrying the fugitives; the others advanced in order. At their center rode one not in armor. Paks stared, hardly believing her eyes. She looked away, to see that the Pargunese, deserted by the Verrakaien, were withdrawing in order. Another group of elven knights rode by the far side of the square. The light enclosed the defenders, walling them off from their enemies.

The sounds of flight came clearly through the air—the quick thunder of the elven knights’ horses, the cries, the distant skirmishes. But all around the king a pool of silence widened, broken less and less by voices and movement, and coming at last to completion. Without a word, the front ranks of the square, Dorrin’s cohort, opened a lane for the elven riders. Without a word, the king came forward to greet them.

With the great elven sword still glowing in his hand, he looked a king out of legend. The Lady on her horse bowed to him. He slipped off his helmet, and handed it to Lieth, who had followed him that far. Then he set the sword point down before him, and bent his knee to her.

“Lady,” he said, in a voice Paks had not heard him use. “You honor us.”

“Sir king,” she said, and Paks had to believe now who she was. “You honor us, both our kindred and our land.”

He lifted his head. “You consent to this?”

“Rise, sir king.” She gestured to the sword. “I have seen my daughter’s son defend his own with his own sword. I have heard and seen how that sword answers his need. We came here to greet you in all joy, and we rejoice to greet you in time.”

He had climbed to his feet; now he brought the sword to her side. She leaned from her tall mount to touch his head: one light touch, with a hand that glowed like silver fire. Her voice chimed with amusement.

“Were I minded differently, son of my daughter, the enemies you make would be good witnesses for you. No wicked man could contrive to have all these assault him at once; he would ally with one or another of them.”

The king laughed. “Lady, I thank you for your faith. Surely a stupid man might blunder into this?”

“I think not. Stupid men are too cautious. But, sir king, I have drawn you from a battle unfinished. Perhaps you would be free to finish it? My knights are at your disposal.”

The king glanced back at the defenders. “With your permission, Lady, we will cleanse this valley of such perils for the future.” She bowed, and he returned to them.

Suddenly Paks realized that she was not sustaining her own light. Whether it failed from weakness or surprise she did not know; they stood under the elflight alone. But the king, coming back into the square, commanded her attention. Still bareheaded, his face conveyed a majesty that even Paks had not imagined.

“We will not harry the Pargunese,” he said. “I suspect they were lured here, and the Verrakaien intended to blame them for the massacre. But the priests of Liart, the orcs, and the Verrakaien—these must be accounted for.”

“And you, my lord?” asked Dorrin.

“I will stay, and speak with the Lady, if she will.”

That night the enemy found themselves penned by the forest taig, which would not let them pass, while a line of elven knights swept the valley from side to side. Elflight lay over them, leaving no place to hide. The three Marshals and Paks rode with them, hunting the priests of Liart. By dawn, which added a golden glow to the radiance around, Paks had killed two more of them; the Marshals each had killed one, and the elves found one dead of wounds. A score of gibbas lay dead, and more than a hundred orcs, and a score of folokai. The Pargunese cohorts stood in a sullen lump at the far end of the valley, where trees closed off the escape. The Verrakaien had broken into several groups, all now under guard. The Konhalt archers, having lost more than half their number, huddled together not far from the king’s company. As for the followers of Liart, they had fled pell-mell, and most had been ridden down in the last of the fighting.

Paks rode back toward the king’s company through the blended light of dawn and elven power, still musing over the Lady’s arrival. She joined the Marshals in praying healing for the wounded. When the last one lay resting quietly, she felt a presence and turned.

Behind her stood the Lady, now watching Paks as closely as she had watched the king before.

“Paladin of Gird, I would speak with you. Come.” Paks followed her a little way from the line of wounded. New grass carpeted the ground; every blade seemed to glow with its own light. The Lady led her near the stream, now edged with starry yellow flowers. Here the Lady spread her cloak on the bank, and gestured to Paks to sit with her. Gingerly Paks folded her legs and sat. For a moment, as it seemed, they listened to the singing water, now released from winter.

“We did not come for battle,” said the Lady finally. “I wished to meet Falkieri myself, first, before he came to Chaya.”

“I remember,” said Paks.

“I do not mean to injure your honor when I say that it seemed better to attend to that myself. We had heard you were taken, that you had asked a Kuakgan to rouse the taig in his behalf.” Her gaze sharpened a moment. “If it is a matter of the taigin, Paksenarrion, it is a matter for elves.”

Paks shook her head. “I am sorry, Lady—I only knew it must be aware for him, and the Kuakkganni came to mind.”

“We forgive you. After all, you were healed by one; we knew you meant no insult. But even so, it seemed wise to us to come and greet him. It is true that we knew he might find trouble, but it has been so long since I traveled in these lands that I did not know how bad it was. The Tree grieves, paladin, to harbor such in its shade, and the Singer is mute.” For a moment she was silent, running her hands over the grass as a man might fondle his dog. “Yet the Singer and the Tree joined together in praise, and we came when the time was accomplished. I am well pleased, Paksenarrion, with my daughter’s son; you spoke truly when you said he would be a worthy king.”

Paks said nothing; reft of argument, she could do nothing but stare at the Lady.

“And I am well pleased with Gird’s paladin,” she went on. “We have heard how you entered captivity for the king, in Vérella; we grieved, thinking you surely doomed, and yet you are here, defending him still. Will you tell that tale, paladin of Gird, that it may be sung rightly in our kingdoms?”

Paks looked away, watching the swift water tumble and swirl between smooth rocks. She thought she saw the quick metallic flash of a fish. “Lady,” she said, “I would not dwell on those days—they are better forgotten than sung. Nor can any human tell a whole tale: only the gods know all of it.”

“Would you truly forget your torments? We owe you much, Paksenarrion, paladin of Gird. If you wish we can fill your mind with joy, and erase every scar that reminds you of that pain.”

Paks shook her head, meeting the Lady’s eyes once more. “No. I thank you for the thought of that gift. But what I am now—what I can do—comes from that. The things that were so bad, that hurt so. If I forget them, if I forget such things still happen, how can I help others? My scars prove that I know myself what others suffer.”

“Wisely said,” she replied. “Though an elf need see no scar to know what you are and what you have done. But we must make some song of you, for your service to our king.”

“Let it be imagined from what you know of the Master of Torments: it is much the same, I daresay, wherever and whenever men desire power and the use of power on others.”

“You can tell at least how you escaped, and how you came to be here.”

Paks laughed, suddenly and unaccountably eased. “I could if I knew.” She related, briefly, Arvid’s confused and incredible tale, adding, “Thieves lie, as everyone knows, and tales of wonder grow quickly: but Liart’s brand changed to this—” She touched the circle on her brow.

“But you arrived with a cohort of the king’s own mercenaries, and a band of yeomen—how was that?”

Paks explained about meeting Dorrin in Westbells, and the journey east, and finding the apathetic Marshal in Darkon Edge. When she had finished, the Lady nodded.

“So the servants of evil forged in their own fires a weapon to defeat them—that makes a well-rounded song. Falkieri through all his years took whatever came to him of good and used it well, learning kingship without a kingdom. You did the same, learning what good you could of all you met—even a Kuakgan.” Her smile took the sting out of that. “Truly, the high gods will be pleased with this day’s work, Paksenarrion. The forest taig is clean, from here to Lyonya—”

“What?” asked Paks, startled.

“You saw what happened before we came—all the unclean things that ran from the forest?” Paks thought of the folokai and gibbas, and nodded. “Those cannot abide the touch of our kingdoms, so when I rode there, and brought as I must the elvenhome light with me, they fled.”

“They were fleeing you?” Paks asked.

“Even so—but they are dangerous in their fear.”

“And beyond, the forest barrier—was that you?”

“No. You asked the Kuakkgani to rouse the taigin for you; the Kuakgan who holds the barrier west of this valley will speak to you when you wish.”

Paks could feel the blood leaving her face. “The Kuakgan—who—”

The Lady laughed gently. “And what did you think would happen if you roused the taig?”

Paks fought her muddled head. “I thought—I suppose—that it would—would let him know if evil neared—would protect him.”

“And so it has. But you asked a Kuakgan; he has done this in his way. I do not interfere with the Shepherds of Trees.” She looked past Paks, toward the western side of the valley. Then she smiled again. “But you, paladin of Gird—what can we do for you? Are you beyond any wish we could grant?”

Paks shook her head. “I don’t know, Lady. It’s enough that it’s over: the king is alive, and you accept him—” She said nothing about Gird’s other purposes: they would mean nothing to elves.

“Gird is well served in you, Paksenarrion, as the king was. The Singer of Names has sung well. We will see you again; for now, I must return to Lyonya, and prepare for the king’s journey. The knights remain, though I think none will trouble him now. Take off your helmet, will you?” Without thinking, Paks slipped it off, and the knitted scarf slid down, exposing her head; she unwound it slowly. The Lady smiled, and touched her head with one hand. It felt cool and warm at once.

“It is little enough,” said the Lady, “But I enjoyed your yellow hair in the sunlight, in Aliam Halveric’s garden. I would see it again at court, when my daughter’s son takes his throne.” And all at once Paks felt the long strands warm and heavy on her head, brushing her neck, slipping past her shoulders, a golden tide that flowed to its former length and lay still, ready for braiding. “The Kuakkganni are not the only ones with healing gifts,” said the Lady, her eyes bright.

Before Paks could frame an answer, the Lady withdrew, moving lightly to her horse and drawing in the elflight around her until Paks could see nothing but that brilliance. Then it was gone. Only the springing grass, still green, and the flowered border of the stream, were left to show her power. These did not wither in the sunlight of a late winter morning, for the air was still warmer than it had been. Paks sat motionless for a time that might have been only a moment, or an hour. Then she took the long heavy hair in her hands, and braided it quickly, her eyes burning with unshed tears. When it was done, she wrapped the braid around her head, and put her helmet on, then looked around.

There, a few lengths away, the king stood talking to several of the elven knights, with his squires beside him. High Marshal Seklis stood near, and Ammerlin of the Royal Guard. Beyond, yeomen of Darkon Edge and soldiers of Dorrin’s cohort sat around two cookfires; already Paks could smell roasting meat. Others were busy gathering and stacking arms and supplies from the enemy’s camps and the supply train. A tall man in a cowled robe bent over one of the Royal Guard horses, running his hands down its leg. Paks walked that way. Closer, she could see the deep gash between stifle and hock. The man hummed, touching the wound gently; it closed over, leaving a dry scar.

“That should do,” he said to the knight who held the bridle. “See that he gets extra grain, and fresh greens when you can find them.” He turned his head and saw Paks watching. “Ah—Paksenarrion. I had word you could not come to the grove, yet needed me.”

“Sir, I—” Paks saw the glint of humor in his eyes. “I could not, at that time,” she said at last.

“So—and you are here now. From what I saw last night, you also are healed of all the wounds you once bore. Is that true?”

“Yes,” said Paks steadily. “By the High Lord’s power, that is true.”

“And so the gods declare they will not be bound in human patterns,” said the Kuakgan. “Which both we and the elves know, who live apart from men.” He smiled at her. “If I thought, Paksenarrion, that you were my creation, I would be proud. But you are like all of us a branch of the tree, or a song of the singer, as the elves prefer. I am glad for you, that you have come to your powers. And as always, you are welcome in my grove.”

“Sir, I thank you—and you should know how much I have to thank you for.”

He waved his hand. “I but freed the trapped wilding, to grow as it could. Your skill is with steel, and mine with living things.”

Paks grinned at him. “Yes—and with frightened ones. I have not forgotten, sir, and will not.”

“And when did you eat last?” he asked tartly—but it was teasing.

“When I needed it,” said Paks, laughing. “Will you come with me now, and share our meal?”

“I think not. I would not strain the patience of the knights—and the forest hereabouts is unsettled, and needs calming.”

“Master Oakhallow,” said Paks, and he turned back, silently. “If Gird sends me elsewhere than your grove, then take my thanks, and know that I remember. I have nothing this time to give you that is mine to give, but this.”

He nodded shortly. “Paladin of Gird, Paksenarrion, you have given all you could give to my grove and the taigin before now. Go free of all gifts and returns, and come as you please and as you may. You are in my heart, and in the forest taig, and in the elfane taig; the First Tree knows what fruit it bears.” With that he was gone, walking swiftly into the trees where no path was.

Paks found that the King’s Squires had already pitched the king’s tent; he was sitting under the flap of it, at a table with an elven knight, Sir Ammerlin, and the three Marshals. An empty place was set opposite him; as soon as he caught sight of Paks, he rose and called her over.

“Lady, we are about to eat—come, join us.”

She took her seat at the empty place, and almost at once the squires handed around platters of roast meat and bread. She thought it strange to be eating like this with Pargunese and Verrakai troops under guard down the valley, but said nothing. The king seemed completely at ease. Some old hurt was gone, some bitterness had fled; his face showed his kinship to the elf beside him. Paks ate slowly, watching him. She could not define the difference, except that he seemed, if anything, younger than before.

For some time little was said. Beyond the clinking of knives at their own table, Paks could hear the others eating: Dorrin’s cohort squad by squad, in order, the yeomen of Gird in a happy, disorderly crowd. Then the king spoke.

“Well, companions, we have seen another day come to birth: more than we thought last night, eh?”

Sir Ammerlin turned to him. “Sir king, I remember that you did not seem certain of death and defeat.”

“Of death I am as certain as any mortal, Ammerlin, but defeat is certain only in despair. And I have been well taught that in the worst of times despair is still the work of evil.” He looked at Paks, a look that said a great deal. “But we are alive, this fine morning, by the aid of the elven knights you command, sir,” and he turned to the elf beside him. “You have our thanks for your timely arrival.”

“And you have our regrets that we sent before us unworthy messengers of our coming,” said the elf, laughing lightly. “By all the gods, I would not have landed those foul things on you!”

“The contrast,” said the king dryly, “was all the greater when you came. I did not quite despair, last night, knowing my companions to be who and what they were, but I little thought to be eating such a meal in such comfort as this, with so many of them spared to enjoy it.” High Marshal Seklis laughed with the others, then set his elbows firmly on the table.

“That’s all very well, my lord, but what about the Pargunese and the Verrakai troops? The Pargunese won’t fight elves, but I doubt they’ll march in your procession. As for the Verrakai—rotten root and branch, that family—”

“Not so,” said the king quietly. “Captain Dorrin, of my Company, is Verrakai by birth. She has never been less than loyal to me, and just and honest to all. She’s even crossed my will, where she thought me less.”

“I didn’t know—” muttered Seklis.

“No. You wouldn’t. High Marshal, I am one to prune—severely, if necessary—and not one to root up the tree. I have known other honest Verrakaien in my life; it’s probably kept me from quarreling more with the Duke and his brother.”

“But this can’t be ignored,” Seklis said angrily. “By Gird’s arm, they defied the prince’s power, attacked a traveler under royal protection, threatened to massacre us all—”

“I don’t ignore it. They did all that—and for that they should face justice. But not my justice, High Marshal: this is not my kingdom. Were I to hold court here, and rule on this, I would myself be usurping the prince’s powers. To him I am either a vassal or the king of a neighboring realm. I can make complaint in either sense, but in neither sense do I have a right to judge or sentence.”

“Hmmph.” Seklis settled back, disgruntled. The elf leaned forward.

“Then what do you plan, sir king?”

The king looked around the table. “I plan to let Tsaia rule itself, as it should. The prince must know this—the Council must know this—but they also need to know that the king of Lyonya did not exceed his authority. Seklis, you’re the High Marshal in Tsaia—on the Council itself. You can bring what charges need be brought. Ammerlin, you’re a commander in the Royal Guard, the prince’s direct military representative. His authority flows through you; you can take what military action need be taken to ensure peace here until the Council and prince decide what to do. By Tsaian law, you Marshals have court-right over some things—such as the followers of Liart.”

“And what will you do, sir king?”

“I will go to my kingdom,” he replied mildly. “I have heard that they have need of me.”

“Are you taking your cohort with you?” asked Ammerlin.

“I planned to, yes. I would not expect a single cohort to alarm Lyonya—would you think, sir elf?”

“Not at all,” said the elf, smiling.

“Then you could stay here, Ammerlin, with the Royal Guard—”

“But we’re your escort—”

“You were, yes. But now I have my cohort, and these elves, and you have no need to come farther.”

They were interrupted just then by a shout from Dorrin, who had ridden east up the slope. Her cohort leaped back into formation; Paks found the red horse beside her as she stepped beyond the tent flap, and mounted. Then she saw what was coming down the road from the east, and nearly laughed in relief. Gird’s crescent on a pennant, and the rose and silver bells and harp of Tsaia on another, two Gird’s Marshals, and several hundred yeomen.

“Late,” commented Suriya, after a quick look, “but welcome.”

When the Marshals arrived, Paks recognized Marshal Pelyan; he introduced Berris, whose grange was the next to the east. He grinned at Paks, and nodded to the other Marshals.

“One of my yeoman came in the other day,” he said, “with word of a strange cohort sneaking through the woods between Berris and me. From what he said, I thought it might be Pargunese; we looked and found boats hidden along the river. So I remembered what Paksenarrion had said, and rousted out my grange—”

“And then came storming into mine,” said Berris. “I told him I didn’t have many fit to fight, but I came along—”

“And we’ve come too late, I see,” said Pelyan, looking around.

“Not so,” said the king. “We cannot stay and deal with the Pargunese—”

“I told you!” Pelyan thumped Berris on the shoulder. “I knew those Tir-damned scum would be in this.”

“—or the Verrakai,” the king went on. “We must be on the road to Lyonya; your arrival gives High Marshal Seklis and Sir Ammerlin enough troops to take care of this.”

Pelyan scratched his ear. “Well, sir—sir king—it’s good to know we didn’t have this long march for nothing. But I should tell you that some of these are Lyonyans, who left Lyonya for fear of war.”

The king smiled. “And so you showed them that trouble follows those who flee it? Well done, Marshal; when you have them schooled to your liking, then send them home if they wish to go.”

“You don’t want to take them with you?”

The king let his eyes rove along the ranks, then pursed his lips. “No—I don’t think so. Those in my party are proven fighters. Those who awaited events in Lyonya have shown steadfastness. These—these I leave to your care; you know best what they need.”

For the rest of that day, the king’s party rested before traveling. Those who had been killed were laid to rest with due ceremony; the enemy’s dead was piled and burned. Under the Marshals’ directions, the yeomen took control of the Pargunese and Verrakai prisoners, containing them at a distance from the king’s encampment. The horses of Dorrin’s cohort were found still waiting at the ridgetop to the east, penned, as Paks explained it, by the taig. Dorrin looked at her oddly, but said nothing more about it.

In the morning, they set out for Lyonya again. Paks rode beside the king, at his request. With no pack train to slow them down, they made good time, and rode into Harway just at dark, where the Lyonyan Guard waited in formation to greet him. Bonfires flared as the king came into his own land; candles burned at every window, and torchbearers lined the streets. Both Marshal and captain came to bow before him. Paks saw distant fires spring to life, carrying the news across the darkness.

The king said little: courteous words for those who greeted him, but nothing more. Paks saw tears glisten on his cheeks in the firelight. They stayed that night in Harway, the king at the royal armory, and Paks at the grange, to ease the Marshal’s memory of her earlier visit.

By the time the king’s party reached Chaya, the last snow had melted away, filling the rivers with laughing water.

“An early spring,” said the king, looking at the first flowering trees glimmering through the wood. “I feel the forest rejoicing.”

“Do you?” Amrothlin, who had come to meet him, smiled. “That is well. Both the rejoicing of the forest, and your feeling it. Your elven senses wake: you feel the taig singing you home, and your response calls forth more song. So the season answers your desire.”

The king looked across green meadows to the towering trees that made the palace seem small, a child’s toy. Tears glittered in his eyes. “So beautiful—they almost break the heart.”

“This is the heartknot of the joining of elvenkind and man,” said Amrothlin. “We put what we could of our elvenhome kingdom in it. Be welcome, sir king, in your kingdom.”

Between them and the city a crowd was gathering, pouring out of the city in bright chips of color like pebbles from a sack. The king’s party rode through a broad lane, past those who cheered, and those who stood silently, watching with wide eyes the return of their lost prince. Paks felt her own heart swell almost to bursting when the music began, the harps that elves delight in, horns both bright and mellow in tone, all singing the king home.

That music followed into the palace itself, where the lords of Lyonya, the Siers and their families, waited to welcome the king. One by one they knelt to him, then stepped back. When old Hammarin came forward, he peered into the king’s face a moment, as if looking for the boy he had known, then reached to touch his hand.

“Sir king—you do your father justice.”

“You knew him?” asked the king gently.

“Aye—and you as a tiny lad. Thank the gods you’ve returned, Falki—let me call you that just this once, as I used to do.” Then he stepped back, nodding, for his old knees were too stiff to kneel. When all had acknowledged him, the king turned to Paksenarrion.

“Lady, your quest brought me to this court: is it discharged?”

“Not yet, sir king.” Paks turned to the assembly. “You, in Council here, bid me find your lost prince and bring him. I have brought him now, and his sword proves him. Are you content?”

“We are content,” they answered.

And of all the deeds of the paladin Paksenarrion, it is this for which she is best known in the middle lands of the Eight Kingdoms, for restoring the lost king to his throne, and thereby saving Lyonya from the perils of misrule and confusion. Which of her deeds most honored the gods she served, only the High Lord knows, who judges rightly of all deeds, whatever tales men tell or elves sing.

In the chronicles of that court, it is said that the coronation of Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan Phelan (for he kept the name he had used so long) was outdone in joy and ceremony only by his marriage some time later. Falkieri ruled long and faithfully, and in his time the bond of elf and man was strengthened. Peace and prosperity brought honor to his reign. And after him the crown passed to his eldest, and to her son and her son’s sons after.

As for Paksenarrion, she was named King’s Friend, with leave to go or stay as she would, and when Gird’s call came, she departed for another land.