The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Frost whitened the ground the morning she first caught sight of Fin Panir. She had been on the road before dawn, the saddle cold as iron beneath her, and her breath pluming out before. When the sun rose into a clear cold sky, the ground sparkled in rose and gold; the tree branches interlacing overhead glittered with frost. It was like riding inside a pearl. A little wind blew the sparkling frost in swirls before her. Paks found herself grinning, and nudged the black horse into a trot. He squealed and kicked out before settling down. She laughed aloud.

  Then the forest broke apart, and she saw across a bend of the river the spires of the High Lord’s Hall, gleaming in silver and gold against the blue sky. Beneath lay a tangle of roofs and walls, multi-colored stone, tiles, sliced into fantastic shapes by the sharp shadows of a winter sun. She rode toward it, yearning.

  Within an hour she could pick out the gates. Between her and the walls, a small company of horsemen rode, armor glittering and banners dancing above. When she was near enough, they hailed her.

  “Ho! Traveler! Where are you bound?” The leader was deep-voiced, a man of middle height in chain mail with a blue mantle bearing Gird’s crescent.

  “To the Hall in Fin Panir,” said Paks. “I have a letter from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge.”

  “For the Marshal-General?” he seemed surprised.

  “Yes, sir. Can you direct me?”

  “Yes, of course. But you might ask at the gates; she may be abroad this morning. You will have left Tor’s Crossing early—or did you camp out last night?”

  “I left early, sir.”

  “Well, the Marshal-General’s quarters are in the Hall Courts. Take the first left, after the gate, and then a right—go straight past two turns, and then left again under the arch. Someone will take your horse there, and guide you. But, as I said, ask at the city gates if your message is urgent; they will know if she’s ridden out somewhere.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Paks lifted her reins and started forward. One of the other riders spoke to the leader, and he lifted a hand.

  “Wait a moment—” He looked closely at her. “Are you a Girdsman?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looked puzzled. “You are carrying something of great worth—is it a gift from the Marshal?”

  “Gift? No, sir.” Paks thought of the jewels she still had, and wondered if that was what he meant. Somehow she didn’t think so.

  At the city gates, a neatly uniformed guard waved her through after she explained her errand. When she asked, he said that the Marshal-General had gone to the practice fields west of the city, but that she might wait at the Hall if she chose. Paks followed the directions through stone-paved streets of middle width, and arrived at an arched entrance through a wall. Far above she could see the towers of the Lord’s Hall. A grizzled older man stepped out of an alcove in the arch and asked her business.

  “Marshal-General, eh? She’ll be out until noon; can you wait?” At her nod, he stepped forward. “Good, then. I’ll get someone to take your horse—”

  “I can take him,” Paks interrupted. “If you’ll tell me where.”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. “A guest take her own horse to stable? What do you think we are, ruffians?” He turned and bellowed through the archway. “Seli! Seliam!” Paks heard the clatter of running feet, and a boy raced up, panting. “Take this horse to the guest stables, Seli. Have the stableboys see to him.” The boy laid his hand on the rein, and Paks dismounted. She rummaged in her saddlebags for Cedfer’s letter to the Marshal-General. “Seli will take your saddlebags to the guest house in a few minutes,” the man said. “Would you prefer to wait there, or in the Marshal-General’s study?”

  “Could I—” Paks suddenly felt shy. “I—I haven’t been in Fin Panir before,” she began again. “Could I see the High Lord’s Hall? Is it permitted?”

  His face split in a grin. “Permitted! Of course it’s permitted. Let me find someone for the entrance, and I’ll take you in myself. Haven’t been here before, eh? I daresay you’ve heard tales, though, haven’t you?” He turned away without waiting for an answer, and yelled again through the arch. This time another older man answered the summons.

  “What is it, Argalt? An invasion of orcs?”

  “No. A newcomer, who wants to see the Hall while waiting for the Marshal-General.”

  “And you want to show him—her, excuse me.” The man smiled at Paks. “Gird’s grace, lady, you’ve made Argalt’s day. He loves to show off the Hall. And you’ve bright sun for it, too.” He waved them away, and Paks followed the man through the arch and across a cobbled courtyard to the entrance of the High Lord’s Hall of Fin Panir.

  Broad steps led up to a pair of tall bronze doors, cast in intricate designs. Paks stopped to look at them, and her guide began to explain.

  “These doors are not the original—those burned, hundreds of years back, the year the Black Lady fought to the steps here. But these were designed and cast by the half-elven craftsman Madegar. The middle of each door bears the High Lord’s Seal—it’s inlaid in gold, as you see. All around are the seals of the saints, and a little picture of each one doing something famous. There’s Gird, with the cudgel, and Falk with a sword and the tyrant of Celias, and Camwyn riding a dragon, and Dort shearing the golden sheep, do you see all that?”

  “Yes.” Paks traced the designs with her finger, as far as she could reach. She found Torre and her magical steed, Sertig with his anvil. She stared, fascinated, until the man tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Come along in, now, and see the rest.”

  From the great doors, the Hall stretched away, longer than any grange Paks had seen. The grange at Brewersbridge, she thought, would have fit in sideways, and three more with it. The soaring arches that held the roof were lifted from stone columns like treetrunks springing from the floor. It reminded her, in that way, of the elves’ winterhall underground. At the far end, a double platform with a low railing took the place of the usual training platform in granges. On either side a railed gallery with stepped seating offered a clear view of the floor.

  But all this she saw later. First she was aware of the great wash of brilliant light, broken into dazzling chips of color, that poured through the great round window in the far end. All along both sides, high windows of colored glass spread fanciful patterns of light on the floor. She turned to the guide, who was chuckling at her reaction.

  “How?” was all she could say.

  “You had seen glass in windows before?” he asked.

  “Yes, but—” she waved a hand at the magnificence.

  “It’s colored glass, laid in a pattern, and bound in strips of lead. And I’ll have you know, it wasn’t an elf designed that.” Now that the first dazzle had passed, Paks could see that the colored glass made designs—even pictures, in some of the windows. The round window held a many-pointed star in shades of blue with accents of gold. Along the sunny south side of the Hall, she saw Gird with his cudgel striking a richly dressed knight, Camwyn riding a dragon whose breath seemed literal flame, a harper (she could not remember the name of the harper’s patron saint) playing to a tree that seemed to be turning into a girl, and Torre partway through her Ride, with half the stones of the necklace turned to stars. The longer she looked at each window, the more she saw. Each had smaller scenes inset in medallions around the main picture. Paks walked over to Torre’s window. There was her home, with its six towers, and that must be her sorrowing father with the wicked king threatening him. Here was the stable, with the strange horse standing loose between the stalls, the ring of coals around its neck. A white flower stood for the first trial of her Ride, and three snowflakes for the next. A fat dwarf held the blue ring, and an elf in green held out the branch of yellowwood in flower, complete with two bees. The wicked king’s red banner blew from a tower on a cliff. A sleeping baby in a basket floated on a river. At the very top of the window, the stars of Torre’s Necklace blazed out of blue glass just as they did in the sky.

  Paks tore her
eyes away and looked around again. The shadowed, northern side windows were pictures as well. Sertig pounding on his anvil, and Adyan writing the true names of everything in his book. Alyanya, the Lady of Peace, wreathed in flowers, with fruitful vines trailing around her. Some pictures she did not recognize at all. One seemed to be all animals, fitted into every available niche, all mixed together, large and small. One was simply a tree, whose gnarled roots and branches filled up the space above and below, curling and recurling until Paks could not tell how many little rootlets filled even one small section.

  When she finally left the windows to look at the rest of the building, it was equally engrossing. The floor was paved with flat slabs of stone in a subtle pattern. Many of the slabs were engraved with names and dates that meant nothing to Paks—but much to her guide, when she asked.

  “That there’s Lolyin’s marker—he was Marshal-General over a hundred years ago, and converted the King of Tsaia to the fellowship of Gird. That was the great-grandfather of the present crown prince. Under his name is the paladin Brealt. You might have heard of him, since I can see you’ve been in Aarenis. He freed the captives of Pliuni, and fought two priests of Liart by himself to do it.” Paks had not heard of him, but she nodded. The old man went on. “Marshal-Generals and paladins of Gird—and a few others—they have their names and dates put here. Some say their deeds should be added, but the rule is that those who want to know should look them up in the archives. There’s not one of them but is worth remembering. Take this—” he led her up near the platform. “This is Gird’s own marker, put here by Luap—the oldest we have.” The stone was worn in a hollow, and the letters were faint. “In the old way, all that joined the knights of the fellowship, or became paladins of Gird, would spend part of a vigil washing that stone, to keep Gird’s name pure. But then they realized they were wearing it down, and only the Marshal-General does it now.”

  Paks could think of nothing to say. She had never imagined that anything built by men would be as beautiful as the Hall. That soaring space seemed to liberate something inside her, as if it called for wings within. When they came out at last, she blinked in the sunlight, her head still full of what she’d seen.

  * * *

  She had no idea what to expect of a Marshal-General. The Marshals she had met had been matter-of-fact, much like the Duke’s captains. But what she’d seen of feudal commanders, and the splendor of the Hall, led her to think that the Marshal-General might be more—she tried to think of a word—impressive? magnificent? As the servant led her through the passages and up a broad stair to the Marshal-General’s office, she felt her stomach flutter.

  The door was open. Paks looked across a fairly large room to a table set under one of the south windows. Behind it stood two people, a woman and a man, both in blue tunics over gray trousers. Both had Gird’s crescents on chains around their neck. They were looking at something on the table as the servant knocked; the woman looked up.

  “Yes?”

  “A messenger, Marshal-General, from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge.” He gestured at Paks.

  “Ah yes. Argalt mentioned you—your name?”

  “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks, uncertain of the correct address.

  “You’re not a Girdsman?”

  “No—my lady.” Paks thought that was safest.

  “Then you may not know I’m Marshal-General Arianya. But you’re a warrior—that’s clear enough.” Paks nodded. “Well, then, let me see your message.”

  Paks walked into the room and handed over the Marshal’s letter. The Marshal-General was a tall woman of middle age, her graying curly hair cropped short. She wore no sword, but her tunic was marked by sword belt and scabbard. Her right hand bore a wide scar; Paks wondered how it had missed severing some tendons. The Marshal-General looked up from what she was reading.

  “Do you know what Cedfer’s written?”

  Paks felt the blood rush to her face. “Some of it, my lady. He said he—that you—that I might take some training here.”

  “He’s recommended that you be admitted to a probationers’ class in the Company of Gird. And he’s said why—” She paused and looked at Paks closely. “It’s most unusual, you know, for anyone not of the fellowship to be admitted here.”

  Paks felt her heart sink. She had only begun to realize, during the trip to Fin Panir, the power wielded by the granges of Gird. When the Marshal had suggested a half-year in the training program, it had seemed like fun, certainly more to her taste than wandering the woods as a ranger in Lyonya. She had always been quick to learn warrior’s skills. But now it seemed a more serious commitment. She said nothing, and met the Marshal-General’s eyes steadily.

  “What has he said, Marshal-General?” asked the man. Paks glanced at him. He was a little taller than the Marshal-General, and had a short gray beard.

  “He recommends her highly—” The Marshal-General paused again, and looked once more at Paks. “You fought with Duke Phelan of Tsaia, is that right?” Paks nodded. “Cedfer was surprised to find you so good with a longsword; he implies that the Duke himself suggested you seek advanced training. That’s so?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Paks felt very uncomfortable. She knew what was coming next; she still did not want to talk about those last weeks in the Duke’s Company. But the Marshal-General’s next question surprised her.

  “Do you think he would be pleased to have you here?”

  Paks knew her face showed her astonishment. “Why—why of course, my lady. Why wouldn’t he? It would be an honor—”

  The Marshal-General looked away. “Duke Phelan, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, is not without his quarrels with Gird and Gird’s granges.”

  Paks thought of the subtle tension between the Duke and the Marshal in Aarenis. His words to the paladin at Cortes Immer came back to her. She shook her head, driving them away. “No—I’m sure he would be glad. He is not a Girdsman himself, but he is a good man—a good fighter—and he would be glad for any honor that came to me. And training here would be an honor.”

  “Why would you think it so, when you are not of our fellowship?” asked the man quietly. Paks turned to him.

  “Sir, it is widely known. The Knights of Gird, the paladins of Gird—all of them train here, and many others beside, who serve honorably in the royal guards of several kingdoms.”

  “I see.” He glanced at the Marshal-General, but she was looking at Marshal Cedfer’s letter. After a moment she looked up at him.

  “Kory, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to Paksenarrion. Cedfer almost persuades me, but I must see for myself what she is.”

  “Of course, Marshal-General.”

  “Paksenarrion, have you had anything to eat?”

  “No, my lady. Not since breakfast.”

  “Then we’ll eat together here. Kory, ask them to send something up, will you?”

  “Certainly.” He bowed, and left the room. Paks met the Marshal-General’s gaze.

  “Well, Paksenarrion, have a seat—there—and let’s find out more about you. Cedfer sent word at once about the elfane taig, but few details. Where are you from, and how did you come to join the Duke’s Company?”

  “I’m from Three Firs, my lady. My father is a sheepfarmer.”

  “Three Firs! I know that country—far from the Honnorgat, or any city, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—”

  “So you left to join the Duke’s Company? Or for another reason?”

  “I wanted to be a warrior.” Paks thought back to the mood of what now seemed her childhood, when Jornoth had come visiting with a bright sword and his purse full of silver. “My father didn’t—so I ran away.” The Marshal-General nodded. “I joined the Duke’s Company at Rocky Ford, and then—” She shrugged. “I was a recruit, and then a private in the Company.”

  “You fought in the north, or in Aarenis?”

  “In Aarenis. For three seasons.” Paks stopped, uncertain how much to say about those years.

  “Cedfer
says the Duke evidently favored you—had given you some important missions. Can you tell me about them, or would that violate a secret of the Duke’s?”

  Paks shook her head. “No. Nothing secret—I don’t know how much to say. The last year, I was acting corporal for awhile, when Seli was hurt. And I helped capture Siniava.”

  “Siniava. Then—wait—” The Marshal-General’s face furrowed for a moment. “Did you meet a paladin in Aarenis? Fenith?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Paks didn’t want to talk about that, either: the one time the Duke had not lived up to her image of him.

  “You’re that Paksenarrion!” The Marshal-General stared at her. “Fenith wrote about you—you took on a priest of Liart, and lived! Gird’s grace, child, I hadn’t heard of such a thing. Neither had he. He sent the High Marshal to your Duke to find out about you, and the Duke nearly took his head off for suggesting you might not be what you seemed.”

  “He did?” Paks didn’t remember any such thing.

  “I suppose your Duke didn’t tell you. Fenith also said you were the one to spot Siniava in shapechange. He thought it had something to do with a Gird’s medallion you carried—a gift of a friend, he said—”

  “Yes.” Paks did not want to discuss Canna’s gift, which she had not worn since the night Siniava died.

  “You told him, I understand, that you would stay with the Duke’s Company—yet here you are on our doorstep. What happened?” The Marshal-General’s eyes were as shrewd as the Kuakgan’s; Paks realized that there was no way out of this but the long one—the whole truth. Haltingly, at first, she began to tell of the last year in Aarenis. The Marshal-General did not interrupt, and the pressure of her attention kept the tale flowing. When a servant carried in a tray of food, bowls of stew and a couple of loaves of dark bread, Paks stopped. The Marshal-General spread the food on the table, and waved the servant out.