The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Sarek, who reminded Paks of Cracolnya in the Duke’s Company, with his stocky body and slightly bowed legs, explained about the detection of good and evil. “A paladin can sense good and evil directly,” he began. “Now you might think that makes everything simple: on one side are the bad people, and you kill them, and over here are the good people, and they cheer for you.” Everyone laughed, including the other paladins. “It would be nice,” he went on, “but that’s not how it works. Normally you will experience people much as you do now—liking some, and not liking others. Most people—and that includes us, candidates—are mixtures, neither wholly evil nor wholly good. But if you are close to someone intent on evil—an assassin, Achrya’s agent, whatever—you will know that evil is near and be able to locate it.

  “That’s not the same as doing anything about it,” he said, again waiting for the laughter that followed. “You must learn to think. Suppose you are trying to decide whom to trust in a troubled town. An evil person may lie, but he might tell the truth, if truth serves his plan. A good person may lead you wrong, being good and stupid. You, young candidates, are supposed to be good—and smart.” Again they laughed. “But more of this later. Only realize that like any gift, it is a tool—and you must learn to use it carefully, or it can slip in your hand.” He gave them a final grin, and waved Cami up.

  “Most important of the gifts,” said Cami, now more serious than Paks had ever seen her, “is the High Lord’s protection from evil attack. Of course you can be killed—we are human, after all. But as long as you are Gird’s paladin, your soul cannot be forced into evil by any power whatever. All magical spells that assault the heart and mind directly will fail. No fear or disgust, no despair, can prevent you from following the High Lord’s call if you want to follow it. Moreover, you can protect those with you from such attacks. This is one reason our training is so long and so intense—for this, of course, we cannot test in training. We must be sure you do want this with a whole heart, that you are indeed under that protection, before you go out to battle the dark powers of the Earth.”

  For that reason, they were told, their every act and word would be scrutinized; even small faults could reveal flaws too dangerous to be granted such power.

  “But would the High Lord grant the powers to someone unfit to bear them?” asked one of the candidates.

  “No. But evil powers might grant a semblance of such. It is hard to explain—though you will understand if you succeed—but during your training you are more open to evil influence than before. We must so harrow your minds, and as in a harrowed field both sun and frost strike deeper, so in your minds both good and evil can strike a firmer root. That is why you are kept apart from the others, once you begin the final training, and why you are always in the company of your sponsor, who can sense any threat and protect you from it.”

  “But we’re supposed to be more resistant anyway,” grumbled Harbin. Paks agreed, but said nothing. It almost sounded as if they were weaklings.

  “You are—you were—and you will be,” said Cami. “But right now, and for the time of your training, we are looking for weakness—searching for any crevice through which evil can assail your hearts. And we will find things, for none of us is perfect, or utterly invincible, except in the High Lord’s protection.” Paks wondered uneasily what weakness they would find in her, and what they would do about it.

  “And,” added Sarek, closing that session with a laugh, “remember that while a demon can’t eat your soul, once you’re a paladin, any village idiot can crack your skull with a rock. By accident.”

  Other such discussions followed. They learned that paladins never married unless—and this was rare—they retired from that service to another. Yet although celibate on quest—Paks saw someone frown, across the room, and wondered if he would drop out—they might have lovers in Fin Panir or elsewhere, as time allowed. “But those you love most are in the most danger,” pointed out Amberion. “Choose your loves from those who can defend themselves, should Achrya’s agents be seeking a weapon against you. We are here to defend the children of others—not to protect our own. And if we had children, and were good parents, we would have no time for Gird’s work.”

  Soon Paks knew the paladins as people. She knew the room would bubble with excitement when Cami arrived, that Saer brought with her an intensity and mysticism almost eerie to experience, that Sarek’s jokes always had a lasting sting of sense, that Amberion was the group’s steady anchor. She, like the others, opened up under Kevis’s warm and loving regard; and like the others she found her determination hardened by Teriam’s stern logic. Garin, last of the seven, left on quest shortly after his sponsored candidate withdrew—the first of their group to fail. Paks had not known Amis well, and did not know why he had left. She knew less of the candidates than she’d expected, for when not in classes together, they were each with a sponsor or learning to meditate alone.

  But even so she was conscious of a difference between these young Girdsmen, long committed to their patron, and herself. Matters that she thought trivial were cause for hours of discussion, and the simple solution she always thought she saw never satisfied them. They picked away at the motives they claimed lay behind all acts, creating, Paks thought, an incredible tangle of unlikely possibilities. She had imagined herself committed to the defense of good . . . but was good this complicated? If so, why was Gird the patron of soldiers? No one had time to think of definitions and logic in the midst of a battle. The way Sarek had said it first made the most sense to her: here are the bad people, and you kill them; there are the good ones, and they cheer for you. Surely it was only a matter of learning to recognize all the evil. She prayed, as Amberion was teaching her to do, and said nothing. She was there to learn, and in time she might understand that other way of thinking. She had time.

  * * *

  Busy as she was, Paks had almost forgotten the mysterious scrolls when she received a summons to the Master Archivist, Marshal Kory. She found him at a broad table set before a window, with the scrolls all open before him.

  “Paksenarrion—come and see the treasure.” He waved his hand at the array. “Amberion tells me you had no idea what you brought?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, if it were all you ever brought here, Paksenarrion, the Fellowship of Gird could count itself well repaid. We have all examined these—all those of us in Fin Panir with an interest in such things. I believe—and so do many others—that these scrolls were penned by Luap himself, Gird’s own friend. How they got where you found them I doubt we will ever know for certain.”

  “But how can you know what they are?”

  Marshal Kory grinned. “That’s scholar’s work, young warrior. But you would know a sword made in Andressat, I daresay, from one made in Vérella—”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So we have ways to know that the scrolls are old. We have copies of Luap’s chronicles and letters; we compared them, and found some differences—but just what might have come from careless copying. And these scrolls contain far more than we have: letters to Luap’s friends, little sermons—a wealth of material. We think the writing is Luap’s own hand, because we have preserved a couple of lists said to be his—and one of the letters here mentions making that list of those who fell in the first days of the rebellion.”

  Paks began to feel the awesome age of the scrolls. “Then—Luap really touched those—I mean, he was alive, and could—”

  “He was a real person, yes—not a legend—and because he writes so, we know that Gird was real, too. Not that I charge you with having doubted it, but it’s easy to forget that our heroes were actual men and women, who got blisters when they marched, and liked a pot of ale at day’s end. Luap now—” His eyes stared into the distance. “That isn’t even his name. In those days, luap was a kinship term, for someone not in the line of inheritance. The military used it too. A luap-captain had that rank, for respect and pay, but had no troops under his own command: could not give indepen
dent orders. According to the old stories, this man gave up his own name when he joined the rebellion. There are several versions with different reasons for that. Anyway, he became Gird’s assistant, high-ranked because he could write—which few besides lords could do in those days—and he was called Gird’s luap. Soon everyone called him ‘the luap,’ and finally ‘Luap.’ Because of him, no one used luap for a kinship term after that; in Fintha the same relationship now is called ‘nik,’ and in Tsaia it’s ‘niga’ or ‘nigan.’ “ The Archivist seemed ready to explain the origin of that and every other term, and Paks broke in quickly, sticking to what she understood.

  “And he speaks of Gird?”

  “As a friend. Listen to this.” Marshal Kory picked up one of the scrolls, and began to read. “’—and in fact, Ansuli, I had to tell the great oaf to quit swinging his staff around overhead like a young demon. I feared he would hit me, but soon that great laugh burst out and he thanked me for stopping him. If he has a fault, it is that liking for ale, which makes him fight sometimes whether we have need or no.’ And that’s Luap talking of Gird at a tavern in eastern Fintha. I’m not sure where; he doesn’t name the town.”

  Paks was startled. “Gird—drunk?”

  “It was after their first big victory. I’ve always suspected that the reason several of the articles in the Code of Gird dealt with drunkenness is that Gird had personal knowledge of it.” He laid that scroll down and touched another with his fingertip. “We have had the copyists working on these every day. It is the greatest treasure of the age—you cannot know, Paksenarrion, how it lifts our hearts to find something so close to Gird himself. Even when it’s things like that letter—that just makes him more human, more real to us. And to have in Luap’s own words the last battle—incredible! Besides that, we now have a way to prove whether or not these scrolls are genuine. Have you ever heard of Luap’s Stronghold?”

  Paks shook her head. “I had not heard of Luap until I came here, sir.”

  “There’s been a legend for a long time that Luap left the Honnorgat Valley and traveled west, to take Gird’s Code to distant lands. For a time, it was believed, he had established a stronghold, a fortress, in the far mountains, and some reports had Girdsmen traveling back and forth. But no one has come from the west with any reports of him for hundreds of years, so most scholars now think it was just a legend. But in one of these scrolls, sent back, he says, at the request of the Marshal-General of that day, he gives the location of that stronghold. If someone were to go there, and see it, that would prove that these are, indeed, the scrolls of Luap.”

  Paks thought of it, suddenly excited. “What are the western lands like?”

  “All we have are caravan reports. Dry grassland for some days travel, then rock and sand, then deep gouges in the rocks, with swift-running rivers in the depths. Then mountains—but they don’t go that way, skirting them on the south, to come to a crossways. North along that route is a kingdom called Kaelifet; I know nothing about it. Southward is more desert, and finally a sea.”

  Paks tried to imagine those strange lands, and failed. “Will you go, then, Marshal Kory?”

  “Me!” He laughed. “No, I’m the Archivist—I can’t go. Perhaps no one will. Some think it is an idle fancy, and the trip too long and dangerous to risk with evil nearer to hand. But I hope the Marshal-General sends someone. I’d like to know what happened to Luap—and his followers—and why they left Fintha. Perhaps there are more scrolls there—who knows?” He looked at her. “Would you go, if you could, or does this seem a scholar’s question to you?”

  “I would go,” said Paks. “A long journey—unknown lands—mountain fortress—what could be more exciting?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Early spring flowers were just fading when Paks rode west up the first long slopes above Fin Panir. She still thought nothing could be more exciting. With the caravan, the year’s first, rode Amberion, High Marshals Connaught and Fallis, and four knights: Joris, Adan, and Pir, from the Order of the Cudgel, and Marek from the Order of Gird. A troop of men-at-arms marched with them, and a number of yeomen had signed on as drovers and camp workers. Most of the caravan was commercial, headed for Kaelifet, but Ardhiel and Balkon rode with the Girdish contingent as ambassadors and witnesses for their people.

  Paks continued her training under the direction of the paladin and High Marshals. If she had thought the trip would provide a respite from study, she quickly learned otherwise. By the time they reached the Rim, a rough outcrop of stone that loomed across their path, visible a day’s journey away, Paks had passed their examinations on the Code of Gird and grange organization. She began learning the grange history of the oldest granges, the reasons for locating granges and bartons in certain places, the way that the Code of Gird was administered in grange courts and market courts in Fintha. Now she knew how the judicar was appointed in Rocky Ford, and why the required number of witnesses to a contract varied with the kind of contract.

  Their encounter with the horse nomads was a welcome break. She had been marching along muttering to herself the names of the Marshal-Generals who had made changes in the Code when one of the Wagonmaster’s sons came pelting along the line, crying a warning. As he neared the Girdsmen, he yelled “Sir paladin! Sir paladin! Raiders!”

  “Where, lad?” Amberion was already swinging onto his golden chestnut warhorse.

  “North, sir! The scouts say it’s a big party.”

  Paks felt her stomach clench as she hurried to untie Socks from the wagon. Socks was tossing his head, and she scrambled up, uncomfortably aware of her awkwardness. At least she had her own armor and sword for the journey. She swung Socks away from the wagons, and unhooked her helmet from its straps. Amberion was already helmeted, shield on arm.

  “Paksenarrion!” he called. “Bring spears.” Paks unfastened her shield from the saddle and slid it on her arm. At the supply wagon, she called for two spears, and a young yeoman slid them out the rear. Paks locked them under her elbow, whirled Socks, and rode off to find Amberion. To the north she could see a smudge of dust. The caravan itself suddenly swarmed with armed troops. Their score of men-at-arms marched as a rear guard; the regular caravan guards rode atop each wagon, crossbows loaded and cocked. High Marshal Connaught carried a bow; he, Sir Marek, and Ardhiel rode toward the head of the caravan. The other three knights waited on High Marshal Fallis, whose bald-faced horse was throwing its usual tantrum. Paks grinned to herself. She’d had to ride that horse a few times herself; she could imagine the struggle to get helm and shield in place while staying aboard.

  Then a bellow from the Wagonmaster brought Amberion back. He shrugged at Paks, and she followed him to the cluster of mounted fighters. High Marshal Connaught was glaring, but the Wagonmaster never looked up.

  “You can’t do it, I say, and you agreed when I took you on that you’d be bound by my orders.”

  “Thieves and outlaws—” began Connaught. The Wagonmaster interrupted.

  “Horse nomads. Horse nomads I’ve met before, and will every year, whether you ride with me or not. Maybe you could hold them off—if it’s one of the half-decent clans like Stormwind or Wintersun. But what about next year? We skirmish a little for honor’s sake, pay our toll, same as a caravan would on the long route through Tsaia, and that’s it. None of your Girdish sermonizing here, Marshal: it’ll get me killed.”

  “And if they attack?” said Amberion. Paks noticed that the Wagonmaster’s fixed glare softened a little.

  “We fight, of course: that’s why I have guards. But they won’t, with you in sight. I’m glad enough to have the extra blades and bows, and that’s truth, but for the rest of it, I’ll pay toll.” Connaught started to speak, but Amberion caught his eye, and he closed his mouth. Amberion smiled at the Wagonmaster. “Sir, we agreed to follow your command while we traveled with you; forgive us for our eagerness to defend you.”

  Soon they could see the advancing warriors clearly: a mass of riders on shaggy small horses, armed with
lances. Paks watched the war party ride closer—and closer. Now she could see the shaggy manes, the glitter of bridle ornaments, the colors of the riders’ cloaks. On tall poles long streamers of cloth fluttered in the wind: blue, gray, and white. She could hear the drumming of those many hooves.

  The Wagonmaster had insisted that all but the parley group he led stay near the wagons, but he had invited Amberion to ride out with him. Paks followed, at his nod. As they moved toward the nomads, the Wagonmaster gave them his instructions. Finally they faced their enemy only a bowshot away. Amberion waved his spear slowly, left to right. The nomads halted. Several of their horses whickered.

  A single figure in the front of the group waved one of the streamered poles and yelled something in a language Paks didn’t know.

  “Parley in Common!” yelled Amberion.

  The figure rode forward ten yards or so. “Why we halt?” he called. “Yer on our pasture, city folk. On the sea of grass, only the strong survive. Can ye stop us taking all you have, and feeding ye to the grass?” His speech was thickly accented, a mixture of several dialects.

  “Aye, easily enough.” The Wagonmaster sounded confident.

  “Ha! Five against fifty? Are ye demons, then, like that black one that walks north?”

  “We are servants of Gird and the High Lord,” said Amberion. The Wagonmaster shot him a glance, but said nothing.

  “Well met here, servant of whoever. Go tell yer master that those who travel our lands must pay our tolls—unless ye’d rather fight.”

  Amberion turned to the Wagonmaster, brows raised. The Wagon-master nodded. “Oh, these aren’t bad. These are Stormwinds—that’s old Carga out there; he don’t torture prisoners at all. Keeps slaves, of course, they all do, but if there’s a good horse nomad, it’s Carga. He’ll take our tribute and leave us alone. You notice he changed his demand, that second time?”