The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  No one was beside her at the moment. She saw the dwarf, hunching over the campfire. Pir stood at a little distance, staring up at the sunlit rock far overhead. Off on her right, Amberion and the Marshals stood talking to another taller figure. Paks recognized this as Ardhiel, the elf. She stretched, slowly. She felt a vague ache again, not so strong as before, and wondered at it. The only other time she had experienced a paladin’s healing, the wound and pain had disappeared at once and forever. Perhaps she’d been lying awry.

  She pushed up her sleeves to look at the marks on her arms. Ordinarily she’d have said the wounds were several weeks old; the scar tissue was raised and dark. But the others had said she’d been missing only a few days. She tried to remember what had happened. What Balkon had told her seemed to fit, yet her memories gave no life to his words. Captive—underground—that almost made sense. But what about the wounds? Had she actually fought? And who had she fought, and how? The marks gave her no clues—they looked like any healing cuts, could have been given by knife or sword or pike. The only unusual thing about them was the number—more scars than she had collected in three seasons of fighting with Duke Phelan. She could not understand how she had fought at all—how she had survived—with so many wounds, all given at once. Yet something about them seemed to convey that they’d been given in combat, rather than inflicted on a bound and helpless prisoner.

  Amberion’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Paks, I’m glad you’re awake again. Ardhiel is with us now, and he examined you this afternoon.” Paks was suddenly angry. What right had they to stare at her while she lay helpless? She remembered what the iynisin had told her about the elves who took the Halveric’s scroll. She fought the anger down, surprised at its strength, and tried to conceal it. She knew they would not understand. Amberion went on. “He would like to talk with you, if you feel well enough.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m just—” she decided not to mention the aching to Amberion; he would think it weakness. “I’m still confused,” she said finally. Ardhiel sat beside her; he seemed thinner than she remembered, but his face was alight with some joy.

  “Lady Paksenarrion, I sorrow that I was not here to defend you. I did not know that when I blew the elven horn I would be carried away—”

  “Carried away?”

  “In spirit. I had always been taught that elves have no souls, that we are wholly one with our bodies; I had no idea that I could be plucked out, like a hazelnut from its shell, and be gone so long. It did not seem long to me—only a day at the High King’s Court—but when I returned, I find that you have spent many dark hours with the iynisin.”

  “So they say.” Paks looked away, frowning. “I can’t remember.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Only vaguely. Balkon told me some, and it seemed to make sense—I had the feeling that he was right, as far as he knew. But I don’t remember it, clearly, on my own.”

  “Ah.” Ardhiel leaned back on the sand, staring skyward at the glowing blue that deepened as the sun lowered behind distant mountains. “I wish I knew more. We elves prefer to ignore the iynisin—even to pretend they do not exist, or are not distant kin. But at such times as these, that way is proved dangerous, for us and for our allies. I do know that they have the same magical abilities that we have, and share in the powers of those they worship: Achrya and Nayda, Gitres and Liart.”

  Paks shuddered as the four evil names seemed to foul the air. A face swam before her: elven, but evil. Frightening. “I—don’t remember,” she said.

  “If it is truly wiped from your mind, by a blow on your head, for example, that is one thing. But if the memory has been blurred by the iynisin or their deity, then we must do what we can to bring it back. I could not tell, this afternoon—I was still half-enchanted by my own experience.” Ardhiel sat up, stretching. “Amberion. Did you want to do this before or after eating?”

  “Do what?” asked Paks, alarmed. Amberion turned from watching the distant line of mountains, and smiled at her. She thought his face looked flat and featureless in the dimming light. He sat on her other side, and reached for her hand.

  “We need to find out what magic the iynisin used on you, Paks. Surely you realize that. Ardhiel and I will each try what we know—”

  “But—” Paks tried to think of some argument. “Isn’t it—didn’t you tell me that—that paladin candidates must not submit to spells?”

  Amberion frowned. “Usually, that’s so. But this is a special case—you have already been spelled, we think, by the iynisin. And you were assigned to my care. Gird knows, Paksenarrion, what I feel that I did not save you from that capture. But now—we must do what we can for you.”

  Paks nodded, meeting Amberion’s eyes with difficulty. She could tell that he was concerned—even worried. For herself, she felt more annoyance than anything else. In time she would heal, as she always had, and be strong again; the memories would come, or not come. She wanted to hear what they knew—wanted them to trust her enough to tell her, as Keri and Volya had told her about the sack of Sibili.

  “Amberion tells me that these wounds were already so healed when they found you, Paksenarrion.” Ardhiel laid his longfingered elven hand on her wrist. Paks tried not to flinch. “You were missing so short a time—either the wounds were never what they look like—that is, they were not real wounds, but created in this half-healed state—or they were magically healed.”

  Paks looked at her arms again. “Could they be made that way? I never heard of such—”

  “No. It’s not widely known that it can be done, and it would only be done by evil intent. But the other is bad, too. To force flesh to such healing, out of time—that has its own hazards. I have known an elf, long ago in your time, and far from here, who could speed growth and healing. He used the gift on plants only, but animals too could be treated so. What we will do now, Paksenarrion, is try to lift the cloud from your memory. If it is what I think it may be, a cloud the iynisin placed there, you can then remember what you need.”

  As much as Paks had wanted to know what happened, she still shrank from this. Now that she knew her memories could be made or unmade at elven will, as the iynisin had shown her, she wanted no more of that. But some doubt of them kept her from mentioning the Halveric’s scroll. The elf’s glowing eyes seemed dangerous as coals. She looked at Amberion. He nodded. “Ardhiel has convinced me that this is best, Paksenarrion. The iynisin powers should be countered as soon as possible.”

  “Then Balkon was right—” she murmured.

  “Right in his way,” said Ardhiel. “You do need to remember, but you need to remember for yourself. It is this I will try.”

  “Well, then—go ahead.” Paks looked from one to the other of them. “What should I do?”

  “Think on Gird and the High Lord,” said Amberion. “They will guide your thoughts—and your memories, we hope—while we free them.”

  Paks closed her eyes and lay still. She could not keep from pushing at the dark curtains in her mind, and felt more and more breathless and trapped as she lay there. She was hardly aware of Ardhiel’s hand when it moved to her brow, or Amberion’s firm grip. Ardhiel began chanting something in elven—she did not even try to follow the meaning.

  Shadows moved in her mind. Some were darker—some moved away from her, and others menaced her. She saw again an elven face, pale against a dark hood. She felt a burning pain at her throat, and tried to raise her hand, struggling. The shadows seemed to harden, thickening into reality. Sounds came, faintly at first, then louder. Shrill cries, mocking laughter, the clatter of weapons. Bitter fluid stung her throat, the stench of it wrinkled her nose. The faces came clearer out of the darkness: orcs, their fangs bared, their taloned hands holding swords, knives, whips. Other fighters, whose kind she did not know, in armor of leather and plate. The light was green, a sickly shade that turned spilled blood black.

  Gradually she was able to remember the bargain the iynisin had made: she had had to fight, fight for their amusement a
gainst opponents of their choosing, fight with whatever weapons they gave her, for the chance to live a little longer. As it had happened, so in the memory Ardhiel’s treatment roused: she could not remember how long these fights had gone on, or the intervals between them. But she could remember, as if reliving them, the pain of her wounds, the hunger and thirst and exhaustion, the fear that she would never see daylight again, the grim and bitter anger she had summoned against that fear. When Ardhiel took his hands away from her brow, she was aware. And the memories she had lost lay in a cold heap in her mind. She hated the thought of them, of stirring through them, but she had no choice. That, too, she resented: she had had no choice with the iynisin, and no choice here.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  For of course Amberion insisted on knowing what, if anything, she remembered. She replied as quickly as possible, surprised at her own distaste, with an outline of the iynisin bargain and her fighting. She remembered even the black armor, and her reluctance to wear it.

  “And you called on Gird before each encounter?” asked High Marshal Fallis, who had come up to listen.

  “I tried. I couldn’t—couldn’t say it out loud.” Paks hoped he would say nothing more about it.

  “But you tried—you intended to?” Amberion’s eyes held hers.

  “Yes—sir.” Paks looked away with an effort. “I tried. At least, all the times I remember—”

  “That should be enough—” But his tone lacked conviction, and he looked across her to Ardhiel.

  “I don’t understand. What’s the matter?” Even Paks could not be sure whether irritation or fear edged her voice.

  Fallis sighed. “Paksenarrion, you had no way to tell—but if you handled cursed weapons, and in a cursed cause—”

  “And that black armor was definitely cursed—”

  “But I killed orcs—some iynisin—and they’re all evil—”

  “Yes. I know. That’s why we think it may work out.” Amberion shook his head, nonetheless. “I wish you hadn’t touched those things—”

  “But—” Paks felt ready to burst with the unfairness of it. She had been trapped, alone, captive, far underground—she had fought against many enemies and her own fear, to survive—and now they said she should never have touched a weapon. I’m a fighter, after all, she told herself. What should I have done—let them kill me without lifting a hand? Bitterness sharpened her voice. “I thought Gird would approve—fighting against odds like that.”

  “Gird does not care for odds, but for right and wrong.” Fallis sounded almost angry. “That’s what we’re trying to—”

  “Then should I have stood there like a trussed sheep and let them cut my throat?” Paks interrupted, angry enough now to say what she felt. “Would you have been happier to find my corpse? By—by the gods, I thought Gird was a warrior’s patron, in any fight against evil, and I did my best to fight. It’s easy for you to say what I should and shouldn’t have done, but you were safe in the sunlight, while I—”

  “Paks!” Amberion’s voice, and his hand on her arm, stopped her. “Paks, please listen. We know you had little choice; we are not condemning you. You are not a paladin. We do not expect such wisdom from you. And now you are still weak and recovering from your injuries. We shouldn’t have told you our worries, I suppose, but we did. I think myself that you will be all right when your wounds heal, and you have rested. Eat well tonight, and sleep; tomorrow we need to move camp again, and be on our way.”

  Paks stared at him, still a little angry, but appalled at her own words when she remembered them. Had she really spoken that way to a paladin and a High Marshal? “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I—I don’t know what—”

  “Anyone,” said Amberion firmly, “anyone, coming from such an ordeal, would be irritable. Can you walk as far as the fire to eat, or shall we bring food here?”

  “I’ll try.” Paks was able to stand with Amberion’s help, and made it to the fire, walking stiffly but alone. She said little to the others, concentrating on her own bowl of food. Master Balkon eyed her from across the fire, but said nothing. She wondered how much the others knew. She felt empty and sore inside, as if she had been crying for a long time.

  After the meal, High Marshal Fallis asked Ardhiel to tell the company about his experience. The elf smiled, sketched a gesture on the air, and began. Paks, listening, recovered a little of her first enchantment with elves. The intonations of his voice, even in the common tongue, gave it a lyrical quality. His graceful hands, gesturing fluidly, reminded her of tall grass blowing in the wind. He caught her eye, and smiled; she felt her own face relax in response. The story he told, of being taken away on the flying steed they’d seen, and feasting in the High King’s Hall, was strange enough. Paks was not sure whether Ardhiel thought the High King was the same as their High Lord—or whether that was someone else entirely—but she did not ask.

  When he had finished, full darkness had fallen, and the stars glittered brightly out of a cloudless sky. Paks began to wonder if she could make it back to her place; she did not feel like moving again. Someone else began to talk with Ardhiel—she was too sleepy to notice who it was. Then she was asleep, hardly rousing when someone draped a blanket over her.

  She roused again before dawn. One cheek was stiff with a cold wind that flowed down the canyon; the sky was pale green, like a bruise. She could see both rock walls clear against the sky, but down in the canyon shadows hid all detail. She rolled her face inside the blanket, and warmed the cold side of it with her breath. She felt stiff and sore, but much stronger than the day before. A horse whinnied; the sound echoed from the walls. Another one answered, louder. Now several of them called. Paks thought she could pick out Socks’s whinny from the rest. She pushed herself up. Cold air swirled under the blanket and she knew she’d have to get up to get warm. A dark shape crouched over the fire, muttering. This morning she recognized one of the men-at-arms.

  When she came to the fire, he handed her a mug of sib, grinning.

  “’Tis cold, these early mornings,” he said. “It must be the mountains; I’ve always heard it’s cold all year round in mountains.”

  “That’s true of the Dwarfmounts,” agreed Paks. She shivered, and spread her hands to the flames. She had on a linen shirt over her trousers; the wind seemed to go through it as if it weren’t there. Where were her clothes? Which pack?

  As if he had heard her thought, Amberion dumped a pack beside the fire. “Your pack,” he said, and reached for a mug of sib. “Glad you’re up. We’ll be riding today.”

  Paks found a wool shirt to cover the linen one, then paused. “Should I wear mail?”

  “Yes—better not take a chance. Oh. That’s right—yours is gone. We’ll have to find you some.” He finished his sib and stood up. Paks donned the wool shirt, and unrolled her cloak. She was still cold. She moved around near the fire, trying to warm up. Gradually the stiffness eased, though she still felt a deep aching pain along her bones. It was much lighter. Someone had started a pot of porridge for breakfast; when she looked for the horses, she saw several men at work, tacking them up. Socks was still bare, tied to a scrubby tree. Paks walked toward him.

  “Will you be riding him today?” asked one of the men.

  “I suppose so.” She had no idea what sort of trail they would take, but if they had to fight, she wanted Socks. He stretched his neck when she neared him, and bumped her with his massive nose. She rubbed his head and neck absently, scratching automatically those itchy spots he favored. The man reappeared with her saddle and gear. Paks thanked him, and took her brush from the saddlebags. When she tried to lift the saddle to the horse’s back, she was surprised to find she could barely get it in place. Every muscle in her back protested. She took a deep breath, and fastened the rigging. Foregirth, breastband, crupper, rear girth. Saddlebags. She was panting when she finished. Socks nosed at her. She fitted the bridle on his head, and untied him.

  * * *

  By the time they had ridden out of the cany
on, onto a shoulder of the heights to one side, Paks felt she had been riding all day. Socks and the other horses toiled upward. Paks tried to take an interest in the country once more rising into view—the great cliffs of raw red stone, the fringe of forest on the plateaus above. Far to the north an angular gray mountain, dark against all the red, caught Balkon’s attention.

  “There! See that dark one? Not the same rock at all—that one comes from hot rocks, rocks flowing like a river, all fire-bright. It will be sharp to the feet if we come there.”

  “We shouldn’t,” said Amberion. “The map gives us a cross-canyon next, deeper than the last, and Luap’s stronghold is somewhere nearby.”

  “Nearby, eh,” grumbled the dwarf. “Nearby in this country can be out of reach.” They were riding now through a little meadow of sand, carpeted with tall lupines in shades of cream and gold. Ahead the trail led up toward a curious spire of rock that looked, to Paks, as if it were made of candle-drippings that had been tilted one way and another while still soft.

  “Is that some of your rock that flowed like a river?”

  “No.” Balkon grinned at her. “Rock that flows doesn’t look like it afterwards—this is all sand-rock. Like that below, in the canyon.”

  All this time, the distant cliffs that Amberion and Fallis were sure lay beyond the cross canyon drew closer. Paks could not believe that much of a canyon lay between them and the cliffs—until they reached the spire, and the rock fell away beneath their feet. A thin thread of trail angled back and forth down the rocks.

  “Gird’s breath, Fallis—we can’t get the horses down there.” Amberion took a few steps down the trail, stumbling on loose ledges of rock. “It’s as steep as a stair. Mules, mayhap, but the warhorses—”