The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “And then you honored me, sheepfarmer’s daughter, poor commoner and ex-mercenary, beyond all dreams I’d dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a paladin. A paladin! Do you—can you—have any idea what a paladin means to a child on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder, all stars and dreams. A—a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins! And you said ‘Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.’” She stopped for breath again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.

  “I could not argue, my lady. I felt you must know; you wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then—to go on quest, with Amberion and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And all of you were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion, that first attack? You said I did well, then.”

  “Paks—” he said, but she went on heedlessly.

  “And—then I was taken. No, my lords!” She said as both Amberion and Ardhiel started to speak. “I blame you not, I said so before. The evil ones wanted me; it was my weakness or flaw that drew them to me. How could I blame you, who followed into the rocky heart of their lair to free me, outnumbered as you were? No. And while I was thus, in their hands, I tried to pray to Gird and the High Lord for aid, but I had to fight against their servants lest they kill me. I was alone—in the dark—I thought that to fight so—Gird would approve. I thought that was right.”

  She looked down, suddenly, and shuddered. “It wasn’t—wasn’t easy.” Then she faced them again. “Now you say that because I fought them, because I didn’t just die, I have opened a passage for great evil. I can’t feel this myself; I don’t know . . . But to chance all I can do, to chance losing all I’ve learned, all I am—that you helped make me—and to think how long I must live if it goes badly . . . Could such a one as I be a—a potter, or a weaver? Oh, better to kill me, my lady, and quickly.”

  Silence followed her words; Paks turned again and stared blindly out the window. Then Arianya took breath to speak, but Ardhiel forestalled her. “Lady Paksenarrion, elf-friend, may I tell you a true tale?”

  Paks gazed at him, white-faced and desperate. “Yes, Ardhiel; I will listen.”

  “We elves, milady, know not death from age, and thus our memories are long, and we see slow processes in the world as easily as you might see the start and finish of a meal. Once, long ago, before ever this Hall was built or men had found their way over the mountains from the south, I walked the green forests with an elf known for the beauty of his voice and the delight of his songs. From him I learned that very air I taught you, milady, when we first met. It was his craft to shape his instruments of living wood—a delicate business, to urge the growth of linden or walnut or mahogany so that it grew fitly shaped for harp or lute or lo-pipe. And to shape it so that in time the complete instrument could be separated from the tree without harm to it or to the creature it grew from. Long years of growth and shaping were required for a single instrument, but long years we elves have in plenty, and delight in filling them with such work.

  “In that time, he was growing a harp: not a lap-harp, as might be grown from any angle of applewood or pear, but a great harp, on which he hoped to play before the throne of our king. If you think of the shape of a great harp, you will realize how difficult this would be, for if the harp frame were strong enough to withstand the tension of the strings, removing it would cause severe damage to its tree. I cannot tell you how it was done—it is not my craft—but he caused a part of the tree, the part between the instrument and the main plant, to withdraw, as it were. This process must be complete when the instrument was grown, else it became gross and unmusical, and required shaping with tools, which he abhorred. But if it was begun too soon, the withdrawal weakened either instrument or tree, and could allow woodrot and other decay to attack both.

  “It happened that he had just begun shaping his harp-tree when our king determined to wed. Not immediately, for that is not our way; but the courtship and preparation began, and in twenty years or so, as humans would measure time, the wedding day was announced to all elf-kind. It would be another forty years, for the beauty of elf-maidens does not fade or wither, and the king’s subjects would have time to prepare all good gifts for the festival.

  “When he heard this, my friend determined that his wedding gift would be the great harp he was then shaping, a kingly gift indeed. He brought me to see it growing, though little I could see: he had to point out which twig would grow to take the fret, and which root-sprout would form the shorter leg. The frame, you see, was to be grown all in one piece: trunk, branch, root, and sprout top-grafted to the branch. In twenty years, I happened by again, and the shape was far clearer. But my friend was dissatisfied. By his craft, he knew that as it grew, it would grow too slowly—it would not be ready for the king’s wedding. I laughed, I recall, and reminded him that elves have no need of hurry. For such a royal gift, the king would be well content to wait. He laughed with me, and seemed reassured.

  “But though elves are not by nature hasty folk, we are proud of our crafts, and love ceremony. And ceremony means things done fitly, and in time, and by that love and desire that his gift might be the means of great pleasure at the wedding feast, he was betrayed into haste.

  “I know not when he did it, or exactly what he did; he had ways of speeding and slowing the growth of all plants he worked with. Indeed, I’ve seen him grow a lo-pipe in but one season. If it cracked in ten years, what matter, if it served the need to gift a dying man? But somehow he tried to speed the growing of his harp, and the withdrawal of the parent tree, and out of this haste a flaw came into the wood. A part of the withdrawal moved into the harpwood, and weakened it, and the great post that would have to bear the greater strain of the stringing grew awry.

  “I well remember the day he showed me, sorrowing, what had gone wrong. Fifty years and more of work, and a little space where the rot crept in had ruined it. To heal that, and reshape the post, would not only take time—years of time—but would also require that the weak part be burned out, regrafted with live wood, and supported while new growth took over. And, he said, ‘twas more than likely that it would never grow true in shape, but be clumsy and crooked even if strong enough. Yet to ignore the woodrot would doom the harp and the tree that bore it. I asked him what he would do. He looked at the tree awhile, and said ‘It is not the fault of the wood, which grew true to its nature. I will amend what I can, and tune it as it will bear.’

  “Lady Paksenarrion, it is not through your failure that this trouble has come, but we who should have been wiser tried to rush your growth into that beauty we saw possible. Yet now we cannot leave you to perish by our mistake; we must try to mend, though mending is not sure.”

  Paks had watched his face as he told the tale, but found it as mysterious as all elven faces; it held surmise but no answers. “Sir—you have always been kind to me,” she faltered. “But need it be now? Could I not go to the green fields, just once, to be a—a memory?”

  “Lady, I have known you—I, an elf, who will not die except in battle. You are in my memory and the memory of my people, and there you will not fade in all the years to come when men may forget. We will make songs of you, lady, whatever happens.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Paks miserably.

  “Paksenarrion, we cannot force you to this,” said Arianya. “It would be better to do it quickly, but we cannot—and would not—force you. But you cannot wander alone, with this peril on you. Nor, I think, should you be much abroad with others. Whatever you decide, and whatever happens, it need not become common gossip.”

  Paks looked from one to another of those in the room, meeting troubled eyes everywhere, doubt and wariness where once she had seen delight and encouragement. Cold despair assailed her heart, more bitter than she’d felt in captivity. Then she had only enemies against her; these were friends. At last she looked at Duke Phelan, leaning against the wall in one corner, arms folded. H
e gazed back at her, holding her with the intensity of his gray eyes. After a moment, he came to her, still holding her glance at rest.

  “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” he said. “I will trust you. I will trust you with my Company, the one thing I have built in my whole life, if you desire it. You may come with me, in spite of them, and take command as a captain, and I will trust you, who never failed my trust before, to decide if you can do so in good honor. By my faith, Paksenarrion, you are a good soldier and a good person, and worthy of the trust you have had, and the trust I offer you. You will not fail in this. You have never failed me, and here’s my hand on it.” And Paks felt her hand swallowed in the Duke’s as her face flushed scarlet in relief and joy.

  “Tir’s gut, you fools!” the Duke went on to the stunned group. “You’d think you were dealing with a weak, witless chit of a girl who couldn’t do the right thing without being led in strings. Whatever she decides, whatever she is when you wise folk get through with her, she’s got courage enough now, and wit enough now, for the lot of you. If you didn’t think she could be trusted, you shouldn’t have been trusting her.” He turned to Paks. “Don’t cry, captain. My captains don’t cry before outsiders.”

  Paks, her hand still clasped in the Duke’s, struggled against a wild mixture of emotions. Joy in the Duke’s trust—that someone still trusted—came to her as a flash of light that let her see what lay within. Her arguments of minutes before showed false as tinsel, though she had believed herself true as she spoke. In a few moments she had mastered that turmoil, and the sudden change of her expression brought silence and attention to the chamber.

  “My lord Duke,” she said. “You have given me more than you offered, for by the light of your trust I can see what honor requires. I may never come to serve you again, my lord, as I should to thank you for this gift, but you will live in my memory, however short it may be.”

  “Paks—”

  “No, my lord. You know what it must be; I would not forfeit your trust. Sir—I would ask your blessing—” Even as she spoke, a prickle of anger stung her; she fought it away.

  The Duke wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment. “My child—may all good be with you, wherever, however, whenever—may all evil begone from you forever. And if ever you come to me, Paksenarrion, in whatever state you are, I will help you as I can.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And,” he added with a growl, “I will stay until I see how you fare with these—”

  “Thank you, my lord. Marshal-General—?”

  “You are ready, then?” Arianya’s eyes were wet, but she rose steadily, and waited the answer.

  Paks stepped away from the Duke. She was trembling, but kept her voice firm. “Yes, my lady. It must be done, and, as you say, will be no better done for waiting.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A circle of light centered the world. Paks watched it change color: first golden yellow, then glowing orange like coals, then red, deepening to violet, then bursting into blue and white, then back to yellow. After some time, she wondered where and why and similar things. She was sure, looking at a circle of red, that it would darken to violet and blue, then burst into brilliant white. Distant sound disturbed her: ringing, as of bit chains, chain mail, herdbells. The crash of stone on stone, or steel on steel. Voices, speaking words she didn’t know.

  She opened her eyes at last to find a finger of sunlight across them, and blinked. She felt as light and empty as an eggshell. She had no wish to move, fearing pain or loss. A shadow crossed her vision: a shape she should know. A person. She felt the shifting of what she lay on, a draft of cooler air and easing of pressure. Something damp and cold touched her skin, then warm hands, then warmth returned. She blinked again, seeing, now, a Marshal she had met casually the previous winter, but did not know well. The face was remote, quiet, contained. Paks stared at it without intent. It was a puzzle she had to solve.

  The face turned to hers; she saw the surprise on it, and wondered vaguely. “Paksenarrion! You’re awake?”

  Paks tried to nod. It was too hard; she blinked instead.

  “How do you feel?” The Marshal leaned closer. Paks could not answer, closing her eyes against the strain. But a hand touched her forehead, shook her head with what she felt as immense force. “Paks! Answer—”

  “Wait.” Another voice. “We don’t know yet—” Paks opened her eyes again. The Marshal-General, robed in white, stood by the bed. She smiled. “Paksenarrion, Gird’s grace be on you. The power of Achrya is broken; she cannot control you. You are free of that evil.”

  Paks felt nothing at these words, neither joy nor fear. She tried to speak, but made only a weak sound. The other Marshal glanced at the Marshal-General, and at her nod fetched a mug from a table.

  “Here,” she said. “Try to drink this.” She lifted Paks against her shoulder, and pressed the mug to her lips. Paks drank. Water, cold and sharp-tasting, cleaned her mouth.

  “Can you speak now, Paksenarrion?” The Marshal-General pulled a stool near the bed and sat.

  “I—think—yes, my lady.”

  “Very good. You have been unconscious some days, now. We were just in time, Paksenarrion, for the kuaknomi evil had invaded deeply, spreading throughout your mind.” The Marshal-General touched her head; Paks shivered at the touch, then quieted. She watched those eyes, wondering what the Marshal-General was seeing. Finally the Marshal-General pulled back her hand and sat up with a sigh. “Well,” she said to the other Marshal, “we’ve done that much at least. It’s gone.” She looked back at Paks. “How do you feel?”

  Paks was beginning to remember what she’d been told before; she tried to feel around inside herself, and found nothing. Nothing strange, nothing bad, nothing at all. “I don’t feel bad,” she said cautiously.

  “You aren’t.” The Marshal-General sighed again. “You weren’t bad anyway, Paksenarrion, any more than someone with an infected wound is bad. Evil had invaded you, as decay invades a rotting limb. We have destroyed it, all of it, but I cannot yet tell what else we may have destroyed. Remember that we are your friends, and your companions in the Fellowship of Gird. Whatever happens, we will take care of you.” She rose, and arched her back. “Gird’s grace, I’m tired! Haran, get Paksenarrion whatever she wants to eat, and keep watch until Belfan comes. If she feels strong enough, Duke Phelan would like to see her.”

  “Yes, Marshal-General.” Marshal Haran glanced back at Paks, and followed the Marshal-General to the door. Paks could not hear the low-voiced question, but heard the answer. “No. By no means. An honored guest, Haran.”

  When she had gone, Haran came back to the bed. Paks tried to focus on her face, tried to understand what was going on. They had done something to her: the Marshal-General, Amberion, the elf Ardhiel, others. She felt no pain, only great weakness, and wondered what, after all, it had been.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Haran abruptly.

  Paks flinched at the tone. Why was Haran angry with her? She nodded, without speaking.

  “Well, what do you want? There’s roast mutton—”

  “Good.” Paks looked around the room. “It’s not—my room—”

  “You didn’t think you were with the other candidates, did you? After that—” Haran looked at her, another look Paks could not interpret. “You’re in the Marshal-General’s quarters, in a guest room. When she’s sure—” her voice trailed away.

  “Sure of what?” Worry returned, a faint icy chill on her back.

  “Sure that you’re well. I’ll be back shortly with food.” Haran left the room, and Paks looked around it. The bed she lay on was plain but larger than the one in her quarters. A window to her right let in daylight sky, a smooth gray. Several chairs clumped around a small fireplace opposite the bed.

  Haran returned with a covered tray. “Have you tried to get up? If you can sit at the table—” But Paks could not manage this. Haran packed pillows behind her shoulders with a briskness that conveyed dis
approval, put the tray on her lap, and went out again. Paks struggled with the food and utensils. She could not grasp the fork properly; it turned in her hand. By the time Haran returned, with a tray for herself, Paks was both annoyed and worried.

  “Marshal, I’m sorry, but I can’t—” as she spoke, the fork slipped from her grasp entirely and clattered on the floor. Haran stared at her.

  “What is it? Can’t you even feed yourself?”

  “I—can’t—make it work.” Panting, Paks fought with the knife and a slice of mutton. She felt as clumsy as an infant just learning to reach and grab.

  “You’re holding that like a baby,” said Haran, with exasperation. “All right. Here—” She put down her own tray and came to the bed. “I don’t see why you can’t—” And with a few quick motions, she cut Paks’s meat into small bites and retrieved the fork from the floor. “Now can you do it?”

  Paks stared at her. She could not understand Haran’s hostility. “I—I hope so.”

  “I, too.” Haran strode back across the room, shoulders stiff, and began eating her own meal without another word. Paks tried again with the fork. Her hands felt as big as pillows, and it was hard to get the food to her mouth. After a few more bites, she stopped, and lay watching Haran eat. When the Marshal finished her own meal, she came to take Paks’s tray.

  “Is that all you’ll eat? I thought you were hungry.”