“But—sir, you said they had none.”
“No. I said they were frightened. Here’s the second mistake. Courage is not something you have, like a sum of money, more or less in a pouch—it cannot be lost, like money spilling out. Courage is inherent in all creatures; it is the quality that keeps them alive, because they endure. It is courage, Paksenarrion, that splits the acorn and sends the rootlet down into soil to search for sustenance. You can damage the creature, yes, and it may die of it, but as long as it lives and endures, each living part has as much courage as it can hold.”
Paks felt confused. “That seems strange to me—”
“Yes, because you’ve been a warrior among warriors. You think of courage as an eagerness for danger, isn’t that so?”
“I suppose so. At least being able to go on, and fight, and not be mastered by fear.”
“Right. But the essence is the going on. A liking for excitement and danger is like a taste for walnuts or mushrooms or the color yellow. Most people have a little—you may have noticed how small children like to scare themselves climbing trees and such—but the gift varies in amount. It adds to the warrior’s ability by masking fear. But it’s not essential, Paksenarrion, even to a warrior. The going on, the enduring, is. Even for the mightiest warrior, a danger may be so great, a foe so overwhelming, that the excitement, the enjoyment, is gone. What then? Is a warrior to quit and abandon those who depend on his courage because it isn’t fun?” Paks shook her head. “No, and put that way it’s obvious. You may remember such times yourself. It’s true that one who had no delight in facing and overcoming danger would not likely choose to be a warrior, except in great need. But consider your own patron Gird. According to legend, he was no fighter until need—his own and his neighbors’—drove him to it. Suppose he never enjoyed battle, but did his best anyway: does that make him unworthy of veneration?”
“No, sir. But if what you say is so, will I always be like this? And can I fight again?”
Master Oakhallow gave her a long considering look. “And how do you define this? Do you feel yourself the same as when you came here?”
Paks thought a moment. “No. I don’t. I feel I can go on, but I still wish I were the way I used to be.”
“It was more pleasant, doubtless, to feel no fear and be admired.”
Paks ducked her head. “Yes, sir, but—I could do things. Help—”
“I know. You did many good things. But if we consider whether you will stay as you are now, we must consider what you are now, and what you wish to be. We must see clearly. We must have done with daydreams, and see whether this sapling—” he touched her arm, “—be oak, holly, ash or cherry. We can grow no cherries on an oak, nor acorns on a holly. And however your life goes, Paksenarrion, it cannot return to past times: you will never be just as you were. What has hurt you will leave scars. But as a tree that is hacked and torn, if it lives, will be the same tree—will be an oak if an oak it was before—so you are still Paksenarrion. All your past is within you, good and bad alike.”
“I can’t feel that, any more. All that happened before Kolobia . . . I can’t reach it.”
“That we will change. It’s there, and it is you. Come, you are strong enough to walk today; the sun will do you good.”
* * *
As they wandered the grove’s quiet trails, he led her to talk about her life, bit by bit. She found herself remembering little things from her childhood: watching her father help a lamb at birth, rubbing it dry, carrying her younger brother on her shoulders from the fields to the house, listening for wolves’ wild singing on winter nights when they ventured near the barns. It seemed that she was there again—where she could never go—clinging to the hames on the shaggy pony as her father plowed their one good field, or catching her fingers in the loom as her mother wove the striped blankets they slept under. Seen so, her father was not the wrathful figure of those last days at home, but a strong, loving man who made a hard land prosper for his family.
“He cared for me,” she admitted at last, staring into the fire that night. “I thought he hated me, but he wanted me to be safe. That’s why—”
The Kuakgan nodded. “He saw danger ahead for you as a fighter. Any father would. To think of his child—his daughter—exposed to sword and spear, wounded, dying among strangers—”
“Yes. I didn’t think of it like that. I wanted danger.”
“And danger you had. No, don’t flinch. You’d have made a very bad pig farmer’s wife, wanting to be a warrior. Even now, you’d make a bad pig farmer’s wife.”
“Not for the same reason.”
“No. But your pig farmer—what was his name?—is better off with whoever he has.”
Paks had not thought of Fersin Amboisson in years. She had never wondered whom he married instead. Now his pleasant, rugged face came back to her. He had looked, but for being a redhead, like Saben.
“I hope he found somebody good,” she said soberly.
“The world’s full of good wives,” said Master Oakhallow, and turned to something else.
Day by day the talk covered more and more of the years. Her first days in the Duke’s Company, her friends there, the trouble with Korryn and Stephi (which seemed to interest the Kuakgan far more than Paks could understand—he kept asking her more and more details of that day—things that seemed to have nothing to do with the incident itself.)
And as she talked, her life seemed to gain solidity—to become real again. She felt connected once more to the eager, adventurous girl tagging after older brothers and cousins, to the determined young woman running away from home, to the young soldier fighting beside trusted companions in the Duke’s Company. This, it seemed, was her real self—bold, self-willed, impetuous, hot-tempered, intensely loyal once trust was given. She began to see how these same traits could be strengths or weaknesses in different circumstances. Trust given the Duke would lead to one thing; given to Macenion, to a far different outcome.
“I never thought, before,” she said, as they sat one day in a sunny spot. “I never thought that I should choose. I thought others were either good or bad, and nothing in between. Vik warned me about that, once, with Barranyi, but I didn’t understand. It’s still me, isn’t it? I have to decide who is worthy of trust, and even then I have to decide each time if something is right or wrong.”
The Kuakgan nodded. “It’s hardest for fighters, Paksenarrion. Fighters must learn to obey, and often must obey without question: there’s no time. That’s why many of us—the Kuakkganni, I mean, now—will have nothing to do with fighters. So many cannot do both, cannot give loyalty and yet retain their own choice of right and wrong. They follow chaos, whether they know it or not. For one like you, who has chosen, or been chosen for, a part in the greater battle, it is always necessary to think as well as fight.”
Paks nodded. “I see. And I didn’t, did I? I did what I was told, and assumed that those I followed were right. If I liked them, I assumed they were good, and forgot about it.” She paused, thinking back. “Even when I did worry—when I wanted the Duke to kill Siniava quickly—I couldn’t think about it afterwards.”
“Yes. You pushed it out of your mind and went back to being a plain soldier. You were challenged again and again, Paksenarrion, to go beyond that, and think for yourself: those incidents with Gird’s symbol you told me about, but—”
“I refused. I went back. I see.” Paks sighed, and stretched suddenly, reaching toward the trees with her locked fists. “Hunh. I thought I’d never refused a challenge, but I didn’t even see it. Was that cowardice, too?”
“Have we defined cowardice? Why did you refuse? If you refused simply because you were certain that you should be a follower, that’s one thing. But if you were afraid to risk choosing, risk being wrong—”
“Then it was. Then while I thought—while everyone else thought—I was brave, maybe I—”
“Maybe you were afraid of something, like everyone else. Don’t be ridiculous, child! You’re not
perfect; no one is. What we’re trying to do is find out what you are, and what you can be, and that does not include wallowing in guilt.”
Paks stared at him, startled out of her gloom. “But I thought you were saying—”
“I was saying that you consistently refused to make some choices. That is something you need to recognize, not something to worry about in the past, where you can’t change it. If you want to, you can decide to accept that challenge from now on.”
“I can?”
“Certainly. I’m not speaking, now, of returning to soldiering. As a fighter, you’re tempted to see all challenges in physical terms. But you can certainly decide that you, yourself, will consider and act on what you see as right and wrong. Whatever that may be.”
Paks thought about that in silence. When she turned her head to speak, the Kuakgan was gone. She thought about it some more as she waited for him to return.
When he came, he was accompanied by another, clearly of elven blood. Paks scrambled to her feet awkwardly; she had seen no one but the Kuakgan all this time.
“This is Paksenarrion,” he said to the elf. “She was gravely wounded by the dark cousins—” The elf murmured something softly, and the Kuakgan frowned. “You know the truth, Haleron; they are no myth. Paksenarrion, this is Haleron, an elf from Lyonya. He tells me that the rangers in the southern hills there are looking for new members. I think that would suit you; the outdoor work would restore your strength, and they will hire you on my recommendation.”
Paks was so surprised that she could not speak. The elf frowned at her, and turned to the Kuakgan.
“We have no need of the weak,” he said in elven. “Let her find another place to regain her strength. And is she not the one I heard of, from Fin Panir, who—”
Paks felt a wave of anger, the first in months. “May it please you, sir,” she said in her best elven, “but I would not have you think me an eavesdropper later.”
He stared at her. “My pardon, lady, for the discourtesy. I didn’t know you were learned in our language.”
“She knows more than that,” said the Kuakgan. “And I assure you that she is quite strong enough for your woods work.” He and the elf stared at each other; Paks could feel the battle of wills. The elf seemed to glow with his intensity; the Kuakgan grew more and more solid, like a tree. At last the elf shook his head.
“The power of the Kuakkganni is from the roots of the world.” It sounded like a quote. The elf turned to Paks. “Lady, the rangers are in need of aid. If indeed you seek such employment, and have the skills of warfare, we would be glad to have your assistance.”
Paks looked at the Kuakgan. His face was closed; she felt shut out of his warmth into darkness. She thought of the things he’d said, and sighed. If he turned her out . . .
“I would be glad to aid the true elves,” she said carefully, “in any good enterprise.” She shot a quick glance at the Kuakgan; his eyes were alight, though his face showed no expression.
The elf nodded. “Very well. I leave at dusk—unless you require more rest—if you are weak—?”
Paks felt fine. “No. I’d like to eat first.”
“Of course. And pack your things, no doubt.”
“I have none.” She thought of her pack, cloak, and clothes, but did not even glance toward the Kuakgan. The elf raised his eyebrows. She stared back at him in silence.
“And where, Master Oakhallow, shall we eat?” the elf asked.
“Oh, at the inn, I think.” He was watching Paks; she could feel the weight of his eyes. She swallowed, and braced herself for that ordeal.
But, in fact, it was no ordeal. No one seemed to notice her on the street, though several people glanced sideways at the elf. At The Jolly Potboy, the elf and the Kuakgan argued briefly and quietly over who would pay, and the elf finally won. She kept her eyes on the table at first, concentrating on the good food, but finally looked around.
The inn was not crowded, as it would be later, but she saw one or two familiar faces. Mal leaned on the wall, as usual, with a tankard at his elbow. Hebbinford’s mother, in the corner, knitted on another scarf. Sevri darted through on her way outside; she had grown two fingers, at least, since Paks had seen her. But no one seemed to recognize Paks, and she relaxed. She listened to the talk, the clatter of dishes—so loud, after the Kuakgan’s grove—but it didn’t frighten her as it had. She almost wished someone would call her by name. Almost. The Kuakgan ordered tarts for dessert. The elf leaned back in his seat, and glanced around the room. Paks watched him covertly. He was a half head taller than she, with dark hair and sea-green eyes. The leather tunic he wore over shirt and trousers had dark wear-marks at shoulder and waist: Paks decided these were from sword-belt and bow. He caught her looking at him and smiled.
“May I ask, lady, where you learned our language?”
“I was honored with the instruction of a true elf from the southern mountains.” If he knew she came from Fin Panir, he would know that already.
“You speak it well for a human. Most are too hasty to take time for it.”
“Paksenarrion, though a human warrior, knows the folly of haste,” said the Kuakgan. Paks looked at him, and he smiled at her, lifting his mug of ale.
“That is a wonder,” said the elf. “Are the younger races finally learning patience of the elder?” He was watching the Kuakgan.
“From experience,” said the Kuakgan. “Where all who know it learned it. Surely elves have not forgotten their own early days?”
“Alas, no. However remote, the memory remains.” He turned to Paks. “I beg pardon again, lady, for any discourtesy.”
“I took no offense,” said Paks carefully. She wondered if the Kuakgan and the elf were old enemies. Surely the Kuakgan wouldn’t send her to someone evil. She thought of their last conversation and wondered.
As they came out of the inn, the sun dropped behind the high hills to the southwest. A group of soldiers from the keep was coming down the north road toward the crossing; despite herself, Paks shivered.
“Are you cold?” asked the elf.
“No. Just a thought.” She looked at the Kuakgan. He smiled.
“If you come this way again, Paksenarrion, you will be welcome in the grove.”
“I thank you, sir. I—” But he was already moving away, nodding to the approaching soldiers, waving to a child in a doorway.
“We’d best be going,” said the elf quietly. “I mean no discourtesy, but we have far to go, and if you have been unwell you may find it difficult to travel at my pace.”
Paks tore her gaze away from the Kuakgan. She had not thought to part so soon. “I—yes, that’s fine. I’m ready.”
“You have nothing to take with you? Nothing at all?”
“No. What I have, I’m wearing.”
“Hmmph. Those boots won’t last the trip.”
Paks looked at her feet. “I’ve worn worse for longer.”
The elf laughed, that silvery sound she remembered so well. “Very well, then. Come along; we go this way first.” She started a pace behind him, then caught up. They were walking east out of Brewersbridge, on the road she had come in on a year and a half before. The Kuakgan’s grove was on her left, dark and alarming in the evening light. On the right were cottages: she tried to remember who the people were. The woman in the second one had knitted socks for her, socks that had lasted until this last winter.
Past the last plowed field, with the young grain like green plush, the elf turned aside from the road.
“This way is the shortest for us, and we will meet no other travelers. Follow in my footsteps, and they will guide your way.”
Paks did not like that instruction, but she did not want to start an argument, either. She wanted to think about the Kuakgan, and what he had done, and why. She dropped behind the elf as he started across a sheep pasture. The sky was still pale, and she could see her way well enough. As the evening haze darkened, though, she saw that the elf’s footsteps were marked in a pale glow. When s
he stepped there, she found a firm flat foothold.
By dawn she was heavily tired, stumbling even as she followed his tracks. She had no idea how far they had come, or which direction: she had not been able to check that by the stars and see his steps at the same time. But she had smelled woods, then grassland, then woods again.
“We will rest here awhile,” the elf was saying.
Paks looked around. They were in open woodland; clumps of trees left irregular meadows between. The elf had found a spreading oak near a brook, and was spreading his cloak on the ground. Paks stretched her arms overhead and arched her back. Those casual strolls around the grove had not prepared her for such a long march. Her legs ached, and she knew they would be stiff after a rest.
“Here,” he said. “Lie down and sleep for awhile. I will watch.”
Paks looked to see if he mocked her, but his smile was almost friendly. “You have walked as far,” she said.
“I have my own way of resting. If you know elves, you know we rarely sleep soundly. And you are recovering, the Kuakgan said, from serious wounds. Go on, now, and sleep. We have a long way to go.”
Paks stretched out on the cloak after removing her boots. Her feet were hot and swollen; she took her socks off and rubbed the soreness out of her calves and feet. When she looked up, the elf was looking at her scars.
“Were those truly given by the dark cousins?” he asked.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 107
