“Aliam Halveric? Cruel?” The second ranger, Derya, sounded as shocked as Paks felt.
Garris shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that—he isn’t, I know. But Kieri seemed so frightened. It’s nothing. Fever—wounds—and anyway it happened long ago. We were only boys. Only I was the younger, you see—I’d always admired Kieri, from the first time I saw him at Aliam’s. He was the best with sword or spear, the boldest of any of us. And to see him so frightened—well, it frightened me. And it means nothing. I daresay Lady Paksenarrion can tell us how brave he is.”
Paks woke from a kind of reverie to find them all staring at her, waiting for an answer. “I never knew him to be anything but bold,” she said finally. “I’ve seen him both in battles and in hand-to-hand fighting—he’s the best in his own company, and one of the best I’ve seen anywhere.”
“You see?” said Garris. “The point is—I shouldn’t have gotten off on that other, only it impressed me, being a boy back then—the point is that he got us all over the pass alive. And frankly, when I saw those villains bash Aliam in the head, and a foot of steel sticking out of Rollis’s neck, I was sure we were all going to be killed. But he told me—just do what I say, and don’t argue, and we’ll see our lord alive out of this, gods willing, and so it came out.”
By then it was dark, and they all retired to sleep. This time Paks did not argue about being left out of the watch rotation. She had plenty to think about without that.
Chapter Twenty
They arrived at Aliam Halveric’s steading just after midday three days later. An escort had met them at the forest border, ten men-at-arms and a boy Paks thought had the family look. He introduced himself as Aliam, son of Caliam, son of Aliam; Paks thought back to Aarenis and realized that Caliam must have had children before that year. She was glad for him. The boy was in his mid-teens, but already wearing mail and sword as if he knew how to use them. Paks was sure he did.
On the way in he said little, only pointing out the steading walls when they came in sight, the location of the mill, the drillfields and exercise lots for horses.
“There’s a good ride south, up in the hills,” he went on, eyeing the red horse with interest. His own mount Paks classified as good but aged. “If you stay that long—I mean—of course you’re welcome to do as you please, but—”
Paks did not wait for his tongue to untangle. “If we are able to stay, perhaps you will show us that ride.”
He nodded, not risking words again. Paks smiled to herself, but kept her face grave. As they neared the steading wall, she noticed the other houses scattered near it—only a few clustered together near the walls. She asked the boy about it. He explained that it served to prevent the spread of fire, and also made it easier for defending archers.
“On either side, I should think,” said Paks. Near the steading, the forest was cleared back more than a bowshot.
“Yes. He said that’s to give those inside a clear shot—the others have to expose themselves.”
“Do you really expect trouble from the forest?”
“No.” The boy shook his head. “Not for years. But my grandfather says to be ready for anything.” He looked sideways at Paks. “Is it true my grandfather knew you before you became a paladin, Lady?”
Paks looked at him. “Yes. In fact, I had to yield my sword to him once.” She saw by the boy’s face that his grandfather had gained in his eyes.
“A paladin?” he breathed.
Paks laughed. “I wasn’t a paladin then. I was a common soldier, a private, in another mercenary company.”
“Yes, but—” he looked confused. “I thought paladins were knights before they were paladins.”
“Not all of them,” said Paks. “I was a common soldier, and then a free sword, and then in the training company at Fin Panir—” She wished suddenly that she had not started this recitation. How could she tell a mere boy what had happened?
“But when my grandfather knew you—” He jumped into the pause. “You were just a common soldier then? Not a squire or knight?”
“No.”
“Oh. What company?”
“Duke Phelan’s, of Tsaia.”
“Oh—I know him. Grandfather doesn’t have that chance often, to capture one of Phelan’s cohorts. And the last time he did, it all turned out bad—I don’t suppose that was when you mean. It was only a few years ago.” Now they were near the gates; Paks did not have to answer that. Ahead, in the opening, Aliam Halveric stood to welcome them, flanked by two taller men that Paks assumed were his sons. He was even balder than before, but he seemed as vigorous as when she’d seen him last.
“Well—Paksenarrion.” He grinned up at her; Paks threw herself off the red horse and found herself wrapped in a bearhug. He let her go, and shook his head. “My pardon, Lady, if you mind it—but Kieri’s told me so much of you, I’d begun thinking of you as our family as well. It’s good to see you looking so well.”
She had never forgotten the warmth that seemed the essence of Aliam Halveric’s character; here on a wintry day it blazed as bright. Now he grinned up at his grandson.
“Get off that horse, you young ruffian, and take our guests’ horses. Will you sit there like the king come visiting?” The bantering tone took the sting out of his words. “Come on in, Paksenarrion—may I call you so? And you squires, of course—be welcome here. Paksenarrion, you’ve never met my Estil—she would have come out, but had something to settle in the Hall.”
“My lord,” said Paks, “I’d best take my horse to stable myself—he’s not always easy to lead.”
Aliam looked at the red horse with open admiration. “What a beauty. Paladin’s mount, eh? I’m not surprised he won’t lead to any hand. Well, come on, then. I’ll show you. Cal, if you’ll take the squires in and show them the rooms; Hali, see to the baggage.” And he strode off, faster than he looked, leading Paks across a large outer court toward an arched opening to the right. She had just time to notice that everything was trim and workmanlike: the court swept bare of snow, the well-cover neatly in place, no loose gear or trash. The stable was equally well-organized. Paks put the red horse into a box stall where water was waiting. As she had found usual, the horse showed no saddle marks. Aliam whistled softly through his teeth.
“Will he let grooms care for him? Or should I warn them off?”
Paks laid a hand on the warm red shoulder. “He hasn’t caused any trouble yet—but if he doesn’t want to be groomed, he’ll push the brush away. Don’t argue. And don’t let anyone try to tie him.”
“No. I’ll tell them.” Aliam went off to speak to the grooms, who were putting the squires’ horses in nearby stalls. Paks looked down the wide aisle, well-lit by windows set high in the inner walls. The red horse nudged her, and she poured the grain Aliam had given her into his box. Then she followed Aliam back across the courtyard into his Hall.
At the door, Estil met them. Paks saw a woman as tall as herself, dark hair streaked with silver, broad shouldered and lithe. She glanced at Aliam, as if for confirmation—he was grinning again, still a head shorter, his hands thrust into his belt.
“It surprises everyone,” he said cheerfully. “Estil, this is Paksenarrion. She’s a paladin now, you know.”
“I know.” Estil smiled, and gave Paks her hand. It was a strong hand, hard with work. “Come in to the fire; if you’re not cold you should be. We have sib ready.”
Paks saw Suriya and Garris already by the great fireplace on one side of the Hall. Garris was talking with one of Aliam’s sons; a dozen other people scurried around, bringing food to the tables.
“It’s a long way from our first meeting,” said Aliam as they came to the fire. “By Falk, I remember you at Dwarfwatch, when you had to give up your sword. Thanks, Cal.” He sipped at his mug of sib; Paks found another in her hand. Her eyes followed Cal Halveric as he moved away and joined Garris and the other Halveric son. He looked perfectly at ease, as if he had never been injured. Meanwhile, Aliam looked around at the ot
hers, gathering their attention. “She was in her first term of service then, and like all the young hotbloods. I was half afraid that when that sword came out, she’d use it—but Phelan’s troops always had discipline. Then when the others dropped theirs, she stooped and laid hers down. Very carefully.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen many things in my years of war, but that—that stuck with me. Damned cocky young idiot—and then I had to coax her into giving parole.”
Paks felt herself blushing as she hadn’t for some time. “My lord—”
“I’m not taking anything from you—just that you were already headed somewhere else than a sergeant’s rank in that company. Or any other.” He shook his head again and glanced sideways at her. “I’ll wager it’d be a different matter if I tried to take your sword from you now.”
In the little silence that followed, Paks pushed back her cloak, and shifted the hilt of Tamarrion’s sword forward. Aliam’s eyes followed that movement. Paks smiled. “My lord, I will hand you this sword if you can explain how you got it.”
His face paled. “Gods above! That’s—that’s—Tamarrion’s—”
“No,” said Paks quietly. “This sword was given to her—but it was made for another, for the prince this realm lost many years ago, and the prince we go to seek.”
Aliam sat abruptly, paler than before. “It can’t be.”
“It is. Old men at court recognized it; elves confirmed its forging.”
“But it—but they—no one told me.” His color had begun to come back; now he sounded annoyed. “I asked the elves, blast them, and they said nothing of a prince—”
“No. So they told us. They told you nothing, and told no one else, either. Until a few days ago, when the king lay dying.”
“I don’t—Paksenarrion, will you swear to me that this is truth?”
Paks stared at him, surprised. “My lord, I am a paladin; I cannot lie. I swear to you that what I say is what I know, or have been told by those I speak of.”
“I must believe you.” For an instant, his head sank into his hands, then he looked around for Estil; their eyes met and conveyed something Paks could not read. He looked around at the others, whose interest was clear. “Enough for now. This is a grave word you have brought me; we will take close counsel, Lady Paksenarrion. But first you will eat, and we will speak of other things, less close than this, if you will.”
Still a little confused, Paks nodded. “As you wish, my lord—but I may not delay long.”
“No. I understand that. When we have eaten together, then—but come to the table now, and let us have this time together.”
The meal was what she would have expected from the Halverics—generous, hearty, and far less formal than the Hall implied. A score of soldiers ate at the lower tables—the current watch, Aliam explained. They looked like the Halveric troops Paks remembered: solid, disciplined, experienced fighters. From time to time a glance met hers, and shifted politely away. The King’s Squires had insisted, gently but firmly, on serving the high table—the younger lads, banished to the low, watched with relief and envy mixed. Paks, seated between Aliam and Estil, found the pair a fascinating combination. The tall woman kept up an effortless flow of conversation, while directing service and working her way through a plate piled with food.
“You were with the rangers, weren’t you?” asked Estil. “Then you use a longbow. I keep telling Aliam what a marvelous weapon it is—”
“For women with long arms, yes,” said Aliam a little sourly. “Just because I’m short, she—”
“Nonsense. You shoot well, love, and anyway—”
“I don’t want a cohort of bowmen. No. I’ve said it before. Just because Kieri has one—”
“You see?” Estil smiled at Paks. “He almost started one, years ago, but when he found Kieri had one, he wouldn’t.”
“Had to let the lad do something I didn’t do first.” Aliam speared a slice of meat, and went on talking around it. “He’d have burst himself if I’d turned up with the kind of bowmen Estil would train.”
“Aliam! I never said I’d train your bowmen.” But her eyes were sparkling with delight. Paks eyed her broad shoulders and strong wrists: she could be a bowman. Certainly she was strong enough, and tall.
“And who else? Me? Gods forbid. I’m a swordsman who can shoot a bow when my sword breaks in half.”
“I hadn’t realized that the Duke—that Phelan—was with you so long,” said Paks. “Garris was saying—”
Aliam broke into a laugh. “Oh, that brings back tales. Yes, indeed, Garris was a squire here—”
“And always glad to return, my lord,” said Garris, passing by with a tankard of ale.
“Garris, you’ve been calling me Aliam to my face for twenty years, ever since you were knighted—don’t start lording me now.”
“It’s being here like this—”
“Then sit down. We’ve nearly more squires than eaters—and we’re all nearly full anyway. Sit down, all of you—this is no royal banquet. You’ve all been riding in the cold. Eat.” He waited until they had all found a seat, then turned back to Paks. “Garris, Lady, was the most hare-brained, witless, hopeless lad I’ve ever tried to turn into a warrior.”
“My lord!”
“Until you call me Aliam I can’t hear you, Garris. I nearly sent the boy home a dozen times, Paksenarrion. He was willing enough—generous—never a bit of meanness to him. But he couldn’t keep his mind on anything—he’d fall over a stick in the courtyard, and then stumble on, not even picking it up.”
Aliam turned to Garris, who managed to look like a chidden boy despite his gray hair. “Not to say that you haven’t turned out a fine man, either—I was young then myself, and had less skill at training boys than I thought. I was so damnably sure I knew what I was doing—of course I had to be sure. Any of them—boys or men—would have scented it if I hadn’t, and the whole thing would have fallen apart.” Aliam paused to pour himself ale, offered it to Paks, and then resumed.
“Anyway, there was Garris, amiable as a young pup and falling over his own feet, and there was Kieri, a few years older and made for war as a sword is.” He ate silently for a few moments, then went on. “They made friends, of course. Actually it surprised me. Kieri made friends hardly, in those days; he kept to himself a good deal. Some of the lads I had were court-bred, and full of blood-pride until I sweated it out of them. But Garris followed him around, and followed him around, and in sheer self-defense Kieri began to teach him what I could not.” He looked down the table. “I suppose you told her about Hakkenarsk Pass?”
“Yes, my—Aliam. What I could remember.”
“Garris, I’d wager you remember every miserable step of that trail. I do, save where the knock on my head shook it loose. That’s the trip that changed you, I believe, though you had grown so much that summer already—”
“I had?” Paks was sure Garris hadn’t meant to say that aloud, or in such a tone.
“Indeed yes. Boys don’t always know when they’re changing, Garris, but I saw it. You surprised me all that summer—and so less in the crisis than you might have supposed.” Paks noticed that Garris sat a bit straighter, with a curious expression. Aliam went on. “I had planned to ask your father if you could stay with me until you were ready for the Knights of Falk; after Hakkenarsk, of course, your father insisted that you come away at once.”
“Sir—I always thought you sent me away—I thought—”
“Good heavens, no! Where did you get that idea? Didn’t he tell you?” Aliam shook his head. “I wish I’d known—no, he thought it was too risky, letting you fight in Aarenis any more. I’d have been glad to have you.”
“He said that,” Garris said. “But I didn’t believe him . . . my brothers saw combat as squires, after all. I thought you had finally tired of me . . .” He stopped short, embarrassed, and stuffed meat into his mouth.
“It startled me,” said Paks into the silence that followed, “to hear Garris speak of Duke Phelan as your squire.
I think I knew it—the Duke mentioned it this winter—but it didn’t seem real to me. I never imagined him anywhere but in his own place or in Aarenis with the Company.”
“It’s always hard,” said Aliam, “to realize that older people have had other lives before you met them. I remember an elf I knew once, who told me one rainy afternoon about seeing my grandmother picking flowers as a child. I was never able to relax with him after that.” He sipped his ale. “Even though he said she was beautiful.”
Paks opened her mouth, and shut it again. Twice she had tried to get Aliam talking about the young Phelan, as a safe topic they both knew, and twice he had evaded it neatly. She looked sideways at Estil, to find a worried look on that lady’s face. Estil looked quickly along the table, and called to the kitchen for more sweet pies. Paks ate steadily.
* * *
As soon as the meal was over, Aliam and Estil led Paks to Aliam’s study. She wondered if he would still hedge about, but as soon as the door was shut, and they were all seated around a table hastily cleared of map scrolls, he began.
“You carry the sword I gave Kieri to give Tamarrion at their wedding, the sword they found on her body after her death. And you tell me now that sword was forged for the prince that disappeared over forty years ago. And that the elves concealed this from me. Is there more?”
Paks told him the story she had pieced together, and ended with the elves’ revelation that the prince had not only survived the attack, but was still alive.
“The true heir to Falkieri’s throne, if he lives—and the elves say he’s alive.” Aliam looked down at his locked hands. “Did they say who he was, or where?”
“No, my lord.”
“You, too, may call me Aliam. Kieri wrote me some of your story; I’ve heard more; you are not so young as your years.”
“I would prefer—”
“Very well. Why didn’t the elves tell me? Why didn’t the elves tell anyone about the prince? Did they deign to say even that much?”
“Yes. They say that whatever damaged the prince made him unfit to rule.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 133
