The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Umph. What do they mean by unfit?”

  “They didn’t say that.”

  “I suppose they wouldn’t.” Aliam got up and moved restlessly around the room. “And you are convinced this is the same sword?”

  “My lord, your uncle and several other older men at court recognized it—could describe the runes on the blade without seeing them. Also the elf, Amrothlin, whose sister was the queen, and the prince’s mother—”

  “I never told Jeris about finding the sword,” mused Aliam. “I should have thought of that—but it never occurred to me that he might know anything. He’s been at court most of his life, and—”

  “The elves said they—desired you not to speak to your uncle about it.”

  “Blast them,” said Aliam, not sounding as angry as Paks would have thought. “They’re always so clever. I’ve said often enough you can be too clever sometimes—clever enough to tie your own bootstrings together. And they are sure the prince lived?”

  “So they say. But they will not say where or who. That is what I am to find out.”

  “You’re sure that is your quest?” asked Estil. “How do you know?”

  Paks shook her head. “My lady, the king, as he was dying, asked that I take the throne, because I had brought this sword, and was a paladin. Others agreed. But a paladin is not a ruler; I was not called to rule, but to save the realm by returning its rightful king. I am as sure of this as I am of the call I received in the first place, but I cannot tell you how.”

  Estil opened her mouth, but Aliam spoke first. “How do you hope to find him? And what do you think he will be like, after all these years?”

  Paks recited the guesses they had come to in Chaya: age, hair color, eyes, and so on. That he had been a servant, and according to the elves had forgotten his past, even his name. “But so many men could fit that description,” she said. “So I thought to trace this sword back, as I could. The elves reported that you had found it, and tried to return it to them.”

  “That’s so,” said Aliam, facing her again. “I found it near the bodies of three elves and many orcs. I sent word to the Ladysforest, by the rangers, and got back the message that I should give it to the one for whom it was made.”

  “And you had no idea who that was.”

  “No. All I knew of the sword was that it was elven.”

  “You hadn’t seen it at court?”

  “No.” Aliam answered slowly. “I had not been at court yet, when the queen disappeared. I was a page at my uncle’s, along with the king’s younger brothers—the old king’s, that is: they were kings themselves later.”

  “Did you know of any such sword?” Aliam shook his head. “Then what did you think, when they told you that?”

  Aliam frowned. “I thought it was typical elven arrogance, to be honest. They knew something I didn’t, and were having a joke at my expense. I saw nothing on the scabbard, and then I saw the runes on the blade. It looked like a woman’s blade, and from the runes I judged her name might have been elven. None of the runes fit Estil, or my daughters, and none of them wanted the sword, with that message hanging over it. I wouldn’t sell it, of course, or send it out of my own hall without telling the elves. I daresay they knew that. I thought I’d be left with it until some elven lady walked in to claim it. Then Kieri Phelan came to tell me of his wedding—and his wife’s name was Tamarrion Mistiannyi. Two of the runes—light or fire, and mountains. I thought of that at once, and offered it to him as a wedding gift. Then I told the elves where I’d bestowed it, and they said it was well enough.”

  “Yes,” said Paks, “but was it? Sir, this is what I’ve been thinking of. The elves think this sword, once held by its true master, will proclaim him and give him some powers he must have. They told you to give it to him—to the one it was made for. Doesn’t that mean that you could have? That you knew the man who was actually the prince?”

  She did not miss the sharp glance that sped between Aliam and Estil. “What would you have done, my lord, if you had known what sword it was? Would you have had any idea where to bestow it?”

  “I—I am not sure.” Aliam sat heavily across the table from her. “Paksenarrion, you have brought what you feel is great hope to our kingdom—the hope of finding our lost prince, our true king. But I believe you have brought great danger as well. What if the elves are right? What if this man—now near fifty years, as you said, and without practice at kingcraft—what if he is indeed unfit to rule?”

  “My lord, only a year ago, no one would have thought me fit to be a paladin. Not you—not Duke Phelan—not even myself. Least of all myself.” For a moment she moved into those bitter memories, and returned with an effort. “Yet here I am, my lord, a true paladin, healed of all those injuries, and granted powers I had scarcely dreamed of.” She called her light for an instant, and saw the last doubts vanish from Aliam’s eyes. “The gods have given me this quest, to find your king. I do not think they would send me on a vain search. If he is unfit, the gods can cure him.”

  Aliam nodded slowly. “You may be right. I pray you are. Do you think the others—the Council and all—will agree to accept him? Assuming you do find him?”

  “They have sworn to do so, my lord, and Amrothlin says the elves will at least consider it.”

  “Was the Knight-Commander of Falk there? What did he say?”

  “He?” Paks considered a moment. She had not paid that much attention to him. “I think, my lord, that he was unhappy that the gods had not chosen a paladin of Falk for this quest.”

  Estil laughed. “That’s probably true. But did he give any clues?”

  “No—could he?” Neither of them answered, and Paks sighed. “I think, my lord and lady, that you know something you haven’t told me yet.”

  “That’s so.” Aliam got up yet again. “Let me put it to you like this, Paksenarrion. If I once met someone who awoke in me a suspicion that he might be the missing prince—let’s say I did—I had then no proof at all. Only that a boy was the right age, with the right color hair, and a face much the same shape as the old king’s. Remember that I had never seen the prince myself; I don’t even remember what his name was—”

  “Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan . . .” said Paks, watching him closely.

  Aliam’s hand dropped to his side. “Whatever,” he said and waited a moment. “No evidence,” he went on. “None from the boy—who remembered nothing to any purpose—none otherwise. The princess was alive and well then, but an orphan. I could not see—I thought—” He stopped, breathing hard. Paks waited. “Gods above, Paksenarrion, I did what I thought wise at the time—what else can a man do? He might have been—might not—I couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him—how could I? I was not ready to back his claim against his sister: she was well-known, secure, growing into rule, loved by her people, capable—She was my princess—would be my queen. When I was granted this steading, I had sworn allegiance to her father. What evidence did I have? He might have been a royal bastard—or a noble’s bastard—or nothing at all. On the chance, I did what I could for him, kept him in my service, arranged his training, but—”

  At that moment the truth blazed in Paks’s mind. “Phelan,” she breathed. “You’re talking about Kieri Phelan!” Everything came together—his age, his coloring, his—

  “Yes,” said Aliam heavily. “I am. Kieri Artfiel Phelan, so he said his name when he came. Gods! If I’d only paid attention to Jeris—if I’d even known the lost prince’s name—but I was a boy! Just a boy!”

  “But he doesn’t look half-elven,” said Paks. “The others I’ve met—”

  “I know. He looks so much like his father—in fact, that’s what I saw first. I thought he was someone’s by-blow, possibly royal, certainly well-bred, one way or another. Even when I thought of it, it seemed impossible, and that was part of it: he didn’t look elven, or show any such abilities. And I was too young to be sure—”

  “I don’t know if the name would have convinced us, either,�
�� said Estil. “Falki’s the common nickname, and we knew Kieri as a name from Tsaia or Aarenis.”

  Aliam shook his head. “What a mess!” Then he looked at her sharply. “But he can’t be king. Tir’s bones, I’d give my right arm to make him one, but he can’t—”

  “Why not?”

  “If only I’d known about the sword back then,” Aliam went on heedlessly. “Then, with Tamarrion alive—maybe he could have come back. But—and wait a moment! He can’t be the one—I gave him the sword. Nothing happened.”

  “Did he draw it, my lord?”

  Aliam thought long and looked at Estil. “I don’t remember—no, I don’t think so. I drew it, to show him the runes. I don’t—now I think of it, I don’t believe he touched it at all. I wrapped it for him—”

  “I remember,” said Estil suddenly. “Tamarrion told me, when her first child was born. When he gave it to her, he vowed never to draw it—”

  “That’s right; you told me.” Aliam touched her hair. “I remember thinking Kieri was as sentimental as I am. He wanted her to feel that he was taking nothing from her as a warrior, Paksenarrion, and so he vowed never to draw her sword—it was hers, and only hers. But he was so close—surely it would do something—”

  Paks sat for a long silent time with both of them watching her. Finally she shook her head slightly. “Perhaps not. Amrothlin said that although the sword was made for him, and would recognize him in some way, it was meant to be sealed to him by elven ceremony. That’s one of the reasons the prince was being taken to the Ladysforest. Perhaps until that ceremony, it would proclaim him if he drew it himself from the scabbard.”

  “And he was so close—” Estil’s voice was awed. “So close all those years—it’s hard to believe he never did—”

  “Not with him,” said Aliam. “His word’s been good, always.”

  “My lord,” said Paks, leaning forward in her chair, “You see that I must know everything you can tell me about him. I must know why you thought he was the prince—and what was against it—and why you think he is unfit to rule—” Estil stirred, but Paks went on. “I must know what you know of his past—all of it—no matter how terrible. If he is the rightful king—”

  “It would all fit,” said Aliam. “The sword—they were telling me to give it to him—if I could figure out the riddle. They thought it was well enough, as they said, when I gave it to Tamarrion—perhaps they were sure he’d draw it in time.”

  “Well, my lord?” Paks persisted.

  “All right. All right.” Aliam sighed heavily. “Estil? What do you have? I know you know things about him he never told me.” Estil ran her hands through her hair, and began.

  “He came to us, Paksenarrion, near forty years ago. I can look it up in the rolls, but Cal was a baby just starting to walk strongly. That would be—let me think—thirty-eight years last fall.”

  “One of the woodsmen brought him in,” said Aliam. “Found him wandering in the forest. I was butchering that day. Anyway, he said he wanted to work, and it was snowing and all.” Aliam rubbed his nose. “He was a skinny, dirty, red-haired rat, to look at. All bones and rags. Said he’d come ashore earlier that year on the coast, at Bannerlith—he couldn’t say what ship—and had worked his way inland. But no one wanted him through the winter. That’s common enough.” Paks did not say that she knew it. She waited for him to go on, but he nodded to Estil.

  “It wasn’t long,” said Estil, “before we had him into the Hall. What I noticed was his neathanded way at the table. Most boys that age—that size—they knock things over, trip on their own feet. He didn’t. I thought he’d make a fine page—we were out of the way and young to get fosterlings.”

  “And he was scared—if we have to have it all out, Estil, you can’t deny that. The first night at my table, the lad takes amiss something I said and shrinks back like he thought I’d beat him.” Aliam gave her a challenging look. Estil colored. Then she met Paks’s eyes.

  “He did, Paksenarrion. I don’t recall what Aliam said, but Kieri flinched from him. I knew that would make Aliam angry; he’s never mistreated servants, and to have the boy act like that before strangers—”

  “—from Aarenis,” Aliam broke in. “Guildsmen—that turned into my first contract.”

  “Anyway, I took him out, and spoke to him. That’s when I found he’d been in a Hall before, somewhere else. He thought—” She looked at Aliam as if afraid to say it, but he nodded. “He thought,” she went on with difficulty, “that Aliam had meant him to sleep with one of the guests. As a—a—”

  “I understand,” said Paks. Estil nodded.

  “I don’t know any polite word,” she said quietly. “Anyway, I told him no, and that nothing like that happened here, or would happen to him with us, and he—he seemed to come alive inside. Then I saw the scars on his head—and later the others he carried—”

  “I knew about that,” said Aliam. “He told me much later—that time in Aarenis. Some of it, anyway.”

  “Well, he came to the house, then, as a page, and we thought he was about fourteen. Old enough to start learning weaponry. At first we thought it wouldn’t work—”

  “I thought he was a hopeless coward,” said Aliam frankly. “Couldn’t have been more wrong; he didn’t understand at first that he was allowed to hit back. Once he realized, nothing could keep him from it. He had no fear at all, as long as he could fight back.”

  “And he took in knowledge as a plant drinks water,” said Estil. “And grew—keeping that boy in clothes was a loom’s work in itself. And loyal—he would do anything for Aliam or me. Mind the children, even, which the other squires hated. Cal loved him—they all did.”

  “Anything but learn to think. D’you remember, Estil, the trouble we had with that boy? Daring—by all the gods, he had no fear and dared anything, but he wanted to impress everyone. He never broke out in mischief, but he was so certain of himself, so sure he could come out ahead—”

  “And the fights,” put in Estil. She smiled at Paks. “He wasn’t a quarrelsome boy, exactly, but then he wouldn’t give in. He didn’t bully the weaker boys—but until he made senior squire, he was always pushing the senior ones. Nip, nip, nip. Then they’d get angry and jump him, and he’d fight until he was out cold or on top.”

  “And then I’d have to settle it.” Aliam shifted in his chair. “He took to tactics at once—strategy took longer. It was not in his nature to take the long view. And he wanted power—ached for it. He would never try to take it from me, but gods help the weaker squire—or even cohort captain. That Hakkenarsk Pass thing was typical—he thought out a good plan quickly, carried it out brilliantly, didn’t forget anything vital, and then nearly killed himself trying to stay in control when his wounds went bad. Or the time in Aarenis, the next year, when I let him take that patrol out. The sergeant was supposed to be in command. Ha. Next thing I know, Kieri lost half the patrol into captivity, then enlisted some unaligned peasants, rescued the men, and fought a small battle—and as the sergeant said, it was like trying to lead a galloping warhorse on a thread. It did what needed to be done, but the risk!”

  Paks smiled. “But why, my lord, do you think he is unfit to rule? Look at him now—he has a domain in Tsaia. It’s gone from an orc-ridden, outlaw, uncultivated slab of northern hills to a settled, secure, prosperous land under his wardship. Isn’t that some sign of his ability?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all. You are not Lyonyan; you may not know what we need in a king—”

  “Taig-sense?” asked Paks bluntly.

  “Yes, partly that. As far as I know, Kieri has no taig-sense. At all. And that impatience, that quick anger. You know that—you were there in Aarenis. If Tamarrion had lived—he was very different after their marriage. I wish you had known him then; she was well-named, for she gave him light without changing what he was. But she died, and he turned darker than before. He banished the Marshals—I know he wrote something about talking to them again, after you unmasked his steward, but—�
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  “They’re back,” said Paks.

  “What?”

  “My lord, I think you do not know all that happened this fall when I returned to the Duke. He invited the Marshals back himself; he and the Marshal-General of Gird conferred in his hall, and they have no differences between them.”

  “Well.” Aliam sat back, pursing his lips. “Well. I would never have thought that. I don’t know if it’s enough, but—”

  “My lord, I would agree with you that the man we both knew and fought with in Aarenis that last year would not make a good king for Lyonya—or any land. But that was over two years ago. Last year I was a homeless vagrant, afraid of everything and everyone—a true coward, my lord, as you thought Phelan was. Now I have been changed; now I know he has been changed, for I saw the change myself. At the time, I had no idea what the change might mean to him or to others—but it may have made him able to be your king.”

  “And the taig-sense?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the sword can restore it. Perhaps the elves can. If his rashness, his anger, are what they feared, and these have diminished, then maybe they will help.”

  “Do they know what you know of the changes in him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then they should. The question is how best to tell them.” Aliam turned to Estil. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything but Kieri—as we knew him—and the sword, so near, and—”

  “How far is it to the elven kingdom, my lord?” asked Paks.

  Aliam looked startled. “Far? I don’t know; I’ve never been. You can’t go there, unless they want you to come.”

  “I know, but I thought maybe the rangers could guide me—Amrothlin claimed the queen was his sister; his mother is in the Ladysforest. If I convinced her—”

  “Convince an elf?” Aliam looked at her. “Well, you might at that. But Paksenarrion, think: the elves love children as dearly as we do, perhaps more. And yet they knew he lived, and did nothing—they had some reason for that, but I doubt they liked it. For all we know they’ve been arguing that one out for all the years since. It’s not like elves to leave one of their blood in trouble.”