The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Perhaps they did help,” said Estil suddenly. “Aliam, remember when Kieri was young here—we had a group of elves come by almost every winter. Sometimes they’d stay for Midwinter Feast. Kieri seemed to like elves as well as any of the squires, and he has said since that elves have done him favors from time to time.”

  “Maybe. I still think, though, that if he’s the prince, and half-elven, they will be sore in mind at not having done him much more than occasional favors. Falk’s oath, Estil, the elves of all races honor high birth—”

  “When it’s not been corrupted. Remember the bits of elven lore we know—about the kuaknom, and such.”

  “That’s not the same thing at all.” Aliam’s face went red. “Kieri may have a hasty temper, but he’s nothing like that. I can’t believe that they let a prince of their blood—”

  “Could they have done better than you, my lord?” asked Paks. “If they didn’t want to interfere directly, they knew that you would take good care of him. By all accounts, you took a frightened helpless boy and made a strong man of him.”

  “I still—” began Aliam. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. “What is it?” he asked sharply.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Cal Halveric looked in; Paks could see that he was trying to control his excitement.

  “Pardon, sir, but elves have come—”

  “Elves?”

  “Yes—I know you didn’t want to be interrupted, but—”

  Aliam nodded. “At once. Paksenarrion, will you come with me? And Estil, of course.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Paks and Estil followed Aliam down to the Hall, where a group of elves waited.

  Paks recognized none of them. They were all wearing mail and furred cloaks, their faces partly obscured by the hoods.

  “I am Aliam Halveric,” said Aliam, going forward to meet them. “Be welcome in this Hall.”

  “My lord Halveric,” said one of them, “you may not wish to welcome us; will you hear our errand first?”

  Aliam froze where he was. Paks saw a band of color flush his neck. “Indeed, elves have always been welcome here, and all my guests are free to speak their minds.”

  “Your courtesy becomes you, my lord Halveric. But Amrothlin sent word to the Ladysforest that Paksenarrion of Three Firs, a Girdish paladin, had sworn to seek the lost prince. He feared, he said, that the two of you together might discover the prince’s name and place. It is this we come to halt.”

  Paks stepped forward, sensing anger and unease in the elf, but not evil. “Amrothlin did not interfere in the search,” she said. “Why should you?”

  The elf’s eyes blazed at her. “You are that paladin, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “I have heard of you.” That carried all the scorn an elf could put into Common, a cold serving of contempt. “I would not expect you to understand; you have no sinyin blood at all. But many of us have long regretted the alliance of men and sinyin in this realm. It was bad enough that our beloved sister wed that mortal king, and died by mortal hands. To lose her children to men’s greed—one for money, and one for power—was far worse. And no human peasant girl, no sheepfarmer’s child, is going to set a taig-crippled draudigs on the throne. Is that clear? I have come for that sword, paladin, which is none of yours.”

  Paks saw from the corner of her vision the King’s Squires group themselves near her, hands on swords. It seemed colder in the room, and every detail glittered. The elf went on.

  “It is neither yours nor any human’s. It was made for one of ours, and carried by one of ours, and to us it will return. Return it!” He held out his hand, commanding.

  “No,” said Paks quietly. “I will not.”

  “You would force me to fight in the Halveric’s hall?” The elf threw back his cloak, his own hand now on the hilt of his sword. Paks kept her hands in her belt.

  “No, I do not force you to fight. If you fight, it will be on your own conscience.” The elf started to speak, but Paks went on. “I will not return the sword to you; it is not yours. The sword belongs to the one for whom it was made—the lost prince, the true king, the one who shall rule in Lyonya, by the will of the High Lord.”

  “He is gone,” said the elf. “He is no more.”

  “Amrothlin said he lived.”

  “Amrothlin lied! The body lives, that is all. The prince, the true spirit—that died in him.” Now the voice was as pleading as angry. “We cannot accept that the throne be held by a hollow man—one empty of himself—”

  “He is not,” said Paks. She caught the slight movement as all the elves reacted to that.

  “You know who it is?” More than the elves hung on her answer.

  “Yes.” Paks looked around the room, seeing humans as well as elves taut with suspense. “I know—and I know that he is not hollow, as you would say.”

  “But in Aarenis—” began the spokesman.

  Paks held up her hand. “Sir elf, not all here know the name; I would not choose to publish it abroad at this moment—would you?”

  “By the Singer, I hope it is never known!” The elf turned to his companions and spoke rapidly in elven; Paks could not follow his words. Then he swung around again. “You meddle in things you do not understand, paladin. It must not be.”

  “Sir elf, you also meddle in what you do not understand. Would you question the High Lord’s judgment?”

  “I question any human’s ability to discern that judgment. As for you, I have heard of you, paladin. You were nothing but a common soldier, a mercenary, a hired killer, and then even lower—”

  Esceriel stepped forward, his sword rasping as he drew it; Paks put out her arm and held him back. “No—put it by, Esceriel. I truly believe it is as I said—this elf meddles in what he does not understand. It is no insult to me, to speak truth, and I think his errors more ignorance than malice.”

  “By Falk!” Aliam burst out. “You cannot speak like that to a paladin in my Hall, elf, whoever you are. She was never a common soldier—”

  “Peace, my lord. At one time I thought I was, and it satisfied me. Sir elf, my past is past; it may seem strange to you, for whom it is so brief, but to me a year ago is far away. Whatever I was then, I am now a paladin, chosen by my gods for this quest. If you dispute the truth of that, then I must make what proofs I can—but preferably outside. Even as a common soldier I disliked common brawls.”

  That got a laugh from the men-at-arms still in the Hall; Paks saw Estil’s mouth twitch, and one of the elves, in the rear of the party, grinned openly. The spokesman frowned, then shook his head. “If you will not yield the sword willingly—”

  “I will not.”

  “Then I must try to convince you. I thought paladins were sworn to good—”

  “I am sworn to the gods who chose me; as you have doubts that any human can discern the High Lord’s will, I have doubts that anyone can know good without guidance.”

  He thought about that a moment, staring past her. “But you are a Gird’s paladin?”

  “I am a Girdsman, and a paladin, and Gird was part of my choosing. But the High Lord, the Windsteed, and Alyanya were present.”

  “Present!” The elf gaped. “You have seen—?”

  Paks bowed. For a long moment no one moved or spoke; Paks could hear faint noises from the kitchens, and the hollow sound of hooves on the courtyard paving.

  “Well.” The elf looked at his companions for a moment and back at her. “If that is true—or you believe that to be true—then I must inform my Lady.”

  “The—?” Aliam began.

  “The Lady of the Ladysforest.” He eyed Paks doubtfully. “I find it hard to believe—”

  “So did I, at the time,” said Paks. She smiled at him. “So did the Kuakgan of Brewersbridge, who was also there.”

  “A Kuakgan! A Gird’s paladin with a Kuakgan?”

  “Yes.” Paks nearly burst into laughter at the look on his face. “I never claimed to be a common paladin,” she said slyly.
Everyone but the elf laughed then, and he finally smiled.

  “I fear,” he said in a different tone, “that you will be hard to convince. So Amrothlin said, and so said Ardhiel, but—no matter. Will you come to the Ladysforest, then? I will swear no harm, and will guide you.”

  Paks remembered her first enchantment by elves, when she might have come to the Halveric steading but for their interference, however well-meant. She had heard of men being lost for years in the elvenhomes, spending lifetimes there while seeming to enjoy only a few days of ease and delight. She shook her head. “I fear the turmoil of this realm without a ruler, sir elf. I must not delay.”

  “But our Lady must speak to you—”

  One of the other elves spoke softly in elven; the spokesman stopped and turned to him. Heads were shaken. Paks took this chance to give her squires a reassuring look; Esceriel was still scowling.

  “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I won’t give up the sword, and I think he’s decided not to fight.”

  “He’d better,” said Aliam grimly. “Sheepfarmer’s child, indeed!”

  “Well, I am, my lord.”

  “But that’s not what matters! It’s—” But the elf had turned back to them, his face now clean of all expression.

  “My lord Halveric, I wished to make this easier on you by withholding my name—permit me to explain that I am Serrothlin, cousin of Amrothlin whom your paladin met, and the Lady’s nephew. My companion has made a suggestion, which might serve all our needs.”

  “Oh?” Aliam did not sound enthusiastic.

  “I deem it necessary for our Lady to speak with you and with this paladin. The lost prince, such as he is, is her grandson. It is on her that his acts will reflect the most strongly. It was with her consent that her daughter married your human king. She must know for herself what you think mitigates his behavior.”

  “I see.” Aliam stared full at the elf, unmoving. “And so you propose what?”

  “If the paladin Paksenarrion refuses to come to the Ladysforest, it might be possible for the Lady to come here—”

  “But I thought she never left the elvenhome!” Estil broke in.

  “She does not. But the elvenhome—” He hummed a little tune, that Paks thought she remembered hearing from Ardhiel. “The elvenhome borders are other, as you know. Mortal lands in Lyonya are but clearings, as it were, in the fabric of the elven forests. If you granted your permission, Lord Halveric, she might be persuaded to come—to bring the Ladysforest with her.”

  “She could do that?” Aliam stared.

  “Indeed, yes.” The elf smiled. “We have not told humans all our powers.” He looked around the hall. “But before you agree, my lord—if you agree—I must warn you. If you grant this permission, and if she comes, then for that space of time your steading will be part of the elvenhome. No human can enter or leave unguided, and none should wander about in it. For the ways of the elvenhome forests are as perilous as any grove of Kuakgan.”

  “Hmm.” Aliam looked down, then turned to Paks. “What do you think? I can see that the Lady has a claim to know what’s going on.”

  “I agree,” said Paks. “My concern is time: I will not imperil the quest to enjoy the delights of elven enchantments.”

  Serrothlin smiled. “Lady, I understand your fears. Indeed this might happen, but not without our will. Would you accept my word that we will not let it happen here?”

  “It happened to Ardhiel without his knowledge—can you prevent it?”

  “That was different. Have you never been in a trance of prayer? Even an elf can be enchanted by the gods. If you had not thought of the danger, I might indeed have been tempted to leave you ignorant of it, and solve this problem my own way. But although I dislike humans—as you may have surmised—I will not stoop to dishonesty. I will give my word that you will come from meeting our Lady no later than the time of conference demands.”

  “Are there many,” asked Paks, suddenly curious, “who regret the alliance?”

  “That number is growing,” said Serrothlin, “as it has for some hundred years, as you measure time. It seems clear to some of us that humans have not abided by their word; others excuse them as too short of life to remember. But I remember when elves were most welcome in every hall, when all the forest was open to our hearts, and the heroes you call saints sat at our feet to learn wisdom. Now to be free in our forest we must draw in and in, leaving more of the realm to humans. And lately we have been unwelcome even at court, at the heart of the realm.”

  “And what does your Lady say?”

  He frowned. “I do not speak for our Lady; no one does. You will hear for yourself.”

  “If Lord Halveric permits.” Paks looked at Aliam. “It is up to you, my lord, whether you will risk your steading this way. I believe his words; but it is your land.”

  “Not all humans distrust elves, Serrothlin,” said Aliam. “Not all humans deserve your distrust. I will tell my people to stay close. Will you ask the Lady if she pleases to come?”

  Serrothlin bowed and withdrew. Two of the elves in his party stayed, coming forward to greet Aliam and Paks.

  “My lord—lady—I am Esvinal, a friend of Ardhiel’s,” said one. “It is easier if one of us stays, to form the bridge by which our Lady will shift the borders.”

  “Do you also dislike humans?” asked Aliam.

  “I like them less than Ardhiel does, and more than I did when we arrived, my lord,” said the elf smoothly. Aliam snorted.

  “I’d best tell my people,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me—” and he left, taking his soldiers and Cal with him. Estil sent the others to warn those living in the hall to keep their places. The squires stayed by Paks. The elf met Paks’s eyes.

  “I would not have known you from Ardhiel’s last description, Lady Paksenarrion. You are not what he remembers.”

  “I daresay not.” Paks was surprised to find herself so calm about it. “Yet what he remembers is not the worst of it. Will you believe that if I can change so, the prince is not beyond hope?”

  “That is a hard saying. I saw him once myself.” The elf looked quickly at the squires nearby, and Estil. “I—”

  “By your leave, I think we should not discuss his past until the Lady comes,” said Paks. “Will it be long? How far is it?”

  Both elves laughed lightly. “Far? Far is a human word for distances humans travel. And long is a word for human time. No, Lady Paksenarrion, it will not be long, for it is not far as we elves can travel within our own lands.”

  “Yet your friend Ardhiel rode and walked the same miles we did,” said Paks.

  “Oh—to be courteous, when traveling with humans—I’ve no doubt he did so. And that was outside the elvenhome forests, where other travel is difficult and perilous.”

  “As hard for you as travel in the elvenhome forest would be for humans?” countered Paks.

  “Perhaps,” said one of them. “I had not thought of it that way.”

  Estil came back to them. “Will the Lady stay for a meal, sirs? And what would be appropriate?”

  One shook his head; the other looked thoughtful. “I doubt she will stay longer than to listen to Paksenarrion, my lady. If the household can offer something to drink—”

  “What season is it, in the Ladysforest?”

  “Ah—you are aware, then. It was late summer when we left, but the stretching may thin it.”

  “I have a good wine for that,” said Estil. Paks looked at her in surprise. She had had no idea that the seasons were any different in the elven lands. Estil grinned at Paks. “Some good comes at last, of the time I listened at my great-aunt’s door when she spoke with an elven friend. I thought for years all I’d got from that was a whipping.”

  * * *

  Estil was hardly out of the room on her way to the kitchen when Paks felt the change. It was as if the room filled suddenly with water, and yet she could breathe. Her blood tingled. The air smelled of late summer, with the first tang of fall apples still
unripe. It wavered, then thickened; common objects on table and hearth took on the aspects of enchanted things of song. It would not have surprised her if the table had begun to dance, or the fire to speak.

  Paks looked at the squires; their eyes were bright. Suriya leaned forward slightly, her lips parted as if she saw an old friend. The door to the courtyard flew open. Instead of the gray winter sky they had ridden under, a soft golden light lay over the court. Paks heard birds singing, and the dripping chimes of snowmelt running off the roof. The elves in the room seemed unchanged in any detail. Yet Paks thought they moved with even more grace, and when they spoke the music of their voices pierced her heart.

  So beautiful was that music that for a moment she could not follow the meaning of the words, and stood bemused. They waited, then spoke again, and this time she realized what they wanted. The Lady of the Ladysforest waited beyond the gate, and called her out. Paks glanced again at the squires. Esceriel’s eyes were almost frightened; she knew he feared that she would give up the quest, release the sword, under elven power. She shook her head silently, and went out into the light.

  Patterns of power. Paks remembered what Macenion had said about the elves and patterns—their love of them, the beauty, the strength of binding that they worked into them. Now the strange gold light of a late-summer evening seemed to accentuate the patterns of Aliam’s steading. Stonework glowed, the joints making intricate branches up every wall. The arches of the stable cloister seemed ready to speak; Paks thought if they did they would sound like deep-voiced horns. The bare sticks of the kitchen garden, with its lumpy green heads of winter-kale poking from the snow, had sprouted a film of new green, lacy and vulnerable. Even as Paks looked, tendrils of redroot worked up the nearby wall.

  Yet the light was not all golden. Through the open gate came the silvery opalescent glow of elflight itself. And in that glow, silver in gold, was the Lady of the Ladysforest, in form so fair that Paks could never after bring that face to mind. She was tall, as all elves are, and graceful; she wore robes that shifted about her like mists around mountains. And she conveyed without gray hair or lined face an age greater than Paks could well imagine, and immense authority.