The Lady sat forward, eyes bright. “He said what? Say exactly what you remember, Paksenarrion.”
“He said that he had been drawn to both—to Falk and to Gird—but that he felt something about other vows awaiting him, and he could not swear with a free heart. And the Marshal-General told her Marshals that she was content—that she did not seek his vows.”
“Ahh.”
“But why does that matter?” Paks looked at her curiously.
“I am not sure. If it means what it could mean—” the Lady smiled again, and shook her head. “I speak in riddles, you think, as elves are wont to do. Indeed I do, for I have nothing but surmises. But if—and remember that I said if—what has withheld him from these vows is a memory of his true nature, even a slight memory, that can be, perhaps, restored.”
“But I thought Lyonyan kings could be Falkians—can’t they?”
“It has been so—and true of the last two kings, indeed. They were but human. A king of elven heritage, aware of the taig by that blood, would follow the High Lord, as you call him, directly.” She sighed, then moved her shoulders. “You have told me much I did not know. It may be that he can become king. I accept, Paksenarrion, your description of your quest: to find the true king of Lyonya and restore him. I accept your decision to prove my grandson, whom you know as Duke Phelan, by the sword’s test. But before I agree to his crowning, I wish to see him myself. If he can become what he was meant to become, my powers will aid him. If not—we shall hope for better things than I fear.”
The Lady rose; Paks and the Halverics, trying to stand, found themselves unable to move. The Lady’s voice was kindly, now, its silvery music warmer than before.
“It will make your task no easier, that all know the Ladysforest has moved to enclose your steading; as I shift the border in return, you will find that none of your people remember a summer’s afternoon in winter. For you, I leave you such memories as you need—and from Paksenarrion I withhold no truth. You will not be troubled by any elves of my Household—”
Paks suddenly thought of the evil plots Achrya had woven for the Duke before now—had all this, for near fifty years, been one—? She wanted to ask the Lady, wanted to explain—but gentle laughter filled her mind.
“Be at ease, paladin; others, too, can see a web against the light.”
A knock came on the door; Paks and the Halverics looked blankly at each other. Between them a bowl of apples and a tiny glass flask with a spray of apple blossoms filled Aliam’s study with the mingled odors of spring and fall.
“What is it?” Aliam finally croaked.
Cal Halveric put his head in. “It’s getting late, sir—did you wish to dine here? Shall I sit for you in Hall?” Paks looked at the small window; outside it was full dark.
Chapter Twenty-two
The three of them looked at each other, still dazed; Paks saw Caliam look at the apple blossoms with disbelief, and then at her. She inhaled that delicate odor, then shook her head. Aliam took a long breath, then thumped the arms of his chair with both hands.
“No—we’ll be down. In a few minutes. Cal—do you—?” But he stopped himself, and turned to Estil. She smiled, and touched his hand, holding her other out to Paks.
“I thank you, my dear, for a very—interesting—discussion,” she said. Paks could see in her eyes the memory of the Lady’s visit. “I am sorry you must leave as soon as you say, but in the meantime, enjoy our hospitality.”
“With all my heart,” said Paks. Estil laughed, in her eyes, and they rose, less stiffly than Paks had expected. The squires looked curiously at them as they entered the Hall, where everyone waited at the tables. Now, at evening, more of the seats were filled. Cal and his brothers and their wives sat at the head table with their parents and Paks; the older children fitted in where they could, and the little ones tumbled around them. The Hall rang with laughter and talk. Paks did not miss the many glances sent her way; she knew when one of the younger children sneaked behind her and boldly touched the hilt of the sword. Estil saw that, and snatched the girl back.
“You! Suli, you rascal—you do that with the wrong person someday, and you’ll lose a hand, if not your life. You know better than to touch a warrior’s weapon.”
“It’s pretty, grandmother—I just—”
“You just indeed! If you want to speak to a paladin, go ahead—there she is—speak—” And Suli, both frightened and thrilled, was thrust forward to face Paks, who had turned to watch this.
“I-I’m sorry,” she quavered. Paks heard one of the boys giggle from a safe distance. Suli threw a sulky glance that way, and then stared at Paks.
“Your grandmother’s right,” Paks said, bending down to face the child. “I will not hurt you, but another might. And did you know that some weapons are magical? A sword might hurt you, if you were not its true master. You have a bold heart, and that is good—only learn from your grandmother to let a wise head guide it.” The child blushed, and Paks turned to see the other children beyond her. “And for you others—it is easy to laugh when another is in trouble—but another’s folly does not make you wise. In this family I would expect you to defend one another.” To her surprise, a boy about Suli’s size came forward at once.
“I only laughed because she is never afraid,” he said stoutly. “If that was wrong, I’m sorry. But if you had tried to hurt her, I would have come.”
Paks smiled at him. “I’m glad you would help. I said what I did because when I was helpless and in trouble, some laughed at me.”
“You? I thought—can a paladin be helpless?”
“I was not born a paladin, lad. Even now, I expect there are things I cannot fight except by faith.”
“I will not laugh again,” said the boy seriously. “Suli—”
“It’s all right.” Suli put her arm around him. Paks realized suddenly that they were twins. Both of them grinned at her, and then Suli poked her brother in the ribs. They tumbled back, laughing and sparring.
“Ruffians,” said Estil calmly. “Those two are wild as colts.”
“’Tis because you spoil them, Mother,” said a woman down the table. “Every time I come, you—”
“Well, they’re good-hearted ruffians,” said Estil. “And the only twins in the family. Gods grant we don’t have more, the way they are, but still—”
“At home,” their mother went on, looking down the table to Paks, “I keep them in more order—when they aren’t running off in the woods. But since we spend half the year here, why—”
“Now that’s unfair.” The tall man beside her grinned. “Shall I tell them all what you said when we packed this time to come?” The woman started laughing, and he went on. “She was so glad we were coming, because then when the twins did something, she could blame you.”
“Yes, but—”
“And, she said, they were better behaved when we left than when we came.” He tapped his wife’s nose. “So you see what you get?”
She shrugged, grinning, and made a face at Paks and Estil. Paks was amazed. She had never been in such a family—had not, she thought suddenly, been in any family since leaving home. There were at least a dozen children in the hall, and more had been carried off after falling asleep. Three or four generations lived here—happily, as it seemed. She looked at Estil—grandmother certainly, and maybe a great-grandmother—and still tall and broad-shouldered. A formidable bowman, her husband said. How had she done it? Paks could not imagine having all those children (for there sat Caliam, Haliam, and Suli—married to a Tsaian but home for a visit—and she had heard of others), managing such an estate, and still finding time to stay fit in weaponscraft. She shook her head; Estil noticed and turned to her.
“Is it too noisy for you, Paksenarrion? We’re a noisy family; always have been. Aliam and I love talk and music as much as life itself.”
“No, I just—I never—this is very different,” said Paks lamely.
“It’s just a family. Bigger than most, I suppose—and when you c
ount in the others—” She looked around. The side tables were still full: Paks saw men and women in working garb.
“Does everyone eat here, my lady? Every meal?” She had thought that in rich houses, the master and mistress and family ate alone.
“Oh no. Some live in their own cottages; some prefer to eat somewhere else. But in winter, we keep a good fire here, and anyone is welcome. Evening meals in winter are usually a crowd. My sister from northern Lyonya says it’s like a barracks, but we like it.” Estil smiled. Paks heard the chime of harpstrings from somewhere, and looked around. Caliam’s oldest son had brought a harp to the hall, and now tuned it. The tables began to fall silent. When he was ready, he brought the harp to Aliam, and bowed.
“You first, young man,” said Aliam. “I’ll let my fingers warm to your music first.”
The boy began to play, a jigging dance tune that soon had hands slapping the tables. Someone knew the words, but had a flat voice; others took up the tune with better grace. After that, the boy played a slow song like summer afternoons before haying time; Paks felt her eyelids sag. Then a love song, which half the men sang along with. Then Cal took the harp.
“Get the lo-pipe,” he told the boy. “Garris, do you still play?”
“I haven’t blown a pipe for over a year,” said Garris.
“Well, you need the practice.”
Young Aliam carried in the long, polished tube of a lo-pipe, and set it before Garris. Cal plucked a note. Garris took a breath and blew; the sonorous mellow note Paks expected came out sour and cracked as a strangled goose. Everyone burst into a roar of laughter.
“Gods’ teeth, Garris, I said play it, not break it.”
“I told you—” He tried again, producing a deep, hollow sound that rattled dishes. “Now, if I can find another note—” It began well, a rich sound above the other, but it faded and split as he held it. He stopped and looked up, rubbing his lip. “I’ll have a blister,” he said. “But if you’re willing to laugh over it, I’ll try ‘Cedars of the Valley.’”
“Hmmph. Child’s play,” said Cal, fingering the harpstrings. The silver dancing harp-notes began to work a pattern on the slower, lower lo-pipe. Garris had trouble; the notes broke again and again, or slid off-key, but Paks could hear what the music was meant to be. Then Hali took the lo-pipe, and Aliam the harp.
“For the paladin who has come on quest,” said Aliam to the rest, and the silence was absolute. “You all know that much; I will tell you this much more—she is on quest to find Lyonya’s true king, and when she leaves us will leave with all our goodwill and hope. And so for her, and for the quest, Hali and I will give you this, which we do not sing here often. Falk and the Oath of Gold.’”
Paks had never heard it sung, though she knew the story of Falk, bound by oath and chains together, held captive many years then riding into the city of despair to free his kindred.
“Oath of blood is Liart’s bane
Oath of death is for the slain
Oath of stone the rockfolk swear
Oath of iron is Tir’s domain
Oath of silver liars dare
Oath of gold will yet remain . . .”
The refrain first, set to a different tune, and sounding like part of something else. All of them sang it, but at the first verse, Aliam Halveric and his sons sang alone.
“Far the shadows fall,
far on the distant wall.
Under the weight of stone
the lost prince toils alone.
Far they have gone away;
bound by an oath to stay
the true prince toils alone . . .”
As Aliam and his sons sang it, the music drummed in her veins, and it became the song of Kieri the lost prince. She smiled at him; his eyes acknowledged that meaning. Harp, pipe, and voices together wove the long spell, ending with
“His oath at last fulfilled
his captors’ blood is spilled
but nothing can restore
the youth he had before.
Yet gold outlasts white bone,
blood, iron, silver, stone:
his honor is his own . . .” as they sang the final verses, and let the music die away.
“Now,” he said. “I do not know how long Paksenarrion can stay—for us, as long as she will—but all of you remember that she is welcome to go or stay as she pleases, and take whatever she needs. If any of you can aid her, do it in my name. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” came the response. Aliam nodded to them, then turned to Paks. “And now you will want to rest, you and your squires. Come and go as you will; I will always be glad to speak with you, but if you must go without my leave, know you have it.”
“I thank you,” said Paks, bowing. She followed him from the table and Hall. Estil and the squires came with them.
* * *
She woke from comfortable sleep—warm, clean, grateful for a good bed—to the awareness of danger. Starlight outlined the window; the room was dark but for the faint glow of a dying fire. She could hear the squires’ breathing; all seemed asleep. Slowly, silently, Paks eased out of bed, taking up the sword which lay beneath her hand. She did not draw it; she did not need its warning. Out of the narrow window she could see nothing; its lower half was patterned in frost ferns. Still barefoot, she went to the door, and opened it. A black passageway faced her; she could see nothing at all. But the sense of danger increased, pushing at her mind.
Sighing, she turned back to the room and woke her squires. As they rose, she dressed quickly, arming herself. Her sense of menace deepened. She opened the door again, and, on an impulse, called her light.
The entire passage was filled with webbing, strand after strand looped in an intricate pattern that centered on the door of Paks’s room. And a black presence hung in the web, scarcely an arm’s length away.
“Well, are you less eager to meet me?” The voice was strangely sweet. Paks could see no detail of the presence, could not tell shape or even size. She drew the sword. Its hilt comforted her hand.
“I am always eager to meet evil,” said Paks, “with a blade.”
“You will not be eager when you know what you have done,” said the voice. “You vermin—I have warned you often enough, and yet you kill and kill. You have torn my webs, you have robbed me of my prey—”
Paks laughed; the shade seemed to contract and grow more solid. But it was large, larger than she had imagined it could be. “I have done no more than any good soldier,” she said. “In keeping the barracks clean, the webs are swept away.”
“Fool!” The word howled in Paks’s ears, echoed in her head. She leaned against the force of it. “You think you can stand against me? Mistress of all webs, the spinner of wise plans—”
“Not I, but Gird and the High Lord.”
“Who left you open to me: silly girl, I had you in Aarenis, and in Kolobia. You are tainted with my venom already; when I call, you will answer.”
“No.” Paks heard the squires behind her, and waved them back with her free hand. “By the power of the High Lord, and the grace of Gird, I am not your creature. And by that power I command you to leave this hall.”
“If I leave, where do you think I will go, sheepfarmer’s daughter? You are mortal still; you cannot be with all you love. You can save yourself: can you save them?” Paks saw her home in that instant: father, mother, brothers, sisters, and thrust the thought aside. If they were doomed, her failure here would not help them. But the sweet voice went on. “And there are others, wiser than you, who will hearken to counsels of caution . . . who will not welcome a warrior’s bloody hands on the crown. Even your squires: dare you trust strangers at your back against the powers you know oppose you? I know their secrets; I can use—”
“You can use nothing here; you cannot even hide your intent.” Paks drew that belief around her, palpable as armor, against the doubts and concerns the creature sent. “When you must appear openly, you are weakest,” she went on, as much for the squires’ benefit
as anything. “As light shows traps, the truth will reveal your rumors and plots for what they are.” She sensed a movement in the darkness, and braced herself.
The darkness thickened, leaped forward; Paks raised the elf-forged blade to meet it. She felt something tangle her arm, shake it, but with a screech the darkness passed. Only the webs remained, swinging to and fro. Paks looked at her arm; it bore no mark, and the sword still shone clean.
“Thanks and praise,” she said quietly.
“What was that?” asked Lieth, who was nearest.
“I think it was a servant of Achrya,” said Paks. She feared it had been Achrya herself. Its power echoed in her mind, a wailing certainty of doom, but she fought off that sending.
“Where did all that—those—is that web? Or what?” asked Esceriel.
“It’s the web-stuff that Achrya’s servants spin. Don’t touch it; it burns.” Paks touched the sword tip to one of the strands; it shriveled and parted. “I’ll have to clean all this out.”
She had cleared half the passage when Aliam opened his door suddenly. “What’s going—” He stopped, staring at the webs.
“My lord, don’t touch them; I’m clearing them. I’ll tell you what happened when this is done.”
“Will a torch help?” Aliam reached back into his room and brought one to the door.
Paks had forgotten about torches. “It will indeed,” she said. “Just be sure not to let it touch you.” With his help and Estil’s, that passage was quickly cleared of web. But they found it was not the only one. All the passages were trapped with it, though not as heavily.
“How quickly can they spin this?” asked Aliam, as they finished. “That thing must have worked since we went to sleep!”
Paks shook her head. “I don’t think so; I wakened knowing evil was near. I believe it was done very quickly indeed.”
“And why didn’t I waken? Or one of the guards—Falk guard us—the guards!” Aliam darted off to the main doors.
“Wait!” Paks yelled. “Don’t call an alarm—if others are trapped, they’ll blunder into the webs.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 137
