The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Chapter Twenty-four

  They traveled to Vérella with far less difficulty than Paks had feared—though with far more publicity than she’d hoped. Marshal Pelyan, whom she’d met on the way to Lyonya, had heard of the quest before their arrival. Travelers, he said, had brought word as soon as it came to Harway. And he himself had passed the word on through the granges. So their arrival in any town caused excitement but not curiosity. Paks enjoyed the crowds of children that followed them, the flurry when they entered an inn, but hoped the admiration was not premature. As well, she remembered the winter before, when she had stumbled into such towns as a hungry vagrant, whom the children tricked and harassed instead of cheering.

  In each town, they spent the night in grange or field, for Paks wished the King’s Squires to have such protection at night. The Marshals each had a measure of news or advice; she listened to all. She did not tell them the prince’s name, but she told what she could of the quest so far. The nearer she came to Vérella, the more recent the news became. In Westbells, just east of Vérella, Marshal Torin told her that the Duke had been summoned to the Council. She had not asked, but it seemed Phelan’s call to court was of interest even to a neighboring town.

  “What I heard,” he said between bites of roast chicken, “was that after the Marshal-General went up there, and whatever passed between them, his friends on the Council thought he should come speak for himself. You know, I suppose, that there was a motion to censure him.”

  Paks nodded. She had heard about this from the Marshal-General.

  “I never thought so bad of him myself,” Marshal Torin went on, “for it seemed to me that if over half my yeomen were killed by treachery, I’d take risks enough to stop that. But they say by his charter he’s bound to have a hundred fighting men on his lands, and the word was that this was not the first time he’d left the north unguarded.” He ate steadily for a minute, then put down the bones and wiped his hands. “I can’t believe that, or there’d have been more trouble. Kostvan, who holds south and east of him, has never complained. But then there was word about how he fought in Aarenis—even rumors from a Marshal down there, so I hear. And last year, instead of staying quiet at home, he went haring off to Fintha because of—” He stopped short and turned dark red. Paks smiled.

  “Marshal, he went haring off to Fintha on account of me—and that may have been foolish, but showed a warm heart.”

  “Warm heart or not, it made some on the Council angry. They’d bid him stay on his lands, and—”

  “But his men stayed,” put in the yeoman-marshal, a young man who reminded Paks of Ambros in Brewersbridge. “His captains, and all the men—they could have handled any trouble—”

  “I didn’t say they were right, Keri. I said they were angry.”

  “Some of them would be angry no matter what he did.” The young man’s face had flushed. Paks wondered why he was defending Phelan.

  “Court gossip, Keri. Nothing to do with us. You can clear now.” The Marshal waited until Keri had left the room before saying more. Paks used the interval to ask her squires about their readiness to ride the next day—an unnecessary question, but they answered without surprise.

  “You’re going to the Council,” said the Marshal, when she had dismissed them to rest, and did not wait for her answer. “You’ll find them in a flutter, I don’t doubt,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s why I mentioned Phelan—you know him, and he’s likely there, and that’s why. He’s got friends and enemies both on the Council, and until they’ve settled themselves about him, they’re likely to be skittish with you. The thought that Lyonya had sent a paladin to search in Tsaia for an unknown prince—well, you can see how that will suit. Will they have to acknowledge someone as sovereign of a neighboring realm who has been thought base-born here? How if he’s a slave, or a servant?”

  “He’s not,” said Paks quietly.

  “You know who it is?”

  “Yes, but I am not at liberty to say, until I have spoken to him.”

  “I see. That makes sense.” He chewed his lip a moment. “Someone highborn? How could that be, unless—no, I should not ask. You have your own guidance from Gird and the High Lord, and I pray their grace and strength for you. I doubt your task will be easy, even knowing for whom you go.”

  “Could you tell me,” asked Paks, “which of the Council is the right person to approach?”

  “Hmmph. Right for what, is the question. As you have dealt with me, so must I deal with you. I have no right to tell you all that the Marshals of Gird suspect about some families on the Council; we have not the proof, and we are bound not to illspeak without it. Yet I would not talk freely with anyone, and certainly not with the Verrakai family. Kostvan is utterly loyal, but has less power. Marrakai—Marrakai has the power, and I believe is loyal, but the Marrakaien have long had a name for secret treachery. Yet you know that the name is not the reality: the real traitor may not have the reputation. Clannaeth is flighty—they say it’s his health, but I have a cousin down there who says it’s his second wife. Destvaorn is bride-bound to the Marrakaien, but none the worse for that, if the Marrakaien be sound. Konhalt—there’s another I’d go clear of; I know nothing against them, but that three times the neighboring grange has had to chase evil things from their hills. The rest are small, of little power compared to these, or closely related. I might speak to Kostvan first, or Destvaorn, and then to Marrakai. Phelan wields power, but not at the moment; your past connection would be suspect there.”

  Paks got from him the descriptions of these various lords, and committed them to memory. Then she chanced to mention the Verrakai captain she’d met north of the Honnorgat—a Girdsman, he’d said. “Oh, that branch is sound,” said the Marshal cheerfully. “I don’t wonder you thought him well enough. That’s the trouble with some families—and the Verrakaien aren’t the only one—you can’t tell by the name. Take the Marrakaien, now: true or treacherous, they’re all of one brew, and that a heady one. There’s naught to choose one from another, barring looks. But others—well, you have dreamers, drunks, daring men and dour men all in one heap, like mixed fruit.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Paks.

  * * *

  Their entry into Vérella was far different from the first time she’d seen the city. The guards at the first gate had heard of her quest; they saw her coming and held traffic (light enough at this season) to pass her through. She had long forgotten the way from the south gates to the court, but the guard sent an escort to guide her, an eager young soldier whose bright face reminded her of all the recruits she’d ever seen.

  On horseback, she could see over the parapets of the bridge; the Honnorgat here had a skim of ice even in midstream. At the inner gate, on the north bank of the Honnorgat, a guard captain waited, mounted on a horse decked in the rose and silver of Tsaia; he dismissed the escort, and led them to the court himself. For a little they rode alongside the tall bare wall that Paks remembered, then turned left, and left again, and came to open gates that gave on a wide courtyard. Here they dismounted, at the captain’s directions, and liveried grooms led the horses away. Paks warned the groom assigned to her horse, and the horse trailed him without a hand on his reins.

  “Lady Paksenarrion,” said the captain, with a low bow, “I have orders to convey you at once to the Regency Council, if you are not too fatigued with your journey.” His voice conveyed the secure belief that they would indeed be too fatigued.

  Paks returned the bow. “Not at all. It is in answer to Gird’s call that I seek the Regency Council; it cannot be too soon.”

  To her surprise, the captain reddened slightly. “Well—ah—Lady—the council assumed you would wish to take refreshment, whenever you came, and—in fact—they are in session now. But when they come forth, I am sure—”

  Paks followed the pressure she felt. “By your leave, Captain, I would not intrude, but by the gods’ commands. If you will, guide us to the Council, and make known to them that I would se
e them.”

  “They know you’re coming—” he blurted, completely flustered.

  “Yes, but not when—nor exactly what I have come for. Sir, the matter is urgent—” She felt this intensely, as if every moment now mattered. “I believe they will agree on the necessity for this, when I give my message.”

  “Well, Lady—” Clearly he did not know how to argue with a paladin on quest. Paks smiled at him.

  “Come, Captain; take me to the Council, and let them decide if they have time. We do no good standing here in the cold.”

  At that he bowed, and led the way across the courtyard. The three squires followed Paks closely. She noticed, even in that rapid walk, how different this court was from that in Chaya. Fluted columns of pinkish stone supported a portico on three sides, and rose to frame a pointed arch opposite the gate. Above were walls ornamented with half-pillars separating pointed windows, several rows of them, up to the fretwork of stone that hid the roofs from those below. A lacework of frost or snow glittered from every roughness of the stone, making the palace shimmer with the rose and silver of Tsaia. Suddenly, from far over their heads, a sweet powerful clamour broke out. For a moment Paks could not think what it might be: then she remembered the Bells. The captain turned to her, speaking through the sound.

  “You have heard our Bells before, Lady?”

  “No.” Paks could not say they were beautiful; she wanted only to listen. In the song they were gold, “the golden bells of Vérella"; she wondered if they truly were. The captain talked on, heedless.

  “The elves gave them, when Vérella was founded. To look at they are pure gold, but of course they cannot be all gold, for it would not stand the beating. But the elves had them cast, and their voices are sweet to hear.” His last words rang loud; the Bells had ceased.

  “How often do they ring?”

  “It depends on the Council. Always at true dawn, as the elves have it, and sunfall, and at midday when the Council is sitting. And for any festival, of course: Midwinter, Summereve, Torre’s Eve, High Harvest, Gird’s Victory—for those.”

  They had come to steps leading up to tall doors under the arch. Guards in rose and silver nodded to the captain and he led them in. Here the floor was set with polished blocks of silver-gray stone. Paks looked around the wide hall; wide stairs rose ahead of her, where the hall narrowed to a passage still wider than the main room in a cottage. To right and left were tall doors folded back to reveal great empty rooms opening into other rooms. Tapestries hung on the walls; the lamp sconces were polished silver. The captain had paused for a moment, looking around. Paks saw a youth in a green tunic with red piping over red hose—Marrakai colors, if her memory served—come into the room on the left. The captain hailed him.

  “Pardon, Kirgan—is the Council still sitting?”

  The young man—a squire, Paks was sure, though the title was that of eldest son—nodded. “Yes, Captain. Why?” Paks saw his eyes rake over her and return to the captain’s face.

  “It’s this—Lady Paksenarrion, a paladin. She is on quest, and must speak with the Council, she says.”

  “At once?” The boy’s eyebrows rose, and he met Paks’s gaze with surprising composure.

  “I must ask them to hear me,” said Paks quietly. “It is in their power to refuse.”

  He laughed shortly. “They will hardly refuse to hear a paladin, I daresay. It’s better than what they have been hearing—”

  “Sir!” The captain’s tone chilled.

  The boy’s face reddened. “I beg your pardon,” he said formally. “I spoke as ill befits a squire.”

  “If you will follow me,” said the captain, turning to Paks. She nodded, but watched the boy’s face stiffen as the captain snubbed him.

  “I took no offense, Kirgan,” she said to him.

  She and the Lyonyan squires followed the captain through two large rooms and down a wide passage to a deep alcove. Here four guards in rose and silver stood before doors inlaid with silver and enamel. The captain spoke to them softly, in a dialect Paks did not recognize. One of them stood aside, and the captain knocked softly at the doors.

  At once they were opened slightly from inside. The captain conferred with someone. Paks was aware of tension in the room beyond: it seeped out the open door like a cold draught. Then a louder voice spoke from within, an order, and the captain turned to Paks, clearly surprised.

  “They will hear you now,” he said.

  “Thank you, Captain, for your guidance and help.” Paks walked forward; the guards stood aside from the doors, now opened wide. She felt rather than saw the Lyonyan squires following.

  Within was a room smaller than those they had passed, well-lit by high windows on both sides. At the far end an empty throne loomed on a dais; on either side were tiered seats behind a sort of fence, rising up to the base of the windows. These were nearly empty, though a few squires lounged there, and—Paks squinted a moment against the light of the top tier—two elves. Taking up most of the floor space was a massive table of dark wood, heavily carved and inlaid with silver. Around this sat the lords she had come to see: the Regency Council of Tsaia. In the seat below the throne, the crown prince, who would be king by Summereve. Paks thought he looked man-grown already. His brother, younger by almost three years, sat to one side: he had no place on Council, and looked as bored as any youth locked into adult discussions of policy when he had rather be hunting. At the prince’s left, a burly man in green and red, who reminded Paks of the boy outside: that was Duke Marrakai. Duke Mahieran, in red and silver. Baron Destvaorn, in blue and red. Kostvan in green and blue. Verrakai—she let her eyes linger a moment on Verrakai—in blue and silver. Sorrestin in blue and rose. Clannaeth in yellow and rose. And alone at the near end of the table, facing her now, Phelan in his formal dress: maroon and white. He smiled at her, then moved to one side so that she could approach the table.

  The man who had opened the door, a silver-haired old man in the royal livery, announced her.

  “Lady Paksenarrion, Paladin of Gird.”

  Paks bowed toward the prince.

  “Your highness, lords of the Council: I thank you for your courtesy in thus allowing me an audience.”

  The crown prince spoke quickly. “It is our honor, Lady, to receive any paladin in this Court. Pray tell us how we may aid your quest.”

  “I will be brief.” Despite herself, her eyes slid a little toward Duke Phelan. She almost thought she could feel the sword’s desire to come to him. “You already know, I believe, that the king of Lyonya died without an heir of the body.” They nodded. “I was called to that court, to Chaya, as paladins are called, but not, alas, to heal the king. Instead I bore unknowing a treasure of that realm: this sword.” She pulled back her cloak; they peered at the sword hilt. Duke Phelan, as the others, merely looked puzzled.

  “What sword is that?” asked the High Marshal into the brief silence that followed. Paks was sure he had already heard the tale, but she merely answered him.

  “According to the testimony of lords in Chaya who remember, and the elves themselves, it was made for the son of King Falkieri—the older brother of this king, whose wife and son were lost while traveling to the Ladysforest. Because I bore the sword, the king—the one who lay dying—thought perhaps the gods meant me to take the throne after him, and so he spoke. But this, too, was not the quest for which I was called.”

  “He would have given his kingdom to you?” That was Verrakai. Paks could feel the scorn from where she stood. “To a—a—commoner? A peasant’s child?”

  From the corner of her eye, Paks saw Duke Phelan’s face whiten with rage; before she could speak, the prince did.

  “Peace, Verrakai. Gird chose her paladin; whatever her past, she has been given abilities that would grace any throne. And we will not have any guest insulted at this table.” He smiled at Paks. “You will forgive Duke Verrakai’s surprise, Lady? Those of us who live in the midst of families graced with every talent may find it difficult to credit such t
alents elsewhere.” Paks thought she caught a bite of sarcasm in that; so did Verrakai, who first paled then reddened.

  She bowed. “Your highness, I can take no offense for truth spoken. I am a commoner, a sheepfarmer’s daughter, and I found the thought of myself on a throne as outlandish as Duke Verrakai might wish. Indeed, that is not my destiny, nor do I seek it. But the dying king, loving his land much, thought a paladin might bring peace—that I can understand. And his lords, your highness, loving their land and peace more than pride, would have agreed.” She waited a moment for that to sink in; some of the Council found it hard to believe, by their expressions.

  “Instead of that, I was called to search for the rightful king. By bringing this sword where its true nature could be known—by tracing its history carefully—by searching for the man who was once the prince of Lyonya—by all these means I am to find the rightful heir to that throne and return him to his place. In warrant of this, I am accompanied by these King’s Squires of Lyonya, who will witness the identity of the man, when we find him, and escort him to Chaya.”

  “Only three?” That was the younger prince, now listening alertly.

  “Four began the quest with me,” said Paks. “One died. We have been beset by evil powers, lords, who do not want the rightful king found.”

  “How will you know?” asked the High Marshal again.

  “By this sword.” Paks laid her hand on the pommel; it felt warm to her touch. “It was made for the prince, partially sealed to him in its forging. Had the journey they were on been complete, it would have been completely dedicated to him, and no one else could have drawn it. But that did not happen; the journey was never finished. So I have used it, and so have others—but according to the elves, who made it, it will still acknowledge its true master when he draws it.”