“Put silence—?” asked the Marshal.
“He was some sort of wizard, sir Marshal. I know little of that, but he could silence men, and hold them motionless, by his powers . . . though what he enjoyed most was hearing them scream. That visitor, whose name I never knew, had some strange powers himself, for he woke me, while he himself was being tormented in the dungeons. He sent me away.”
“How?” asked the High Marshal, after a long pause.
“I am not sure. By then I had tried escape—and been so punished for it that I had ceased to hope for anything but death. But this man took my fear, and sent me: ‘There is a High Lord above all barons,’ he said. ‘Go to his courts and be free.’ And so I climbed out the baron’s window, and down the wall, and ran through the woods until I came out of that land. When I came to the coast, I stowed away on a ship . . . and eventually came to Bannerlith, where they set me ashore with their good wishes. I worked my way inland, to Lyonya, at any work I could find, until I fetched up at Aliam Halveric’s on a cold winter day, half-starved and frozen. He took me in—first as a laborer, then as a page in the household, and then—when I showed aptitude for fighting—made me a squire. The rest you know. Anyway, it is from that man—Baron Sekkady—that I got my name as I know it. He told me it was Kieri Artfiel Phelan; he called me Artfiel. I use Kieri. What it really is—”
“Is Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan,” said Paks.
“Falkieri—” he breathed. “So close—like the sword—”
“He must have known,” said the High Marshal. “He must have known who you were, and delighted in that knowledge. Some scum of Liart’s, no doubt. Would you could remember where that was?”
“If I could remember that, sir Marshal, I would long ago have freed his domain of him.”
“Vengeance?” asked one of the elves.
“No—not vengeance alone. He was cruel to many others, not me alone. It would lighten my heart to know the world free of him.”
“My lord,” said the crown prince, “you do not wish me to use your title yet, but I must call you something—what will you do now? Will you travel at once to Chaya?”
Phelan looked at Paks, who nodded. “I think I must, your highness. Lyonya has been too long without me.”
“Will they accept you?” asked Duke Marrakai. “Lady Paksenarrion said something about the elves—”
“Their council swore, the night I left, to accept as their king the man the sword declared,” said Paks quickly. “At that time I did not know it was Duke Phelan. As for the elves, the Lady of the Ladysforest wished to see him before the coronation: the elves had their fears, as I said.”
“And do you still, cousins?” asked Phelan of the listening elves, slightly stressing the last word.
“Lord Falkieri, what the elves feared in you was not to your blame. We feared the damage done by your wicked master. Will you deny your temper, and what has sometimes come of it?”
“No. But I asked if you still feared it.”
One of the elves laughed. “Lord, you are not the furious man I had heard of. Here I have seen you accept insult with dignity, and remain courteous and capable of thought to all. For myself—but I am not the one who will decide—I would trust you to govern humans.”
“But your realm is not all human,” the other elf added. “For too many years Lyonya’s ruler has lacked any feel for the taigin. This lack hurts us all. You have shown no such ability.”
“You believe this, too, was destroyed by Baron Sekkady’s cruelty?”
Both of them nodded. “If the small child is not taught—if instead all such sense becomes painful—then it can be lost, for a time, or forever.”
“I see. But being half-elven, will not my children carry this ability by inheritance, even if I lack it?”
“I suppose—I had not thought—” The elf looked genuinely surprised. “I had heard you swore never to remarry.”
“I said so; I never took formal vows, not being in the habit of breaking my stated word. Clearly I cannot refuse to sire heirs for Lyonya, and old as I am, I daresay—”
“Old!” The elf laughed, then sobered quickly. “My pardon, Lord—and lords of Tsaia. I meant no disdain. But Lord Falkieri, you are not old for half-elven. You are merely well-grown. You have many years yet to found a family, though your people will be glad the sooner you wed.”
“But I’m—”
“Fifty years—and what of that? No elf-born comes to full powers much before that. Your sister would yet live had she waited to wed and bear children until fifty. Fear not death from age yet awhile, Falkieri; blade and point can kill you, but not age alone until your sons’ sons are come to knighthood.”
When the elves said nothing more, the crown prince spoke again. “We would honor you with an escort into Lyonya, my lord. Lady Paksenarrion speaks of peril; our lands are old allies. Will you accept it?”
Phelan nodded; Paks saw that he was near tears from all this. He struggled for a moment and regained control. “I brought with me only a small escort, as your highness knows. I would be honored by a formal one. But when could they be ready to leave?”
The meeting dissolved in a mass of details—which unit of the Tsaian Royal Guard would travel by which route, who would take word to Phelan’s steading in the north, how best to plan the march, and on and on. Paks listened, starting as the High Marshal touched her shoulder.
“If you have a few minutes, Lady Paksenarrion, I’d like to see you in the grange hall.”
“Certainly. I see we won’t be leaving for some hours, if today—”
“Not today,” said Phelan, catching her last words. “Tomorrow at best—I’m sorry, Paks, but there’s too much to do.”
She bowed, and beckoned to Garris, who followed her a few feet away.
“Don’t leave him, Garris—any of you—for any reason—for even a few minutes. I cannot name the peril, but we know that evil powers do not want him crowned.”
“I swear to you, Paks: we will not leave him.”
“I will return shortly.” And Paks followed the High Marshal away from the chamber.
High Marshal Seklis ushered Paks into his study, and seated her near a small fire. A yeoman-marshal brought a tray of sweet cakes and a pot of sib, then withdrew.
“I understand your concern, Lady,” he began, “but it will take the rest of the day to get a troop of the Royal Guard ready to ride on such a mission. Your things, no doubt, are simpler. And the King’s Squires will guard him. Now that you’ve handed over that sword, you’ll need another, and I want a favor in return—the story of your quest so far, to write into the archives for the Marshal-General.”
Paks told her tale, from leaving Duke Phelan’s stronghold to her arrival in Vérella, as quickly and completely as possible, but the pot of sib was empty when she finished. The High Marshal sat back and sighed, then smiled.
“Now I understand your haste. Come—I have no elf-blades here, but we can find something more your weight than the blade that failed you last night.” He led her into the armory, where Paks tried one blade after another until she found one to suit. Then they walked back into the palace, to find the Duke’s suite a chaotic jumble of servants, gear, and visitors. Paks saw Kolya and Dorrin across the outer room, and worked her way toward them.
“He’s not here at the moment,” said Dorrin, “but he’ll be back. Before you ask, all the King’s Squires went with him, as well as Selfer—don’t worry. Falk’s oath, Paks, if we’d known what you would do someday, I don’t know if we’d ever have risked your hide on the battlefield.”
“Oh yes, you would,” said Paks. “How else could you test a weapon? Not by hanging it on the wall.”
“We’ll miss him,” said Kolya soberly. “The best master a land ever had, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m not ill-wishing—I just wish I could pick up my trees and move to Lyonya.”
“He’d find you a grove.”
“It’s not the same. Those Westnuts I struggled with, lear
ning to dig one-handed—I can’t move that somewhere else.”
“And he feels it too,” said Paks quietly.
“I know. And I’m glad for him. All those years of hearing the others pick and pick—hedge-lord, they’d say, or base-born moneybags—they’ll sing a new song now. He was never less than kingly with us; Lyonya’s lucky, and he deserves the best of it.”
“Who’s going with him? For that matter, who’s here?”
Dorrin numbered them on her fingers. “Arcolin’s commanding back north; Selfer and I came along, and we’ll go on to Lyonya. Kolya, you know, and Donag Kirisson, the miller from Duke’s West, and Siger. And Vossik and a half-dozen solid veterans. Plus the usual: carters and muleteers, and that. I expect he’ll take his own veterans, and I doubt we could peel Siger away from him with a knife.”
“And how many of the Tsaian Guard?”
“A score at least. The crown prince would like to send a cohort, but you know what that means in supplies. The Duke—the king—always said the Tsaian Royal Guard traveled on silk.”
The High Marshal nodded. “It’s court life—I’ve argued again and again about it, but to no avail. They’re good fighters—well trained and disciplined—but any decent mercenary company can march them into the ground.”
“It’s too bad the Company can’t be here,” said Dorrin. “They’d be proud of him.”
“What is it—a week’s march? I agree with Lady Paksenarrion; he must not wait that long to travel. Although his own Company would be a fitting escort.”
“If it didn’t frighten the Lyonyans,” said Dorrin. “They aren’t used to troop movements there.”
Paks looked a question at her, and Dorrin blushed.
“I trained there, you know,” she said. “But I was born a Verrakai.”
“You?”
“Yes. They don’t admit it any more.” Dorrin grinned, shaking her head. “My cousin is furious. I remember getting in fights with him before I left home.”
More messengers and visitors arrived. Someone came to Dorrin with a handful of scrolls and a question; she shrugged helplessly at Paks and moved aside to look at them. Servants carried in trays of food. Paks thought of her own rooms, and wondered if Lieth had packed her things before leaving with Phelan. She wormed her way through a cluster of people to ask Kolya when he’d be back.
“I’m not sure—he said not long, but not to worry if it was a glass or so. Some Company matter. He’d already had to talk to his bankers, and draft messages to Arcolin. Why?”
“I’ll go down to my rooms, then, and pack up. It won’t take long.” Paks worked her way out of the suite, past a row of squires bearing messages, and hurried to her own quarters. Lieth had not packed, but she found two of the palace servants straightening the rooms. In a short time, she had rolled everything neatly into her saddlebags or Lieth’s. She went back along the corridors with the bags slung over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and most of the outer court was in shadow. The bustle in Phelan’s suite seemed less. A row of corded packs waited in the outer room. Kolya, Dorrin, High Marshal Seklis, and Donag Kirisson sat around a low table near the fire in the sitting room, eating rapidly. Paks joined them, dumping her saddlebags nearby. She reached for the end of a loaf.
“Where is he? Isn’t he back?”
“Not yet,” said Kolya. “Are you worried, Paks? He has four good squires with him.”
“Did he take the sword?” asked Paks without answering Kolya.
“No,” said Dorrin. She pushed back her cloak to show the pommel. “He asked me to keep it here—said he didn’t want it on the street.”
Paks frowned, her worry sharpening. “I wish he’d taken it. I should have said something.”
“Why?”
“If nothing else, it’s a remarkably good weapon. But more than that, in his hands it has great power, and none of us can use it.”
“You can, surely.”
“Not now,” said Paks. “Not after he drew it—it’s sealed to him completely now. I would not dare to draw it.”
Dorrin looked at it. “If I’d known that—”
“Excuse me, Lady—I was given a message for your hand.” Paks looked up to see a page in the rose and silver house livery holding something out. She put out her hand, and took it. The page bowed, and quickly moved away. It was a small object wrapped in parchment. Paks folded the stiff material back carefully. When she saw what it contained, she felt as cold as if she’d been dipped in the ice-crusted river.
Chapter Twenty-seven
There on her hand lay the Duke’s black signet ring, the same ring she had carried from Fin Panir to the Kuakgan’s grove in Brewersbridge, the same ring she had taken back to the Duke that fall. The others had leaned to see what it was; Paks held out her hand, and watched the faces whiten. No one spoke. Paks flattened the parchment, and saw thin, angular writing she knew at once for blood. She shivered; she knew it must be his blood.
Alone, or Lyonya will have no king.
This too she showed the others, handing it around.
“By the Tree—” Kolya was the first to find speech. “What can you do, Paks?”
“Find him,” said Paks grimly.
“But how?”
“They will guide me; they intend it.” She was shaken by a storm of rage and grief, and struggled to master it. For what must come she had to be calm. She took the ring from Dorrin, who was staring blankly at it, and slipped it on her own middle left finger. “Kolya—” The one-armed woman met her eyes, blinking back tears. “Find the nearest Kuakgan—is there one near enough Vérella?”
“For what?”
“To aid him when he travels. I want the taigin awakened for him.”
“Great lords above!” muttered the High Marshal.
Paks shot him a quick glance and went on. “Tell the Kuakgan to ask the taigin of Master Oakhallow: and tell him the three woods are fireoak, blackwood, and yellowwood.”
“You want him to raise the highfire for the Duke?”
“For me,” said Paks quietly. She turned quickly to Dorrin. “Make sure they are ready to ride at once. Whatever it takes, Captain Dorrin: the High Marshal will help you.”
“Indeed I will.” The High Marshal’s expression was as grim as she felt. “Every Marshal in Vérella—”
“And on the way. Sir Marshal, I must speak to you alone.” Dorrin and the others left quickly. Paks took a deep breath but before she could speak, the High Marshal asked:
“Do you foresee your own death, paladin of Gird?”
“I see nothing, sir Marshal, but the direction of my quest. It seems likely that this summons means death. But Girdsmen are hard to kill, as you know—” He nodded, with a tight smile. Paks went on. “Sir Marshal, I ask you these favors. Would you ask the Marshal-General to send a sword to my family at Three Firs when she thinks it safe for them, and such word of me as she thinks it wise for them to have?”
“I will,” he said. “You are sure you will never return there?”
“I knew that before now, Sir Marshal. However this ends, I cannot return; I would like the Marshal-General to know my wishes in this.”
“I will tell her,” said Seklis. “Be sure of that. What else?”
“This time I will not have Gird’s symbols defaced,” said Paks. “I will arrange to return my arms and medallion. If you will leave these in the grange at Westbells, on your way east—”
“You expect to follow?” The High Marshal’s voice was completely neutral.
Paks shook her head. “I expect to follow Gird’s directions, Sir Marshal. I hope to follow, but—to be honest—I expect not.”
He lowered his voice. “It is not the way of the Fellowship to sacrifice any Girdsman—let alone a paladin—without a fight.”
Paks managed a smile. “On my honor, Sir Marshal, they will find they have a fight—though not the one they expected, perhaps. And as well—” she found herself grinning at him, “as well, imagine if one paladin can spoil such a long-laid plot. Ho
w many years has that black web-spinner been preening herself on the completeness of her webs? And the Master of Torments must have enjoyed what happened to a helpless child. Yet now the rightful king returns, and their attempt to sever Lyonya and Tsaia will fail.”
“If you can find him.” The High Marshal held her gaze. “If you can pay the price.”
“I can find him,” said Paks. “As for the price, what I have is the High Lord’s, and I will return it as he asks.”
“Gird’s grace be with you, paladin,” said the High Marshal formally.
“And Gird’s power rest in your grange,” replied Paks. She bowed and strode quickly from the chamber.
She hardly noticed those who moved out of her way in the passages outside. She was wondering how Phelan had been trapped. Were all the squires dead? Was he himself dead, and this message no more than a trap for her? But she did not believe that—else her quest would lead somewhere else. She would find him easily enough; those who had sent the ring would see to that. She came into the outer court and glanced up to see what light remained. In another glass or so it would be dark. No one questioned her at the outer gate, though the guards greeted her respectfully. She nodded to them and passed into the wide street beyond.
Here she slowed to a stroll, and looked around carefully. The street seemed full enough of hurrying people, hunched against the cold and ducking into one doorway or another. Directly across from the palace gate was a large inn, the Royal Guardsman. On one side was a saddler’s, with a carved wooden horse, gaily decked, over the entrance. Beyond that was a cobbler’s, then a tailor’s shop. On the other side was a scribe-hall, then a narrow alley. Paks walked that way, past the ground floor windows of the inn’s common room. She was aware when someone came out the inn door behind her. She felt the back of her neck prickle with another’s attention. But she walked on, steadily. The footsteps behind quickened. Paks slowed, edging toward the front of the scribe-hall.
“I think,” said a low voice at her shoulder, “that you must be Paksenarrion?”
Paks turned; the follower was a tall redheaded woman, in the garb of a free mercenary. Paks saw the hilt of a dagger in each boot as well as one at her waist.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 145
