Divided Allegiance

by Elizabeth Moon

  "You're a long way from that, but—a stableyard is not the best place to learn. If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the drillfields behind, and I'll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the inn, and ride south of town, there's a ford upstream of the bridge."

  "Thank you," said Paks. "I'll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the reins doesn't work, what will?"

  "May I try?"

  "Of course, sir." Paks slid off, finding it harder than she'd thought to clear the unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one smooth motion.

  As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the unleashed power.

  "Don't worry," said Ambros. "The Marshal's good with horses." And indeed, after scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted stiffly around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal's rein and legs. Paks could not see what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told her.

  "To halt, you'll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That's all. Right now I wouldn't use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think you can manage?"

  Paks wasn't at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal swung off as easily as he'd mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after a look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.

  "Well, I made a considerable mess, didn't I? We'd best get at it, Ambros, if we want to keep our welcome—"

  "No, Marshal, that's all right—" Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.

  "No, it isn't. Ambros and I will take care of it." And to Paks's surprise, and the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from Sevri, and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back into a heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, and returned with another shovel to help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the yard was tidy once more. "There now." The Marshal wiped sweat from his forehead, and handed Sevri the shovel. "Paksenarrion, early morning is a good time to train horses. Bring him along after feeding tomorrow."

  "Yes, sir." Paks hoped she wouldn't be thrown before she got to the grange. The Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now had a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse's performance, why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.

  By that afternoon, the tailor's wife had one shirt ready for her to try on. Paks would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do more work. "See on the inside, lady? The edges there? I'll turn those down, and they'll not ravel or be rough—"

  "But—"

  "Nay, we're proud of our work, my husband and me—we won't let such as this leave our hands. But I'll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain shirts in two days—unless you'd rather have the trousers first?"

  Paks thought of all the riding she'd be doing, and asked for the trousers next. Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler's, and bought a jug of the heavy oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal's yard, she found the smith forging heavy wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.

  The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without help—but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein, but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a corner. Her attempt at a quick mount felt as rough as the day before, but she had gained the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein gently, and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the horse seemed slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of the inn yard and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the village. She found the ford the Marshal had spoken of by following a cow path, and the black horse pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling under his hooves. Now she had reached the lower end of the grange drill field; she could see the Marshal standing near the grange. Ambros, mounted on a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the street as she came up.

  "You made it safely, I see," said the Marshal. "Ambros rides three times a week, and this will give both of you practice in riding with others."

  Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of the other horse.

  In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal was as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all occasional riders, Paks hated to trot—but the Marshal insisted that they trot most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, the way she held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped out from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return, without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring, except for grooming and mounting.

  She could ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work was excellent for a high-strung mount.

  But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once it was the black horse's neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat. Another time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she'd ridden that day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she used the ring on the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to talk to the Kuakgan about it.

  * * *

  This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking to another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing from where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned to look the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white stones that should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches from her back. She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back, crawling down her ribs. She looked forward, and the clearing was open before her. Master Oakhallow beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she felt the quiet deepen. She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the basin.

  "It is well," said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, "that you did not try to leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my grove unsettling."

  "Sir, it is not that," said Paks. "But you were speaking to another. I would not intrude."

  He smiled. "Your courtesy is appreciated. But you could not have come nearer than I wished. Enough: you came with a purpose. What troubles you?"

  Paks did not want to meet his eyes. "Sir, I did not take the time to tell you all that happened on our way across the mountains—"

  "You had no need to tell me all, or anything you would not," he interrupted. "But you shied from some part of your tale, and it speaks in your eyes yet. Is it this you came for?"

  Paks felt her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She wished she had gone to Marshal Cedfer. She wished she had done nothing at all. From everything she had heard of the Kuakkganni—their deep love of wild things, their distaste for men's arts, their contempt for war and soldiery—she was in danger now, danger against which her sword was no protection. She ducked her head lower yet.

  "Yes, sir. It is. I—did something, sir, and I—I can't—I don't know what to do."

  "Are you sure," he asked, "that I am the one you wish to talk to? You have spent much time lately with Marshal Cedfer. You are not kuakgannir; I have no claim on your actions."

  "I'm sure," said Paks, fighting the tremor in her voice. "It—has to do with—with the elf, and wild things, and he—Marshal Cedfer—he would think it silly. I think."

  "Hmm. By elf, I presume you mean Macenion? Yes. And wild things. I doubt, Paksenarrion, that he would think it silly, but I am more used to dealing with those than he. Now—" His voice sharpened a little, and Paks flinched at the tone. "If you can spit out your tale, child, and let us see what
it is, perhaps I can be of some use."

  Paks took a deep breath, and began, haltingly, to tell of the night in the pass. The Kuakgan did not interrupt, or prompt her. When she told of the coming of the snowcat, she felt through the bones of her head the sharpening of his gaze and struggled on.

  "Then he—Macenion—told me to use the ring—"

  "The ring?" His voice might have been stone, from the weight of it.

  Paks held out her hand, and withdrew it. "This ring, sir. He said it was made to control animals." She explained how she had caught Macenion's horse, and how that had upset him, how he had cast a spell to identify any magic item, and had found her ring.

  "You did not know that before?"

  "No, sir. I thought the horse came because—well—I like horses. Star always came to me."

  "Mmmm. So, you had a ring made to control animals, and you used it on a horse without knowing its power. Where did you get it?"

  "From the Duke, sir. He—he gave it to me, at Dwarfwatch last year, for bringing the word to him." Suddenly tears ran from her eyes as she thought of the honor of that ring, and how she'd used it.

  "Did he know what it was, do you think?"

  "No, sir. It was part of the plunder from Siniava's army that we'd beaten. He said he chose it for the form—the three strands for the three of us that went—"

  "The others?"

  "Died, sir." She expected him to ask about that, but he did not. Instead, he returned to her original story.

  "So then you were faced with the snowcat. Had you heard of one before? No? And Macenion told you to use the ring. How?"

  "He said, sir, to make—make the cat hold still. Not jump at us or the horses. And it worked—" Paks could feel, in memory, the surprise of that. She had really believed her ring was magic until the great beast crouched motionless on the trail before them, the snowflake dapples on its coat blending with the falling snow. "And then he—told me how dangerous it was—"

  "You didn't see that for yourself?" The Kuakgan's voice was edged with sarcasm.

  "Sir, I could see that it was a hunting creature, and big—but it was so beautiful. I didn't know about the magic it had, until Macenion told me. He said we had no chance—and—" Paks faltered again.

  "Go on." The Kuakgan was implacable.

  "He told me to—to hold it still—and—" Paks squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. "And he took his sword—and killed it."

  There was a long silence. Paks dared not move or speak. Her skin prickled all over.

  "You held it still, by magic, while Macenion killed it? Helpless?"

  "Yes, sir," said Paks faintly. "I—I knew it was wrong. I asked him—"

  "What!" The word shook the ground with power.

  "I asked him not to," whispered Paks. "But he said—he said it was the only way—then—and I—I shouldn't have, sir, I know that, but what can I do now?"

  Another long silence. "And men wonder," the Kuakgan said finally, in a quiet voice worse than a shout, "why evil roams the land. I should hope you knew it was wrong. Wrong, yes: bitterly wrong. And I assure you, Paksenarrion, that Marshal Cedfer would not think light of this. It was an evil deed, and whatever else they may be, the Marshals of Gird abhor evil. Do you claim, as your defense, that it was Macenion's fault, because he told you to do so?"

  "No, sir," said Paks. "I should have thought—he told me, later, when I spoke of it, that I could have used the power to send the beast away—"

  "Macenion said that? After telling you to do it in the first place?"

  "Yes, sir. I know it was my doing. I know it was wrong. But—what now? I thought you would know what to do."

  "To make amends?"

  Paks nodded. "I thought—even—I had dishonored my sword. I should—give it up, if you said so: not be a warrior." She had come to that, after dreaming that the victim had been the black horse.

  "Look at me." Paks could not resist the command, and met the Kuakgan's dark eyes, her own blurred with tears. He looked every bit as angry as she had expected. "You would give that up? Your own craft in the world? You take the injury so seriously?"

  "Yes." Paks fought again for control of her voice. "Sir, it was wrong. I have not slept well since. How can I be—what I want, if I could do that?"

  "But you are a soldier," he mused. "I judge you are a good one, as soldiers go. Have you any other skill?"

  "No, sir."

  "I think, then, that you must stay so. Kuakkganni do not hate soldiers, but the necessity of war. If you have dishonored your sword, you must cleanse it with honorable battles. As for amends—the snowcat is dead, and by now the eagles have feasted. Nothing can change that." He looked closely at her, and Paks nodded. "As I said, I have no responsibility for your actions. But if you will be bound by me, I will take a blood payment from you. Give me the ring, with which you bound the snowcat, so that you cannot misuse such power again."

  Paks froze. Give up this ring? Her hand closed on it. She could hear the Duke's voice as he gave it, feel the throb in her injured leg.

  "I will not compel," said the Kuakgan. She could feel, however, the withdrawal behind his words. She unclenched her hand, staring at the ring's twisted strands that meant so much more than power over animals. Then she pulled it from her finger, feeling the tiny ridges for the last time, and laid it in the Kuakgan's waiting palm. His hand closed over it. She felt a cold wave sweep through her heart: that ring she had never meant to lose, save with her life.

  "Child, look at my face." She looked again; he was smiling gravely. "You did well, Paksenarrion. I think the evil was not rooted too deeply in you, and this may have it out. Choose your companions with more care, another time, and trust your own honor more. No one can preserve it but you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Go now. You have much to do, if you would accomplish what the Council set you—and train that black horse you've been busy with."

  Paks started. She had forgotten, until then, that she had been using the ring on the black horse.

  The Kuakgan gave her an open grin. "We will see whether Macenion was right, and all your skill with horses mere ring-magic. I think myself you have a way with animals, ring or no. And you can trust yourself, now. Is it not so?"

  "Yes, sir." Suddenly Paks felt much better. She had not known how much it bothered her to control the horse with the ring.

  "You may take a few extra bruises, but—I heard from Sevri the care you gave your pack pony when you arrived. Such care, Paksenarrion, and not magic, will accomplish what you hope for." He took her shoulders and turned her away from the fountain. "And there's your path out. Don't stray from it—and don't look back."

  "Thank you, sir," said Paks. She walked toward the white stones, and along them to the lane.

  Lighter in heart, Paks headed for the inn, thinking of what had passed. Her finger felt sore and empty without her ring. She would not have bartered it for food if she had been starving. But the Duke, she felt, would rather have had her give it up than keep it in dishonor. She turned aside from the inn door, and went around by the stableyard. Sevri was currying a trader's heavy cart horse outside. Paks went into the stable. Star pushed her head up over the stall side, and Paks scratched her absently, watching the black. He seemed more relaxed; he stood at ease, nose resting on the stall door, tail switching at intervals. Paks fed Star half an apple and took the rest to him.

  He stiffened as she neared the stall, then caught the scent of apple. Paks held it on the flat of her hand. His nostrils quivered; his lip twitched. Slowly he reached out and lifted it from her palm. She reached up and scratched him, just as she would Star. Still crunching, he leaned into the caress. Paks murmured to him, the meaningless, friendly talk that soothes, and watched his eyes slide shut. She heard Sevri behind her in the aisle, leading the cart horse to its stall.

  All at once Paks decided what to do. "Sevri?"

  "Yes? Do you need something?"

  "Only to tell you something." Paks paused. It wasn't going to be easy.
She liked the girl. "Sevri, I—haven't been fair with you." The girl's face was puzzled. "The smith was right, Sevri, about this horse. I was using magic on him. To quiet him."

  "What kind of magic?" She seemed more interested than surprised.

  "A ring. It worked to quiet animals—to control them. That's why I could work with him at all."

  "Oh. Are you using it now? Which ring is it?"

  Paks spread her hand. "I don't have it any more. It was the gold one. I'm sorry, Sevri, I should have told you—"

  "Why? All horse trainers have their secrets. And you weren't using it to hurt him. What happened to your ring? Was it stolen?"

  "No. I gave it to Master Oakhallow." Paks was surprised at the girl's reaction. "But Sevri—your family are kuakgannir, aren't they? I thought you would think it wrong."

  Sevri shrugged. "I don't think you needed it. Master Oakhallow says the heart shows in all things. You were always kind to Star and the black, and that's what works with horses. If you used the ring to quiet him until he could trust you—it shortened your work, that's all."

  Paks felt a wave of relief. She had feared the girl's disapproval more than she knew. "I—I thought you should know, that's all."

  "I'm glad you trust me," said Sevri seriously, older than her years. "But I wouldn't tell those others. Let them think what they will. If they knew you'd had one magic ring, they might come looking for others. I learned that working here in the inn."

  "I hadn't thought of that," said Paks. "Thank you. But now I suppose we might as well see how the training has gone, and bring him out."

  To her surprise, the black horse was no worse than any other morning. Paks had just finished grooming him and turned to reach for the saddle, when she saw the Kuakgan beside her.

  "You are doing well with him," said the Kuakgan. Paks could find nothing in his voice but polite interest. "Have you been able to cure the injuries he received earlier?"

  Paks laid a hand on the horse's shoulder to steady herself. She had not thought to see the Kuakgan again so soon; her breath came short. "Sir, his mouth healed quickly, but—there's one thing. He has deep scars on his hind legs, and I don't know what can be done for them."