Oath of Gold

by Elizabeth Moon

  "You have no elven blood; you do not understand our way?"

  "I—we bury our dead—"

  "And wonder why we leave ours prey to the winds and animals?" Paks nodded. "You humans fear harm, do you not, to the spirits of the dead from harm done even to their dry bones? Yes? Elves, and those of the part-elven who adopt elven ways, need have no such fear. Humans are of the earth, and like all earth-beings share in the taigin." Paks stared at him; she had never heard anyone speak of men and the taigin together. He smiled, and nodded. "Yes, indeed. Some of you are more—are granted more by the high gods—but all humans are to their bodies as the taig to its place. But elves, when they are killed, have no longer any relation to the bodies they used, and harm or injury done the body cannot affect them. An elf may be possessed, but only while alive. Death frees elves from all enchantments. Thus we return the bodies to the earth, which nourished them, without care except for the mourners. It is for ourselves that we lay straight, and bring the sacred boughs."

  Paks nodded, but still had trouble looking at the bodies. Ansuli went on. "You surely lost comrades before, when you fought with the Halveric's friend?"

  "Yes. But—" She looked at Ansuli, trying to think how to say it. "But if Phaer—"

  "Be at rest, human. Some god gave you the gift to sense evil, and to trace it. Phaer placed two daskin arrows in a daskdraudigs, by what you said, and that's enough to make a song for him. He did what he could, and the fir tree moved as its heartwood willed, and by these acts your gift was not wasted. Would you quarrel with the gods' gifts?"

  "No. But—"

  He laughed shortly, as if his ribs hurt him. "But humans would quarrel with anything. No, I'm not angry. Paksenarrion, do you think we regret that you lived? We mourn our friends, yes, but you did not kill Phaer or Clevis." Paks said nothing. She still felt an outsider, the only one who had no elven blood. And she had not fought the daskdraudigs. Ansuli coughed a little. "I was wondering about this gift of yours," he said then. "How long have you had it?"

  "Please?"

  "The gift to sense evil. How long have you had this? All your life?"

  "I don't know," said Paks. "In Fin Panir they said that paladins could sense good and evil—that it was a gift given by Gird when they were chosen and trained. They had some magics, as well, so that we candidates could feel what it was like, but—"

  "I don't mean humans in general. I mean you."

  "Oh. Not—not long. Not before yesterday—" but as she spoke, Paks thought back to those mysterious events in the Duke's Company. She told Ansuli of them, but finished: "But that must have been Canna's medallion, not my own gift, for the Marshal-General said that the gift was found only in paladins of Gird—"

  "She denied the power to paladins of Camwyn and Falk?" His voice was scornful.

  "No, but—"

  "However wise and powerful your Marshal-General of Gird, Paksenarrion, she is not as old or wise or powerful as the gods themselves. Nor as old as elves. Did you know that there are elves in the Ladysforest who knew Gird—knew him as Ardhiel knew you?"

  "No—" Paks had not thought before of the implications of elven longevity. She looked curiously at Ansuli. "Did you?"

  "I? No. I am not so old, being of the half-blood only. But I have spoken to one who knew him. Your Marshal-General—and I grant her all respect—did not. She is not one to bind or loose the gods' gifts. I think she would say that herself, did you ask her. In her time, perhaps, in Fin Panir, the gods give the gift to sense evil to those chosen from among paladin candidates. But in old times and other places, the gods have done otherwise—as they have with you. Your friend's medallion might focus the power for one unknowing and unskilled in its use, as you were, but the gift was yours."

  Paks felt a strange rush of emotions she could not define—she felt like crying and laughing all at once. And deep within, the certainty of that gift rooted and grew. Still she protested: "But—the way I am now—?"

  "Ah, you will speak of it, eh? Giron is not the only one who had heard rumors. Yet you mastered the sickness, did you not? Arrows are missing from your quiver; I suspect you, too, shot at the daskdraudigs—"

  "The arrows broke," whispered Paks, staring at the ground.

  "So would any but daskin arrows, on such a beast. Get you better weapons next time, warrior; it was not your skill that failed." He laughed again, softly. "I wonder what other gifts you have hidden, that you have not seen or used. Are you a lightbringer or a healer? Can you call water from rocks, or set the wind in a ship's sails?"

  "I—no, I am no such—I can't be such. It would mean—"

  "It would mean you had some great work to do, which the gods gave you aid for. It would mean you should learn your gifts, and use them, and waste no words denying what is clear to—" He broke off as they heard Giron and Tamar returning, singing softly one of the evening songs.

  Giron led the way into the clearing, not pausing in his song as he moved to help Ansuli stand. Tamar helped Paks to her feet, and together they moved to the center of the clearing and laid the boughs of holly, cedar, rowan, and fireoak on the bodies. Paks followed the pattern Tamar set, not knowing then or for many years why they were laid as they were.

  When they were done, Tamar helped Paks back to their camp, and she slept the rest of that day and night. The next morning she was able to rise by herself, though still sore and stiff. Ansuli lay heavily asleep, his narrow face flushed with fever. When Paks had eaten breakfast, Giron and Tamar came to sit near her.

  "Can you heal?" asked Giron, as calmly as if he asked whether she could eat mutton. She answered as calmly.

  "I tried to, once, using a medallion of Gird belonging to a friend. I don't know whether it worked—" .

  "Wound or sickness?"

  "An arrow wound."

  "And did it heal?"

  "Yes, but not at once. It might have been—we found surgeon's salve, and used that as well."

  "Did it leave a scar?"

  "My—my friend died, a few days later." Paks looked down. "I don't know if it worked or not."

  "Hmm. I see. And you never tried again?" She shook her head.

  "Why not?"

  Paks shrugged. "It never seemed right—necessary. We had surgeons—a mage—"

  "Healing gifts require careful teaching," murmured Tamar. "Or so I have been told. Without instruction, you might never know—"

  "We must see, then. You have experienced such healing at the hands of others, haven't you?"

  "Yes." Paks thought of the paladin in Aarenis, and of Amberion in Fin Panir. And of the Kuakgan, so different and yet alike.

  "Then you must try." When she looked at him, surprised despite his earlier words, he smiled. "You must try sometime, Paksenarrion, and you might as well begin here. Ansuli has painful injuries, as have you yourself. Try to heal them, and see what happens."

  "But—" She looked at Tamar, who merely smiled.

  "We shall tell no tales of it," said Giron. "If you have no such gift, it is no shame to you; few do. If you come to be a paladin later, it will no doubt be added to you. But here and now you may try, with no prying eyes to see: no god we worship would despise an attempt to heal. And if you succeed, you will know something you need to know, and Ansuli will be able to take the trail again."

  "But I have not called on Gird these several months," said Paks in a whisper. "It seems greedy to ask now—"

  "And whence his power? You told us he served the High Lord. Call on him, if you will."

  Paks shivered. She feared to have such power, yet she feared to know herself without it. She looked up and met Giron's eyes. "I will try." Giron picked her up, and laid her next to Ansuli. This close, Paks could feel the heat of his fever. She rested her hand on his side, where she thought the ribs might be broken. She did not know what to expect.

  At first nothing happened. Paks did not know what to do, and her thoughts were too busy to concentrate on Gird or the High Lord. She found them wandering back to the Kuakgan, to the D
uke, to Saben and Canna. Had she really healed Canna with the High Lord's power? She tried to remember what she had done: she had held the medallion—but now she had no medallion. She looked at Ansuli's face, flushed with fever. She knew nothing of fevers, but that they followed some wounds. We're short of men, she thought, and wondered that Giron had said nothing of it. They had needed her, and more, and now two were dead and another sick. She tried to imagine her way into Ansuli's wound, past the dusky bruises.

  All at once the bruise beneath her hand began to fade. She heard Giron's indrawn breath, and tried to ignore it. She could feel nothing, in hand or arm, to guide her, to tell her what was occurring . . . only the fading stain. She looked quickly at Ansuli's face. Sweat beaded his forehead. Under her hand his breath came longer and easier. Paks felt sweat cold on her own neck. She did not know what she had done, or when to stop. She remembered the Kuakgan talking about healing—his kind of healing—and feared to do more. What if she hurt something? She pulled back her hand.

  Chapter Six

  Dressed in the russet and green of Lyonya's rangers, Paks moved through the open woodland toward the border almost as quietly as the elves. They had given her the long black bow she'd used all summer, and offered a sword if she would stay with them until Midwinter Feast, but Paks felt she must return to the Duke as quickly as she could.

  Now she was near Brewersbridge again. I know this town better than my own, she thought ruefully. She could scarcely remember where in Three Firs the baker was. Ahead she could see the dark mass of the Kuakgan's grove. She turned toward the road: she would not risk that grove despite her new woods learning.

  A caravan clogged the way; she had seen its dust rising over the trees without thinking about it. It was headed east, into Lyonya. As she came across the fields, she saw the guards watching her. So close to Brewersbridge they would think her a shepherd or messenger, not a brigand. She neared the road.

  "Ho, there! Seen any trouble toward the border?" That was a guard in chainmail, with his crossbow cocked, seated on the lead wagon.

  "No—but I've not been on the road. Headed for Chaya, or the forest way to Prealith?"

  He scowled. "Chaya, if it matters to you."

  "I can't help you then. I was in the southern forest three days ago; it's quiet there."

  "You're a ranger?" He was clearly suspicious. Paks turned up the flap of her tunic to show the badge. His face relaxed. "Huh. Don't see Lyonyan rangers this far into Tsaia, usually. You don't—pardon me—look elven."

  "I'm not." Paks grinned. "I hired on for the summer. If you see a band near the spring they call Kiessillin, you might mention me—tell them I was safe in Brewersbridge."

  "Tell them who—a long lass with yellow hair?"

  "Paksenarrion," she called, as the wagon rolled on. He looked startled, but subsided.

  She had not been in Brewersbridge in the summer. At The Jolly Potboy, horses and mules crammed the stableyard; five wagons blocked the way outside. Paks threaded her way between the crowds of people. She heard Hebbinford turning a party away as she passed the door. Down the north road came another group of wagons; these were ox-drawn, and the drovers looked as heavy as their beasts. At last she understood how the town had grown so big. Clearly she could not find room at the inn; the fallow fields near town were full of campsites already. Probably every spare room had its tenant. That left Gird's grange or the Kuakgan. She must speak to Marshal Cedfer, certainly, but—she turned up the north road to the entrance of the grove.

  A party of soldier hailed her. "You! Ranger!"

  After the first twinge of fear, she could stand and talk to them. "Yes?"

  "What are you doing in Tsaia? Is the border secure?"

  "As far as I know. I've left the rangers; I'm headed north."

  "North? Where? And who are you?" None of the group looked familiar.

  "To Duke Phelan's stronghold; I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—"

  "Oh!" said one sharply. "You're the Paksenarrion who—?"

  "Quiet, Kevil!" A heavy-set man with red hair peered at her. "Paksenarrion, eh? Known to anyone here?"

  "Yes." Paks was surprised herself at how calm she felt. "Marshal Cedfer knows me, and Master Oakhallow—I daresay Master Hebbinford will remember me."

  "Well, then." He sucked his teeth. "D'you know our commander?"

  "Sir Felis?" He nodded, and Paks went on. "I knew Sir Felis, yes."

  "Hmph. We've had a bit of trouble lately—have to watch strangers—"

  Paks looked at the crowded streets and grinned at him. "Keeps you busy, does it?"

  He did not grin in return. "Aye, it keeps us busy. It's not funny, neither. I'd heard you were a swordfighter, not an archer."

  "The rangers use bows," said Paks. "I spent the summer with them."

  "Ah. Well, where are you staying?"

  "I don't know yet. The inn's packed. I wanted to see Master Oakhallow—"

  "Thought you were a Gird's paladin or some such," said one of the other soldiers, with an edge to his voice.

  "No," said Paks quietly. "I am a Girdsman, but not a paladin."

  "Quiet," said the red-haired man again. "You've been here before, from what I hear—if you are the same Paksenarrion. But we've had trouble, you see—we don't want more—"

  "I don't intend—"

  "That's all I mean. If you stay with the Gird's Marshal, or the Kuakgan, or some friend, well, that's fine. Or if not, come out to the keep, and I daresay Sir Felis will speak for you. Only I'm supposed to keep order—"

  "I understand," said Paks. He nodded abruptly and led the group away. Paks could hear them talking, and the redhead shushing them, before they had gone ten yards.

  As she came to the grove entrance, she suddenly wondered how many times she would come there. It seemed for a moment that she was constantly entering and leaving the grove. She shook her head and went on. As suddenly as always, the street noise dropped away, leaving only the sound of leaves and wind and small creatures rustling in the growth. This time she knew the different trees, knew the names and flowers and berries of the little plants that fringed the path, knew the names of the birds that flitted overhead. She knew enough to be surprised that incense cedar and yellow-wood grew side by side, that a strawberry was still in flower.

  Again, that empty glade with the fountain murmuring in its midst. Paks had been thinking what she might put in the basin. When it came to it, she laid a seed she had found, from a tall flowering tree she had not seen anywhere but in one part of Lyonya. No one appeared; she stood beside the fountain, listening to the water, for some time. Was the Kuakgan gone? She had never imagined the grove without him. What kind of trouble had the local soldiers so upset? Her feet hurt; she folded her legs and sat beside the lower pool to wait.

  Then he was there, not three yards away, smiling at her. Paks started to stand, but he motioned her back down.

  "So," he said. "You carry a bow now. You are well?"

  "Yes." Paks felt she could say that much honestly. Not as she had been, but well.

  "Good. You look better. Where are you bound?"

  "To Duke Phelan's. I felt it was time."

  He nodded soberly. "It is, and more than time. Did you fight, Paksenarrion?"

  "Yes. I didn't—I couldn't feel the same. But I can fight. Well enough, though I can't tell if it's as well. The rangers have different training."

  "True. But you are a warrior again? In your mind as well?"

  She hesitated. In her own mind a warrior longed for war—but she knew what he meant. "Yes—yes, I think so."

  "Did you want to stay here a night or so?"

  "I thought to stay at the inn, but it's full. If I could, sir—"

  "Certainly. I told you when you left you were welcome to return. Besides—" he stopped suddenly and turned to something else. "Have you eaten?"

  "No, sir. Not since morning."

  "That's not what I taught you." His voice was severe, but she caught the undertone of laughter. "What did I say
about food?"

  Paks grinned, suddenly unafraid. "Well, sir, the rangers fed me well enough—as you can see—and I just didn't stop at noon. I wanted to get here well before dark—"

  "We'll eat at the inn, if that's agreeable." He stood, and she clambered up. "You might want to leave your bow here; the local militia have become nervous of weapons—"

  "I noticed. What about the Girdsmen?"

  "They don't bother the Marshal, of course. The others—well, they don't carry weapons much, anyway. It's the rumors, mostly—that Lyonya is in trouble, that the king is dying—" He led the way to his house. "There's a fear of invasion, from Lyonya—stupid, really, since if they've got trouble, they'll be fighting at home. But our count worries." Paks followed him indoors, and stood her bow in the corner of the front room, laying her quiver of arrows carefully beside it. "Did you want to wash?"

  "Yes. Thank you." Paks had bathed in a creek that morning, but morning was many dusty hours back. When she came from the bathing room, she felt almost rested. The Kuakgan was looking at her bow.

  "Blackwood," he commented. "I'm surprised they sold you one of these."

  "They didn't," said Paks. "It was a gift."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. You did well, then, in Lyonya."

  "I tried to." Paks finished tying up the end of her braid. "Now that you've mentioned food—"

  He smiled, and they left the house for the inn.

  * * *

  Hebbinford knew her at once. "Paks! I never thought—I mean, I'm glad to see you again." His eyes were shrewd. "You've heard about not wearing weapons or armor, I see—"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I'm sorry we're full—I haven't a room, not even a loft—"

  "No matter. I have a place."

  Hebbinford looked at the Kuakgan, and back at Paks. "I'm glad indeed to see you. You will eat here?"

  "If you have enough room for that," said the Kuakgan. "And enough food. Paks tells me she is truly hungry—"

  "And you know my appetite," said Paks, grinning. Hebbinford waved them in.