Oath of Gold

by Elizabeth Moon

  At that moment the truth blazed in Paks's mind. "Phelan," she breathed. "You're talking about Kieri Phelan!" Everything came together—his age, his coloring, his—

  "Yes," said Aliam heavily. "I am. Kieri Artfiel Phelan, so he said his name when he came. Gods! If I'd only paid attention to Jeris—if I'd even known the lost prince's name—but I was a boy! Just a boy!"

  "But he doesn't look half-elven," said Paks. "The others I've met—"

  "I know. He looks so much like his father—in fact, that's what I saw first. I thought he was someone's by-blow, possibly royal, certainly well-bred, one way or another. Even when I thought of it, it seemed impossible, and that was part of it: he didn't look elven, or show any such abilities. And I was too young to be sure—"

  "I don't know if the name would have convinced us, either," said Estil. "Falki's the common nickname, and we knew Kieri as a name from Tsaia or Aarenis."

  Aliam shook his head. "What a mess!" Then he looked at her sharply. "But he can't be king. Tir's bones, I'd give my right arm to make him one, but he can't—"

  "Why not?"

  "If only I'd known about the sword back then," Aliam went on heedlessly. "Then, with Tamarrion alive—maybe he could have come back. But—and wait a moment! He can't be the one—I gave him the sword. Nothing happened."

  "Did he draw it, my lord?"

  Aliam thought long and looked at Estil. "I don't remember—no, I don't think so. I drew it, to show him the runes. I don't—now I think of it, I don't believe he touched it at all. I wrapped it for him—"

  "I remember," said Estil suddenly. "Tamarrion told me, when her first child was born. When he gave it to her, he vowed never to draw it—"

  "That's right; you told me." Aliam touched her hair. "I remember thinking Kieri was as sentimental as I am. He wanted her to feel that he was taking nothing from her as a warrior, Paksenarrion, and so he vowed never to draw her sword—it was hers, and only hers. But he was so close—surely it would do something—"

  Paks sat for a long silent time with both of them watching her. Finally she shook her head slightly. "Perhaps not. Amrothlin said that although the sword was made for him, and would recognize him in some way, it was meant to be sealed to him by elven ceremony. That's one of the reasons the prince was being taken to the Ladysforest. Perhaps until that ceremony, it would proclaim him if he drew it himself from the scabbard."

  "And he was so close—" Estil's voice was awed. "So close all those years—it's hard to believe he never did—"

  "Not with him," said Aliam. "His word's been good, always."

  "My lord," said Paks, leaning forward in her chair, "You see that I must know everything you can tell me about him. I must know why you thought he was the prince—and what was against it—and why you think he is unfit to rule—" Estil stirred, but Paks went on. "I must know what you know of his past—all of it—no matter how terrible. If he is the rightful king—"

  "It would all fit," said Aliam. "The sword—they were telling me to give it to him—if I could figure out the riddle. They thought it was well enough, as they said, when I gave it to Tamarrion—perhaps they were sure he'd draw it in time."

  "Well, my lord?" Paks persisted.

  "All right. All right." Aliam sighed heavily. "Estil? What do you have? I know you know things about him he never told me." Estil ran her hands through her hair, and began.

  "He came to us, Paksenarrion, near forty years ago. I can look it up in the rolls, but Cal was a baby just starting to walk strongly. That would be—let me think—thirty-eight years last fall."

  "One of the woodsmen brought him in," said Aliam. "Found him wandering in the forest. I was butchering that day. Anyway, he said he wanted to work, and it was snowing and all." Aliam rubbed his nose. "He was a skinny, dirty, red-haired rat, to look at. All bones and rags. Said he'd come ashore earlier that year on the coast, at Bannerlith—he couldn't say what ship—and had worked his way inland. But no one wanted him through the winter. That's common enough." Paks did not say that she knew it. She waited for him to go on, but he nodded to Estil.

  "It wasn't long," said Estil, "before we had him into the Hall. What I noticed was his neathanded way at the table. Most boys that age—that size—they knock things over, trip on their own feet. He didn't. I thought he'd make a fine page—we were out of the way and young to get fosterlings."

  "And he was scared—if we have to have it all out, Estil, you can't deny that. The first night at my table, the lad takes amiss something I said and shrinks back like he thought I'd beat him." Aliam gave her a challenging look. Estil colored. Then she met Paks's eyes.

  "He did, Paksenarrion. I don't recall what Aliam said, but Kieri flinched from him. I knew that would make Aliam angry; he's never mistreated servants, and to have the boy act like that before strangers—"

  "—from Aarenis," Aliam broke in. "Guildsmen—that turned into my first contract."

  "Anyway, I took him out, and spoke to him. That's when I found he'd been in a Hall before, somewhere else. He thought—" She looked at Aliam as if afraid to say it, but he nodded. "He thought," she went on with difficulty, "that Aliam had meant him to sleep with one of the guests. As a—a—"

  "I understand," said Paks. Estil nodded.

  "I don't know any polite word," she said quietly. "Anyway, I told him no, and that nothing like that happened here, or would happen to him with us, and he—he seemed to come alive inside. Then I saw the scars on his head—and later the others he carried—"

  "I knew about that," said Aliam. "He told me much later—that time in Aarenis. Some of it, anyway."

  "Well, he came to the house, then, as a page, and we thought he was about fourteen. Old enough to start learning weaponry. At first we thought it wouldn't work—"

  "I thought he was a hopeless coward," said Aliam frankly. "Couldn't have been more wrong; he didn't understand at first that he was allowed to hit back. Once he realized, nothing could keep him from it. He had no fear at all, as long as he could fight back."

  "And he took in knowledge as a plant drinks water," said Estil. "And grew—keeping that boy in clothes was a loom's work in itself. And loyal—he would do anything for Aliam or me. Mind the children, even, which the other squires hated. Cal loved him—they all did."

  "Anything but learn to think. D'you remember, Estil, the trouble we had with that boy? Daring—by all the gods, he had no fear and dared anything, but he wanted to impress everyone. He never broke out in mischief, but he was so certain of himself, so sure he could come out ahead—"

  "And the fights," put in Estil. She smiled at Paks. "He wasn't a quarrelsome boy, exactly, but then he wouldn't give in. He didn't bully the weaker boys—but until he made senior squire, he was always pushing the senior ones. Nip, nip, nip. Then they'd get angry and jump him, and he'd fight until he was out cold or on top."

  "And then I'd have to settle it." Aliam shifted in his chair. "He took to tactics at once—strategy took longer. It was not in his nature to take the long view. And he wanted power—ached for it. He would never try to take it from me, but gods help the weaker squire—or even cohort captain. That Hakkenarsk Pass thing was typical—he thought out a good plan quickly, carried it out brilliantly, didn't forget anything vital, and then nearly killed himself trying to stay in control when his wounds went bad. Or the time in Aarenis, the next year, when I let him take that patrol out. The sergeant was supposed to be in command. Ha. Next thing I know, Kieri lost half the patrol into captivity, then enlisted some unaligned peasants, rescued the men, and fought a small battle—and as the sergeant said, it was like trying to lead a galloping warhorse on a thread. It did what needed to be done, but the risk!"

  Paks smiled. "But why, my lord, do you think he is unfit to rule? Look at him now—he has a domain in Tsaia. It's gone from an orc-ridden, outlaw, uncultivated slab of northern hills to a settled, secure, prosperous land under his wardship. Isn't that some sign of his ability?"

  "Yes, but that's not all. You are not Lyonyan; you
may not know what we need in a king—"

  "Taig-sense?" asked Paks bluntly.

  "Yes, partly that. As far as I know, Kieri has no taig-sense. At all. And that impatience, that quick anger. You know that—you were there in Aarenis. If Tamarrion had lived—he was very different after their marriage. I wish you had known him then; she was well-named, for she gave him light without changing what he was. But she died, and he turned darker than before. He banished the Marshals—I know he wrote something about talking to them again, after you unmasked his steward, but—"

  "They're back," said Paks.

  "What?"

  "My lord, I think you do not know all that happened this fall when I returned to the Duke. He invited the Marshals back himself; he and the Marshal-General of Gird conferred in his hall, and they have no differences between them."

  "Well." Aliam sat back, pursing his lips. "Well. I would never have thought that. I don't know if it's enough, but—"

  "My lord, I would agree with you that the man we both knew and fought with in Aarenis that last year would not make a good king for Lyonya—or any land. But that was over two years ago. Last year I was a homeless vagrant, afraid of everything and everyone—a true coward, my lord, as you thought Phelan was. Now I have been changed; now I know he has been changed, for I saw the change myself. At the time, I had no idea what the change might mean to him or to others—but it may have made him able to be your king."

  "And the taig-sense?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps the sword can restore it. Perhaps the elves can. If his rashness, his anger, are what they feared, and these have diminished, then maybe they will help."

  "Do they know what you know of the changes in him?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then they should. The question is how best to tell them." Aliam turned to Estil. "What do you think?"

  "I don't know. I can't think of anything but Kieri—as we knew him—and the sword, so near, and—"

  "How far is it to the elven kingdom, my lord?" asked Paks.

  Aliam looked startled. "Far? I don't know; I've never been. You can't go there, unless they want you to come."

  "I know, but I thought maybe the rangers could guide me—Amrothlin claimed the queen was his sister; his mother is in the Ladysforest. If I convinced her—"

  "Convince an elf?" Aliam looked at her. "Well, you might at that. But Paksenarrion, think: the elves love children as dearly as we do, perhaps more. And yet they knew he lived, and did nothing—they had some reason for that, but I doubt they liked it. For all we know they've been arguing that one out for all the years since. It's not like elves to leave one of their blood in trouble."

  "Perhaps they did help," said Estil suddenly. "Aliam, remember when Kieri was young here—we had a group of elves come by almost every winter. Sometimes they'd stay for Midwinter Feast. Kieri seemed to like elves as well as any of the squires, and he has said since that elves have done him favors from time to time."

  "Maybe. I still think, though, that if he's the prince, and half-elven, they will be sore in mind at not having done him much more than occasional favors. Falk's oath, Estil, the elves of all races honor high birth—"

  "When it's not been corrupted. Remember the bits of elven lore we know—about the kuaknom, and such."

  "That's not the same thing at all." Aliam's face went red. "Kieri may have a hasty temper, but he's nothing like that. I can't believe that they let a prince of their blood—"

  "Could they have done better than you, my lord?" asked Paks. "If they didn't want to interfere directly, they knew that you would take good care of him. By all accounts, you took a frightened helpless boy and made a strong man of him."

  "I still—" began Aliam. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "What is it?" he asked sharply.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Cal Halveric looked in; Paks could see that he was trying to control his excitement.

  "Pardon, sir, but elves have come—"

  "Elves?"

  "Yes—I know you didn't want to be interrupted, but—"

  Aliam nodded. "At once. Paksenarrion, will you come with me? And Estil, of course."

  "Certainly, my lord." Paks and Estil followed Aliam down to the Hall, where a group of elves waited.

  Paks recognized none of them. They were all wearing mail and furred cloaks, their faces partly obscured by the hoods.

  "I am Aliam Halveric," said Aliam, going forward to meet them. "Be welcome in this Hall."

  "My lord Halveric," said one of them, "you may not wish to welcome us; will you hear our errand first?"

  Aliam froze where he was. Paks saw a band of color flush his neck. "Indeed, elves have always been welcome here, and all my guests are free to speak their minds."

  "Your courtesy becomes you, my lord Halveric. But Amrothlin sent word to the Ladysforest that Paksenarrion of Three Firs, a Girdish paladin, had sworn to seek the lost prince. He feared, he said, that the two of you together might discover the prince's name and place. It is this we come to halt."

  Paks stepped forward, sensing anger and unease in the elf, but not evil. "Amrothlin did not interfere in the search," she said. "Why should you?"

  The elf's eyes blazed at her. "You are that paladin, are you not?"

  "I am."

  "I have heard of you." That carried all the scorn an elf could put into Common, a cold serving of contempt. "I would not expect you to understand; you have no sinyin blood at all. But many of us have long regretted the alliance of men and sinyin in this realm. It was bad enough that our beloved sister wed that mortal king, and died by mortal hands. To lose her children to men's greed—one for money, and one for power—was far worse. And no human peasant girl, no sheepfarmer's child, is going to set a taig-crippled draudigs on the throne. Is that clear? I have come for that sword, paladin, which is none of yours."

  Paks saw from the corner of her vision the King's Squires group themselves near her, hands on swords. It seemed colder in the room, and every detail glittered. The elf went on.

  "It is neither yours nor any human's. It was made for one of ours, and carried by one of ours, and to us it will return. Return it!" He held out his hand, commanding.

  "No," said Paks quietly. "I will not."

  "You would force me to fight in the Halveric's hall?" The elf threw back his cloak, his own hand now on the hilt of his sword. Paks kept her hands in her belt.

  "No, I do not force you to fight. If you fight, it will be on your own conscience." The elf started to speak, but Paks went on. "I will not return the sword to you; it is not yours. The sword belongs to the one for whom it was made—the lost prince, the true king, the one who shall rule in Lyonya, by the will of the High Lord."

  "He is gone," said the elf. "He is no more."

  "Amrothlin said he lived."

  "Amrothlin lied! The body lives, that is all. The prince, the true spirit—that died in him." Now the voice was as pleading as angry. "We cannot accept that the throne be held by a hollow man—one empty of himself—"

  "He is not," said Paks. She caught the slight movement as all the elves reacted to that.

  "You know who it is?" More than the elves hung on her answer.

  "Yes." Paks looked around the room, seeing humans as well as elves taut with suspense. "I know—and I know that he is not hollow, as you would say."

  "But in Aarenis—" began the spokesman.

  Paks held up her hand. "Sir elf, not all here know the name; I would not choose to publish it abroad at this moment—would you?"

  "By the Singer, I hope it is never known!" The elf turned to his companions and spoke rapidly in elven; Paks could not follow his words. Then he swung around again. "You meddle in things you do not understand, paladin. It must not be."

  "Sir elf, you also meddle in what you do not understand. Would you question the High Lord's judgment?"

  "I question any human's ability to discern that judgment. As for you, I have heard of you, paladin. You were nothing but a common soldier, a mercena
ry, a hired killer, and then even lower—"

  Esceriel stepped forward, his sword rasping as he drew it; Paks put out her arm and held him back. "No—put it by, Esceriel. I truly believe it is as I said—this elf meddles in what he does not understand. It is no insult to me, to speak truth, and I think his errors more ignorance than malice."

  "By Falk!" Aliam burst out. "You cannot speak like that to a paladin in my Hall, elf, whoever you are. She was never a common soldier—"

  "Peace, my lord. At one time I thought I was, and it satisfied me. Sir elf, my past is past; it may seem strange to you, for whom it is so brief, but to me a year ago is far away. Whatever I was then, I am now a paladin, chosen by my gods for this quest. If you dispute the truth of that, then I must make what proofs I can—but preferably outside. Even as a common soldier I disliked common brawls."

  That got a laugh from the men-at-arms still in the Hall; Paks saw Estil's mouth twitch, and one of the elves, in the rear of the party, grinned openly. The spokesman frowned, then shook his head. "If you will not yield the sword willingly—"

  "I will not."

  "Then I must try to convince you. I thought paladins were sworn to good—"

  "I am sworn to the gods who chose me; as you have doubts that any human can discern the High Lord's will, I have doubts that anyone can know good without guidance."