"My accountant tells me your debt is paid," the king said, peeling a peach. "Do you have anything to say?" He still hoped Falk would make some complaint, and give excuse for a final whipping.
"I kept my oath," Falk said, after a moment of silence.
"You were a fool to make such an oath," the king said. And to his men, "Strip him and send him away naked as he was born, for fools have no right to mercy." So his men stripped Falk of the loincloth he wore, and pushed him out of the hall, the courtyard and beyond the palace walls, jeering all the way.
But outside the walls, when Falk had stumbled a few paces into the little shanty village that lay there, the people came out and spoke kindly to him, for they knew his story. This one brought him water, and that one a hunk of bread, and another brought a patched shirt, and another a pair of ragged pants, too wide and too short, with a length of twisted straw for a belt. From the village well, someone drew a bucket of water for him to bathe before he put the clothes on. He could scarcely speak, but they patted his shoulders and sent him on his way with soft words of encouragement.
When he arrived back at his own land, after a difficult journey during which he had worked for food on farms and in towns, he was but little stronger, and he was almost turned back at the border. "How do we know you are that prince? Where is your ring? You look nothing like the men you claim as brothers!" the guards said. But at last he was allowed on his way, and at last he came to his father's palace and there he found his father still on the throne, but now more gray, and his brothers ranged on either side, their wives with them, and their children playing at their feet. Where there had once been seven seats for the princes, now there were but six.
"Who is this beggar come to the king's hall?" asked the king his father of the steward.
Before the steward could speak, Falk replied, "It is I: Falk, your son who was held captive."
"Is it fourteen years already?" the king said, glancing at his other sons. "If I had thought, we might have had a feast prepared-" He looked more sharply at Falk. "You have changed," he said.
"I kept my oath," Falk said.
His third brother rose from his seat and said, "Falk, I am sorry—I should have kept better count—but come, here is a seat for you!"
But the king said, "Never mind that—he is filthy and unkempt. Let him bathe and dress properly and then we shall talk of what is to be done."
Falk was taken to a guest chamber, not the best, and there bathed, his hair and beard trimmed, and given clothes to wear. The servants did not seem to know how to treat him, until he was dressed again in princely garments, and even then frowned more than they smiled. At dinner that evening, everyone stared at Falk, some with worry and some—including his brothers' wives—with contempt when he dropped a bit of food or his fork clinked on the plate. He had not eaten at a proper table for all those years; he had forgotten how to handle the implements and his scarred crooked hands were clumsy.
And yet, free once more, neither hungry nor confined, he was happy enough to surprise himself. Looks of contempt did not matter; he had had nothing else for fourteen years. For the next few tendays, he wandered the palace, reminding himself of the places he had so enjoyed as a youth: gardens, fountains, beautiful rooms, music played in the evenings, comfortable clothes, his soft bed. He went to the stable, and was assigned a mount, but he found mounting and riding painful now, from the damage to his hips and knees. Still he kept trying, riding slowly through the orchards and along the fields, rejoicing in being free of chains and locks, unthreatened by whips.
He noticed that most of his brothers avoided him, all but the third, who spoke kindly to him and had another seat moved to the king's hall so that Falk could sit at the high table. He did not try to approach them. Gradually his strength returned somewhat with good food and rest, though the gray in his hair and beard, that made him look older than the others, did not darken, and his scars did not disappear.
Finally his father called him in. Falk knelt, though it was painful, and waited to hear what his father would say.
"I am sorry for your suffering," the king said. "But the fact is—I can find no wife for you. You have no look of royalty anymore and bear no resemblance to our house. You're too old. And I have six sons—six other sons. Why not move out to the country, into the hills where the shepherds range? There I will give you a nice house, some land, I'll provide some servants-"
"You're ashamed of me," Falk said. "Though I kept my oath."
The king turned red in the face, and Falk saw in his father the same cruelty he had seen in the evil king's face. "Take the house," his father said. "But leave my court. You are not the son I knew before."
So Falk left his father's court, and the king's third son also left the court to go with Falk, bringing along his wife and their two children. It had been Falk's idea to wander the world and help those in need, but his brother and his brother's wife convinced him to settle somewhere for the sake of the children. Falk would not consider the house the king had promised, or even his father's kingdom, so they traveled for a time. Falk's tale spread and when he settled at last, people came to him for protection and for advice on how to live with honor.
Because Falk's brother had known himself a prince all his life, and had more pride in his birth than Falk, he believed that it was Falk's royal blood that made him capable of both making and keeping such an oath as had saved the brothers. And—having been a captive only a short time—he retained the face and body of a prince. He it was who told Falk's story abroad, in one noble household after another, making it such a tale of high courage and honor that other youths whose hearts were set on honor came and begged to learn of Falk. Thanks to Falk's brother, it was mostly those of noble birth who came to be taught. Yet other tales of Falk went from one peasant to another, from the village outside the cruel king's castle all across the land, and from those tales came those under cruel rulers, asking Falk's help.
Thus the tradition began, and in later times the followers of Falk, unlike those of Gird, believe that leadership ability and a love of honor is inborn and more likely to occur in those of noble birth. Falk himself was gracious to all, even the most humble who sought his teaching, and insisted that they not be excluded. Both of them, Falk and his brother, and then his brother's children, taught the importance of honor and oathkeeping in all things, as well as the arts of war, to be used to protect the helpless.
* * * *
It is not known where Falk lived, or exactly when, or how he died. Many tales have been told of him, and some may be true. Certain it is that great deeds have been done in Falk's name, and many who call upon him have found unexpected aid in peril. Still, Falkians have dwindled since the time of Gird. Only one training hall for Knights of Falk remains, somewhere in the forests of Lyonya. There each Knight of Falk receives a small ruby, a symbol of the blood Falk shed to save others. It is said that if a Knight of Falk betrays the oath of service to Falk, the ruby disappears.
The End
Authors Note on "Falk's Oath"
When I was first working on The Deed of Paksenarrion, I wrote a lot of background material—legends, folktales, songs, etc. And when I had finished those books, I had notebooks filled with these very useful references. In the twenty-odd years between those books and the new Paksworld books, the Paladin's Legacy books, those notebooks—supposedly put away in a particular safe place—disappeared. Utterly. Luckily, enough remained in my memory, with clues from the books, to recreate some of the old material, though not in the same exact words. Falk's legend is older than Gird's, possibly older than the magelords' arrival in the Eight Kingdoms since he is mentioned in the "Oathsong of Mikeli," which is at least that old. Knights of Falk exist in book-now, and this is the legend they rely on.
Cross Purposes
"That miserable disgusting cow-dung duke has turned out to be elven royalty? I don't believe it." Torfinn, king of Pargun, speared a hunk of sausage with the point of his dagger.
"Our commander, m
y lord, swears—" Bradatt, the king's most trusted advisor, folded his hands on top of the reports he'd brought.
"He would swear anything, having lost the battle and come home without sword or armor, he and his whole troop. Magical beasts...elves...a dome of light...what does he think I am, a fool?"
"No, my lord, but—"
"Phelan has frustrated my plans for thirty years; he and Tsaia have stolen our land—"
"Er...it was never really ours, my lord—"
Torfinn's fist came down on the table; dishes clattered. "It was north of the river. The damned magelords invaded, enslaved our people or threw them out...it should have been our land—"
"The earthfolk warned us, my lord—it's in the archives—do not go west of the Great Falls."
"The earthfolk—" Torfinn's voice lowered. "The earthfolk are earthfolk; who can understand their ways? They set limits on us in our homeland, giving us no way but the sea to escape when the magelords came. And again, here. She said it might be ours. She said take what you need, so long as you give me my due..."
"I speak nothing against Her. She is the mistress of strategy, as my lord knows." Bradatt crossed his arms and bowed in his chair.
"Indeed I do." Torfinn glanced around the chamber, empty now but for himself and this most trusted minister, and yet...there were drapes and shelves and scrolls and thousands of places where tiny beings might hide, from which bright eyes might watch, and he none the wiser.
His ancestors had made peace with the Weaver, the Lady of Mystery, the—in vulgar parlance—Webspinner, Achrya. She whose smaller children captured noxious flies and other insects that otherwise brought disease and death. She whose strategems no one might ignore, without grave danger. She hated magelords—who could understand the gods, to know why? She had been their natural ally, when first the Seafolk sailed up the broad river and settled here, teaching women the spells to weave storm-proof sails.
"It is her wish that we take back those lands north of the Honnorgat," Torfinn said. "It has always been her wish, and what has most frustrated me, in my obedience, has been that man, that Kieri Phelan. Even as a young man, he defeated my father, killed my elder brother. It is from him that the implacable enmity of the Tsaians comes...and now he is to rule the country directly across the river? Encompass me on two sides? I will not have it!"
"But the elves, sire...if he is truly half-elven..."
"Elves! Bah! They are but another kind of mageborn, Bradatt. Liars, tricksters, every one of them, and the only way to protect ourselves is to trick them back. With Her help."
"The earthfolk say they're Elders, like themselves."
Torfinn shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Our people knew earthfolk in the homeland, but never mentioned elves, not in any tales I heard of. The first we knew of them was here, where the magelords were. I've never seen an elf and the powers they're said to have, when they drove our people from the southern shore, are those of magelords. I think they are magelords who did not lose their powers, or have some way to feign powers they once had. Using tame wizards perhaps."
"But our troops were defeated—"
"So they were. I trusted Verrakai, fool that I was. I know him descended from magelords, but also opposed to the Mahieran monarchy...I had his promise that when the monarchy fell, he would return our northern lands...at least in the east."
Bradatt sighed.
"I know," Torfinn said, having noticed the sigh. "I know what you said, and you were right. But it was a chance as comes but rarely; I could not ignore it. And now that red-headed fellow will be their king...but surely has not yet taken real control. Perhaps if we attack now—"
"Sire...it is but a few tendays until the ice goes; we would risk isolating an army across the river during spring thaw. In the mud."
Torfinn shifted in his seat. "I have to think of something. He might attack—"
"Surely not now. As you said, he has yet to take complete control of his kingdom; the coronation is scarce over. There will be much to do there, to keep him busy. The kingdom's vulnerable—"
"Exactly why I thought now—"
"Yes. The old king's health and its effects. But that vulnerability will keep him busy on his side of the river. And rumor has it the elves—or whatever you want to call them—his grandmother included—do not want him fighting."
"Women never do," Torfinn said. Most women, anyway, he reminded himself.
"There's an interesting story," Bradatt said. "About those years he was unknown." He paused; the king nodded. "I heard it through the Verrakai, who sent a message before he left Vérella. Apparently, Phelan was not just stolen away as a child from the court of Lyonya—he was imprisoned across the eastern sea. By one of them."
"A magelord?" Torfinn started, and looked hard at his advisor. "Why did you not tell me this before?"
"That messenger went by conventional routes, north from Vérella and then across country. He arrived days later than the battle, the day after we learned of defeat. I was not myself informed until yesterday."
"Mmm." Torfinn considered. The stories the Seafolk had brought with them from across the eastern ocean, terrible and filled with blood and pain, gave him a moment's pause. If such still existed; if the magelords who had migrated there still held the powers they once held, and if they had captured a child...he did not want to think of that. He did not want to feel sympathy for an enemy, especially not this enemy. "Do you think it true?" he asked.
"It was given in testimony at court, before the Council and the crown prince," Bradatt said. "And the elves there—the alleged elves there—agreed it was so. That is all I can say; I doubt we will find out more now."
"It would be a terrible thing for a child," the king said, still holding sympathy aside, but with an effort. "But I cannot see how a child could escape, let alone survive to reach these shores. A small child, alone and friendless...and then, supposing it to be the same child, why did not his relatives recognize him? If indeed he has such powers as his mother's relatives are said to have?"
"That I do not know," Bradatt said. "It seems remarkable, but perhaps he had some innate magic."
"Or perhaps it never happened," Torfinn said. He did not want to believe it; everything in his tradition demanded kinship with those the magelords had captured, and he wanted no kinship with Phelan. Surely it never happened. It had been too convenient, the death of Lyonya's old, sick king and the discovery that a strong younger man was the natural heir. Someone had contrived the story, and all had agreed to spread it. He, Torfinn, would not be fooled by something so obviously impossible.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts; he scowled. No one was supposed to interrupt his morning conferences.
"Father!"
Elis. Naturally, it was Elis, the most troublesome of his daughters.
"Come," he said. He glanced aside at Bradatt, who took the hint, gathered his materials, and left the room as Elis came in. She wore a heavy wool tunic and trousers, her fair hair in a single braid down her back. He stared—for a moment she looked almost like that paladin of Phelan's he'd seen once, riding patrol just inside Phelan's borders. But that one's hair had been more yellow; Elis's was silver-gilt like his own and despite her boyish ways she moved more like a princess than a soldier.
"I came for the money you promised," she said, blunt as always. "To send with my builders, to the north—"
As if he had forgotten the reason. "You're sure?" he said.
She glared at him."Of course I'm sure. Have I asked for anything else, these last five years, than this chance? And you agreed, at Sunturning, you promised—"
He had, indeed, seeing no chance of marrying this one off—no princes of the right age, or temperament either. Elis had inherited his own lordly ways, and nothing the women had tried changed her. If only she had been a son...
"There is a new king in Lyonya," he said, just to see how she would explode this time. "He has no wife."
She did not explode, but her ice-blue eyes pierced him like ho
t needles. "I am not minded to become a wife," she said. "And you have other daughters to bestow, if you're determined to make peace with him. Atonyin, for instance, would like nothing better than to play the queen."
Atonyin was a fool, interested only in flirtations and parties; it was only by the exercise of stringent measures that she had been kept from disaster. "She is younger," he said. "The man is much older."
"Then he is also older than me," Elis said with splendid disdain. "And he has long been your enemy. Do not play this game with me, Father. You promised."
He had promised, but he was the king, and she was but a stripling girl, over-willful, who had not earned what she demanded. "You shall have your money," he said. "I would see the plans of this place you want to build, first."
She had a skin ready, the plans neatly drawn; he had to admit being impressed that she had come prepared. He looked at the plan, half-listening to her description, aware as he had not been for a long time of her body, her woman-grown body...a shame to waste it up there in the north. She could be of much more use than Atonyin; she had the intelligence, the strength of will, and clearly—from this—the ability to plan and execute a plan. What a son she would have made, if she had been a boy...and what a powerful queen she might make, in the right place.
But she would never consent. She stood back, now, giving him stare for stare. She had no modesty, no demure submission, not a scrap of it...and as she was, she was a liability here, where she had already bloodied noses and blacked eyes of those who thought she must be like her sisters.
An idea glimmered below his awareness; he could not pull it up in time, and found himself scribbling a note to his chancellor, releasing the funds he'd promised. He gave it to her; she nodded abruptly, with only the slightest change in expression that might be a smile. "Thank you, Father," she said. "I will render accounts regularly." Then she turned, without asking his permission, and strode out of the chamber.
Deeds of Honor Page 2
