The Deed of Paksenarrion (122 page)

“You could have asked, Paks,” said Fallis mildly. “We thought it would be easier for you, with your wounds still healing, than climbing all over.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. Now that she’d said it, she felt ashamed, and still somehow resentful. She shouldn’t have protested—she shouldn’t have felt that way. Yet she did, and it was unfair.

“Take some time tomorrow,” Amberion said. “I’ll show you some things if you wish.” But Paks felt that he was humoring her, as if she were still sick.

When she tried to follow Amberion around the stronghold the next day, she found that in one thing the High Marshals were right. She was too weak to climb far. She pushed herself, determined not to show what she felt, but when Amberion turned back toward the lower levels, near midday, she was glad. That afternoon she copied lists without complaint, and that evening the High Marshals announced their decision to try to use the pattern on the Hall’s platform.

“We won’t take everyone; enough must stay here to go back, as planned. The maps show another way out this canyon, down through the western cliffs, and a clear trail to the trade route from Kaelifet. We suggest that instead of the trail that would take you past the kuaknom again. But if the transfer works, we will return and the rest of you can travel easily that way. Wait ten days for us to return before you leave; Ardhiel assures me that if we can use the pattern at all, we can return in that time.”

Paks was elated to find that they wanted her to try the pattern with them. High Marshal Connaught, commander of the expedition, was staying behind; those returning were Amberion, High Marshal Fallis, Ardhiel, Balkon, and herself. With Connaught watching, they mounted the platform, standing as near the center as they could. Paks watched Balkon; he had confided to her that if he was to travel like this, he might as well go home if he could. Then the High Marshals together lifted their voices, calling on Gird and the High Lord. Ardhiel’s silvery elven song joined them, then Balkon’s chant in dwarvish. Paks thought she heard a faint and distant call of trumpets.

As the Hall of Luap’s stronghold faded around them, the sound of trumpets seemed to come nearer. Abruptly they were standing on the lower dais of the High Lord’s Hall at Fin Panir, facing the Marshal-General as she came forward between the ranks of knights: the fanfare had just ended. The Marshal-General stopped in midstride, her face a stiff mask. Behind her, the knights drew sword; others burst into shouts, questions, even one scream, chopped off short. The Marshal-General’s arm came up, paused . . . the hubbub stilled, no one moved. Then Amberion spoke, a formal greeting that Paks hardly noticed because she’d realized that Balkon was not with them, and grinned to herself. She had no doubt that he had chosen to return to the Goldenaxe, and hoped his magic worked.

In moments, the Marshal-General had reached the dais, touching each of them, eyes bright. And again the Hall was full of sound: greetings, whispers, comments, the scrape of feet, the rasp of weapons returned to scabbard and rack. To Paks, it seemed noisy as a windstorm after the calm of Luap’s Stronghold. She felt at once submerged in it and remote, a solitary stone washed by contending waves. Eventually the noise receded, the crowds dispersed, and she went to her quarters, hardly noticing the shy greetings and questions of those few students who spoke to her.

A few hours later, the Marshal-General summoned her. When she arrived in the study, she found the Marshal-General and Amberion waiting.

“I have been telling the Marshal-General,” began Amberion, “about your capture and ordeal with the iynisin—the kuaknom—” he said quickly, after a glance at the Marshal-General.

Paks nodded, at once alarmed and defensive.

“I wondered what your plans were, Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal-General. “From what Amberion says, and the way you look, it seems that you may need a rest. Such wounds would slow anyone. Have you thought of it?”

“No, Marshal-General. I did not know if—I mean, I am tired, yes, but I don’t know about rest. Do you mean you want me to leave?”

“No, not that. Amberion thinks you are not fit for a full schedule of training; he thought several weeks of rest would help. There are many things you could do here, without much strain, or—”

“I know what I would like,” said Paks suddenly, interrupting. “I could go home—visit my family in Three Firs. It’s been four years and more.” As she spoke, the longing to go home intensified, as if she had wanted this all along.

Amberion frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly.

“Why not?” Paks turned to him, annoyed. “It’s not that far, by the maps. I’m surely strong enough to ride that far—and there’s no war—and—”

“Paksenarrion, no. It’s too dangerous, as things are with you, and—”

Paks felt a wave of rage swamp her mind. She was not weak, just tired from the fighting and the trip. They kept trying to make her believe something was wrong—” There’s nothing wrong with me!” she snapped. “By Gird, just because I’m tired—and you said anyone might be—you think I can’t ride a few days to see my family. I traveled safely alone on foot, with no training at all, four years ago. Why do you think I can’t do it now? You keep trying to convince me something’s wrong—and whatever it is, it’s not wrong with me!” She glared at them, breathing hard.

“It’s not?” The Marshal-General’s voice was quiet, but hard as stone. “Nothing wrong, when a paladin candidate feels and shows such anger to the Marshal-General of Gird? Nothing wrong, when you have not thought what such a visit could do to your family?”

“My family—what about them?” Paks was still angry. She could not seem to fight it back.

“Paksenarrion, you have attracted the notice of great evil—of Achrya herself. Do you think you can travel in the world—anywhere in the world—without evil knowing? Do you think your family will be safe, if you show Achrya where they live, and that you still care for them? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, be on your mind, that you think clearly.”

Paks sat back, stunned. She had not thought. She shook her head. “I—all I thought was—”

“All you thought was what you wanted to do.”

“Yes—”

“And you resented any balk—any balk at all—”

“Yes.” Paks stared at the tabletop; it blurred as her eyes filled. “I—I thought it was over!”

“What?”

“The—the anger—Amberion can tell you. I thought it was past—that I had—had beaten it—” Paks heard the rustle of clothing as the Marshal-General moved in her seat. She heard Amberion clear his throat before beginning.

“Immediately after we got her out, she had a—I don’t quite know how to describe it. Fallis and I thought we should let her memories return naturally—at least until Ardhiel awoke. But Balkon—the dwarf, you recall—he disagreed, and began telling her some of it. Anyway, I stepped in and interrupted, and Paksenarrion became angry. Very angry. I thought at the time it was the pain of her wounds, and attempted a healing—”

“It did help,” said Paks softly, trying not to cry. “It eased them—and then I could see I was wrong—”

“But whatever it was recurred. A couple of times, in the next days—nothing bad, if it had been someone else, someone more irritable to start with. But it was not like Paksenarrion—not the Paksenarrion we knew. We spoke to her of it, and made allowances for the wounds—which Ardhiel said had been healed so far by some kuaknom magic—and she seemed to have recovered, but for the weakness and exhaustion I spoke of to you.”

“I see.” The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for a blow. “Paksenarrion, what do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just the wounds? It’s not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from illness or wounds.”

“I—don’t know. I don’t feel different—except for being tired. But if Amberion says I am, then—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. In the Duke’s Company, I didn’t get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I did get angry. I can’t tell that it’s any more now than it was then.”

“Our fear,” said Amberion, “was that the type of fighting she did, with the iynisin—the kuaknom—would open a channel for Achrya’s evil—”

“I would hate to think so,” said the Marshal-General. “I would hate that indeed. Paksenarrion?”

“I don’t feel that, Marshal-General. Truly, I don’t—and I care for Gird, and for his cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong—to be angry at you, I mean, but I can control it another time.”

“Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?”

“No.” He smiled at Paks. “She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people, or telling lies—it’s just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same.”

“Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three Firs—” Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked it with a nod and smile. “Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look you over. It may be that rest and good food will bring you back quickly. Don’t start drill again until I’ve talked with you. We may want you to help instruct a beginner’s class.”

Paks left the Marshal-General’s office with mixed feelings. The thought of instructing was exciting—she could easily imagine herself with younger students, as she had worked with recruits in the Duke’s Company—but the prescribed days of rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was restless, and could not relax.

“I’m about to do a dangerous thing,” said the Marshal-General, pulling out a blank message scroll.

“What?” Amberion watched her closely.

“I’m going to write Duke Phelan of Tsaia.” Arianya trimmed her pen, dipped it, and began.

“Phelan? Why?”

“I think you’re right. I think this child is in serious trouble. And I think we don’t know her well enough. Phelan commanded her for three years; he will know which way she’s turned.”

“Then you sensed something too?”

“Yes. Not much, as you said. But deep, and so rooted that it will grow, day by day, and consume her. By the cudgel of Gird, Amberion, this is a sad thing to see. She had so much promise!”

“Has still.”

“Maybe. Right now—we must keep her from leaving, and from hurting anyone else. If she leaves us—” She shook her head. “The only thing standing between Achrya and her soul is the Fellowship of Gird. Ward her, Amberion.”

“I do, and I shall.”

It was some days later that Paks came into the forecourt to find familiar colors there: three horses with saddlecloths of the familiar maroon and white, with a tiny foxhead on the corners, and a pennant held by someone she had never seen before. She lingered, wondering if the Duke himself had come to Fin Panir, and what for, but she had urgent business with the Training Master, and had to go.

Upstairs, in the Marshal-General’s office, she herself was the topic of conversation—if such it could be called.

Duke Phelan faced the Marshal-General across her polished desk, his eyes as cold as winter seawater. “And you want me to help you? You, who could not protect, for even a year, a warrior of such promise?”

Arianya sighed. “We erred, my lord Duke.”

“Tir’s guts, you did, lady! Not for the first time, either! I thought I’d never be so wroth with you again, as when my lady died from your foolishness, but this—!” He turned away, and paced back and forth by the window, his cloak rustling, then came to lean on the desk again. “Lady, that child had such promise as I’ve rarely seen in thirty years of fighting. Your own paladin saw that in Aarenis. You could not ask better will, better courage, than hers. Oh, she made mistakes, aye—beginner’s mistakes, and rarely twice. But generous in all ways, willing—we hated to lose her, but I thought she’d be better off in some noble service. She had a gentle heart, for a fighter. I was glad to hear that she’d come here for training. She’ll make a knight, and well-deserved, I thought. And then—!” He glared at her.

“My lord, we thought—” began Amberion.

“You thought!” The Duke leaped into speech. “You never thought at all. Make her a paladin, you thought, and then you dragged her into such peril as even you, sir paladin, would fear, and without your powers to help her. You think me stained, Girdsmen, compared to your white company, but I know better than to put untrained raw recruits into hot battle. ‘Tis a wonder you have any paladins at all, if you throw them away so.”

“We don’t, Duke Phelan,” said Marshal Fallis. “They do not go out untrained. But in her case—”

“She did. Do you even know how young she is? What years you have wasted?”

“Duke—” began Fallis angrily.

“Be still!” roared the Duke. “I’ll have my say; you asked me here for help and you’ll hear me out. I have no love for you these fourteen years, Girdsmen, though I honor Gird himself. Protector of the innocent and helpless, you say—but where were you and where was he when my lady met her death alone and far from aid?” He turned away for a moment, then back. “But no matter. If I can help this girl, I will. She has deserved better of us all.” He looked around for a chair, and sat. “Now. You say she was captured, and is now alive but in some trouble. What is it?”

“My lord Duke, a paladin candidate can be assaulted in spirit by evil powers; that’s why we normally keep them sequestered. We think that in defending herself during captivity she became vulnerable to Achrya’s direct influence. This is the thought of Amberion and Fallis, who observed her at the time they brought her out, and also of Ardhiel the elf, who knows how kuaknom enchantments might work.”

“I see. Then you think she is now an agent of Achrya?”

“No. Not yet.” Arianya met his eyes squarely. “My lord, all we have noticed so far is irritability—unusual for her, for we have known her to be always goodnatured, willing, and patient. It would hardly be noticed in another warrior—indeed, many expect all fighters to be touchy of temper.”

The Duke grinned suddenly. “I am myself.”

“I noticed. But she has not been so since we’ve known her. You have known her longer; we thought you could tell us if she has changed.”

“You want me to tell you if she has become evil?”

“No. She has not become evil, not largely. That I could certainly sense for myself. I want you, if you will, to speak to her—observe her—and tell us if she is changing in the wrong way. Becoming more violent, less controlled—that is a sign of contamination.”