The Deed of Paksenarrion (123 page)

“And if she is? What then will you do?”

The Marshal-General paused long. “I am not sure. She is a member of our fellowship, and a paladin candidate—as such, she is under my command. As she is, she cannot be a paladin—”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but so it is. What is of no account in another may be a serious flaw in a paladin. If she had gone over to Achrya, it would be my duty to kill her—”

“No!” The Duke jumped to his feet.

“Please. Sit down. She has not—I am not saying she has—I am saying
if
that
were true, which is not true. Yet. But if she is changing in that way—if the evil is growing—then, my lord Duke, we cannot tolerate an agent of evil among us. We
cannot.
Somehow, before that happens, we must prevent it.”

“What can you do? Can you heal her, as you heal wounds?”

“Unfortunately not. Her wounds, indeed, have not yielded to our healing. The elf, as I said, says that this is because of some kuaknom magic used on them. As for her mind. . . . I think that we might be able to destroy the focus of evil—if, indeed, I am not misnaming it—but like any surgery it would leave scars of its own.”

“You speak of magic?”

“If you consider the gods’ powers and magic in the same light, my lord, which I do not. The High Lord has given us—Marshals and paladins both—certain powers. With them I might try to enter her mind and cleanse it.”

The Duke shifted in his seat. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all, Marshal-General, and that’s without any rancor for the past. It’s bad enough that she had to bear such captivity, and such wounds as you describe. That she had to have that filth trying to corrupt her mind. But then to let someone else in, to stir the mess further—”

“Believe me, I don’t like the idea either. But what else is there? If we are right, and the evil is rooted there, and we do nothing, she will come to be such as even you, my lord, would admit must be destroyed. Could anything—even death now—be worse than that dishonor?”

“No, but—I dislike being the means of it. She is—she was, I should say—my soldier, under my command and protection. She has a right to expect more from me—”

“Now?” asked Fallis.

“Yes, now. By the gods, Marshal, I don’t forget my soldiers when they leave. She served me well; I will not serve her ill.”

“My lord, one reason I wrote you was that she had so often spoken of her respect for you. We are not looking for an accuser, my lord, but a friend who knew her in the past—”

“And do you think I will condemn her to you, having known her?”

“I trust you for that. You have always been, by all repute, an honest man—and so she thinks of you.”

“I will not persuade her to your opinions—”

“We don’t ask that. Go, talk to her, see for yourself. If you come and tell me I’m a fool, I will be best pleased by that. I don’t think you will—but do your best for her.”

The Duke ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll tell you what, Marshal-General, you have set me a problem indeed. But you have one yourself. All right. I’ll see her. But I think perhaps I’ll have a new captain for my Company out of it, and you’ll be a paladin the less.”

“That may be so.”

Paks came from the Training Master’s office in the black mood that had begun to seem familiar. She was not to ride out with the others to hunt the following day, and she was not to plan on taking part in the fall competitions. She lengthened her stride, hardly noticing when several students flattened themselves out of her way. At least, she was thinking, I can take Socks out to the practice field. She turned hard right into the stable courtyard, and nearly bumped into a tall man in a maroon cloak. Before he turned, she knew who it was.

“My lord Duke!” She fell back a step, suddenly happier.

“Well, Paks, you’ve come far in the world.” He looked much the same, but he spoke now as if she were more his equal.

“Well, my lord, I—”

“They tell me that’s your horse, the black.”

“Yes, my lord—”

“Will you ride with me? I’d like to see how the training grounds are laid out.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Paks turned toward the tack room, but a groom was already leading Socks out, ready to ride. The horse had recovered his flesh, and showed no ill effects of the expedition. The Duke’s own mount waited, and after they mounted, he rode beside her.

“We were glad to hear,” he began, “that you’d been accepted here. I had two years with the Knights of Falk, and I understand that the training here is as good if not better.”

“It’s thorough, my lord,” said Paks. He laughed.

“Fortification? Supply? Field surgery?”

“Yes, my lord, and more.”

“Good. And you enjoyed it?”

“Oh yes. Last winter was the happiest time of my life—” she stopped suddenly and looked at him. “I mean, my lord, after leaving the Company.”

“Don’t be silly, Paks—you weren’t happy with us, that last year. Few were. Of course you’d like this better. Now—what’s that?” For some minutes they rode in the training grounds, the Duke commenting and questioning on the equipment and methods of training that they observed. Then he turned to her again. “Did they teach you such riding here?”

“No, my lord. That was Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge, where I got my horse.”

“Brewersbridge—that’s in southeast Tsaia, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Paks wondered if he would ask her about the details of her journey across the Dwarfmounts, but he said nothing for a bit. Then—"What’s this journey you’ve been on, that they talk of so? And they said you were captured by some kind of elf—is that so?”

Paks shivered, unwilling as always to remember that too clearly. “Yes, my lord. It goes back, sir, to when I left your Company: in the journey over the mountains, a traveling companion and I were enchanted by the elfane taig, and had to fight a demon-possessed elf underground.”

“By Tir! And you lived?”

“Yes, my lord. And the elfane taig rewarded me with great riches, and gave me also a scroll. It seems that the scroll was written by Luap—it’s very old—and contains much about Gird and his times that was not known, for the scroll had been lost. It was in this scroll that the stronghold of Luap was mentioned, and map besides. So the Council of Marshals, and the Marshal-General, declared a quest that search should be made for this stronghold, and the rumors of lost powers.”

“But why did you go? You were a paladin candidate, isn’t that so?”

“Yes—but they asked if I wanted to. Because I’d brought the scrolls, you see: it was a reward, an honor.”

“I see.”

“They didn’t know, my lord, that I would have such trouble.”

“No, but they might have thought.” He shook his head. “Well, enough of that. How did you come to be captured?”

Paks told the tale as best she might, and the Duke looked grave, but listened without comment. When she finished with Ardhiel’s treatment, he sighed.

“Are you well, then?”

“I think so. They—” Paks looked aside, but no one was near. “My lord, they seem to think not, but I don’t know why. I have lost my temper once or twice—even spoke sharply to the Marshal-General—”

“That’s nothing,” said the Duke quickly. “I’ve done as much.”

Paks grinned, thinking of it. Then she sobered. “My lord, I don’t want to be bad; you know I never did.” He nodded. “I don’t think I am, yet they don’t trust me any more. Just today the Training Master told me not to ride out hunting tomorrow—and not to join in the autumn competitions, either. Is that fair? I haven’t done anything—I’ve been careful—I do all they ask me—I don’t know what more I can do!” Her voice had risen; she took a deep breath and tried to continue more calmly. “They—they say that evil begins as a little thing—too little for me to sense. That it will grow, and consume me, until I become one of Achrya’s minions. But, sir, you know me—you’ve known me all along. Am I so bad?”

Phelan looked at her, a piercing gaze that she found it hard to meet. Then he shook his head slowly. “Paks, I see you much as you were: a good soldier, loyal and courageous. You bear scars that I would not care to have, and you have suffered under both enchantments and blows. I do not see evil.” Paks relaxed, but he went on. “But Paks, I am no Marshal or paladin, to discern evil directly. The gods know I have no great love for the granges of Gird, but they are not evil. I think perhaps you should submit yourself to their judgment.”

“My lord!”

“And if it is not fair, or if you do not agree, leave them. I will not forsake you; as you were my soldier, so you can be again. As I recall, you held the right to return when you left.”

Paks said nothing, and after awhile they rode back silently. She suspected that the Duke had come to Fin Panir because of her—and this was confirmed when she answered a summons late that afternoon to the Marshal-General’s quarters. She was shown to a study she had not been in before, a level higher, with windows on three sides. Amberion, Fallis, Ardhiel and Duke Phelan, as well as the Marshal-General, were all in the room. The Marshal-General began by explaining what they thought was wrong, and what she thought could be done about it, a sort of surgery of the mind.

Paks nodded gravely, trying to pay attention through a numb haze that fogged her mind. Arianya paused, for that nod, then went on.

“So much we think we can do. But that is not the whole story; I want to be fair with you. We are sure that if you live the evil will be destroyed, but some good may be destroyed as well.”

“What sort of good?” asked Paks, her mouth drying with fear.

Amberion looked away, at a tapestry on the outer wall. Arianya glanced down, then met Paks’s eyes squarely. “Paksenarrion, the worst evils come from the degradation of good: in your case, those qualities you’ve worked so long to strengthen. You may not be a fighter afterwards—”

“Not a fighter!” Paks felt the blood leave her face.

“No. I will not lie to you. You may be weak, clumsy, uncertain. You may lose your will to fight—your courage.”

“No!” Paks clenched her fists, anguish twisting her face. “I cannot! You cannot want me to be so!”

“Lady Paksenarrion,” said Ardhiel, “what we want is that you be healed and whole, and free of any taint of evil. But our powers are limited, and it is better to be free of the dark one’s web than be a prince under her control.”

“But—” Paks shook her head. “But you ask that I give up the only gifts I have—chance them—and if I survive a weakling or a coward, what good is that? To you or anyone? My lady,” she said to Arianya, “the granges would not let me in, if I were a coward. I would be better dead, indeed. You say I am not so bad, yet. If I cannot be a paladin, I can still fight your enemies. Then if—if I go wrong, then perform your treatment, or kill me.”

Arianya started to speak, but Duke Phelan interrupted. “Paks, when you were in my Company, you learned that wounds must be treated at once, lest corruption begin. And if the surgeon cuts away good muscle, it’s better than leaving the least infection to spread and engulf the whole body.”

“Yes, my lord, but—”

“Paksenarrion, the Duke speaks truly. If we thought the evil would not spread, or would spread but slowly, we would not try such a drastic cure. But it is the nature of such to spread with awesome speed. You yourself, being damaged already by this poison, cannot perceive how far it has gone already.”

“But my lady—to lose all—and think how long I might live—what could I do? So long in disgrace—”

“It will not be disgrace, Paksenarrion, however it turns out. You have already won honors beyond your years. Nor will any grange of Gird be closed to you: that I promise. And if you have these troubles—and you might not—we will help you find another way to live.”

Paks thrust back her chair and rose abruptly, striding to the window to stand braced against the embrasure, looking out at evening sunlight yellow on the cobbled court and the roof of the High Lord’s Hall across the way.

“I always dreamed of being a warrior,” she said softly. “Silly, childish dreams at first, of being the hero in old songs, with a silver sword. Then Jornoth told me about soldiering, and I was going to be a mercenary, a good one, and earn my living with my sword, and see strange lands, and win honor serving my lord. So I joined Duke Phelan’s Company, and prospered as well, I think, as any recruit. You’ve heard they thought well of me.” She glanced at the Duke, who nodded gravely, then turned back to the outside view.

“I stayed three seasons, but—no fault of my lord Duke, who’s as fine a leader as I ever hope to fight under—I saw things I didn’t want to be part of. So I left, thinking I’d go north and home, and join some castle guard. You know what happened with the elfane taig, and near Brewersbridge. Marshal Cedfer . . . Master Oakhallow . . . they showed me fighting, but for cause, not for a person. My dreams grew—more than being a guard captain instead of a sergeant, I dreamed of fighting as Gird fought—for right, for the protection of the helpless. And you encouraged me: you, Marshal-General, and you, Marshal Fallis, and you, Sir Amberion. You said learn: learn languages, art of weaponry, supply and surgery, fortification—you said all these things were right.” Paks’s voice broke, and her shoulders shook. The listeners were silent, each with his own memories, his own visions. Paks took a deep breath, then another, and turned to face them, tears filling her eyes.

“And then you honored me, sheepfarmer’s daughter, poor commoner and ex-mercenary, beyond all dreams I’d dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a paladin. A paladin! Do you—can you—have any idea what a paladin means to a child on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder, all stars and dreams. A—a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins! And you said ‘Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.’” She stopped for breath again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.

“I could not argue, my lady. I felt
you
must know; you wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then—to go on quest, with Amberion and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And all of you were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion, that first attack? You said I did well, then.”