The Deed of Paksenarrion (74 page)

“No—don’t be sorry, fair warrior. Your eyes saw truly, to find what was there in so little. Remember what we have told you, and fare well.”

And as she turned to climb the slope upward to the ridge and the trail the elves had spoken of, she felt far distant from the self of yesterday. She felt a surge of the same spirit that had sent her away from home in the first place, a sense of adventure and excitement. Anything might happen—anything had happened. She still found it difficult to think clearly what it was—what nature of thing she and Macenion had fought against, and what had helped her at the end. The words elfane taig meant nothing to her. The elves’ explanation meant very little more.

But she was on a trail once more, alive and eager to be going. Star moved slowly, burdened heavily by the gifts of the elfane taig. Paks had transferred some of that to her own back. The pony snorted a little with each heave of her hindquarters. Paks grinned to herself. No more mountains, they had told her. These, that would have been mountains anywhere else, counted as foothills, and in another two days she would be in the gentler lowland slopes.

On the far side of the ridge, only a few patches of snow whitened the trail, and by noon these had melted. Now other trees mingled with the pointed evergreens—duller greens, more rounded shapes. Paks did not need her cloak for warmth. She was alert for danger, but the elves had told her that they sensed nothing dire moving in the area. She hoped they were right. As far as she could see, the forested slopes wove into each other endlessly, the trail angling down one and up another, always edging west and north.

Her solitary camp that night was almost too silent. She had resented Macenion’s lectures—yet to sit alone, in the middle of a vast wilderness, was worse than anything he had ever said to her. She doused her tiny fire early, and sat awake a long time, staring at the stars. The night was half gone when she realized that she was missing more than Macenion. She had never, in her life, spent an entire night alone like this. Not even once had she slept outside, out of hearing or sight of others. The thought itself made her shiver, and she got up to check on Star. The pony’s warm rough mane reassured her. She looked at the stars again, her hands still tangled in Star’s mane. The night sky seemed to go on forever, up and up without ending, as if the stars were sewn on veils that lay one behind another. She looked for Torre’s Necklace; it was still behind the mountains. Of the other stars she knew nothing.

A breeze slid lightly along the ground, chilling her. Star moved away from her hand, and lowered her head to graze. Paks went back to the blankets she’d laid out. A wild animal cried out in the distance; she stiffened, but no sound followed. Paks felt an urge to take out Canna’s medallion; her hand found her pouch before she thought. Her fingers touched it, smoothed the crescent shape. When she pulled it out, Saben’s little horse came along; the thongs were tangled. She woke stiff and cold in the morning, with Star nosing her face, and the horse and crescent still clutched in her hand.

That day warmed quickly. Paks looked over the whole treasure she had been given, and made her first estimate of its value. She had not realized what she’d taken—it was too much—it shouldn’t be hers. But she could not return to the elfane taig with it, that was certain. She thought the elves must have examined it as well, and if they said nothing about it. . . . Sunlight glittered on the items she’d laid in the grass—the ruby-decorated dagger and sheath, the gold and jewel inlaid battleaxe, gold and silver coins, both familiar in stamp and strange, a set of chainmail that felt oddly light when she lifted it, and looked as if it would fit. She thought about that, looked around, and tried it on. It did fit—perfectly—which made her scowl, thinking. Where had she heard of enchanted mail, evil stuff—? But when she reached for Canna’s medallion, nothing happened; it felt easy in her hand. Was it dress mail, then, good for nothing? She tried her own dagger on the sleeve, notching the dagger. Lightweight, the right size—she scowled again, but kept it on. Over it she put on the best clothes she had—not that any of them looked like much, she thought ruefully, remembering the money she’d spent in Sord to outfit herself.

It was late when she started moving again, and she traveled slowly, as much for her own benefit as the pony’s. She was beginning to wonder what she would find when she came out of the wilderness into settled lands again. The elves had been quite specific in their directions—go to Brewersbridge, they had said, by this trail, and tell the Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya about the elfane taig. But they would say no more about either Master Oakhallow or the Marshal, or why these would want to know about events so far away.

As Paksenarrion came around the slope of the hill, she could see cleared fields and orchards some miles ahead, their straight edges easily visible against the broken forest and meadowland. The track’s gradient lessened as she descended; sheep grazed on the slopes to her right, a barelegged child with a crook watching them from a rock. Gradually the track changed from rock to dirt. Star stepped out more easily. Paks lengthened her own stride to keep up. She saw smoke rising from the center of the cleared area; perhaps it was the village the elves had spoken of. She wondered if the people were friendly. At least it was the north again: home.

Soon she was among the fields and orchards. She had passed two farmsteads set back from the road. The farms looked prosperous; she noted tight barns, well-made stone walls, sleek livestock. A boy picking early apples from a tree near the track told her the village ahead was Brewersbridge; when she’d passed she looked back and saw him running for the farmhouse. Now the track joined a lane, bordered on either side by a wall, wide enough for wagon traffic. She noted wheelruts grooving the surface. On the right, a wedge of forest met the road; she could not tell how large it was. Ahead were a cluster of buildings and another road coming in from the right.

Two cottages now on the left, one opening directly on the road. Beyond them was a large two-story building with a walled courtyard to one side. A bright green and yellow sign hung over the road, and a paved area fronted it. Paks squinted at the sign:
The Jolly Potboy.
It must be an inn; it was too big for a tavern. She looked around.

The inn sat at the crossroad, facing north. The road Paks had come on continued generally west, wandering among houses and shops. The north road was straighter, with buildings along its west side, and forest on the east. The ground floor of the inn had a row of tall windows facing the road; these were open, and Paks heard the murmur of many voices from inside. She wondered if she had enough money to stay there. The treasure—but she didn’t know what it was worth, or if they would accept the old coin.

As she hesitated, a stout man in a big apron came out and spoke to her.

“Just arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you be wanting a room?”

“I don’t know, sir. How much are they?”

“A silver in the common loft; that includes bread and beer for breakfast. A gold crown for a private room; two for the suite. A silver a day for stabling, including grain, hay, grooming, and safe storage for your tack.”

Paks thought a moment. It seemed high, but she had enough southern money for a night or two. She could always find a cheaper place the next day. Star could use a good bait of grain. “I’d like a private room,” she said. “And stabling for Star.”

“That’ll be in advance, please,” said the man. “I’m Jos Hebbinford, the landlord.”

Paks wrapped Star’s lead around her arm and dug into her belt pouch. “Here—” she handed over the money. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, from Three Firs.”

The landlord looked closely at the coins she had given him. “Hmm. From Aarenis—that your home?”

“No, sir. Three Firs is north and west of here. I was with Duke Phelan’s Company in the south, and I’m headed home.”

“I see. A fighter, are you?” Paks nodded. “Are you a Girdsman too?”

“No. I’ve known those who were.”

“Hmmm. We don’t think much of brawling, here.”

Paks flushed. “I’m not a brawler, sir.”

“Good. Just a moment—Sevri! Sevrienna!” At his call, a short stocky redheaded girl came out of the courtyard and ran up. “My daughter, Sevrienna,” said the landlord. “Sevri, this is Paksenarrion, who will be staying this night. This is her horse—” He glanced at Paks.

“Her name’s Star,” said Paks. “She’s gentle.”

“Sevri will take her to the stable,” said Hebbinford. “If you’d like to see your room—?”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Paks, “I’ll just give Star a rubdown first, and check her hooves. She’s come a long way over rocks.”

“Very well. Sevri will help you. When you come in, I’ll take you to your room.”

“Come on—this way,” said Sevri. Paks followed. The walled courtyard was large, paved in flat slabs of gray stone. A flock of red and black hens scratched and pecked in the entrance of the stable that ran along one side; a black cock with gold on his throat and a green tail stood atop the dung-heap. Along other sides of the courtyard were barns full of hay and an open shed with two wagons and a cart beneath it.

Sevri led Paks to a box stall big enough for a warhorse; all the stalls were big. “I can rub her down,” Sevri offered. “You’re paying for grooming.”

Paks smiled at the child. “I want to check her and make sure she hasn’t hurt her hooves on the rocks. If you want to rub her down—”

Sevri nodded. “Surely. She’ll be easier than the big horses, and I do them. Do you want her to have grain, or would a mash be better?”

“A mash would be good for her, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll put one on, then come back and start on her. If you want water to work on her feet, here’s a bucket, and the well is out there.” Sevri jerked her head toward the courtyard.

When Sevri had gone, Paks untied the bundles from the saddle, and lifted them down. Star sighed. “Poor pony,” said Paks. “That was a load. Here now—” She uncinched the pack saddle and lifted it from Star’s back. Underneath, Star’s coat was matted and damp. Paks moved the bundles to one side of the stall, and bent to feel Star’s legs. Then she took the bucket Sevri had pointed out, and filled it at the well. Back in the stall, she lifted Star’s feet, one at a time. They were dry and hot. Paks found a rag in her pack that she’d used for a headcloth and dipped it in the water. She washed out each hoof and dampened the coronary band. The pony reached down and mumbled Paks’s hair. “No, Star; stop that.” Paks shoved the pony’s head away. She found a cut on the off hind pastern, and cleaned it carefully.

“You must like her a lot,” said Sevri. Paks jumped.

“I didn’t hear you come.”

“That’s because I’m barefooted,” said Sevri. “Are her feet all right?”

“Yes, but for one little cut. Just dry from the rocks.”

“She is wet. You want me to start rubbing her now?”

“Yes. Just let me get these things out of the stall.” Paks grunted as she hoisted the bundles. She dumped them in the aisle. Sevri was watching her.

“That must be awfully heavy.”

“It is,” said Paks shortly.

Sevri had brought two lengths of coarse woolen cloth and a brush. When she picked up one cloth and started work on Star’s sweaty back, Paks took the other and began the other side.

“You don’t have to help me,” said Sevri. “I can do it by myself.”

“Do you mind, though? I’m used to doing her.”

“No-o. But I am strong enough.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Paks, though she did. Star turned her head and nudged Sevri with her soft nose. Sevri stopped and stroked Star’s head.

“She’s gentle,” said Sevri. “Have you had her long?”

“Not very. She is a good pony, though—seems to like everyone. Only don’t come near her with apples unless you want to lose a few.”

Sevri laughed. “I’ll bring her one. Is she greedy about other things?”

Paks shrugged. “She’s a pony. I’ve never known a pony that wouldn’t eat anything it could find, have you?”

“That’s true.” Sevri looked across Star’s back at Paks. “Are you a fighter?”

Paks paused before answering. “It depends on what you mean by fighter. Your father seems to think a fighter is the same as a brawler, a troublemaker. That’s not what I am. I was a mercenary, a soldier in the Duke’s Company.”

“But you can use that sword?”

“Oh, yes. I can use a sword. That’s how I’ve earned my keep since I left home. But that doesn’t mean I go picking fights everywhere.”

“I see.” Paks thought by the tone of Sevri’s answer that she didn’t see. She decided to change the subject.

“Sevri, I have a message for two people here: can you tell me where to find them?”

“Surely.”

“One is a Master Oakhallow—” She stopped as Sevri gasped audibly.

“You—you know Master Oakhallow?”

“No, I don’t know him; I’ve never been here before. But someone I met a few days ago gave me a message for him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He’s the Kuakgan, that’s all.”

Paks felt a chill. “Kuakgan? I didn’t know that.”

Sevri nodded. “He’s a good man, it’s just—he’s very powerful, Master Oakhallow. My father’s told me about him; he helped in the troubles.”

Paks said, “Well, I must speak to him, at least. Where is he?”

“In his grove, of course. I’ll show you, when we’re through. Which way did you come in?”

“From the southeast.” Paks pointed.

“Well, then, you saw part of the grove on your right, as you came into town.”

“I remember. I was surprised to see uncleared forest so near the town.”

“Don’t go in except by the entrance,” said Sevri. “It’s dangerous. Now: who else was it you wanted to find?”

“There’s a grange of Gird here, isn’t there?” Sevri nodded. “I must speak to a—a Marshal, I think it was, by the name of Deordtya.”

Sevri stared. “She isn’t here any more. We have a new Marshal now, called Cedfer, and a yeoman-marshal called Ambros. But what kind of message can you have for the Kuakgan and the Marshal?”

“I’m sorry, Sevri, but I must speak with them first.”

“Oh. Of course, I shouldn’t have asked.”