Oath of Gold by Elizabeth Moon

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  "These midnight conferences," said Arcolin, "are becoming tedious." Paks wondered if he was making a joke of some kind. Arcolin?

  "Will the Duke be here?" Heribert Fontaine, back in his mayoral robes, paused as he set out mugs for ale.

  "I doubt it." Arcolin rubbed the back of his neck. "Simmitt says he'll be fine, but insists he must rest for a night and a day. The gods know he needs it—"

  "But he's sure—"

  "He's sure the Duke will recover, yes. Flesh wounds and exhaustion—no more than that, he says, and Simmitt wouldn't lie."

  Valichi came in, shutting the door carefully behind him. "Surprisingly little damage across the river, Mayor Fontaine. They broke into Kolya's place, but didn't burn it. Near as we can tell, only two trees were badly torn up. It looks like they panicked and ran on through. We've set up a perimeter for the night, including the south bank cottages, but not the outlying farms."

  Paks found the rest as tedious as Arcolin had suggested, for they had to explain the events of the past days in sufficient detail to reassure the Council of Duke's East, no easy task when they kept breaking in with questions, comments, and reminiscences of past campaigns. The revelation that Venner had been closely involved in Tamarrion's death aroused a storm of indignation. But discovering that the Duke had sent for a Marshal silenced them at last. Paks could see relief and satisfaction in some of their faces, dismay in none.

  Chapter Twelve

  Late fall rain had chilled to sleet; from the parapets the sentries could see only a short distance from the walls. The last bonfires were hard to keep alight. Foul smoke whirled away from the orcs' bodies, but they would hardly burn. Finally the Duke had a barrel of mutton-fat melted and poured on, after all the remains had been dragged to one fire, and the ashes left from that smelled of nothing but ashes.

  The next afternoon, a party on horseback came within bowshot of the gates before being seen; fog and sleet together hid them. Paks heard the alarm horn, and met the Duke heading for his stairs. She stayed beside him as he strode across the inner court. By the time they reached the Duke's Gate, the sentries knew who it was: the Marshal, they sent word.

  "Name?" asked the Duke irritably. Paks glanced at him. She knew his wounds must be hurting him, though he wouldn't admit it. He had refused to let her "waste," as he put it, a healing attempt on him.

  "Connaught, was one, and Amberion, and Arianya—"

  "The Marshal-General?" The Duke glared at the sentry. "You're sure?"

  "That's what they said, my lord, them names. I don't know—"

  The Duke silenced him with a gesture and turned to Paks. "Is that likely? And why? Has she come to make mock of me, after all?"

  "No, my lord," said Paks firmly. "It would not be that. If this is the Marshal-General, she has come because of the urgency of your message, and because she feels you may need her help. Mockery is not like her."

  "No." He rubbed his shoulder, considering. The sentry waited, hunched in the cold. "Blast it! I can't get used to the idea—Go on, man, and let them in. Fanfare, but don't keep them out there waiting while the troops parade: it's too cold." As the sentry jogged back to the gate tower, the Duke strode across the main court, calling his captains. High overhead the fanfare rang out, the trumpeters' numb fingers missing some of the triples. The main gate hinges squealed in the cold, and the gates themselves scraped on blown sleet.

  Through the gates, as the gap widened, Paks could see a dark clump of horsemen: sleet whitened the horses' manes, and the riders' cloaks and helms. They rode forward, ducking against the wind that scoured a flurry of sleet off the court and flung it in their faces. Paks could not recognize any of them, until they were less than a length away. The leading rider halted, and threw back the hood of a blue cloak.

  "My lord Duke?" Arianya's weathered face was pinched with cold.

  "Marshal-General, I am honored to receive you in my steading." Duke Phelan took the last few steps, and reached a hand to her. "By your leave, I suggest we continue our greetings in somewhere warmer."

  "Indeed yes." But she sat her mount a moment longer, looking around the court as if memorizing the location of every door and window. Then she looked back at him. "Gird's blessing on this place, and all within it, and on you, my lord Duke." The Duke stiffened slightly, but bowed. Then she dismounted, as did the other riders, and one came forward to take her horse. "I hope it will not inconvenience you—we brought some along to care for the gear and horses—"

  "Not at all. Arcolin, find room for these, and the animals. If you'll come with me, Marshal-General—"

  "To a fire, I hope. By the lost scrolls, this last day's ride seemed straight into the wind, no matter which way the road turned." Then she caught sight of Paks. "Paksenarrion! Is this where you—?" She broke off in confusion, and looked from the Duke to Paks and back again.

  "Is that Paks?" Amberion, now, had come to stand beside her. "Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, I'm glad to see you looking so well." She saw that his glance did not miss the sword at her side. "Are you—?"

  But Paks did not mean to discuss everything standing out in the cold. She knew the Duke was in pain, and needed to get back inside. "Sir Amberion," she said, nodding. "My lord's right, sir; we should get within."

  The Duke led the way to the dining hall, and sent a guard to the kitchen for hot food. The visitors stood around the fireplace, their wet clothes already steaming. Within minutes, kettles of sib were on the table, and bowls of soup. Servants had taken away wet cloaks, and brought dry stockings for those whose feet were wet.

  "I'm getting old for this," said the Marshal-General frankly. "It's been far too long since I left Fin Panir in wintertime. Ah! Hot soup. I may survive." She smiled at the Duke, then her gaze sharpened. "My lord, you are ill—or wounded. Why did you come out in that cold?"

  "I'm not a child!" snapped the Duke. Paks looked at him, worried, but he had already taken a long breath. "I'm sorry, Marshal-General. I was wounded a few days ago—it's painful, but not dangerous. I would be shamed did I not welcome such visitors myself."

  "And you want no advice on it. Very well. But, my lord, we came to help, and if you spend your strength on hospitality, we are a burden, not help at all." She took another spoonful of soup. "I would eat cobbles, were they hot like this, but this is good soup. You wonder, you say, why, in asking for a Marshal's aid, you got the Marshal-General. I was in Vérella, having been called to a meeting with the prince and regency council." She drank some more soup, and poured herself a mug of sib. "Then your message came, mentioning Achrya, and traitors, and a possible invasion of orcs. It seemed enough—the council was concerned already about your holdings here. I don't know why." She looked at the Duke, who sipped his own mug of sib and said nothing. "I did not, of course, read them your message, but I thought it would ease their minds to know I was coming."

  Arcolin came into the room, followed by the other captains. The Duke looked up. "Marshal-General," Arcolin said, "we have stabled all your mounts, and assigned the rest of your party room in the barracks. Is that satisfactory?"

  "Entirely," she said. "Two of them are new with us, and it will be well for them to see barracks life; they're nobles' sons, and convinced we stint them by assigning only single rooms, rather than suites."

  Arcolin grinned. "Two of them did try to tell me something about their birth, but I didn't have time to listen."

  "Good. Don't. While I'm glad to see the fellowship of Gird expand, and as Marshal-General I can't pass up a single blade, I often wish the nobly born would spend a few years of their youth where no one knew their birth. We do our best to knock some of it out of them, but as Paks knows, we don't entirely succeed."

  Paks found herself laughing. She had wondered what it would be like to see the Marshal-General again, and had not looked forward to it. Even though she knew she was cured, she anticipated an awkward meeting and difficult explanations. But this was easy. The Marshal-General looked at her, as did the others.


  "Paksenarrion, I find it hard to believe what I see, yet by Gird's gift you are more than merely healed. Will you tell us, someday, how this happened?"

  "Indeed, I would be glad to," said Paks. "But parts of it I don't clearly understand myself."

  "I sense great gifts awakening in you, if not already come," said Amberion. "Are you still a follower of Gird?"

  Paks nodded. "I am not forsworn, sir paladin. I gave my oath to Gird in the Hall of Fin Panir, and by that oath I stand. But much has happened that I did not anticipate, or you, I think, foresee."

  The Marshal-General's eyes glittered with tears. "Paksenarrion, however you were healed, and by what power of good, matters not to me. We are all glad to see you so; we had all grieved over your loss. Gird witness that if you had turned to Falk or Camwyn and received healing there, I would be as glad, and would not condemn you for changing your allegiance. It was my error—not Gird's—that led you into great peril, and in the end near killed you. I am not mean enough to begrudge any healing."

  "But," Paks began delicately, "the powers I have—and some have come—did not come with your dedication at the Hall—"

  "We have not all forgotten how paladins began," said Amberion quickly. "The power comes from the High Lord—if he has lent it to the training orders, from time to time, that does not bind it there. If Gird spoke to you directly—" He looked a question at her.

  Paks looked from one face to another. "I have not told anyone—not even the Duke—the whole story."

  "Nor is this the best time, perhaps," suggested the Marshal-General. "If this stronghold faces peril from Achrya—"

  "I think it is past," said the Duke, slowly. "Paksenarrion unmasked the traitors within—when I sent for your aid, they were already dead. We had found a tunnel leading into a cellar from without, and expected an invasion of some sort. It came the next night. We burned the last of the bodies yesterday."

  "You have wounded that need healing?"

  "Yes—but they are not all Girdsmen."

  "We'll try what we can. Are you sure your traitors are all found?"

  "I hope so. Paksenarrion wanted me to ask more help; she is not sure she would find them all."

  "We can help with that, certainly."

  "I had not expected so quick a response—and you come from Vérella—"

  "Your messenger, my lord, came to the grange at Burningmeed; the Marshal there, Kerrin—" she nodded at her, "had come to Vérella to meet me. Her yeoman-marshal forwarded the message as fast as he could—which, for us, is very fast."

  The Duke nodded. "I remember." He coughed, and Paks watched him, worried again. He took a careful breath, and went on. "My message was short, Marshal-General, as word of peril should be. But you must know that I acknowledge—have already admitted to my captains—that I was wrong, years ago, to blame you for my wife's death—"

  "My lord," interrupted Arianya, "in dealing with great evils, as you and I have done, all make mistakes. The High Lord grant I never make a worse—in fact I have made worse." She nodded toward Paks. "There is one, as you rightly said, and the elves said at the time. Certainly neither I nor my predecessor intended harm to your wife and children—or to Paksenarrion. But whether by error or overwhelming evil, harm came. If you can now believe that it was unintentional—that I sorrow for it—that is well enough."

  "I make bold to contradict a Marshal-General," said the Duke, with a wry smile. "It is not—quite—enough." He took a long breath, staring into his mug, and none thought to interrupt him. "You may remember that in the years before my wife was killed, this entire Company fought under the protection of Gird."

  "I do."

  "After that, when I was no longer any way a Girdsman, I thought to keep, nonetheless, the standards of honor, in the Company and in my holdings, that were appropriate."

  "So you do," said Marshal Kerrin. "You're known as a fair and just lord, and your Company—"

  The Duke waved her to silence. "Compared to some, Marshal, that may be so. But compared to what this Company was—well, you can ask my captains, if you don't believe me." He nodded to Dorrin, Arcolin, and the others. No one responded. The Duke continued. "The last year I campaigned in Aarenis, even I had to admit the changes. We were short of men, through treachery—I expect you've heard the tale of Dwarfwatch—"

  The Marshal-General nodded. "Yes. So I called back veterans, and when that wasn't enough, I hired free swords in Aarenis itself. That changed the Company. Worse than that, I used them as I'd never used them before, and when Siniava was caught, I—" He looked up as Paks stirred. The Marshal-General, too, looked at her. Paks wished the Duke would not speak of that time, but he smiled at her and went on. "I was so angry, Marshal-General, at his treachery, at his cruelty to my men and others, that I would have tortured him, had Paks not stopped me. And I was angry with her, at the time."

  "But you didn't." The Marshal-General's voice was remote and cool.

  "No. I wanted to, though."

  "You could have—you, a commander, didn't have to listen to a—what was she then, anyway? Private? Corporal?"

  "Private. I did have to—I'd given my word. If you want the whole story, ask her or the paladin who was there."

  Amberion stirred. "That would have been Fenith. He died the next year, in the Westmounts."

  "So." The Marshal-General took the conversation again. "You chose to honor your word, and by what you say gave up your anger at Paksenarrion—that sounds like little dishonor, my lord Duke."

  "Enough," said the Duke soberly. "Enough to change the Company, to risk my people here—for that's what happened, what I left them open to, when I took the veterans that could fight. And then to fall under the spell of Venneristimon's sister—if that was his sister—"

  The Marshal-General stood. "My lord, I would hear more of this, if you wish, but if you have wounded, we should see to them."

  "As you will. If you'll excuse me, Dorrin can take you to them; if I go over there, the surgeons will scold."

  "Perhaps we should begin with you?"

  "No. I'm not in danger. Dorrin?"

  "Certainly, my lord. Marshal-General, will you come?" Dorrin moved to the door, and the Marshal-General and Amberion followed. Kerrin looked at her, but the Marshal-General waved her back.

  "We'll send if we need you, Kerrin; keep warm in the meantime."

  When they had gone, Kerrin looked at the Duke. "My lord Duke, I've seen you ride by, but not met you—"

  "Nor I you. Yours is the nearest grange?"

  "Southward, yes. West you might come to Stilldale a little sooner. It was but a barton until a few years ago." She drained her mug of sib, and poured another. "You won't remember, perhaps, but I had an uncle in your Company: Garin Arcosson, in Arcolin's cohort. He—"

  "I remember. He was file-second of the third. Killed by a crossbow bolt in—let me think—the siege of Cortes Cilwan, I think, wasn't it? A lanky fellow, with a white forelock, that turned white early."

  Kerrin nodded. "I'm impressed, my lord, that you remember so well. That was years ago—"

  The Duke shrugged. "It's important to know one's men. And I have a knack for names."

  "Even so. I remember when his sword came home, and his medallion; the Marshal of our grange hung them there for all to see. And my aunt, my lord, lived well enough on his pension." She coughed delicately. "Do I understand, my lord, from what you've said, that you will be placing your Company under Gird once more?"

  "That depends. In the years since the last Marshal here died, I have recruited many who were not Girdsmen—indeed, not Falkians, or following any of the martial patrons. Yet most are good men, hard but honorable fighters. I would not have them distressed—I owe it to them—"

  "My lord, it would be far from my desire—and I believe I speak for the Marshal-General here—to coerce warriors faithful to another to change faith. I am aware that among your soldiers are those who follow Tir and Sertig as well as the High Lord, Gird, and Falk. And your responsibilities under the
crown of Tsaia, I realize, will forbid any venturing of the Company for Gird. But should you desire such protection—even a Marshal resident here—that can be arranged."

  "You seem confident." The Duke frowned at her.

  "I am." Kerrin turned her mug in her hands. "My lord Duke, it may seem strange to you, who have been at odds with the granges for so long, but Gird himself mistakes no honest heart. We have never shared that quarrel, only watched from afar." The Duke started to speak, but Kerrin went on, heedless. "I swear to you, my lord, that if we had known anything definite—if we had been able to tell who or what was the source of that evil that tainted your lands and gossiped against you at court, we would have told you." The Duke settled back in his chair; Paks noticed that the remaining captains were rigid in theirs. "But," Kerrin went on, "without the right to come here, and investigate, we could do nothing. I don't know if you believe prayer to have any power—but I tell you that at the granges at Burningmeed and Stilldale prayers for you and your Company were offered at every service. We of Gird—and sensible nobles of the Council—well knew that you and you alone stand between Tsaia and the northern wastes, and what comes out of them."

  "You could have said something," muttered Cracolnya. The Duke shot him a look, but did not speak. Kerrin cocked her head.

  "Could we? Think about it, Captain. How well would you have listened, had I come, or sent my yeoman-marshal, to tell you that something—undefined, but something—was wrong in your cohort or the stronghold? If I had seen the traitor—your steward, Venneristimon, wasn't it?" Cracolnya and the others nodded. "If I had seen him, I might have known. But how to convince you?"

  "Prayer," muttered the Duke.

  Kerrin gave a tight smile. "Just prayer, my lord. But Gird has more weapons than one in his belt, and he sent a fine sword." She nodded at Paks.

  "True enough." The Duke sighed, leaning back in his chair. "With all respect, Kerrin, I would talk to the Marshal-General about this—"