Oath of Gold by Elizabeth Moon
"Call you—Paks?" Suriya looked shocked, but pleased. Paks thumped her shoulder.
"Yes, call me Paks. It's the best way to get my attention—as you saw, when Esceriel yelled. When you say 'Lady,' I look around to see where she is." Paks looked over the trampled snow, shaking her head. "What a mess. I'll just make sure of them—"
"They're all dead—Lieth looked—"
"I'm sure she did. But they can fool you, beasts and men alike. That priest, for example—" Paks walked over to the lance-bearer, sprawled where she had left him. "The armor may be enchanted. If it is, we can't leave it here for someone to stumble over." She extended the sword; its glow intensified. "See that? Some peril remains. Ask Falk's aid, Suriya, and I will ask Gird's." Paks touched the dead man's armor with her sword. Through the smear of white and gray that had disguised it, black lines emerged, angular designs that conveyed terror and menace. Paks called her light; the designs seemed to burn, then die away to white ash. Then the armor and body fell in, collapsing to a shapeless heap.
"What happened?" Suriya's knuckles were white on her sword hilt.
"The gods helped us prevent trouble," said Paks soberly. "Let's see what else." All the helmets reacted to her sword's touch, as did two of the other corselets, but the men's bodies did not disappear. The wolflike beasts, dead, were simply dead beasts. They dragged them into a pile. Wood from the frozen streambed, caught against the rocks of the falls, provided fuel for a pyre.
"Now what?" asked Suriya, when it was alight.
"Now I go find my bow, in case we need it, and then we get cleaned up and see what we can do for Garris and Esceriel."
Paks turned and found that the red horse was already mincing toward her. "Give me a leg up, will you?" She waved as she rode off, enjoying Suriya's open mouth.
She found her bow easily, hanging from a branch, and retrieved her arrows from the body of the beast she'd killed. By the time she was back at their little camp, the sun was already low against the hills.
Despite her prayers, Esceriel died that night without opening his eyes or speaking. Garris, however, recovered enough to wake and look blankly at them before sleeping again. Paks turned away from them, too tired to weep.
"I'm sorry," she said, aware of Lieth and Suriya watching. "I was given no healing for him—but he died bravely."
Suriya nodded. Lieth unfolded a blanket across Esceriel's body, looking long at his face before covering it.
"He was always that way," she said. "He would always do things for others—" She turned her head aside, choking back tears.
Paks reached out and touched her shoulder. "Go on and cry for him, Lieth. The King spoke of him to me, his beloved son that he could not acknowledge, who never sought anything for himself, even a name. He has earned more tears than ours, and more reward than this."
Lieth turned back to her, eyes streaming. "You're tired—you need sleep. Yes—I'll watch. I'll take care. Sleep, Paks." And Paks fell asleep almost instantly, to the sound of the others mourning.
It was broad day when she woke, another clear morning, with frost furring the inside of the tent. There was Esceriel's body, covered with a blanket, and his sword laid across his chest. She could hear voices outside. When she turned her head, she saw Garris's eyes, still a little blank, watching her.
"Lady?" He spoke with difficulty, running his tongue over his lips. Paks remembered that feeling.
"Garris. You're doing well." Paks pushed herself up; she was not as stiff as she'd expected, but she could feel the blows she'd taken. "I'll bring you something."
His head rolled from side to side. "I don't remember. Did I fall off my horse?"
"Among other things, yes."
"Hunh. At my age, to be thrown—"
"What do you remember, Garris?"
His brow furrowed. "We—were at Aliam Halveric's weren't we? Then—we had to leave. In the night. Something—" He shook his head, and moved an arm. "I don't know. I can't remember beyond riding out in the torchlight."
Lieth looked into the tent. "Paks, are you—oh. Garris. Can I bring you something?"
"Anything hot and liquid for Garris. And me, too." Paks stumbled upright. "Gird's arm, I slept as heavy as a hill." She yawned, and pushed off the helmet she had not removed the night before. Her braid thumped her back as it fell.
Lieth came in with two mugs; Suriya followed with bowls. The food and sib smelled delicious. Garris reached for his mug, then looked around and saw the blanket-shrouded form across from him. The hot sib sloshed over his wrist.
"Falk's oath! Is that Esceriel?"
"Yes," said Paks. "It is. Garris, we had a fight yesterday—we were attacked on the trail. You and Lieth were wounded and Esceriel was killed—"
"But I don't—but what—" His hand shook; Paks took the mug from him and set it down.
"Garris, you had a serious wound—that's why you don't remember."
"But I'm all right now—I don't feel any pain—"
"The gods sent healing for you, Garris. Not for Esceriel. I'm sorry." Paks watched the pain on his face. When it turned to anger, she spoke again. "I warned you this was dangerous. I told you that you didn't have to come. You chose that—Esceriel chose that. He chose more—he chose to come to me, when I needed him, and he killed one of them. Then he faced the same weapon that struck you down, and it killed him."
Garris nodded, his eyes filling with tears. "And you could do nothing?"
"No." Paks sighed. She felt slightly affronted; he expected too much of her—she had, after all, fought all of the enemy. She mastered that feeling, and went on. "I prayed for him, Garris, as for you. I was taught in Fin Panir that some brave deeds so delight the High Lord that he calls the warrior at once to his service—as a reward. So I think it was for Esceriel."
"I see." Garris pushed himself up on his elbows, rolled to one side, and took his mug of sib. After several swallows, he looked back at her.
"Will you tell us yet where we're going?"
Paks thought about it. She had not told them at Aliam's, where someone less wise than Aliam might overhear, and mention that name carelessly. And in the woods, that day, she had felt unsure, aware that the woods might hide enemies. But now, with those attackers dead, now surely she could tell them. She nodded. "I will tell you all, before we go on." She turned to see Lieth and Suriya both watching from the entrance. "Come in, both of you—you might as well hear it all at once." Suriya stayed where she could watch outside; Lieth squatted near Paks.
"We have a space of safety, I believe: those attackers are dead, and our enemies have nothing else close to us. So now I will tell you the prince's name, and where we must go. But that name must not be mentioned aloud—not even in the deep woods. Such evil as assailed us has the great forest taig under attack as well; it is broken into many taigin, and in places the fabric is threadbare; we cannot count on the forest to ward us. Enemies can get through—have gotten through—and the little creatures, if no other, may spy on us and pass along our words to each other. More than that, we shall not ride in forest forever; we must pass among the towns of men. There the many agents of evil will have their chance. I have some protection—nothing evil can change my mind or master my tongue—and you share that protection when you are with me—but you must not say the name aloud, or leave my protection once you know it. Do you understand?"
"I will stay with you," Lieth said quickly.
"And I," said Suriya. They both looked at Garris.
"Oh, I'll stay." He shook his head, then grinned at Paks. "Falk's arm, I might as well—how could I ride home alone and miss the rest of this tale. But I feel as I did the night Kieri started us over the Hakkenarsk Pass—it's a cold road ahead, and no sure fires, it seems to me."
"It is indeed," said Paks. "I am honored that you choose to come; alone I would not have much chance on this quest, and I think it worthy enough to cost all our lives if that becomes the choice." She took a deep breath, and glanced from one grave face to another. "Now . . ."
They started off again at an easy pace after noon, having built a mound of rocks over Esceriel's body. Paks had found a good way down to the lower ground, and none of the horses had trouble with the snow-covered rocks. Garris, though pale, insisted he could ride, and was able to saddle his own mount. Lieth and Suriya rode the grays, who were unharmed, and the injured animals carried their light packs.
Day after day they traveled the snowy woods, a journey that seemed to Paks later a strange interlude of peace, despite the dangers and discomforts of such travel in winter. Hour after hour they rode unspeaking, only the crunch of the horses' hooves in snow, and the creak of leather breaking the forest silence. Behind and around them cold stillness lay untouched. The patterns of branches and twigs, the colors of snow and ice seemed to sink deep into her mind. The only warmth was the blazing fire that the squires kindled every night; the only warm colors were the things they carried. That small company, closer with each evening's campfire talk—it was a return to the close-knit companionship she had valued so much as a soldier. Yet not quite a return. For where once that campfire would have been all she knew of light and warmth, now she felt that magical flame within, a light still flickering across the landscapes of her mind, no matter how cold or dark the outer night, how uncertain her vision of what lay ahead. As the squires comforted each other, and looked to her for comfort and guidance, she found herself reaching within, more and more aware of that flame, and what it meant to her.
Chapter Twenty-four
They traveled to Vérella with far less difficulty than Paks had feared—though with far more publicity than she'd hoped. Marshal Pelyan, whom she'd met on the way to Lyonya, had heard of the quest before their arrival. Travelers, he said, had brought word as soon as it came to Harway. And he himself had passed the word on through the granges. So their arrival in any town caused excitement but not curiosity. Paks enjoyed the crowds of children that followed them, the flurry when they entered an inn, but hoped the admiration was not premature. As well, she remembered the winter before, when she had stumbled into such towns as a hungry vagrant, whom the children tricked and harassed instead of cheering.
In each town, they spent the night in grange or field, for Paks wished the King's Squires to have such protection at night. The Marshals each had a measure of news or advice; she listened to all. She did not tell them the prince's name, but she told what she could of the quest so far. The nearer she came to Vérella, the more recent the news became. In Westbells, just east of Vérella, Marshal Torin told her that the Duke had been summoned to the Council. She had not asked, but it seemed Phelan's call to court was of interest even to a neighboring town.
"What I heard," he said between bites of roast chicken, "was that after the Marshal-General went up there, and whatever passed between them, his friends on the Council thought he should come speak for himself. You know, I suppose, that there was a motion to censure him."
Paks nodded. She had heard about this from the Marshal-General.
"I never thought so bad of him myself," Marshal Torin went on, "for it seemed to me that if over half my yeomen were killed by treachery, I'd take risks enough to stop that. But they say by his charter he's bound to have a hundred fighting men on his lands, and the word was that this was not the first time he'd left the north unguarded." He ate steadily for a minute, then put down the bones and wiped his hands. "I can't believe that, or there'd have been more trouble. Kostvan, who holds south and east of him, has never complained. But then there was word about how he fought in Aarenis—even rumors from a Marshal down there, so I hear. And last year, instead of staying quiet at home, he went haring off to Fintha because of—" He stopped short and turned dark red. Paks smiled.
"Marshal, he went haring off to Fintha on account of me—and that may have been foolish, but showed a warm heart."
"Warm heart or not, it made some on the Council angry. They'd bid him stay on his lands, and—"
"But his men stayed," put in the yeoman-marshal, a young man who reminded Paks of Ambros in Brewersbridge. "His captains, and all the men—they could have handled any trouble—"
"I didn't say they were right, Keri. I said they were angry."
"Some of them would be angry no matter what he did." The young man's face had flushed. Paks wondered why he was defending Phelan.
"Court gossip, Keri. Nothing to do with us. You can clear now." The Marshal waited until Keri had left the room before saying more. Paks used the interval to ask her squires about their readiness to ride the next day—an unnecessary question, but they answered without surprise.
"You're going to the Council," said the Marshal, when she had dismissed them to rest, and did not wait for her answer. "You'll find them in a flutter, I don't doubt," he said, shaking his head. "That's why I mentioned Phelan—you know him, and he's likely there, and that's why. He's got friends and enemies both on the Council, and until they've settled themselves about him, they're likely to be skittish with you. The thought that Lyonya had sent a paladin to search in Tsaia for an unknown prince—well, you can see how that will suit. Will they have to acknowledge someone as sovereign of a neighboring realm who has been thought base-born here? How if he's a slave, or a servant?"
"He's not," said Paks quietly.
"You know who it is?"
"Yes, but I am not at liberty to say, until I have spoken to him."
"I see. That makes sense." He chewed his lip a moment. "Someone highborn? How could that be, unless—no, I should not ask. You have your own guidance from Gird and the High Lord, and I pray their grace and strength for you. I doubt your task will be easy, even knowing for whom you go."
"Could you tell me," asked Paks, "which of the Council is the right person to approach?"
"Hmmph. Right for what, is the question. As you have dealt with me, so must I deal with you. I have no right to tell you all that the Marshals of Gird suspect about some families on the Council; we have not the proof, and we are bound not to illspeak without it. Yet I would not talk freely with anyone, and certainly not with the Verrakai family. Kostvan is utterly loyal, but has less power. Marrakai—Marrakai has the power, and I believe is loyal, but the Marrakaien have long had a name for secret treachery. Yet you know that the name is not the reality: the real traitor may not have the reputation. Clannaeth is flighty—they say it's his health, but I have a cousin down there who says it's his second wife. Destvaorn is bride-bound to the Marrakaien, but none the worse for that, if the Marrakaien be sound. Konhalt—there's another I'd go clear of; I know nothing against them, but that three times the neighboring grange has had to chase evil things from their hills. The rest are small, of little power compared to these, or closely related. I might speak to Kostvan first, or Destvaorn, and then to Marrakai. Phelan wields power, but not at the moment; your past connection would be suspect there."
Paks got from him the descriptions of these various lords, and committed them to memory. Then she chanced to mention the Verrakai captain she'd met north of the Honnorgat—a Girdsman, he'd said. "Oh, that branch is sound," said the Marshal cheerfully. "I don't wonder you thought him well enough. That's the trouble with some families—and the Verrakaien aren't the only one—you can't tell by the name. Take the Marrakaien, now: true or treacherous, they're all of one brew, and that a heady one. There's naught to choose one from another, barring looks. But others—well, you have dreamers, drunks, daring men and dour men all in one heap, like mixed fruit."
"I'll keep that in mind," said Paks.
* * *
Their entry into Vérella was far different from the first time she'd seen the city. The guards at the first gate had heard of her quest; they saw her coming and held traffic (light enough at this season) to pass her through. She had long forgotten the way from the south gates to the court, but the guard sent an escort to guide her, an eager young soldier whose bright face reminded her of all the recruits she'd ever seen.
On horseback, she could see over the parapets of the bridge; th
"Lady Paksenarrion," said the captain, with a low bow, "I have orders to convey you at once to the Regency Council, if you are not too fatigued with your journey." His voice conveyed the secure belief that they would indeed be too fatigued.
Paks returned the bow. "Not at all. It is in answer to Gird's call that I seek the Regency Council; it cannot be too soon."
To her surprise, the captain reddened slightly. "Well—ah—Lady—the council assumed you would wish to take refreshment, whenever you came, and—in fact—they are in session now. But when they come forth, I am sure—"
Paks followed the pressure she felt. "By your leave, Captain, I would not intrude, but by the gods' commands. If you will, guide us to the Council, and make known to them that I would see them."
"They know you're coming—" he blurted, completely flustered.
"Yes, but not when—nor exactly what I have come for. Sir, the matter is urgent—" She felt this intensely, as if every moment now mattered. "I believe they will agree on the necessity for this, when I give my message."
"Well, Lady—" Clearly he did not know how to argue with a paladin on quest. Paks smiled at him.
"Come, Captain; take me to the Council, and let them decide if they have time. We do no good standing here in the cold."
At that he bowed, and led the way across the courtyard. The three squires followed Paks closely. She noticed, even in that rapid walk, how different this court was from that in Chaya. Fluted columns of pinkish stone supported a portico on three sides, and rose to frame a pointed arch opposite the gate. Above were walls ornamented with half-pillars separating pointed windows, several rows of them, up to the fretwork of stone that hid the roofs from those below. A lacework of frost or snow glittered from every roughness of the stone, making the palace shimmer with the rose and silver of Tsaia. Suddenly, from far over their heads, a sweet powerful clamour broke out. For a moment Paks could not think what it might be: then she remembered the Bells. The captain turned to her, speaking through the sound.