The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “So be it. Aliam?”

  The Halveric sighed. “She’s probably right, Kieri, gods blast it. I’ll abide. But I was looking forward to it.”

  “It was my agreement. You can give the stroke.” The Duke heaved himself up from beside Siniava.

  “My thanks.” Aliam Halveric drew his sword. “Cal, take that helmet off.” Cal wrestled the helmet from Siniava’s head, and tossed it aside. With a quick powerful stroke the Halveric buried his sword in Siniava’s neck. The watching soldiers cheered, and in a few minutes the armor and body were hacked into many pieces. Paks watched silently, thinking of the many bodies she’d seen in the past year.

  It had happened so fast at the end. She could scarcely believe it was over, and turned away, still frightened and sick. She did not realize she had fallen until a hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, fighting nausea.

  “Paks?” Vik sounded worried. She nodded, unable to speak. “What’s wrong? Were you hurt? Let me see.” Approaching torchlight glared through her closed eyelids. She felt his hands touching her, heard the hiss when he found the gash in her armor. Other hands were about her now, supporting her. Voices. Someone swearing as he worked at the fastenings of her corselet. She forced her eyes open, squinting against the torchlight. She saw someone walking away with Siniava’s head on a pole. Then the paladin’s face filled her vision.

  “Paksenarrion. We think it is poison. Be still.” She felt an emptiness as others moved away. The paladin’s hands on her were hard. A glow seemed to rise around them. She felt a streak of pain across her chest, then a wave of comfort, palpable as a handful of clover. She took a breath and it came easy. Her vision cleared.

  “My apologies,” said Fenith. “You moved so well I did not think to be sure you weren’t hurt. How is it now?”

  Paks had not felt so well for days—even months, she thought. “I’m fine, sir; thank you.” She started to sit up. Around them was a circle of her friends, looking worried.

  “Here,” said Vik. “Have a cloak.”

  “I’m fine.” Paks took the cloak anyway. The paladin helped her stand. She felt steady and secure.

  “Paksenarrion.” That was Aliam Halveric, watching her with a puzzled frown.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you know where Sunnot is? Did he go to bring us word?”

  Memory of the mysterious cold and sleep came back to her. “No, my lord. I think he must have been overcome by the sleep—”

  “Sleep! What was he—?”

  A clamor of voices broke out, explaining.

  “We were all asleep—”

  “Magic or something—”

  “—and Paks woke me up, and they—”

  “Silence!” Paks had not noticed the Duke still standing nearby. “Vik, look for him. Paks, tell us about this sleep—how were you awake?”

  “My lord, I don’t know. Sunnot and I had doubled the guards; we had just met and parted over there—” Paks pointed “—when it seemed cold suddenly. I remember a cold breeze, and wrapping my cloak. Then I woke, and I was on the ground, beside a tree—”

  “What woke you?” asked the paladin. The Duke shot him a look.

  “I don’t know exactly—it felt like a thorn pricking my chest—”

  “Where your holy symbol rests?” Paks nodded. “May I see it again, please?” Paks slipped the chain over her head and handed it to him. As he took it, it flared to a blue glow, instantly extinguished. He held the surface to the torchlight, examining it minutely.

  “Then what?” asked the Duke gruffly. Paks looked at him warily, remembering his rage.

  “Well, my lord, I looked around, but saw nothing. Then I found the next guard asleep, and thought of magic. I woke her; we saw the first of them coming out. She woke the guards on this side, and I went to the other. I didn’t see Sunnot, but I was going by feel, to the posts we’d set. I could have missed—” A shout from Vik interrupted her. In a moment he reappeared, leading a bewildered Sunnot, who went down on one knee to the Halveric.

  “My lord, I—I don’t know what happened—” The Halveric smiled and gestured him up.

  “You were magicked, Sunnot; not your fault. I’m sorry you missed it—”

  “Did he escape, sir?” Sunnot looked ready to cry.

  “No. He’s dead. It’s over.” Sunnot looked around, still worried. Vik spoke softly to him, and he shook his head.

  “Go on, Paks,” said the Duke.

  She was so glad to see Sunnot alive and well that she’d lost the thread of her story.

  “You woke the guards,” the Duke prompted.

  “Yes, my lord. More of them had come out by then. When the last one came out I yelled and we attacked.”

  “Where was Siniava then?”

  “I don’t know. The bodyguard had made a ring, with two inside it—” Paks pointed to the bound prisoners. She explained how she had thought the two were a shapechanged Siniava and a wizard, how she’d noticed what seemed to be an animal moving along the rockface, and the animal’s transformation into Siniava. “When he turned to run,” she said, “I jumped and caught his legs—”

  “I saw her jump,” said the paladin. “He was turning to strike at her, and I was just in time to stop him. The rest you know. Here, Paksenarrion, take back your medallion.”

  The Duke shook his head thoughtfully. “I hardly feel I know anything. What woke her up? Was it the medallion—when she’s not a Girdsman?”

  “What else would you suggest? I know it’s unusual—but what else?”

  The Duke shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “More mysteries, when I thought we’d be rid of them. Paksenarrion—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Post a guard on this end of the passage, and come back to camp. How many wounded have we?” Paks looked around.

  “My men took them back,” said the Halveric. “With my wounded. Things seemed—busy—around here.”

  “My lord, if any are poisoned, I’d be glad to try a healing.”

  “Thank you, sir paladin,” said Aliam before the Duke could answer. “You know the way to my surgeons’ tents?”

  “Certainly, my lord.” The paladin turned and was gone.

  Paks had organized the remaining soldiers and told them to keep close watch until they were relieved.

  “Can we have a fire?” asked Rauf. She looked at the Duke.

  “Certainly,” he said. “As big as you like. We’ll send a relief down when we get back, and then you can sleep. You’ve earned it. Come along, Paks.” He turned to go, and Paks followed, pausing to pick up the shards of her sword. She could hear the quartermaster now: sword and corselet both.

  The Duke and Aliam Halveric walked side by side back to camp, the Duke’s squires before them, and Paks bringing up the rear. They said nothing to her, and she could not hear what they were saying. She didn’t try. She had too much to think about. She rubbed her thumb across the medallion she held—she had not put it back on. She did not understand—did not want to understand. The Duke was angry enough; she did not want him more angry with her than he was already. She thought of Canna and Saben—would they have wanted it this way? Siniava dead so easily? Saben would have—she turned away from his memory to something else. Canna had never told her the medallion had such powers. Was that its function, to warn? And if so, why hadn’t it warned Canna of the brigands?

  When they reached the camp, the Duke turned to Paks. “I think you should be the one to tell your cohort that Siniava is dead, and how he died.” His voice was neutral; Paks could not tell if he was still angry.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You have my thanks for a duty faithfully—even more than faithfully—performed.”

  “And our thanks also,” said Aliam Halveric. His smile was as open as ever, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Whatever power enabled you to resist the spell, it is clear that without you that scum might have escaped.” He looked at the Duke. “That power, too, must have our thanks and praise.
”

  The Duke’s shoulders shifted. “We can speak of that later. As for now, Aliam, you and I must arrange the taking of that citadel. Paksenarrion has more immediate duties, as well.”

  The Halveric was no longer smiling. “Later, perhaps, Kieri—but after this night’s work, we can no longer ignore it.”

  The Duke sighed. “No, I suppose not. Go on, Paks, and tell the rest. And get some sleep. If it comes to fighting, we’ll want your blade as well.”

  If Stammel had not been awake by one of the watchfires, Paks might have fallen asleep without telling her news. But in telling him, the excitement woke her again, and soon she was the center of a breathless crowd.

  “And you’re sure he’s dead,” said someone into the silence that followed her recital.

  “They brought his head back on a pole,” said Paks. “I didn’t see it as we came—it must be in the Halveric camp now.”

  “But you caught him,” said another voice. “It should be our trophy.”

  “The Halveric killed him. And the paladin—Sir Fenith—helped catch him. I didn’t do it alone—”

  “Still—” Paks recognized Barranyi’s voice, this time.

  “Hush, Barra,” said Natzlin. “It doesn’t bother Paks, and she did it.”

  “How did they kill him?” asked Vossik, who had not heard the first of the story. Paks tensed.

  “The Halveric killed him,” she said again. “With a sword.”

  “Huh. Slowly, I’ll bet, after what he did to his sons.”

  “No.” Paks wished she were far away, as she felt the pressure of surprise and curiosity. She stared into the fire. “One stroke,” she said finally. “In the neck.”

  Stammel whistled. “That’s—something. To show mercy like that—” He was clearly impressed. Some of the others were frowning, but Paks saw many of the older veterans relax, as if they had feared worse. Barranyi’s voice broke a brief silence.

  “But why? After all he’d done—I’d think the Duke would do something! It’s not right, that he should die so easy.” Paks felt almost sick at the venom in Barra’s voice. Before she could gather her words, Vossik interrupted Barra.

  “No! That’s what makes us different. Such leaders as that—that you can trust to do the right thing even under pressure. By—” he paused and looked at Stammel. “By Gird and Falk and the High Lord himself, I’m proud we’ve got such men to lead our companies.” Vossik turned to Paks, grinning. “I daresay you weren’t eager for torture, were you now?”

  Paks felt herself blushing. “No,” she muttered. She hoped no one would ask what the Duke had actually said.

  “I thought not.” Vossik sounded relaxed and happy. “This is an honorable company, and always has been, and always will be. Remember that, Barra.” She made no answer.

  Stammel was smiling too. “Well now. Just let us get this citadel taken care of, and we’ll be back to normal. And a lot richer, I don’t doubt. You, too, Paks—you’ll have a bonus for this night’s work.” He stretched. “Now I can sleep. I’d been so worried he’d have some magic and escape again.” He stood, reaching a hand to Paks. “Come on, warrior. Even you need sleep before the assault.” Paks clambered up, meeting the admiring glances of her friends as she moved away. What she had left unsaid cluttered her throat.

  No one woke her in the morning; the sun was high when she finally opened her eyes. The tent was almost empty; two others slept at the far end. Paks stretched and yawned. She didn’t want to move. She heard voices outside and got up reluctantly. Outside, the day was fair and warm; it would be hot by noon. She headed for the cooks’ tent.

  “There you are.” Stammel came up behind her. “You’ll be glad to know that the troops in the citadel want to surrender.”

  Paks pulled her mind back to the present. “Oh. Good.”

  “They’re afraid to open the gates, they say. I don’t blame them. They would expect the worst from us.” He waited to say more until no one was near. “Paks—the others are back now. I spoke to Arñe and Vik. There’s a lot you didn’t say last night.”

  Paks blushed. She was afraid of his next question. Instead of asking, he went on.

  “I’m glad you didn’t. The Duke’s a good man; you know that. I’ve known him a long time; I know why he might lose his temper. But you were right, Paks, however angry he was, or may be still: he’s not the kind to torture. Only he wasn’t himself for a bit.” He went on more briskly. “I don’t think the others will talk about it—I had to pull the truth out of Vik with a rope, nearly. He feared I’d be angry with you.”

  Paks found herself grinning at Stammel’s tone. When she looked up, his brown eyes were twinkling.

  “You’d best watch yourself, though,” he said. “If things keep happening around you, and you keep siding with paladins, it’ll rub off, and we’ll only see you from far away, as you ride past on your fancy charger.” His tone was only half joking.

  For an instant the thought made Paks’s heart leap, but she forced the image away. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m staying here, in the Company, with my friends. If the Duke isn’t too angry—” For she remembered the icy glare he’d given her.

  “He’s fair; he won’t hold it against you. But Paks, it’s not that bad an idea,” said Stammel more earnestly. “If you have the chance, I’d say take it. You’ve got the fighting skills, and you care about the right and wrong of things. You’d make friends elsewhere—” Paks shook her head. Stammel sighed. “Have you thought,” he asked, “that your two years is up these many months? You’re due a leave—you could go north and see your family—look around—”

  Paks was startled. She had forgotten all about the “two years beyond training” in her first contract. “I hadn’t thought,” she said. As she mused on it, the sights and smells of Three Firs came back to her. The baker’s shop, the well, the striped awnings that hung out on market day. And beyond the town the great rolling lift of the moors, and the first sight of the dark slate roof of her father’s house. Tears stung her eyes. “I could—I could take my dowry back—” she said.

  “So you could. Your share this campaign should do it. Think about it. The Duke will be granting us all leave unless he takes us back north.”

  “And I wouldn’t be leaving the Company.”

  “No. Not unless you wanted to.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, and Stammel nodded and left her.

  * * *

  Siniava’s troops surrendered that day, but not to the Duke: to the combined city militia. Paks did not even see the prisoners; she heard that they’d been taken away toward Vonja. The Duke’s Company entered the citadel only for plunder; they found the only treasure at the inside opening of the secret passage. Several chests of gold, Stammel said, would pay for the entire campaign, leaving aside their share of Cha and Sibili. Paks heard from Arñe that Siniava’s bodyguards had all been carrying jewels and gold. “That’s what slowed them down in the fight,” she joked.

  “Did you find out who the others were?”

  “Yes. The man’s some high rank in the moneylender’s guild. He’s got a bad wound; he may not live. The woman’s his sister or niece or something.” Arñe stopped and looked at Paks. “Do you know what happened with Canna’s medallion? Was it really St. Gird who woke you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand.” Paks could hardly convey her confusion. “Something happened, I know that. But—I keep wondering and wondering about it, and nothing comes clear.”

  Three days later, as she watched the city militias march north from the bridge, she was still wondering. The High Marshal had talked to her again, and the paladin; the Duke had apparently talked to both of them. Dorrin had told of the incident in Rotengre, and Paks finally admitted that she’d tried to use the medallion to heal Canna. She could have had, if she’d wanted it, hours of instruction about Gird. She didn’t want it.

  “I want to stay with you,” she’d told the Duke, while the High Marshal listened. “I joined your company; I
gave you my oath. And my friends are here.”

  The Duke nodded. “You may stay, Paksenarrion, as long as you’re willing. But I must agree with the High Marshal in this: some force—we need not agree on what—is moving you as well. The time may come when you should leave. I will not hold you to your oath then.”

  “My lord—” the paladin had begun, but the Duke interrupted.

  “Don’t bully her. If she’s to leave, she’ll leave, in her own time. You’ve seen she’s no fool.”

  “That’s not what I meant, my lord.”

  “No. I’m sorry.” The Duke had sighed, looking tired. “Paks, think about it. I know it’s not easy—but think. Talk to Arcolin or Dorrin, if you’d like; talk to Stammel. This company is not the only place you can be a fighter.”

  But she had been determined. From a sheepfarmer’s daughter in Three Firs to a respected veteran in the Duke’s Company, with friends who would die for her, or she for them—that was enough. Those childhood dreams were only dreams: this place, these friends, were real. It was all she wanted, and all she ever would.

  She waved, nonetheless, to Sir Fenith the paladin, as he rode out. Canna’s medallion was safe in her belt-pouch now. She would let it stay there. No more of those strange warnings to deal with, no more mysteries. And if she died, for lack of its warning—she grinned, not worried. Saben’s red horse would bear her to the Afterfields.

  End Book I

  Book II:

  Divided Allegiance

  Chapter One

  When all Siniava’s troops had surrendered, Kieri Phelan’s troops assumed they’d be going back to Valdaire—even, perhaps, to the north again. Some already had plans for spending their share of the loot. Others looked forward to time to rest and recover from wounds. Instead, a few days later they found themselves marching south along the Immer in company with Alured’s men, the Halverics, and several cohorts of the Duke of Fall’s army. These last looked fresh as new paint, hardly having fought at all, except to turn Siniava away from Fallo.