The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Paks looked at the horse, which suddenly seemed much taller. Yet she had ridden Arcolin’s horse, that once. Her mouth was dry. If the Marshal had not been there, she could have led the horse to a field, where she could hope to land soft. Instead, she sighed inwardly, and thanked him. “I must admit, sir, that this is the biggest horse—”

  “You’ve ridden,” he finished. “Yes, I thought it might be.” He took the rein, and the horse stiffened. Paks got her foot in the stirrup, and tried to swing up, but the horse shifted suddenly with her weight. She fell into the saddle with an ungraceful scramble. It was built high and close to her body; she had almost landed on, and not in, it.

  “With a horse like this,” said the Marshal, “you need to be quicker. Or else train him to stand.” He stepped back, releasing the rein, as Paks straightened.

  The saddle felt strange, as if it were hovering over the horse’s back, and the ground looked very far away. Paks nudged the horse lightly with her heels, and it lunged forward. She thumbed the ring, thinking “Easy!” and it settled again, ears flicking. Paks saw eyes at the inn door, and cursed silently. She could feel the horse tensing under her, the hump in its back that kept the saddle too high. “Settle down, horse,” she said softly. “Settle down, and we’ll go for a walk somewhere.” It took one stiff step, then another. She laid the rein against its neck, to turn it around the dungheap, and it whirled on its hind legs, almost unseating her. “Easy!” she said. Arcolin’s horse had been nothing like this! For a moment she longed for gentle little Star, but she was conscious of the Marshal and Ambros watching. She was a warrior, and this was a warrior’s horse. If she was ever to be a knight—She talked the horse forward, hardly daring to touch it with her heels. Nearly to the cowbyre: she had to turn. Again the light touch of rein, and the lightning spin, but this time she was ready for it.

  “You might see what happens if you pull one rein lightly,” called the Marshal. “Those that are trained to spin on one cue usually turn slowly on the other.”

  Paks tried a gentle pull, and the horse veered left. It walked more freely now, and she finally managed a circle around the stable yard.

  “Now the other way,” commanded the Marshal. This, too, went well, though Paks could still feel a knot of tension in the horse’s back. They walked around the yard once, then twice. She pulled back for a halt, feeling more confident, and the horse reared. Paks lurched backward and grabbed for mane. Someone in the inn door laughed, and cut it off. The horse stayed up—and stayed up—she felt like a fool. How could she get him down? She closed her legs, and the horse leaped forward, snapping her head back. It landed charging, whirling about the stableyard as Paks fought to stay on. The saddle, so uncomfortable before, seemed to grip her. She could hear frantic yells, and the clatter of shod hooves on stone. At last she remembered the ring, and thought “Whoa!” The horse skidded to a stop and stood rigid. Paks was breathless; pain stabbed her side, and her hands were shaking. She had been sure she’d fall. It was hard to believe anything so ponderous had moved so fast. It had seemed easy when she’d seen others riding—she grinned at the memory.

  “You can stay on, at least.” The Marshal’s voice broke into her thoughts. “But that beast may still be too much for you. Best not ride through town until you have better control.”

  “I—I won’t, sir. I had—no idea—”

  “Not well-trained, either.” The Marshal was walking around the horse. “He’s got the makings of a fine animal, Paksenarrion, but he’s been ill-trained, and I would judge ill-used. If you can retrain him, you’ll have a formidable mount.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Paks ruefully, “that I’ll be able to figure out how to ride down the road, let alone fight on him.”

  “You’re a long way from that, but—a stableyard is not the best place to learn. If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the drillfields behind, and I’ll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the inn, and ride south of town, there’s a ford upstream of the bridge.”

  “Thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the reins doesn’t work, what will?”

  “May I try?”

  “Of course, sir.” Paks slid off, finding it harder than she’d thought to clear the unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one smooth motion.

  As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the unleashed power.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ambros. “The Marshal’s good with horses.” And indeed, after scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted stiffly around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal’s rein and legs. Paks could not see what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told her.

  “To halt, you’ll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That’s all. Right now I wouldn’t use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think you can manage?”

  Paks wasn’t at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal swung off as easily as he’d mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after a look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.

  “Well, I made a considerable mess, didn’t I? We’d best get at it, Ambros, if we want to keep our welcome—”

  “No, Marshal, that’s all right—” Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.

  “No, it isn’t. Ambros and I will take care of it.” And to Paks’s surprise, and the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from Sevri, and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back into a heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, and returned with another shovel to help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the yard was tidy once more. “There now.” The Marshal wiped sweat from his forehead, and handed Sevri the shovel. “Paksenarrion, early morning is a good time to train horses. Bring him along after feeding tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” Paks hoped she wouldn’t be thrown before she got to the grange. The Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now had a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse’s performance, why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.

  By that afternoon, the tailor’s wife had one shirt ready for her to try on. Paks would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do more work. “See on the inside, lady? The edges there? I’ll turn those down, and they’ll not ravel or be rough—”

  “But—”

  “Nay, we’re proud of our work, my husband and me—we won’t let such as this leave our hands. But I’ll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain shirts in two days—unless you’d rather have the trousers first?”

  Paks thought of all the riding she’d be doing, and asked for the trousers next. Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler’s, and bought a jug of the heavy oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal’s yard, she found the smith forging heavy wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.

  The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without help—but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein, but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a corner. Her attempt at a quick mount felt as rough as the day before, but she had gained the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein gently, and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the horse seemed slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of the inn yard and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the village. She found the ford the Marshal had spoken of by following a cow path, and the black horse pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling under his hooves. Now she had reached the lower end of the grange drill field; she could see the Marshal standing near the grange. Ambros, mounted on a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the street as s
he came up.

  “You made it safely, I see,” said the Marshal. “Ambros rides three times a week, and this will give both of you practice in riding with others.”

  Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of the other horse.

  In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal was as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all occasional riders, Paks hated to trot—but the Marshal insisted that they trot most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, the way she held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped out from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return, without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring, except for grooming and mounting.

  She could ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work was excellent for a high-strung mount.

  But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once it was the black horse’s neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat. Another time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she’d ridden that day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she used the ring on the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to talk to the Kuakgan about it.

  * * *

  This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking to another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing from where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned to look the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white stones that should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches from her back. She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back, crawling down her ribs. She looked forward, and the clearing was open before her. Master Oakhallow beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she felt the quiet deepen. She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the basin.

  “It is well,” said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, “that you did not try to leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my grove unsettling.”

  “Sir, it is not that,” said Paks. “But you were speaking to another. I would not intrude.”

  He smiled. “Your courtesy is appreciated. But you could not have come nearer than I wished. Enough: you came with a purpose. What troubles you?”

  Paks did not want to meet his eyes. “Sir, I did not take the time to tell you all that happened on our way across the mountains—”

  “You had no need to tell me all, or anything you would not,” he interrupted. “But you shied from some part of your tale, and it speaks in your eyes yet. Is it this you came for?”

  Paks felt her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She wished she had gone to Marshal Cedfer. She wished she had done nothing at all. From everything she had heard of the Kuakkganni—their deep love of wild things, their distaste for men’s arts, their contempt for war and soldiery—she was in danger now, danger against which her sword was no protection. She ducked her head lower yet.

  “Yes, sir. It is. I—did something, sir, and I—I can’t—I don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you sure,” he asked, “that I am the one you wish to talk to? You have spent much time lately with Marshal Cedfer. You are not kuakgannir; I have no claim on your actions.”

  “I’m sure,” said Paks, fighting the tremor in her voice. “It—has to do with—with the elf, and wild things, and he—Marshal Cedfer—he would think it silly. I think.”

  “Hmm. By elf, I presume you mean Macenion? Yes. And wild things. I doubt, Paksenarrion, that he would think it silly, but I am more used to dealing with those than he. Now—” His voice sharpened a little, and Paks flinched at the tone. “If you can spit out your tale, child, and let us see what it is, perhaps I can be of some use.”

  Paks took a deep breath, and began, haltingly, to tell of the night in the pass. The Kuakgan did not interrupt, or prompt her. When she told of the coming of the snowcat, she felt through the bones of her head the sharpening of his gaze and struggled on.

  “Then he—Macenion—told me to use the ring—”

  “The ring?” His voice might have been stone, from the weight of it.

  Paks held out her hand, and withdrew it. “This ring, sir. He said it was made to control animals.” She explained how she had caught Macenion’s horse, and how that had upset him, how he had cast a spell to identify any magic item, and had found her ring.

  “You did not know that before?”

  “No, sir. I thought the horse came because—well—I like horses. Star always came to me.”

  “Mmmm. So, you had a ring made to control animals, and you used it on a horse without knowing its power. Where did you get it?”

  “From the Duke, sir. He—he gave it to me, at Dwarfwatch last year, for bringing the word to him.” Suddenly tears ran from her eyes as she thought of the honor of that ring, and how she’d used it.

  “Did he know what it was, do you think?”

  “No, sir. It was part of the plunder from Siniava’s army that we’d beaten. He said he chose it for the form—the three strands for the three of us that went—”

  “The others?”

  “Died, sir.” She expected him to ask about that, but he did not. Instead, he returned to her original story.

  “So then you were faced with the snowcat. Had you heard of one before? No? And Macenion told you to use the ring. How?”

  “He said, sir, to make—make the cat hold still. Not jump at us or the horses. And it worked—” Paks could feel, in memory, the surprise of that. She had really believed her ring was magic until the great beast crouched motionless on the trail before them, the snowflake dapples on its coat blending with the falling snow. “And then he—told me how dangerous it was—”

  “You didn’t see that for yourself?” The Kuakgan’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

  “Sir, I could see that it was a hunting creature, and big—but it was so beautiful. I didn’t know about the magic it had, until Macenion told me. He said we had no chance—and—” Paks faltered again.

  “Go on.” The Kuakgan was implacable.

  “He told me to—to hold it still—and—” Paks squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. “And he took his sword—and killed it.”

  There was a long silence. Paks dared not move or speak. Her skin prickled all over.

  “You held it still, by magic, while Macenion killed it? Helpless?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Paks faintly. “I—I knew it was wrong. I asked him—”

  “What!” The word shook the ground with power.

  “I asked him not to,” whispered Paks. “But he said—he said it was the only way—then—and I—I shouldn’t have, sir, I know that, but what can I do now?”

  Another long silence. “And men wonder,” the Kuakgan said finally, in a quiet voice worse than a shout, “why evil roams the land. I should hope you knew it was wrong. Wrong, yes: bitterly wrong. And I assure you, Paksenarrion, that Marshal Cedfer would not think light of this. It was an evil deed, and whatever else they may be, the Marshals of Gird abhor evil. Do you claim, as your defense, that it was Macenion’s fault, because he told you to do so?”

  “No, sir,” said Paks. “I should have thought—he told me, later, when I spoke of it, that I could have used the power to send the beast away—”

  “Macenion said that? After telling you to do it in the first place?”

  “Yes, sir. I know it was my doing. I know it was wrong. But—what now? I thought you would know what to do.”

  “To make amends?”

  Paks nodded. “I thought—even—I had dishonored my sword. I should—give it up, if you said so: not be a warrior.” She had come to that, after dreaming that the victim had been the black horse.

  “Look at me.” Paks could not resist the command, and met the
Kuakgan’s dark eyes, her own blurred with tears. He looked every bit as angry as she had expected. “You would give that up? Your own craft in the world? You take the injury so seriously?”

  “Yes.” Paks fought again for control of her voice. “Sir, it was wrong. I have not slept well since. How can I be—what I want, if I could do that?”

  “But you are a soldier,” he mused. “I judge you are a good one, as soldiers go. Have you any other skill?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think, then, that you must stay so. Kuakkganni do not hate soldiers, but the necessity of war. If you have dishonored your sword, you must cleanse it with honorable battles. As for amends—the snowcat is dead, and by now the eagles have feasted. Nothing can change that.” He looked closely at her, and Paks nodded. “As I said, I have no responsibility for your actions. But if you will be bound by me, I will take a blood payment from you. Give me the ring, with which you bound the snowcat, so that you cannot misuse such power again.”

  Paks froze. Give up this ring? Her hand closed on it. She could hear the Duke’s voice as he gave it, feel the throb in her injured leg.

  “I will not compel,” said the Kuakgan. She could feel, however, the withdrawal behind his words. She unclenched her hand, staring at the ring’s twisted strands that meant so much more than power over animals. Then she pulled it from her finger, feeling the tiny ridges for the last time, and laid it in the Kuakgan’s waiting palm. His hand closed over it. She felt a cold wave sweep through her heart: that ring she had never meant to lose, save with her life.