The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “These—must be his. Luap’s or his successor’s—Gird’s grace, I can hardly believe it—”

  “He might have stepped out only moments ago,” said Fallis softly. “There’s no dust—no disarray—” He glanced at the loose sheets on the work-table. “Look, Connaught. Supply lists—names—and here’s a watch-schedule of some kind: south outpost, east outpost, north—”

  “I wonder what happened,” murmured Amberion. “I feel no evil here at all, only great peace and good, but—some sleep, and others are gone—”

  Connaught sighed. “Amberion, we wouldn’t know if Falk himself slept out there with the others. Who knows what he looked like? The legends say he was thinner than Gird—and none of us ever saw Gird. I don’t suppose,” he said, turning to Ardhiel, “that you happen to be of an age to know what Falk looked like—”

  Ardhiel shook his head. “Sir Marshal, I am sorry that this is not a mystery I can solve for you. Only I agree with Sir Amberion, that this is not a place of evil. Whatever happened here, happened for good.”

  “So—now what?” asked Fallis. “I feel strange, rooting around in these things that seem untouched. If it were a ruin, and everything half-destroyed—but here, I feel like a—a robber, almost.”

  “We asked Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, Fallis. They know our need, and the needs of this place. We will be warned, I daresay, if we trespass where they do not wish us to go.”

  Fallis nodded. Connaught turned to the others. “Amberion, if you don’t mind, you might lead a group looking for a lower entrance. They must have had a way to get animals in and out, and heavy loads.”

  “With all the magic this place holds,” said Amberion dryly, “perhaps they simply wished them inside.” Connaught chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “By Gird, Amberion, I hope you’re wrong.”

  Before Amberion got out of hearing, however, Fallis had found a map of the complex, in the wide desk drawer. They called Amberion back.

  “Look—this is the main Hall—”

  “And this is Luap’s office, as we thought. So that corridor, if we’d gone on, would lead to the kitchens—”

  “I wonder what they do for firedraught, so far down,” said Fallis. “Master Balkon, do dwarves have any trouble with that?”

  “Firebreath? No, it is important to make a hole for it, that is all.”

  “Look at these red lines, Amberion—could that be shafts?”

  “It could be anything until we go and look. Let me—ah. Look here. Is there another sheet?”

  “Yes. Two more; I put them on the table there.”

  “Good. Let me see—yes, look at this. I thought so. This keys to the other sheet, and this must be the ground level—if his mapmaker followed Finthan tradition, then this sign means a spring.”

  “But we saw springs coming out of the rock very high,” said Connaught.

  “Yes, but look—isn’t that a trail sign? And it’s twisting here, as in natural land, not straight or gently curved like these corridors.”

  Paks, looking over their shoulders, could make little of the brown, red, and black lines on the maps. She had found the Hall easily enough, and Luap’s study, but the maze of corridors, and the strange marks that Amberion insisted meant ramps or stairs, confused her.

  “I only hope,” Fallis was saying, “that your trail isn’t like that rockclimb we had.”

  Amberion laughed. “No—I’m sure it’s not. We’ll go down that way and see. How many would you like left with you?”

  “Who has a good writing hand?” asked Connaught. “We should make copies of what we find.” Paks and one of the men-at-arms, who was known to write clearly, stayed with the High Marshals.

  Paks heard later that day how Amberion had led the little group through echoing passages of stone, ever deeper, down gentle ramps. They had found a stone stable, clean but for a few ancient bits of straw, and the deep-grooved ruts of the carts that had carried in fodder and carried out dung. They had found great kitchens, three of them, and Balkon had told them why—that whatever way the wind blew, one of the hearths would draw perfectly. They had found storerooms still full of casks and bales—but across the doors lay a line of silvery light that Amberion would not try to pass. And finally, when the last wide corridor ended in a blank face of stone, Amberion had touched it with one glowing finger, and the stone vanished in a colored mist. The cold, pine-scented air of the canyon blew in, swirling a little dust around their feet. Some of the men were reluctant to go out, fearing the passage would close again, but it stayed open like a great grange door behind them.

  Paks spent that time copying what seemed to her a very dull list of names. She supposed that the High Marshals had some reason to need a complete list of Luap’s followers, with the years of their coming, but she could not understand it. Behind her she could hear them at the shelves, gently taking down one scroll or book after another, and murmuring to each other. She used up the small amount of ink that Fallis had had, and asked him for his inkstick. He reached over to Luap’s desk, where a bowl of ink sat waiting, as it seemed, and handed it to her.

  “Use this?” Paks asked.

  “Why not?” He hardly looked at her, face deep in a large volume bound in cedarwood.

  “But it’s—it might be—”

  “It’s just ink, Paksenarrion. What else could it be?” Paks felt her shoulders tighten at the sneer she thought she heard in his voice, and ducked her head. How did he know it was just ink. Ink doesn’t stay wet for years—all the years this place had been—whatever it had been. She stabbed at the ink with the pen, and felt vindicated when it clicked on the surface.

  “It won’t write,” she said. “It’s dried up.”

  “Oh?” Fallis put the book down, picked up the bowl, and tilted it. “That’s odd. It looked wet, and I’d have sworn it shifted. Hmm. Well, here’s the inkstick and—yes—here’s a bowl for it.”

  Silently, Paks mixed a measure of ink with water from her flask. She pushed it over so that Elam could use it too.

  * * *

  Amberion reappeared to say that he had found the lower entrance, and had started moving the animals and others toward it.

  “It’s nearly dark, though, so I thought it better to camp for the night—that trail is barely passable in daylight. Will you come out, or shall I have food sent in?”

  “We’ll come out,” said Connaught. “Everyone needs to hear all about this, and we should be together.”

  “I thought you might want to set sentries on the old guardposts.”

  Connaught shook his head. “Until we know more about how this place works, that would simply call attention to us. Paks—Elam—that will do for today. Let’s go have some supper.”

  And Paks, rising from her seat, realized how stiff and hungry she was. She followed the others out without a word.

  In the next two days, some of the party explored as much of the old fortress as the light would allow. One rash yeoman tried to pass a doorway barred with silver light, and fell without a cry. Amberion touched his head, and did nothing more.

  “He’ll wake with a headache, and more respect for these things. Someone stay with him, until he wakes.”

  Paks spent her time copying records. She wished she could roam around, seeing the things others spoke of in the evenings; it didn’t seem fair that she had to act as scribe all the time. But no one had asked her what she wanted to do, and she refused to bring it up. Surely they could tell, if they thought about it, she thought bitterly. Finally, when one of the yeomen was describing a long climb up a narrow corridor to an outlook on the very top of the mountain, among the trees, Paks exploded.

  “—and you could see so far,” the man said, gesturing. “North of here, and west—what a view. Of course it was cold up there, and after climbing all that way my legs quivered like jelly.” He grinned at Paks. “You’re lucky, lady, that you get to sit all day in the warm, just wiggling your fingers with a pen.”

  “Lucky!” Heads turned at the bit
e in her voice. “Lucky to sit all day? I’d give anything to be where I could see something besides another stinking scroll! How would you like to travel all the way out here and then be stuck in a windowless room? I’ve already been underground as much as I care to—” She stopped short, seeing the worry in Amberion’s face, the High Marshals’ stern expressions.

  “You could have asked, Paks,” said Fallis mildly. “We thought it would be easier for you, with your wounds still healing, than climbing all over.”

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. Now that she’d said it, she felt ashamed, and still somehow resentful. She shouldn’t have protested—she shouldn’t have felt that way. Yet she did, and it was unfair.

  “Take some time tomorrow,” Amberion said. “I’ll show you some things if you wish.” But Paks felt that he was humoring her, as if she were still sick.

  When she tried to follow Amberion around the stronghold the next day, she found that in one thing the High Marshals were right. She was too weak to climb far. She pushed herself, determined not to show what she felt, but when Amberion turned back toward the lower levels, near midday, she was glad. That afternoon she copied lists without complaint, and that evening the High Marshals announced their decision to try to use the pattern on the Hall’s platform.

  “We won’t take everyone; enough must stay here to go back, as planned. The maps show another way out this canyon, down through the western cliffs, and a clear trail to the trade route from Kaelifet. We suggest that instead of the trail that would take you past the kuaknom again. But if the transfer works, we will return and the rest of you can travel easily that way. Wait ten days for us to return before you leave; Ardhiel assures me that if we can use the pattern at all, we can return in that time.”

  Paks was elated to find that they wanted her to try the pattern with them. High Marshal Connaught, commander of the expedition, was staying behind; those returning were Amberion, High Marshal Fallis, Ardhiel, Balkon, and herself. With Connaught watching, they mounted the platform, standing as near the center as they could. Paks watched Balkon; he had confided to her that if he was to travel like this, he might as well go home if he could. Then the High Marshals together lifted their voices, calling on Gird and the High Lord. Ardhiel’s silvery elven song joined them, then Balkon’s chant in dwarvish. Paks thought she heard a faint and distant call of trumpets.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  As the Hall of Luap’s stronghold faded around them, the sound of trumpets seemed to come nearer. Abruptly they were standing on the lower dais of the High Lord’s Hall at Fin Panir, facing the Marshal-General as she came forward between the ranks of knights: the fanfare had just ended. The Marshal-General stopped in midstride, her face a stiff mask. Behind her, the knights drew sword; others burst into shouts, questions, even one scream, chopped off short. The Marshal-General’s arm came up, paused . . . the hubbub stilled, no one moved. Then Amberion spoke, a formal greeting that Paks hardly noticed because she’d realized that Balkon was not with them, and grinned to herself. She had no doubt that he had chosen to return to the Goldenaxe, and hoped his magic worked.

  In moments, the Marshal-General had reached the dais, touching each of them, eyes bright. And again the Hall was full of sound: greetings, whispers, comments, the scrape of feet, the rasp of weapons returned to scabbard and rack. To Paks, it seemed noisy as a windstorm after the calm of Luap’s Stronghold. She felt at once submerged in it and remote, a solitary stone washed by contending waves. Eventually the noise receded, the crowds dispersed, and she went to her quarters, hardly noticing the shy greetings and questions of those few students who spoke to her.

  A few hours later, the Marshal-General summoned her. When she arrived in the study, she found the Marshal-General and Amberion waiting.

  “I have been telling the Marshal-General,” began Amberion, “about your capture and ordeal with the iynisin—the kuaknom—” he said quickly, after a glance at the Marshal-General.

  Paks nodded, at once alarmed and defensive.

  “I wondered what your plans were, Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal-General. “From what Amberion says, and the way you look, it seems that you may need a rest. Such wounds would slow anyone. Have you thought of it?”

  “No, Marshal-General. I did not know if—I mean, I am tired, yes, but I don’t know about rest. Do you mean you want me to leave?”

  “No, not that. Amberion thinks you are not fit for a full schedule of training; he thought several weeks of rest would help. There are many things you could do here, without much strain, or—”

  “I know what I would like,” said Paks suddenly, interrupting. “I could go home—visit my family in Three Firs. It’s been four years and more.” As she spoke, the longing to go home intensified, as if she had wanted this all along.

  Amberion frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly.

  “Why not?” Paks turned to him, annoyed. “It’s not that far, by the maps. I’m surely strong enough to ride that far—and there’s no war—and—”

  “Paksenarrion, no. It’s too dangerous, as things are with you, and—”

  Paks felt a wave of rage swamp her mind. She was not weak, just tired from the fighting and the trip. They kept trying to make her believe something was wrong—” There’s nothing wrong with me!” she snapped. “By Gird, just because I’m tired—and you said anyone might be—you think I can’t ride a few days to see my family. I traveled safely alone on foot, with no training at all, four years ago. Why do you think I can’t do it now? You keep trying to convince me something’s wrong—and whatever it is, it’s not wrong with me!” She glared at them, breathing hard.

  “It’s not?” The Marshal-General’s voice was quiet, but hard as stone. “Nothing wrong, when a paladin candidate feels and shows such anger to the Marshal-General of Gird? Nothing wrong, when you have not thought what such a visit could do to your family?”

  “My family—what about them?” Paks was still angry. She could not seem to fight it back.

  “Paksenarrion, you have attracted the notice of great evil—of Achrya herself. Do you think you can travel in the world—anywhere in the world—without evil knowing? Do you think your family will be safe, if you show Achrya where they live, and that you still care for them? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, be on your mind, that you think clearly.”

  Paks sat back, stunned. She had not thought. She shook her head. “I—all I thought was—”

  “All you thought was what you wanted to do.”

  “Yes—”

  “And you resented any balk—any balk at all—”

  “Yes.” Paks stared at the tabletop; it blurred as her eyes filled. “I—I thought it was over!”

  “What?”

  “The—the anger—Amberion can tell you. I thought it was past—that I had—had beaten it—” Paks heard the rustle of clothing as the Marshal-General moved in her seat. She heard Amberion clear his throat before beginning.

  “Immediately after we got her out, she had a—I don’t quite know how to describe it. Fallis and I thought we should let her memories return naturally—at least until Ardhiel awoke. But Balkon—the dwarf, you recall—he disagreed, and began telling her some of it. Anyway, I stepped in and interrupted, and Paksenarrion became angry. Very angry. I thought at the time it was the pain of her wounds, and attempted a healing—”

  “It did help,” said Paks softly, trying not to cry. “It eased them—and then I could see I was wrong—”

  “But whatever it was recurred. A couple of times, in the next days—nothing bad, if it had been someone else, someone more irritable to start with. But it was not like Paksenarrion—not the Paksenarrion we knew. We spoke to her of it, and made allowances for the wounds—which Ardhiel said had been healed so far by some kuaknom magic—and she seemed to have recovered, but for the weakness and exhaustion I spoke of to you.”

  “I see.” The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for a blow. “Paksenarrion, wha
t do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just the wounds? It’s not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from illness or wounds.”

  “I—don’t know. I don’t feel different—except for being tired. But if Amberion says I am, then—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. In the Duke’s Company, I didn’t get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I did get angry. I can’t tell that it’s any more now than it was then.”

  “Our fear,” said Amberion, “was that the type of fighting she did, with the iynisin—the kuaknom—would open a channel for Achrya’s evil—”

  “I would hate to think so,” said the Marshal-General. “I would hate that indeed. Paksenarrion?”

  “I don’t feel that, Marshal-General. Truly, I don’t—and I care for Gird, and for his cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong—to be angry at you, I mean, but I can control it another time.”

  “Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?”

  “No.” He smiled at Paks. “She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people, or telling lies—it’s just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same.”

  “Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three Firs—” Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked it with a nod and smile. “Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look you over. It may be that rest and good food will bring you back quickly. Don’t start drill again until I’ve talked with you. We may want you to help instruct a beginner’s class.”

  Paks left the Marshal-General’s office with mixed feelings. The thought of instructing was exciting—she could easily imagine herself with younger students, as she had worked with recruits in the Duke’s Company—but the prescribed days of rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was restless, and could not relax.