I must say that with the little you wrote, it’s hard to explain her to the yeomen here. Even Edsen wondered about her. Perhaps in more traveled areas, they’ll be more understanding. If I understood you correctly, she has had her mind damaged by a demon—right?
It looks like another hard winter; I’m having trouble getting all the grange-gift without cutting the farmers too short. I’m sending the rolls; note that Sim Simisson died, and his widow has remarried into Hangman’s barton. Their farm was split between the three boys, but Jori and Ansuli have moved away, and young Sim is farming it all. Gird’s grace to you.
Marshal Leward
Highgate Grange
To Marshal-General Arianya
Greetings, Arñe!
Did you hear that old Adgan finally died? Kori Jenitson told me a few weeks ago, when he rode by this way. I told him to write you, or send word from Vérella.
Keris sent that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter to me. What is the Fellowship coming to, after all? I know, I know. You had your reasons. But such things should happen to those of us with years enough to know better. She’s nought but a young sprout, I don’t care how many years she fought with Phelan. By the way, someone told me he’d been to Fin Panir. Is that true? Is he coming back to the Fellowship?
Anyway, I found the girl a place with a trader I know. She looks strong enough, though much disfigured with those scars. Loading wagons should put a little muscle on her—then maybe she won’t find swords so frightening. Keris, the trader, promised to keep her on all the way to the south if she earns her keep. Can’t see any reason why she won’t. She’s certainly polite and better-educated than most. If she weren’t scarred as she is, I’d be tempted to find a husband for her.
Remember me at Midwinter Feast. I will roast a pig in the honor of Luap’s Stronghold.
Sulinarrion
Marshal of Seameadow Grange
To Marshal-General Arianya,
Greetings:
Arñe, I have sad news about your stray. Keris, a small trader, came storming in to complain of her. Leward of Highgate had placed her with him as a laborer, and according to Keris, she ran away, or fainted or something when bandits attacked his wagons. I know Keris of old; we see him in grange-court every few years when he either complains of short weight or gives it. He’s a hasty, hot-tempered man who will cling to a mistaken idea until the nomads build walls. Anyway, he says he fired her on the spot—somewhere in the woods west of Lowfallow, if I can tell by his tirade—and left her there. According to him, she was unwounded, and the bandits were all dead, so perhaps she has made it somewhere else. I asked to talk to his guards, and the senior, a Falkian named Jori, from Marrakai’s domain, told me that she had simply frozen, neither attacking the bandits nor defending herself. He said some of the guards made up a small sum for her, and he gave it to her. He felt bad about it, he said, but he couldn’t leave the wagons. I think it’s the best we could hope for.
I’ve told my yeoman-marshals and my yeomen to keep looking for her, but no one has turned up yet (though they did find a tall blonde thief we’ve seen before; she’s enjoying our hospitality in a different way, awaiting the Duke’s Court.) I told Keris what I thought of him, but it didn’t do much good. He’s so used to covering fear with bluster that he doesn’t want to admit anyone can’t.
I’m sorry I have no better news. On the bright side, we have had an unusually good year in all the eastern bartons, and the grange-lands themselves, and can help those west of us who are short. I’ve heard that some granges can’t make their Hall share; you can see from our rolls that we can help out. I hope to come in sometime next spring—do you still have that dappled gray? I’ll make an offer you can’t refuse.
Sulinarrion
Marshal of Seameadow Grange
To Leward of Highgate Grange
Greetings:
Leward, why on earth did you place Paksenarrion with Keris? You must know what sort of rough clod he is! He came ramping in here complaining of her cowardice, and the dishonesty of Girdsmen, until I nearly hit him on the head to shut him up. Didn’t you warn him that she couldn’t fight? He fired her after a bandit group attacked the wagons and she didn’t defend them. Of course she didn’t defend them. I know plenty of men—some of them, unfortunately, yeomen—who would run like rabbits in an unexpected attack. When I finally got the whole story out of one of his guards, it turns out Keris himself simply fell off his horse and bellowed the whole time. Now she’s disappeared, and Gird alone knows what’s happened to her. Next time you need something handled with delicacy, don’t go to Keris.
Sim Arisson,
Marshal of Lowfallow Grange
To the Marshal-General of Gird
Greetings:
In accordance with your request for information about the whereabouts and welfare of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, I am writing you a full report of recent events in this area.
Several weeks ago, I was touring the bartons and was not in Lowfallow for some days. When I returned, the innkeeper of the largest inn called me to attend one of his grooms, who had been badly burned in a barn fire. The short of it is that the innkeeper blamed one of the stablehands for the fire, and claimed she had been in league with two thieves, who had robbed the inn on the night of the fire. I think this person was Paksenarrion, from the description and name given by the innkeeper. Apparently she sought work there a few weeks before the fire, giving her name but no reference to the grange. She worked well, according to Jessim (the innkeeper), and slept in a shed near the kitchen. A few days before the fire he had said she and another stablehand might sleep in the barn, trade being slow. When the fire broke out, the groom discovered her in the barn, with her clothes as much off as on. He could see a candlestick in the midst of the fire. Jessim assumed she’d been whoring, and either set the fire as a distraction for the thieves or made it carelessly. Jessim drove her out that night, being angry, as he said. No one saw her leave town; it was bitter cold and windy, and most were fighting the fire. The next day he reported her description (but not her name, which he had forgotten until I questioned him) to the Duke’s militia, as an accomplice of the thieves.
After I spoke to him, he withdrew the charge, and I have cleared her name with the militia, though I have asked them to look for her, and let me know if they find her. I asked the grange here, and none of the yeomen knew her, or remembered having seen her. I swear to you, Marshal-General, that she did not come to my grange for aid; I would have given it gladly. We found no sign of her in Lowfallow or in the farmland around. You will understand that it took some time to look, for I was afraid she might have been hurt in the fire and unable to travel. I had my yeomen look in every ditch and bramble. We were heartened to find no body, but we did not find her.
I delayed writing you because I hoped to have more certain news. Jessim promised to ask any travelers that came in, and I have spread the word to the distant bartons of my grange. Two days ago, one of my yeomen from Fox Barton reported a stranger living with an old widow in an outlying cottage. By the time we rode there, she was gone, but I am sure it was Paksenarrion.
The old woman is not a Girdsman, but has a name for honesty and hard work. She is a widow (her husband died of fever; he was a woodsman) and supports herself and a crippled daughter with weaving and spinning. At first she did not want to talk about it, but after we convinced her we meant Paksenarrion no harm, she told her tale. It seems that Paksenarrion appeared one morning (she could not be sure of the date, but that it was a clear day after a cloudy one) in her shed. She described her as nearly frozen, half-naked, and hurt. Apparently one leg was injured, for the woman told us she limped for most of the time she stayed there. Anyway, the old woman took her in, mended her clothes, and fed her, though that was hard—which I could well believe, looking around. They found Paksenarrion to be, in their words “gentle—she never said a rough word—” and she seems to have helped them by fetching water, finding wood and breaking it up, and so on. They said she offered to
pay for her keep, but the old woman could not use her Finthan coins without walking into Lowfallow to change them—which was too far, she said, in winter. I suppose that means she still has the money you gave her in Fin Panir.
They had hoped she would stay, as she seemed strong to them, but she was unable to spin or weave, though apparently she tried to learn. Without extra help, they could not earn enough to keep three. Paksenarrion decided to leave, although they protested, and she insisted they keep a few Finthan coins. The old woman asked me if I could change one for her in Lowfallow. I told her to keep it; that the grange would aid those who helped Girdsmen. I find that Fox Barton was already providing meat from time to time, but have put these women on the grange rolls. They need someone young and strong to board with them, and learn care of the daughter, who will never walk; we are working on that. In the meantime, I have sent supplies, and an order from the grange for two rugs a year. With your permission, I will name them on the Year Roll. They are not Girdish, but we owe them that.
Anyway, that’s all I could find of Paksenarrion. Before I could extend the search, we had a thaw which left every road a quagmire. I have written neighboring granges, but it seems clear that she is avoiding granges. From the descriptions given by the women and by the innkeeper, I doubt that she will be recognized as anything but a vagrant. However, we will keep watch, and report anything we find.
I know you will be disappointed in this report. I think it hopeful that she is clearly still able to serve others weaker than herself. Perhaps some day Gird and the High Lord can restore her trust in the Fellowship and in herself.
Seklis, High Marshal
Marshal-General Arianya Greetings:
While traveling from Valdaire to Vérella, I met a party on the road who spoke of an ex-Girdish warrior named Paksenarrion. When I reached Vérella, your waiting letter mentioned such a one. My news is meager indeed. At the time I was with the traders, I did not know of your interest, and did not question them as I might have. They said something about meeting an unusual sight—a Girdsman afraid of her own shadow, of barking dogs and horses. One of them said she’d been cursed that way, and gave it as proof that she was lapsed from the Fellowship. I do not recall where they said they had seen her, or where she was going—if they even said—but I report this because of your interest.
More important, I believe, is the continued conflict in Aarenis between the Guild League cities and the old nobility; trade is completely disrupted, and famine this year has been widespread. . . .
End Book II
Book III:
Oath of Gold
Chapter One
The village seemed faintly familiar, but most villages were much alike. Not until she came to the crossroads with its inn did she realize she had been here before. There was the paved inn court, and the wide door, and the bright sign—The Jolly Potboy—hanging over it. Her breath seemed to freeze in her chest. The crossroads was busier than she remembered; there was much bustling in and out of the inn. The windows to the common bar were wide open, and clear across the road she heard a roar of laughter she recognized. She flinched. They might recognize her, even in the clothes she wore now. She thought of the coins in her purse, and the meal she’d hoped to buy—but she could not go there, of all places, and order a meal of Jos Hebbinford. Nor was there any other place to go: she was known in Brewersbridge, and dared not beg a scrap from some housewife lest she be recognized.
Paks shook her head, fighting back tears. Once she had ridden these streets—stayed at that inn—had friends in every gathering.
“Here now, why so glum?” Paks started and looked up to see a man-at-arms in the Count’s livery watching her. He smiled when she met his eyes; his face was vaguely familiar. “We can’t have pretty girls down in the mouth in our town, sweetling—let me buy you a mug of ale and cheer you up.”
Paks felt her heart begin to pound; fear clouded her eyes. “No—no thank you, sir. I’m fine—I just thought of something—”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re frightened. Is someone after you? This town’s safe enough—that’s my job. You look like you need some kind of help; let me know what’s wrong—”
Paks tried to edge around him, toward the north road. “No—please, sir, I’m all right.”
He reached out and caught her arm. “I don’t think so. You remind me of something—someone. I think perhaps the captain needs to see you—unless you can account better for yourself. Do you know anyone here, anyone who can vouch for you? Where were you going to stay? Are you here for the fair?”
For an instant Paks’s mind went totally blank, and then the names and faces of those she remembered—Marshal Cedfer, Hebbinford, Captain Sir Felis, Master Senneth—began to race past her eyes. But she couldn’t call on them to vouch for her. They had known her as a warrior, Phelan’s veteran, the fighter who cleaned out a den of robbers. She had left here to go to Fin Panir; they had expected her to return as a Marshal or knight. Even if they recognized her—and she doubted they would—they would still despise or pity her. She trembled in the man’s grasp like a snared rabbit, and he was already pushing her along the north road toward the keep when another memory came to her: a memory of quiet trees and a clear pool and the dark wise face of the Kuakgan.
“I—I was going to the grove,” she gasped. “To—to see the Kuakgan.”
The man stopped, still gripping her arm. “Were you, now? And do you know the Kuakgan’s name?”
“Master Oakhallow,” said Paks.
“And you were to stay there?”
“I—I think so, sir. I had a question to ask him, that’s why I came.” Paks realized as she said this that it was true.
“Hmm. Well—if it’s kuakgannir business—you say you were going to the grove: can you show me where it is?”
The entrance to the grove lay a hundred paces or so along the road; Paks nodded toward it.
“You know that much at least. Well, I’ll just see you safely there. And remember, girl: I don’t expect to see you dodging around town this evening. If I do, it’s to the captain with you. And I’ll have the watch keep a lookout, too.” He urged her along until they came to the grove entrance, marked by white stones on the ground between two trees. “You’re sure this is where you’re going?”
Paks nodded. “Yes, sir—thank you.” She turned away, ducking into the trees to follow the winding path picked out in white stones.
In the grove was silence. Sunlight filtered through green leaves. As before, she could hear nothing of the village, close as it was. A bird sang nearby, three rising notes, over and over. Paks stopped to listen; her trembling stilled. Something rustled in the bushes off to her left, and panic rose in her throat. When a brown rabbit hopped onto the path, she almost sobbed in relief.
She went on. Far over her head leaves rustled in a light wind, but it was quiet below. Under one tree she heard a throbbing hum, and looked up to see a haze of bees busy at the tiny yellow flowers. At last she heard the remembered chuckling of the Kuakgan’s fountain, and came into the sunny glade before his dwelling. It was the same as on her first visit. The low gray bark-roofed house lay shuttered and still. Nothing moved but the water, leaping and laughing in sunlight over a stone basin.
Paks stood a moment in the sunlight, watching that water. She thought of what she’d told the soldier, and how the lie had felt like truth when she told it. But there was no help for her, not this time. The Kuakgan had nothing to do with what she had lost. Kuakkgani didn’t like warriors anyway. Still—she had to stay, at least until night. She could not go back to the village. Maybe she could sneak through the grove and escape to the open country beyond. Paks sighed. She was so tired of running, tired of hiding from those who’d known her. Yet she could not face them. Make an end, she thought.
She slid out of the pack straps, and dug into the pack for her pouch of coins, the reserve the Marshal-General had given her. To it she added the coppers and two silvers from her belt-pouch. A tidy pile. Enough to
live on for a month, if she were frugal; enough for one good feast, otherwise. Her mouth twisted. She scooped up the whole pile and dumped it in the offering basin; the clash and ring of it was loud and discordant. She looked in her pack for anything else of value. Nothing but her winter cloak, an extra shirt, spare boot-thongs—no—there was the ring Duke Phelan had given her the day he left Fin Panir. “Send this, or bring it, if you need me,” he’d said. Paks stared at it. She didn’t want it found on her when she—She pushed the thought aside and tossed the ring onto the heap of coins. She looked at her pack and decided to leave that too. The Kuakgan would find someone who needed a cloak and shirt. She piled the pack on top of the money, and turned away, wondering where she could hide until nightfall. Perhaps she should start through the grove now.
Across the clearing, at one end of the gray house, the Kuakgan stood watching her, his face shadowed by the hood of his robe. Paks froze; her heart began to race. His voice came clear across the sound of the fountain, and yet it was not loud. “You wished to speak to the Kuakgan?”
Paks felt cold, but sweat trickled down her ribs. “Sir, I—I came only to make an offering.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 103