The Kuakgan came closer. His robe, as she remembered, was dark green, patterned in shades of green and brown with the shapes of leaves and branches. “I see. Most who make offerings here wish a favor in return. Advice, a potion, a healing—and you want nothing?” His voice, too, was as she remembered, deep and resonant, full of overtones. As if, she thought suddenly, he had spent much time with elves. His eyes, now visible as he came closer, seemed to pierce her with their keen glance.
“No. No, sir, I want nothing.” Paks dropped her gaze, stared at the ground, hoping he would not recognize her, would let her go.
“Is it, then, an offering of thanks? Have you received some gift, that you share your bounty? Not share, I see, for you have given everything—even your last copper. Can you say why?”
“No, sir.” Paks sensed that he had come nearer yet, to the offering basin, still watching her.
“Hmm. And yet I heard someone very like you tell a soldier that she wished to speak with me, to ask me a question. Then I find you in my grove, filling the basin with your last coin, and even your spare shirt—and you have no question.” He paused. Paks watched as the shadow of his robe came closer. She shivered. “But I have questions, if you do not. Look at me!” At his command, Paks’s head seemed to rise of its own accord. Her eyes filled with tears. “Mmm, yes. You came to me once before for advice, if I recall. Was my counsel so bad that you refuse it now—Paksenarrion?”
Paks could not speak for the lump in her throat; tears ran down her face. She tried to turn away, but his strong hand caught her chin and held her facing him.
“Much, I see, has happened to you since I last saw you. But I think you are not a liar, whatever you’ve become. So you will ask your question, Paksenarrion, and take counsel with me once again.”
Paks fought the tightness in her throat and managed to speak. “Sir, I—I can’t. There’s nothing you can do—just let me go—”
“Nothing I can do? Best let me judge of that, child. As for going—where would you go, without money or pack?”
“Anywhere. East, or south to the hills . . . it doesn’t matter—”
“There’s enough dead bones in those hills already. No, you won’t go until you’ve told me what your trouble is. Come now.”
Paks found herself walking behind the Kuakgan to his house, her mind numb. She saw without amazement the door open before he reached it; he ducked slightly to clear the low lintel. Paks ducked too, and stepped down onto the cool earthen floor of a large, long room. Across from her, windows opened on the grove which came almost to the Kuakgan’s house. The ceiling beams were hung with bunches of pungent herbs. At the far end of the room gaped a vast fireplace, its hearth swept and empty. Under the windows were two tables, one covered with scrolls, and the other bare, with a bench near it.
“Come,” said the Kuakgan. “Sit here and have something to drink.”
Paks sank onto the bench and watched as he poured her a mug of clear liquid from an earthenware jug. She sipped. It was water, but the water had a spicy tang.
“Mint leaves,” he said. “And a half-stick of cinnamon. Here—” He reached down a round cheese from a net hanging overhead. He sliced off a good-sized hunk. “Eat something before we talk.”
Paks was sure she could not eat, but the creamy cheese eased past her tight throat and settled her stomach. She finished the cheese and the second mug of water he poured her. By then he had sliced a half-loaf of dark bread and put it in front of her. She took a slice; it was nutty and rich.
Master Oakhallow sat at the end of the table, his hood pushed back, eating a slice of bread spread with cheese. Paks glanced at him: the same brown weather-beaten face, heavy dark eyebrows, thick hair tied off his face with a twisted cord the color of bark. He was gazing out the window beside him, frowning slightly. She followed his gaze. A black and white spotted bird clung to the trunk of the nearest tree; as she watched, it began to hammer on the bark. The strokes were loud and quick, almost like a drum rattle. Paks wondered why its head didn’t split. She’d never seen anything like it, though she had heard that sound before without knowing its source. Bark chips flew from the tree.
“It’s a woodpecker,” he said, answering her thought. “It seeks out insects under the bark, and eats them. A forest without woodpeckers would be eaten by the little ones devouring the trees.”
Paks felt her muscles unclenching, one by one. “Is it—are there more than one kind?”
The Kuakgan smiled. “Oh, yes. Most of them are speckled and spotted, but some are brown and white or gray and white, instead of black and white. There are little ones and big ones—bigger than this—and many of them have bright color at the head. This one has a yellow stripe, but it’s hard to see so far away.”
“How can they pound the tree like that without hurting themselves.?”
He shrugged. “They are made for it; it is their nature. Creatures are not harmed by following their natures. How else can horses run over rocky ground on those tiny hooves? Tiny for their weight, I mean.” He reached to the jug and poured another mug of water for Paks, and one for himself.
Paks took another slice of bread. “I heard a bird when I came in; it sang three notes—” she tried to whistle them.
“Yes, I know the one. A shy bird. You’ll never see it; it’s brown on top, and speckled gray and brown below. It eats gnats and flies, and its eggs are green patterned with brown.”
“I thought most birds—except the hawks and carrion-crows—ate seeds.”
“Some do. Most sparrows are seed-eaters. There’s one bird that eats the nuts out of pine cones. Watch, now—” He took a slice of bread and crumbled it on the broad windowsill, then took a slender wooden cylinder from his robe and blew into it. A soft trill of notes came out. Paks saw the flickering of wings between the trees, and five birds landed on the sill. She sat still. Three of the birds were alike, green with yellow breasts. One was brown, and one was fire-orange with black wings. Their tiny eyes glittered as they pecked the crumbs and watched her. When the bread was gone, the Kuakgan moved his hand and the birds flew away.
Paks breathed again. “They’re so beautiful. I never saw anything so beautiful—that orange and black one—”
“So. You will admit that you haven’t seen everything in this world you were so eager to leave?”
She hunched her shoulders, silent. She heard a gusty sigh, then the scrape of his stool as he rose.
“Stay here,” he said, “until I return.”
She did not look up, but heard his feet on the floor as he crossed the room, and the soft thud of the door as he closed it behind him. She thought briefly of going out the window, but the grove was thick and dark there as the sun lowered. The spotted bird was gone, the hammering coming now from a distance. She put down the rest of her slice of bread, her appetite gone. The room darkened. She wondered if he would be gone all night; she looked around but saw no place to sleep but the floor. From the grove came a strange cry, and she shivered, remembering the rumor that the Kuakgan walked at night as a great bear.
She did not hear the door open, but he was suddenly in the room with her. “Come help me bring in some wood,” he said, and she got up and went out to find a pile of deadwood by the door. The last sunglow flared to the west. They broke the wood into lengths and brought it in. He lit candles and placed them in sconces along the walls, then laid a fire in the fireplace, but did not light it. He went out again and came back with a bundle that turned out to be a hot kettle wrapped in cloth. Inside, a few coals kept several pannikins warm. As he unwrapped the cloth, a delicious smell of onions and mushrooms and meat gravy rose from the kettle. Paks found her mouth watering, and swallowed.
“Hebbinford’s best stew,” he said, setting the dishes out on the tables. “And you were always one for fried mushrooms, weren’t you? Sit down, go on—don’t let it get cold. You’re too thin, you know.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Paks miserably.
“Nonsense. I saw your look when
you smelled those mushrooms. Your body’s got sense, if you haven’t.”
Paks took a bite of mushrooms: succulent, hot, flavored with onions and meat. Before she realized what she was doing, she saw that the mushrooms were gone, and so was the stew. She was polishing the bowl with another slice of the dark bread. Her belly gurgled its contentment; she could not remember when she’d eaten so much. Not for a long time, not since—she looked up. Master Oakhallow was watching her.
“Dessert,” he said firmly. “Plum tart or apple?”
“Apple,” said Paks, and he pushed the tart across. She bit into the flaky crust; sweet apple juice ran down her chin. When the tart was gone, the Kuakgan was still eating his. Paks cleaned her chin with a corner of the cloth that had been around the kettle. She found herself holding another slice of bread, and ate that. She felt full and a little sleepy. He finished his tart and looked at her.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now. You’ll want to wash up a bit, and use the jacks, I expect. Let me show you—” He touched a panel beside the fireplace, and it slid aside to reveal a narrow passage. On one side was a door, through which Paks caught a glimpse of a bunk. On the other, a door opened on three steps down to a stone-flagged room with a channel along one side. Paks heard the gurgle of moving water, and the candlelight sparkled on its surface. “Cold water only,” said Master Oakhallow. “There’s the soaproot, and a towel—” He lit other candles in the chamber as he spoke. “If you’re tired of those clothes, you can wear this robe.” He pointed to a brown robe hanging from a peg. “Now, I’ll be out for awhile. When you’re through, go on back to the other room. Whatever you do, don’t go outside the house. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. “I won’t.”
“Good.” He turned and went back up the stairs; Paks saw the light of his candle dwindle down the passage.
The little room was chilly and damp, but smelled clean and earthy. Paks started to wash her hands, gingerly, but the cold water merely tingled instead of biting. She splashed it on her face, started to dry it, then glanced warily at the door. Surely he was really gone. She went up the steps and looked. Nothing. She came back down and looked at the water for a moment, then grunted and stripped off her clothes: she felt caked in dirt and sweat. She wet the soaproot and scrubbed herself, then stood in the channel and scooped water over her soapy body. By the time she had finished, she was shivering, but vigorous towelling warmed her again. She looked at her clothes and wished she had not put her spare shirt in the offering basin. Her clothes were as dirty as she had been. She looked at the brown robe, then took it off the peg. It felt soft and warm. When she came from the jacks, she looked at her clothes again. She wondered if she could wash them in the channel, but decided against it: she needed hot water and a pot. She shook them hard, brushed them with her hand, and folded them into a bundle. She slipped her bare feet back into her worn boots and went up the steps, down the passage, and into the main room.
The Kuakgan had lit more candles before he left, and the room had a warm glow. He had drawn shutters across the windows; she was glad of that. She sat down at the table to wait, wondering how long he would be. She thought of where she’d expected to be this night—alone in the hills, perhaps to see no dawn—and shivered, looking around her quickly. This was pleasant: the soft robe on her shoulders, the good meal. Why didn’t I ever—? I could have bought mushrooms at least once—She pushed these thoughts away. She wondered where the Kuakgan was, and if he’d bought the meal with her offering. And most of all—what was he going to do? She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn’t.
She eased into sleep without knowing it, leaning on the table; she never knew when he came in. When she woke again, she was wrapped in a green blanket and lying on the floor against the wall. The windows were unshuttered and sunlight struck the tree trunks outside. She felt completely relaxed and wide awake at the same time. Her stomach rumbled. She was just unwrapping the blanket when the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight.
“Time for breakfast,” said the Kuakgan as he came in. He carried a dripping honeycomb over a bowl. Paks felt her mouth water. She climbed out of the blanket, folded it, and came to the table where he was laying out cheese, bread, and the honeycomb. “You won’t have had this honey before,” he said. “It’s yellowwood honey, an early spring honey, and they never make much of it.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You slept well.”
Paks found herself smiling in return. “Yes . . . yes, sir, I did.” She sat down.
“Here,” he said, pouring from the jug. “It’s goat’s milk. Put some honey in your mug with it.”
Paks broke off a piece of comb and floated it in the milk. He sliced the cheese and pushed some towards her. She sipped the milk; it was delicious. The honey had a tang to it as well as sweetness. The Kuakgan dripped some on his cheese; Paks did the same, and had soon eaten half a cheese, each slice dripping honey. Bees flew in the window and settled on the remains of the comb.
“No, little sisters,” said the Kuakgan. “We have need of this.” He hummed briefly, and the bees flew away. Paks stared at him; he smiled.
“Do you really talk to bees?” she asked.
“Not talk, exactly. It’s more like singing; they’re a musical folk. They dance, too; did you know that?” Paks shook her head, wondering if he was teasing. “It’s quite true; I’ll show you someday.”
“Can you speak with all the animals? Those birds yesterday, and bees—”
“It’s a Kuakgan’s craft to learn the nature of all creatures: trees and grass as well as birds, beasts, and bees. When you know what something is—what its nature is—how it fits into the web of life—you can then begin to speak its language. It’s a slow craft; living things are various, and each one is different.”
“Some mages speak to animals,” said Paks.
The Kuakgan snorted. “Mages! That’s different. That’s like the ring you had. A mage, now, wants power for himself. If he speaks to an animal, it’s for his own purposes. Kuakkgani—we learn their languages because we love them: the creatures. Love them as they are, and for what they were made. When I speak to the owl that nests in that ash"—he nodded to the window—"it is not to make use of him, but to greet him. Of course, I must admit we do get some power from it. We can ask them things, we know their nature. But we are the ones who serve all created things without wanting to change them. That’s why the Marshal in the grange is never quite sure I’m good enough for an ally.”
Paks watched him, feeling that she should be able to find some other meaning in what he said, something that would apply to her. She could not think of anything. She wondered when he would start to question her.
He sat back from the table and looked at her. “Well, now. Your clothes are drying on the bushes out there, but they’d be clammy yet. You’ll be more comfortable outside in something other than that robe, I daresay.” He rose and went to a chest near the wall. “This will fit close enough.” He held out homespun trousers with a drawstring waist, and a linen shirt. “Come outside when you’re ready; I want to show you something.” He went out the door and shut it behind him.
Paks looked at the clothes. They were creased as if they’d been in the chest a long time. She fingered the cloth, looking nervously at the windows. She looked for the passage beside the fireplace, but the panel was closed, and she couldn’t find the touchlock. At last she sat on the floor beside the table, breathing fast, and changed from the robe to the pants and shirt. She put on her belt over the shirt and looked for her dagger; it was on the table.
When she pushed on the door, it opened silently. Outside, the sunny glade seemed empty, until she saw the Kuakgan standing motionless by the end of the stone-marked path. He gestured to her, and she walked across the glade.
“You must stay near me,” he said. “The grove is not safe for wanderers; experienced pathfinders cannot be sure of its ways. If we are separated, be still. I will find you. Nothing will harm you as long as you are still
, or with me. It may be that I have to leave you suddenly. . . . I hope not, but it might happen. Just stay where I left you. You will find enough beauty to watch until I come back.” He began to move through the trees, as silent as a current of air; Paks followed closely. From time to time he stopped, and touched a tree or herb lightly, but he said nothing, and Paks was silent as well. As the morning warmed, more birds sang around them, and the rich scents of leafmold and growing things rose from the ground. Paks found herself breathing slowly, deeply. She had no idea where they were in the grove, but it didn’t matter. She began to look with more attention to the trees and bushes they walked past. The Kuakgan touched a tree trunk: Paks saw a tiny lichen, bright as flame, glowing against dark furrowed bark. She saw for herself a clump of tiny mushrooms, capped in shiny red—a strawberry in flower—a fern-frond uncurling out of dry leaves. She realized that the Kuakgan was standing still, watching her. When she met his eyes, he nodded.
Chapter Two
So passed the rest of that day, with the warm spring sun and the silence unknotting the muscles of back and neck that had been tight so long. They came on a tiny trickle of clear water, and drank; for awhile in the early afternoon they sat near a mound of stone, and Paks fell asleep. When she woke, the Kuakgan was gone, but before she had stretched more than twice, she saw him coming through the trees. From time to time her mind would reach for the memory of yesterday’s pain, but she could not touch it: it was as if a pane of heavy glass lay between that reality and this. She could not think what she might do next, or where to go, and at last she quit trying to think of it.
They came back to the Kuakgan’s house in the last of the sunlight. Paks took her clothes, now dry, from the bushes, and folded them in her arms. She felt pleasantly tired, and slightly hungry. The Kuakgan smiled.
“Sit here in the warmth, while I bring supper,” he said. “Or will you come with me?”
Paks thought of the inn, and the misery returned full strength. This time she felt the tension knotting her brow and hunching her shoulders, and tried to stand upright. But before she could frame an answer, the Kuakgan shook his head.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 104