The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “And now?”

  “It was the happiest time of my life.” Paks drank the rest of her water. “It will seem silly to you, Master Oakhallow, I don’t doubt. A sheepfarmer’s daughter with silly daydreams of wielding a magic sword against monsters, a runaway girl joining the mercenaries, still holding that dream somewhere inside. I couldn’t make them understand, in Fin Panir; maybe it’s so silly it doesn’t matter. But I had tried to learn my craft of fighting well enough to be of use, and there, where all were dedicated to honor and war—there I was happy indeed.”

  “I don’t think it was silly,” said the Kuakgan. “Such a dream is most difficult to fulfill, but it is not silly. But tell me, now, what it was that changed, after the Marshal-General did whatever she did.”

  “It was gone, that’s all. That feeling or whatever that came when I was fighting. It was gone, and left emptiness—as if the ground suddenly disappeared under one foot, and left me with nothing to stand on. I had no skill and no courage to cover the lack. I thought at first it would come back; I kept trying. After awhile I could move better, and control my sword, but as soon as I tried to fence with someone the emptiness seemed to spread and spread until all was gone. Sometimes I fainted, as I said, and sometimes—once I ran away, and once or twice just stood, unable to do anything. Now when I try to face something, when something frightens me, I have nothing inside to do it with.”

  “So you left Fin Panir and—did you plan to come here?”

  “No! Never! I wandered along the roads, looking for work. I thought I could do unskilled work, at least: farm labor, and that. But so many things frightened me—things that frighten no one but a little child—” She wondered whether to tell him about the trader’s caravan, the robbers at the inn, and decided not to. What difference did it make, after all? “I wandered, mostly. I didn’t know this was Brewersbridge until I came to the inn. I would have fled, but a guard thought I was acting strangely and wanted to take me to the keep.”

  “Wouldn’t Marshal Cedfer have vouched for you? You said the Marshal-General promised safe-conduct in all the granges of Gird.”

  “I suppose he would have, sir, but I couldn’t ask him. I asked, once, in Fintha—they don’t understand. If I had lost an arm or leg, something they could see, they might. But as it is—cowardice—they think of that as shameful weakness, or punishment for great evil. With soldiers it’s even simpler. Cowardice is cowardice, and nothing else. I suppose they’re right, sir, but I can’t—” Her voice broke, and tears burst from her eyes. “I can’t—live with that—with their scorn. The Marshal knew me before—he’d say I wasn’t a criminal—but he’d despise—”

  “Enough. I know the Marshal better than that. He is fair, if sometimes narrow-minded. And you are not being fair to yourself. But it is late, and you need rest. We will talk more of this tomorrow. Don’t fear to sleep; your dreams are withheld for the present.”

  Paks thought she could not face the morning, but when she woke, she felt more at peace than she had for a long time. She awaited the Kuakgan’s questions. But he said nothing during breakfast, and afterwards called her to walk with him in the grove as usual. The first hour or so passed in silence. As always, Paks found something new to look at every few paces. She had never lived near a forest before, and it had not occurred to her how full a forest could be. Finally he turned to her, and spoke.

  “Sit down, child, and we’ll talk some.” Paks sat against the trunk of a tree, and he stretched on the ground nearby. “You are stronger of body than when you came, Paksenarrion; are you aware of it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Paks felt herself flushing. “I’ve been eating too much.”

  “No, not too much. You were far too thin; you need more weight even now. But the day you came, you could not have endured what you did yesternight without collapse.”

  “But that was my mind—”

  He made a disgusted noise. “Paksenarrion, your body and mind are as close as the snail-shell and the snail. If you poke holes in the snail-shell, will the snail live?”

  “No, but—”

  “By the Tree, you must be better, to argue with me!” He chuckled a moment, then turned serious again. “You did not say, when I first saw you, how you planned to die—if you’d thought about it—but it was clear that you were near death for some reason. Some trouble I could see at a glance: your thinness, your weakness. Some seemed clear, more was certain. I began with what was easily cured; good food and rest heal many wounds of body and mind both. Then you were frightened even by that rabbit on the path as you came in. Is that true now?”

  “No . . . not here, with you. I don’t know what it would be like outside.” Paks tried to imagine it, tried to see herself walking down a street somewhere. The panic fear she had felt before did not return. “I can think of being somewhere else, at least.”

  “Very well. Your body is beginning to heal, and with it the mind heals also.”

  “But I thought you said the wounds would need more?”

  “Yes. They will. But that will sap your strength again, for a little, and I wanted to build it first. It is a delicate thing, Paksenarrion, to choose the best time. First to gain your trust, so that even the pain I must cause you will not awake the panic. Then to let food and rest do what they may with the parts of your body that were not wounded, so that the strength there offsets—Do you understand any of this?”

  “Not really. I would think if the food and rest could heal—”

  “It should heal all? Ordinarily it might. But the kuaknomi have difficult magic, and their poisons outlast normal human lifespans. The poison takes the strength from you, and will, until we get it out. And until your body is clean of it, your mind shares the poison.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you fear what I might do to heal you,” he added shrewdly.

  “Yes. Sir, I—I went through that once. They were saying it was in my mind, but the same thing. Evil. Something to be ripped out. And now you—”

  “Hmmm. Yes. But I can show you what I will do. Look at that scar on your arm—the one that hurt you so that night.” Paks shoved up her sleeve and looked. It had been redder the following morning, but now had faded to a dull pink. When she prodded it with a finger, it held no underlying soreness.

  “Is it truly healing?” she asked.

  “Yes. In a few weeks it should be pale as your old scars. I could not use quicker methods, after what they had done.”

  “But the others?”

  “You remember the pain of that one? It was almost like the original wound, wasn’t it?” Paks nodded. “And you have many others. To work on them all at once will be very painful for you. I could force you into a sleep, but then we are faced with the trouble in your mind. If you still wish to die, you could go then, while I was busy with your wounds. I cannot care for both, alone. I would prefer to have your cooperation, mind and body, before I begin.” He seemed to look past her, over her head, into some distance. “I might have called on another Kuakgan for aid, or on the elves—or even Marshal Cedfer—but until I knew where your trouble lay, and from what cause, I had no right to do so.”

  “But you can heal the wounds,” said Paks, confidently.

  “Yes.”

  “Will that heal the—the other? Is that what caused it, truly?”

  “I don’t know. I think you were already weakened so by the wounds, by the poison in them, that even without the Marshal-General’s intervention your mind would have been affected in time. Without probing deeply into it, I am not sure what she did. But anything that would remove a deep-seated evil would be likely to affect other things; evil spreads like ink in water, staining everything it touches. Your body was damaged again, by that: you said when you woke from her treatment you could not walk at first. What I hope is that thorough healing of the body will allow your mind to heal, too. Whether what you have lost will regenerate or not, I cannot tell. But you are already better, in both, and that gives me hope.”

  Paks stared at the grou
nd before her. “I’m still scared. Not the pain, so much—that comes anyway—but the other.”

  “I know. I can treat one at a time, but that will take months. And I must warn you that the poison itself will resist, given time for it. The last ones will be much harder to cure than the first. Yet to do this, without your free consent, is likely to widen the rift in your mind. It is for this that I waited, hoping that you would be able to trust me.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “All at once? A day of preparation for me; you would have to keep quiet within doors, and let me meditate. I have most of the materials I need; I could gather the rest today. Then a day or two for the healing itself: I cannot tell, until I have seen and tested each wound, exactly how long. You would be very weak for the first day afterwards, but your strength would come quickly.”

  “And I would sleep through it?”

  “The healing itself, yes. I would recommend it. Even if you were willing to endure all the pain awake, your reaction could break my attention to the healing.”

  “I wish—” she began, and then stopped. She took a deep breath and went on. “I wish it could be done, and over, and I didn’t have to decide.”

  His voice was gentle. “No. It is not the way of the Kuakkganni to force a good on someone if there is time for choice. Each creature has its own way to travel; we learn much of them, but we do not change the way. And for humans, the way involves choice.”

  “You forced me to eat, that first day.”

  “Then there was no time. I had to buy that time, to find out what was wrong. Now you are beginning to heal, and I judge you well enough to make a choice for yourself. I will give you advice, and have, but you are free to follow it or not, as you are free to take what time you need for the decision.”

  Paks had taken a twig from the ground, and was digging little holes in the dirt at her feet. She made a row of them, then another row. For a moment she saw them as positions in a formation, then scraped the twig across the design.

  “You think I should let you do it now?”

  “I think you should ask yourself if you can trust me. I think you should ask yourself if you can trust your own mind to hold on until your body has a chance to heal. If when you are well again you still wish to waste your bones on the hills, I’ve no doubt some orc or wolf will be glad to assist.”

  “I don’t, now,” she said very softly.

  “Good.”

  “I think—I know I want to be well again. If it can happen. If what is wrong is that poison, then—I must let you do it. Whatever it is.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, they gathered herbs and other materials from the grove. Most of it was unfamiliar to Paks; the Kuakgan explained little, merely pointing out the plants to take. That evening he went to the inn for food, after telling her to stay inside. When he came back, one of the potboys from the inn was with him; Paks heard his voice outside. The Kuakgan had him leave his burden on the step, and when he had left, called Paks outside to carry it in.

  “We’ll need food for several days,” he explained. “You must eat well tomorrow, while I meditate, and I must eat something during the healing.” He unpacked loaves of bread, a small ham, sliced mutton in pans, eggs, and other rich foods.

  It seemed to Paks that the next day lasted forever. She had become used to wandering outside; she was restless in the house. The Kuakgan had left the hidden panel open, and she spent some time taking a bath and washing her hair, but that left hours of idleness. She forgot to eat at noon. Sometime in the afternoon her belly reminded her, and she ate several slices of ham, then some cheese. As the daylight faded outside, she wondered if the Kuakgan would appear for supper. The door to his private room had been closed all day; she dared not knock. But she felt it would be discourteous to eat without him.

  The last light had disappeared, and she had lit candles in the main room, when he came to the door of the passage. Without a word, he nodded to her, and went to close the shutters. Paks started to speak, but he forestalled her with a fluent gesture of one hand. He laid a fire on the hearth, and lit it. Paks stood, wondering what to do. He pointed to the ham, and then to her. When she offered him a slice, he shook his head, but sat at the table to watch her eat. Her appetite had vanished; the ham lay in her stomach like a huge stone, and her mouth was dry. She looked over at him; he was watching her, his dark eyes warm. That gaze soothed her, and she was able to eat a bit more, and drink a mug of water. At last he reached and touched her hand, and gestured toward her pallet against the wall. She looked toward it, and at once the panic she thought had gone rose in her mind like a fountain, bursting her control. She choked on the breath in her throat, shut her eyes on the tears that came unbidden, and sat with her hands clamped on the table. He said nothing. Time passed. At last she could breathe, could see again her white-knuckled hands, could unclench those hands finger by finger. She did not try to meet his eyes again, but forced her stiff unwilling body to rise from the table and cross the room.

  His hands on the sides of her head were dry and cool, impersonal as the bark of a tree. She lay with her eyes shut, rigid and waiting. When the first touch of power came, it was nothing like she expected. It seemed more a memory of recent mornings, of spring itself, of gold sunlight filtering through young leaves. She felt no pain, only peace and quietness, and let herself drift into that light like a leaf in the fountain. She did not know when the dream of light faded.

  Return from that beauty and peace was more difficult. A call she could not answer, struggle, confusion, the return of fear. She woke with no knowledge of time or place—for a few moments, she thought she was back in the Duke’s Company, trying to reach the Duke after the Siniava’s attack on Dwarfwatch. “The Duke,” she managed to say. “Saben—” Then she remembered enough to know that Saben was dead, and the Duke far away. The Kuakgan’s face was strange to her, and only slowly did she come to know where she was.

  “You wandered a long way,” he said at last. His face was lined and drawn. “A long way indeed. I was not sure you would return.” He reached for her wrist, and felt her pulse. “Much stronger. How do you feel?”

  “I—just weak, I think. I don’t want to move.”

  “No wonder. You need not, for a time.” He sighed, then stretched. “I wonder that your Marshal-General did not see how bad those were. It may be they’ve gotten worse. But, Paksenarrion, you were almost beyond my healing powers. One of the wounds still had a bit of the weapon in it—a stone blade of some sort—and that one I had to open completely.” He reached for a jug and poured out a mug of liquid. “You must try to drink all of this.” He raised her shoulders and held the mug to her lips. Paks sipped slowly, and finally drained it completely. She was desperately tired. Later she could never remember if that first waking had been in daylight or night.

  She slept, and woke again, and slept. Finally she woke to firelight, hungry for the first time, and able to move a little by herself. The Kuakgan was beside her, as always. When she stirred, and spoke to him by name, he smiled.

  “You are certainly better. Hungry? I should hope so. Let me help you to the jacks first.”

  She wavered when she stood, dizzy and weak, but by the time they had gone down the passage and the stairs, she could support herself along the wall to the jacks. She came back alone, and slowly, still touching the wall. She tried to think, but had no idea how much time had passed. In the meantime, the Kuakgan had set food on the table: stew and bread. She half-fell onto the bench, and propped herself on the table. But she ate the last bite of her food, and was able to walk more steadily back to her pallet.

  The next morning she woke normally, no more weak than if she had worked too hard the day before, or fought too long. Her mind seemed curiously empty of all feelings, but her body obeyed her, if a little sluggishly.

  Chapter Three

  “You will not regain your full strength for some time,” Master Oakhallow said, as he sat with her at breakfast. “But we need to consider your other
problem now.” He paused for a long swallow of sweetened goat’s milk. “If you still have one. Can you tell?”

  Paks shook her head. “I don’t feel much at all right now. When I think of fighting, it’s very far away.”

  “Hmm. Maybe that’s for the best. Perhaps you will be able to think more clearly.” He cut another slice of bread, and bit into it. Paks swallowed her own milk. She was discovering that nothing hurt; she had not known how that constant pain had weighed on her. For a little while she did not care whether she could fight or not; it was pleasant enough to sit eating breakfast without pain. She felt the Kuakgan’s gaze and raised her eyes to meet it. His face relaxed as he watched her. “At least the poison’s out. Your face shows it. Well—are you ready?”

  “For what, sir?”

  “To talk about courage.”

  Paks felt herself tensing, and tried to relax. “Yes.”

  “Very well. It seems to me that two mistakes have clouded your mind. First is the notion that having as little courage as an ordinary person is somehow shameful, that you must have more than your share. That’s nothing but pride, Paksenarrion. So it is you felt you couldn’t live with the meager amount of courage most folk have: it was too shameful. And that’s ridiculous. Here you are, young, strong, whole-bodied now, with wit enough—with gifts above average—and you feel you cannot go on without still more bounty of the gods.”

  Paks blushed. Put that way . . .

  “Paksenarrion, I want you to think of those common folk awhile. They live their lives out, day by day, in danger of fever, robbers, fire, storm, wolves, thieves, assassins, evil creatures and powers—and war. They most of them have neither weapons nor skill at arms, nor any way to get them. You’ve lived among them, this past winter: you know, you feel, how helpless is a farmwife against an armed man, or a craftsman against a band of thieves. You are right, they are afraid—full of fear from moment to moment, as full of fear as you have been. And yet they go on. They plow the fields and tend flocks, Paksenarrion, and weave cloth for you to wear, and make pots, and cheese, and beer, and boots, and wagons: everything we use, these frightened people make. You think you don’t want to be like them. But you must be like them, first. You must have their courage before you get more.”