The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Kolya sighed. “No. That’s so. It’s that likeness, though, that keeps the thought in mind. Maybe it’s better that you’re going, for that as well.”

  The red horse did not move, but Paks felt his eagerness to be gone, his certainty of which way to go. She glanced around a last time. “Kolya, I must go. I can’t linger—”

  “I understand. Can you accept the blessing of an old kuakgannir?”

  “Of a friend, always.”

  “Then may the First Tree shade your path, and shed fruit for your hunger, and the wisdom of all wild things be yours.”

  “And may the High Lord’s grace and Gird’s protection be on you, Kolya, and the Lady of Peace bring plenty to your orchard.” They clasped hands, then Paks straightened, and the red horse moved on. Paks did not look back.

  * * *

  Although Paks had imagined being a paladin, she had never seriously thought what it would be like to travel as one. She had had some vague idea that paladins knew from the beginning exactly where they would go, and what they were to do, that they stayed in granges for the most part. She did not know even yet how other paladins moved around; for her it was different. Besides a feeling that they should go south and east, she had no idea where they were going. The red horse chose his own trails, and these did not lead from grange to grange, or along the roads she knew.

  South of Duke’s East, they left the now-familiar road that led to Vérella, and struck south-east across wooded country. Paks had already found that the red horse had more speed and endurance than common horses, and she let him choose his own times to rest. That wasn’t often. They came to the Honnorgat downstream of Vérella in three days of hard riding. Paks was stiff and cold, and sat staring at the broad gray river while the red horse drew breath.

  “Now what?” she asked it. “You aren’t planning to swim that, I hope. And the bridges are all upstream, as far as I know.” The horse flicked an ear back at her.

  Paks stretched and looked around. They were on low water meadows, now covered with frost-dry grass. Along the river itself, a fringe of trees thickened here and there into a grove. Downstream smoke rose from a clutter of huts. Paks thought of that den of thieves in Aarenis and wrinkled her nose. On a low mound still farther downstream a larger building bulked—a keep of some kind, perhaps. Upstream was yet another group of huts, with a stake fence. When the horse pricked his ears, pointing, she could see a herd of dun-colored cattle grazing.

  Sound carried well near the river, and she heard the jingle of harness just as the horse threw up his head. A small band of riders jogged her way from the larger building—she had been seen. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said to the red horse. “I hope you haven’t crossed the border to Pargun somewhere in those woods.” But as the band neared her, she was reassured by their colors, the rose and silver of the Tsaian royal house.

  “Ho, stranger!” They were just in hail. Paks sat still and let them come. The red horse was alert but unalarmed. She recognized the band’s uniform now—Tsaian Royal Guard—but wondered what they were doing this far from Vérella. The leader wore Gird’s crescent on his chest, and the device of the Order of the Bells. A knight, then, and well-born. Six men-at-arms, trim and fit-looking, rode behind him. When he was within speaking range, he reined in. Paks nodded to him.

  “Gird’s grace to you, sir knight.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Gird’s grace . . . uh . . .”

  “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks pleasantly.

  “You are from—”

  “I have just come from Duke Phelan’s stronghold,” she said. “I am a veteran of his Company, but no longer, as you see, one of them.” Her own garb, chainmail under the plain brown cloak she’d bought in Brewersbridge with her Lyonyan coins, gave him no clue.

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin, obviously confused. “On the Duke’s business, are you?”

  “No. On Gird’s business.” That got his attention, and that of the others; they all stared. Paks hoped she hadn’t stated it too baldly, but she felt a push to do so.

  “Are you a—a Marshal?” At his question, her horse snorted, shaking its head. That reaction made her grin, and the knight even more uneasy.

  “No, sir knight,” she said, trying not to laugh. “I’m no Marshal. Might I ask your name?”

  “Oh!” He had clearly forgotten about introducing himself. “I’m Regnal Kostvan, third son of the Kostvan Holding. The Royal Guard has garrisons in all the border keeps right now; that’s why I’m here.”

  “Is there trouble along here with Pargun?”

  He frowned. “Not to say trouble. Not more than usual. But the way things are going in Lyonya—” He looked hard to see if she knew what that meant. Paks nodded. He went on. “And so we’re to make sure of travelers in this way. Were you planning to cross the river? Because you’d have to have clearance from me to hire a ferry.”

  “I have reason to cross, yes.” Paks did not say more. How could she explain that she didn’t know where she was going, or what she was to do when she got there?

  “You’d best come back with me to the keep,” he said. Paks felt rather than saw an increased alertness in the men-at-arms. They must have had some trouble, to make them to nervous. “My commander will want to speak with you.”

  “I’d be glad to,” she said. “It’s a cold day to talk out here.” As she eased the red horse forward, she saw the men-at-arms tense and relax.

  “I’ve heard of one Paksenarrion,” began the knight tentatively. Paks could feel the ears of the others growing longer as he spoke. She laughed, surprised at how easy it was.

  “Sir Regnal, it might have been you heard of me, though I claim no particular fame. But I served with Duke Phelan three seasons in Aarenis, and rode to Kolobia with the Girdsmen from Fin Panir—so if that’s what you heard, you heard it of me.”

  He glanced at her sideways. His horse was enough shorter that she could tell little of his size. “Yes—I had heard of that. And of some other—” he paused, looking away, then back at her. She nodded.

  “You may have heard truth and falsehood both, Sir Regnal. And the truth could be the more unpleasant. I do not speak of it much.”

  “I see.” He rode a little way in silence. Then he turned to her again, as they neared a small stone keep whose gate faced the river. “But it is our duty to know what passes here—what manner of man or other being, and with what loyalties. I have heard such things of one Paksenarrion that I would not let that one pass. So these things must be spoken of, and your faiths proved.”

  The red horse stopped short at Paks’s thought. She faced the knight squarely. “Sir knight, my faith has been proved already by such trials as I pray you never face.” He reddened, but she went on. “I think you will be convinced, ere I leave, of what ‘manner of man or other being’ rides such a horse in such a way.” She smiled, then, and nudged the horse on. “But it will be quicker to convince you and your commander all in one; let us ride in.” And the long-striding red horse caught up and passed the knight’s, and led the way into the keep courtyard.

  * * *

  Sir Regnal was stiffly correct in presenting Paks to his commander, a heavy-set older man with the intricate corded knots of a cohort-commander on the shoulders of his velvet winter tunic. Ganarrion Verrakai: Paks recalled from the charts in the Duke’s library that this was a second son of the minor branch of that powerful family, second only to Marrakai in influence at court. She bowed, and carefully chose an applicable honorific which recognized his family position as well as his Guards rank.

  “Sir nigan-Verrakai.”

  His eyebrows didn’t rise, but he did not miss the wording. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. Duke Phelan’s veteran?”

  “Yes, my lord. Not presently in his service.”

  “Ah, yes. On Gird’s service, you told Sir Regnal?”

  “Yes.” She wondered how far they would press.

  “Have you any authorization from the granges? From Fin Panir, perha
ps?”

  “From Gird, my lord,” she said.

  This time his eyebrows did rise. Not all the Verrakai, she remembered, were Girdsmen. Some were Falkian, some kuakgannir, and some, it was rumored, followed less honored gods. “But you are not a Marshal, you said?”

  “No.” It was astonishingly hard to say, to actually open her mouth and claim what she was, among strangers. “I am a paladin.” At least it sounded all right.

  They stared. Finally the commander said, “A paladin.” He sounded unconvinced. Paks was not surprised. She was uneasily aware that she was going to have to prove it to them. “Could you tell me,” he went on, “why a paladin should come here, where we have no need of one?”

  “Because you lie between where I was, and where I must go,” she said crisply.

  “Oh. And where is that, if you please?”

  Paks met his gaze steadily, and his eyes fell first. “I don’t think,” she said finally, “that that is your concern. If you know anything of paladins, you know we must answer the call at once, and without question. Nor do we answer questions without need.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I knew that. I just—wondered. But—” He looked her up and down. “I had heard things, last year at court. I mean—no offense meant, but—I heard of a Phelani veteran who went to Fin Panir to become a paladin, and failed. Left Fin Panir. Was wandering around as a—” He paused delicately.

  “Coward?” suggested Paks, amazed that she could. He glanced quickly at her, and nodded. “Well,” she went on briskly, “you have heard a lot, it seems. Some of it was true. It is also true that wounds heal, and cowards can regain their courage. And it is true that now I am a paladin. When the Marshal-General came to Phelan’s stronghold—”

  “What?!” The commander looked even more flabbergasted. “The Marshal-General of Gird?”

  “Yes. He summoned a Marshal, on my advice, and she came.”

  “Well. I would never have thought. Phelan hates the Girdsmen.”

  “He did at one time. No longer. A grange is being built there.”

  “I can scarcely credit it. And you—you say you are a paladin. Have you any proof?”

  Paks smiled, and called light. It lit the room far more brightly than the meager daylight until she damped it, and the commander nodded. The younger knight looked shocked, and blinked warily.

  “I have seen such light before,” said the commander. His voice had warmed. “Well, then Lady Paksenarrion—you may indeed go on Gird’s business. But why do you conceal yourself?”

  “I travel as I am bid, my lord; Gird himself was a plain man, and I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter. When Gird chooses to have me recognized, I daresay I will be.”

  “A good answer. A good answer indeed. We are honored by your presence, and will do whatever we can for you. You will cross the river?” She nodded. “Then by your leave I’ll send Regnal here to arrange a ferry. Can you wait until morning? I’d be glad to have you at our table this night.”

  Paks felt no restless urging, and was glad to stay the night. If she had to ride in another boat, she wanted to do it in daylight anyway. The commander set a good table, and Regnal had recovered enough from his surprise to be good company as well. They were full of gossip about the state of affairs in Lyonya.

  “I’m not asking, you understand,” said Ganarrion Verrakai. “But it will take a paladin, I’m thinking, or a company of them, to save Lyonya from years of chaos—even war. All I’ve heard for the last half year is how sick the king is. And how muddled the succession will be. And if Lyonya falls apart—our best ally—then it won’t take long for Pargun to move, I’m thinking.”

  “Not long at all.” Regnal drained his glass, and stared at the table. “My grandfather was killed by Pargunese—you won’t know this, Lady Paksenarrion, but that was when the Tsaian crown prince was killed as well, and your Duke Phelan captured the Pargunese commander. That was before he got his lands. Pargun has always wanted this territory.”

  “Yes, but it’s worse than that.” Verrakai shoved his glass around on the tablecloth. “I remember my grandfather’s tales of the old evil, before Tsaia and Fintha joined Lyonya and Prealith to fence it out. With Lyonya in trouble, it could erupt right in the middle of the Eight Kingdoms, instead of hanging about the fringes. It wasn’t that long ago, when you think of it, that they fought at Long Stones. I daresay the Master of Torments would like another chance at the inner realms.”

  “Or her,” said Regnal. He glanced at Paks. “By what I’ve heard, you know as much about the webspinner’s ways as anyone can, and live.”

  Paks nodded. “Yes—and I see what you mean.”

  “By my thinking, she probably had something to do with the prince being lost like that,” said Verrakai. “No one says so, true, but something evil came to the queen and the prince. If he hadn’t been lost—”

  “No, I think it was the king dying while the princess was still so young,” argued Regnal. “She had the taig-sense, but with no guidance, she never learned to use it fully.”

  “But that was from grief. If the queen hadn’t been killed—”

  “When was this?” Paks had heard the story outlined, but was not clear on the earlier details. The rangers had concentrated on more recent problems, including the king’s illness.

  “Oh, let me think.” Verrakai stared at the table. “I was only a boy when it happened. Forty years, it must be, or fifty. Somewhat around there. Do you know the tale at all?”

  Paks nodded. “The queen and prince were going somewhere, and attacked. She was killed, and he was never found. Is that right?”

  “Yes. He was a little child, and the princess only a baby; she had been left behind, being too young to travel.”

  “The thing is,” put in Regnal, “that there’s no one else in the line who has enough elven blood. And there’s so many that don’t want it, because they don’t know what it does—” He glanced at Verrakai, who reddened.

  “Don’t look at me, young Kostvan. I’m no elf-hater; that’s my uncle. I’ve met rangers enough, working for the court, and I know what they mean by taig-sense. I still think Gird’s guidance is enough, for human folk at least, but I admit that Lyonya’s different. It’s a joint kingdom, and the elves have a right to be in the kingship. And where you have elves, you have taigin. But even in Lyonya there are humans who fear more elven influence. And so they don’t care, and so they have had two kings, now, with not enough taig-sense to hear thunder before a storm, and no one coming who has any more.”

  Listening to this, Paks had a curious sensation, a tingling of the mind, which forced her attention more strongly on what was said. For some reason she did not yet understand, it was important to what she was to do. But now Verrakai was smiling at her.

  “What they need, maybe, is a paladin ruler instead. That hasn’t been tried yet. By Gird, if you can sense good and evil directly, I’d think that would work as well as taig-sense.”

  Paks knew from her own experiences in Lyonya that it was not the same, but didn’t want to explain all that. She merely laughed a little. “Paladins are called to harder seats than thrones, good sir. Granted that rule is not easy; but we are not trained for rule and judgment, but for sharp conflict.”

  “It might be better the other way. But I am not one to quarrel with the gods’ ideas, only I hope something changes for the better in Lyonya, and soon. We have had bands of orcs around here, and worse things seen at a distance. If there’s serious trouble ahead, I’d as soon our allies were in shape to help.”

  In the morning, Paks and the red horse were ferried across the Honnorgat, its wide surface pewter colored between ice that still clutched each bank. On the far side she mounted, and rode on thoughtfully. She had noticed that her mail shirt was brighter than the day before. No one had polished it, or the rings and buckles of her tack, which were also gleaming. She wondered if her gear were beginning to take on the gleaming cleanliness she had noticed on other paladins.

  South of the Honnorgat the land
was more settled and richer. She passed through many little villages, and by noon was riding into a larger town. The red horse came to a stop before a handsome grange just as a Marshal stepped out the barton gate.

  “Gird’s grace, traveler,” said the Marshal, eyeing her keenly. “I’m Marshal Pelyan. And you—?”

  “Paksenarrion,” she answered. “A paladin of Gird, whose protection lies on all this land.”

  His eyes opened a little wider, but he merely nodded. “Welcome to our town. Will you take lunch with me?”

  “With honor.” Paks had already found that a paladin’s hunger differed in no way from that of an ordinary soldier. She swung off the red horse, and looped the reins over her arm. “Is there a stable?”

  “Around here.” He led the way to the back of the grange, and waited while she made the red horse comfortable in a box next to his own brown warhorse. “You have traveled hard,” he said, as he preceded her out the stable door.

  Paks shrugged. “Not too bad.”

  “Mmm. Some would consider any travel this time of year hard. But not you, I suppose.” They had come to an inn, and he entered, waving his hand at several men who looked up. A landlord came forward, looking at Paks curiously. The Marshal forestalled any questions by asking him for a quiet table. When they were seated, he leaned forward in his chair. “I know I asked for assistance,” he said softly, “but I didn’t think it required a paladin. Is it really that bad?”

  Paks was startled. She had had no feelings about this town at all, and no sense that she was called to do anything here. “Marshal, I’m not here in answer to your call—that I know of. It’s true I’m on quest, but somewhere else.”

  “I see.” He looked somewhat relieved. “Do you—would you know if my message was received in Fin Panir?”

  “No.” Paks shook her head slowly. “I haven’t been in Fin Panir for over a year.”

  “Oh.” Now he looked dismayed. “Blast. I wish I knew—” He stopped as the landlord came to take their order, and quickly told the man to bring stew and hot bread. When the landlord moved away, he began again. “Sorry—should have let you order. But I’m that worried, you see. And then you came in, just when I was thinking I’d have to ride at least to Vérella myself.” The landlord came with their food, two huge bowls of steaming stew and two loaves of bread. Paks began to eat. The stew was good; she finished it all, and mopped the bowl clean with a hunk of bread.