The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  The Marshal insisted on paying for their meal, and said nothing more about his problems until they were near the grange, and the street empty around them. “I don’t mean to delay you,” he said, “but if you have a little time, perhaps you could just tell me if I should ride out myself. It’s very vexing, is what it is—”

  Paks herself was curious what sort of problem could bother him so, and what kind of help he’d asked for. She agreed to take a cup of sib in his office and listen.

  “This is solid old Girdish territory,” he began. “Has been for generations; we had a grange here before Tsaia claimed it. So we’ve always had a strong yeomanry. But as we’re close to Lyonya—Harway, maybe a half-day’s walk east, is on the border—we’ve had plenty of Falkians, too. I’ve nothing against them; they’re quiet, law-abiding folk, and brave enough in trouble. But this trouble in Lyonya—well, now, folk here are beginning to worry. When the first few Falkians came in wanting to join the grange, I admit I was pleased about it. After all, that’s what any Marshal hopes to do, is increase the strength of the yeomanry. The Falkian captain even joked with me about it, wanted to know my secret. But along about last spring, it went beyond any jokes. They’ve closed their field—that’s like our grange—and the captain’s left. There’s a sergeant now, for the few commons left. And our grange is stuffed with ex-Falkians.”

  “Why do you think they changed?” asked Paks. It still didn’t seem much like a real problem to her.

  “Lyonya. I think they wanted to show their loyalty to Tsaia, where the court’s Girdish. They don’t say so, of course. I wouldn’t take ‘em if they did. That’s a bad reason to change patrons, just for policy like that. And that’s part of my problem: all these so-called Girdsmen. I don’t have the arms for that many, or the money and time to get arms. Of course the Falkian captain didn’t send the arms along with them—very properly, too: I certainly never sent arms with a yeoman who left the grange. But they talk, talk, talk, all the time, worrying themselves—and me—and I have only one yeoman-marshal, and she’s been sick. Then there’s the visitors.”

  “Visitors?” Paks asked politely, since he had paused as if waiting for her question.

  “Yes.” He made a sour face. “Close as we are to the border, you see, families here and families there have intermarried and so on. With all this uncertainty in Lyonya, they’ve come over here until it settles down—if it ever does. As I said, we’re a long-settled area. It’s not easy to absorb several hundred more people all at once, and no knowing when they’ll leave. Families going short call on the grange for help; we had a good harvest, but most of these people came just after harvest—not during the working season, when they could have made the crop bigger. I wrote Fin Panir back in the spring about getting another yeoman-marshal or Marshal, and maybe starting another grange. They said wait and see what happened. What’s happened is that I’ve got a grange full of people, less than half of them my own, and not enough arms, or time to train, or anyone to work with. I suppose it’s not a paladin’s concern—” He looked at her sadly.

  “Tell me about your yeoman-marshal,” said Paks, trying to think what she could do in a short time. “Did you say she was sick?”

  “Well, she’s not so young any more, and she’s had lung fever last winter and this winter both. This last time, she never really got well.”

  “Why don’t I take a look?” said Paks. Then she thought again. “Of course, you’ve tried a healing—?”

  The Marshal shook his head. “She didn’t want one, she said. She’s been low in her spirits this last year or so—and that’s another thing, but I’ve had no one to talk to, and been too busy to go anywhere. Something’s bothering her—”

  “Would she talk to me?”

  “I imagine so. A paladin, after all. On a quest. It might interest her.”

  “Can’t you appoint another yeoman-marshal?”

  “Well—yes, I could, but—everyone knows Rahel. She’s been here since before I came. As long as she’s—and it’s not as if we were actively fighting—”

  “Where is she?” asked Paks.

  “Along here.” The Marshal rose and led the way along a passage inside the grange. He stopped outside a door, and rapped on it. Paks heard a chair scrape inside, and a heavy cough, then a tired voice responding. “It’s the Marshal,” he said. “We have a visitor, Rahel—a paladin.”

  The door opened. Rahel, the yeoman-marshal, was a hand shorter than Paks, with heavy gray braids wrapped around her head; her face was thin, and she stood slightly askew, like someone with a stitch in her side. Paks was aware of a heavy feeling in the air. “Sir Marshal,” said Rahel, in a voice without resonance. “Paladin—?”

  “Paksenarrion,” said the Marshal, with a gesture. “She is on quest, but stopped here for a meal, and a rest.”

  “Gird’s grace, Lady,” said Rahel, with obvious effort. “Will you come in?”

  “Gird’s strength to you,” said Paks in return. “I’d be glad to sit awhile, if it won’t tire you.”

  Rahel smiled without humor. “Nothing tires me, Lady, but living itself.” She stepped back, and Paks followed her into a clean spare room with a small fireplace. Two comfortable chairs, a small table, and a narrow bed piled with pillows furnished it. A mail shirt hung from its stand, and several swords hung from pegs on the wall. That was all. Rahel sank into one of the chairs, clearly short of breath.

  “How long have you been sick?” asked Paks.

  Rahel shook her head. “I am not sure. I have an old wound—every year or so I used to have lung fever in winter or early spring. I can’t remember when it was that it first started hanging on too long. But last year—it was near midsummer before I could walk to Harway and back in a day. And just after harvest, I got the lung fever again.” She stopped, gasping. Her color was bad, an odd bluish-gray that Paks had seen on men with lung wounds. She coughed again, bending to it. Paks waited, wondering if there were any chance of a healing.

  “The Marshal,” Rahel went on when she caught her breath, “he thinks I should let him try a healing. But it’s too late—too much is gone—I—” She coughed again. “I’m too tired,” she said finally. “I fought—years—and I’m tired.”

  “Would you let me try to ease the pain for you?” asked Paks.

  “Ease—? Not heal?”

  “If it can be healed, I will try to heal it. I think you are right, Rahel, that it’s gone too far. But I can ease it for you, for awhile.”

  “I didn’t want numbwine,” muttered Rahel. “Can’t think with that stuff—can’t work at all.”

  “Not numbwine.” Paks watched her, recognizing the heaviness for what it was, and wondered why the Marshal had not seen it—or if he had just not wanted to see it.

  Rahel nodded. “If you will—I’m sorry, Lady—I can’t say the right things—”

  “No matter. Would you rather lie down?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. It’s hard to—” She pulled herself out of the chair, and went to the bed, piling the pillows at one end. Paks wondered briefly if she should tell the Marshal first, and decided against it. Rahel lay against the pillows, her eyes sagging shut. Paks took a deep calming breath, and called on Gird and the High Lord.

  As she touched Rahel’s head, she knew at once that no cure would be given. She prayed quietly, hoping to ease the pain, and sensed that Rahel’s breathing had quieted. After a few minutes, she felt a clear instruction to stop, and withdrew her hands. Rahel opened her eyes.

  “That—is—much better. My thanks, Lady, for this and for Gird’s grace.”

  She looked better, even rested, and Paks fetched her a drink of water from the jug on the table.

  “The power is the High Lord’s,” Paks reminded her. “It is lent me, under Gird’s grace; it is not mine.”

  “True. Oh, it is easier. If it never got worse than this, I could—” she stopped suddenly, with a surprised look, and fell back. Paks knew at once that she was dead, as she had known that death was
near. She straightened Rahel’s body, and called the Marshal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So it has come.” The Marshal did not seem surprised. “I knew it would be soon, but not how soon.” Together he and Paks prepared the body for burial. Paks struggled with her own feelings; she was not used to death save by violence. The Marshal spoke softly as they worked. “When death comes in war, quickly, it is easily faced. So also with many illnesses—either life and health, or death. For most who grow old in peace, the weakness of age comes gently, and death is no longer an enemy. But for her—you saw that scar; I think she had pain from it all along. For two years every breath was drawn in pain. She was too strong to die soon, and knew it might last beyond her strength to face it. That fear—that she might not—began to master her. When you took the pain—”

  “I knew it might end—” Paks ducked her head. He touched her shoulder.

  “You are a young paladin, and so I will be bold to answer what you did not ask. And even to answer what you fear I might ask. Yes, what you did might have caused her death so quickly. Yet I know you intended neither evil nor her death, and I do not think you killed her. For the healing power comes, as you said, from the High Lord—from him comes the end of pain, not pain itself.”

  “You were listening—you knew—”

  “I hoped. She wouldn’t let me—and it had gone on long enough. She feared to be weak, and take my help; it had to be someone else.”

  “Why didn’t—why didn’t Gird heal that wound in the first place?” Paks was surprised at her own resentment. She knew the danger of that, fought it back. The Marshal finished folding the blanket around the body, laid Rahel’s medallion on top of it, and looked at Paks levelly.

  “She wasn’t a Girdsman then. She—” He looked briefly at the body, and back at Paks. “She was a brigand; Gird knows what gods she followed, if any. The Marshal before me here found her near death, in a cave. The others had left her, after dragging her that far. The wound was too old to heal cleanly, even if she’d been a yeoman. Somehow she lived—he was a good herbalist as well—and, when she was stronger, he converted her. Had to, or the local Council would have hanged her.”

  “Oh.”

  “He made her yeoman-marshal not only for her ability, but to protect her from the yeomen and the town. And she served well, the rest of her life.”

  * * *

  Riding east the next day, Paks thought about what the Marshal had told her. The land seemed settled enough; she saw none of the disruption that war had brought to Aarenis. Few travelers moved on the road, but it was winter, and cold. She came to Harway before noon. Here she was stopped by men-at-arms in Lyonyan green and gold, but they passed her quickly enough when she gave her name.

  “Didn’t you serve with the rangers last summer?” asked one of them.

  “Yes, with Giron.”

  “That’s what I thought. They send those names all around the border. Go on, then, anywhere you like—but if you go to Chaya, you should give your name at the court, and let the king know you’re there.”

  “I’ve never seen Chaya,” said Paks.

  “Stay on this road and you will—it’s south and east of here, more east than south. You’ve worked with elves; you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll ride that way if I can. How would I find the Halveric lands?”

  “Which Halverics? That’s a big family.”

  “Aliam Halveric—he has a mercenary company—”

  “Oh. You were close enough to it last summer—didn’t you know?” Paks shook her head. “Well, it’s far in the south—I haven’t been there myself.”

  * * *

  As she rode into Lyonya, the amount of forested land increased. Bit by bit the fields grew smaller, and the blocks of wood between them larger. Near Chaya itself, a wide belt of forest had been left undisturbed; snow whitened the ground on either hand, though the road itself had been churned to frozen mud. Gradually the trees grew larger, and the spaces between them wider. At the inner edge of the forest belt, Paks reined in to look at the city.

  Unlike Vérella and Fin Panir, Chaya had not been built for defense: no proud wall encircled it. Instead, it was as if a grove of noble trees had cleared the ground around themselves, and then been invaded by clusters of bright mushrooms. The mushrooms, Paks realized suddenly, were the buildings: of stone and wood both, brightly painted, with colorful tile roofs. The trees—she squinted upward—were immense, each larger of bole than most houses. The lower bark was cinnamon-red, breaking into plates partway up, where the branches began, and showing pale gray and even white above that. Off to one side of the grove a castle faced the widest part of the open ground, now a snowy field. It looked like a model next to the great trees.

  “First time you’ve seen Chaya?” The voice held a little of the elves’ song. Paks turned to see a part-elf in hunting leathers behind her.

  “Yes—it’s—not like anything else—”

  “No, indeed. Those are the only such trees outside the elvenhome forests. They are a sign that this kingdom is of both kinships.” The part-elf sighed. “As long as it is, they will thrive. But otherwise—”

  “Are you one of the rangers?” asked Paks.

  “Do you think that is all elven blood has to do in this kingdom?”

  Paks did not understand the rancor in his voice. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was with the rangers in the south last summer, and merely wondered if you knew them.”

  His face relaxed. “Oh, well, then—I may indeed. I have many friends in the south.” But as it happened he knew of them by name only. They moved on toward the city together, both silent for some distance. Then, as they neared the first buildings, he spoke again. “Have you come from them? Few travel so far in midwinter.”

  “I’m a paladin of Gird,” said Paks. “On quest.” He stopped short, and Paks stopped in courtesy.

  “A paladin? Have you come to heal the king?”

  “I am not yet sure why I’ve been called here.”

  “It could not be for better cause. Go and see him, at least.” He looked about, and hailed a youth in green and gold livery. The boy came near, eyes wide, and bowed. “Here—Belvarin will take you. This lady is a paladin,” he explained to the youth. “She must see the king.”

  Paks followed the youth through the twisting lanes between trees and buildings to a gate in the castle wall. It surprised her with its size, and she realized again that the trees made it look smaller than it was. She dismounted inside the gate, and led the red horse across a wide court. A stableboy came to take her horse, and she warned him not to tie the red horse.

  The boy nodded and walked off, the horse following.

  Her escort led her into the main part of the castle, along wide passages. She noticed that the many servants bowed as they passed. She felt the slight tingle that indicated she was near to some act of power. She estimated that they had come to the far side of the castle, on an upper level, when they arrived outside double carved doors. Two nobles in rich gowns greeted her escort, and acknowledged the introduction.

  “Paksenarrion—a paladin. Welcome, lady, to the court of our king. I am Sier Belvarin; I hope my son has served you well.” Paks saw a blush redden the youth’s neck. His father was tall and fair, with a red tinge to his hair and beard.

  “And I am Sier Halveric. Are you that Paksenarrion who served Phelan of Tsaia?” When Paks nodded, he smiled at her. “Then I daresay you know my nephew Aliam Halveric.”

  “Indeed yes, my lord.” When she looked closely at him, something of the eyes seemed like Aliam, but he was much taller, with red-brown hair going silver.

  “Have you come to heal our king, lady?” asked Belvarin, with a sour glance at Halveric which Paks did not miss.

  “I would offer my healing if it were welcome,” said Paks cautiously. “But the High Lord’s power comes at his will, not mine.”

  “I fear, my lady, that you come too late, if such was the High Lord’s purpose in calling you here. Nonet
heless, you shall see the king, if you will, and perhaps can ease him.” Sier Halveric smiled at her, and turned to the door.

  “Not so fast, Jeris. Have you forgotten what the surgeons said? He must rest, the little he can.”

  “Falk’s oath in gold, Tamissin! He’s dying anyway—what harm can a paladin do?”

  “But the surgeons—”

  “The surgeons! Hmph! And is he better for them, these last months?”

  Their voices had risen; Paks was not surprised when the doors opened from within, and a man peered out, scowling. “Lords! Lords! Have you no better place to quarrel than before the king’s chamber? He but barely sleeps at the best of it—” He caught sight of Paks, and stared. “And who’s this? A stranger?”

  “A paladin,” said the Halveric quickly. “A paladin of Gird, a servant of the High Lord. The king must have this chance—”

  “For healing?” The man sounded more than doubtful. Paks intervened.

  “Sir, I am here, in Chaya, by the call of the High Lord, to serve his purpose. But as for the king, I can offer only such prayers as I am commanded to offer.”

  He looked her up and down, and relaxed. “Indeed, lady, it has been long since a paladin came to us. We are honored, and the king would wish to welcome you properly if he could. If you can forgive his inability, perhaps you might consider attending him.”

  Paks bowed. “By Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, I will do what I can.” She glanced at the other two, who avoided each other’s eyes. “Gird’s grace be on you,” she said quietly, and passed through the opening.

  Within, the large chamber was full of light from windows on either side. The king’s bed stood on a low dais; besides a fireplace near it, several braziers filled the air with warmth and the scent of light incense. The king lay propped on pillows beneath a spread worked in gold thread; a matching canopy rose from the bedposts. Paks followed the other man closer. A woman sitting by the bed rose and came to meet them. She wore the insignia of a Knight of Falk, but was dressed in robes rather than armor.