Paks knelt beside him. “Sir king, I grieve—for you, for this kingdom in distress. But—”
“Someone must, Paksenarrion,” the king said more softly. Paks saw his eyes dull with approaching pain. “Please—save it—no one else—” His head sagged. She felt the mingled awe and terror of the others like a cloud.
“Sir king—” Her hand on his conveyed nothing; she had no power to give. She felt the live flesh stiffen, the skin hardening subtly under her fingers like cooling wax. A rustle filled the room. When she looked aside, they were all kneeling, even the elves.
Esceriel moved first. He took a corner of the king’s cloak and covered the face. Paks looked up to see tears on his cheeks. He leaned his head against the dead king for an instant, then met her eyes. His gaze carried both challenge and admiration.
“My lords and ladies,” said Esceriel slowly. “Our king is dead. He—”
“Our king,” interrupted Amrothlin with the slightest emphasis on our, "was a brave and great man. We honor his memory.”
The squires stood; Paks also rose to her feet. Esceriel finished arranging the king’s hands beneath the cloak. He nodded to the group. “Our king has died; he made one last request. I am no longer King’s Squire; I am on no Council. I have no right to know, but the king was dear to me, and I would ask whether you will honor it.”
“I see nothing else,” said Sier Halveric, clambering up from his knees. Others rose as well. “I thought it was a good idea then, and now—Falk rest him well—it’s the only thing to do.” A low murmur ran around the room, obvious agreement. Even Belvarin shrugged and nodded. Amrothlin gave Paks a keen glance, then a quick bow.
“I have said already that the elves would have no quarrel with such a succession.”
“Will you then accept this charge?” asked Sier Halveric, coming forward to confront Paks. “Our land is in need—desperate need—and you have been sent to help us. So much you have said yourself. We offer you the crown for your lifetime, knowing that no harm will come to us on your account.”
Paks glanced at the dead king, then looked the Halveric full in the face. “Sier Halveric, I respected your king. I respect your need. But I am bound to obey the calls of my gods. I cannot discuss this here, with your king still—”
“I am sorry you think we have something to discuss,” said Sier Halveric. “I had hoped—”
“My lord, if I took the throne, you might find me less biddable than you hoped.”
A brief smile lightened his face and made him look more like Aliam. “Lady, if it would persuade you to save our kingdom, I would not mind if you crossed my every whim. Yet I understand; it is not seemly, if you cannot accept without reservations, to discuss it here and now.” He turned to the others. “As senior Councillor present, I ask the steward to announce the king’s death.” The steward bowed low and withdrew. Sier Halveric turned back to the others. “And if the squires would stand guard, as we pay our respects, I will send for the others who should come.” He was the first to kneel before the king, and lay his lips a moment on the cloaked face. The others came up, one by one, to do the same. Then they left, and the squires lifted him back to the carrying chair, to take him to his chambers for the formal laying out.
Paks stood until they were out of the room, then faced the group of elves who remained. Their faces were unreadable, even for her. Amrothlin spoke.
“You are very tired, Lady Paksenarrion. Will you council with them, or rest?”
Paks wanted to fall asleep where she stood. She reached in thought for the High Lord and the others. Strength flowed into her, leaching the tiredness away. She smiled at the elves.
“I can sleep when this is settled. The gods give strength when it’s needed, as you elves know well, who rarely sleep at all.”
“Few are the humans who drink from our springs,” said Amrothlin gravely. “But then, few are the humans who have touched an elfane taig directly. Will you say what you have decided?”
“I will say what the gods would have me do, when I know what that is and the Council is assembled,” replied Paks.
Outside, Sier Halveric waited for her. “I am sure you are tired, Lady Paksenarrion. If you would rest and pray before meeting with us, we will wait. But the realm’s great need requires that we not sit long in uncertainty—may I ask that you speak with us when you can?”
“My lord, if the Council is ready to meet, I will come now. But did you not say that you had messages to send? If some must come from a distance, I would sleep a little.”
He nodded. “To assemble the full Council will take some hours more. Those here can make legal decisions, however; we have had to make do so since the king’s illness worsened. I have sent to all the Siers who are not present, and to the Knight-Commander of Falk. But in the matter of succession, I fear any delay. I myself resign my claim, to favor yours; at this moment most favor yours, but—”
“What action would be taken by a council of regents, had the king left a minor heir?”
“Oh—the announcement of regents, a proclamation of the terms of regency and that the regents swore their honor to it. Continuance of the alliance, and its terms, and the authority of the courts as presently constituted—”
“Could not the Council act as a regency for awhile?”
“Regent for whom? For you?” He looked confused.
“Let us say, for whomever comes to rule.”
“I—hadn’t thought of that.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Falk’s blade in gold, Lady, if you become our queen, as I hope, you promise to be not only good but wise. We could indeed. As well, it would be reasonable, since you are unfamiliar with our laws and customs, to continue as we have until you’ve time to learn them.” He looked past her to the elves who had followed her out. “Would that satisfy you?”
“A temporary regency? That is a matter for the Council to decide, but it seems well enough.” Again Paks had the impression of some hidden amusement.
“Then may I see you to your chambers, Lady?” asked Sier Halveric. “Whatever you need—”
Paks nodded, still thinking hard. He led her upstairs and along corridors; Paks realized that they were not returning to the room she’d been given. Before she could ask, he answered.
“The king’s chamber is of course where he is being laid out. The room you were given is needed—and would not be quiet, either, in all the bustle. Your things have been moved to the old queen’s chambers; servants await you there.” He looked over his shoulder to Amrothlin who, with two of the elves, followed them. “Will you grace the palace by staying here for the present? Rooms are available nearby; I can—”
“I will stay near Lady Paksenarrion for the present,” said Amrothlin. “Not to speak to her, or impede her rest or prayer, but merely to be present should she have need of any elven lore.” Paks shot him a quick glance but nothing showed on his face. The Halveric nodded, as they came to the double doors of another chamber of state.
“The queen’s suite has several chambers; I’ve no doubt you will be comfortable. Lady, if you will come—”
Paks entered. The fair-sized room, bright with firelight and candles, held several tables and comfortable chairs. Old Joriam was there, and two women in the forest green livery of the palace, and Lieth, still in armor. Doors led into other rooms; Paks could see a tall canopied bed in one, book-lined walls in another. A steaming pot sat on the hearth. The Halveric bowed.
“I will leave you now, Lady Paksenarrion. Rest well, and I shall pray that the gods give you leave to grant our king’s last request.” Then he withdrew. Paks wondered what to do next.
Joriam had no such doubts. “You’ll want out of that armor, I daresay,” he began, and came to her. “Sela, fetch that robe we’ve got warming. Sir elf, we’ve plenty of that good hot punch by the fire. Keris will serve you some, if you will—” The other woman went quickly to a cabinet and fetched out more silver goblets. Amrothlin smiled, and accepted one, as did his companions. By this time Joriam had helped Pa
ks off with the sword, and out of her mail. She had never had such help; he made it easy. Before she knew it, she was wrapped in a warm robe and seated by the fire with a hot drink halfway down. She looked at Lieth.
“Lady,” said Lieth carefully, “it was the Council’s wish that you be squired as would befit our sovereign. I offered to come this night, having met you. Esceriel mourns.”
“I am honored,” said Paks. “You know I have given no commitment—”
“I know. But if you do, then it is fitting, and I am glad to serve you even if the time is brief.”
“You do not always wear armor,” Paks said.
Lieth smiled faintly. “No, Lady. But we are between reigns; you have not yet taken the protection of your crown. And so I thought better to be armed, lest any have secret thoughts.”
Amrothlin smiled up at her. “You are a wise squire, Lieth; that was our thought as well.”
“You feared for my safety here?” asked Paks, surprised.
“Lady, you are a paladin; you cannot be tainted by evil without your will. But a knife in the ribs will kill you.”
“No one would kill her,” objected Joriam. “She’s—”
“Peace, Joriam. Do you argue that evil has not dogged this realm for many years? Do you think it will give up so easily? If she is, indeed, the hope of this realm, then that could draw the evil powers.”
“For that,” said Paks, “a paladin exists not to avoid conflict, but to bring it into the open.”
Amrothlin nodded. “So I have heard. But here you will be warded by several loyalties: Joriam’s lifelong honesty, Lieth’s Falkian honor, and the elven sense of the taig. You will have peace for your prayers, and for your rest.”
Paks nodded. “Thank you—all of you.” A few minutes later, she let Lieth lead her to the bedchamber, and lay for the first time in her life on embroidered sheets beneath a costly canopy figured with flowers and vines. She slept better than she expected, waking in early dawn to a horn call from the palace gates. For a moment she lay still, staring at the pale shape of the window. Everything in the chamber was dark, shade on shade of gray without color. She could just see Lieth’s form standing near the window, looking out. She stretched, rustling the covers, and Lieth turned.
“It is early yet, Lady, if you wish more sleep.”
Paks felt more awake every instant. “No—I am rested.”
“Shall I light a fire here?” Paks remembered that the bedchamber had its own fireplace, but she was not used to that luxury. She shook her head, then, remembering the darkness, spoke.
“No, Lieth. That’s all right. Is there a quiet place, where I can be alone to pray?”
“Here—I can guard the door. No one will bother you.”
“Very well.” Paks pushed aside the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Lieth had already gone out, closing the door softly. Paks padded over the carpets to the window and looked out. There was the courtyard, an eerie uncolored paleness in the dawn. She could see figures by the gate, dark against the dawnlit snow. To the east, the sky was luminous, a band of green beneath the blue.
She pushed the window outward, and craned her head to look up. Winter stars still burned overhead, disappearing as she watched.
She looked at the courtyard again. A puff of smoke came from a chimney across from her window. Then another. She remembered watching for the smoke from the kitchens when she had the night watch at the Duke’s. And this was what they would give her: this courtyard, to watch over, to have as her own. This land—the rich farmlands, the great forests full of game. For a few moments, leaning her head on the windowframe, she let herself imagine being queen here. She could be good for them—she knew that. She could sense the forest taig, even here; she could let her mind reach out and sense the taig of the entire kingdom. It lay under her inner eye like a rich tapestry; she could see the places—here, and there, and over there—where something had soiled the fabric, or worn it thin. She thought of having those like Lieth and Esceriel for loyal friends and servants—of hunting in those forests, on a red horse that moved like the north wind. That stopped her. That red horse was no queen’s mount, no horse to spend his days in a royal stable champing royal oats. He had not come out of the winter wind for that. She sighed, pushed herself back from the window, and went to sit before the fireplace with its neat pattern of wood waiting for a light.
Her mind emptied of thoughts of thrones and crowns, spilled its images and memories of councils and courts and ceremony. It stilled, gradually, as a forest pool stills when no wind blows. What did she really know? The feel of a sword in the hand. The sickness of fear, and that brother-sickness, rage. She knew the taste of bread to the hungry, the ease of warmth to the cold. One by one, the things she knew of her own experience flicked through her mind. And faces: Saben, Master Oakhallow, Sevri, Stammel, Aliam Halveric, Duke Phelan. These left her. A fire grew in her mind, a fire both warmth and song, and a tree grew in that fire, burning and unconsumed. And a red horse crashed through the flames on a winter wind, taking her somewhere, taking her far away into laughter and flowers.
She came to herself hearing a knocking on the door, and the crackle of flames on the hearth. With a shake of the head, she stood, and opened the door. By then she had seen it was broad day, with sun spearing in the south-facing window.
“We were worried, Lady,” said Lieth. Sier Halveric and Sier Belvarin were behind her.
Paks nodded. “My pardon. When the gods speak, it is difficult sometimes to come away.” They stared at her, seeing something in her face she did not feel.
“When you’re ready,” said Sier Belvarin finally, “the Council will be pleased to meet with you.”
“I won’t be long,” said Paks. She could feel her normal wits coming back; she felt strong and rested. The two Siers left the room, and Paks saw that Joriam had bathwater hot by the great hearth. The elves still stood near the outer door; Amrothlin nodded to her.
“I need not ask how you fared, Lady; it is obvious you fared well indeed in the gods’ care.”
“I have seen your Tree,” said Paks. She did not know why she said so, only that it was true and important. Amrothlin stood straighter, if possible.
“Indeed? Then I hope you received the blessing of its leaves, Lady. You are more than welcome to it.”
More quickly than Joriam intended, Paks was bathed and dressed; she soothed the old man, while refusing his embellishments.
“Joriam, you are used to serving royalty—and I am a paladin, a warrior of the gods, and not a king or queen. Would you get me used to your luxuries, so that I would miss them on campaign?”
“No—but—”
“You have given me great pleasure already, Joriam. It is all I can take, now.”
He grinned at her suddenly. “Now, you say! Very well, then, another time. You’ll see—the gods have no hatred for these things, and you are too experienced a warrior to misuse them. I’ll wager you like good food well enough, yet can go hungry at need.”
“You’re right on that, Joriam. Mushrooms—” Paks laughed as Lieth helped her into her mail. “But see here—you save all this for your ruler, eh?”
He nodded. “May it be you, Lady—that’s what I say.”
“It’s the gods’ will, Joriam. Your kingdom has great need, and they know best how to fill it.”
* * *
The Council met in the Leaf Hall. Most of those attending had been at the meeting the night before. Those new to Paks were introduced: the Knight-Commander of Falk, the widower of the half-elven queen, a few nobles. Paks had been ready to dislike the widower, but he was clearly as Joriam had described: a good man, though perhaps narrow-minded, and wholly without ambition. The Knight-Commander was another matter. Half-elven, slightly taller than Paks, he gave her a challenging look when they were introduced.
“Gird’s paladin, eh?” he said. His grip was strong, but not painful. “You are not like the others.”
“No.” Paks said no more.
“As you will hear,” said Paks, “I did not seek one.”
“That’s what they told me,” he said. “If you say you did not, then you did not.” He chewed his lip a moment. “I find that hard to believe, but perhaps Falkians emphasize command more than Girdsmen.”
Paks thought of the Marshal-General and repressed a chuckle. “I assure you, sir, that ambition for command is found often enough among Girdsmen.”
“And to that, as well, you are an exception?”
“It depends on circumstances,” said Paks.
“Indeed. And in these circumstances?”
“Sir, when the Council is convened, I will speak to the whole Council of the outcome of my prayers.”
“I am well rebuked, Lady,” he said, lowering his eyes. Paks did not think he felt rebuked.
By this time everyone was standing behind one of the chairs that had been drawn into a great circle. Sier Halveric looked at Paks; when she nodded, he spoke.
“Sirs and ladies, we are met to discuss our late king’s last council and request—and to settle the government of this realm for the time being. I believe you all know what our late king asked—that this lady, a paladin of Gird, who has come to us bearing the sword of Falkieri’s heir, take the throne for her life. This she was unwilling to do without consulting the High Lord and Gird her patron. Yet most of us saw her draw that sword in council last night, and saw the sword take light.” He turned to Paks. “I ask you now, Lady Paksenarrion, before the Council of Lyonya, acting in regency for the one who will be our ruler, to draw that sword again, and give us your answer.”
Paks laid her hand on the sword, but did not draw it. She looked around the circle slowly, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. All were welcoming, as far as she could see, human and elf and those of part-blood alike. When she completed the circle, she nodded once and began.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 130