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The Deed of Paksenarrion

Page 141

by Elizabeth Moon


  “And where did you get it?” asked Verrakai, still sour.

  “From Duke Phelan,” said Paks.

  “That thief—” muttered Verrakai. Paks heard it clearly. She laughed.

  “Thief?” she repeated. “Not unless he took it as a babe in arms. It was lost from Lyonya over forty-five years ago. He was given it, Duke Verrakai, by Aliam Halveric of Lyonya, who had found it near a dead elf in the forest.”

  “So he says.” Verrakai’s insistent distaste was not mellowing.

  “So also the elves themselves say,” said Paks. “Aliam Halveric told the elves when he’d found it; they did not ask its return, but told him to give it to the one for whom it was made. They thought he knew what sword it was; alas, the elves have trouble remembering the brevity of human lives, and that he had been too young to see the sword at court.”

  “But then—” The crown prince’s voice topped a sudden burst of talk; it stilled, and he went on. “But then the elves knew—they knew who the prince was? Why didn’t they simply say?”

  “And how did they know?” asked the High Marshal, with a sharp look at the two elves who sat high in the tiers.

  “You will remember that Falkieri’s queen was elven; the prince was half-elven. It seems that when the tragedy occurred, everyone assumed the boy had been killed. Instead, he was stolen away—beyond the seas, the elves think, since they could have sensed his presence anywhere in these realms.”

  “Even in Pargun or Kostandan?” asked Duke Marrakai.

  “I am not sure, my lord.”

  “Yes,” came a silvery elven voice from the seats above. “Anywhere in these realms or Aarenis, Duke Marrakai, elves could have found him.”

  “So you see,” Paks went on, “the elves also thought him dead, when they could not sense him. Then some years later, he returned to Lyonya: how, I do not know. But elves found him there, fairly quickly, and—”

  “And did nothing? Do you ask me to believe that?” Verrakai led the rush of noise that followed. Paks waited until the room quieted; this time the prince had let them talk themselves out.

  “The elves said,” Paks went on, “that the prince had been treated so badly that he had no remembrance of his past. He knew nothing of his name, his family, or his elven blood. They found him so damaged that they feared he had none of the taig-sense left; they feared to try any intervention lest they damage him further.”

  “And so they did nothing.” The crown prince’s voice was calm.

  “Not quite nothing, your highness. They watched. Remember that at that time, the prince’s younger sister was alive and well—”

  “But now,” said the crown prince, “Lyonya has no king, and no clear heir, and the elves want a part-elven ruler. Is that the meat of it?”

  “Not quite. They do not want this man to rule unless he’s fit for it—and they doubt his fitness.” Paks waited for the silence. Then she spoke. “I do not doubt it.”

  “What!” The crown prince leaned forward; all of them stared. “You know—you know who it is?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why haven’t you said? Why this nonsense about a quest?” Verrakai again, sneering.

  “Because, my lord, I have not been granted leave to speak by the gods—or by the king himself. What, would you have me place an innocent man in danger, by blurting his name out for the world to play with? Already one King’s Squire is dead, killed by a priest of Liart, to prevent my finding him. Already the powers of evil in Lyonya are massing to keep him from the throne. Suppose I had said his name openly, from the time I first suspected who it would be—would he be alive this day, to take the sword and test his inheritance?”

  “Well said,” said the High Marshal. “Well said, indeed.”

  “I came here,” said Paks, more quietly, “to tell the Council of Tsaia that my quest leads me into your realm. I must go where the quest leads, but in all courtesy, I ask your leave to travel as I must.”

  “Is he here?” asked the crown prince. “In Tsaia?”

  “He is,” said Paks, weighing the danger of that admission.

  “Can you tell us now who it is?”

  “No. Not at the moment, your highness. I must ask Duke Phelan some questions about the sword’s history in his house: who handled it, and how.”

  “We all have questions for Duke Phelan,” said Verrakai. “I hope, Lady Paksenarrion, that his answers to your questions are more to the point than his answers to mine.”

  The crown prince shot a glance at Verrakai that silenced him. Then he smiled at Paks. “We shall defer our questions until you are through, Lady Paksenarrion. A paladin’s quest—and such a quest—is a matter of more moment than the Duke’s response to matters of law.” He rose, and the others rose with him. With a bow, he led them from the room, through a door Paks had not noticed behind the throne. The squires in the tiers followed, and the two elves climbed down to stand near Paks and Duke Phelan.

  “Are you certain, Lady, of the rightness of your judgment?”

  “I am certain, sir elf, of the rightness of the gods’ commands; my own judgment is not at issue.”

  “Be joyous in your certainty, paladin of Gird,” said one of the elves, eyes flashing.

  “I hope you are right, indeed,” said the other, “for I would see no fires rage in the forests of Lyonya, as have raged in other lands.” He turned to the other elf. “Come cousin—we shall know all soon enough; we might as well leave the paladin to her work.” And with a bow, the elves also withdrew.

  Meanwhile, Duke Phelan had recognized Garris, and come to grip his arm. “Garris—by the gods, so this is where you ended up. King’s Squire—a good place for a good man.”

  “Well, my lord, I—” Garris struggled with his knowledge and the Duke’s ignorance.

  “You can’t my lord me, Garris. Not when we were boys together. Have you told Paks here about all our scrapes?” Phelan turned to Paks, grinning. “Garris was a year or so younger than I, Paks, at Aliam Halveric’s, and I got him in more trouble—”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said Paks.

  “It’s true enough,” said the Duke. “But come—let’s sit down. Have you been here long? When did you arrive? I had heard nothing until I came to Vérella, where I found word that the king of Lyonya was dead, and you were coming here on quest.”

  “We have just come, my lord,” said Paks, settling gingerly into the chair Duke Verrakai had vacated. “We rode this morning from Westbells.”

  “Have you had any refreshment? I can certainly have someone bring—”

  “No, my lord. Please. We shall have time enough after.”

  He gave her a long look. “So. It is that urgent, eh? Well, then, Paks, ask what you will, and as I know, I will answer.”

  Paks began with what she knew of the sword’s history, and the Duke nodded. He affirmed what Aliam Halveric had said of the sword when he took it. Without prompting, he spoke of his vow to Tamarrion.

  “You see, she had been—was—a soldier, as I was, and she was not giving that up.” The Duke glanced quickly at Lieth and Suriya. “You will understand that. So I felt—in giving her a sword—that it would be but courtesy to promise it would always be hers alone.”

  “What happened when she first drew it?” asked Paks.

  “It showed a blue light, much as any magic sword may. Not as bright as when you draw it, Paks, but Tamar was not a paladin. Though as one who loved and served Gird to her death, she might well have been.”

  “Did anyone else in your household draw it?”

  “No. Not that I know of. Tamar was proud of it, and no wonder. Little Estil—our daughter, that was killed—she wanted to, but I remember Tamar saying she’d have to grow into it.”

  “And even after her death—”

  “No. Someone took it and cleaned it, when they found—found them.” His voice shook an instant, then steadied. “By the time I came north again, she was in the ground, and it was back in its scabbard, lying across her armor, for m
e to see. I hung it on the wall, where you found it, Paks, and there it stayed until you took it. I don’t think that it would have suffered Venneristimon to mishandle it.”

  “No, my lord, I don’t think so.” Paks sighed. She hardly knew what to do; she could feel the stiffness of the squires, waiting for her to do—what? Tell him? Hand him the sword? What? She looked at his face; it was more peaceful than she’d seen it before. Was that peace a kind of defeat? But no—his eyes still held fire enough, and his hands and voice were firm. Now that she knew, she thought she could see the shape of elven blood—not as much as expected, but there. And for a man of fifty, he was remarkably lithe and young. Beside her, Suriya stirred, her cloak rustling a little.

  “My lord,” she began again, “What do you remember of your childhood?”

  The Duke’s eyes widened. “What!” An instant later he had shoved his chair back, and was standing, pale of face. “You don’t—Paks—no.” He put a hand to the chair; color seeped back into his face. “I understand. You want to help me, do something for me, but—”

  “My lord, please.” Paks forced his attention. “Please answer.”

  “Nothing good,” he said grimly. “And you cannot be right in what you surmise.”

  “I can’t?” Paks surprised herself with the tone of her voice. “My lord, I ask you to listen and think of this: the elves, when they heard from Aliam Halveric that he had the sword, told him to give it to the prince. And when he replied that he was giving it to you, they said it was well enough. They erred in thinking that Aliam knew the sword and its properties. But they knew that he suspected who you were.”

  “Aliam?” Now the Duke’s face was white; he clung to the chair with both fists. “He knew? Aliam?”

  “He suspected, my lord, and had no proof, nor any way to find some. And your sister was betrothed, soon to be crowned.”

  He shook his head, breathing hard. “I trusted him—Aliam—he said—”

  “He said that he did not think your parentage could be proven, or your place restored; indeed, that’s what he thought at the time. He was not sure; he had been too young when it happened, and he dared not ask anyone.” Paks had feared his wrath with Aliam more than anything, but he was already nodding his head slowly as she spoke.

  “I can understand. A boy with no background—what could he say? And my memories—so few, so far back. But—” He looked at Paks again. “Are you sure, Paks? Are you certain it’s not your regard for an old commander?”

  “My lord, it is not my thought only. I have talked to Aliam Halveric, and to elves of high degree—”

  “And why didn’t they—?” The Duke stopped in mid-sentence, his voice chopped off from a rising cry. His hand dropped again to the chair. “Because I was unfit—am unfit—”

  “No, my lord. You are not.”

  “I am. Paks, you know—you have seen—and Lyonya requires abilities I don’t have—if ever I did.”

  “My lord, you are half-elven, with abilities scarce less than the elves, but constrained by a mortal life. I believe you have them still, buried by what you have endured. Why else would the High Lord and Gird have sent me to find you? Would they choose an unfit king?”

  “No—”

  “And if they can make a paladin out of me, my lord, after all that happened, they can make a good king out of you.”

  “Perhaps.” The Duke sat again, pulling his chair to the table so suddenly that its legs scraped loudly on the floor. “So—you are sure, and the elves are sure, that I am a prince born, and the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne. Is anyone else convinced?”

  “Aliam Halveric.”

  “And any others?”

  “We have not used your name, my lord, for fear that evil would come on you before I could reach you. But the lords of Lyonya, gathered together after the king’s death, agreed to accept the sword’s evidence. The elves had admitted that the prince lived, and might be found. I think most of the lords, if not all, will accept you.” She watched him; his eyes had fallen to the table, where he traced some of the silver inlay with his forefinger.

  “It would be a matter for laughter, if I could laugh,” said the Duke quietly, “that I am born a prince, and of better birth than those lords who have scorned me as a bastard mercenary. They were so sure of my lack—as was I, most times—and now—” His finger paused; he looked up at Paks. “You assume, Paks, that I want to be king.”

  “No, my lord. I only know that you are the rightful king, and must be.”

  “Hmmph.” His gaze went past her to meet each of the squires. “Garris—Lieth—Suriya—if Paks is right, then I am your king. But I must say this, however it seems to you. Many years have gone by since I was a lost and lonely boy, tramping the fields of Lyonya looking for work. Aliam Halveric took me in, taught me my trade of war, taught me respect for the gods, and what I know of right and wrong. Garris, you knew me then—you know what sort of boy I was. Did you ever think I might be a prince?”

  Garris blushed. “My lord—sir—I thought you were special, then—you know I did.”

  “As a younger boy to an elder, yes. But birth?”

  “Well, my lord—you acted like a prince—”

  The Duke’s mouth curled in a smile. “Did I? I was trying to act like Aliam, as I recall. But what I mean is this. I had nothing when I came to Aliam. He gave me my start—as you all know, I’m sure. But from there, I made it myself. That land in the north—my stronghold—that is mine. My money, yes, but more than that. I built some of that wall myself; barked my own knuckles on that stone; left some of my blood on the hills when we fought off the orcs. Years of my life—dreams—Tamar and I, planning things. My children were born there, in that chamber you saw, Paks, the night we talked with the Marshal-General. I fought in Aarenis, yes—for that’s where the money was, the contracts that let me improve my own lands. The money for that mill came from Aarenis, the food I bought all those years before the fields were large enough. Stock for farmers, fruit-trees for Kolya. But what I cared for—what I gave my heart to—was that land, and those people. My people—my soldiers.” His fist was clenched now, on the table before him. “Now I find I’m a prince, with another land, and other people. But can I leave this, that I have made? Can I leave the hall where Tamar ate, and the courtyard where our children played? Can I leave those who helped me, when they knew nothing of princes or kingdoms, only a young mercenary captain who dreamed of his own lands? Already this year they have endured one upheaval. Those that stayed are mine.” He looked from face to face. “Can you understand this?”

  Paks felt the tears stinging her own eyes. When Garris spoke, she heard the emotion there. “My lord, I understand. You were always that way—even at Aliam’s, you would take responsibility. Of course you care for them—”

  Suriya had pushed back her chair, and gone around Paks to stand beside the Duke. When he glanced up at her, she spoke. “Sir king, if you were unfit to be our king you could not have spoken so. I am most junior of your squires, but by your leave, I will not leave you until you sit in your own throne.”

  The Duke’s face furrowed. “By the gods, Suriya, were you listening at all? I am not sure I want this!”

  “Sir king, on Falk’s oath I swear, you will be king, and until that day I will ward you.” Paks had never seen Suriya like this, completely calm and certain. She smiled at Paks. “Lady, you told us we would have a king worthy of our service; so I find him. If he cannot find his heart in this yet, it will come, and I will await it.”

  “Gird’s grace rest on your service, Suriya,” said Paks. And to the Duke, “My lord—or should I say, sir king—I believe it is the gods’ will that you take this crown. Surely if you follow their will, good will come even to your lands in the north.”

  “Think you so? Think you so indeed? It would not be the first time a man has followed what he thinks is the gods’ will, and had things go ill indeed.”

  “You mean your wife’s death,” said Paks bluntly. “My lord, that was not
the gods’ will, but Achrya’s; I believe her plan was laid longer than you have yet realized. Do you think you were stolen away by chance? Do you recall the words of her agent that night, when she said you were not born a duke?”

  “Yes.” The Duke sighed heavily. “Damn. All those years I worried because I did not know who my father was, and now—” He looked at his closed fist and opened it deliberately. He sighed again, and looked up at Suriya. “You are right, of course, as is Paksenarrion. If I am Lyonya’s king—though to my mind that’s not yet proven—then I must be the king; I cannot sulk on my own estates, and leave Lyonya to suffer evil.” Paks felt the tension ease; Garris and Lieth moved from her side to the Duke’s without a word. He smiled at them. “So—you would leave Paks unwarded? I assure you, squires, I am in no peril here.”

  “Paksenarrion is a paladin, and well fit to guard herself,” said Lieth. “Though when she goes out alone, one of us will go with her, by your leave.”

  “Indeed so,” said the Duke, as Paks still thought of him. “Until this is settled, I wish that. But now what?” he asked Paks. “Your test is that sword, is it not? Should I draw it here, or before the Council, or in Chaya? What is your word?”

  “I do not know,” said Paks. “You know more of statecraft than I: here are three witnesses to speak of what happens. Do we need more? I think you should not travel without testing it; the sword will be a mighty weapon for your defense, once you have held it.”

  “And will leave you swordless,” he said, with a small smile. Paks shrugged. “No,” he said, “we must find you another weapon; I will not have a paladin of Gird unweaponed for my sake. Let me think. The prince should know as soon as anyone. His father granted my steading, and was my friend; I would have sworn allegiance to this boy with all my heart. Indeed,” he went on, with a broader grin, “it’s as well you came when you did, Paks. They were urging me to swear now—before his coronation this summer—as proof of my loyalty. And so I might have done, and been bound by that oath, if you had not come in. For I tell you I had no reason to do otherwise.”

 

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