She shuddered. No memory returned to guide her: had she thrown those knives, and killed the one who had come to aid her? But she could not believe that Barra had had that intent. Had she fought Barra? But then where had the cloak come from, and the food? A trick of the wind brought her the sound of footsteps: she froze, crouching beside the corpse. The footsteps came nearer, the steady stride of someone certain of the way and unafraid. Then a soft whistle, decorating a child’s tune with little arabesques. Then the quick scramble down the slope, and she could see a shape looming in the fog. It moved to where she had been, and called softly.
“Paks? Hell’s wits, she’s gone. And she can’t have gone far.”
Paks tried to speak, but made a harsh croak instead. At that the shape came near: a tall man in black. He carried a couple of sacks.
“There you are. I daresay you don’t remember me—Arvid Semminson?”
But Paks had already remembered the debonair swordsman in Brewersbridge who claimed to be on business for the Thieves Guild. She nodded.
He came nearer. “Are you sure you should be walking around?” His voice was less assured than she remembered, almost tentative.
Paks shrugged. “I can stand. I can’t lie there forever.” It sounded harsh even to her, but she could not think what else to say. If she was alive, she had work to do.
Arvid nodded, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers, traveled down her arms toward her hands. “I am glad, Lady, to see you so well. But—” He held out a sack and jug. “I think you need more food and drink before you travel, if that is your intent.”
Paks reached for the jug, and he flinched slightly as her hand touched his, almost dropping it into her hands. She glanced at his face; she felt no evil in him, but he was certainly nervous around her. Again his eyes slid away from hers, flicking from her brow to her hands to her feet in their rumpled gray socks. She uncorked the jug, and sipped: watered wine that eased her throat. Then, seeking a way to relax him, she nodded at Barra’s corpse. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“It’s a long story, Lady, and you may not wish to hear all of it. But the short is that she bargained for you, to have the right to kill you, and they agreed. She would have done it, too, if I hadn’t interfered. As it was, she broke my sword: she was good. So I had to use the daggers.”
“You killed her?” Paks said. He nodded.
“I had no choice. She would not leave.” He proffered the sack again. “Here’s more food, Lady. Surely you should eat—”
Paks moved away from Barra’s corpse and lowered herself to the ground carefully. Now she could feel some of the injuries still raw and painful under the clothes—but why not all? What had happened? Arvid stood over her, and when she gestured sat down more than an arm’s length away. She took a few moments to open the sack and take out a lidded pot of something hot, another loaf of bread. Arvid shook his head when she offered it to him, and handed her a spoon from his pocket. Paks ate the hot porridge, and tore off a hunk of bread.
“Arvid—” His head jerked up like a wild animal’s, all wariness. Paks sighed, almost laughing to see him so, the man who had been so perfectly in control of himself, so offhand in every danger. “I don’t bite, Arvid,” she said crisply. “But I do need to know what’s happened. Where are we? What happened at the end?” Clearly that was the wrong question; he turned white and his hands tightened on his knees. “Where is the Duke?”
“Lady—” His voice broke, and he started again. “Lady, I was not there. I would not attend such—” He paused, hunting for a word, and finding none went on. “That filth. It was in the Guild, yes, but not all of us. Thieves we may be, or friends of thieves, but not worshippers of that evil.”
“I never thought so, Arvid,” said Paks quietly. He met her eyes then, and relaxed a fraction.
“And so I do not know exactly what happened. I know what some said. I know—I saw—” Again he stopped short. Paks waited, head cocked. He looked down, then away, then back at her and finally told it. The way he’d heard it, Paks thought, sounded incredible, like something out of a storyteller’s spiel, and it could not all be true. If Gird himself had come down and scoured the Thieves Hall, or drops of her blood had turned into smoking acid and eaten holes in the stone, surely she’d have been told about the possibility of such things in Fin Panir. She knew from her time in the Company how tales could grow in the telling, one enemy becoming two, and two, four, in the time between the battle and the alehouse. “I wasn’t there,” Arvid said again, his voice calmer now that most of the tale was out. “I had arrangements to make.” For a moment he sounded like the old Arvid, doubled meanings packed into every phrase. “We—I—had no intention of having you murdered in the Thieves Hall, though we couldn’t do anything before. So certain persons were ready to carry you out to safety.”
“Thank you,” said Paks. He went on without acknowledging her words.
“You had a mark on your arm—a burn—when we were wrapping the cloak around you. I know nothing of the rest, Lady, but that—” He stopped, and looked her square in the eyes. “That mark, Lady, I saw change, I saw it. From a charred burn to red, then pink, then nothing. Slow enough to watch, and swifter than any mortal healing.” His breath came fast, and she saw fear and eagerness both in his face. “Lady—what are you?”
Paks bit into the bread, and through the mouthful said, “A paladin of Gird, Arvid. What did you think?”
“Then why? Why did Gird let you be hurt so? Was there no other way to save Phelan; is a paladin worth so much less than a king? It was no fakery: the wounds were real! I saw—” He stopped, blushed red then paled, caught for once in his lies. “I but glanced in, Lady, knowing I could do nothing, and having pity for you.”
“I know you are not that sort, Arvid,” said Paks, and set the bread down. “Yes, it was real.” She grinned, suddenly and without reason lighthearted. “No one who saw it will doubt it was real, and that may be the reason.” He looked at her now with less tension, really listening, and she wondered how far to lead him. “Arvid, there may have been another way to save Phelan: I don’t know. Paladins don’t know everything; we only know where we must go. But think of this: was there any other way to save the Thieves Guild?”
He stared at her, mouth open like any yokel’s. “Thieves Guild,” he said finally. “What does Gird care about the Thieves Guild?”
“I don’t know,” said Paks. “But he must care something, to spend a paladin’s pain on it, and then scare the wits out of you into the bargain.”
“Then is that what you—?”
Paks shrugged. “I don’t know the gods’ purposes, Arvid: I just do what I’m told. As you once told me, I’m very trusting.”
His eyes widened, then he laughed, a slightly nervous laugh, and answered the rest of her questions about what had happened to Phelan while she was captive, and what Barra’s bargain with the Liartians had been. Suddenly they heard hoofbeats coming closer. “Damn!” muttered Arvid. “I didn’t think anyone would—”
The unseen horse snorted. Paks saw a swirl in the fog, and then a big red horse scrambled down the bank. She stood stiffly, and he came to her, snorting again and bumping her with his nose.
“It’s loose,” said Arvid, surprised.
“It’s not loose,” said Paks, her eyes suddenly full of tears. “He’s mine.”
“Your horse? Are you sure?” Arvid peered at him. “I suppose you are.” The horse was sniffing along her arms and legs now, nostrils wide. “I did think of trying to get your horse out of the royal stables, but that’s a tall order even for a master thief.”
“I can’t believe it.” Paks wrapped her arms around the red horse’s neck and leaned on that warm body. Warmth and strength flowed into her. “He must have gotten away on his own—but he’s saddled.” The bridle she found neatly looped into the straps for the saddlebags. When she turned back to Arvid, he had wrestled Barra’s boots off. He shook his head when he saw her face.
“I know you were in Ph
elan’s company together—but she was going to kill you. Blind jealous, that one. You need boots, and she doesn’t. You can try them.”
Paks pulled on the boots unhappily; they would fit well enough for riding. Arvid meanwhile had freed the two daggers and sword, and cleaned them.
“I don’t suppose you’ll take my daggers—no? The sword? You can’t travel unarmed—or can you?”
“I can get a sword at any grange,” said Paks. “But let me thank you again for all your care. Without this cloak, these clothes, and your defense, I would have died here, of cold or enmity—”
He bowed. “Lady, you have done me a good service before, and in this you have served my companions. I count myself your friend; my friendships are limited, as all are, by the limits of my interest, but I will do you good and not harm as long as I can.”
Paks grinned at him, hardly aware of the pain in her face. “Arvid, you have a way of speaking that I can hardly understand, but your deeds I have always understood. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up a paladin yourself.”
“Simyits forbid! I don’t want to end up as you did.”
Paks shrugged. “Well—it’s over.”
“Is anything ever over? Would you be here if you had not still a quest? I am honored to have served you, Lady Paksenarrion. Remember me.”
“That I will.” Paks let the stirrups down on the saddle, thought about bridling the red horse, and decided not to bother. She hoped she would be able to ride. Arvid offered a hand for mounting, and with his help she managed to gain the saddle. It hurt, but not as bad as she’d feared. That was probably the cold, numbing her still. She wondered suddenly how Cal Halveric had been able to ride out of Siniava’s camp with his injuries.
“Good luck to you,” said Arvid.
“Gird’s grace on you,” said Paks. He grinned and shook his head, and the red horse turned to climb the bank.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On the higher ground, Paks could see farther; from time to time the light strengthened as if the sun might break through. The red horse seemed to know the way—Paks had explained, as if he were a human companion, that they needed to find the grange at Westbells. She concentrated on riding. Now that she had time to think, she wondered that she was able to move about at all. Something or someone had worked healing on her: her own gift, Gird, the gods themselves. She was not sure why the healing was incomplete, but told herself to be glad she was whole of limb. Enough pains were left that she was glad when they came to Westbells near midday, with the winter fog still blurring distant vision. When she slid from the red horse’s back, she staggered, leaning against him. Her feet felt like two lumps of fire.
Marshal Torin stared at her when he opened the door to her knock. “Is it—”
“Paksenarrion,” she said. He caught her shoulder and steadied her.
“Gird’s grace! I can’t believe—we held a vigil for you. All the granges—” He led her inside. “We didn’t really think you’d live, or be strong enough to travel.”
Paks sank gratefully into the chair he gave her. “I wasn’t sure myself.” She felt as if all her strength had run away like water; she didn’t want to think about moving again.
“Five days!” She wasn’t sure if the emotion in his voice was surprise or elation or both. “This will show those—!” He banged a kettle on the rack, and moved around the room, gathering dishes and food. “I won’t ask what they did, Liart’s bastards, but—I presume you need healing, eh? Rest, food, drink—we can do that—” He set a loaf down on his desk, and a basin of clean water, then came to her, easing the hood back from her head. His breath hissed at what he saw.
“Damn them,” he said. His hands were warm and gentle. “Some of this needs cleaning.” Paks winced as he worked at one cut and another with a clean rag. “What’s this?” He touched a swollen lump on the back of her head.
“I don’t remember—the stairs, maybe.”
“Let’s see the rest of the damage.” He helped Paks out of her clothes. By the time the water boiled, he had cleaned all the festering wounds—not many—and she was wrapped in a soft robe.
“There isn’t as much as I’d expected,” he said, handing her a mug of sib. “Five days and nights—” Paks took a long swallow; the sudden attack of weakness had passed, and she was even hungry again. “There was more.” Paks sipped again. She did not want to say how much; the memory sickened her. “Broken bones, more burns. They’re—gone—” She waved her hand, unable to explain.
“Your own gift healed some of it, no doubt. Perhaps Gird himself the rest—I’ve heard of that. And left just enough to witness what you’d suffered. As the Code says: scars prove the battle, as sweat proves effort. But with your permission, I would pray healing for the rest, and restore your strength. I daresay none will question your experience now.”
Paks nodded. “Thank you, Marshal. I cannot—”
“No. You have done all you can; the gifts bring power but consume the user as well. That mark on your forehead—”
Paks grimaced. “Liart’s brand. I know.” She remembered too clearly the shape of that brand; they had shown her in a mirror the charred design.
“That’s not what I see—have you looked? No, how could you—but here—” he handed her a polished mirror; Paks took it gingerly. Her bald head patched with scrapes and cuts looked as ridiculous as she’d thought—bone-white between the red and purple welts, smeared now with greenish ointment, and bristling with pale stubble where her hair was coming back. Beneath, her tanned face hardly seemed to belong to it. But the mark on her forehead was no longer the black horned circle of Liart. Instead a pale circle gleamed like silver. She nearly dropped the mirror, and stared at Marshal Torin.
“It can’t—”
“Whatever happened, Paksenarrion, the High Lord and Gird approved; I have heard of such things. Such honors are not lightly won. It is no wonder you are still worn by your trials.” She told him then what Arvid had said: rumor, panic, wild tales told by thieves, and unreliable. But if the brand could change like that, and deep burns disappear, what might the truth be? Marshal Torin nodded, eyes alight.
“Yes!” he said when she stopped. “The gods always have more than one purpose. Certainly you were sent to save more than a king, and from that dark warren Gird will gain many a yeoman, many a one who knows that fear is not the only power. Well done, paladin of Gird: well done.”
After eating, Paks managed to stumble down the passage to one of the guest chambers. She was asleep almost before the Marshal covered her with blankets.
When she woke, she knew at once that her injuries were healed. She could breathe without pain. The lump on her head was gone, though she could feel uneven ridges of painless scar where cuts and burns had been. She scratched the bottom of one foot with the other; those burns were gone. She looked: scars to witness her ordeal, but nothing left of the weakness and pain. And a clear call to follow . . . she had not finished this quest yet. As she threw the covers aside and sat up, the Marshal tapped on her door.
“Paksenarrion?”
“Yes—I’m awake.”
He looked in. “I would let you sleep longer, but that horse of yours is kicking the door.”
“Gird’s arm. I forgot him.”
“He’s all right—I fed him after you fell asleep. But he’s decided he needs to see you, I suppose. I told him I don’t eat paladins, but—”
“How long did I sleep?”
“It’s still dark, but morning.”
Paks had followed him along the passage, still in the robe she’d slept in; she could hear the steady thumps of the red horse’s hoof. The Marshal opened the door, and the horse poked his head into the room.
“You,” said Paks. The horse snorted. “I’m all right. I’m getting up. I’ll eat before I ride, though.” The horse snorted again. “And so should you,” said Paks severely. “You could have let me sleep till daylight.” The horse leaned into the room, and Paks held out her hand for a nuzzle. “Go on o
ut, now; it’s cold. I won’t be long.” The horse withdrew, and the Marshal closed the door.
“I thought I bolted the door to the stable,” he said.
“I’m sure they bolted the stable door in Vérella,” said Paks. “That horse goes where he wills. I’d better get ready to ride.”
Paks found that she had been left clean clothes as well as her mail and sword. Even boots that fit. Paks hurried into her clothes, then realized her helmet would not fit without her thick braid of hair coiled into it. Finally the Marshal found her an old knitted scarf that served well enough. Back in her own mail, with a sword at her side once more, she felt completely herself. By the time they finished eating, and she had fastened her saddlebags onto the saddle, the eastern sky was pale green with a flush of yellow near the horizon. She mounted, and turned the red horse toward the road. He stopped short, ears pricked at something west down the road. Paks glanced down at the Marshal, who had walked out with her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But he thinks there’s something—”
“I’d believe it,” said Paks. She drew her sword, and settled herself in the saddle. She heard the Marshal’s blade coming free from his scabbard. Now the red horse snorted, blowing rollers in the cold dawn wind. He tossed his head, and loosed a resonant whinny.
“That doesn’t sound like trouble,” said the Marshal. “And it’s not spring yet.”
Paks chuckled, thinking of the red horse with a herd of mares. “I don’t think that’s it.” The horse whinnied again, and began prancing sideways. “What’s got into you, you crazy horse! Settle down.”
“Hush,” said the Marshal. “I think I hear something—”
Paks strained her ears. A faint echo of the red horse’s whinny? The wind died. Now she could hear it clearly: the drumming clatter of many hooves, the squeak and jingle of harness. She felt the hairs on her neck prickle up. She rode into the center of the road and peered west. Was that a dark mass moving in the distance? And who could it be?
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 150