"Dessert," he said firmly. "Plum tart or apple?"
"Apple," said Paks, and he pushed the tart across. She bit into the flaky crust; sweet apple juice ran down her chin. When the tart was gone, the Kuakgan was still eating his. Paks cleaned her chin with a corner of the cloth that had been around the kettle. She found herself holding another slice of bread, and ate that. She felt full and a little sleepy. He finished his tart and looked at her.
"That's better," he said. "Now. You'll want to wash up a bit, and use the jacks, I expect. Let me show you—" He touched a panel beside the fireplace, and it slid aside to reveal a narrow passage. On one side was a door, through which Paks caught a glimpse of a bunk. On the other, a door opened on three steps down to a stone-flagged room with a channel along one side. Paks heard the gurgle of moving water, and the candlelight sparkled on its surface. "Cold water only," said Master Oakhallow. "There's the soaproot, and a towel—" He lit other candles in the chamber as he spoke. "If you're tired of those clothes, you can wear this robe." He pointed to a brown robe hanging from a peg. "Now, I'll be out for awhile. When you're through, go on back to the other room. Whatever you do, don't go outside the house. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," said Paks. "I won't."
"Good." He turned and went back up the stairs; Paks saw the light of his candle dwindle down the passage.
The little room was chilly and damp, but smelled clean and earthy. Paks started to wash her hands, gingerly, but the cold water merely tingled instead of biting. She splashed it on her face, started to dry it, then glanced warily at the door. Surely he was really gone. She went up the steps and looked. Nothing. She came back down and looked at the water for a moment, then grunted and stripped off her clothes: she felt caked in dirt and sweat. She wet the soaproot and scrubbed herself, then stood in the channel and scooped water over her soapy body. By the time she had finished, she was shivering, but vigorous towelling warmed her again. She looked at her clothes and wished she had not put her spare shirt in the offering basin. Her clothes were as dirty as she had been. She looked at the brown robe, then took it off the peg. It felt soft and warm. When she came from the jacks, she looked at her clothes again. She wondered if she could wash them in the channel, but decided against it: she needed hot water and a pot. She shook them hard, brushed them with her hand, and folded them into a bundle. She slipped her bare feet back into her worn boots and went up the steps, down the passage, and into the main room.
The Kuakgan had lit more candles before he left, and the room had a warm glow. He had drawn shutters across the windows; she was glad of that. She sat down at the table to wait, wondering how long he would be. She thought of where she'd expected to be this night—alone in the hills, perhaps to see no dawn—and shivered, looking around her quickly. This was pleasant: the soft robe on her shoulders, the good meal. Why didn't I ever—? I could have bought mushrooms at least once—She pushed these thoughts away. She wondered where the Kuakgan was, and if he'd bought the meal with her offering. And most of all—what was he going to do? She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn't.
She eased into sleep without knowing it, leaning on the table; she never knew when he came in. When she woke again, she was wrapped in a green blanket and lying on the floor against the wall. The windows were unshuttered and sunlight struck the tree trunks outside. She felt completely relaxed and wide awake at the same time. Her stomach rumbled. She was just unwrapping the blanket when the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight.
"Time for breakfast," said the Kuakgan as he came in. He carried a dripping honeycomb over a bowl. Paks felt her mouth water. She climbed out of the blanket, folded it, and came to the table where he was laying out cheese, bread, and the honeycomb. "You won't have had this honey before," he said. "It's yellowwood honey, an early spring honey, and they never make much of it." He glanced at her and smiled. "You slept well."
Paks found herself smiling in return. "Yes . . . yes, sir, I did." She sat down.
"Here," he said, pouring from the jug. "It's goat's milk. Put some honey in your mug with it."
Paks broke off a piece of comb and floated it in the milk. He sliced the cheese and pushed some towards her. She sipped the milk; it was delicious. The honey had a tang to it as well as sweetness. The Kuakgan dripped some on his cheese; Paks did the same, and had soon eaten half a cheese, each slice dripping honey. Bees flew in the window and settled on the remains of the comb.
"No, little sisters," said the Kuakgan. "We have need of this." He hummed briefly, and the bees flew away. Paks stared at him; he smiled.
"Do you really talk to bees?" she asked.
"Not talk, exactly. It's more like singing; they're a musical folk. They dance, too; did you know that?" Paks shook her head, wondering if he was teasing. "It's quite true; I'll show you someday."
"Can you speak with all the animals? Those birds yesterday, and bees—"
"It's a Kuakgan's craft to learn the nature of all creatures: trees and grass as well as birds, beasts, and bees. When you know what something is—what its nature is—how it fits into the web of life—you can then begin to speak its language. It's a slow craft; living things are various, and each one is different."
"Some mages speak to animals," said Paks.
The Kuakgan snorted. "Mages! That's different. That's like the ring you had. A mage, now, wants power for himself. If he speaks to an animal, it's for his own purposes. Kuakkgani—we learn their languages because we love them: the creatures. Love them as they are, and for what they were made. When I speak to the owl that nests in that ash"—he nodded to the window—"it is not to make use of him, but to greet him. Of course, I must admit we do get some power from it. We can ask them things, we know their nature. But we are the ones who serve all created things without wanting to change them. That's why the Marshal in the grange is never quite sure I'm good enough for an ally."
Paks watched him, feeling that she should be able to find some other meaning in what he said, something that would apply to her. She could not think of anything. She wondered when he would start to question her.
He sat back from the table and looked at her. "Well, now. Your clothes are drying on the bushes out there, but they'd be clammy yet. You'll be more comfortable outside in something other than that robe, I daresay." He rose and went to a chest near the wall. "This will fit close enough." He held out homespun trousers with a drawstring waist, and a linen shirt. "Come outside when you're ready; I want to show you something." He went out the door and shut it behind him.
Paks looked at the clothes. They were creased as if they'd been in the chest a long time. She fingered the cloth, looking nervously at the windows. She looked for the passage beside the fireplace, but the panel was closed, and she couldn't find the touchlock. At last she sat on the floor beside the table, breathing fast, and changed from the robe to the pants and shirt. She put on her belt over the shirt and looked for her dagger; it was on the table.
When she pushed on the door, it opened silently. Outside, the sunny glade seemed empty, until she saw the Kuakgan standing motionless by the end of the stone-marked path. He gestured to her, and she walked across the glade.
"You must stay near me," he said. "The grove is not safe for wanderers; experienced pathfinders cannot be sure of its ways. If we are separated, be still. I will find you. Nothing will harm you as long as you are still, or with me. It may be that I have to leave you suddenly. . . . I hope not, but it might happen. Just stay where I left you. You will find enough beauty to watch until I come back." He began to move through the trees, as silent as a current of air; Paks followed closely. From time to time he stopped, and touched a tree or herb lightly, but he said nothing, and Paks was silent as well. As the morning warmed, more birds sang around them, and the rich scents of leafmold and growing things rose from the ground. Paks found herself breathing slowly, deeply. She had no idea where they were in the grove, but it didn't matter. She began to look with more attention to the trees and bushes they walked
past. The Kuakgan touched a tree trunk: Paks saw a tiny lichen, bright as flame, glowing against dark furrowed bark. She saw for herself a clump of tiny mushrooms, capped in shiny red—a strawberry in flower—a fern-frond uncurling out of dry leaves. She realized that the Kuakgan was standing still, watching her. When she met his eyes, he nodded.
Chapter Two
So passed the rest of that day, with the warm spring sun and the silence unknotting the muscles of back and neck that had been tight so long. They came on a tiny trickle of clear water, and drank; for awhile in the early afternoon they sat near a mound of stone, and Paks fell asleep. When she woke, the Kuakgan was gone, but before she had stretched more than twice, she saw him coming through the trees. From time to time her mind would reach for the memory of yesterday's pain, but she could not touch it: it was as if a pane of heavy glass lay between that reality and this. She could not think what she might do next, or where to go, and at last she quit trying to think of it.
They came back to the Kuakgan's house in the last of the sunlight. Paks took her clothes, now dry, from the bushes, and folded them in her arms. She felt pleasantly tired, and slightly hungry. The Kuakgan smiled.
"Sit here in the warmth, while I bring supper," he said. "Or will you come with me?"
Paks thought of the inn, and the misery returned full strength. This time she felt the tension knotting her brow and hunching her shoulders, and tried to stand upright. But before she could frame an answer, the Kuakgan shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Stay. As I feared, it will take more than one day of healing." And he was gone, across the glade and along the path to the village.
She sat trembling, hating herself for the fear that had slammed back into her mind. She could not even go to an inn—even here, where she had had friends, and no enemies. She stared at her hands, broad and scarred with the years of war. If she could not hold a sword or bow, what could she do? Not stay forever with the Kuakgan, that wouldn't do. Her hand felt for her belt pouch, and she remembered that she'd put it in the offering basin. Everything was gone; everything from those years had gone as if it had never been. Warriors can't keep much, but that little they prize; the loss of the last of her treasures to the kuaknom still hurt: Saben's little red horse, Canna's medallion. Now she had not even the Duke's ring left (the third ring, she thought ruefully, that he's given me and I've lost somehow.)
As before, she wasn't sure how long the Kuakgan had been gone when he returned. He was simply there, in the evening dimness, carrying another kettle. She forced herself up as he came toward her. He nodded, and they went into the house together. This time she helped unpack the kettle, and made no protest at eating. He had brought slices of roast mutton swimming in gravy, redroots mashed with butter, and mushrooms. Again. She looked up, to say something about the cost, met his eyes, and thought better of it. She ate steadily, enjoying the food more than she expected to, but fearing the questions he would surely ask after supper.
But he said nothing, as long as she ate, and when she finished, and stacked her pans for return, he seemed to be staring through the opposite wall. His own dishes were empty; she reached for them, wiped them, and put them in the kettle. He looked at her suddenly, and smiled briefly.
"You're wondering when I will start to question you."
Paks looked down, then forced herself to meet his eyes. "Yes."
"I had thought tonight. But I changed my mind." Along silence. Paks looked away, around the room, back to his face. It was unreadable.
"Why?" she asked finally.
He sighed, and shook his head. "I'm not sure how—or how much—to tell you. Healing is a Kuakganni craft, as you know." Paks nodded. "Well, then, one part of the healing craft is knowing when. When to act, and when to wait. In the case of humans, one must also know when to ask, and when to keep silent. You are not ready to speak of it, whatever it is."
Paks moved restlessly. "You—I would have thought you'd have heard something--"
"Hmmm." It became as resonant as his comments to the bees. Paks looked at his face again. "I hear many things. Most of them false, as far as talk goes. Brewersbridge is a little out of the way for reliable news." He looked at her squarely. "And whatever I might have heard, what is important is you, yourself. Just as you, yourself, will heal when you are ready."
Paks looked away. She could feel the tears stinging her eyes again.
"There. You are not ready, yet. Don't worry; it will come. Let your body gain strength for a few days. You are already better, though you don't feel it."
"But I couldn't go—" Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
"But that will pass. That will pass." She felt a wave of warmth and peace roll over her mind, and the pain eased again.
But several nights later, the dream returned. Once more she was fighting for her life far underground, tormented by thirst and hunger and the pain of her wounds. She smelled the rank stench of the green torches, and felt the blows of knife and whip that striped her sides. She gasped for breath, choked, scrabbled at the fingers knotted in her throat—and woke to find the Kuakgan beside her, holding her hands in his.
Soft candlelight lit the room. She stared wildly for a moment, lost in the dream, trembling with the effort of the fight.
"Be still," he said softly. "Don't try to talk. Do you know me yet?"
After a minute or two she nodded. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and she worked it around. "Master Oakhallow." Her voice sounded odd.
"Yes. You are safe. Lie still, now; I'll get you something to drink."
The mint-flavored water cleaned remembered horrors out of her mouth. She tried to sit up, but the Kuakgan pushed her down gently. A tremor shook her body; as she tried to fight it off, the pain of those wounds returned, sapping her strength.
"You still have pain?" he asked.
Paks nodded.
"How long ago were those wounds dealt?"
She tried to count back. Her mind blurred, then steadied. "From—it would have been last summer. Late in the summer."
"So long?" His eyebrows rose. "Hmm. What magic bound them?"
Paks shook her head. "I don't know. The paladin and Marshal both tried healing. It helped, but the—the kuaknom had done something to them—"
"Kuaknom! What were you doing with them?"
Paks looked down, shivering. "They captured me. In Kolobia."
"So. I don't wonder that you have grave difficulties. And they dealt these wounds that pain you now?"
"Not . . . exactly. It—" As the memory swept over her, Paks could not speak. She shook her head, violently. The Kuakgan caught it, and held her still.
"No more, then, tonight. Sleep." He answered the fear in her eyes before she could say it. "You won't dream again. That I can still, and you will rest as you did the first night, and wake at peace. Sleep." She fell into his voice, into the silence beyond it, and slept.
* * *
In the morning she woke rested, as he had promised. Still the shame of her breakdown was on her, and she came to the breakfast table silently and did not smile.
"You will not have those dreams again," he said quietly, as she ate. "When I release your dreams again, those will be healed. This much I promise. I have waited as long as I could for your body's healing, Paksenarrion; it is now time to begin on the mind. Whatever ill you have suffered has clearly injured both."
She nodded, silent and intent on her bread.
"I will need to see these wounds you spoke of." He reached for her arm. Paks froze an instant, then stretched her hand out. He pushed up her sleeve. The red-purple welts were still swollen. "You have more of these?"
"Yes."
"Many?"
"Yes." Despite herself, she was shivering again.
"And they are all over a half-year old?" Paks nodded.
"Powerful magic, then, and dangerous. Have they faded at all? How long did it take for them to heal this far?"
"They . . . fade sometimes," Paks said softly. "For a we
ek or so, as if they were healing. Then they swell and redden again. At first—I don't know how long it was. I think only a day or so, but I lost track of time."
"I see. Have any true elves seen this?"
"Yes. One that came with us. He thought they had used something like the true elves use to speed and slow the growth of plants."
"Ah. It might be so, indeed. Perverted, as they would have it—to heal quickly partway and then stay so. But why that far?"
Paks fought a desire to roll into a ball like a hedgehog. It was harder to speak than she had expected; that was hard enough. "So—so I could fight."
"Fight?" The Kuakgan paused. When she said nothing, he went on. "You said they did not deal these wounds themselves. They wanted you able to fight, but hindered. And now you cannot fight. Was that their doing, too?"
"No." She could not say more. She heard the Kuakgan's sigh.
"I need to try something on one of the wounds. This will probably hurt." He took her arm, and held it lightly. Paks paid no attention. She felt the fingers of his other hand running along the scars. After a moment she felt a trickle of cold in one, then heat in another. The feelings ebbed. She glanced at his face; it was closed and remote. A savage ache ran up her arm from the wrist, and was gone instantly. A pain as sharp as the original blow brought a gasp from her; she glanced at her arm; the scar was darker than ever. Then it passed, and the Kuakgan's eyes came to focus on her again.
"The true elf was correct in his surmise. These will heal no better without intervention. Did he try?"
"He said he had not the skill. He had known one who had, but—"
"I see. Paksenarrion, this will take time and patience. It will not be easy for you; it is a matter of purifying the wounds of the poison they used. If you can bear the pain a short while longer, you should be strong enough in body for the healing. Can you?"
Oath of Gold Page 2