Oath of Gold

by Elizabeth Moon

  "You have heard our Bells before, Lady?"

  "No." Paks could not say they were beautiful; she wanted only to listen. In the song they were gold, "the golden bells of Vérella"; she wondered if they truly were. The captain talked on, heedless.

  "The elves gave them, when Vérella was founded. To look at they are pure gold, but of course they cannot be all gold, for it would not stand the beating. But the elves had them cast, and their voices are sweet to hear." His last words rang loud; the Bells had ceased.

  "How often do they ring?"

  "It depends on the Council. Always at true dawn, as the elves have it, and sunfall, and at midday when the Council is sitting. And for any festival, of course: Midwinter, Summereve, Torre's Eve, High Harvest, Gird's Victory—for those."

  They had come to steps leading up to tall doors under the arch. Guards in rose and silver nodded to the captain and he led them in. Here the floor was set with polished blocks of silver-gray stone. Paks looked around the wide hall; wide stairs rose ahead of her, where the hall narrowed to a passage still wider than the main room in a cottage. To right and left were tall doors folded back to reveal great empty rooms opening into other rooms. Tapestries hung on the walls; the lamp sconces were polished silver. The captain had paused for a moment, looking around. Paks saw a youth in a green tunic with red piping over red hose—Marrakai colors, if her memory served—come into the room on the left. The captain hailed him.

  "Pardon, Kirgan—is the Council still sitting?"

  The young man—a squire, Paks was sure, though the title was that of eldest son—nodded. "Yes, Captain. Why?" Paks saw his eyes rake over her and return to the captain's face.

  "It's this—Lady Paksenarrion, a paladin. She is on quest, and must speak with the Council, she says."

  "At once?" The boy's eyebrows rose, and he met Paks's gaze with surprising composure.

  "I must ask them to hear me," said Paks quietly. "It is in their power to refuse."

  He laughed shortly. "They will hardly refuse to hear a paladin, I daresay. It's better than what they have been hearing—"

  "Sir!" The captain's tone chilled.

  The boy's face reddened. "I beg your pardon," he said formally. "I spoke as ill befits a squire."

  "If you will follow me," said the captain, turning to Paks. She nodded, but watched the boy's face stiffen as the captain snubbed him.

  "I took no offense, Kirgan," she said to him.

  She and the Lyonyan squires followed the captain through two large rooms and down a wide passage to a deep alcove. Here four guards in rose and silver stood before doors inlaid with silver and enamel. The captain spoke to them softly, in a dialect Paks did not recognize. One of them stood aside, and the captain knocked softly at the doors.

  At once they were opened slightly from inside. The captain conferred with someone. Paks was aware of tension in the room beyond: it seeped out the open door like a cold draught. Then a louder voice spoke from within, an order, and the captain turned to Paks, clearly surprised.

  "They will hear you now," he said.

  "Thank you, Captain, for your guidance and help." Paks walked forward; the guards stood aside from the doors, now opened wide. She felt rather than saw the Lyonyan squires following.

  Within was a room smaller than those they had passed, well-lit by high windows on both sides. At the far end an empty throne loomed on a dais; on either side were tiered seats behind a sort of fence, rising up to the base of the windows. These were nearly empty, though a few squires lounged there, and—Paks squinted a moment against the light of the top tier—two elves. Taking up most of the floor space was a massive table of dark wood, heavily carved and inlaid with silver. Around this sat the lords she had come to see: the Regency Council of Tsaia. In the seat below the throne, the crown prince, who would be king by Summereve. Paks thought he looked man-grown already. His brother, younger by almost three years, sat to one side: he had no place on Council, and looked as bored as any youth locked into adult discussions of policy when he had rather be hunting. At the prince's left, a burly man in green and red, who reminded Paks of the boy outside: that was Duke Marrakai. Duke Mahieran, in red and silver. Baron Destvaorn, in blue and red. Kostvan in green and blue. Verrakai—she let her eyes linger a moment on Verrakai—in blue and silver. Sorrestin in blue and rose. Clannaeth in yellow and rose. And alone at the near end of the table, facing her now, Phelan in his formal dress: maroon and white. He smiled at her, then moved to one side so that she could approach the table.

  The man who had opened the door, a silver-haired old man in the royal livery, announced her.

  "Lady Paksenarrion, Paladin of Gird."

  Paks bowed toward the prince.

  "Your highness, lords of the Council: I thank you for your courtesy in thus allowing me an audience."

  The crown prince spoke quickly. "It is our honor, Lady, to receive any paladin in this Court. Pray tell us how we may aid your quest."

  "I will be brief." Despite herself, her eyes slid a little toward Duke Phelan. She almost thought she could feel the sword's desire to come to him. "You already know, I believe, that the king of Lyonya died without an heir of the body." They nodded. "I was called to that court, to Chaya, as paladins are called, but not, alas, to heal the king. Instead I bore unknowing a treasure of that realm: this sword." She pulled back her cloak; they peered at the sword hilt. Duke Phelan, as the others, merely looked puzzled.

  "What sword is that?" asked the High Marshal into the brief silence that followed. Paks was sure he had already heard the tale, but she merely answered him.

  "According to the testimony of lords in Chaya who remember, and the elves themselves, it was made for the son of King Falkieri—the older brother of this king, whose wife and son were lost while traveling to the Ladysforest. Because I bore the sword, the king—the one who lay dying—thought perhaps the gods meant me to take the throne after him, and so he spoke. But this, too, was not the quest for which I was called."

  "He would have given his kingdom to you?" That was Verrakai. Paks could feel the scorn from where she stood. "To a—a—commoner? A peasant's child?"

  From the corner of her eye, Paks saw Duke Phelan's face whiten with rage; before she could speak, the prince did.

  "Peace, Verrakai. Gird chose her paladin; whatever her past, she has been given abilities that would grace any throne. And we will not have any guest insulted at this table." He smiled at Paks. "You will forgive Duke Verrakai's surprise, Lady? Those of us who live in the midst of families graced with every talent may find it difficult to credit such talents elsewhere." Paks thought she caught a bite of sarcasm in that; so did Verrakai, who first paled then reddened.

  She bowed. "Your highness, I can take no offense for truth spoken. I am a commoner, a sheepfarmer's daughter, and I found the thought of myself on a throne as outlandish as Duke Verrakai might wish. Indeed, that is not my destiny, nor do I seek it. But the dying king, loving his land much, thought a paladin might bring peace—that I can understand. And his lords, your highness, loving their land and peace more than pride, would have agreed." She waited a moment for that to sink in; some of the Council found it hard to believe, by their expressions.

  "Instead of that, I was called to search for the rightful king. By bringing this sword where its true nature could be known—by tracing its history carefully—by searching for the man who was once the prince of Lyonya—by all these means I am to find the rightful heir to that throne and return him to his place. In warrant of this, I am accompanied by these King's Squires of Lyonya, who will witness the identity of the man, when we find him, and escort him to Chaya."

  "Only three?" That was the younger prince, now listening alertly.

  "Four began the quest with me," said Paks. "One died. We have been beset by evil powers, lords, who do not want the rightful king found."

  "How will you know?" asked the High Marshal again.

  "By this sword." Paks laid her hand on the pommel; it felt warm to her touch.
"It was made for the prince, partially sealed to him in its forging. Had the journey they were on been complete, it would have been completely dedicated to him, and no one else could have drawn it. But that did not happen; the journey was never finished. So I have used it, and so have others—but according to the elves, who made it, it will still acknowledge its true master when he draws it."

  "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 gr
ound, and it was back in its scabbard, lying across her armor, for me 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."