"Indeed, Marshal, I shall have a name worse than that before we are done." Kieri smiled. "But let's take heart: though they oppose our seventy or so with their four or five cohorts, they may not suspect my own marching behind. Two against four sounds better. Despite the slow progress of our escort, I judge those heavy horses will do their work well when it comes to battle."
"I hope so." High Marshal Seklis let out a long sigh. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I would like to pray in the grange—"
"And I will join my prayers to yours, Marshal, if they are sent as I think." For a moment everyone was silent, thinking of the captive by whom they were free and able to travel. This would be her second night of torment.
* * *
She woke cold and aching in a murky featureless light that made her doubt her senses. For some time she was not sure whether she was alive or dead: whatever she had expected was not this dim fog and cold. Fragments from a dream wandered through her mind: someone's hands, warm and kind, easing her cramped muscles. A gruff voice, gentled by time, soothing her fear. But this vanished. She felt space around her, as if she were outside in an open place, but she could not see anything but fog. She blinked several times. Then she tried to move. Strained muscles and joints protested; she caught her breath, then moved again. Something soft and warm cushioned her tender head; she managed to get a hand up and felt stubbly hairs growing back in, the shape of a hood covering them, tender lumps and cuts that made her wince. Her fingers explored, found a bundle supporting her head, the cloak that covered her nakedness. When she passed her hand before her face, she could see it; at least she was not blind.
She moved her legs again. Stiffness, whether from lying on cold ground or the torture, she could not tell. But she could straighten them, and when she ran her hands where the burning stones had been, no wounds remained. Her hands moved without pain, as if the bones had never been broken. She pushed herself up, running a swollen tongue over dry lips. Distant sounds: wagon wheels, a bawling cow. Thin snow patched the frozen ground. She found the bundle that had been under her head. It was clothing—her own, torn off her by the guards. Someone had mended it crudely, sewing wooden buttons in place of the horn ones, patching the torn pieces with bits of strange cloth. Underneath it was a small packet of bread and meat, and a flask. Paks pulled the stopper free, and tasted: water, and pure. She drank it down, wincing as the cold liquid hit her raw throat. Then she threw back the cloak, and struggled into the clothes, shivering, not bothering to look at herself and notice what had and hadn't healed. Wrapped once more in the cloak, she tried to think.
Alive, surely: she could not imagine any afterlife where she would find old clothes mended, some bruises still dark, and bad wounds gone entirely. Alive and free, outside the city by the sounds, and with someone's goodwill by the clothes and food. She chewed a bit of meat slowly, her jaws sore. Alive, free, clothed, fed—what more could she want? She thought of several things. Warm would be nice. Knowing what had happened. Knowing where she was, and what day it was, and where the king was—all that. She staggered to her feet. Her unknown benefactor had not provided shoes or boots—she remembered that her boots had been cut away. Socks she had, but she couldn't walk far in winter with socks alone.
Standing, she realized that she was lower than the surrounding ground, in a broad ditch or depression. The slope showed dimly in the fog. She took a couple of stiff steps toward it, glad to find she could walk at all. Something dark showed on the ground nearby. She stumbled that way, and nearly fell over the corpse.
It lay crumpled on the ground, already cold, the face like gray stone in that uncanny light. Paks stared, shaken out of her uncertain calm. Surely she should know that face. A light wind wandered through the depression, robbing her of the little warmth she'd made and stirring the dead woman's black hair. Barra. The corpse wore red, bright even in that light: a red cloak, red tunic, over black trousers and boots. The hand still held a sword. Gingerly, Paks turned the stiff body over, wincing at her own pain. A dagger hilt stood out in its chest, another in the neck. Frozen blood darkened the tunic. Paks swallowed a rock of ice in her throat. She looked at the ground. All around the snow was scuffed and torn, stained with dirt and blood both. She touched the dagger hilts, lightly, then the sides of her own cloak. She found the thin leather sheaths where those daggers would fit.
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 Phelan'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.
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