The Deed of Paksenarrion (139 page)

“But—” She looked at Tamar, who merely smiled.

“We shall tell no tales of it,” said Giron. “If you have no such gift, it is no shame to you; few do. If you come to be a paladin later, it will no doubt be added to you. But here and now you may try, with no prying eyes to see: no god
we
worship would despise an attempt to heal. And if you succeed, you will know something you need to know, and Ansuli will be able to take the trail again.”

“But I have not called on Gird these several months,” said Paks in a whisper. “It seems greedy to ask now—”

“And whence his power? You told us he served the High Lord. Call on him, if you will.”

Paks shivered. She feared to have such power, yet she feared to know herself without it. She looked up and met Giron’s eyes. “I will try.” Giron picked her up, and laid her next to Ansuli. This close, Paks could feel the heat of his fever. She rested her hand on his side, where she thought the ribs might be broken. She did not know what to expect.

At first nothing happened. Paks did not know what to do, and her thoughts were too busy to concentrate on Gird or the High Lord. She found them wandering back to the Kuakgan, to the Duke, to Saben and Canna. Had she really healed Canna with the High Lord’s power? She tried to remember what she had done: she had held the medallion—but now she had no medallion. She looked at Ansuli’s face, flushed with fever. She knew nothing of fevers, but that they followed some wounds. We’re short of men, she thought, and wondered that Giron had said nothing of it. They had needed her, and more, and now two were dead and another sick. She tried to imagine her way into Ansuli’s wound, past the dusky bruises.

All at once the bruise beneath her hand began to fade. She heard Giron’s indrawn breath, and tried to ignore it. She could feel nothing, in hand or arm, to guide her, to tell her what was occurring . . . only the fading stain. She looked quickly at Ansuli’s face. Sweat beaded his forehead. Under her hand his breath came longer and easier. Paks felt sweat cold on her own neck. She did not know what she had done, or when to stop. She remembered the Kuakgan talking about healing—his kind of healing—and feared to do more. What if she hurt something? She pulled back her hand.

Dressed in the russet and green of Lyonya’s rangers, Paks moved through the open woodland toward the border almost as quietly as the elves. They had given her the long black bow she’d used all summer, and offered a sword if she would stay with them until Midwinter Feast, but Paks felt she must return to the Duke as quickly as she could.

Now she was near Brewersbridge again. I know this town better than my own, she thought ruefully. She could scarcely remember where in Three Firs the baker was. Ahead she could see the dark mass of the Kuakgan’s grove. She turned toward the road: she would not risk that grove despite her new woods learning.

A caravan clogged the way; she had seen its dust rising over the trees without thinking about it. It was headed east, into Lyonya. As she came across the fields, she saw the guards watching her. So close to Brewersbridge they would think her a shepherd or messenger, not a brigand. She neared the road.

“Ho, there! Seen any trouble toward the border?” That was a guard in chainmail, with his crossbow cocked, seated on the lead wagon.

“No—but I’ve not been on the road. Headed for Chaya, or the forest way to Prealith?”

He scowled. “Chaya, if it matters to you.”

“I can’t help you then. I was in the southern forest three days ago; it’s quiet there.”

“You’re a ranger?” He was clearly suspicious. Paks turned up the flap of her tunic to show the badge. His face relaxed. “Huh. Don’t see Lyonyan rangers this far into Tsaia, usually. You don’t—pardon me—look elven.”

“I’m not.” Paks grinned. “I hired on for the summer. If you see a band near the spring they call Kiessillin, you might mention me—tell them I was safe in Brewersbridge.”

“Tell them who—a long lass with yellow hair?”

“Paksenarrion,” she called, as the wagon rolled on. He looked startled, but subsided.

She had not been in Brewersbridge in the summer. At
The Jolly Potboy,
horses and mules crammed the stableyard; five wagons blocked the way outside. Paks threaded her way between the crowds of people. She heard Hebbinford turning a party away as she passed the door. Down the north road came another group of wagons; these were ox-drawn, and the drovers looked as heavy as their beasts. At last she understood how the town had grown so big. Clearly she could not find room at the inn; the fallow fields near town were full of campsites already. Probably every spare room had its tenant. That left Gird’s grange or the Kuakgan. She must speak to Marshal Cedfer, certainly, but—she turned up the north road to the entrance of the grove.

A party of soldier hailed her. “You! Ranger!”

After the first twinge of fear, she could stand and talk to them. “Yes?”

“What are you doing in Tsaia? Is the border secure?”

“As far as I know. I’ve left the rangers; I’m headed north.”

“North? Where? And who are you?” None of the group looked familiar.

“To Duke Phelan’s stronghold; I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—”

“Oh!” said one sharply. “You’re the Paksenarrion who—?”

“Quiet, Kevil!” A heavy-set man with red hair peered at her. “Paksenarrion, eh? Known to anyone here?”

“Yes.” Paks was surprised herself at how calm she felt. “Marshal Cedfer knows me, and Master Oakhallow—I daresay Master Hebbinford will remember me.”

“Well, then.” He sucked his teeth. “D’you know our commander?”

“Sir Felis?” He nodded, and Paks went on. “I knew Sir Felis, yes.”

“Hmph. We’ve had a bit of trouble lately—have to watch strangers—”

Paks looked at the crowded streets and grinned at him. “Keeps you busy, does it?”

He did not grin in return. “Aye, it keeps us busy. It’s not funny, neither. I’d heard you were a swordfighter, not an archer.”

“The rangers use bows,” said Paks. “I spent the summer with them.”

“Ah. Well, where are you staying?”

“I don’t know yet. The inn’s packed. I wanted to see Master Oakhallow—”

“Thought you were a Gird’s paladin or some such,” said one of the other soldiers, with an edge to his voice.

“No,” said Paks quietly. “I am a Girdsman, but not a paladin.”

“Quiet,” said the red-haired man again. “You’ve been here before, from what I hear—if you are the same Paksenarrion. But we’ve had trouble, you see—we don’t want more—”

“I don’t intend—”

“That’s all I mean. If you stay with the Gird’s Marshal, or the Kuakgan, or some friend, well, that’s fine. Or if not, come out to the keep, and I daresay Sir Felis will speak for you. Only I’m supposed to keep order—”

“I understand,” said Paks. He nodded abruptly and led the group away. Paks could hear them talking, and the redhead shushing them, before they had gone ten yards.

As she came to the grove entrance, she suddenly wondered how many times she would come there. It seemed for a moment that she was constantly entering and leaving the grove. She shook her head and went on. As suddenly as always, the street noise dropped away, leaving only the sound of leaves and wind and small creatures rustling in the growth. This time she knew the different trees, knew the names and flowers and berries of the little plants that fringed the path, knew the names of the birds that flitted overhead. She knew enough to be surprised that incense cedar and yellow-wood grew side by side, that a strawberry was still in flower.

Again, that empty glade with the fountain murmuring in its midst. Paks had been thinking what she might put in the basin. When it came to it, she laid a seed she had found, from a tall flowering tree she had not seen anywhere but in one part of Lyonya. No one appeared; she stood beside the fountain, listening to the water, for some time. Was the Kuakgan gone? She had never imagined the grove without him. What kind of trouble had the local soldiers so upset? Her feet hurt; she folded her legs and sat beside the lower pool to wait.

Then he was there, not three yards away, smiling at her. Paks started to stand, but he motioned her back down.

“So,” he said. “You carry a bow now. You are well?”

“Yes.” Paks felt she could say that much honestly. Not as she had been, but well.

“Good. You look better. Where are you bound?”

“To Duke Phelan’s. I felt it was time.”

He nodded soberly. “It is, and more than time. Did you fight, Paksenarrion?”

“Yes. I didn’t—I couldn’t feel the same. But I can fight. Well enough, though I can’t tell if it’s as well. The rangers have different training.”

“True. But you are a warrior again? In your mind as well?”

She hesitated. In her own mind a warrior longed for war—but she knew what he meant. “Yes—yes, I think so.”

“Did you want to stay here a night or so?”

“I thought to stay at the inn, but it’s full. If I could, sir—”

“Certainly. I told you when you left you were welcome to return. Besides—” he stopped suddenly and turned to something else. “Have you eaten?”

“No, sir. Not since morning.”

“That’s not what I taught you.” His voice was severe, but she caught the undertone of laughter. “What did I say about food?”

Paks grinned, suddenly unafraid. “Well, sir, the rangers fed me well enough—as you can see—and I just didn’t stop at noon. I wanted to get here well before dark—”

“We’ll eat at the inn, if that’s agreeable.” He stood, and she clambered up. “You might want to leave your bow here; the local militia have become nervous of weapons—”

“I noticed. What about the Girdsmen?”

“They don’t bother the Marshal, of course. The others—well, they don’t carry weapons much, anyway. It’s the rumors, mostly—that Lyonya is in trouble, that the king is dying—” He led the way to his house. “There’s a fear of invasion, from Lyonya—stupid, really, since if they’ve got trouble, they’ll be fighting at home. But our count worries.” Paks followed him indoors, and stood her bow in the corner of the front room, laying her quiver of arrows carefully beside it. “Did you want to wash?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Paks had bathed in a creek that morning, but morning was many dusty hours back. When she came from the bathing room, she felt almost rested. The Kuakgan was looking at her bow.

“Blackwood,” he commented. “I’m surprised they sold you one of these.”

“They didn’t,” said Paks. “It was a gift.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. You did well, then, in Lyonya.”

“I tried to.” Paks finished tying up the end of her braid. “Now that you’ve mentioned food—”

He smiled, and they left the house for the inn.

Hebbinford knew her at once. “Paks! I never thought—I mean, I’m glad to see you again.” His eyes were shrewd. “You’ve heard about not wearing weapons or armor, I see—”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m sorry we’re full—I haven’t a room, not even a loft—”

“No matter. I have a place.”

Hebbinford looked at the Kuakgan, and back at Paks. “I’m glad indeed to see you. You will eat here?”

“If you have enough room for that,” said the Kuakgan. “And enough food. Paks tells me she is truly hungry—”

“And you know my appetite,” said Paks, grinning. Hebbinford waved them in.

“Of course. Of course. Fried mushrooms—I don’t forget. I’ll call Sevri, too—she’s asked many times—” He moved away.

“You have many friends,” said the Kuakgan. “Only a village innkeeper, perhaps, but—”

“Hebbinford?” Paks looked at him. “You know better than to call him
only
a village innkeeper.”

“Good. You might like to know that Sevri has defended you—to the extent of a black eye or so—when the subject of your—uhm—problems came up.”

“I’m sorry she got into fights for that.”

“Loyalty isn’t trivial, even if the insult was.”

“Paks!” It could only be Mal, whose delighted bellow would carry across any intervening noise. “Paks! You’re back! Where’s your big sword? Where’s that black horse of yours?”

The Kuakgan’s eyes were dancing with mischief. Paks sighed and braced herself for Mal’s hug.

“I can’t carry a sword here—remember?”

“Oh, that. Well, it shouldn’t apply to you, Paks. Talk to the Marshal, or Sir Felis, and—”

“I’ve been in Lyonya,” said Paks, heading him off. “I’ve been using a longbow.”

“You?” Mal looked at her critically. “My brother Con used a bow.”

“You said so before, so I thought I’d try it.”

“I still like an axe.” Mal had settled at their table, and the serving girls were already bringing a pot of ale. “I told you before, Paks, an axe is better than any of ‘em. It’ll break a sword, and a mace, and—”

“Yes. I tried an axe myself.”

“You did? Where? Isn’t it better?”

“Not for me,” said Paks. “I nearly cut my own leg off.”

“Well, it’s not for some,” conceded Mal. “My brother Con, that uses the bow, he says that. But if I had to have a sword, and then I was out working in the forest, and I was chopping a tree, and something came along—then I’d have to drop the axe, and find the sword. I say, give me an axe.” He took a long pull at his mug of ale, and refilled it from the pot. “Listen, Paks, is it true what I heard?”

Paks felt her stomach lurch. “Is what true?”

“Some man came along and said you got in trouble in Fin Panir—stole something from the Hall—and the Girdsmen threw you out and that’s why you aren’t a paladin. That’s not so, is it?”

“No,” said Paks with relief. “That’s not so.”

“I didn’t think so.” Mal settled back in his seat, and glared around the room. “He came saying that, and I said it was a lie, and he laughed at me.” He looked sideways at her to catch her reaction, then looked at the Kuakgan. Paks said nothing. “So I broke his arms for him,” Mal went on, with relish. “Liar like that. Thinks we don’t know anything down here, being a little town. You wouldn’t steal nothing, I told him, and if you had you wouldn’t get caught. I remember you sneaking around in those tunnels, quiet as a vole.”

Paks shook her head. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to start any more questions, either.

“Is that the fellow that complained to Sir Felis?” asked the Kuakgan. “I remember some sort of trouble.”