The Deed of Paksenarrion (181 page)

“It is true,” said Duke Phelan steadily. “I swore to my wife that I would never draw her blade, when I gave it to her, and until you took it from the wall to kill Achrya’s agent, she alone drew it.”

“I ask you to draw it now,” said Paks, “in the High Lord’s name, and for the test of your birth.”

Duke Phelan’s gray eyes met hers for a long look, then he reached out and took the sword’s grip in his hand. His expression changed at once, and at the same time a subtle hum, complex as music, shook the air. In one smooth move, he drew the sword free of the scabbard. Light flared from it, far brighter than Paks had ever seen, more silver than blue. The blade chimed. Outside, the Bells of Vérella burst into a loud clamor, echoing that chime until the very walls rang with it. Phelan gripped it with both hands, raising it high overhead. Light danced around the chamber, liquid as reflection from water. As Paks watched, the blade seemed to lengthen and widen slightly, fitting itself to the Duke’s reach. Then the light still blazing from the blade condensed, seeming to sink into the blade without fading, and the runes glowed brilliant silver, like liquid fire. The green jewel in the pommel glowed, full of light. Phelan lowered the sword, resting the blade gently in his left palm. When he met Paks’s eyes again, his own were alight with something she had never seen there. When he spoke, his voice held new resonance.

“Lady, you were right. This is my sword, and I daresay no one will dispute it.” A ripple of amusement softened his voice there. “Indeed, I had never thought of such a thing. What an irony this is—so many years it hung on my wall, and I did not know of it.”

“Sir king.” The crown prince had risen; with him, the rest of the Council stood. “This is—” Abruptly his mannered courtesy deserted him, and he looked the boy his years made him. “It’s like one of the old songs, sir, like a harper’s tale—” The prince’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“As yet, your highness, I am not king. But your congratulations are welcome—if it means that you do not object.”

“Object! I am hardly likely to quarrel with the gods about this. It is like a story in a song, that you should be a king without knowing it, and have on your wall for years the sword that would prove you.”

“But—but—he’s just a mercenary—” Clannaeth burst into speech. The High Marshal and the crown prince glared at him.

“Gird’s right arm,” said the prince crisply, “if you’d been stolen away as an infant, how would you have earned your bread? As a pig farmer?”

“I didn’t mean that,” began Clannaeth, but no one listened.

Paks, watching the Duke’s face, was heartened at the transformation. She had feared his lingering doubt, but he obviously had none. Whatever the sword had done for him, it had given him the certainty of his birth. So he listened calmly to the short clutter of sound that followed Clannaeth’s comment, until the High Marshal hushed them. Then he addressed the Council.

“Lords, when our prince’s father first gave me the grant I now hold, I told him I had no plans for independent rulership. That was true. But now I find I have another land, a land which needs me—yet for many years, as you know, I have given my life and work to my steading in Tsaia. I cannot expect that you would allow the king of a neighboring land to hold land from this crown, but I do ask that you let me keep it for a short while, and that you let me have some influence over its bestowing. Your northern border—for so long,
my
northern border—is still a perilous one. It will need a strong hand, and good management, for many years yet if the rest of Tsaia is to be safe. Now I must travel to Chaya, and relieve the fears of my kingdom, but my senior captains can manage well enough in the north, with your permission.”

The crown prince and the High Marshal approved this, and the others agreed—Paks thought by surprise as much as anything.

She looked at the elves. Their faces were as always hard to read, but she did not see the scorn or refusal she had feared. One of them caught her eye, and made a small hand signal she had learned from the rangers: approval, the game is in sight.

“Do you remember any more now?” asked the High Marshal. Phelan nodded.

“A little—and better than that, it makes sense. I had memories of my father—a tall, red-haired man with a golden beard, wearing a green velvet shirt embroidered with gold. Now I know that the embroidery was the crest of our house. And the court I remember, planted with roses—that will be at Chaya, and I daresay I can lead the way to it.”

“Your name?” asked Verrakai.

“I am not sure. Your highness, your father once asked me of my heritage, and then swore never to speak of it. But now, with my birthright in my hand, I will speak willingly. My earliest memories are those I have just mentioned. Then, as you know, the prince—I—was stolen away while traveling with the queen. After that, for many years, I was held captive far away by a man who called himself Baron Sekkady. He was, your highness, a cruel master; I remember more than I would wish of those years.”

“What did he—” began one of the lords. Phelan turned toward him.

“What did he do? What did he not do, that an evil and cruel man could think of! Imagine your small sons, my lords, in the hands of such a man—hungry, tired, beaten daily, and worse than beaten. He would have trained me to the practice of his own cruelties if he could.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“I believe so. He used to display me to visitors. After one such banquet, the visitor seemed to recognize me, and the Baron put silence on him.”

“Put silence—?” asked the Marshal.

“He was some sort of wizard, sir Marshal. I know little of that, but he could silence men, and hold them motionless, by his powers . . .  though what he enjoyed most was hearing them scream. That visitor, whose name I never knew, had some strange powers himself, for he woke me, while he himself was being tormented in the dungeons. He sent me away.”

“How?” asked the High Marshal, after a long pause.

“I am not sure. By then I had tried escape—and been so punished for it that I had ceased to hope for anything but death. But this man took my fear, and sent me: ‘There is a High Lord above all barons,’ he said. ‘Go to his courts and be free.’ And so I climbed out the baron’s window, and down the wall, and ran through the woods until I came out of that land. When I came to the coast, I stowed away on a ship . . . and eventually came to Bannerlith, where they set me ashore with their good wishes. I worked my way inland, to Lyonya, at any work I could find, until I fetched up at Aliam Halveric’s on a cold winter day, half-starved and frozen. He took me in—first as a laborer, then as a page in the household, and then—when I showed aptitude for fighting—made me a squire. The rest you know. Anyway, it is from that man—Baron Sekkady—that I got my name as I know it. He told me it was Kieri Artfiel Phelan; he called me Artfiel. I use Kieri. What it really is—”

“Is Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan,” said Paks.

“Falkieri—” he breathed. “So close—like the sword—”

“He must have known,” said the High Marshal. “He must have known who you were, and delighted in that knowledge. Some scum of Liart’s, no doubt. Would you could remember where that was?”

“If I could remember that, sir Marshal, I would long ago have freed his domain of him.”

“Vengeance?” asked one of the elves.

“No—not vengeance alone. He was cruel to many others, not me alone. It would lighten my heart to know the world free of him.”

“My lord,” said the crown prince, “you do not wish me to use your title yet, but I must call you something—what will you do now? Will you travel at once to Chaya?”

Phelan looked at Paks, who nodded. “I think I must, your highness. Lyonya has been too long without me.”

“Will they accept you?” asked Duke Marrakai. “Lady Paksenarrion said something about the elves—”

“Their council swore, the night I left, to accept as their king the man the sword declared,” said Paks quickly. “At that time I did not know it was Duke Phelan. As for the elves, the Lady of the Ladysforest wished to see him before the coronation: the elves had their fears, as I said.”

“And do you still, cousins?” asked Phelan of the listening elves, slightly stressing the last word.

“Lord Falkieri, what the elves feared in you was not to your blame. We feared the damage done by your wicked master. Will you deny your temper, and what has sometimes come of it?”

“No. But I asked if you still feared it.”

One of the elves laughed. “Lord, you are not the furious man I had heard of. Here I have seen you accept insult with dignity, and remain courteous and capable of thought to all. For myself—but I am not the one who will decide—I would trust you to govern humans.”

“But your realm is not all human,” the other elf added. “For too many years Lyonya’s ruler has lacked any feel for the taigin. This lack hurts us all. You have shown no such ability.”

“You believe this, too, was destroyed by Baron Sekkady’s cruelty?”

Both of them nodded. “If the small child is not taught—if instead all such sense becomes painful—then it can be lost, for a time, or forever.”

“I see. But being half-elven, will not my children carry this ability by inheritance, even if I lack it?”

“I suppose—I had not thought—” The elf looked genuinely surprised. “I had heard you swore never to remarry.”

“I said so; I never took formal vows, not being in the habit of breaking my stated word. Clearly I cannot refuse to sire heirs for Lyonya, and old as I am, I daresay—”

“Old!” The elf laughed, then sobered quickly. “My pardon, Lord—and lords of Tsaia. I meant no disdain. But Lord Falkieri, you are not old for half-elven. You are merely well-grown. You have many years yet to found a family, though your people will be glad the sooner you wed.”

“But I’m—”

“Fifty years—and what of that? No elf-born comes to full powers much before that. Your sister would yet live had she waited to wed and bear children until fifty. Fear not death from age yet awhile, Falkieri; blade and point can kill you, but not age alone until your sons’ sons are come to knighthood.”

When the elves said nothing more, the crown prince spoke again. “We would honor you with an escort into Lyonya, my lord. Lady Paksenarrion speaks of peril; our lands are old allies. Will you accept it?”

Phelan nodded; Paks saw that he was near tears from all this. He struggled for a moment and regained control. “I brought with me only a small escort, as your highness knows. I would be honored by a formal one. But when could they be ready to leave?”

The meeting dissolved in a mass of details—which unit of the Tsaian Royal Guard would travel by which route, who would take word to Phelan’s steading in the north, how best to plan the march, and on and on. Paks listened, starting as the High Marshal touched her shoulder.

“If you have a few minutes, Lady Paksenarrion, I’d like to see you in the grange hall.”

“Certainly. I see we won’t be leaving for some hours, if today—”

“Not today,” said Phelan, catching her last words. “Tomorrow at best—I’m sorry, Paks, but there’s too much to do.”

She bowed, and beckoned to Garris, who followed her a few feet away.

“Don’t leave him, Garris—any of you—for any reason—for even a few minutes. I cannot name the peril, but we know that evil powers do not want him crowned.”

“I swear to you, Paks: we will not leave him.”

“I will return shortly.” And Paks followed the High Marshal away from the chamber.

High Marshal Seklis ushered Paks into his study, and seated her near a small fire. A yeoman-marshal brought a tray of sweet cakes and a pot of sib, then withdrew.

“I understand your concern, Lady,” he began, “but it will take the rest of the day to get a troop of the Royal Guard ready to ride on such a mission. Your things, no doubt, are simpler. And the King’s Squires will guard him. Now that you’ve handed over that sword, you’ll need another, and I want a favor in return—the story of your quest so far, to write into the archives for the Marshal-General.”

Paks told her tale, from leaving Duke Phelan’s stronghold to her arrival in Vérella, as quickly and completely as possible, but the pot of sib was empty when she finished. The High Marshal sat back and sighed, then smiled.

“Now I understand your haste. Come—I have no elf-blades here, but we can find something more your weight than the blade that failed you last night.” He led her into the armory, where Paks tried one blade after another until she found one to suit. Then they walked back into the palace, to find the Duke’s suite a chaotic jumble of servants, gear, and visitors. Paks saw Kolya and Dorrin across the outer room, and worked her way toward them.

“He’s not here at the moment,” said Dorrin, “but he’ll be back. Before you ask, all the King’s Squires went with him, as well as Selfer—don’t worry. Falk’s oath, Paks, if we’d known what you would do someday, I don’t know if we’d ever have risked your hide on the battlefield.”

“Oh yes, you would,” said Paks. “How else could you test a weapon? Not by hanging it on the wall.”

“We’ll miss him,” said Kolya soberly. “The best master a land ever had, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m not ill-wishing—I just wish I could pick up my trees and move to Lyonya.”

“He’d find you a grove.”

“It’s not the same. Those Westnuts I struggled with, learning to dig one-handed—I can’t move that somewhere else.”

“And he feels it too,” said Paks quietly.

“I know. And I’m glad for him. All those years of hearing the others pick and pick—hedge-lord, they’d say, or base-born moneybags—they’ll sing a new song now. He was never less than kingly with us; Lyonya’s lucky, and he deserves the best of it.”

“Who’s going with him? For that matter, who’s here?”

Dorrin numbered them on her fingers. “Arcolin’s commanding back north; Selfer and I came along, and we’ll go on to Lyonya. Kolya, you know, and Donag Kirisson, the miller from Duke’s West, and Siger. And Vossik and a half-dozen solid veterans. Plus the usual: carters and muleteers, and that. I expect he’ll take his own veterans, and I doubt we could peel Siger away from him with a knife.”

“And how many of the Tsaian Guard?”