Elizabeth Moon - Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“Silence!” Paks had not noticed the Duke still standing nearby. “Vik, look for him. Paks, tell us about this sleep—how were you awake?”

“My lord, I don’t know. Sunnot and I had doubled the guards; we had just met and parted over there—” Paks pointed “—when it seemed cold suddenly. I remember a cold breeze, and wrapping my cloak. Then I woke, and I was on the ground, beside a tree—”

“What woke you?” asked the paladin. The Duke shot him a look.

“I don’t know exactly—it felt like a thorn pricking my chest—”

“Where your holy symbol rests?” Paks nodded. “May I see it again, please?” Paks slipped the chain over her head and handed it to him. As he took it, it flared to a blue glow, instantly extinguished. He held the surface to the torchlight, examining it minutely.

“Then what?” asked the Duke gruffly. Paks looked at him warily, remembering his rage.

“Well, my lord, I looked around, but saw nothing. Then I found the next guard asleep, and thought of magic. I woke her; we saw the first of them coming out. She woke the guards on this side, and I went to the other. I didn’t see Sunnot, but I was going by feel, to the posts we’d set. I could have missed—” A shout from Vik interrupted her. In a moment he reappeared, leading a bewildered Sunnot, who went down on one knee to the Halveric.

“My lord, I—I don’t know what happened—” The Halveric smiled and gestured him up.

“You were magicked, Sunnot; not your fault. I’m sorry you missed it—”

“Did he escape, sir?” Sunnot looked ready to cry.

“No. He’s dead. It’s over.” Sunnot looked around, still worried. Vik spoke softly to him, and he shook his head.

“Go on, Paks,” said the Duke.

She was so glad to see Sunnot alive and well that she’d lost the thread of her story.

“You woke the guards,” the Duke prompted.

“Yes, my lord. More of them had come out by then. When the last one came out I yelled and we attacked.”

“Where was Siniava then?”

“I don’t know. The bodyguard had made a ring, with two inside it—” Paks pointed to the bound prisoners. She explained how she had thought the two were a shapechanged Siniava and a wizard, how she’d noticed what seemed to be an animal moving along the rockface, and the animal’s transformation into Siniava. “When he turned to run,” she said, “I jumped and caught his legs—”

“I saw her jump,” said the paladin. “He was turning to strike at her, and I was just in time to stop him. The rest you know. Here, Paksenarrion, take back your medallion.”

The Duke shook his head thoughtfully. “I hardly feel I know anything. What woke her up? Was it the medallion—when she’s not a Girdsman?”

“What else would you suggest? I know it’s unusual—but what else?”

The Duke shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “More mysteries, when I thought we’d be rid of them. Paksenarrion—”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Post a guard on this end of the passage, and come back to camp. How many wounded have we?” Paks looked around.

“My men took them back,” said the Halveric. “With my wounded. Things seemed—busy—around here.”

“My lord, if any are poisoned, I’d be glad to try a healing.”

“Thank you, sir paladin,” said Aliam before the Duke could answer. “You know the way to my surgeons’ tents?”

“Certainly, my lord.” The paladin turned and was gone.

Paks had organized the remaining soldiers and told them to keep close watch until they were relieved.

“Can we have a fire?” asked Rauf. She looked at the Duke.

“Certainly,” he said. “As big as you like. We’ll send a relief down when we get back, and then you can sleep. You’ve earned it. Come along, Paks.” He turned to go, and Paks followed, pausing to pick up the shards of her sword. She could hear the quartermaster now: sword and corselet both.

The Duke and Aliam Halveric walked side by side back to camp, the Duke’s squires before them, and Paks bringing up the rear. They said nothing to her, and she could not hear what they were saying. She didn’t try. She had too much to think about. She rubbed her thumb across the medallion she held—she had not put it back on. She did not understand—did not want to understand. The Duke was angry enough; she did not want him more angry with her than he was already. She thought of Canna and Saben—would they have wanted it this way? Siniava dead so easily? Saben would have—she turned away from his memory to something else. Canna had never told her the medallion had such powers. Was that its function, to warn? And if so, why hadn’t it warned Canna of the brigands?

When they reached the camp, the Duke turned to Paks. “I think you should be the one to tell your cohort that Siniava is dead, and how he died.” His voice was neutral; Paks could not tell if he was still angry.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have my thanks for a duty faithfully—even more than faithfully—performed.”

“And our thanks also,” said Aliam Halveric. His smile was as open as ever, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Whatever power enabled you to resist the spell, it is clear that without you that scum might have escaped.” He looked at the Duke. “That power, too, must have our thanks and praise.”

The Duke’s shoulders shifted. “We can speak of that later. As for now, Aliam, you and I must arrange the taking of that citadel. Paksenarrion has more immediate duties, as well.”

The Halveric was no longer smiling. “Later, perhaps, Kieri—but after this night’s work, we can no longer ignore it.”

The Duke sighed. “No, I suppose not. Go on, Paks, and tell the rest. And get some sleep. If it comes to fighting, we’ll want your blade as well.”

If Stammel had not been awake by one of the watchfires, Paks might have fallen asleep without telling her news. But in telling him, the excitement woke her again, and soon she was the center of a breathless crowd.

“And you’re sure he’s dead,” said someone into the silence that followed her recital.

“They brought his head back on a pole,” said Paks. “I didn’t see it as we came—it must be in the Halveric camp now.”

“But you caught him,” said another voice. “It should be our trophy.”

“The Halveric killed him. And the paladin—Sir Fenith—helped catch him. I didn’t do it alone—”

“Still—” Paks recognized Barranyi’s voice, this time.

“Hush, Barra,” said Natzlin. “It doesn’t bother Paks, and she did it.”

“How did they kill him?” asked Vossik, who had not heard the first of the story. Paks tensed.

“The Halveric killed him,” she said again. “With a sword.”

“Huh. Slowly, I’ll bet, after what he did to his sons.”

“No.” Paks wished she were far away, as she felt the pressure of surprise and curiosity. She stared into the fire. “One stroke,” she said finally. “In the neck.”

Stammel whistled. “That’s—something. To show mercy like that—” He was clearly impressed. Some of the others were frowning, but Paks saw many of the older veterans relax, as if they had feared worse. Barranyi’s voice broke a brief silence.

“But why? After all he’d done—I’d think the Duke would do something! It’s not right, that he should die so easy.” Paks felt almost sick at the venom in Barra’s voice. Before she could gather her words, Vossik interrupted Barra.

“No! That’s what makes us different. Such leaders as that—that you can trust to do the right thing even under pressure. By—” he paused and looked at Stammel. “By Gird and Falk and the High Lord himself, I’m proud we’ve got such men to lead our companies.” Vossik turned to Paks, grinning. “I daresay you weren’t eager for torture, were you now?”