Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

“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.

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.”