Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

“Did it leave a scar?”

“My—my friend died, a few days later.” Paks looked down. “I don’t know if it worked or not.”

“Hmm. I see. And you never tried again?” She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Paks shrugged. “It never seemed right—necessary. We had surgeons—a mage—”

“Healing gifts require careful teaching,” murmured Tamar. “Or so I have been told. Without instruction, you might never know—”

“We must see, then. You have experienced such healing at the hands of others, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Paks thought of the paladin in Aarenis, and of Amberion in Fin Panir. And of the Kuakgan, so different and yet alike.

“Then you must try.” When she looked at him, surprised despite his earlier words, he smiled. “You must try sometime, Paksenarrion, and you might as well begin here. Ansuli has painful injuries, as have you yourself. Try to heal them, and see what happens.”

“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—”