Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

“They are. This is the first year I’ve gotten much from these two trees. The green and red striped ones are from Lyonya: Master Oakhallow sent the seedlings years ago. The dark ones are a new strain, according to the traders—at least it was new when I bought some. These trees are—oh—about nine years old by now. What I sent you, in the south, were Royalgarths—what they grow in the king’s groves in Pargun. They travel well, and are sweet, but these are better—thinner skinned.” It was clear that Kolya was glad to talk of something harmless. Paks fell in with this.

“How many kinds of apples do you grow?”

“As many as I can acquire. Apples do better if you mix varieties, and some tend to skip years in bearing. Right now I’ve got seven that are bearing well: these two, the Royalgarths, the Westnuts from Fintha, Big Ciders and Little Ciders, and Westland Greens. I’ve got two kinds that just started bearing this year, but not heavily: another summer apple, but yellow instead of green, and a big red and yellow stripe that does well in the markets south of here. And the pears have come in since you left. Over twenty bushels of pears this year.”

Paks had taken a bite out of the green and red apple. Juice flooded her mouth. “This one is good,” she said, swallowing. Kolya had cracked two nuts against each other in her strong hand; she began picking the meats out of the broken bits of shell.

“Yes. Paks—you are welcome to stay here; I hope you do. But—what did you come here for? Was it just to thank the Duke for his help? Or—?”

Paks took another bite of apple. “I’m not sure I can tell you. I don’t know how much you know of what actually happened to me—”

“The Duke told us—the Council—some of it. Nothing to blame you for—”

“He didn’t know all.” Paks could feel Kolya’s look as if it were a hand on her face.

“He said it was the Marshal-General’s fault,” said Kolya. “He’s never blamed you for it—”

“It was not her fault. Not in the way he means. Did he tell you about Kolobia? What happened there?”

“Not really.” Kolya shifted uneasily. “Something about capture, and evil powers.”

“Yes.” Paks struggled for calmness. Surely she should be able to tell this tale calmly by now. “I was taken by the kuaknomi, who serve Achrya.” Kolya nodded, eyes intent on her bowl of nuts. “They offered the chance to fight—to fight for a chance at escape. Or that’s what I thought they offered. Fighting against orcs, for the most part, in a sort of arena they had underground.”

“Most part? How many times—?”

“I don’t know.” Paks set the apple down carefully, as if it were alive. “I don’t remember. Many times, to judge by the marks they left. At the end, I was forced into charmed armor—”

“Mother of Trees!” said Kolya, staring now. She had brought up her hand in the warding sign. Then she looked at her hand, and shook her head. “Sorry. Go on.”

Paks took another apple out of the bowl, and looked it over. “In the fighting great evil entered my mind. It grew beyond my control. This is what the Marshal-General saw, in Fin Panir. She was not the only one to see it, Kolya. Even I, when they—” She stopped to take a long breath. “Anyway. They saw but one possible cure. And the Marshal-General, two paladins, and an elf tried to cut that evil from within. Which they did.”

“And left you, the Duke said, as crippled as if they’d cut off your legs.”

Paks shook her head. “Not so. You—forgive me, Kolya, but you have truly lost an arm. Nothing, now, will make it grow back. I had my limbs—legs and arms both—but not the use of them for awhile.”

“And within? The Duke said they did more damage within, that they had ripped the very heart out of your self, the courage—”

“So I thought, and they thought, but the Kuakgan showed me that this was not so.”

“Are you certain?” Kolya peered closely at her. “We had heard that you were to be a paladin yourself—and here you are without money enough, you say, to buy a sword—”

“Do riches make a paladin? Or do I look so scared, to you?” Paks smiled at her.

“Well—no. You don’t. But you wouldn’t be scared of me, anyway.”

“I would have been. I was. Kolya, I cannot hide this: I was, for those months, as craven as you can imagine. I don’t know what the Duke told you, but he saw me unable to lift a sword even in practice. He saw me afraid to mount a horse—even a gentle one. He saw me—a veteran of his Company—faint in terror because an armsmaster came toward me with his sword raised.”

“You’d been hurt—”

Paks snorted. “You know better than that. Kolya, I have been where very few soldiers ever come—to the fear and helplessness that the common folk have. And I’ve come back from that, with help. Why I’m here—well, that’s a long tale. Tell me, would you think me crazy if I told you—” she faltered, and Kolya looked at her curiously.

“What?”

“Kolya, things have happened to me—since I was first in the Company—which seemed strange to me. In Aarenis—especially the third year—others noticed, too—” It was remarkably hard to say, flat out, that she thought she was a paladin.

“Stammel said something to me.” Kolya cracked another pair of nuts. “He said it had to do with a Gird’s medallion you’d been given by a friend—you could sense things the others couldn’t, he said.”

“Yes. That was part of it. That was why I thought they were right, when they said I could be a paladin.”

“They weren’t?”

“Well—yes. In a way.” Paks found that she was sweating. “The fact is—I—do have some gifts. They are somewhat like those paladins have, but I never finished the training and took vows. Master Oakhallow thinks they were given directly by the gods. And if so—” She stopped again.

“If so, then you are a paladin of sorts, is that what you mean?” Kolya glanced sideways at her. “A remarkable claim. Not that I doubt your word—” She went on quickly. “It’s only that—I never heard of such a thing. When I think of a paladin, I think of those I saw, when I was in the Company. They were not as you are now.”

“I know.” Paks leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And I trained with them: I know what you’re remembering. Shining mail, on a shining horse, so bright that anyone would follow. I don’t claim to be that sort of paladin yet, Kolya. I do say that something—and I believe it to be the High Lord, or Gird his servant—has called me here for a purpose. I sensed, in the inn, some evil thing—and felt in myself the answering call: this is what I came for. I cannot see how this will harm the Duke or his realm, unless he has turned to evil, past all belief.”

“Will you tell him this openly?”

Paks shook her head. “No. As you say, I don’t look like a paladin. I have no clear message for him. I can but be here, and ready to serve his need, when it comes. I think it will be soon.”

Kolya stirred in her chair. “I cannot believe you lie. Master Oakhallow bids me trust you—I have reason to trust him. And what I know of your past—by the Tree, Paks, I wish I understood.”

“So do I,” said Paks.

“And you are not a Girdsman?” asked Kolya again.

“I cannot say. I am not—I cannot be, any longer—under the command of the Marshal-General. But I swore to follow Gird’s way of service: that oath I would not break.” Could not, after what had happened in the magical fire.

“The Duke will not be pleased with that.” Kolya’s voice held some emotion Paks could not identify. Satisfaction? Envy? Paks followed a vague hunch.

“Can you tell me what he has against the Girdsmen, Kolya? I know it is something more than happened to me, but I don’t know what. Master Oakhallow wouldn’t say.”