Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

The village seemed faintly familiar, but most villages were much alike. Not until she came to the crossroads with its inn did she realize she had been here before. There was the paved inn court, and the wide door, and the bright sign— The Jolly Potboy— hanging over it. Her breath seemed to freeze in her chest. The crossroads was busier than she remembered; there was much bustling in and out of the inn. The windows to the common bar were wide open, and clear across the road she heard a roar of laughter she recognized. She flinched. They might recognize her, even in the clothes she wore now. She thought of the coins in her purse, and the meal she’d hoped to buy—but she could not go there, of all places, and order a meal of Jos Hebbinford. Nor was there any other place to go: she was known in Brewersbridge, and dared not beg a scrap from some housewife lest she be recognized.

Paks shook her head, fighting back tears. Once she had ridden these streets—stayed at that inn—had friends in every gathering.

“Here now, why so glum?” Paks started and looked up to see a man-at-arms in the Count’s livery watching her. He smiled when she met his eyes; his face was vaguely familiar. “We can’t have pretty girls down in the mouth in our town, sweetling—let me buy you a mug of ale and cheer you up.”

Paks felt her heart begin to pound; fear clouded her eyes. “No—no thank you, sir. I’m fine—I just thought of something—”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re frightened. Is someone after you? This town’s safe enough—that’s my job. You look like you need some kind of help; let me know what’s wrong—”

Paks tried to edge around him, toward the north road. “No—please, sir, I’m all right.”

He reached out and caught her arm. “I don’t think so. You remind me of something—someone. I think perhaps the captain needs to see you—unless you can account better for yourself. Do you know anyone here, anyone who can vouch for you? Where were you going to stay? Are you here for the fair?”

For an instant Paks’s mind went totally blank, and then the names and faces of those she remembered—Marshal Cedfer, Hebbinford, Captain Sir Felis, Master Senneth—began to race past her eyes. But she couldn’t call on them to vouch for her. They had known her as a warrior, Phelan’s veteran, the fighter who cleaned out a den of robbers. She had left here to go to Fin Panir; they had expected her to return as a Marshal or knight. Even if they recognized her—and she doubted they would—they would still despise or pity her. She trembled in the man’s grasp like a snared rabbit, and he was already pushing her along the north road toward the keep when another memory came to her: a memory of quiet trees and a clear pool and the dark wise face of the Kuakgan.

“I—I was going to the grove,” she gasped. “To—to see the Kuakgan.”

The man stopped, still gripping her arm. “Were you, now? And do you know the Kuakgan’s name?”

“Master Oakhallow,” said Paks.

“And you were to stay there?”

“I—I think so, sir. I had a question to ask him, that’s why I came.” Paks realized as she said this that it was true.

“Hmm. Well—if it’s kuakgannir business—you say you were going to the grove: can you show me where it is?”

The entrance to the grove lay a hundred paces or so along the road; Paks nodded toward it.

“You know that much at least. Well, I’ll just see you safely there. And remember, girl: I don’t expect to see you dodging around town this evening. If I do, it’s to the captain with you. And I’ll have the watch keep a lookout, too.” He urged her along until they came to the grove entrance, marked by white stones on the ground between two trees. “You’re sure this is where you’re going?”

Paks nodded. “Yes, sir—thank you.” She turned away, ducking into the trees to follow the winding path picked out in white stones.

In the grove was silence. Sunlight filtered through green leaves. As before, she could hear nothing of the village, close as it was. A bird sang nearby, three rising notes, over and over. Paks stopped to listen; her trembling stilled. Something rustled in the bushes off to her left, and panic rose in her throat. When a brown rabbit hopped onto the path, she almost sobbed in relief.

She went on. Far over her head leaves rustled in a light wind, but it was quiet below. Under one tree she heard a throbbing hum, and looked up to see a haze of bees busy at the tiny yellow flowers. At last she heard the remembered chuckling of the Kuakgan’s fountain, and came into the sunny glade before his dwelling. It was the same as on her first visit. The low gray bark-roofed house lay shuttered and still. Nothing moved but the water, leaping and laughing in sunlight over a stone basin.

Paks stood a moment in the sunlight, watching that water. She thought of what she’d told the soldier, and how the lie had felt like truth when she told it. But there was no help for her, not this time. The Kuakgan had nothing to do with what she had lost. Kuakkgani didn’t like warriors anyway. Still—she had to stay, at least until night. She could not go back to the village. Maybe she could sneak through the grove and escape to the open country beyond. Paks sighed. She was so tired of running, tired of hiding from those who’d known her. Yet she could not face them. Make an end, she thought.

She slid out of the pack straps, and dug into the pack for her pouch of coins, the reserve the Marshal-General had given her. To it she added the coppers and two silvers from her belt-pouch. A tidy pile. Enough to live on for a month, if she were frugal; enough for one good feast, otherwise. Her mouth twisted. She scooped up the whole pile and dumped it in the offering basin; the clash and ring of it was loud and discordant. She looked in her pack for anything else of value. Nothing but her winter cloak, an extra shirt, spare boot-thongs—no—there was the ring Duke Phelan had given her the day he left Fin Panir. “Send this, or bring it, if you need me,” he’d said. Paks stared at it. She didn’t want it found on her when she—She pushed the thought aside and tossed the ring onto the heap of coins. She looked at her pack and decided to leave that too. The Kuakgan would find someone who needed a cloak and shirt. She piled the pack on top of the money, and turned away, wondering where she could hide until nightfall. Perhaps she should start through the grove now.

Across the clearing, at one end of the gray house, the Kuakgan stood watching her, his face shadowed by the hood of his robe. Paks froze; her heart began to race. His voice came clear across the sound of the fountain, and yet it was not loud. “You wished to speak to the Kuakgan?”

Paks felt cold, but sweat trickled down her ribs. “Sir, I—I came only to make an offering.”

The Kuakgan came closer. His robe, as she remembered, was dark green, patterned in shades of green and brown with the shapes of leaves and branches. “I see. Most who make offerings here wish a favor in return. Advice, a potion, a healing—and you want nothing?” His voice, too, was as she remembered, deep and resonant, full of overtones. As if, she thought suddenly, he had spent much time with elves. His eyes, now visible as he came closer, seemed to pierce her with their keen glance.

“No. No, sir, I want nothing.” Paks dropped her gaze, stared at the ground, hoping he would not recognize her, would let her go.