Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Oath of Gold
Elizabeth Moon
Paksenarrion--Paks for short--was somebody special. Never could she have followed her father's orders and married the pig farmer down the road. Better a soldier's life than a pig farmer's wife, and so, though she knew that she could never go home again, Paks ran away to be a soldier. And so began an adventure destined to transform a simple Sheepfarmer's Daughter into a hero fit to be chosen by the gods.
Oath of Gold is the climactic final volume of the epic that Judith Tarr calls "the first work of high heroic fantasy I've seen that has taken the work of Tolkien, assimilated it totally and deeply and absolutely, and produced something altogether new and yet incontestably based on the master... [Moon's] military knowledge is impressive, her picture of life in a mercenary company most convincing. I'm deeply impressed."
OATH OF GOLD
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Elizabeth Moon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN-10: 0-671-69798-6
ISBN-13: 978-0-671-69798-3
eISBN: 978-1-62579-446-8
Cover art by Dominic Darman
First printing, June 1989
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America
Oath of blood is Liart’s bane
Oath of death is for the slain
Oath of stone the rockfolk swear
Oath of iron is Tir’s domain
Oath of silver liars dare
Oath of gold will yet remain . . .
From the Oathsong of Mikeli
Chapter One
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 Kua
kgan 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.
"Is it, then, an offering of thanks? Have you received some gift, that you share your bounty? Not share, I see, for you have given everything—even your last copper. Can you say why?"
"No, sir." Paks sensed that he had come nearer yet, to the offering basin, still watching her.
"Hmm. And yet I heard someone very like you tell a soldier that she wished to speak with me, to ask me a question. Then I find you in my grove, filling the basin with your last coin, and even your spare shirt—and you have no question." He paused. Paks watched as the shadow of his robe came closer. She shivered. "But I have questions, if you do not. Look at me!" At his command, Paks's head seemed to rise of its own accord. Her eyes filled with tears. "Mmm, yes. You came to me once before for advice, if I recall. Was my counsel so bad that you refuse it now—Paksenarrion?"
Paks could not speak for the lump in her throat; tears ran down her face. She tried to turn away, but his strong hand caught her chin and held her facing him.
"Much, I see, has happened to you since I last saw you. But I think you are not a liar, whatever you've become. So you will ask your question, Paksenarrion, and take counsel with me once again."
Paks fought the tightness in her throat and managed to speak. "Sir, I—I can't. There's nothing you can do—just let me go—"
"Nothing I can do? Best let me judge of that, child. As for going—where would you go, without money or pack?"
"Anywhere. East, or south to the hills . . . it doesn't matter—"
"There's enough dead bones in those hills already. No, you won't go until you've told me what your trouble is. Come now."
Paks found herself walking behind the Kuakgan to his house, her mind numb. She saw without amazement the door open before he reached it; he ducked slightly to clear the low lintel. Paks ducked too, and stepped down onto the cool earthen floor of a large, long room. Across from her, windows opened on the grove which came almost to the Kuakgan's house. The ceiling beams were hung with bunches of pungent herbs. At the far end of the room gaped a vast fireplace, its hearth swept and empty. Under the windows were two tables, one covered with scrolls, and the other bare, with a bench near it.
"Come," said the Kuakgan. "Sit here and have something to drink."
Paks sank onto the bench and watched as he poured her a mug of clear liquid from an earthenware jug. She sipped. It was water, but the water had a spicy tang.
"Mint leaves," he said. "And a half-stick of cinnamon. Here—" He reached down a round cheese from a net hanging overhead. He sliced off a good-sized hunk. "Eat something before we talk."
Paks was sure she could not eat, but the creamy cheese eased past her tight throat and settled her stomach. She finished the cheese and the second mug of water he poured her. By then he had sliced a half-loaf of dark bread and put it in front of her. She took a slice; it was nutty and rich.
Master Oakhallow sat at the end of the table, his hood pushed back, eating a slice of bread spread with cheese. Paks glanced at him: the same brown weather-beaten face, heavy dark eyebrows, thick hair tied off his face with a twisted cord the color of bark. He was gazing out the window beside him, frowning slightly. She followed his gaze. A black and white spotted bird clung to the trunk of the nearest tree; as she watched, it began to hammer on the bark. The strokes were loud and quick, almost like a drum rattle. Paks wondered why its head didn't split. She'd never seen anything like it, though she had heard that sound before without knowing its source. Bark chips flew from the tree.
"It's a woodpecker," he said, answering her thought. "It seeks out insects under the bark, and eats them. A forest without woodpeckers would be eaten by the little ones devouring the trees."
Paks felt her muscles unclenching, one by one. "Is it—are there more than one kind?"
The Kuakgan smiled. "Oh, yes. Most of them are speckled and spotted, but some are brown and white or gray and white, instead of black and white. There are little ones and big ones—bigger than this—and many of them have bright color at the head. This one has a yellow stripe, but it's hard to see so far away."
"How can they pound the tree like that without hurting themselves.?"
He shrugged. "They are made for it; it is their nature. Creatures are not harmed by following their natures. How else can horses run over rocky ground on those tiny hooves? Tiny for their weight, I mean." He reached to the jug and poured another mug of water for Paks, and one for himself.
Paks took another slice of bread. "I heard a bird when I came in; it sang three notes—" she tried to whistle them.
"Yes, I know the one. A shy bird. You'll never see it; it's brown on top, and speckled gray and brown below. It eats gnats and flies, and its eggs are green patterned with brown."
"I thought most birds—except the hawks and carrion-crows—ate seeds."
"Some do. Most sparrows are seed-eaters. There's one bird that eats the nuts out of pine cones. Watch, now—" He took a slice of bread and crumbled it on the broad windowsill, then took a slender wooden cylinder from his robe and blew into it. A soft trill of notes came out. Paks saw the flickering of wings between the trees, and five birds landed on the sill. She sat still. Three of the birds were alike, green with yellow breasts. One was brown, and one was fire-orange with black wings. Their tiny eyes glittered as they pecked the crumbs and watched her. When the bread was gone, the Kuakgan moved his hand and the birds flew away.
Paks breathed again. "They're so beautiful. I never saw anything so beautiful—that orange and black one—"
"So. You will admit that you haven't seen everything in this world you were so eager to leave?"
She hunched her shoulders, silent. She heard a gusty sigh, then the scrape of his stool as he rose.
"St
ay here," he said, "until I return."
She did not look up, but heard his feet on the floor as he crossed the room, and the soft thud of the door as he closed it behind him. She thought briefly of going out the window, but the grove was thick and dark there as the sun lowered. The spotted bird was gone, the hammering coming now from a distance. She put down the rest of her slice of bread, her appetite gone. The room darkened. She wondered if he would be gone all night; she looked around but saw no place to sleep but the floor. From the grove came a strange cry, and she shivered, remembering the rumor that the Kuakgan walked at night as a great bear.
She did not hear the door open, but he was suddenly in the room with her. "Come help me bring in some wood," he said, and she got up and went out to find a pile of deadwood by the door. The last sunglow flared to the west. They broke the wood into lengths and brought it in. He lit candles and placed them in sconces along the walls, then laid a fire in the fireplace, but did not light it. He went out again and came back with a bundle that turned out to be a hot kettle wrapped in cloth. Inside, a few coals kept several pannikins warm. As he unwrapped the cloth, a delicious smell of onions and mushrooms and meat gravy rose from the kettle. Paks found her mouth watering, and swallowed.
"Hebbinford's best stew," he said, setting the dishes out on the tables. "And you were always one for fried mushrooms, weren't you? Sit down, go on—don't let it get cold. You're too thin, you know."
"I'm not hungry," said Paks miserably.
"Nonsense. I saw your look when you smelled those mushrooms. Your body's got sense, if you haven't."
Paks took a bite of mushrooms: succulent, hot, flavored with onions and meat. Before she realized what she was doing, she saw that the mushrooms were gone, and so was the stew. She was polishing the bowl with another slice of the dark bread. Her belly gurgled its contentment; she could not remember when she'd eaten so much. Not for a long time, not since—she looked up. Master Oakhallow was watching her.