Oath of Gold

  "As you will, Lady. Then I will say he is alive."

  "Do you know where? Do you know his name?"

  "I cannot help you," said Amrothlin. "You have not asked yet why he himself never claimed his inheritance. He has no memory of it; it was destroyed. If only—" Amrothlin looked down for an instant, then met Paks's eyes again. "We elves like not that phrase, but in this case, had the attack happened on the way home, the prince could not have been damaged as he was. The wakening of his elven powers would have warded him somewhat. But as it was, he knows not his own name or title. When he returned to the Eight Kingdoms, the man who took him in as a servant eventually guessed who he might be. But he saw no future for him at this court; he concealed what he guessed, and told the boy nothing."

  "Who was that?" asked Sier Halveric quickly. "In Lyonya? In Prealith?"

  "I cannot help you," said Amrothlin again.

  "Cannot, or will not?" asked Paks.

  "Lady, I have done what I can. We are not convinced he is fit to rule; he has had the chance to show such ability, and has turned away."

  "Why didn't you heal him?" asked Belvarin suddenly. "Couldn't you have done that when you first met him again?"

  Amrothlin put up his hand. "We could not heal—or attempt to heal—without risking great harm, both to him and to the kingdom. If we had restored, say, his memory of his name—and not been able to restore the taig of his spirit, would that have been well done? We judged not. Sometimes time itself heals what no magics can, elven or other. We waited. We watched from afar. We did not see the sign of growth we could foster; we did not wish to do more destruction to one who had been so harmed already." He waited until everyone was quiet again, then went on. "As for succession, we do not advise—but we will not help you find someone we think is too flawed to rule. If you find him yourself, against our recommendation, then we will see."

  Paks, following all this, began to have a curious feeling that she had already what clues she needed—if only she had the peace and quiet to put them together. But for the next hour no one had peace and quiet. The Council roiled with excitement. They calculated how old the prince must be; they tried to guess who and where, and surprise the elf into an answer. Paks stood aside, listening, trying to think, trying to fix every word that had been said in her memory. Finally, when the same people began to repeat the same words, she raised her hand. They fell silent.

  "Lords and ladies, high elves, Councillors: I say again that this is my quest. To find your prince, and restore the rightful king to your throne. I cannot make this quest without your support, for you must agree to accept the king I bring you—" She was surprised to find herself saying this, but went on; the gods surely knew what they did when they took over her tongue. "I will return with your true king, or his heirs. Is this agreeable?"

  They argued a while longer; some thought they'd rather have a paladin already there than a mysterious lost prince who, according to the elves, wasn't worth finding anyway. But Paks insisted that she would not take the crown, and finally they agreed. Amrothlin looked long in her eyes before nodding at last.

  "If you find him, and if you can show us that his anger will not break the kingdom to bits, we will accept him. And if we can, we will restore his elven powers."

  "As the High Lord wills, and Gird gives grace, Amrothlin. I believe the prince will be found, and found able to rule, else this quest would not be laid on me."

  "May it be so," said Amrothlin gravely. "May it be so indeed, that the powers of evil find their plots spoiled, and the House of the Fountain break forth in joy."

  "I will ask questions," said Paks, "that you would be wise to answer."

  His eyebrows went up, and a mocking smile touched his mouth. "You would teach wisdom to elves, paladin? Well, it may come to that, but we shall see. I will answer as I can, for our honor and his."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Since you insist your quest is to find our prince," began the Knight-Commander of Falk, "we can only try to help you as we can."

  Paks smiled at his expression. "Do you know Marshal-General Arianya, sir?"

  His nose twitched. "Yes; I met her in Vérella one time. A remarkable woman."

  "She might enlighten you about my past," Paks suggested.

  "Oh—" Under direct challenge, he seemed to deflate. "Ward of Falk," he said then. "I've no reason to doubt you're who or what you say—and I know a paladin cannot lie. To be honest, I suppose it galls a bit that the High Lord chose a paladin of Gird for this, when I would have thought a Falkian could do as much."

  "Save that someone born and brought up here would have assumed the prince's death, sir. It is that ignorance, perhaps, which makes me suitable."

  "I would have expected such reasoning from a kuakgannir, Lady, not a Girdsman. Emptiness calls fulfillment—is that what you mean?"

  Paks shook her head. "Not precisely, though as you should know if you do not, the final healing of my wounds came from a Kuakgan. What I meant was that a commander new to a company can see what custom has hidden."

  "Oh."

  "Where will you begin looking, Paksenarrion? There are many men in the Eight Kingdoms of the right age—and many still when you leave out the black-haired, dark-eyed ones who cannot be the prince." Sier Halveric poured out mugs of sib as he spoke. They had gathered in the queen's chambers, the older lords who remembered the queen and prince, and the Knight-Commander. The elves had withdrawn, to pay their respects to the dead king in their own way, but promised to return if Paks called.

  She thought a long moment, trying to feel her way into the gods' will. "I think," she said, "that I must begin with this sword's history. I must talk to your nephew Aliam—see the place where he found it, and hear from him the exact wording of every message the elves sent. They told him once to give it to the one for whom it was made—as if at that time he could have done so, and it would have been right. Surely if he had, the sword would have proclaimed the prince's identity. But he did not know who the prince was—how could he? Nor did he know the power of the sword—or so Amrothlin implied. I must ask him directly. In the meantime, tell me what you remember of the young prince—Joriam, you begin."

  "Well, Lady, I was young myself then—I may have forgot—but I remember him as a lively little lad. Going on four or five he was then, a little scrap of a boy. Had reddish golden hair, much like his father's, but lighter, as a child's often is."

  "Any marks you'd know him by?"

  "No, Lady. I never tended him, ye see. Just saw him about. I remember once he climbed out on a window ledge and knocked off a pot of flowers—"

  "I remember that," broke in Sier Hammarrin, chuckling. "By Falk, that little rascal had nerve—always loved to climb things. Down the flowers came, nearly hitting old Fersin, rest his soul, and shattered on the courtyard. He couldn't have been over three at the time."

  "They sent you after him, didn't they, Joriam?" asked Sier Halveric. "I remember something—"

  Joriam nodded, blushing. "Yes, my lord, they did. I was the closest, and lightweight too—I've always been small—they feared the ledge might go; it was before that section was repointed. And so I started out, and I was feared, Lady, of the height, and he saw it and said 'never mind, Joriam; I'll come in myself' and crawled right to me. Steady as a cat on a limb, he was."

  "What else?" asked Paks.

  "You mustn't think he was spoiled," said Sier Calvary, a bald old man with gray eyes. "Not more than any prince is. He was loved and wanted by both his parents—the pride of the palace—but his father insisted he be courteous. And he was, for such a little sprite."

  "Not so little, really," said Sier Halveric. "For his age he was well-grown. He seemed like to grow into a tall man. But I agree, he was mannerly. Do you remember when his father gave him the gray hound puppy, Calvary?"

  Calvary shook his head, but Hammarrin began chuckling again. "I do. I certainly do. That dog was the worst nuisance . . . pick of the litter, indeed! Pick of mischief! He nipped everyone, and
must have chewed half the harness in the stables."

  "It made your stableboys keep the reins off the floor," said Sier Halveric. "But what I was thinking of was the boy—you know how boys are with dogs; he took a stick to it one day, and I came in on the end of that lecture. Two days later, I found him giving it word for word to some commoner's child outside the walls, who was tormenting a kitten. Word for word, his father's tone of voice, everything: 'It is not the act of a man or a prince to abuse helpless things, nor the justice of kings to give pain when it can be avoided.' It sounded funny enough, from that little mouth—and yet—"

  "It sounds as if he would have been a good ruler," put in Paks. "If nothing had happened."

  "I believe so." Sier Calvary nodded. "We had no doubts of it. Falkieri and his wife were mature; the boy showed every sign of ability. He did what normal boys do, mischief and all, but there was no meanness in him. And brought up to it, with good examples and good sense, there was no reason for him to go wrong."

  "Look at his sister—the young queen—" said Hammarrin. "She did well, even without her mother, with her father dying early, and all that. The same blood: brave, generous, intelligent—"

  "I can't believe, whatever has happened, that if Falki lives he is completely unfit to rule." Sier Halveric took another sip of his drink. "The gods know people change, but he had such promise—how could it all be lost, without killing him?"

  Paks thought she knew, but hoped it was not true. They had no need to know; she pushed her memories down below the surface. It hurt her to think of a child enduring anything like she had endured, a child living on with the hopelessness she had suffered for less than a year.

  "What was his name?" she asked, distracting herself.

  "The prince? The same as his father. We called him Falki. His parents had their own pet name for him, of course. His other names—let's see—Amrothlin, I just realized—that's for his mother's brother. Artfielan—for an uncle, wasn't it? Falkieri's mother's brother? And something else—we'll have to look it up. It's too far back for me." Sier Hammarrin shook his head.

  "How many names do princes have?" asked Paks.

  "Oh, it depends. Usually four or five. You want to please all the families, you know. But the names won't help: every Falkian family has a Falkieri or two, it's one of the commonest names in Lyonya. Artfielan—I've a son named that, a grandson and a nephew. Besides, the elves said he doesn't remember his name, and we don't know what name he's using."

  "So," she began again to organize her thoughts. "You say he would be about fifty years old, with red or yellow hair—"

  "I expect reddish," said Sier Halveric. "His was still reddish when he disappeared, and his father's had darkened."

  "Tall, you think? And what color eyes?"

  This began another argument. Paks found it hard to believe that no one had noticed the color of his eyes until she realized that she couldn't name the color of her own brothers' eyes either. Finally they agreed that they weren't green, gold, or dark. Blue or gray or something in between.

  But this left almost nothing to go on. A tallish man of late middle age with reddish hair and blue or gray eyes—unless his hair had turned gray already, or he'd gone bald. Paks had trouble imagining a bald prince, but after all, he was old enough to be her father. According to the elves, he had been someone's servant once. She assumed that meant in the Eight Kingdoms, but it might not. He might be a woodchopper somewhere (Paks thought of Mal in Brewersbridge, but of course he was too young) or a farmer. He might be a merchant, a craftsman, almost anything. Paks thought of the number of red-haired men she'd seen in the north and felt depressed. Not only that, he might have gone to Aarenis. Or across the ocean. She found she was making circles on the table with one finger. Everyone had fallen silent; she could tell by the glum faces that they, too, had realized the size of her task.

  "Unless the elves change their minds," said Sier Halveric, "I don't see how you can hope to find him in time to do us any good. There are too many—"

  "It would help," said Paks, "if they would give me details—what he looked like when they saw him, and so on. But remember, sirs, that the gods have sent me this quest. If the High Lord wants your prince on the throne, can even an elf hide him from me?"

  At this they cheered up, and Paks felt herself that somewhere in this she had learned something useful—if only she knew what.

  The old king's funeral ceremonies took from sunrise to long after sunset. When it was over, Paks went to her chambers to pick up her gear, packed ready. There she found Esceriel, Lieth, and the other King's Squires waiting.

  "You are not the queen," said Esceriel, "but we have no ruler to squire. By your leave, Lady, we will ride with you on this quest. It may be that you will have need of us—or when you find our king, we can serve him well."

  Paks looked at him searchingly. She had seen nothing of Esceriel until now; the others had taken their turns in her chambers. But she felt nothing evil in him, and none of them seemed likely to put a knife in her back.

  "I do not know how long I will be," she said finally. "Have you leave to be away from court for long?"

  "We have no ruler to serve; it was the king who gave or refused leave to his squires, Lady. Other than that, we are all Knights of Falk. Although we have stayed much at court, you will find us hardy travelers and able warriors, should such be needed." He turned aside for a moment, and one of the others handed him a bag, which he held out to Paks. "In addition, Lady, the court of Lyonya will bear any expense of our travels; here is the Council's gift to us, if you permit us to ride with you."

  Paks looked each of them in the eye—all steady, all seeming good companions. She nodded. "You are welcome to come with me, as far as you will, as long as your will and the quest I follow travel together. Yet I will not bind you; since I cannot say where and how I go, it would not be right to take your oaths." They all nodded. "If for any reason any or all of you decide to leave me, I will give you no blame for it. But I was planning to ride tonight, squires—or should I call you companions?"

  Lieth smiled. "By your leave we will be squires to you, Lady—it will keep us in practice for the king we hope to find. You know Esceriel and me; here are Garris, the oldest of us, but not too old for this, and Suriya, the youngest."

  "And we also are ready to ride tonight," said Esceriel. "Our horses are saddled and ready; we have stores packed. We need only our cloaks."

  "Very well," said Paks. "Then let us go."

  They rode out through streets glittering with deathlights, twigs wrapped with salt-soaked wicks that burned green. The sharp smell of the burning twigs carried on the light wind for some time after they left the city. Garris, the eldest of the squires, who had squired for the previous king as well, led the way through the woods southward. They carried torches; light glittered off the crusted snow.

  By daybreak, they were far from Chaya, among hills covered with forest. It was a gray morning, with icy mist between the trees, and Garris stopped them.

  "We should wait for this to lift," he said. "I know where we are, but I cannot read the taig enough to keep direction in the fog."

  "I can," said Paks, "But it will do us no harm to have a hot meal. If we travel today, Garris, can we come to shelter for the night, or must we camp in the snow?"

  "If we keep to the way I know, we will come to a steading by midafternoon. But it would be easy to miss—the land is not so settled as that you may be used to in Tsaia."

  "We'll see." Two of the squires built a fire; the others brought out pots and began to cook. Paks walked around, stretching her shoulders, and watching their preparations. The night before she had not paid much attention to their gear; now she found that they were prepared for a long march in almost any conditions, with two pack animals along.

  "When the king travelled," explained Lieth, "we cared for his things. Had you wanted it, we could have brought the royal tent as well." They had a small one; it would sleep all six of them if they crowded in.

&
nbsp; "I shall feel like a rich woman yet," said Paks, as they served out hot porridge and sib. She noticed that they took guard duty in turns, two by two, even though they were in friendly country.

  After the break, Paks led the way south, checking with Garris at intervals. She could feel a certain difference in the direction he thought the steading lay, a break in the forest taig. No one suggested stopping long at midday, though they rested the animals, and by midafternoon they had found a large farmstead. A log palisade surrounded a stone house; other houses clustered near it. Dogs ran out barking; a man in furlined leathers came out to look at them, and waved.

  Esceriel and Lieth rode ahead. Paks had not realized that they carried pennants until they lifted them: the royal crest on one, and—to her greater surprise—Gird's crescent on the other. By the time she rode up to the man, the squires had explained the quest, and the man bowed.

  "Be welcome here, Lady Paksenarrion; luck to your quest. We sorrow for the king's death; the messenger stopped here on the way to Aliam Halveric's and told us of it."

  "We thank you for your kindness, sir," said Paks.

  "This is Lord Selvis," said Lieth quickly.

  "Ride on in," said the man. "There's a barn inside the palisade. We've wild cats in the wood; we stall all the horses at night."

  All day the red horse had traveled like any other, but when Esceriel reached for his rein, he drew back. Paks grinned. "I'll take him myself, Esceriel."

  "He let the stablehands at Chaya—"

  "I had asked—and after that perhaps he understood the emergency." They walked to the barn together, the red horse breathing warm on Paks's neck at every step. When she took off saddle and bridle, she found him unmarked as if from a grooming. She picked up a brush anyway, but the horse nudged her hand aside. Esceriel stared.

  "I never saw a horse like that."

  "Nor I. He came out of the north, one day at the Duke's stronghold, in northern Tsaia. Slickcoated—as he is now—and full of himself."