Dorrin looked at it. "If I'd known that—"
"Excuse me, Lady—I was given a message for your hand." Paks looked up to see a page in the rose and silver house livery holding something out. She put out her hand, and took it. The page bowed, and quickly moved away. It was a small object wrapped in parchment. Paks folded the stiff material back carefully. When she saw what it contained, she felt as cold as if she'd been dipped in the ice-crusted river.
Chapter Twenty-seven
There on her hand lay the Duke's black signet ring, the same ring she had carried from Fin Panir to the Kuakgan's grove in Brewersbridge, the same ring she had taken back to the Duke that fall. The others had leaned to see what it was; Paks held out her hand, and watched the faces whiten. No one spoke. Paks flattened the parchment, and saw thin, angular writing she knew at once for blood. She shivered; she knew it must be his blood.
Alone, or Lyonya will have no king.
This too she showed the others, handing it around.
"By the Tree—" Kolya was the first to find speech. "What can you do, Paks?"
"Find him," said Paks grimly.
"But how?"
"They will guide me; they intend it." She was shaken by a storm of rage and grief, and struggled to master it. For what must come she had to be calm. She took the ring from Dorrin, who was staring blankly at it, and slipped it on her own middle left finger. "Kolya—" The one-armed woman met her eyes, blinking back tears. "Find the nearest Kuakgan—is there one near enough Vérella?"
"For what?"
"To aid him when he travels. I want the taigin awakened for him."
"Great lords above!" muttered the High Marshal.
Paks shot him a quick glance and went on. "Tell the Kuakgan to ask the taigin of Master Oakhallow: and tell him the three woods are fireoak, blackwood, and yellowwood."
"You want him to raise the highfire for the Duke?"
"For me," said Paks quietly. She turned quickly to Dorrin. "Make sure they are ready to ride at once. Whatever it takes, Captain Dorrin: the High Marshal will help you."
"Indeed I will." The High Marshal's expression was as grim as she felt. "Every Marshal in Vérella—"
"And on the way. Sir Marshal, I must speak to you alone." Dorrin and the others left quickly. Paks took a deep breath but before she could speak, the High Marshal asked:
"Do you foresee your own death, paladin of Gird?"
"I see nothing, sir Marshal, but the direction of my quest. It seems likely that this summons means death. But Girdsmen are hard to kill, as you know—" He nodded, with a tight smile. Paks went on. "Sir Marshal, I ask you these favors. Would you ask the Marshal-General to send a sword to my family at Three Firs when she thinks it safe for them, and such word of me as she thinks it wise for them to have?"
"I will," he said. "You are sure you will never return there?"
"I knew that before now, Sir Marshal. However this ends, I cannot return; I would like the Marshal-General to know my wishes in this."
"I will tell her," said Seklis. "Be sure of that. What else?"
"This time I will not have Gird's symbols defaced," said Paks. "I will arrange to return my arms and medallion. If you will leave these in the grange at Westbells, on your way east—"
"You expect to follow?" The High Marshal's voice was completely neutral.
Paks shook her head. "I expect to follow Gird's directions, Sir Marshal. I hope to follow, but—to be honest—I expect not."
He lowered his voice. "It is not the way of the Fellowship to sacrifice any Girdsman—let alone a paladin—without a fight."
Paks managed a smile. "On my honor, Sir Marshal, they will find they have a fight—though not the one they expected, perhaps. And as well—" she found herself grinning at him, "as well, imagine if one paladin can spoil such a long-laid plot. How many years has that black web-spinner been preening herself on the completeness of her webs? And the Master of Torments must have enjoyed what happened to a helpless child. Yet now the rightful king returns, and their attempt to sever Lyonya and Tsaia will fail."
"If you can find him." The High Marshal held her gaze. "If you can pay the price."
"I can find him," said Paks. "As for the price, what I have is the High Lord's, and I will return it as he asks."
"Gird's grace be with you, paladin," said the High Marshal formally.
"And Gird's power rest in your grange," replied Paks. She bowed and strode quickly from the chamber.
She hardly noticed those who moved out of her way in the passages outside. She was wondering how Phelan had been trapped. Were all the squires dead? Was he himself dead, and this message no more than a trap for her? But she did not believe that—else her quest would lead somewhere else. She would find him easily enough; those who had sent the ring would see to that. She came into the outer court and glanced up to see what light remained. In another glass or so it would be dark. No one questioned her at the outer gate, though the guards greeted her respectfully. She nodded to them and passed into the wide street beyond.
Here she slowed to a stroll, and looked around carefully. The street seemed full enough of hurrying people, hunched against the cold and ducking into one doorway or another. Directly across from the palace gate was a large inn, the Royal Guardsman. On one side was a saddler's, with a carved wooden horse, gaily decked, over the entrance. Beyond that was a cobbler's, then a tailor's shop. On the other side was a scribe-hall, then a narrow alley. Paks walked that way, past the ground floor windows of the inn's common room. She was aware when someone came out the inn door behind her. She felt the back of her neck prickle with another's attention. But she walked on, steadily. The footsteps behind quickened. Paks slowed, edging toward the front of the scribe-hall.
"I think," said a low voice at her shoulder, "that you must be Paksenarrion?"
Paks turned; the follower was a tall redheaded woman, in the garb of a free mercenary. Paks saw the hilt of a dagger in each boot as well as one at her waist.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I am Paksenarrion."
The redhead gave her a scornful look up and down. "You are just as Barra said. Well, and did you get our present?"
Paks raised an eyebrow. "If you mean a certain ring—"
"Don't play games with me, paladin," the woman sneered. "If you want to see him alive, follow me and keep your hands off your sword." She turned away.
"Stop," said Paks, not loudly but with power. The woman froze, then turned back to her, surprise in her eyes. "Before I go one step, I will have your word on this: is he alive? What of his squires?"
"They are all alive, Phelan and the squires, but they will die if you are not quick."
"And I should follow so we can all be killed at once, is that it?" Paks forced humor into her tone, and again the woman's eyes flashed surprise.
"No," she said sulkily. "The Master would be glad to kill all of you—and will—but you can buy your lord some time, if you dare it."
"And where do you go?"
"You would not know if I told you. There are places in Vérella that none but the Guild know, and places known only to few of the Guild." She looked hard at Paks for a moment, and shook her head quickly. "I wonder—perhaps Barra has erred—"
"Is this Barra's plot?" asked Paks. "Or Verrakai's?"
"You ask too much. Come." The woman turned away and walked off quickly. Paks followed, her heart pounding.
To her surprise, they did not enter the alley Paks had seen, but kept to the main streets until they were in the eastern end of Vérella. Then the woman turned into a narrower street, and another. Here was the sort of poverty Paks had seen in every city but Fin Panir and Chaya: crowded narrow houses overhanging filthy cobbles and frozen mud, ragged children huddled together for warmth, stinking effluvium from every doorway. She was aware of the curious glances that estimated her sword's worth and the strength of her arm rather than a paladin's honor. The redhead ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, scarce wide enough for their shoulders. It angl
ed around a broad chimney, and opened into a tiny court. Across that was a double door, painted black with red hinges. On this, the redhead rapped sharply with her dagger hilt; a shutter in the door scraped open.
Paks looked quickly around the open space. It was already draped in shadow, overlooked only by the blank rear walls of the buildings that ended here. Paks wondered at the windowless walls, then saw that there had been windows once—they were blocked up, some by brick and others by heavy shutters. She could hear the redheaded woman muttering at the door, and something small scuttling among the debris across the way. Aside from that, and the distant rumble of street noises, it was ominously quiet.
One leaf of the double doors opened, squealing on its hinges. "Come on," said the woman sharply. Paks did not move.
"I want to see him."
"Inside."
"No. Here. Alive." Paks called light, and it cast a cool white radiance over the grimy stones, the stinking litter along the walls. Several dark shapes fled squeaking into holes.
The woman turned back to the doorkeeper, and muttered again. Paks waited. The door slammed shut, and the woman turned back to her.
"I told you he was alive. You're only making it worse."
"On the contrary," said Paks. "I do what is necessary."
"Necessary!" The woman spat. "You'll learn necessary soon enough."
"That may be, but I will see him alive and well before then."
"As the Master answers, you will see." They waited in heavy silence for some minutes. When the doors opened, both sides gaping wide, two files of armed men emerged. The first were dressed in dark clothes, and carried short swords. Behind them came two priests of Liart, their hideous snouted helms casting weird shadows in Paks's light. But for one being slightly taller, she could see no difference in them. The redhead bowed deeply. The two faced Paks; one of them raised a spiked club.
"Paladin of Gird, have you come to redeem your master?"
"He is not my master, but the rightful king of Lyonya, as you know."
"But dear to you."
"To bring him to his throne was laid on me for my quest," said Paks. "He is no longer my lord, for I am Gird's paladin."
"But you are here because of him."
"Because of Lyonya's king, yes."
"The Master of Torments desires otherwise."
"The Master of Torments has already found that the High Lord prevails."
A howl of rage answered that, and a bolt of blue light cast from the second priest. Paks laughed, tossing it aside with her hand. "See," she said. "You have said that he lives, and that you have some bargain in mind—but I am not without power. State your terms, slaves of a bad master."
"You will all die in torment—" began one, but the other hushed him and stepped forward.
"You killed our Master's servants in Lyonya," he said. "You killed them in Aarenis before that. The Master will have your blood for that blood, or take the blood of Lyonya's king."
"Death for life?" asked Paks.
"No." The priest shook his head slowly. "Torment for it, paladin of Gird. Death is easy—one stroke severs all necks, and our Master knows you paladins expect a long feasting thereafter. You must buy the king of Lyonya's freedom with the space of your own suffering. This night and day one will suffer as our Master demands—either Lyonya's king, or you."
"And then you will continue, and kill in the end." Paks kept her voice steady with an effort.
"It may be so, though there is another who wants your death. Uncertainty is, indeed, an element of torment. But the terms are these: you must consent, and come unresisting to our altar, or Lyonya's king will be maimed before another dawn, and will never take the throne."
"Prove that he and his squires live."
"His squires! What are they to you?"
"You would not know. Prove it."
One of the priests withdrew. In a short time, the priest and more armed men appeared, bringing Phelan and the squires, all bound and disarmed. One man carried their weapons.
They gaped across the tiny yard at Paks's light. Phelan's face hardened as he saw her. Garris sagged between his guards, as if badly hurt. Suriya's right arm was bandaged, and Lieth's helmet sat askew above a scalp wound. Selfer limped.
"Paks. I had hoped you wouldn't come to this trap." Phelan's voice barely carried across the court.
"Your ring worked as we hoped." That was one of the priests.
"A paladin on quest, my lord, has little choice," said Paks, ignoring the priest and meeting Phelan's gaze.
"Now you see that we have what we claimed," said the first priest. "Will you redeem him?"
"All of them," said Paks. "The squires too."
"Why the squires?"
"Why should any be left in your hands?" Paks took a long breath. "I will barter for the king, and these squires, on these grounds: one day and night for each—you to restore their arms, and let them go free for those days."
"Paks, no!" Suriya leaned forward; her guards yanked her back.
"You have no power to bargain," said the priest. "We can kill them now."
"And you are beyond your protection," said Paks, "and I am within mine. If you kill them, Liart's scum, I will kill many of you—and your power here will fail. Perhaps I cannot save them—though you would be foolish to count on that—but I can kill you."
"So." The priests conferred a moment. "We will agree on these terms: one day and night for each—that is five you would redeem?"
"Have you more in your power?"
"No. Not at present. Five, then: five days and nights. We will restore their arms and free them when you are within."
"No." Paks shook her head. "You know the worth of a paladin's word. I know the worth of yours. You will free them now, and on my oath they will not strike a blow against you—"
"Paks—"
"Be silent, Suriya. As it is my choice to redeem you, so you are bound by my oath in this. Take your weapons and return to the palace; guard your lord on his journey and say no more." She looked from face to face. "All of you—do you understand?"
Phelan's eyes glittered. "Paks, you must not. You don't understand—"
"Pardon, my lord, but I do understand—perhaps more than you do. I am not your soldier now. I follow the High Lord, and Gird, the protector of the helpless, into whatever ways they call. Do not, I pray you, make this quest harder than it is."
He bowed as much as he could. "Lady, it shall be as you say. But when I am king—"
"Then speak as the king's honor demands," said Paks, meeting his eyes steadily. She looked back at the priest. "You will not harry them for the days of the bargain."
"We will not."
"Then I take oath, by Gird and the High Lord, that when I see them safely freed and armed I will submit without battle to your mastery for five days and nights."
"Unbind them," said one of the priests.
"Wait," said Paks. They paused. "I have one further demand. They shall carry away my own arms, that Gird's armor be not fouled in your den."
"I have no objection," said the priest curtly. He nodded, and the guards untied the bonds. Garris slumped to the ground; Suriya and Selfer struggled to lift him. "Is he dead?" asked Paks.
"Not quite," said Selfer grimly. Paks prayed, certain the Liartian priests would not let her touch Garris to heal him. She felt a drain on her strength, as the healing often seemed, and Garris managed to stand between the other two. Suriya looked at her, and nodded slowly. When they had all been given their weapons, Paks spoke again.
"Come here—near the entrance—and I will disarm." Lieth and Phelan warded her as best they could while she took off her weapons and mail. She folded everything into a neat stack, covered with her cloak against curious eyes, and tucked her Gird's medallion into it. Then she took off Phelan's signet ring and handed it to him. "My lord, your ring. Take your royal sword, and keep it to your hand after this. Lieth, High Marshal Seklis will take my gear. My lord, you must go at once."
"Paks
—"
"Gird's grace on you, sir king." Paks bowed; Phelan nodded, and started up the passage with Lieth guarding the rear. She watched just long enough to see them around the chimney, then turned back to the others. They had not moved.
"It is astonishing," said one priest, "that Girdsmen are so gullible." Paks said nothing. "For all you know, that man may be a convert to our Master's service."
At that, Paks laughed. "You know better than that of paladins: if he were evil, I would know. I can read your heart well enough."
"Good," said the priest, his voice chilling. "Read it closely, paladin, and learn fear." He nodded, and the swordsmen came forward on either side. "Remember your oath, fool: you swore to come without a battle."
Paks felt her belly clench; for a moment fear shook her mind and body both. Then she steadied herself and faced them. "As I swore, so I will do; the High Lord and Gird his servant command me."
The priests both laughed. "What a spectacle we can offer! It's rare sport to have a paladin to play with—and one sworn to offer no resistance is rarer yet."
Paks made no answer, and when the swordsmen surrounded her, stood quietly. None of them touched her for a moment, daunted by her light, but when the priests gave a sharp command they prodded her forward, across the yard and into the doorway. Once inside, the priests grabbed her and slammed her roughly against the wall of the passage. Her light had vanished. She felt their assault on her heart at the same time, but trusted that no evil could touch her so. Guards bound her arms behind her and her ankles with heavy thongs, drawing them cruelly tight. Then they dragged her down one passage and another, down steep stairs where every stair left its own bruise, along wide corridors and narrow ones, until she was nearly senseless.
That journey ended in a large chamber, torchlit, half-full of kneeling worshippers. The guards pulled Paks upright, supporting her between them so that she could see the size of the room and the equipment gathered on a platform at the near end. It was grim enough; Paks had seen such things before. She would never come out of here; she would die of it, and worse than that, she would be watched, taunted, ridiculed, as it happened. She tried to think of something else—anything else—and felt a nudge in her back, warm and soft, as if the red horse had pushed against her. When the priests confronted her, she knew her face showed nothing of her fear.