Elizabeth Moon - Paksenarrion 3 - Oath Of Gold

Oath of blood is Hart'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

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 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. Abird 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 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 as

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.

"Stay 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.

"Dessert," he said firmly. “Plum tart or apple?"

"Apple," said Paks, and he pushed the tart across. She bit into the flaky crust

sweet apple juice ran down her chin. When the tart was gone, the Kuakgan was

still eating his. Paks cleaned her chin with a corner of the cloth that had been

around the kettle. She found herself holding another slice of bread, and ate that.

She felt full and a little sleepy. He finished his tart and looked at her.

"That's better," he said. “Now. You'll want to wash up a bit, and use the jacks, I

expect. Let me show you...” He touched a panel beside the fireplace, and it slid

aside to reveal a narrow passage. On one side was a door, through which Paks

caught a glimpse of a bunk. On the other, a door opened on three steps down to a

stone-flagged room with a channel along one side. Paks heard the gurgle of

moving water, and the candlelight sparkled on its surface. “Cold water only," said

Master Oakhallow. “There's the soaproot, and a towel...” He lit other candles in the

chamber as he spoke. “If you're tired of those clothes, you can wear this robe." He

pointed to a brown robe hanging from a peg. “Now, I'll be out for awhile. When

you're through, go on back to the other room. Whatever you do, don't go outside

the house. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Paks. “I won't."

"Good." He turned and went back up the stairs Paks saw the light of his candle

dwindle down the passage.

The little room was chilly and damp, but smelled clean and earthy. Paks started

to wash her hands, gingerly, but the cold water merely tingled instead of biting.

She splashed it on her face, started to dry it, then glanced warily at the door.

Surely he was really gone. She went up the steps and looked. Nothing. She came

back down and looked at the water for a moment, then grunted and stripped off

her clothes: she felt caked in dirt and sweat. She wet the soaproot and scrubbed

herself, then stood in the channel and scooped water over her soapy body. By the

time she had finished, she was shivering, but vigorous towelling warmed her

again. She looked at her clothes and wished she had not put her spare shirt in the

offering basin. Her clothes were as dirty as she had been. She looked at the

brown robe, then took it off the peg. It felt soft and warm. When she came from

the jacks, she looked at her clothes again. She wondered if she could wash them

in the channel, but decided against it: she needed hot water and a pot. She shook

them hard, brushed them with her hand, and folded them into a bundle. She

slipped her bare feet back into her worn boots and went up the steps, down the

passage, and into the main room.

The Kuakgan had lit more candles before he left, and the room had a warm

glow. He had drawn shutters across the windows she was glad of that. She sat

down at the table to wait, wondering how long he would be. She thought of where

she'd expected to be this night alone in the hills, perhaps to see no dawn and

shivered, looking around her quickly. This was pleasant: the soft robe on her

shoulders, the good meal. Why didn't I ever? I could have bought mushrooms at

least once She pushed these thoughts away. She wondered where the Kuakgan

was, and if he'd bought the meal with her offering. And most of all what was he

going to do? She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn't.

She eased into sleep without knowing it, leaning on the table she never knew

when he came in. When she woke again, she was wrapped in a green blanket

and lying on the floor against the wall. The windows were unshuttered and

sunlight struck the tree trunks outside. She felt completely relaxed and wide

awake at the same time. Her stomach rumbled. She was just unwrapping the

blanket when the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight.

"Time for breakfast," said the Kuakgan as he came in. He carried a dripping

honeycomb over a bowl. Paks felt her mouth water. She climbed out of the

blanket, folded it, and came to the table where he was laying out cheese, bread,

and the honeycomb. “You won't have had this honey before," he said. “It's

yellowwood honey, an early spring honey, and they never make much of it." He

glanced at her and smiled. “You slept well."

Paks found herself smiling in return.

"Yes… yes, sir, I did."

She sat down.

"Here," he said, pouring from the jug. “It's goat's milk. Put some honey in your

mug with it."

Paks broke off a piece of comb and floated it in the milk. He sliced the cheese

and pushed some towards her. She sipped the milk: it was delicious. The honey

had a tang to it as well as sweetness. The Kuakgan dripped some on his cheese

Paks did the same, and had soon eaten half a cheese, each slice dripping honey.

Bees flew in the window and settled on the remains of the comb.

"No, little sisters," said the Kuakgan. “We have need of this." He hummed briefly,

and the bees flew away. Paks stared at him he smiled.

"Do you really talk to bees?" she asked.

"Not talk, exactly. It's more like singing, they're a musical folk. They dance, too

did you know that?" Paks shook her head, wondering if he was teasing. “It's quite

true I'll show you someday."

"Can you speak with all the animals? Those birds yesterday, and bees"

"It's a Kuakgan's craft to learn the nature of all creatures: trees and grass as well

as birds, beasts, and bees. When you know what something is what its nature is,

how it fits into the web of life, you can then begin to speak its language. It's a slow

craft living things are various, and each one is different."

"Some mages speak to animals," said Paks.

The Kuakgan snorted. “Mages! That's different. That's like the ring you had. A

mage, now, wants power for himself. If he speaks to an animal, it's for his own

purposes. Kuakkgani, we learn their languages because we love them: the

creatures. Love them as they are, and for what they were made. When I speak to

the owl that nests in that ash" he nodded to the window...”it is not to make use of

him, but to greet him. Of course, I must admit we do get some power from it. We

can ask them things, we know their nature. But we are the ones who serve all

created things without wanting to change them. That's why the Marshal in the

grange is never quite sure I'm good enough for an ally."

Paks watched him, feeling that she should be able to find some other meaning in

what he said, something that would apply to her. She could not think of anything.

She wondered when he would start to question her.

He sat back from the table and looked at her. “Well, now. Your clothes are drying

on the bushes out there, but they'd be clammy yet. You'll be more comfortable

outside in something other than that robe, I daresay." He rose and went to a chest

near the wall. “This will fit close enough." He held out homespun trousers with a

drawstring waist, and a linen shirt. “Come outside when you're ready I want to

show you something." He went out the door and shut it behind him.

Paks looked at the clothes. They were creased as if they'd been in the chest a

long time. She fingered the cloth, looking nervously at the windows. She looked

for the passage beside the fireplace, but the panel was closed, and she couldn't

find the touchlock. At last she sat on the floor beside the table, breathing fast, and

changed from the robe to the pants and shirt. She put on her belt over the shirt

and looked for her dagger. It was on the table.

When she pushed on the door, it opened silently. Outside, the sunny glade

seemed empty, until she saw the Kuakgan standing motionless by the end of the

stone-marked path. He gestured to her, and she walked across the glade.

"You must stay near me," he said. “The grove is not safe for wanderers,

experienced pathfinders cannot be sure of its ways. If we are separated, be still. I

will find you. Nothing will harm you as long as you are still, or with me. It may be

that I have to leave you suddenly… I hope not, but it might happen. Just stay

where I left you. You will find enough beauty to watch until I come back." He

began to move through the trees, as silent as a current of air. Paks followed

closely. From time to time he stopped, and touched a tree or herb lightly, but he

said nothing, and Paks was silent as well. As the morning warmed, more birds

sang around them, and the rich scents of leafmold and growing things rose from

the ground. Paks found herself breathing slowly, deeply. She had no idea where

they were in the grove, but it didn't matter. She began to look with more attention

to the trees and bushes they walked past. The Kuakgan touched a tree trunk:

Paks saw a tiny lichen, bright as flame, glowing against dark furrowed bark. She

saw for herself a clump of tiny mushrooms, capped in shiny red a strawberry in

flower a fern-frond uncurling out of dry leaves. She realized that the Kuakgan was

standing still, watching her. When she met his eyes, he nodded.

Chapter Two

So passed the rest of that day, with the warm spring sun and the silence

unknotting the muscles of back and neck that had been tight so long. They came

on a tiny trickle of clear water, and drank for awhile in the early afternoon they sat

near a mound of stone, and Paks fell asleep. When she woke, the Kuakgan was

gone, but before she had stretched more than twice, she saw him coming through

the trees. From time to time her mind would reach for the memory of yesterday's

pain, but she could not touch it: it was as if a pane of heavy glass lay between that

reality and this. She could not think what she might do next, or where to go, and at

last she quit trying to think of it.

They came back to the Kuakgan's house in the last of the sunlight. Paks took her

clothes, now dry, from the bushes, and folded them in her arms. She felt

pleasantly tired, and slightly hungry. The Kuakgan smiled.

"Sit here in the warmth, while I bring supper," he said. “Or will you come with

me?"

Paks thought of the inn, and the misery returned full strength. This time she felt

the tension knotting her brow and hunching her shoulders, and tried to stand

upright. But before she could frame an answer, the Kuakgan shook his head.

"No. Not yet. Stay. As I feared, it will take more than one day of healing." And he

was gone, across the glade and along the path to the village.

She sat trembling, hating herself for the fear that had slammed back into her

mind. She could not even go to an inn even here, where she had had friends, and

no enemies. She stared at her hands, broad and scarred with the years of war. If

she could not hold a sword or bow, what could she do? Not stay forever with the

Kuakgan, that wouldn't do. Her hand felt for her belt pouch, and she remembered

that she'd put it in the offering basin. Everything was gone everything from those

years had gone as if it had never been. Warriors can't keep much, but that little

they prize the loss of the last of her treasures to the kuaknom still hurt: Saben's

little red horse, Canna's medallion. Now she had not even the Duke's ring left (the

third ring, she thought ruefully, that he's given me and I've lost somehow.)

As before, she wasn't sure how long the Kuakgan had been gone when he

returned. He was simply there, in the evening dimness, carrying another kettle.

She forced herself up as he came toward her. He nodded, and they went into the

house together. This time she helped unpack the kettle, and made no protest at

eating. He had brought slices of roast mutton swimming in gravy, redroots

mashed with butter, and mushrooms. Again. She looked up, to say something

about the cost, met his eyes, and thought better of it. She ate steadily, enjoying

the food more than she expected to, but fearing the questions he would surely ask

after supper.

But he said nothing, as long as she ate, and when she finished, and stacked her

pans for return, he seemed to be staring through the opposite wall. His own

dishes were empty she reached for them, wiped them, and put them in the kettle.

He looked at her suddenly, and smiled briefly.

"You're wondering when I will start to question you."

Paks looked down, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “Yes."

"I had thought tonight. But I changed my mind." A long silence. Paks looked

away, around the room, back to his face. It was unreadable.

"Why?" she asked finally.

He sighed, and shook his head. “I'm not sure how or how much to tell you.

Healing is a Kuakganni craft, as you know." Paks nodded. “Well, then, one part of

the healing craft is knowing when. When to act, and when to wait. In the case of

humans, one must also know when to ask, and when to keep silent. You are not

ready to speak of it, whatever it is."

Paks moved restlessly. “You I would have thought you'd have heard

something…"

"Hmmm." It became as resonant as his comments to the bees. Paks looked at

his face again. “I hear many things. Most of them false, as far as talk goes.

Brewersbridge is a little out of the way for reliable news." He looked at her

squarely. “And whatever I might have heard, what is important is you, yourself.

Just as you, yourself, will heal when you are ready."

Paks looked away. She could feel the tears stinging her eyes again.

"There. You are not ready, yet. Don't worry it will come. Let your body gain

strength for a few days. You are already better, though you don't feel it."

"But I couldn't go...” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

"But that will pass. That will pass." She felt a wave of warmth and peace roll over

her mind, and the pain eased again.

But several nights later, the dream returned. Once more she was fighting for her

life far underground, tormented by thirst and hunger and the pain of her wounds.

She smelled the rank stench of the green torches, and felt the blows of knife and

whip that striped her sides. She gasped for breath, choked, scrabbled at the

fingers knotted in her throat and woke to find the Kuakgan beside her, holding her

hands in his.

Soft candlelight lit the room. She stared wildly for a moment, lost in the dream,

trembling with the effort of the fight.

"Be still," he said softly. “Don't try to talk. Do you know me yet?"

After a minute or two she nodded. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and she

worked it around. “Master Oakhallow." Her voice sounded odd.

"Yes. You are safe. Lie still, now I'll get you something to drink."

The mint-flavored water cleaned remembered horrors out of her mouth. She tried

to sit up, but the Kuakgan pushed her down gently. A tremor shook her body as

she tried to fight it off, the pain of those wounds returned, sapping her strength.

“You still have pain?" he asked. Paks nodded.

"How long ago were those wounds dealt?" She tried to count back. Her mind

blurred, then steadied. “From it would have been last summer. Late in the

summer."

"So long?" His eyebrows rose. “Hmm. What magic bound them?" Paks shook

her head. “I don't know. The paladin and Marshal both tried healing. It helped, but

the kuaknom had done something to them...”

"Kuaknom! What were you doing with them?" Paks looked down, shivering.

“They captured me. In Kolobia."

"So. I don't wonder that you have grave difficulties. And they dealt these wounds

that pain you now?"

"Not… exactly. It...”As the memory swept over her, Paks could not speak. She

shook her head, violently. The Kuakgan caught it, and held her still.

"No more, then, tonight. Sleep." He answered the fear in her eyes before she

could say it. “You won't dream again. That I can still, and you will rest as you did

the first night, and wake at peace. Sleep." She fell into his voice, into the silence

beyond it, and slept.

In the morning she woke rested, as he had promised. Still the shame of her

breakdown was on her, and she came to the breakfast table silently and did not

smile.

"You will not have those dreams again," he said quietly, as she ate. “When I

release your dreams again, those will be healed. This much I promise. I have

waited as long as I could for your body's healing, Paksenarrion. It is now time to

begin on the mind. Whatever ill you have suffered has clearly injured both."

She nodded, silent and intent on her bread.

"I will need to see these wounds you spoke of." He reached for her arm. Paks

froze an instant, then stretched her hand out. He pushed up her sleeve. The red-

purple welts were still swollen. “You have more of these?"

"Yes."

"Many?"

"Yes." Despite herself, she was shivering again.

"And they are all over a half-year old?" Paks nodded.

"Powerful magic, then, and dangerous. Have they faded at all? How long did it

take for them to heal this far?"

"They… fade sometimes," Paks said softly. “For a week or so, as if they were

healing. Then they swell and redden again. At first I don't know how long it was. I

think only a day or so, but I lost track of time."

"I see. Have any true elves seen this?"

"Yes. One that came with us. He thought they had used something like the true

elves use to speed and slow the growth of plants."

"Ah. It might be so, indeed. Perverted, as they would have it to heal quickly

Elizabeth Moon - Paksenarrion 3 - Oath Of Gold

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