Elizabeth Moon - Paksenarrion 3 - Oath Of Gold.pdf

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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

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