Oath of Gold

5

Paks was aware of something cold and hard touching her skin before she could think what had happened. It was dark. She began to shiver from the cold. A pungent, resinous odor prickled her nose. When she tried to rub it, she found she couldn’t move her arms. Sudden panic soured her mouth: dark, cold, trapped. She tried to squirm free. Now she could feel pressure along most of her body. Nothing moved. She heaved frantically, heedless of roughness that scraped her. She stirred only dust that clogged her nose and made her sneeze. The sneeze stirred more dust; she sneezed again.

A ghost of reason returned: if she could sneeze, she was not being crushed utterly. She tried to think. Her head hurt. Her arms—she tried to feel, to wiggle her fingers. One was cramped under her; she worked those fingers back and forth. The other moved only slightly as she tried it. It felt as if it were under a sack of meal—something heavy, but yielding. When she tried to lift her head from the dust, it bumped something hard above her: bumped on the very place that hurt so. Paks muttered a Company curse at that, and let her head back down. Her legs—she tried again, without success, to move them. They were trapped under the same heavy weight as the rest of her body. She rested her cheek on the dust beneath it and wandered back into sleep.

When she heard the voices, she thought at first she was dreaming. Silvery elven voices, much like Ardhiel’s, wove an intricate pattern of sound. She lay, blinking in the darkness, and listened. After a moment, she realized that the darkness was no longer complete. She could see, dimly, a gnarled root a few inches from her nose. Remembering the hard barrier above her head, she turned cautiously to the side, and tried to look up. Tiny flickers of dim light seeped through whatever held her down. The voices kept talking or singing. It might not be a dream. She listened.

“—somewhere about here, if I heard the call rightly. Mother of Trees! The daskdraudigs must have fallen on them.”

“So it must. Look how the trees are torn.”

“But the firs would try to hold—”

“No tree could hold against that.” Paks suddenly recognized a voice she knew. Giron. Rangers. A dim memory began to return.

“They must be dead.” A woman’s voice. Tamar? Yes, that was the name.

“I fear so.” Giron again. “I fear so, indeed. Yet we must search as we can. I would not leave their bones under these foul stones.”

“If we can move them.” Another man. Clevis, or Ansuli—Paks could not think which. He sounded weary, or injured; his voice had no depth to it.

“Not you, Ansuli. You but watch, while Tamar and I search and move.”

It occurred to Paks, as slowly as in a dream, that she should say something. She tried to call, and as in dreams could make no sound: her mouth was dry and caked with dust. She tried again, and emitted a faint croak. She could hear the bootsteps on nearby stone; that sounded louder than her attempt. Once again—a louder croak, but no human sound. Then the dust caught her nose again and she sneezed. Boots scraped on rock.

“Phaer! Are you alive? Paksenarrion?” The sounds came nearer.

Paks tried again. “Ennh! ’Ere. Down here.” It was not loud, but the rangers’ hearing was keen.

She heard a scraping and swishing sound very close; more light scattered down from above. “Under this tree?” asked Giron, overhead somewhere. “Who is there?”

“Paks,” she managed. “Down here.”

“Where’s Phaer? Is he alive?”

“I don’t know.” But as she said it, she realized what the “sack of meal” weighing down her right arm must be. She tried to sense, from that arm, whether he breathed, but could not; the arm was numb. “I—think he’s under this too.”

“Can you move, Paksenarrion?” That was Tamar, now also overhead.

“No—not much. I can turn my head.” She tried to unfold the arm cramped under her, without success.

“Wait, then, and don’t fear. We’ll free you.”

“What is it that’s holding me down?” There was a brief silence, then:

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll free you. It will take some time.”

In fact, it seemed to take forever. The sky was darkening again when Tamar was able to clamber down cautiously and touch Paks, passing a flask of water to her lips. Then she planted one foot in front of Paks’s nose and went back to work. By the sound of saw and knife, Paks knew that much of the weight and pressure came from a tree—or many trees. Gradually a wider space cleared before her. She could look down her body now, and see Tamar trimming limbs away from her hips. Directly above was the main trunk of the tree; she still could not raise her head more than an inch or so from the dust. She worked her left arm out from under her body. It felt heavy and lifeless; she could not unclench her fist. She turned her head carefully to look the other way.

Phaer’s face was as close to her as a lover’s. Cold and pale, stern, and clearly dead. Paks froze, horrified. She had not known he was so close—and being so close, how had he been killed while she was safe? She crooked her neck to look over her right shoulder. Phaer lay on her arm; tree limbs laced across him, and on the limbs a tumble of great boulders that ran back up the slope to the base of the ledge she had seen. Paks tried again to pull her arm free, but she couldn’t move it.

“Tamar!”

“We’re working, Paks. We can’t hurry; the tree could turn and crush you completely.”

“I know. But I can turn a little, and I saw Phaer—”

“We know.” Giron’s voice came from the other side of the rock pile. “Tamar was able to see past you.”

“But he—” Paks found her eyes full of tears suddenly.

“He died well. He shot the daskin arrows, didn’t he?”

“Daskin? Those with the crystal?”

“Yes.”

“Yes—he did. They both went in. But then the tail end whipped over—”

“I know.” Giron sighed; he was close enough for her to hear it. “Yet we must call ourselves lucky, Paksenarrion, to lose only two to a daskdraudigs. We might all have been killed, and the foul thing loose to desecrate the very rock. I honor your perception; none of us sensed it before you did, and none of us could find it. That is its skill, to spread its essence through the very stone so that it cannot be found.”

“Paksenarrion,” said Tamar, now back at her head. “Can you tell how much of your body is trapped under Phaer’s?”

“No—at least my right arm—maybe a leg—”

“We cannot hurry this, but you are weakening. Here—drink this, and let me feed you.”

Tamar sat in the space she had made, and held the flask to Paks’s lips. She drained it slowly; she could not take more than small sips. Tamar massaged her left arm, and slowly sensation came back, first as prickling, then as a fiery wave. Paks flexed her fingers, wincing at the pain, but was able to take a bit of waybread from Tamar and get it into her own mouth. Meanwhile, Tamar had taken off her own cloak, and she spread it along as much of Paks’s body as she could reach. “Don’t lose heart,” she said. “We will certainly free you, and Phaer’s body.”

“What is a daskdraudigs?” asked Paks. “Phaer kept yelling that, and I didn’t know.”

“Hmmmm—” It was almost as long as the Kuakgan’s hum. Finally Tamar said, “If you truly don’t know, I would rather not speak of it here. Time enough when we are far from this place, and at peace.”

“But it’s dead—isn’t it?”

“Do you sense any life in it?”

Paks shivered; she didn’t want to feel for that foulness again. But nothing stirred in her mind—no warnings, and no revulsion. “No,” she said finally.

“Good. Then we needn’t worry, for now.” Tamar stood, after laying her hand lightly on Paks’s brow. “Trust us, and lie still. Be ready to answer us when the load begins to lift. We do not wish to cause you more injury.”

But darkness rose from among the trees of the forest as they worked. The stones in the pile were large and heavy, and awkward to lift or move. Twice they shifted suddenly under Giron’s feet. He and Tamar both came near being crushed by the stones they tried to move. Ansuli came and tried to help; Paks heard the pain in his grunts of effort. Finally Giron stopped them.

“We cannot work this pile in the dark; we could all be crippled by a misstep here. We must make a light, or use other means, or—Tamar, do you think Paksenarrion can last the night?”

Hearing that question, Paks wanted to cry out. She could not—could not—stay under that tree, motionless, another night. She clenched her jaw. She could not make them do anything: if they decided to leave her there, there she would stay.

“Giron, she has withstood more than I would expect of any human. But another night, in this cold—with no way to ease her limbs—no. We must keep working somehow.”

“We agreed we would not use the elfane hier before her—”

“She is one of us now. We owe that to our own.”

“I think so too,” said Ansuli. “She has seen the elfane taig, she has been in the hands of the daskdusky cousins—and were we not told that the Lord Ardhiel blew that elfhorn, of which it is said that the High Prince of the Lord’s Inner Court will hear the call, and bring aid. She has seen as much elfane hier as many elves, already.”

Paks tried to make sense of this. The elfane taig she knew—but what was the elfane hier? The blowing of the elfhorn—she could never forget that, and the beauty of the winged steed that bore an unearthly warrior. Before she could think further, she saw a soft white light, as if all the stars’ lights were mingled together in one place. She could not see where it came from; it seemed to spread, like sunlight in mist, without shadows.

“Have you the strength for the lifting?” asked Ansuli.

“More than you,” said Giron. “Maintain the light, if you would. Tamar?”

“I am ready.”

Again Paks heard the rasp and scrape of stone on stone, then distant thuds as stones were dropped. She could not see, past Phaer’s shoulder, the size of the pile remaining. Cold edged into her, from the ground and the stones she touched. She tried to stay calm, and save her strength; at last she slept, exhausted.

Sharp pain woke her. Her right arm, her back, her legs: all were afire. Someone was pulling at her, dragging her, and she had no skin left—She opened her mouth to scream, and saw Tamar’s face before her.

“Paksenarrion. Be still. You are free. You feel the blood returning, that’s all. By some miracle of the gods, you have not even a single broken bone.”

Paks could not have told that from the feel. Everything ached, stabbed, throbbed. She tried to take a deep breath, and found herself coughing convulsively. Tamar held her, offered a flask of water. Paks managed to swallow some between coughs, and the spasms eased. Gradually the pains settled down to recognizable bruises and scrapes. Cramped muscles relaxed, fibre by fibre. She looked around. Giron had kindled a small fire; she could feel the warmth along one side. She did not know where they were. She could see a lump of blankets beyond the fire: Ansuli, resting at last.

“Phaer’s body is laid straight in the forest,” said Tamar, as if answering a question. “Tomorrow we will lay the boughs upon him; for tonight, Giron has set a warding spell to guard. Clevis, who was killed when the forward end of the monster came upon us, has been laid straight as well. You and Ansuli will mend, though you will be weak some days, I expect.” She moved her arms out from under Paks’s head. “I’ll get you something hot from the fire; you’re still chilled.”

The hot drink began to ease the rest of Paks’s pains. She tried to move her feet, and felt them drag slowly against the ground. Her right arm still seemed numb and unresponsive. Tamar began to move it for her, bending and straightening the elbow and wrist. At last the feeling seeped back. She had been able to move all her limbs on her own, and was thinking of sleep again, when she noticed the first lifting of dawnlight in the sky. Giron, who had been standing guard outside the firelight, came back to cook a hot meal. Tamar went for water. Ansuli rolled partway over, groaned, and pushed himself up on one elbow.

“How is she?”

“I’m fine,” said Paks. She still felt heavy and stiff, but knew that would pass.

“Well,” said Giron, looking from Ansuli to Paks and back, “if she’s not fine, she’s better than we would have expected.” He stirred the cookpot again. “Tamar says you don’t know what that was. Is that so, Paksenarrion?”

“Yes, I had never heard the name.”

“Daskdraudigs. Rockterror. Some call it rockserpent, though it is not a serpent. It has only a similar form, being long with a writhing body and coils. Some say, too, that the dasksinyi, the dwarves, breed such creatures to guard their treasure vaults. I think that is a lie: dwarves and elves seldom agree, but dwarves are not evil. Most of them, anyway. As you saw, it seems rock until it is aroused: most often a ledge, but sometimes in the form of ruined walls or buildings.” Paks thought of all the ruins she and Macenion had ventured near—what if one had been such a creature? “Even when it rouses,” Giron went on, “it has the strength and weight of rock. Ordinary weapons blunt or break against its scales. The daskin arrows, dwarfwrought, will pierce its substance and fix the stone in place. Their virtue passes but slowly along its length, though—so the daskdraudigs has time to avenge itself. And worse, in after times it can renew itself and regain its mobility.”

“But why did it attack my mind?”

“I know not, Paksenarrion, why you were so sensitive to it. The revulsion you felt is what all who can sense the taig feel, when they come within range. The creature terrifies and confuses. Those who cannot sense a taig may wander near enough to be consumed. We do not understand why a creature of stone would desire kyth-blood, but so it seems. Certainly it is an evil thing, and the gods of light designed the races of the kyth for good. Perhaps that is enough.”

Hot food restored a sense of solidity, but Paksenarrion was still stiff and weak. She looked along her arms; dark bruises mottled them, and she was sure the rest of her body looked as bad. Ansuli had been hit by flying stones; he had a couple of broken ribs and a bad gash on his leg. Tamar had only a scrape across her forehead—from the tree limbs, she explained—and Giron limped slightly from a bruised foot. They all rested around the fire after breakfast. Then Giron sighed and stood.

“We must see to the bodies of our friends,” he said. “Ansuli, can you walk if I help you?”

“For that, of course.” Ansuli pushed himself up, grunting with the effort, and Giron steadied him.

“Paksenarrion, I doubt you can stand—but if you would try, Tamar will help.” Paks felt as stiff as stone herself, but with Tamar’s aid she was able to stand at last. She tried to take a step and nearly fell. Giron shook his head. “You can’t go so far. Lie down again—”

“No.” Paks shook her head, waking the pain in her skull. “I don’t want to stay here alone—”

Giron raised his brows. “You would face a daskdraudigs and fear this peaceful site? But perhaps you sense something again?”

“No. I meant—Phaer was with me. He—we—we fell together, and if he had not pushed me ahead, I too—”

“Ah. You wish to join us in honoring him.”

“Yes. With Tamar’s help, I can walk.” She took another step to prove this, and stayed upright, though with difficulty.

“Very well. We will go slowly.” They had spent the night, Paks saw, on the edge of the band of trees splintered and torn by the falling daskdraudigs. She wondered again how she had escaped being crushed by either tree or stone. Giron led them downslope, back to the trail they had been on and beyond. In a small glade surrounded by silver poplars, Phaer and Clevis were laid side by side, their bows beside them.

“Stay here and watch,” said Giron, “while Tamar and I seek the sacred boughs.” Paks and Ansuli sank down, one on either side of the clearing, to watch and wait. For some time they said nothing. Sunlight glittered on the leaves of the silver poplars; Paks smelled the rich mold of leaves decaying under them. She looked at the fallen leaves: each one a delicate tracery of veins, each one different. Her eyes kept straying to the two bodies laid bare in the sun; she glanced quickly away each time. It seemed indecent to leave the faces uncovered—she had heard the elves’ ways were different, but had not seen them. In the sun that poured into the clearing as if into a well, the elven bone structure of brow and jaw seemed more alien than when they were alive. Paks shivered. She was sure Ansuli wondered how she had survived, when an old comrade, a half-elf, had been killed. She was sure he was watching her. She looked across and met his gaze.

“You have no elven blood; you do not understand our way?”

“I—we bury our dead—”

“And wonder why we leave ours prey to the winds and animals?” Paks nodded. “You humans fear harm, do you not, to the spirits of the dead from harm done even to their dry bones? Yes? Elves, and those of the part-elven who adopt elven ways, need have no such fear. Humans are of the earth, and like all earth-beings share in the taigin.” Paks stared at him; she had never heard anyone speak of men and the taigin together. He smiled, and nodded. “Yes, indeed. Some of you are more—are granted more by the high gods—but all humans are to their bodies as the taig to its place. But elves, when they are killed, have no longer any relation to the bodies they used, and harm or injury done the body cannot affect them. An elf may be possessed, but only while alive. Death frees elves from all enchantments. Thus we return the bodies to the earth, which nourished them, without care except for the mourners. It is for ourselves that we lay straight, and bring the sacred boughs.”

Paks nodded, but still had trouble looking at the bodies. Ansuli went on. “You surely lost comrades before, when you fought with the Halveric’s friend?”

“Yes. But—” She looked at Ansuli, trying to think how to say it. “But if Phaer—”

“Be at rest, human. Some god gave you the gift to sense evil, and to trace it. Phaer placed two daskin arrows in a daskdraudigs, by what you said, and that’s enough to make a song for him. He did what he could, and the fir tree moved as its heartwood willed, and by these acts your gift was not wasted. Would you quarrel with the gods’ gifts?”

“No. But—”

He laughed shortly, as if his ribs hurt him. “But humans would quarrel with anything. No, I’m not angry. Paksenarrion, do you think we regret that you lived? We mourn our friends, yes, but you did not kill Phaer or Clevis.” Paks said nothing. She still felt an outsider, the only one who had no elven blood. And she had not fought the daskdraudigs. Ansuli coughed a little. “I was wondering about this gift of yours,” he said then. “How long have you had it?”

“Please?”

“The gift to sense evil. How long have you had this? All your life?”

“I don’t know,” said Paks. “In Fin Panir they said that paladins could sense good and evil—that it was a gift given by Gird when they were chosen and trained. They had some magics, as well, so that we candidates could feel what it was like, but—”

“I don’t mean humans in general. I mean you.”

“Oh. Not—not long. Not before yesterday—” but as she spoke, Paks thought back to those mysterious events in the Duke’s Company. She told Ansuli of them, but finished: “But that must have been Canna’s medallion, not my own gift, for the Marshal-General said that the gift was found only in paladins of Gird—”

“She denied the power to paladins of Camwyn and Falk?” His voice was scornful.

“No, but—”

“However wise and powerful your Marshal-General of Gird, Paksenarrion, she is not as old or wise or powerful as the gods themselves. Nor as old as elves. Did you know that there are elves in the Ladysforest who knew Gird—knew him as Ardhiel knew you?”

“No—” Paks had not thought before of the implications of elven longevity. She looked curiously at Ansuli. “Did you?”

“I? No. I am not so old, being of the half-blood only. But I have spoken to one who knew him. Your Marshal-General—and I grant her all respect—did not. She is not one to bind or loose the gods’ gifts. I think she would say that herself, did you ask her. In her time, perhaps, in Fin Panir, the gods give the gift to sense evil to those chosen from among paladin candidates. But in old times and other places, the gods have done otherwise—as they have with you. Your friend’s medallion might focus the power for one unknowing and unskilled in its use, as you were, but the gift was yours.”

Paks felt a strange rush of emotions she could not define—she felt like crying and laughing all at once. And deep within, the certainty of that gift rooted and grew. Still she protested: “But—the way I am now—?”

“Ah, you will speak of it, eh? Giron is not the only one who had heard rumors. Yet you mastered the sickness, did you not? Arrows are missing from your quiver; I suspect you, too, shot at the daskdraudigs—”

“The arrows broke,” whispered Paks, staring at the ground.

“So would any but daskin arrows, on such a beast. Get you better weapons next time, warrior; it was not your skill that failed.” He laughed again, softly. “I wonder what other gifts you have hidden, that you have not seen or used. Are you a lightbringer or a healer? Can you call water from rocks, or set the wind in a ship’s sails?”

“I—no, I am no such—I can’t be such. It would mean—”

“It would mean you had some great work to do, which the gods gave you aid for. It would mean you should learn your gifts, and use them, and waste no words denying what is clear to—” He broke off as they heard Giron and Tamar returning, singing softly one of the evening songs.

Giron led the way into the clearing, not pausing in his song as he moved to help Ansuli stand. Tamar helped Paks to her feet, and together they moved to the center of the clearing and laid the boughs of holly, cedar, rowan, and fireoak on the bodies. Paks followed the pattern Tamar set, not knowing then or for many years why they were laid as they were.

When they were done, Tamar helped Paks back to their camp, and she slept the rest of that day and night. The next morning she was able to rise by herself, though still sore and stiff. Ansuli lay heavily asleep, his narrow face flushed with fever. When Paks had eaten breakfast, Giron and Tamar came to sit near her.

“Can you heal?” asked Giron, as calmly as if he asked whether she could eat mutton. She answered as calmly.

“I tried to, once, using a medallion of Gird belonging to a friend. I don’t know whether it worked—”

“Wound or sickness?”

“An arrow wound.”

“And did it heal?”

“Yes, but not at once. It might have been—we found surgeon’s salve, and used that as well.”

“Did it leave a scar?”

“My—my friend died, a few days later.” Paks looked down. “I don’t know if it worked or not.”

“Hmm. I see. And you never tried again?” She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Paks shrugged. “It never seemed right—necessary. We had surgeons—a mage—”

“Healing gifts require careful teaching,” murmured Tamar. “Or so I have been told. Without instruction, you might never know—”

“We must see, then. You have experienced such healing at the hands of others, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Paks thought of the paladin in Aarenis, and of Amberion in Fin Panir. And of the Kuakgan, so different and yet alike.

“Then you must try.” When she looked at him, surprised despite his earlier words, he smiled. “You must try sometime, Paksenarrion, and you might as well begin here. Ansuli has painful injuries, as have you yourself. Try to heal them, and see what happens.”

“But—” She looked at Tamar, who merely smiled.

“We shall tell no tales of it,” said Giron. “If you have no such gift, it is no shame to you; few do. If you come to be a paladin later, it will no doubt be added to you. But here and now you may try, with no prying eyes to see: no god we worship would despise an attempt to heal. And if you succeed, you will know something you need to know, and Ansuli will be able to take the trail again.”

“But I have not called on Gird these several months,” said Paks in a whisper. “It seems greedy to ask now—”

“And whence his power? You told us he served the High Lord. Call on him, if you will.”

Paks shivered. She feared to have such power, yet she feared to know herself without it. She looked up and met Giron’s eyes. “I will try.” Giron picked her up, and laid her next to Ansuli. This close, Paks could feel the heat of his fever. She rested her hand on his side, where she thought the ribs might be broken. She did not know what to expect.

At first nothing happened. Paks did not know what to do, and her thoughts were too busy to concentrate on Gird or the High Lord. She found them wandering back to the Kuakgan, to the Duke, to Saben and Canna. Had she really healed Canna with the High Lord’s power? She tried to remember what she had done: she had held the medallion—but now she had no medallion. She looked at Ansuli’s face, flushed with fever. She knew nothing of fevers, but that they followed some wounds. We’re short of men, she thought, and wondered that Giron had said nothing of it. They had needed her, and more, and now two were dead and another sick. She tried to imagine her way into Ansuli’s wound, past the dusky bruises.

All at once the bruise beneath her hand began to fade. She heard Giron’s indrawn breath, and tried to ignore it. She could feel nothing, in hand or arm, to guide her, to tell her what was occurring . . . only the fading stain. She looked quickly at Ansuli’s face. Sweat beaded his forehead. Under her hand his breath came longer and easier. Paks felt sweat cold on her own neck. She did not know what she had done, or when to stop. She remembered the Kuakgan talking about healing—his kind of healing—and feared to do more. What if she hurt something? She pulled back her hand.