Paks said nothing, and after awhile they rode back silently. She suspected that the Duke had come to Fin Panir because of her—and this was confirmed when she answered a summons late that afternoon to the Marshal-General’s quarters. She was shown to a study she had not been in before, a level higher, with windows on three sides. Amberion, Fallis, Ardhiel and Duke Phelan, as well as the Marshal-General, were all in the room. The Marshal-General began by explaining what they thought was wrong, and what she thought could be done about it, a sort of surgery of the mind.
Paks nodded gravely, trying to pay attention through a numb haze that fogged her mind. Arianya paused, for that nod, then went on.
“So much we think we can do. But that is not the whole story; I want to be fair with you. We are sure that if you live the evil will be destroyed, but some good may be destroyed as well.”
“What sort of good?” asked Paks, her mouth drying with fear.
Amberion looked away, at a tapestry on the outer wall. Arianya glanced down, then met Paks’s eyes squarely. “Paksenarrion, the worst evils come from the degradation of good: in your case, those qualities you’ve worked so long to strengthen. You may not be a fighter afterwards—”
“Not a fighter!” Paks felt the blood leave her face.
“No. I will not lie to you. You may be weak, clumsy, uncertain. You may lose your will to fight—your courage.”
“No!” Paks clenched her fists, anguish twisting her face. “I cannot! You cannot want me to be so!”
“Lady Paksenarrion,” said Ardhiel, “what we want is that you be healed and whole, and free of any taint of evil. But our powers are limited, and it is better to be free of the dark one’s web than be a prince under her control.”
“But—” Paks shook her head. “But you ask that I give up the only gifts I have—chance them—and if I survive a weakling or a coward, what good is that? To you or anyone? My lady,” she said to Arianya, “the granges would not let me in, if I were a coward. I would be better dead, indeed. You say I am not so bad, yet. If I cannot be a paladin, I can still fight your enemies. Then if—if I go wrong, then perform your treatment, or kill me.”
Arianya started to speak, but Duke Phelan interrupted. “Paks, when you were in my Company, you learned that wounds must be treated at once, lest corruption begin. And if the surgeon cuts away good muscle, it’s better than leaving the least infection to spread and engulf the whole body.”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“Paksenarrion, the Duke speaks truly. If we thought the evil would not spread, or would spread but slowly, we would not try such a drastic cure. But it is the nature of such to spread with awesome speed. You yourself, being damaged already by this poison, cannot perceive how far it has gone already.”
“But my lady—to lose all—and think how long I might live—what could I do? So long in disgrace—”
“It will not be disgrace, Paksenarrion, however it turns out. You have already won honors beyond your years. Nor will any grange of Gird be closed to you: that I promise. And if you have these troubles—and you might not—we will help you find another way to live.”
Paks thrust back her chair and rose abruptly, striding to the window to stand braced against the embrasure, looking out at evening sunlight yellow on the cobbled court and the roof of the High Lord’s Hall across the way.
“I always dreamed of being a warrior,” she said softly. “Silly, childish dreams at first, of being the hero in old songs, with a silver sword. Then Jornoth told me about soldiering, and I was going to be a mercenary, a good one, and earn my living with my sword, and see strange lands, and win honor serving my lord. So I joined Duke Phelan’s Company, and prospered as well, I think, as any recruit. You’ve heard they thought well of me.” She glanced at the Duke, who nodded gravely, then turned back to the outside view.
“I stayed three seasons, but—no fault of my lord Duke, who’s as fine a leader as I ever hope to fight under—I saw things I didn’t want to be part of. So I left, thinking I’d go north and home, and join some castle guard. You know what happened with the elfane taig, and near Brewersbridge. Marshal Cedfer . . . Master Oakhallow . . . they showed me fighting, but for cause, not for a person. My dreams grew—more than being a guard captain instead of a sergeant, I dreamed of fighting as Gird fought—for right, for the protection of the helpless. And you encouraged me: you, Marshal-General, and you, Marshal Fallis, and you, Sir Amberion. You said learn: learn languages, art of weaponry, supply and surgery, fortification—you said all these things were right.” Paks’s voice broke, and her shoulders shook. The listeners were silent, each with his own memories, his own visions. Paks took a deep breath, then another, and turned to face them, tears filling her eyes.
“And then you honored me, sheepfarmer’s daughter, poor commoner and ex-mercenary, beyond all dreams I’d dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a paladin. A paladin! Do you—can you—have any idea what a paladin means to a child on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder, all stars and dreams. A—a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins! And you said ‘Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.’” She stopped for breath again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.
“I could not argue, my lady. I felt you must know; you wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then—to go on quest, with Amberion and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And all of you were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion, that first attack? You said I did well, then.”
“Paks—” he said, but she went on heedlessly.
“And—then I was taken. No, my lords!” She said as both Amberion and Ardhiel started to speak. “I blame you not, I said so before. The evil ones wanted me; it was my weakness or flaw that drew them to me. How could I blame you, who followed into the rocky heart of their lair to free me, outnumbered as you were? No. And while I was thus, in their hands, I tried to pray to Gird and the High Lord for aid, but I had to fight against their servants lest they kill me. I was alone—in the dark—I thought that to fight so—Gird would approve. I thought that was right.”
She looked down, suddenly, and shuddered. “It wasn’t—wasn’t easy.” Then she faced them again. “Now you say that because I fought them, because I didn’t just die, I have opened a passage for great evil. I can’t feel this myself; I don’t know . . . But to chance all I can do, to chance losing all I’ve learned, all I am—that you helped make me—and to think how long I must live if it goes badly . . . Could such a one as I be a—a potter, or a weaver? Oh, better to kill me, my lady, and quickly.”
Silence followed her words; Paks turned again and stared blindly out the window. Then Arianya took breath to speak, but Ardhiel forestalled her. “Lady Paksenarrion, elf-friend, may I tell you a true tale?”
Paks gazed at him, white-faced and desperate. “Yes, Ardhiel; I will listen.”
“We elves, milady, know not death from age, and thus our memories are long, and we see slow processes in the world as easily as you might see the start and finish of a meal. Once, long ago, before ever this Hall was built or men had found their way over the mountains from the south, I walked the green forests with an elf known for the beauty of his voice and the delight of his songs. From him I learned that very air I taught you, milady, when we first met. It was his craft to shape his instruments of living wood—a delicate business, to urge the growth of linden or walnut or mahogany so that it grew fitly shaped for harp or lute or lo-pipe. And to shape it so that in time the complete instrument could be separated from the tree without harm to it or to the creature it grew from. Long years of growth and shaping were required for a single instrument, but long years we elves have in plenty, and delight in filling them with such work.