“In that time, he was growing a harp: not a lap-harp, as might be grown from any angle of applewood or pear, but a great harp, on which he hoped to play before the throne of our king. If you think of the shape of a great harp, you will realize how difficult this would be, for if the harp frame were strong enough to withstand the tension of the strings, removing it would cause severe damage to its tree. I cannot tell you how it was done—it is not my craft—but he caused a part of the tree, the part between the instrument and the main plant, to withdraw, as it were. This process must be complete when the instrument was grown, else it became gross and unmusical, and required shaping with tools, which he abhorred. But if it was begun too soon, the withdrawal weakened either instrument or tree, and could allow woodrot and other decay to attack both.
“It happened that he had just begun shaping his harp-tree when our king determined to wed. Not immediately, for that is not our way; but the courtship and preparation began, and in twenty years or so, as humans would measure time, the wedding day was announced to all elf-kind. It would be another forty years, for the beauty of elf-maidens does not fade or wither, and the king’s subjects would have time to prepare all good gifts for the festival.
“When he heard this, my friend determined that his wedding gift would be the great harp he was then shaping, a kingly gift indeed. He brought me to see it growing, though little I could see: he had to point out which twig would grow to take the fret, and which root-sprout would form the shorter leg. The frame, you see, was to be grown all in one piece: trunk, branch, root, and sprout top-grafted to the branch. In twenty years, I happened by again, and the shape was far clearer. But my friend was dissatisfied. By his craft, he knew that as it grew, it would grow too slowly—it would not be ready for the king’s wedding. I laughed, I recall, and reminded him that elves have no need of hurry. For such a royal gift, the king would be well content to wait. He laughed with me, and seemed reassured.
“But though elves are not by nature hasty folk, we are proud of our crafts, and love ceremony. And ceremony means things done fitly, and in time, and by that love and desire that his gift might be the means of great pleasure at the wedding feast, he was betrayed into haste.
“I know not when he did it, or exactly what he did; he had ways of speeding and slowing the growth of all plants he worked with. Indeed, I’ve seen him grow a lo-pipe in but one season. If it cracked in ten years, what matter, if it served the need to gift a dying man? But somehow he tried to speed the growing of his harp, and the withdrawal of the parent tree, and out of this haste a flaw came into the wood. A part of the withdrawal moved into the harpwood, and weakened it, and the great post that would have to bear the greater strain of the stringing grew awry.
“I well remember the day he showed me, sorrowing, what had gone wrong. Fifty years and more of work, and a little space where the rot crept in had ruined it. To heal that, and reshape the post, would not only take time—years of time—but would also require that the weak part be burned out, regrafted with live wood, and supported while new growth took over. And, he said, ’twas more than likely that it would never grow true in shape, but be clumsy and crooked even if strong enough. Yet to ignore the woodrot would doom the harp and the tree that bore it. I asked him what he would do. He looked at the tree awhile, and said ‘It is not the fault of the wood, which grew true to its nature. I will amend what I can, and tune it as it will bear.’
“Lady Paksenarrion, it is not through your failure that this trouble has come, but we who should have been wiser tried to rush your growth into that beauty we saw possible. Yet now we cannot leave you to perish by our mistake; we must try to mend, though mending is not sure.”
Paks had watched his face as he told the tale, but found it as mysterious as all elven faces; it held surmise but no answers. “Sir—you have always been kind to me,” she faltered. “But need it be now? Could I not go to the green fields, just once, to be a—a memory?”
“Lady, I have known you—I, an elf, who will not die except in battle. You are in my memory and the memory of my people, and there you will not fade in all the years to come when men may forget. We will make songs of you, lady, whatever happens.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Paks miserably.
“Paksenarrion, we cannot force you to this,” said Arianya. “It would be better to do it quickly, but we cannot—and would not—force you. But you cannot wander alone, with this peril on you. Nor, I think, should you be much abroad with others. Whatever you decide, and whatever happens, it need not become common gossip.”
Paks looked from one to another of those in the room, meeting troubled eyes everywhere, doubt and wariness where once she had seen delight and encouragement. Cold despair assailed her heart, more bitter than she’d felt in captivity. Then she had only enemies against her; these were friends. At last she looked at Duke Phelan, leaning against the wall in one corner, arms folded. He gazed back at her, holding her with the intensity of his gray eyes. After a moment, he came to her, still holding her glance at rest.
“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” he said. “I will trust you. I will trust you with my Company, the one thing I have built in my whole life, if you desire it. You may come with me, in spite of them, and take command as a captain, and I will trust you, who never failed my trust before, to decide if you can do so in good honor. By my faith, Paksenarrion, you are a good soldier and a good person, and worthy of the trust you have had, and the trust I offer you. You will not fail in this. You have never failed me, and here’s my hand on it.” And Paks felt her hand swallowed in the Duke’s as her face flushed scarlet in relief and joy.
“Tir’s gut, you fools!” the Duke went on to the stunned group. “You’d think you were dealing with a weak, witless chit of a girl who couldn’t do the right thing without being led in strings. Whatever she decides, whatever she is when you wise folk get through with her, she’s got courage enough now, and wit enough now, for the lot of you. If you didn’t think she could be trusted, you shouldn’t have been trusting her.” He turned to Paks. “Don’t cry, captain. My captains don’t cry before outsiders.”
Paks, her hand still clasped in the Duke’s, struggled against a wild mixture of emotions. Joy in the Duke’s trust—that someone still trusted—came to her as a flash of light that let her see what lay within. Her arguments of minutes before showed false as tinsel, though she had believed herself true as she spoke. In a few moments she had mastered that turmoil, and the sudden change of her expression brought silence and attention to the chamber.
“My lord Duke,” she said. “You have given me more than you offered, for by the light of your trust I can see what honor requires. I may never come to serve you again, my lord, as I should to thank you for this gift, but you will live in my memory, however short it may be.”
“Paks—”
“No, my lord. You know what it must be; I would not forfeit your trust. Sir—I would ask your blessing—” Even as she spoke, a prickle of anger stung her; she fought it away.
The Duke wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment. “My child—may all good be with you, wherever, however, whenever—may all evil begone from you forever. And if ever you come to me, Paksenarrion, in whatever state you are, I will help you as I can.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“And,” he added with a growl, “I will stay until I see how you fare with these—”
“Thank you, my lord. Marshal-General—?”
“You are ready, then?” Arianya’s eyes were wet, but she rose steadily, and waited the answer.