“And you, my lord?” asked Dorrin.
“I will stay, and speak with the Lady, if she will.”
That night the enemy found themselves penned by the forest taig, which would not let them pass, while a line of elven knights swept the valley from side to side. Elflight lay over them, leaving no place to hide. The three Marshals and Paks rode with them, hunting the priests of Liart. By dawn, which added a golden glow to the radiance around, Paks had killed two more of them; the Marshals each had killed one, and the elves found one dead of wounds. A score of gibbas lay dead, and more than a hundred orcs, and a score of folokai. The Pargunese cohorts stood in a sullen lump at the far end of the valley, where trees closed off the escape. The Verrakaien had broken into several groups, all now under guard. The Konhalt archers, having lost more than half their number, huddled together not far from the king’s company. As for the followers of Liart, they had fled pell-mell, and most had been ridden down in the last of the fighting.
Paks rode back toward the king’s company through the blended light of dawn and elven power, still musing over the Lady’s arrival. She joined the Marshals in praying healing for the wounded. When the last one lay resting quietly, she felt a presence and turned.
Behind her stood the Lady, now watching Paks as closely as she had watched the king before.
“Paladin of Gird, I would speak with you. Come.” Paks followed her a little way from the line of wounded. New grass carpeted the ground; every blade seemed to glow with its own light. The Lady led her near the stream, now edged with starry yellow flowers. Here the Lady spread her cloak on the bank, and gestured to Paks to sit with her. Gingerly Paks folded her legs and sat. For a moment, as it seemed, they listened to the singing water, now released from winter.
“We did not come for battle,” said the Lady finally. “I wished to meet Falkieri myself, first, before he came to Chaya.”
“I remember,” said Paks.
“I do not mean to injure your honor when I say that it seemed better to attend to that myself. We had heard you were taken, that you had asked a Kuakgan to rouse the taig in his behalf.” Her gaze sharpened a moment. “If it is a matter of the taigin, Paksenarrion, it is a matter for elves.”
Paks shook her head. “I am sorry, Lady—I only knew it must be aware for him, and the Kuakkganni came to mind.”
“We forgive you. After all, you were healed by one; we knew you meant no insult. But even so, it seemed wise to us to come and greet him. It is true that we knew he might find trouble, but it has been so long since I traveled in these lands that I did not know how bad it was. The Tree grieves, paladin, to harbor such in its shade, and the Singer is mute.” For a moment she was silent, running her hands over the grass as a man might fondle his dog. “Yet the Singer and the Tree joined together in praise, and we came when the time was accomplished. I am well pleased, Paksenarrion, with my daughter’s son; you spoke truly when you said he would be a worthy king.”
Paks said nothing; reft of argument, she could do nothing but stare at the Lady.
“And I am well pleased with Gird’s paladin,” she went on. “We have heard how you entered captivity for the king, in Vérella; we grieved, thinking you surely doomed, and yet you are here, defending him still. Will you tell that tale, paladin of Gird, that it may be sung rightly in our kingdoms?”
Paks looked away, watching the swift water tumble and swirl between smooth rocks. She thought she saw the quick metallic flash of a fish. “Lady,” she said, “I would not dwell on those days—they are better forgotten than sung. Nor can any human tell a whole tale: only the gods know all of it.”
“Would you truly forget your torments? We owe you much, Paksenarrion, paladin of Gird. If you wish we can fill your mind with joy, and erase every scar that reminds you of that pain.”
Paks shook her head, meeting the Lady’s eyes once more. “No. I thank you for the thought of that gift. But what I am now—what I can do—comes from that. The things that were so bad, that hurt so. If I forget them, if I forget such things still happen, how can I help others? My scars prove that I know myself what others suffer.”
“Wisely said,” she replied. “Though an elf need see no scar to know what you are and what you have done. But we must make some song of you, for your service to our king.”
“Let it be imagined from what you know of the Master of Torments: it is much the same, I daresay, wherever and whenever men desire power and the use of power on others.”
“You can tell at least how you escaped, and how you came to be here.”
Paks laughed, suddenly and unaccountably eased. “I could if I knew.” She related, briefly, Arvid’s confused and incredible tale, adding, “Thieves lie, as everyone knows, and tales of wonder grow quickly: but Liart’s brand changed to this—” She touched the circle on her brow.
“But you arrived with a cohort of the king’s own mercenaries, and a band of yeomen—how was that?”
Paks explained about meeting Dorrin in Westbells, and the journey east, and finding the apathetic Marshal in Darkon Edge. When she had finished, the Lady nodded.
“So the servants of evil forged in their own fires a weapon to defeat them—that makes a well-rounded song. Falkieri through all his years took whatever came to him of good and used it well, learning kingship without a kingdom. You did the same, learning what good you could of all you met—even a Kuakgan.” Her smile took the sting out of that. “Truly, the high gods will be pleased with this day’s work, Paksenarrion. The forest taig is clean, from here to Lyonya—”
“What?” asked Paks, startled.
“You saw what happened before we came—all the unclean things that ran from the forest?” Paks thought of the folokai and gibbas, and nodded. “Those cannot abide the touch of our kingdoms, so when I rode there, and brought as I must the elvenhome light with me, they fled.”
“They were fleeing you?” Paks asked.
“Even so—but they are dangerous in their fear.”
“And beyond, the forest barrier—was that you?”
“No. You asked the Kuakkgani to rouse the taigin for you; the Kuakgan who holds the barrier west of this valley will speak to you when you wish.”
Paks could feel the blood leaving her face. “The Kuakgan—who—”
The Lady laughed gently. “And what did you think would happen if you roused the taig?”
Paks fought her muddled head. “I thought—I suppose—that it would—would let him know if evil neared—would protect him.”
“And so it has. But you asked a Kuakgan; he has done this in his way. I do not interfere with the Shepherds of Trees.” She looked past Paks, toward the western side of the valley. Then she smiled again. “But you, paladin of Gird—what can we do for you? Are you beyond any wish we could grant?”
Paks shook her head. “I don’t know, Lady. It’s enough that it’s over: the king is alive, and you accept him—” She said nothing about Gird’s other purposes: they would mean nothing to elves.
“Gird is well served in you, Paksenarrion, as the king was. The Singer of Names has sung well. We will see you again; for now, I must return to Lyonya, and prepare for the king’s journey. The knights remain, though I think none will trouble him now. Take off your helmet, will you?” Without thinking, Paks slipped it off, and the knitted scarf slid down, exposing her head; she unwound it slowly. The Lady smiled, and touched her head with one hand. It felt cool and warm at once.
“It is little enough,” said the Lady, “But I enjoyed your yellow hair in the sunlight, in Aliam Halveric’s garden. I would see it again at court, when my daughter’s son takes his throne.” And all at once Paks felt the long strands warm and heavy on her head, brushing her neck, slipping past her shoulders, a golden tide that flowed to its former length and lay still, ready for braiding. “The Kuakkganni are not the only ones with healing gifts,” said the Lady, her eyes bright.