“And then I could tell which direction. Not very well.” She described the search for the daskdraudigs, and the fight when it was found. She was wide awake again. The Kuakgan sat crosslegged in front of the fire, staring into it as she talked. When she was done, he turned to her.
“Paksenarrion, do you have yet any hope of being made a paladin?”
Paks stopped short. “I—haven’t thought of it.” That was not quite true, for the rangers had prodded her to acknowledge and use her gifts. She could not quite believe their hints; she could not wholly disbelieve, when she looked at Ansuli, obviously healed and free of pain. She thought of it then, thought of the dream she had had, of the pain when it died. Had it died? Once, yes, and then it had sprouted again, as a dead seed revives in spring. But was it the same dream, or another?
“You said you considered yourself once more a warrior. A warrior for what, or with whom?”
“I—” She stopped. “I have to say? Yes. A warrior for—for good.”
“Still that.”
“Yes.”
“Which means a paladin, to you? Or a knight of Gird, or Falk, or Camwyn or some such?”
“It means—just what I said. To fight, but only for what I think is good.”
“What you think is good? Not at the direction of others?”
Paks thought hard. “Well—no. Not really. Not any more. But if the gods—if I knew that the gods said—”
“Ah. But no man or woman.”
“No.” As she said it, she felt herself cut off from all the warriors she’d known—for she was forswearing allegiance to any lord, any captain, any king, even. Could she consider herself in the fellowship of Gird, if she would not take the orders of the Marshal-General? She shivered a little. Did she mean it? Yes.
He sat back, as if satisfied, and turned again to the fire. “Did the elves tell you, Paksenarrion, of the origin of paladins?”
“No, sir.” Hints, yes, but nothing clearer for her questions; she had finally quit asking.
“Hmmmm. Once the gods themselves chose paladins, chose them from among those mortals who desired good and would risk all danger to gain it. The gifts which all expect paladins to have were given by the gods, some to one, and some to another, as they grew into their powers. The heroes whose cults have grown up over the world—some of them now called saints—were chosen and aided the same way. Or so it is said. But after awhile, the cults themselves began to choose candidates, and prepare them, and—so it is said—began to intervene between the gods and the paladins. Although, once chosen, the paladins were supposed to take their direction from the saints or gods—” Paks thought of Amberion. Had Gird truly told him to take her to Kolobia? Or the Marshal-General?
“I’m not attacking the Girdsmen,” the Kuakgan said slowly. “Though it must sound like it. The fellowship of Gird has done much for these kingdoms, and the fighters it trains have at least some care for the helpless. But what was once a grace bestowed freely by the gods—flowers wild in the field and woods—has become a custom controlled by the clerics: flowers planted in safe pots along a path. The flowers have their virtue, either place, but—” He stopped and looked at her.
“It may be, Paksenarrion, that once in a while the gods decide to do things their way once more. If you are, as you declare, no longer depending on man or woman for your guidance of good and evil—and yet you have, as you’ve shown, some of the gifts found in paladins—” She wondered how he knew that, but if they’d told him about the daskdraudigs . . .
Paks ducked her head. “I—don’t know. I don’t know how I would know.”
“There’s that. A paladin unbound to some knightly order or cult is rare these days. And a Kuakgan is hardly one to know much of these things.” Paks found that hard to believe, at least of this Kuakgan. “When you were here last,” he went on, “you left everything you came with in the basin. Willingly, at that time.”
“Yes.” Paks did not like to think of that mood, even now.
“Hmmm. But you gave a gift you had no right to give.”
“Sir?”
“This.” He held out to her the Duke’s ring, the foxhead graved on the black stone. “This was not yours to give, Paksenarrion, and I cannot accept it.”
Paks stared at it a moment, then at him. “But, sir—”
“Take it. You are going to him; you can take it back.” He held it until she reached out, then dropped it in her hand. “Put it on.” Paks slipped it onto a finger. She had not expected to see that ring again. She turned it with her thumb until the seal was inside, invisible, the way she had worn it before.
“You have been well enough to fight,” the Kuakgan went on. “You seem to be wholly well in body, and you are well enough in mind to sense evil and good—a gift that cannot work when the mind is clouded. Do you still desire that joy of fighting you had before, or can you see it as a danger—as a temptation to fight without cause?”
“Sir, I have had enough experience to know what comes of fighting for the joy of it alone. It is not that. But I still wish I could feel the joy when it’s needed. Or perhaps I should not say needed, since I can do without it, but—I heard a woodworker, sir, say how much he liked the feel of his plane slipping along the grain of the wood, and the smell of the shavings. My father liked being out with his sheep—I can remember him standing on the moor, drawing in great breaths of that wind and smiling. Isn’t that natural, in a craftsman, to enjoy his work as well? And I wish for that, to enjoy it sometimes. To pick up a sword with pleasure in its balance, not always overcoming fear of it.”
“Is the fear any less?”
“I think so. Or else I am getting used to it.”
“Yet you haven’t asked me, Paksenarrion, if I have any healing magic to restore this to you.”
“No, sir. You have done much for me already, and—I thought—if you wished to do more you would say so.”
“Yes. I don’t know. What I can do has been done.” Paks felt the certainty of this, and braced herself to carry her fear forever. “But,” he went on, “there may be more you can do. You have spent a summer with elves and part-elves and the powers of the forest. I think you have spent it well—not thinking only of fighting, but learning, as you could, of the natural world. I cannot promise success—but if you have the courage to try a desperate chance, it may return your joy in your craft.”
“I will try,” said Paks at once.
“I have not told you what it is.”
She shook her head. “No matter. I will try.”
“Very well.” He stood up and moved to the woodbox. “I have saved these from the spring; they’ll be dry by now.” He began to stack short lengths of wood by the fireside. “This is eart’oak—to look at, much like any red oak. The elves call it fireoak. And here are two lengths of blackwood—don’t worry, not long enough for a bow, even for a child. I wouldn’t burn bowwood. And—let me think. Yellowwood, shall it be, or rowan? What do you remember best, Paksenarrion, about your visit here this spring?”
She tried to think; the bees that had come in to the honeycomb came to mind. “Bees,” she said. “You sang them away.”
“From yellowwood honey. Very well.” He pushed most of the existing fire to one side of the wide hearth, and quickly piled the sticks he’d selected in its place. Then he lit them with a brand from the fire. Paks flinched: flames roared up from the tiny pile as if it had oil on it. They were bright, brighter than the yellow flames on the other wood. The room came alive in that dancing light. “It won’t last long,” said the Kuakgan, turning to her. “You must name your gods, to yourself, at least, and place your hands in that flame. The heartwood of fireoak, for courage, and blackwood for resilience and endurance, and yellowwood for steadfast loyalty to good. Quickly!”
Paks could not move for an instant—the magical flames were too bright and hot. She could feel the sweat break out on her face, feel the clenching of her stomach, the roiling wave of fear about to sweep over her. She spread her hands in front of her and leaned to the fire.