“That’s better,” he said. “Now. You’ll want to wash up a bit, and use the jacks, I expect. Let me show you—” He touched a panel beside the fireplace, and it slid aside to reveal a narrow passage. On one side was a door, through which Paks caught a glimpse of a bunk. On the other, a door opened on three steps down to a stone-flagged room with a channel along one side. Paks heard the gurgle of moving water, and the candlelight sparkled on its surface. “Cold water only,” said Master Oakhallow. “There’s the soaproot, and a towel—” He lit other candles in the chamber as he spoke. “If you’re tired of those clothes, you can wear this robe.” He pointed to a brown robe hanging from a peg. “Now, I’ll be out for awhile. When you’re through, go on back to the other room. Whatever you do, don’t go outside the house. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. “I won’t.”
“Good.” He turned and went back up the stairs; Paks saw the light of his candle dwindle down the passage.
The little room was chilly and damp, but smelled clean and earthy. Paks started to wash her hands, gingerly, but the cold water merely tingled instead of biting. She splashed it on her face, started to dry it, then glanced warily at the door. Surely he was really gone. She went up the steps and looked. Nothing. She came back down and looked at the water for a moment, then grunted and stripped off her clothes: she felt caked in dirt and sweat. She wet the soaproot and scrubbed herself, then stood in the channel and scooped water over her soapy body. By the time she had finished, she was shivering, but vigorous towelling warmed her again. She looked at her clothes and wished she had not put her spare shirt in the offering basin. Her clothes were as dirty as she had been. She looked at the brown robe, then took it off the peg. It felt soft and warm. When she came from the jacks, she looked at her clothes again. She wondered if she could wash them in the channel, but decided against it: she needed hot water and a pot. She shook them hard, brushed them with her hand, and folded them into a bundle. She slipped her bare feet back into her worn boots and went up the steps, down the passage, and into the main room.
The Kuakgan had lit more candles before he left, and the room had a warm glow. He had drawn shutters across the windows; she was glad of that. She sat down at the table to wait, wondering how long he would be. She thought of where she’d expected to be this night—alone in the hills, perhaps to see no dawn—and shivered, looking around her quickly. This was pleasant: the soft robe on her shoulders, the good meal. Why didn’t I ever—? I could have bought mushrooms at least once—She pushed these thoughts away. She wondered where the Kuakgan was, and if he’d bought the meal with her offering. And most of all—what was he going to do? She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn’t.
She eased into sleep without knowing it, leaning on the table; she never knew when he came in. When she woke again, she was wrapped in a green blanket and lying on the floor against the wall. The windows were unshuttered and sunlight struck the tree trunks outside. She felt completely relaxed and wide awake at the same time. Her stomach rumbled. She was just unwrapping the blanket when the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight.
“Time for breakfast,” said the Kuakgan as he came in. He carried a dripping honeycomb over a bowl. Paks felt her mouth water. She climbed out of the blanket, folded it, and came to the table where he was laying out cheese, bread, and the honeycomb. “You won’t have had this honey before,” he said. “It’s yellowwood honey, an early spring honey, and they never make much of it.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You slept well.”
Paks found herself smiling in return. “Yes . . . yes, sir, I did.” She sat down.
“Here,” he said, pouring from the jug. “It’s goat’s milk. Put some honey in your mug with it.”
Paks broke off a piece of comb and floated it in the milk. He sliced the cheese and pushed some towards her. She sipped the milk; it was delicious. The honey had a tang to it as well as sweetness. The Kuakgan dripped some on his cheese; Paks did the same, and had soon eaten half a cheese, each slice dripping honey. Bees flew in the window and settled on the remains of the comb.
“No, little sisters,” said the Kuakgan. “We have need of this.” He hummed briefly, and the bees flew away. Paks stared at him; he smiled.
“Do you really talk to bees?” she asked.
“Not talk, exactly. It’s more like singing; they’re a musical folk. They dance, too; did you know that?” Paks shook her head, wondering if he was teasing. “It’s quite true; I’ll show you someday.”
“Can you speak with all the animals? Those birds yesterday, and bees—”
“It’s a Kuakgan’s craft to learn the nature of all creatures: trees and grass as well as birds, beasts, and bees. When you know what something is—what its nature is—how it fits into the web of life—you can then begin to speak its language. It’s a slow craft; living things are various, and each one is different.”
“Some mages speak to animals,” said Paks.
The Kuakgan snorted. “Mages! That’s different. That’s like the ring you had. A mage, now, wants power for himself. If he speaks to an animal, it’s for his own purposes. Kuakkgani—we learn their languages because we love them: the creatures. Love them as they are, and for what they were made. When I speak to the owl that nests in that ash”—he nodded to the window—“it is not to make use of him, but to greet him. Of course, I must admit we do get some power from it. We can ask them things, we know their nature. But we are the ones who serve all created things without wanting to change them. That’s why the Marshal in the grange is never quite sure I’m good enough for an ally.”
Paks watched him, feeling that she should be able to find some other meaning in what he said, something that would apply to her. She could not think of anything. She wondered when he would start to question her.
He sat back from the table and looked at her. “Well, now. Your clothes are drying on the bushes out there, but they’d be clammy yet. You’ll be more comfortable outside in something other than that robe, I daresay.” He rose and went to a chest near the wall. “This will fit close enough.” He held out homespun trousers with a drawstring waist, and a linen shirt. “Come outside when you’re ready; I want to show you something.” He went out the door and shut it behind him.
Paks looked at the clothes. They were creased as if they’d been in the chest a long time. She fingered the cloth, looking nervously at the windows. She looked for the passage beside the fireplace, but the panel was closed, and she couldn’t find the touchlock. At last she sat on the floor beside the table, breathing fast, and changed from the robe to the pants and shirt. She put on her belt over the shirt and looked for her dagger; it was on the table.
When she pushed on the door, it opened silently. Outside, the sunny glade seemed empty, until she saw the Kuakgan standing motionless by the end of the stone-marked path. He gestured to her, and she walked across the glade.
“You must stay near me,” he said. “The grove is not safe for wanderers; experienced pathfinders cannot be sure of its ways. If we are separated, be still. I will find you. Nothing will harm you as long as you are still, or with me. It may be that I have to leave you suddenly. . . . I hope not, but it might happen. Just stay where I left you. You will find enough beauty to watch until I come back.” He began to move through the trees, as silent as a current of air; Paks followed closely. From time to time he stopped, and touched a tree or herb lightly, but he said nothing, and Paks was silent as well. As the morning warmed, more birds sang around them, and the rich scents of leafmold and growing things rose from the ground. Paks found herself breathing slowly, deeply. She had no idea where they were in the grove, but it didn’t matter. She began to look with more attention to the trees and bushes they walked past. The Kuakgan touched a tree trunk: Paks saw a tiny lichen, bright as flame, glowing against dark furrowed bark. She saw for herself a clump of tiny mushrooms, capped in shiny red—a strawberry in flower—a fern-frond uncurling out of dry leaves. She realized that the Kuakgan was standing still, watching her. When she met his eyes, he nodded.