“I never told Jeris about finding the sword,” mused Aliam. “I should have thought of that—but it never occurred to me that he might know anything. He’s been at court most of his life, and—”
“The elves said they—desired you not to speak to your uncle about it.”
“Blast them,” said Aliam, not sounding as angry as Paks would have thought. “They’re always so clever. I’ve said often enough you can be too clever sometimes—clever enough to tie your own bootstrings together. And they are sure the prince lived?”
“So they say. But they will not say where or who. That is what I am to find out.”
“You’re sure that is your quest?” asked Estil. “How do you know?”
Paks shook her head. “My lady, the king, as he was dying, asked that I take the throne, because I had brought this sword, and was a paladin. Others agreed. But a paladin is not a ruler; I was not called to rule, but to save the realm by returning its rightful king. I am as sure of this as I am of the call I received in the first place, but I cannot tell you how.”
Estil opened her mouth, but Aliam spoke first. “How do you hope to find him? And what do you think he will be like, after all these years?”
Paks recited the guesses they had come to in Chaya: age, hair color, eyes, and so on. That he had been a servant, and according to the elves had forgotten his past, even his name. “But so many men could fit that description,” she said. “So I thought to trace this sword back, as I could. The elves reported that you had found it, and tried to return it to them.”
“That’s so,” said Aliam, facing her again. “I found it near the bodies of three elves and many orcs. I sent word to the Ladysforest, by the rangers, and got back the message that I should give it to the one for whom it was made.”
“And you had no idea who that was.”
“No. All I knew of the sword was that it was elven.”
“You hadn’t seen it at court?”
“No.” Aliam answered slowly. “I had not been at court yet, when the queen disappeared. I was a page at my uncle’s, along with the king’s younger brothers—the old king’s, that is: they were kings themselves later.”
“Did you know of any such sword?” Aliam shook his head. “Then what did you think, when they told you that?”
Aliam frowned. “I thought it was typical elven arrogance, to be honest. They knew something I didn’t, and were having a joke at my expense. I saw nothing on the scabbard, and then I saw the runes on the blade. It looked like a woman’s blade, and from the runes I judged her name might have been elven. None of the runes fit Estil, or my daughters, and none of them wanted the sword, with that message hanging over it. I wouldn’t sell it, of course, or send it out of my own hall without telling the elves. I daresay they knew that. I thought I’d be left with it until some elven lady walked in to claim it. Then Kieri Phelan came to tell me of his wedding—and his wife’s name was Tamarrion Mistiannyi. Two of the runes—light or fire, and mountains. I thought of that at once, and offered it to him as a wedding gift. Then I told the elves where I’d bestowed it, and they said it was well enough.”
“Yes,” said Paks, “but was it? Sir, this is what I’ve been thinking of. The elves think this sword, once held by its true master, will proclaim him and give him some powers he must have. They told you to give it to him—to the one it was made for. Doesn’t that mean that you could have? That you knew the man who was actually the prince?”
She did not miss the sharp glance that sped between Aliam and Estil. “What would you have done, my lord, if you had known what sword it was? Would you have had any idea where to bestow it?”
“I—I am not sure.” Aliam sat heavily across the table from her. “Paksenarrion, you have brought what you feel is great hope to our kingdom—the hope of finding our lost prince, our true king. But I believe you have brought great danger as well. What if the elves are right? What if this man—now near fifty years, as you said, and without practice at kingcraft—what if he is indeed unfit to rule?”
“My lord, only a year ago, no one would have thought me fit to be a paladin. Not you—not Duke Phelan—not even myself. Least of all myself.” For a moment she moved into those bitter memories, and returned with an effort. “Yet here I am, my lord, a true paladin, healed of all those injuries, and granted powers I had scarcely dreamed of.” She called her light for an instant, and saw the last doubts vanish from Aliam’s eyes. “The gods have given me this quest, to find your king. I do not think they would send me on a vain search. If he is unfit, the gods can cure him.”
Aliam nodded slowly. “You may be right. I pray you are. Do you think the others—the Council and all—will agree to accept him? Assuming you do find him?”
“They have sworn to do so, my lord, and Amrothlin says the elves will at least consider it.”
“Was the Knight-Commander of Falk there? What did he say?”
“He?” Paks considered a moment. She had not paid that much attention to him. “I think, my lord, that he was unhappy that the gods had not chosen a paladin of Falk for this quest.”
Estil laughed. “That’s probably true. But did he give any clues?”
“No—could he?” Neither of them answered, and Paks sighed. “I think, my lord and lady, that you know something you haven’t told me yet.”
“That’s so.” Aliam got up yet again. “Let me put it to you like this, Paksenarrion. If I once met someone who awoke in me a suspicion that he might be the missing prince—let’s say I did—I had then no proof at all. Only that a boy was the right age, with the right color hair, and a face much the same shape as the old king’s. Remember that I had never seen the prince myself; I don’t even remember what his name was—”
“Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan . . .” said Paks, watching him closely.
Aliam’s hand dropped to his side. “Whatever,” he said and waited a moment. “No evidence,” he went on. “None from the boy—who remembered nothing to any purpose—none otherwise. The princess was alive and well then, but an orphan. I could not see—I thought—” He stopped, breathing hard. Paks waited. “Gods above, Paksenarrion, I did what I thought wise at the time—what else can a man do? He might have been—might not—I couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him—how could I? I was not ready to back his claim against his sister: she was well-known, secure, growing into rule, loved by her people, capable—She was my princess—would be my queen. When I was granted this steading, I had sworn allegiance to her father. What evidence did I have? He might have been a royal bastard—or a noble’s bastard—or nothing at all. On the chance, I did what I could for him, kept him in my service, arranged his training, but—”
At that moment the truth blazed in Paks’s mind. “Phelan,” she breathed. “You’re talking about Kieri Phelan!” Everything came together—his age, his coloring, his—
“Yes,” said Aliam heavily. “I am. Kieri Artfiel Phelan, so he said his name when he came. Gods! If I’d only paid attention to Jeris—if I’d even known the lost prince’s name—but I was a boy! Just a boy!”
“But he doesn’t look half-elven,” said Paks. “The others I’ve met—”
“I know. He looks so much like his father—in fact, that’s what I saw first. I thought he was someone’s by-blow, possibly royal, certainly well-bred, one way or another. Even when I thought of it, it seemed impossible, and that was part of it: he didn’t look elven, or show any such abilities. And I was too young to be sure—”
“I don’t know if the name would have convinced us, either,” said Estil. “Falki’s the common nickname, and we knew Kieri as a name from Tsaia or Aarenis.”
Aliam shook his head. “What a mess!” Then he looked at her sharply. “But he can’t be king. Tir’s bones, I’d give my right arm to make him one, but he can’t—”