“Get the lo-pipe,” he told the boy. “Garris, do you still play?”
“I haven’t blown a pipe for over a year,” said Garris.
“Well, you need the practice.”
Young Aliam carried in the long, polished tube of a lo-pipe, and set it before Garris. Cal plucked a note. Garris took a breath and blew; the sonorous mellow note Paks expected came out sour and cracked as a strangled goose. Everyone burst into a roar of laughter.
“Gods’ teeth, Garris, I said play it, not break it.”
“I told you—” He tried again, producing a deep, hollow sound that rattled dishes. “Now, if I can find another note—” It began well, a rich sound above the other, but it faded and split as he held it. He stopped and looked up, rubbing his lip. “I’ll have a blister,” he said. “But if you’re willing to laugh over it, I’ll try ‘Cedars of the Valley.’”
“Hmmph. Child’s play,” said Cal, fingering the harpstrings. The silver dancing harp-notes began to work a pattern on the slower, lower lo-pipe. Garris had trouble; the notes broke again and again, or slid off-key, but Paks could hear what the music was meant to be. Then Hali took the lo-pipe, and Aliam the harp.
“For the paladin who has come on quest,” said Aliam to the rest, and the silence was absolute. “You all know that much; I will tell you this much more—she is on quest to find Lyonya’s true king, and when she leaves us will leave with all our goodwill and hope. And so for her, and for the quest, Hali and I will give you this, which we do not sing here often. Falk and the Oath of Gold.’”
Paks had never heard it sung, though she knew the story of Falk, bound by oath and chains together, held captive many years then riding into the city of despair to free his kindred.
The refrain first, set to a different tune, and sounding like part of something else. All of them sang it, but at the first verse, Aliam Halveric and his sons sang alone.
As Aliam and his sons sang it, the music drummed in her veins, and it became the song of Kieri the lost prince. She smiled at him; his eyes acknowledged that meaning. Harp, pipe, and voices together wove the long spell, ending with
as they sang the final verses, and let the music die away.
“Now,” he said. “I do not know how long Paksenarrion can stay—for us, as long as she will—but all of you remember that she is welcome to go or stay as she pleases, and take whatever she needs. If any of you can aid her, do it in my name. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” came the response. Aliam nodded to them, then turned to Paks. “And now you will want to rest, you and your squires. Come and go as you will; I will always be glad to speak with you, but if you must go without my leave, know you have it.”
“I thank you,” said Paks, bowing. She followed him from the table and Hall. Estil and the squires came with them.
She woke from comfortable sleep—warm, clean, grateful for a good bed—to the awareness of danger. Starlight outlined the window; the room was dark but for the faint glow of a dying fire. She could hear the squires’ breathing; all seemed asleep. Slowly, silently, Paks eased out of bed, taking up the sword which lay beneath her hand. She did not draw it; she did not need its warning. Out of the narrow window she could see nothing; its lower half was patterned in frost ferns. Still barefoot, she went to the door, and opened it. A black passageway faced her; she could see nothing at all. But the sense of danger increased, pushing at her mind.
Sighing, she turned back to the room and woke her squires. As they rose, she dressed quickly, arming herself. Her sense of menace deepened. She opened the door again, and, on an impulse, called her light.
The entire passage was filled with webbing, strand after strand looped in an intricate pattern that centered on the door of Paks’s room. And a black presence hung in the web, scarcely an arm’s length away.
“Well, are you less eager to meet me?” The voice was strangely sweet. Paks could see no detail of the presence, could not tell shape or even size. She drew the sword. Its hilt comforted her hand.
“I am always eager to meet evil,” said Paks, “with a blade.”
“You will not be eager when you know what you have done,” said the voice. “You vermin—I have warned you often enough, and yet you kill and kill. You have torn my webs, you have robbed me of my prey—”
Paks laughed; the shade seemed to contract and grow more solid. But it was large, larger than she had imagined it could be. “I have done no more than any good soldier,” she said. “In keeping the barracks clean, the webs are swept away.”
“Fool!” The word howled in Paks’s ears, echoed in her head. She leaned against the force of it. “You think you can stand against me? Mistress of all webs, the spinner of wise plans—”
“Not I, but Gird and the High Lord.”
“Who left you open to me: silly girl, I had you in Aarenis, and in Kolobia. You are tainted with my venom already; when I call, you will answer.”
“No.” Paks heard the squires behind her, and waved them back with her free hand. “By the power of the High Lord, and the grace of Gird, I am not your creature. And by that power I command you to leave this hall.”
“If I leave, where do you think I will go, sheepfarmer’s daughter? You are mortal still; you cannot be with all you love. You can save yourself: can you save them?” Paks saw her home in that instant: father, mother, brothers, sisters, and thrust the thought aside. If they were doomed, her failure here would not help them. But the sweet voice went on. “And there are others, wiser than you, who will hearken to counsels of caution . . . who will not welcome a warrior’s bloody hands on the crown. Even your squires: dare you trust strangers at your back against the powers you know oppose you? I know their secrets; I can use—”
“You can use nothing here; you cannot even hide your intent.” Paks drew that belief around her, palpable as armor, against the doubts and concerns the creature sent. “When you must appear openly, you are weakest,” she went on, as much for the squires’ benefit as anything. “As light shows traps, the truth will reveal your rumors and plots for what they are.” She sensed a movement in the darkness, and braced herself.
The darkness thickened, leaped forward; Paks raised the elf-forged blade to meet it. She felt something tangle her arm, shake it, but with a screech the darkness passed. Only the webs remained, swinging to and fro. Paks looked at her arm; it bore no mark, and the sword still shone clean.
“Thanks and praise,” she said quietly.
“What was that?” asked Lieth, who was nearest.
“I think it was a servant of Achrya,” said Paks. She feared it had been Achrya herself. Its power echoed in her mind, a wailing certainty of doom, but she fought off that sending.
“Where did all that—those—is that web? Or what?” asked Esceriel.
“It’s the web-stuff that Achrya’s servants spin. Don’t touch it; it burns.” Paks touched the sword tip to one of the strands; it shriveled and parted. “I’ll have to clean all this out.”