“You have heard our Bells before, Lady?”
“No.” Paks could not say they were beautiful; she wanted only to listen. In the song they were gold, “the golden bells of Vérella”; she wondered if they truly were. The captain talked on, heedless.
“The elves gave them, when Vérella was founded. To look at they are pure gold, but of course they cannot be all gold, for it would not stand the beating. But the elves had them cast, and their voices are sweet to hear.” His last words rang loud; the Bells had ceased.
“How often do they ring?”
“It depends on the Council. Always at true dawn, as the elves have it, and sunfall, and at midday when the Council is sitting. And for any festival, of course: Midwinter, Summereve, Torre’s Eve, High Harvest, Gird’s Victory—for those.”
They had come to steps leading up to tall doors under the arch. Guards in rose and silver nodded to the captain and he led them in. Here the floor was set with polished blocks of silver-gray stone. Paks looked around the wide hall; wide stairs rose ahead of her, where the hall narrowed to a passage still wider than the main room in a cottage. To right and left were tall doors folded back to reveal great empty rooms opening into other rooms. Tapestries hung on the walls; the lamp sconces were polished silver. The captain had paused for a moment, looking around. Paks saw a youth in a green tunic with red piping over red hose—Marrakai colors, if her memory served—come into the room on the left. The captain hailed him.
“Pardon, Kirgan—is the Council still sitting?”
The young man—a squire, Paks was sure, though the title was that of eldest son—nodded. “Yes, Captain. Why?” Paks saw his eyes rake over her and return to the captain’s face.
“It’s this—Lady Paksenarrion, a paladin. She is on quest, and must speak with the Council, she says.”
“At once?” The boy’s eyebrows rose, and he met Paks’s gaze with surprising composure.
“I must ask them to hear me,” said Paks quietly. “It is in their power to refuse.”
He laughed shortly. “They will hardly refuse to hear a paladin, I daresay. It’s better than what they have been hearing—”
“Sir!” The captain’s tone chilled.
The boy’s face reddened. “I beg your pardon,” he said formally. “I spoke as ill befits a squire.”
“If you will follow me,” said the captain, turning to Paks. She nodded, but watched the boy’s face stiffen as the captain snubbed him.
“I took no offense, Kirgan,” she said to him.
She and the Lyonyan squires followed the captain through two large rooms and down a wide passage to a deep alcove. Here four guards in rose and silver stood before doors inlaid with silver and enamel. The captain spoke to them softly, in a dialect Paks did not recognize. One of them stood aside, and the captain knocked softly at the doors.
At once they were opened slightly from inside. The captain conferred with someone. Paks was aware of tension in the room beyond: it seeped out the open door like a cold draught. Then a louder voice spoke from within, an order, and the captain turned to Paks, clearly surprised.
“They will hear you now,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain, for your guidance and help.” Paks walked forward; the guards stood aside from the doors, now opened wide. She felt rather than saw the Lyonyan squires following.
Within was a room smaller than those they had passed, well-lit by high windows on both sides. At the far end an empty throne loomed on a dais; on either side were tiered seats behind a sort of fence, rising up to the base of the windows. These were nearly empty, though a few squires lounged there, and—Paks squinted a moment against the light of the top tier—two elves. Taking up most of the floor space was a massive table of dark wood, heavily carved and inlaid with silver. Around this sat the lords she had come to see: the Regency Council of Tsaia. In the seat below the throne, the crown prince, who would be king by Summereve. Paks thought he looked man-grown already. His brother, younger by almost three years, sat to one side: he had no place on Council, and looked as bored as any youth locked into adult discussions of policy when he had rather be hunting. At the prince’s left, a burly man in green and red, who reminded Paks of the boy outside: that was Duke Marrakai. Duke Mahieran, in red and silver. Baron Destvaorn, in blue and red. Kostvan in green and blue. Verrakai—she let her eyes linger a moment on Verrakai—in blue and silver. Sorrestin in blue and rose. Clannaeth in yellow and rose. And alone at the near end of the table, facing her now, Phelan in his formal dress: maroon and white. He smiled at her, then moved to one side so that she could approach the table.
The man who had opened the door, a silver-haired old man in the royal livery, announced her.
“Lady Paksenarrion, Paladin of Gird.”
Paks bowed toward the prince.
“Your highness, lords of the Counciclass="underline" I thank you for your courtesy in thus allowing me an audience.”
The crown prince spoke quickly. “It is our honor, Lady, to receive any paladin in this Court. Pray tell us how we may aid your quest.”
“I will be brief.” Despite herself, her eyes slid a little toward Duke Phelan. She almost thought she could feel the sword’s desire to come to him. “You already know, I believe, that the king of Lyonya died without an heir of the body.” They nodded. “I was called to that court, to Chaya, as paladins are called, but not, alas, to heal the king. Instead I bore unknowing a treasure of that realm: this sword.” She pulled back her cloak; they peered at the sword hilt. Duke Phelan, as the others, merely looked puzzled.
“What sword is that?” asked the High Marshal into the brief silence that followed. Paks was sure he had already heard the tale, but she merely answered him.
“According to the testimony of lords in Chaya who remember, and the elves themselves, it was made for the son of King Falkieri—the older brother of this king, whose wife and son were lost while traveling to the Ladysforest. Because I bore the sword, the king—the one who lay dying—thought perhaps the gods meant me to take the throne after him, and so he spoke. But this, too, was not the quest for which I was called.”
“He would have given his kingdom to you?” That was Verrakai. Paks could feel the scorn from where she stood. “To a—a—commoner? A peasant’s child?”
From the corner of her eye, Paks saw Duke Phelan’s face whiten with rage; before she could speak, the prince did.
“Peace, Verrakai. Gird chose her paladin; whatever her past, she has been given abilities that would grace any throne. And we will not have any guest insulted at this table.” He smiled at Paks. “You will forgive Duke Verrakai’s surprise, Lady? Those of us who live in the midst of families graced with every talent may find it difficult to credit such talents elsewhere.” Paks thought she caught a bite of sarcasm in that; so did Verrakai, who first paled then reddened.
She bowed. “Your highness, I can take no offense for truth spoken. I am a commoner, a sheepfarmer’s daughter, and I found the thought of myself on a throne as outlandish as Duke Verrakai might wish. Indeed, that is not my destiny, nor do I seek it. But the dying king, loving his land much, thought a paladin might bring peace—that I can understand. And his lords, your highness, loving their land and peace more than pride, would have agreed.” She waited a moment for that to sink in; some of the Council found it hard to believe, by their expressions.
“Instead of that, I was called to search for the rightful king. By bringing this sword where its true nature could be known—by tracing its history carefully—by searching for the man who was once the prince of Lyonya—by all these means I am to find the rightful heir to that throne and return him to his place. In warrant of this, I am accompanied by these King’s Squires of Lyonya, who will witness the identity of the man, when we find him, and escort him to Chaya.”