“Only three?” That was the younger prince, now listening alertly.
“Four began the quest with me,” said Paks. “One died. We have been beset by evil powers, lords, who do not want the rightful king found.”
“How will you know?” asked the High Marshal again.
“By this sword.” Paks laid her hand on the pommel; it felt warm to her touch. “It was made for the prince, partially sealed to him in its forging. Had the journey they were on been complete, it would have been completely dedicated to him, and no one else could have drawn it. But that did not happen; the journey was never finished. So I have used it, and so have others—but according to the elves, who made it, it will still acknowledge its true master when he draws it.”
“And where did you get it?” asked Verrakai, still sour.
“From Duke Phelan,” said Paks.
“That thief—” muttered Verrakai. Paks heard it clearly. She laughed.
“Thief?” she repeated. “Not unless he took it as a babe in arms. It was lost from Lyonya over forty-five years ago. He was given it, Duke Verrakai, by Aliam Halveric of Lyonya, who had found it near a dead elf in the forest.”
“So he says.” Verrakai’s insistent distaste was not mellowing.
“So also the elves themselves say,” said Paks. “Aliam Halveric told the elves when he’d found it; they did not ask its return, but told him to give it to the one for whom it was made. They thought he knew what sword it was; alas, the elves have trouble remembering the brevity of human lives, and that he had been too young to see the sword at court.”
“But then—” The crown prince’s voice topped a sudden burst of talk; it stilled, and he went on. “But then the elves knew—they knew who the prince was? Why didn’t they simply say?”
“And how did they know?” asked the High Marshal, with a sharp look at the two elves who sat high in the tiers.
“You will remember that Falkieri’s queen was elven; the prince was half-elven. It seems that when the tragedy occurred, everyone assumed the boy had been killed. Instead, he was stolen away—beyond the seas, the elves think, since they could have sensed his presence anywhere in these realms.”
“Even in Pargun or Kostandan?” asked Duke Marrakai.
“I am not sure, my lord.”
“Yes,” came a silvery elven voice from the seats above. “Anywhere in these realms or Aarenis, Duke Marrakai, elves could have found him.”
“So you see,” Paks went on, “the elves also thought him dead, when they could not sense him. Then some years later, he returned to Lyonya: how, I do not know. But elves found him there, fairly quickly, and—”
“And did nothing? Do you ask me to believe that?” Verrakai led the rush of noise that followed. Paks waited until the room quieted; this time the prince had let them talk themselves out.
“The elves said,” Paks went on, “that the prince had been treated so badly that he had no remembrance of his past. He knew nothing of his name, his family, or his elven blood. They found him so damaged that they feared he had none of the taig-sense left; they feared to try any intervention lest they damage him further.”
“And so they did nothing.” The crown prince’s voice was calm.
“Not quite nothing, your highness. They watched. Remember that at that time, the prince’s younger sister was alive and well—”
“But now,” said the crown prince, “Lyonya has no king, and no clear heir, and the elves want a part-elven ruler. Is that the meat of it?”
“Not quite. They do not want this man to rule unless he’s fit for it—and they doubt his fitness.” Paks waited for the silence. Then she spoke. “I do not doubt it.”
“What!” The crown prince leaned forward; all of them stared. “You know—you know who it is?”
“I do.”
“Then why haven’t you said? Why this nonsense about a quest?” Verrakai again, sneering.
“Because, my lord, I have not been granted leave to speak by the gods—or by the king himself. What, would you have me place an innocent man in danger, by blurting his name out for the world to play with? Already one King’s Squire is dead, killed by a priest of Liart, to prevent my finding him. Already the powers of evil in Lyonya are massing to keep him from the throne. Suppose I had said his name openly, from the time I first suspected who it would be—would he be alive this day, to take the sword and test his inheritance?”
“Well said,” said the High Marshal. “Well said, indeed.”
“I came here,” said Paks, more quietly, “to tell the Council of Tsaia that my quest leads me into your realm. I must go where the quest leads, but in all courtesy, I ask your leave to travel as I must.”
“Is he here?” asked the crown prince. “In Tsaia?”
“He is,” said Paks, weighing the danger of that admission.
“Can you tell us now who it is?”
“No. Not at the moment, your highness. I must ask Duke Phelan some questions about the sword’s history in his house: who handled it, and how.”
“We all have questions for Duke Phelan,” said Verrakai. “I hope, Lady Paksenarrion, that his answers to your questions are more to the point than his answers to mine.”
The crown prince shot a glance at Verrakai that silenced him. Then he smiled at Paks. “We shall defer our questions until you are through, Lady Paksenarrion. A paladin’s quest—and such a quest—is a matter of more moment than the Duke’s response to matters of law.” He rose, and the others rose with him. With a bow, he led them from the room, through a door Paks had not noticed behind the throne. The squires in the tiers followed, and the two elves climbed down to stand near Paks and Duke Phelan.
“Are you certain, Lady, of the rightness of your judgment?”
“I am certain, sir elf, of the rightness of the gods’ commands; my own judgment is not at issue.”
“Be joyous in your certainty, paladin of Gird,” said one of the elves, eyes flashing.
“I hope you are right, indeed,” said the other, “for I would see no fires rage in the forests of Lyonya, as have raged in other lands.” He turned to the other elf. “Come cousin—we shall know all soon enough; we might as well leave the paladin to her work.” And with a bow, the elves also withdrew.
Meanwhile, Duke Phelan had recognized Garris, and come to grip his arm. “Garris—by the gods, so this is where you ended up. King’s Squire—a good place for a good man.”
“Well, my lord, I—” Garris struggled with his knowledge and the Duke’s ignorance.
“You can’t my lord me, Garris. Not when we were boys together. Have you told Paks here about all our scrapes?” Phelan turned to Paks, grinning. “Garris was a year or so younger than I, Paks, at Aliam Halveric’s, and I got him in more trouble—”
“That’s not what I heard,” said Paks.
“It’s true enough,” said the Duke. “But come—let’s sit down. Have you been here long? When did you arrive? I had heard nothing until I came to Vérella, where I found word that the king of Lyonya was dead, and you were coming here on quest.”
“We have just come, my lord,” said Paks, settling gingerly into the chair Duke Verrakai had vacated. “We rode this morning from Westbells.”
“Have you had any refreshment? I can certainly have someone bring—”
“No, my lord. Please. We shall have time enough after.”
He gave her a long look. “So. It is that urgent, eh? Well, then, Paks, ask what you will, and as I know, I will answer.”
Paks began with what she knew of the sword’s history, and the Duke nodded. He affirmed what Aliam Halveric had said of the sword when he took it. Without prompting, he spoke of his vow to Tamarrion.
“You see, she had been—was—a soldier, as I was, and she was not giving that up.” The Duke glanced quickly at Lieth and Suriya. “You will understand that. So I felt—in giving her a sword—that it would be but courtesy to promise it would always be hers alone.”