“I swear to you, Paks: we will not leave him.”
“I will return shortly.” And Paks followed the High Marshal away from the chamber.
High Marshal Seklis ushered Paks into his study, and seated her near a small fire. A yeoman-marshal brought a tray of sweet cakes and a pot of sib, then withdrew.
“I understand your concern, Lady,” he began, “but it will take the rest of the day to get a troop of the Royal Guard ready to ride on such a mission. Your things, no doubt, are simpler. And the King’s Squires will guard him. Now that you’ve handed over that sword, you’ll need another, and I want a favor in return—the story of your quest so far, to write into the archives for the Marshal-General.”
Paks told her tale, from leaving Duke Phelan’s stronghold to her arrival in Vérella, as quickly and completely as possible, but the pot of sib was empty when she finished. The High Marshal sat back and sighed, then smiled.
“Now I understand your haste. Come—I have no elf-blades here, but we can find something more your weight than the blade that failed you last night.” He led her into the armory, where Paks tried one blade after another until she found one to suit. Then they walked back into the palace, to find the Duke’s suite a chaotic jumble of servants, gear, and visitors. Paks saw Kolya and Dorrin across the outer room, and worked her way toward them.
“He’s not here at the moment,” said Dorrin, “but he’ll be back. Before you ask, all the King’s Squires went with him, as well as Selfer—don’t worry. Falk’s oath, Paks, if we’d known what you would do someday, I don’t know if we’d ever have risked your hide on the battlefield.”
“Oh yes, you would,” said Paks. “How else could you test a weapon? Not by hanging it on the wall.”
“We’ll miss him,” said Kolya soberly. “The best master a land ever had, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m not ill-wishing—I just wish I could pick up my trees and move to Lyonya.”
“He’d find you a grove.”
“It’s not the same. Those Westnuts I struggled with, learning to dig one-handed—I can’t move that somewhere else.”
“And he feels it too,” said Paks quietly.
“I know. And I’m glad for him. All those years of hearing the others pick and pick—hedge-lord, they’d say, or base-born moneybags—they’ll sing a new song now. He was never less than kingly with us; Lyonya’s lucky, and he deserves the best of it.”
“Who’s going with him? For that matter, who’s here?”
Dorrin numbered them on her fingers. “Arcolin’s commanding back north; Selfer and I came along, and we’ll go on to Lyonya. Kolya, you know, and Donag Kirisson, the miller from Duke’s West, and Siger. And Vossik and a half-dozen solid veterans. Plus the usuaclass="underline" carters and muleteers, and that. I expect he’ll take his own veterans, and I doubt we could peel Siger away from him with a knife.”
“And how many of the Tsaian Guard?”
“A score at least. The crown prince would like to send a cohort, but you know what that means in supplies. The Duke—the king—always said the Tsaian Royal Guard traveled on silk.”
The High Marshal nodded. “It’s court life—I’ve argued again and again about it, but to no avail. They’re good fighters—well trained and disciplined—but any decent mercenary company can march them into the ground.”
“It’s too bad the Company can’t be here,” said Dorrin. “They’d be proud of him.”
“What is it—a week’s march? I agree with Lady Paksenarrion; he must not wait that long to travel. Although his own Company would be a fitting escort.”
“If it didn’t frighten the Lyonyans,” said Dorrin. “They aren’t used to troop movements there.”
Paks looked a question at her, and Dorrin blushed.
“I trained there, you know,” she said. “But I was born a Verrakai.”
“You?”
“Yes. They don’t admit it any more.” Dorrin grinned, shaking her head. “My cousin is furious. I remember getting in fights with him before I left home.”
More messengers and visitors arrived. Someone came to Dorrin with a handful of scrolls and a question; she shrugged helplessly at Paks and moved aside to look at them. Servants carried in trays of food. Paks thought of her own rooms, and wondered if Lieth had packed her things before leaving with Phelan. She wormed her way through a cluster of people to ask Kolya when he’d be back.
“I’m not sure—he said not long, but not to worry if it was a glass or so. Some Company matter. He’d already had to talk to his bankers, and draft messages to Arcolin. Why?”
“I’ll go down to my rooms, then, and pack up. It won’t take long.” Paks worked her way out of the suite, past a row of squires bearing messages, and hurried to her own quarters. Lieth had not packed, but she found two of the palace servants straightening the rooms. In a short time, she had rolled everything neatly into her saddlebags or Lieth’s. She went back along the corridors with the bags slung over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and most of the outer court was in shadow. The bustle in Phelan’s suite seemed less. A row of corded packs waited in the outer room. Kolya, Dorrin, High Marshal Seklis, and Donag Kirisson sat around a low table near the fire in the sitting room, eating rapidly. Paks joined them, dumping her saddlebags nearby. She reached for the end of a loaf.
“Where is he? Isn’t he back?”
“Not yet,” said Kolya. “Are you worried, Paks? He has four good squires with him.”
“Did he take the sword?” asked Paks without answering Kolya.
“No,” said Dorrin. She pushed back her cloak to show the pommel. “He asked me to keep it here—said he didn’t want it on the street.”
Paks frowned, her worry sharpening. “I wish he’d taken it. I should have said something.”
“Why?”
“If nothing else, it’s a remarkably good weapon. But more than that, in his hands it has great power, and none of us can use it.”
“You can, surely.”
“Not now,” said Paks. “Not after he drew it—it’s sealed to him completely now. I would not dare to draw it.”
Dorrin looked at it. “If I’d known that—”
“Excuse me, Lady—I was given a message for your hand.” Paks looked up to see a page in the rose and silver house livery holding something out. She put out her hand, and took it. The page bowed, and quickly moved away. It was a small object wrapped in parchment. Paks folded the stiff material back carefully. When she saw what it contained, she felt as cold as if she’d been dipped in the ice-crusted river.
27
There on her hand lay the Duke’s black signet ring, the same ring she had carried from Fin Panir to the Kuakgan’s grove in Brewersbridge, the same ring she had taken back to the Duke that fall. The others had leaned to see what it was; Paks held out her hand, and watched the faces whiten. No one spoke. Paks flattened the parchment, and saw thin, angular writing she knew at once for blood. She shivered; she knew it must be his blood.
Alone, or Lyonya will have no king.
This too she showed the others, handing it around.
“By the Tree—” Kolya was the first to find speech. “What can you do, Paks?”
“Find him,” said Paks grimly.
“But how?”
“They will guide me; they intend it.” She was shaken by a storm of rage and grief, and struggled to master it. For what must come she had to be calm. She took the ring from Dorrin, who was staring blankly at it, and slipped it on her own middle left finger. “Kolya—” The one-armed woman met her eyes, blinking back tears. “Find the nearest Kuakgan—is there one near enough Vérella?”
“For what?”
“To aid him when he travels. I want the taigin awakened for him.”
“Great lords above!” muttered the High Marshal.
Paks shot him a quick glance and went on. “Tell the Kuakgan to ask the taigin of Master Oakhallow: and tell him the three woods are fireoak, blackwood, and yellowwood.”