“Paladin of Gird, have you come to redeem your master?”
“He is not my master, but the rightful king of Lyonya, as you know.”
“But dear to you.”
“To bring him to his throne was laid on me for my quest,” said Paks. “He is no longer my lord, for I am Gird’s paladin.”
“But you are here because of him.”
“Because of Lyonya’s king, yes.”
“The Master of Torments desires otherwise.”
“The Master of Torments has already found that the High Lord prevails.”
A howl of rage answered that, and a bolt of blue light cast from the second priest. Paks laughed, tossing it aside with her hand. “See,” she said. “You have said that he lives, and that you have some bargain in mind—but I am not without power. State your terms, slaves of a bad master.”
“You will all die in torment—” began one, but the other hushed him and stepped forward.
“You killed our Master’s servants in Lyonya,” he said. “You killed them in Aarenis before that. The Master will have your blood for that blood, or take the blood of Lyonya’s king.”
“Death for life?” asked Paks.
“No.” The priest shook his head slowly. “Torment for it, paladin of Gird. Death is easy—one stroke severs all necks, and our Master knows you paladins expect a long feasting thereafter. You must buy the king of Lyonya’s freedom with the space of your own suffering. This night and day one will suffer as our Master demands—either Lyonya’s king, or you.”
“And then you will continue, and kill in the end.” Paks kept her voice steady with an effort.
“It may be so, though there is another who wants your death. Uncertainty is, indeed, an element of torment. But the terms are these: you must consent, and come unresisting to our altar, or Lyonya’s king will be maimed before another dawn, and will never take the throne.”
“Prove that he and his squires live.”
“His squires! What are they to you?”
“You would not know. Prove it.”
One of the priests withdrew. In a short time, the priest and more armed men appeared, bringing Phelan and the squires, all bound and disarmed. One man carried their weapons.
They gaped across the tiny yard at Paks’s light. Phelan’s face hardened as he saw her. Garris sagged between his guards, as if badly hurt. Suriya’s right arm was bandaged, and Lieth’s helmet sat askew above a scalp wound. Selfer limped.
“Paks. I had hoped you wouldn’t come to this trap.” Phelan’s voice barely carried across the court.
“Your ring worked as we hoped.” That was one of the priests.
“A paladin on quest, my lord, has little choice,” said Paks, ignoring the priest and meeting Phelan’s gaze.
“Now you see that we have what we claimed,” said the first priest. “Will you redeem him?”
“All of them,” said Paks. “The squires too.”
“Why the squires?”
“Why should any be left in your hands?” Paks took a long breath. “I will barter for the king, and these squires, on these grounds: one day and night for each—you to restore their arms, and let them go free for those days.”
“Paks, no!” Suriya leaned forward; her guards yanked her back.
“You have no power to bargain,” said the priest. “We can kill them now.”
“And you are beyond your protection,” said Paks, “and I am within mine. If you kill them, Liart’s scum, I will kill many of you—and your power here will fail. Perhaps I cannot save them—though you would be foolish to count on that—but I can kill you.”
“So.” The priests conferred a moment. “We will agree on these terms: one day and night for each—that is five you would redeem?”
“Have you more in your power?”
“No. Not at present. Five, then: five days and nights. We will restore their arms and free them when you are within.”
“No.” Paks shook her head. “You know the worth of a paladin’s word. I know the worth of yours. You will free them now, and on my oath they will not strike a blow against you—”
“Paks—”
“Be silent, Suriya. As it is my choice to redeem you, so you are bound by my oath in this. Take your weapons and return to the palace; guard your lord on his journey and say no more.” She looked from face to face. “All of you—do you understand?”
Phelan’s eyes glittered. “Paks, you must not. You don’t understand—”
“Pardon, my lord, but I do understand—perhaps more than you do. I am not your soldier now. I follow the High Lord, and Gird, the protector of the helpless, into whatever ways they call. Do not, I pray you, make this quest harder than it is.”
He bowed as much as he could. “Lady, it shall be as you say. But when I am king—”
“Then speak as the king’s honor demands,” said Paks, meeting his eyes steadily. She looked back at the priest. “You will not harry them for the days of the bargain.”
“We will not.”
“Then I take oath, by Gird and the High Lord, that when I see them safely freed and armed I will submit without battle to your mastery for five days and nights.”
“Unbind them,” said one of the priests.
“Wait,” said Paks. They paused. “I have one further demand. They shall carry away my own arms, that Gird’s armor be not fouled in your den.”
“I have no objection,” said the priest curtly. He nodded, and the guards untied the bonds. Garris slumped to the ground; Suriya and Selfer struggled to lift him. “Is he dead?” asked Paks.
“Not quite,” said Selfer grimly. Paks prayed, certain the Liartian priests would not let her touch Garris to heal him. She felt a drain on her strength, as the healing often seemed, and Garris managed to stand between the other two. Suriya looked at her, and nodded slowly. When they had all been given their weapons, Paks spoke again.
“Come here—near the entrance—and I will disarm.” Lieth and Phelan warded her as best they could while she took off her weapons and mail. She folded everything into a neat stack, covered with her cloak against curious eyes, and tucked her Gird’s medallion into it. Then she took off Phelan’s signet ring and handed it to him. “My lord, your ring. Take your royal sword, and keep it to your hand after this. Lieth, High Marshal Seklis will take my gear. My lord, you must go at once.”
“Paks—”
“Gird’s grace on you, sir king.” Paks bowed; Phelan nodded, and started up the passage with Lieth guarding the rear. She watched just long enough to see them around the chimney, then turned back to the others. They had not moved.
“It is astonishing,” said one priest, “that Girdsmen are so gullible.” Paks said nothing. “For all you know, that man may be a convert to our Master’s service.”
At that, Paks laughed. “You know better than that of paladins: if he were evil, I would know. I can read your heart well enough.”
“Good,” said the priest, his voice chilling. “Read it closely, paladin, and learn fear.” He nodded, and the swordsmen came forward on either side. “Remember your oath, fooclass="underline" you swore to come without a battle.”
Paks felt her belly clench; for a moment fear shook her mind and body both. Then she steadied herself and faced them. “As I swore, so I will do; the High Lord and Gird his servant command me.”
The priests both laughed. “What a spectacle we can offer! It’s rare sport to have a paladin to play with—and one sworn to offer no resistance is rarer yet.”
Paks made no answer, and when the swordsmen surrounded her, stood quietly. None of them touched her for a moment, daunted by her light, but when the priests gave a sharp command they prodded her forward, across the yard and into the doorway. Once inside, the priests grabbed her and slammed her roughly against the wall of the passage. Her light had vanished. She felt their assault on her heart at the same time, but trusted that no evil could touch her so. Guards bound her arms behind her and her ankles with heavy thongs, drawing them cruelly tight. Then they dragged her down one passage and another, down steep stairs where every stair left its own bruise, along wide corridors and narrow ones, until she was nearly senseless.