BY ELIZABETH MOON
THE DEED OF PAKSENARRION
Sheepfarmer’s Daughter
Divided Allegiance
Oath of Gold
THE LEGACY OF GIRD
Surrender None
Liar’s Oath
VATTA’S WAR
Trading in Danger*
Marque and Reprisal*
Engaging the Enemy*
Command Decision*
Victory Conditions*
PLANET PIRATES (WITH ANNE MCCAFFREY)
Sassinak
Generation Warriors
Remnant Population*
THE SERRANO LEGACY
Hunting Party
Sporting Chance
Winning Colors
Once a Hero
Rules of Engagement
Change of Command
Against the Odds
The Speed of Dark*
SHORT-FICTION COLLECTIONS
Lunar Activity
Phases
* Published by Ballantine Books
For those there from the start and still here for the new beginning: Ellen and John McLean and Richard Moon, for encouraging me to finish the first Paks book, Joshua Bilmes for accepting me as a client, the late Jim Baen for publishing The Deed of Paksenarrion, and Betsy Mitchell for editing it.
Dramatis Personae
Kieri Phelan’s mercenary company
Jandelir Arcolin, senior captain of first cohort (short sword)
Stammel, senior sergeant of Arcolin’s cohort
Devlin, junior sergeant of Arcolin’s cohort
Arñe, corporal in Arcolin’s cohort
Dorrin Verrakai, senior captain of second cohort (short sword)
Selfer, junior captain of second cohort
Cracolnya, senior captain of third cohort (mixed: sword/crossbow)
Valichi, captain of recruit cohort
Tsaian Court: senior noble families
Mikeli Vostan Keriel Mahieran, crown prince of Tsaia
Camwyn, his younger brother
Beclan Mahieran, Knight-Commander of the Bells (order of Girdish knights)
Sonder Mahieran, Duke Mahieran
Rothlin, his heir and the prince’s friend
Selis Marrakai, Duke Marrakai
Juris, his heir and the prince’s friend
Galyan Serrostin, Duke Serrostin
Rolyan, the prince’s friend
Haron Verrakai, Duke Verrakai, Dorrin Verrakai’s uncle
Konhalt (loyal to Verrakai)
Kostvan (loyal to Crown)
Donag Veragsson, Marshal-Judicar of Tsaia (interprets Code of Gird in Tsaia)
Arianya, Marshal-General (commands entire Company of Gird)
Lyonya
Sier Halveric, Aliam’s older brother, inherited the title, vocal member of Council
Sier Belvarin, vocal member of Council, often disagreeing with Sier Halveric
Sier Galvary, vocal member of Council, in charge of treasury
Aliam Halveric, commands Halveric Company, Kieri Phelan’s mentor and friend
Estil Halveric, his wife
Orlith, elf instructing Kieri Phelan in taig-magic
Flessinathlin, the Lady of the Ladysforest, elven ruler of that elvenhome kingdom
Amrothlin, Kieri Phelan’s maternal uncle, elf
Carlion, armsmaster at King’s Salle
Aarenis
Aesil M’dierra, commander of Golden Company (mercenaries)
Jeddrin, Count of Andressat
Alured the Black, former pirate, self-styled Duke of Immer
Arneson, one-eyed captain hired by Arcolin as recruit captain
Versin, captain hired by Arcolin as junior to Cracolnya
Burek, captain hired by Arcolin as his own junior captain
Fenin Kavarthin, Kieri’s banker in Valdaire
Paltis, Kieri’s factor in Valdaire
AUTHOR’S NOTE
What Has Gone Before
When Paksenarrion rode off into the fictional sunset twenty-odd years ago at the close of Oath of Gold, I knew I would want to return to her world someday and write more about the other characters there: Kieri Phelan, his captains Arcolin and Dorrin, Sergeant Stammel, and the rest. They had stories of their own waiting to be told. I never thought it would take this long to return … but finally I was able to find the door and here we are, this time seeing the world through other eyes than Paks’s.
The Eight Kingdoms north of the Dwarfmounts, and the land of Aarenis, south of those mountains, have had a seemingly stable relationship for generations. Northern mercenaries fought southern wars; southern merchants kept trade flowing over the mountains along the Merchants’ Guild routes and controlled most of the southern cities. The Elder Races—elves, dwarves, gnomes—kept their distance from humans for the most part, except that elves and humans mingled in Lyonya, the oddest of the Eight Kingdoms.
But change is upon them, brought by hidden forces and their instrument, the paladin Paksenarrion, whose story is detailed in The Deed of Paksenarrion.
Briefly, Paks ran away from her family’s sheep farm to become a soldier, joining Duke Kieri Phelan’s mercenary company in Tsaia. After three years of service in Tsaia and Aarenis, during which she matured from raw recruit to skilled veteran, she left to adventure on her own. Through many trials, she became a paladin of Gird, a holy warrior, and felt a call to return to the Duke’s Company. There, the powers granted paladins led her to the discovery that her former commander was not a bastard duke, as most thought, but half-elven, and the true heir of the throne of Lyonya, next kingdom to the east.
Immediately, forces of evil tried to prevent Kieri Phelan’s travel to Lyonya, capturing him and his companions. Paks pledged to exchange herself and endure five days and nights of torment for his freedom. She endured and survived, to be healed by the gods she served. She followed Kieri east, knowing he would be attacked again, and arrived with additional troops in time to save him.
Thanks to Paks, Kieri Phelan becomes king in Lyonya, a role he could not have expected. He must leave behind those he ruled, led in battle, and cared for so long, and that parting is wrenching. In a widening ripple, everyone Paksenarrion met or came near is thrust into change, from the powerful—the crown prince of Tsaia, the Marshal-General of Gird—to the powerless, including a ragged, starving, one-eyed former mercenary in Aarenis.
As this is a new group of stories, Oath of Fealty is an alternate entry point to the story-universe. No one needs to read the earlier books before reading this one. However, if you’re so inclined, all the earlier books are in print, and the Paksworld website, www.paksworld.com, has a complete list.
CHAPTER ONE
Vérella
A small boy clambered from a cellar wall into an alley. He picked his way through the trash along the wall to a nearby street, walked quickly to the next turning, went left, then right. The street widened a little; the people he passed wore warmer clothes. He ducked into an alcove and pulled off the ragged jacket that had concealed his own unpatched shirt and tunic, folded the ragged one into a tidy bundle, and tucked it under his arm. Now he moved at a steady jog into the wealthier part of the city, nearer the palace. Finally he turned in to a gap between buildings, found the trapdoor he sought, and went belowground again.
In the cellar of a tall house within a few minutes of the palace gates, he gave a coded knock. A hard-faced man with a spiked billet opened the door. “What d’you want, rat?” the man asked.
“For Duke Verrakai’s hand only,” the boy said. “From the Horned Chain.”
“I’ll take him,” another man said, stepping out of looming shadows. He wore the red and black of Liart, and the horned chain was about his neck. “Come, boy.”
Shaking with fear,
the boy followed, up stairs and along a corridor, to a room where another man, in Verrakai blue and silver, sat writing at a table by a fire.
“I am Duke Verrakai. You have a message for me: give it.”
The boy seemed to choke, and then, in a deep voice not his own, spoke the words Liart’s priest had bade him say. “The man is free, and his companions; the paladin is ours. Without her aid, he can be taken. He must not reach Lyonya alive.”
“He will not,” Duke Verrakai said. “Is there more?” The boy dug into his tunic and pulled out a folded paper; Verrakai took it and read it. “Well,” he said, with a glance at the man in red and black. “It seems we must return this boy with our answer.” He wrote on the reverse of the message, folded it, and handed it to the boy. “Go the way you came, swiftly.”
Less than a half-glass later, a man in Verrakai blue rode out the south gates of Vérella and turned east on the river road. Later, after the turn of night, Kieri Phelan, newly revealed king of Lyonya, also rode through the gates, with an escort of the Royal Guard.
Duke’s Stronghold, North Marches, seven days later
Jandelir Arcolin, senior captain of Duke Phelan’s Company, rested his forearms on the top of the stronghold walls, where he had the best view to the south. On one side of the road to Duke’s East, Stammel was putting his own cohort through an intricate marching drill. On the other, the junior sergeant of the recruit cohort supervised a sword drill with wooden blades. Beyond, the trees along the stream showed the first soft golds and oranges of ripening buds, though it would be hands of days yet before the fruit trees bloomed. Old snow still lay knee-deep against the north wall.
He heard steps behind him, and turned. Cracolnya, captain of the mixed cohort, came up onto the walkway with him.
“Are you putting down roots up here?” he asked.
Arcolin shook his head. “Hoping for a courier. We should have heard something by now. At least the weather’s lifted. Though not for long.” He tipped his head to the northwest, where a line of dark clouds just showed over the hills.
“Your worry won’t bring the Duke faster,” Cracolnya said. He turned his back on the view south and leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what we’ll do this year.”
“I don’t know.” Arcolin glanced down at the courtyard below, to be sure their inquisitive visitors, merchant-agents from Vonja, weren’t in earshot. “He said not to take any contracts until he got back; I suggested they go to Vérella and talk to him, but they were afraid of missing him on the way.”
“What are they offering?”
“A one-cohort contract to protect farmlands and roads from brigands. I told them we’d need two for that—”
“At least. Better the whole Company, or you’re without reliable archery. Or were they planning to assign their militia to help?”
“No. From what they said, they disbanded half the militia. Trade’s down. But what do you think the Council will say? With the trouble this past winter, the Duke can’t say it’s entirely safe here. Yet—we have to do something. This land won’t support so many soldiers year-round.”
Cracolnya leaned over the parapet, watching the recruit cohort. “We’ve got to do something with those recruits, too. They signed up to fight, and all we’ve done with them is train … and he’s taken their final oaths: they’ll be due regular pay soon.”
“He’ll think of something.” Arcolin looked again at the line of clouds along the western horizon. Buds or no buds, another winter storm was coming. “He always does. But if he doesn’t come soon, we won’t get the good quarters in Valdaire.” He looked south again, sighing, then stiffened. “Someone’s coming!”
A single horseman, carrying the Company pennant, moving fast on the road from Duke’s East. Not the Duke, who would have an escort.
“Should I announce it, sir?” the sentry asked.
“No. It’s just a messenger.” Unfortunately. They needed the Duke. Arcolin turned and made his way down to the courtyard with Cracolnya at his heels.
“I’ll tell the stable,” Cracolnya said, turning away. Arcolin moved to the gate, where he could watch the messenger approach.
Whatever the message might be, it was urgent enough for the rider to keep his mount at a steady canter, trotting only the last few yards to the gate and then halting his mount to salute the sentry before riding in. Arcolin recognized Sef, a private in Dorrin’s cohort.
“Captain,” Sef said, after he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the recruits on stable duty. “I have urgent news.”
“Into the barracks,” Arcolin said. Through the opening to the Duke’s courtyard, he could see the two merchants hurrying toward them, but merchants were not allowed in the barracks. He led the way, and turned in to the little room where the sergeants kept the cohort records and brewed sib on their own hearth. “What is it? Is the Duke coming? How far behind you is he?”
“No sir, he’s not coming, and you won’t believe—but I should give you this first.” Sef took a message tube from his tunic and handed it over.
Arcolin glanced at the hearth. “See if there’s any sib left, or brew yourself some; you’ve had a long ride. And if I know Stammel, he’s got a roll hidden away somewhere.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sef turned to the hearth, stirred the fire, and dipped a can of water from the barrel, setting it to heat.
Arcolin unrolled the message. A smaller wrapped packet fell out; he put it aside. There, in the Duke’s hand—with a postscript by Dorrin, he saw at a glance—he found what he had never imagined. Kieri Phelan revealed as the rightful king of Lyonya—Paksenarrion had discovered it, come to Tsaia to find him—Tammarion’s sword had been his sword all along, elf-made for him, and it had declared him. Arcolin glanced at Sef, who was stirring roots and herbs into the can. “Did you see this yourself? Were you in Vérella with the Duke?”
“No, Captain. I was with the reserve troop. Captain Selfer come up from Vérella, him and the horse both near knackered, and said the best rider must go fast as could be to the stronghold.” Sef swallowed. “He thought it would be only two days, maybe, but that fog came in. I couldn’t go more than a foot pace, mostly leading the horse. It’s taken me twice as long as it should have, three days and this morning.”
“I’m not surprised,” Arcolin said. “We had thick fog for days, up here; you did well, Sef.” He read on, while Sef stirred the can of sib, struggling to make sense of what had happened. His mind snagged on Paksenarrion—once in his cohort. I must go, and leave her in torment, Kieri had written. Otherwise her torment is meaningless. Yet it is a stain on my honor. You will rule in my stead until the Regency Council confirms a new lord. I recommended you, but do not know what they will do. This letter and my signet ring will prove your identity and authority.
Arcolin unwrapped the smaller packet and found the Duke’s ring. Not one of the copies he lent to his captains on occasion to do business for him, but the original, the one he himself wore.
Dorrin’s postscript was brief. She was going with Kieri, on his orders; her cohort would follow. She feared more attacks on the Duke—scratched out to read King—on the road east. She did not know when she might return; it would depend upon his need.
Arcolin rolled the pages and slid them back into the tube. “Well. You will have traveled ahead of any word of his passage to the east—” He tried to estimate where Kieri might be, where Dorrin might be, seven days on a road he himself had never traveled. Impossible.
“Right, Captain.” Sef stirred the can again, sniffed it. “Want some sib, sir?”
“No thanks. Go ahead.”
Sef took a mug down from the rack and poured one for himself as he talked. “Captain Selfer said Captain Dorrin expected his cohort to catch up with the Duke before the Lyonya border. Wish I was with them—” He took a swallow of hot sib.
“I’m—I must admit I’m shocked … amazed … I don’t know what to think,” Arcolin said. “Our Duke a king—all the rest—” Remembering Paks as a recruit, a
novice … the steady, reliable soldier she’d become … why she left, and when … the rumors … and then her return. He squeezed his eyes hard against tears, at the thought of her in Liart’s hands, shook his head, and looked again at Sef. “You’ve done very well, Sef. Go tell the cooks to give you a hot meal, and I’ll get Stammel to find you a place to sleep undisturbed.”
Sef saluted, then carefully rinsed the can and set it to dry before going out. Arcolin followed him, wondering if he’d have to explain to the Vonja agents before he found Stammel. Instead, Stammel met him at the gate. Arcolin smiled.
“Your good instincts again, Sergeant.”
“My insatiable curiosity, Captain. News from the Duke could always be marching orders.”
“It’s strange news indeed, and I’m not sure what will happen now,” Arcolin said. “The courier was Sef of Dorrin’s cohort—he needs a quiet bed to sleep; he was three days in thick fog between here and the south border. I sent him to the mess hall.”
“I’ll see to it, Captain.”
“I need to talk to the other captains before I spread the news,” Arcolin said. “I can tell you this—nothing will be the same.”
“It never is,” Stammel said. “That’s why we like it. Your leave, Captain.”
“Go ahead,” Arcolin said, thinking again how lucky he was to have Stammel as senior sergeant.
He found Cracolnya in the stables, talking fodder with the quartermaster.
“And I don’t know where more hay’s coming from, this time of year,” the quartermaster said. “Nobody’s got enough stored; it’s not to be bought, not at any price, and I know the Duke wouldn’t want us to take from the farmers’ stock.”
Arcolin made a motion with his head, and Cracolnya nodded. To the quartermaster he said, “A messenger’s come from the Duke; maybe an order to move out—that would help.”
“I hope so,” the quartermaster said gloomily. He spat into a corner. “I can’t be sure …”