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| Paksenarrion by Mandy Tsung |
This is from Elizabeth Moon's, The Deed of Paksenarrion, published first in 1988, though split into three novels. The story details the heroics of one Paksenarrion, a former sheep farmer's daughter, and paladin. I will be reviewing this novel forthwith, but here is a taste of some of what this novel has to offer.
At the first instance, Paks is at the nadir of her relatively short life. After having survived a number of harrowing challenges, and becoming known throughout the realm for her bravery, skill as a swords woman, and downright goodness, she has lost her way. A variety of poorly healed wounds, and psychological damage have crippled her. Lost, homeless, and starving, she finds herself at the glade of a Kuakgannir, a servant of mother nature. He heals her, but doubts remain, will her pyschic wounds forever ban her from fighting for the cause of good?
"What I can do has been done." Paks felt the certainty of this, and braced herse;f to carry her fear forever. "But," he went on, "there may be more you can do. You have spent a summer with the elves and part-elves and the powers of teh forest. I think you have spent it well--not thinking only of fighting, but learning, as you could, of the natural world. I cannot promise success--but if you have the courage to try a desperate chance, it may return your joy in your craft."
"I will try," said Paks at once.
"I have not told you what it is."
She shook her head. "No matter. I will try."
"Very well." He stood up and moved to the woodbox. "I have saved these from the spring; they'll be dry by now." He began to stack short lengths of wood by the fireside. "This is eart'oak--to look at, much like any red oak. The elves call it fireoak. And here are two lengths of blackwood--don't worry, not long enough for a bow, even for a child. I wouldn't burn bowwood. And--let me think. Yellowwood, shall it be, or rowan? What do you remember best, Paksenarrion about your visit here this spring?"
She tried to think; the bees that had come in to the honeycomb came to mind. "Bees," she said. "You sang them away."
"From yellowwood honey. Very well." He pushed most of the existing fire to one side of the wide hearth, and quickly piled the sticks he'd selected in its place. Then he lit them with a brand from the fire. Paks flinched: flames roared up from the tiny pile as if it had oil on it. THey were bright, brighter than the yellow flames on the other wood. The room came alive in that dancing light. "It won't last long," said the Kuakgan, turning to her. "You must name your gods, to yourself, at least, and place your hands in that flame. The heartwood of fireoak, for courage, and blackwood for resilience and endurance, and yellowwood for steadfast loyalty to good. Quickly!"
Paks could not move for an instant--the magical flames were too bright and hot. She could feel the sweat break out on her face, feel the clenching of her stomach, the roiling wave of fear about tos weep over her. She spread her hands in front of her and leaned to the fire.
The flames leaped up joyously to engulf her. She would have jerked back, but it seemed too late--the fire was too big. If I'm going to burn, she thought, I might as well do it all. She had forgotten to ask what would happen--if the flames would really burn--if they would kill her--and it was too late. Gird, she called silently, Gird, protector of the helpless. And it seemed to her that a stocky powerful man held his hand between her and the flames. And her memory brought another vision, and other names: The High Lord--and the first man stepped back, and trumpets blew a fanfare, and in the fire itself a cup of pure silver, mirroring the fire--Take it--said a voice, and she reached into the flames to find herself holding a cool cup full of icy liquid--Drink--said the voice, and she drank. Flames roared around her, hot and cold together--she could feel them running along her arms and legs. A wild wind shook the flames, drums thundered in her feet: she thought of horses, of Saben, of the Windsteed, father of many foals. She rode the flames, leaping into darkness, into nowhere, and then across endless fields of lowers, and the flowers at last wrapping the flames in coolness, in sweet scents and breaths of mint and cinnamon and spring water. Alyanya, she thought at the end. The Lady of Peace -- strange patron for a warrior. And kind laughter followed, and the touch of healing from the Lady's herbs. THen she thought of them all together, or tried to, and the flames rose again like petals of crystal, many-colored, closing her off from that vision as the Hall's colored windows from the sky. Higher they rose, and higher, and she walked through them, wondering until she saw in the distance an end.
And recovered herself sitting on the cold hearth of the Kuakgan's house, with every bit of wood consumed to ash. The kuakgan sat beside her, as she could feel in the darkness. She drew a long breath.
"Paksenarrion?" He must have heard the breath, and been waiting for it. She had never heard him sound so tentative.
"Yes." It was hard to speak. IT was hard to think. She was not at all sure what had happened, or how long it had been.
He sighed, deeply. "I was beginning to worry. I feared you might be lost, when you did not return at once."
"I—don't know where I was."
"I do not propose to suggest where you were. How are you?"
Paks tried to feel herself out. "Well—not burned up—"
The Kuakgan laughed. "And not burned witless, either. That's something, I suppose. Let me get a light—"
Without thinking, Paks lifted her hand: light blossomed on her fingertip.
"Mother of Trees!" The Kuakgan sounded amazed. "Is that what happened?"
Paks herself stared at the light in confusion. "I don't know what I did! I don't know—what is it?"
"It's light—it's a light spell. Some paladins can do that—haven't you seen it?"
When she thought of it, Paksenarrion remembered the paladins making light. "Yes, but then—"
"Then What? Oh I see. Well, as I half-suspected, you are a paladin outside the law, so to speak. Human law, that is."
"But it can't—I mean I can't—and anyway, how do I do it? Or stop it?" She was still staring at the light; she was afraid to look away or move her hand.
"Just a moment." The Kuakgan rose and took a candle from the mantle, and touched it to her hand. Nothing happened. "Ah."
"What?"
"It's true spell-light, not witchlight. Witchlight lights candles, but not spell-light." She could hear him rasping with his flint and steel. The candle flared a yellow glow pale beside her hand. "Now you don't need it. Ask for darkness."
"Ask who?" Paks felt stupid.
"Whom did you name? Whom were you with? You're a paladin remember, not a mage: you don't command, you ask."
--Please--thought Paks, still in confusion. The light vanished. A bubble of laughter ran through her mind. "But do you mean it?" she asked the Kuakgan, turning to watch him as he lit more candles. "Do you mean I really am a paladin, after all that's--" Her voice broke.
"I am no expert on paladins," he said again. "But something certainly happened. I know you aren't a Kaukgan. We both know you aren't a Marshal of Gird. You aren't a wizard. Nor an elf. That leaves few explanations for your gifts and abilities. Paladin is the name that fits best."
"But I was--" She didn't want to say it, but knew he would understand.
"Hmmm. I used to wonder how the paladins of Gird could be considered protectors of the helpless when they themselves had never been helpless. Rather like asking the hawk to feel empathy for the grouse, or the wolf for the sheep. Even if a tamed wolf makes a good sheepdog,he will never understand how the sheep feel. You Paksennarion: you are most fortunate. For having been, as you thought, a coward, and helpless to fight--you know what that is like. You know what bitterness that feeling breeds--you know in your own heart what kind of evil it brings. And so you are most fit to fight it where it occurs. Or so I believe."
Paks stared at the finger that had held light. She wanted to argue that it could not be true--she had been too badly hurt--she had too much to overcome. But far inside she felt a tremulous power, a ripple of laughter and joy, that she had not felt before. It was much like the joy she remembered, yet greater, as the light of her finger had been greater than candlelight.
~~Elizabeth Moon
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Even today, when I play, which I don't often get to do, I play paladins. I'm not religious. In fact, I'm an atheist. But something has always appealed to me about the order of paladin. This series has paladins and knights, though knights are so tarnished in mind by now that the inclusion is almost meaningless. It's not the instantaneous contact with God, or a god, that appeals. It's the sense of devoting your entire life to good, and it's pursuit. Here's another tidbit. I'm not a rule person. I have always felt that rules were mere guidelines for good behavior predicated by good sense, not abject fear of transgression. In the Dungeons and Dragons world, a paladin must be Lawfully Good. The strictest good available to choose. But Moon has given us a taste of a more true to life phenomenon, that service to the Good, is more than mere adherence to meaningless rules. It is fighting for what is good, no matter who you are. It is trying to do better, even when no one else is trying. It is caring despite the knowledge of one's own limitations and imperfections.
~~Godsol
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