Divided Allegiance

18

As autumn darkened into winter, Paks rode north and west, into Vérella of the Bells, and west along the Honnorgat, through one town after another, as the river narrowed. She passed from grange to grange, enjoying the hospitality of each, as the Marshal’s letter opened the doors. She thought of turning aside at Whitemeadow, and following a branch of the river north to Rocky Ford, and then on to Three Firs. But had her dowry arrived yet? Would she be welcome? She decided to wait until she had her knighthood, and ride home with Gird’s crescent on her arm. As she neared Fintha, she tried to think of a more elegant name for the black horse, something suitable for a warhorse, but she had thought of him as Socks from the first, and it stuck in her mind.

Frost whitened the ground the morning she first caught sight of Fin Panir. She had been on the road before dawn, the saddle cold as iron beneath her, and her breath pluming out before. When the sun rose into a clear cold sky, the ground sparkled in rose and gold; the tree branches interlacing overhead glittered with frost. It was like riding inside a pearl. A little wind blew the sparkling frost in swirls before her. Paks found herself grinning, and nudged the black horse into a trot. He squealed and kicked out before settling down. She laughed aloud.

Then the forest broke apart, and she saw across a bend of the river the spires of the High Lord’s Hall, gleaming in silver and gold against the blue sky. Beneath lay a tangle of roofs and walls, multi-colored stone, tiles, sliced into fantastic shapes by the sharp shadows of a winter sun. She rode toward it, yearning.

Within an hour she could pick out the gates. Between her and the walls, a small company of horsemen rode, armor glittering and banners dancing above. When she was near enough, they hailed her.

“Ho! Traveler! Where are you bound?” The leader was deep-voiced, a man of middle height in chain mail with a blue mantle bearing Gird’s crescent.

“To the Hall in Fin Panir,” said Paks. “I have a letter from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge.”

“For the Marshal-General?” he seemed surprised.

“Yes, sir. Can you direct me?”

“Yes, of course. But you might ask at the gates; she may be abroad this morning. You will have left Tor’s Crossing early—or did you camp out last night?”

“I left early, sir.”

“Well, the Marshal-General’s quarters are in the Hall Courts. Take the first left, after the gate, and then a right—go straight past two turns, and then left again under the arch. Someone will take your horse there, and guide you. But, as I said, ask at the city gates if your message is urgent; they will know if she’s ridden out somewhere.”

“Thank you, sir.” Paks lifted her reins and started forward. One of the other riders spoke to the leader, and he lifted a hand.

“Wait a moment—” He looked closely at her. “Are you a Girdsman?”

“No, sir.”

He looked puzzled. “You are carrying something of great worth—is it a gift from the Marshal?”

“Gift? No, sir.” Paks thought of the jewels she still had, and wondered if that was what he meant. Somehow she didn’t think so.

At the city gates, a neatly uniformed guard waved her through after she explained her errand. When she asked, he said that the Marshal-General had gone to the practice fields west of the city, but that she might wait at the Hall if she chose. Paks followed the directions through stone-paved streets of middle width, and arrived at an arched entrance through a wall. Far above she could see the towers of the Lord’s Hall. A grizzled older man stepped out of an alcove in the arch and asked her business.

“Marshal-General, eh? She’ll be out until noon; can you wait?” At her nod, he stepped forward. “Good, then. I’ll get someone to take your horse—”

“I can take him,” Paks interrupted. “If you’ll tell me where.”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “A guest take her own horse to stable? What do you think we are, ruffians?” He turned and bellowed through the archway. “Seli! Seliam!” Paks heard the clatter of running feet, and a boy raced up, panting. “Take this horse to the guest stables, Seli. Have the stableboys see to him.” The boy laid his hand on the rein, and Paks dismounted. She rummaged in her saddlebags for Cedfer’s letter to the Marshal-General. “Seli will take your saddlebags to the guest house in a few minutes,” the man said. “Would you prefer to wait there, or in the Marshal-General’s study?”

“Could I—” Paks suddenly felt shy. “I—I haven’t been in Fin Panir before,” she began again. “Could I see the High Lord’s Hall? Is it permitted?”

His face split in a grin. “Permitted! Of course it’s permitted. Let me find someone for the entrance, and I’ll take you in myself. Haven’t been here before, eh? I daresay you’ve heard tales, though, haven’t you?” He turned away without waiting for an answer, and yelled again through the arch. This time another older man answered the summons.

“What is it, Argalt? An invasion of orcs?”

“No. A newcomer, who wants to see the Hall while waiting for the Marshal-General.”

“And you want to show him—her, excuse me.” The man smiled at Paks. “Gird’s grace, lady, you’ve made Argalt’s day. He loves to show off the Hall. And you’ve bright sun for it, too.” He waved them away, and Paks followed the man through the arch and across a cobbled courtyard to the entrance of the High Lord’s Hall of Fin Panir.

Broad steps led up to a pair of tall bronze doors, cast in intricate designs. Paks stopped to look at them, and her guide began to explain.

“These doors are not the original—those burned, hundreds of years back, the year the Black Lady fought to the steps here. But these were designed and cast by the half-elven craftsman Madegar. The middle of each door bears the High Lord’s Seal—it’s inlaid in gold, as you see. All around are the seals of the saints, and a little picture of each one doing something famous. There’s Gird, with the cudgel, and Falk with a sword and the tyrant of Celias, and Camwyn riding a dragon, and Dort shearing the golden sheep, do you see all that?”

“Yes.” Paks traced the designs with her finger, as far as she could reach. She found Torre and her magical steed, Sertig with his anvil. She stared, fascinated, until the man tapped her on the shoulder.

“Come along in, now, and see the rest.”

From the great doors, the Hall stretched away, longer than any grange Paks had seen. The grange at Brewersbridge, she thought, would have fit in sideways, and three more with it. The soaring arches that held the roof were lifted from stone columns like treetrunks springing from the floor. It reminded her, in that way, of the elves’ winterhall underground. At the far end, a double platform with a low railing took the place of the usual training platform in granges. On either side a railed gallery with stepped seating offered a clear view of the floor.

But all this she saw later. First she was aware of the great wash of brilliant light, broken into dazzling chips of color, that poured through the great round window in the far end. All along both sides, high windows of colored glass spread fanciful patterns of light on the floor. She turned to the guide, who was chuckling at her reaction.

“How?” was all she could say.

“You had seen glass in windows before?” he asked.

“Yes, but—” she waved a hand at the magnificence.

“It’s colored glass, laid in a pattern, and bound in strips of lead. And I’ll have you know, it wasn’t an elf designed that.” Now that the first dazzle had passed, Paks could see that the colored glass made designs—even pictures, in some of the windows. The round window held a many-pointed star in shades of blue with accents of gold. Along the sunny south side of the Hall, she saw Gird with his cudgel striking a richly dressed knight, Camwyn riding a dragon whose breath seemed literal flame, a harper (she could not remember the name of the harper’s patron saint) playing to a tree that seemed to be turning into a girl, and Torre partway through her Ride, with half the stones of the necklace turned to stars. The longer she looked at each window, the more she saw. Each had smaller scenes inset in medallions around the main picture. Paks walked over to Torre’s window. There was her home, with its six towers, and that must be her sorrowing father with the wicked king threatening him. Here was the stable, with the strange horse standing loose between the stalls, the ring of coals around its neck. A white flower stood for the first trial of her Ride, and three snowflakes for the next. A fat dwarf held the blue ring, and an elf in green held out the branch of yellowwood in flower, complete with two bees. The wicked king’s red banner blew from a tower on a cliff. A sleeping baby in a basket floated on a river. At the very top of the window, the stars of Torre’s Necklace blazed out of blue glass just as they did in the sky.

Paks tore her eyes away and looked around again. The shadowed, northern side windows were pictures as well. Sertig pounding on his anvil, and Adyan writing the true names of everything in his book. Alyanya, the Lady of Peace, wreathed in flowers, with fruitful vines trailing around her. Some pictures she did not recognize at all. One seemed to be all animals, fitted into every available niche, all mixed together, large and small. One was simply a tree, whose gnarled roots and branches filled up the space above and below, curling and recurling until Paks could not tell how many little rootlets filled even one small section.

When she finally left the windows to look at the rest of the building, it was equally engrossing. The floor was paved with flat slabs of stone in a subtle pattern. Many of the slabs were engraved with names and dates that meant nothing to Paks—but much to her guide, when she asked.

“That there’s Lolyin’s marker—he was Marshal-General over a hundred years ago, and converted the King of Tsaia to the fellowship of Gird. That was the great-grandfather of the present crown prince. Under his name is the paladin Brealt. You might have heard of him, since I can see you’ve been in Aarenis. He freed the captives of Pliuni, and fought two priests of Liart by himself to do it.” Paks had not heard of him, but she nodded. The old man went on. “Marshal-Generals and paladins of Gird—and a few others—they have their names and dates put here. Some say their deeds should be added, but the rule is that those who want to know should look them up in the archives. There’s not one of them but is worth remembering. Take this—” he led her up near the platform. “This is Gird’s own marker, put here by Luap—the oldest we have.” The stone was worn in a hollow, and the letters were faint. “In the old way, all that joined the knights of the fellowship, or became paladins of Gird, would spend part of a vigil washing that stone, to keep Gird’s name pure. But then they realized they were wearing it down, and only the Marshal-General does it now.”

Paks could think of nothing to say. She had never imagined that anything built by men would be as beautiful as the Hall. That soaring space seemed to liberate something inside her, as if it called for wings within. When they came out at last, she blinked in the sunlight, her head still full of what she’d seen.

She had no idea what to expect of a Marshal-General. The Marshals she had met had been matter-of-fact, much like the Duke’s captains. But what she’d seen of feudal commanders, and the splendor of the Hall, led her to think that the Marshal-General might be more—she tried to think of a word—impressive? magnificent? As the servant led her through the passages and up a broad stair to the Marshal-General’s office, she felt her stomach flutter.

The door was open. Paks looked across a fairly large room to a table set under one of the south windows. Behind it stood two people, a woman and a man, both in blue tunics over gray trousers. Both had Gird’s crescents on chains around their neck. They were looking at something on the table as the servant knocked; the woman looked up.

“Yes?”

“A messenger, Marshal-General, from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge.” He gestured at Paks.

“Ah yes. Argalt mentioned you—your name?”

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks, uncertain of the correct address.

“You’re not a Girdsman?”

“No—my lady.” Paks thought that was safest.

“Then you may not know I’m Marshal-General Arianya. But you’re a warrior—that’s clear enough.” Paks nodded. “Well, then, let me see your message.”

Paks walked into the room and handed over the Marshal’s letter. The Marshal-General was a tall woman of middle age, her graying curly hair cropped short. She wore no sword, but her tunic was marked by sword belt and scabbard. Her right hand bore a wide scar; Paks wondered how it had missed severing some tendons. The Marshal-General looked up from what she was reading.

“Do you know what Cedfer’s written?”

Paks felt the blood rush to her face. “Some of it, my lady. He said he—that you—that I might take some training here.”

“He’s recommended that you be admitted to a probationers’ class in the Company of Gird. And he’s said why—” She paused and looked at Paks closely. “It’s most unusual, you know, for anyone not of the fellowship to be admitted here.”

Paks felt her heart sink. She had only begun to realize, during the trip to Fin Panir, the power wielded by the granges of Gird. When the Marshal had suggested a half-year in the training program, it had seemed like fun, certainly more to her taste than wandering the woods as a ranger in Lyonya. She had always been quick to learn warrior’s skills. But now it seemed a more serious commitment. She said nothing, and met the Marshal-General’s eyes steadily.

“What has he said, Marshal-General?” asked the man. Paks glanced at him. He was a little taller than the Marshal-General, and had a short gray beard.

“He recommends her highly—” The Marshal-General paused again, and looked once more at Paks. “You fought with Duke Phelan of Tsaia, is that right?” Paks nodded. “Cedfer was surprised to find you so good with a longsword; he implies that the Duke himself suggested you seek advanced training. That’s so?”

“Yes, my lady.” Paks felt very uncomfortable. She knew what was coming next; she still did not want to talk about those last weeks in the Duke’s Company. But the Marshal-General’s next question surprised her.

“Do you think he would be pleased to have you here?”

Paks knew her face showed her astonishment. “Why—why of course, my lady. Why wouldn’t he? It would be an honor—”

The Marshal-General looked away. “Duke Phelan, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, is not without his quarrels with Gird and Gird’s granges.”

Paks thought of the subtle tension between the Duke and the Marshal in Aarenis. His words to the paladin at Cortes Immer came back to her. She shook her head, driving them away. “No—I’m sure he would be glad. He is not a Girdsman himself, but he is a good man—a good fighter—and he would be glad for any honor that came to me. And training here would be an honor.”

“Why would you think it so, when you are not of our fellowship?” asked the man quietly. Paks turned to him.

“Sir, it is widely known. The Knights of Gird, the paladins of Gird—all of them train here, and many others beside, who serve honorably in the royal guards of several kingdoms.”

“I see.” He glanced at the Marshal-General, but she was looking at Marshal Cedfer’s letter. After a moment she looked up at him.

“Kory, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to Paksenarrion. Cedfer almost persuades me, but I must see for myself what she is.”

“Of course, Marshal-General.”

“Paksenarrion, have you had anything to eat?”

“No, my lady. Not since breakfast.”

“Then we’ll eat together here. Kory, ask them to send something up, will you?”

“Certainly.” He bowed, and left the room. Paks met the Marshal-General’s gaze.

“Well, Paksenarrion, have a seat—there—and let’s find out more about you. Cedfer sent word at once about the elfane taig, but few details. Where are you from, and how did you come to join the Duke’s Company?”

“I’m from Three Firs, my lady. My father is a sheepfarmer.”

“Three Firs! I know that country—far from the Honnorgat, or any city, isn’t it?”

“Yes—”

“So you left to join the Duke’s Company? Or for another reason?”

“I wanted to be a warrior.” Paks thought back to the mood of what now seemed her childhood, when Jornoth had come visiting with a bright sword and his purse full of silver. “My father didn’t—so I ran away.” The Marshal-General nodded. “I joined the Duke’s Company at Rocky Ford, and then—” She shrugged. “I was a recruit, and then a private in the Company.”

“You fought in the north, or in Aarenis?”

“In Aarenis. For three seasons.” Paks stopped, uncertain how much to say about those years.

“Cedfer says the Duke evidently favored you—had given you some important missions. Can you tell me about them, or would that violate a secret of the Duke’s?”

Paks shook her head. “No. Nothing secret—I don’t know how much to say. The last year, I was acting corporal for awhile, when Seli was hurt. And I helped capture Siniava.”

“Siniava. Then—wait—” The Marshal-General’s face furrowed for a moment. “Did you meet a paladin in Aarenis? Fenith?”

“Yes, my lady.” Paks didn’t want to talk about that, either: the one time the Duke had not lived up to her image of him.

“You’re that Paksenarrion!” The Marshal-General stared at her. “Fenith wrote about you—you took on a priest of Liart, and lived! Gird’s grace, child, I hadn’t heard of such a thing. Neither had he. He sent the High Marshal to your Duke to find out about you, and the Duke nearly took his head off for suggesting you might not be what you seemed.”

“He did?” Paks didn’t remember any such thing.

“I suppose your Duke didn’t tell you. Fenith also said you were the one to spot Siniava in shapechange. He thought it had something to do with a Gird’s medallion you carried—a gift of a friend, he said—”

“Yes.” Paks did not want to discuss Canna’s gift, which she had not worn since the night Siniava died.

“You told him, I understand, that you would stay with the Duke’s Company—yet here you are on our doorstep. What happened?” The Marshal-General’s eyes were as shrewd as the Kuakgan’s; Paks realized that there was no way out of this but the long one—the whole truth. Haltingly, at first, she began to tell of the last year in Aarenis. The Marshal-General did not interrupt, and the pressure of her attention kept the tale flowing. When a servant carried in a tray of food, bowls of stew and a couple of loaves of dark bread, Paks stopped. The Marshal-General spread the food on the table, and waved the servant out.

“Gird’s grace be with you, Paksenarrion, and with me, and may we gain strength to serve the High Lord’s will. Go on, now, and eat.” She took up her spoon and began. Paks did the same. After the stew was mostly gone, the Marshal-General looked up. “I can understand why you left, and why you were reluctant to leave. But I am still not sure why you quit wearing Canna’s medallion. Do you know?”

Paks laid down the hunk of bread she’d picked up. “I thought—it seemed that it—it led me into things. Trouble. I never knew if it—if I—how they happened.”

“It led you into trouble? And you a mercenary?” The Marshal-General’s voice had an edge of scorn. “You had not chosen the most peaceful life.”

“No, my lady. But I don’t know what it did, or didn’t do. I don’t know if it healed Canna, or didn’t, or if it really saved me from the man in Rotengre—”

“Wait. You haven’t told me about that yet. Canna is your friend who died and left it to you, isn’t that so? What’s this about healing?”

Paks felt the sweat cold on her neck as she began to tell the Marshal-General about their flight from Dwarfwatch. Knowing that she would insist on hearing those parts of the journey that made Paks the most nervous didn’t help. She had not mentioned the prayers over Canna’s wound to anyone but Stammel; it came no easier now. The Marshal-General seemed to grow more remote and august as she listened.

“You, no follower of Gird, suggested praying to Gird for healing? Don’t you think that was presumptuous? Had you planned to join the fellowship afterwards?” Paks had not thought of it like that at all.

“My lady, we had need—I didn’t know much of Gird, then, and—”

“Your friend had not told you? And she a yeoman?”

Paks shook her head. “We didn’t talk about it much; she was our friend. We knew she was a Girdsman, and she knew we had our own gods.”

“You know more of Gird now, I’ll warrant—what do you think now, of such a thing?” Paks thought a moment.

“I don’t think Gird would mind—I can’t see why he would. If he had been a nobleman, perhaps, but—why would it be wrong to try? Healing is good, and Canna was one of his yeomen.”

The Marshal-General shook her head slowly, but more in doubt than disagreement. “I’m not sure, child. What happened?”

“That’s what I don’t know.” Paks remembered clearly Canna’s yelp of pain, and then the seeming improvement in her condition. “It didn’t go away at once,” she went on, carefully telling the Marshal-General everything. “But she had been getting weaker, and feverish, and she was stronger afterwards. It looked cleaner and drier the next time we changed the bandage. But you see, we’d found some ointment in that farmstead, and used that too. I don’t know which worked, or why.”

“You didn’t tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith,” said the Marshal-General.

“No—I wasn’t sure—”

“Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?” That, too, Paks told, even Captain Dorrin’s remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.

“Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?”

“No, my lady. Falkian—or that’s what one of the sergeants said.”

“I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for you?”

“I didn’t—I was frightened of it, lady. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?”

Paks shook her head vigorously. “Oh no. I—”

“You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance.”

“I didn’t want to, not then. I—I suppose I wished that it would just—just be over. I kept thinking about them—”

“Canna?”

“And—and Saben. He was my—our friend, that was with us.”

“Your lover?”

“No.” The old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again, the Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.

“Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion—with surviving the blow of Liart’s priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the enchantments when Siniava tried to escape—don’t you think that there’s clear evidence of Gird’s action in your behalf?”

“I don’t—I can’t be sure—”

“Gird’s teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?” The Marshal-General glared at her. “D’you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and explain everything in words a sheepfarmer’s daughter can understand?”

“No, my lady.” Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. It wasn’t fair; she only wanted to be sure . . . if the gods had a message, surely they’d make it clear. She heard a gusty sigh.

“How old are you, Paksenarrion?”

Paks counted it out aloud. “I was eighteen winters when I left home—and then nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty—twenty-one after Dwarfwatch—near twenty-two, my lady.”

“I see. Are you set against the fellowship of Gird?”

“Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more—but you see, my family was not Girdish. And I still think it’s better to abide the gods you know—”

The Marshal-General sighed again. Paks looked up to find her gazing out one of the narrow windows, her face stern. After a long moment she turned back to Paks. “We are not,” she said firmly, “a training camp for those who want fancy skills to show off.” Paks felt her face reddening again. “If what you want is an accomplishment to display—like someone stringing another pearl on a necklace—you don’t belong here, and I won’t lend Gird’s name to it. Those we train must go out as Gird’s warriors, to serve the lands and defend them against the powers of evil. They must care, Paksenarrion, for this cause more than their own fame. Those sworn to the fellowship of Gird I have ways of testing. If you persist in remaining aloof, I must assume that your dedication is unproven. I will not—absolutely not—let you take advantage of this company, and go off boasting that you trained with the Company of Gird at Fin Panir, unless you can show me what you will pay. Not in money, young warrior, but in your life.”

Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time, wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook her head ruefully.

“I don’t know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in Brewersbridge—there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a squire to me. I knew I didn’t know enough to be her—her commander, or whatever, but also—I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see. To wear a sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps—but she didn’t know what it cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell her, tried to get her to join a regular company, as I had—”

“And did she?” The Marshal-General’s voice was still remote.

Paks shook her head. “Not as far as I know. I tried—but she wanted adventure, she said. It would be too dull, she didn’t like people yelling at her; she said she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge.” Paks stopped before saying, “She had a very bad father, my lady.”

“You ran away from yours.”

“Oh, well . . . he wasn’t like that. But I see what you mean—you think I want to—to make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong. You’re right. But—I can’t swear to follow Gird until I know—until I’m sure of myself—that I can do it.”

“That’s coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn’t seem to trust Gird—”

Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. “I don’t—I mean, you all say Gird is a saint, and I won’t argue. But I don’t know Gird—I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other gods and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?”

The Marshal-General’s eyebrows went up. “You would not believe the evidence of the medallion?”

Paks set her jaw stubbornly. “I’m not sure. And I won’t swear to something I’m not sure of.”

To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. “Gird be praised, you are at least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny—but it may take Gird’s cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The gods grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter.” She sat forward, leaning her forearms on the table between them. “Now, what sort of training did you look for?”

Paks could hardly believe her ears. “You mean—you’ll let me stay?”

“Let you! By Gird, I’m not likely to let someone like you wander the world unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you’ll stay.”

“But if I don’t—”

“Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me cause to send you away. When—notice that I do not say if, being granted almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird’s grace—when you find that you can swear your honor to Gird’s fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?”

Paks blushed. “No, my lady. I’m sorry, I—”

“Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn.”

“Well—everything about war—”

The Marshal-General whooped. “Everything? About war? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at once.”

“I meant,” muttered Paks, ears flaming, “weapons-skills, and things about forts—things the Duke’s captains knew about, like tunnels—”

“All right,” said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I see what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you’re serious. Well, then. I’ll assign you to the training company. Many of them are younger than you—nobles’ youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They’ve been someone’s squires, and now they’re preparing for knighthood. Some have come up through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. You’ll be assigned space in the courts—we don’t have open barracks, for you’ll need to study alone. You do read, don’t you?” At Paks’s nod, she went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. “Weapons practice daily—the senior instructor will assign the drills once he’s examined you. Riding—do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You’re a few weeks behind one group; they arrived just after harvest. That’s when we start the new cycles. But we’ll see if you can catch up to them.” She looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. “What weapons do you have?” she asked.

“This sword,” said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. “Another one, not so good—”

“That one’s magical,” said the Marshal-General. “Did you know?”

“Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battleaxe.”

“Do you use all of them?”

“No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well.”

“And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use your own weapons. The weaponsmaster will assign you weapons for training; yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Your clothes—” She glanced at Paks’s traveling clothes. “We have training uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We discourage display of jewels and such, but you don’t look the type to show up in laces and ribbons.”

“No, my lady.”

“Very well.” She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. “Take this down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. He’ll assign your quarters, and see that you’re set up with the instructors. You will take your meals in the Lower Hall—by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder races, have you?”

“Elder races—you mean elves and dwarves?”

“Among others. We have quite a few here—you’ll be meeting them. Don’t get in fights with them.”

“Oh no.”

“Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird’s grace be on you, and the High Lord’s light guide your way.” She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on the table edge.

“Thank you, my lady—”

“Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to deserve your thanks.”