Divided Allegiance

29

A circle of light centered the world. Paks watched it change color: first golden yellow, then glowing orange like coals, then red, deepening to violet, then bursting into blue and white, then back to yellow. After some time, she wondered where and why and similar things. She was sure, looking at a circle of red, that it would darken to violet and blue, then burst into brilliant white. Distant sound disturbed her: ringing, as of bit chains, chain mail, herdbells. The crash of stone on stone, or steel on steel. Voices, speaking words she didn’t know.

She opened her eyes at last to find a finger of sunlight across them, and blinked. She felt as light and empty as an eggshell. She had no wish to move, fearing pain or loss. A shadow crossed her vision: a shape she should know. A person. She felt the shifting of what she lay on, a draft of cooler air and easing of pressure. Something damp and cold touched her skin, then warm hands, then warmth returned. She blinked again, seeing, now, a Marshal she had met casually the previous winter, but did not know well. The face was remote, quiet, contained. Paks stared at it without intent. It was a puzzle she had to solve.

The face turned to hers; she saw the surprise on it, and wondered vaguely. “Paksenarrion! You’re awake?”

Paks tried to nod. It was too hard; she blinked instead.

“How do you feel?” The Marshal leaned closer. Paks could not answer, closing her eyes against the strain. But a hand touched her forehead, shook her head with what she felt as immense force. “Paks! Answer—”

“Wait.” Another voice. “We don’t know yet—” Paks opened her eyes again. The Marshal-General, robed in white, stood by the bed. She smiled. “Paksenarrion, Gird’s grace be on you. The power of Achrya is broken; she cannot control you. You are free of that evil.”

Paks felt nothing at these words, neither joy nor fear. She tried to speak, but made only a weak sound. The other Marshal glanced at the Marshal-General, and at her nod fetched a mug from a table.

“Here,” she said. “Try to drink this.” She lifted Paks against her shoulder, and pressed the mug to her lips. Paks drank. Water, cold and sharp-tasting, cleaned her mouth.

“Can you speak now, Paksenarrion?” The Marshal-General pulled a stool near the bed and sat.

“I—think—yes, my lady.”

“Very good. You have been unconscious some days, now. We were just in time, Paksenarrion, for the kuaknomi evil had invaded deeply, spreading throughout your mind.” The Marshal-General touched her head; Paks shivered at the touch, then quieted. She watched those eyes, wondering what the Marshal-General was seeing. Finally the Marshal-General pulled back her hand and sat up with a sigh. “Well,” she said to the other Marshal, “we’ve done that much at least. It’s gone.” She looked back at Paks. “How do you feel?”

Paks was beginning to remember what she’d been told before; she tried to feel around inside herself, and found nothing. Nothing strange, nothing bad, nothing at all. “I don’t feel bad,” she said cautiously.

“You aren’t.” The Marshal-General sighed again. “You weren’t bad anyway, Paksenarrion, any more than someone with an infected wound is bad. Evil had invaded you, as decay invades a rotting limb. We have destroyed it, all of it, but I cannot yet tell what else we may have destroyed. Remember that we are your friends, and your companions in the Fellowship of Gird. Whatever happens, we will take care of you.” She rose, and arched her back. “Gird’s grace, I’m tired! Haran, get Paksenarrion whatever she wants to eat, and keep watch until Belfan comes. If she feels strong enough, Duke Phelan would like to see her.”

“Yes, Marshal-General.” Marshal Haran glanced back at Paks, and followed the Marshal-General to the door. Paks could not hear the low-voiced question, but heard the answer. “No. By no means. An honored guest, Haran.”

When she had gone, Haran came back to the bed. Paks tried to focus on her face, tried to understand what was going on. They had done something to her: the Marshal-General, Amberion, the elf Ardhiel, others. She felt no pain, only great weakness, and wondered what, after all, it had been.

“Are you hungry?” asked Haran abruptly.

Paks flinched at the tone. Why was Haran angry with her? She nodded, without speaking.

“Well, what do you want? There’s roast mutton—”

“Good.” Paks looked around the room. “It’s not—my room—”

“You didn’t think you were with the other candidates, did you? After that—” Haran looked at her, another look Paks could not interpret. “You’re in the Marshal-General’s quarters, in a guest room. When she’s sure—” her voice trailed away.

“Sure of what?” Worry returned, a faint icy chill on her back.

“Sure that you’re well. I’ll be back shortly with food.” Haran left the room, and Paks looked around it. The bed she lay on was plain but larger than the one in her quarters. A window to her right let in daylight sky, a smooth gray. Several chairs clumped around a small fireplace opposite the bed.

Haran returned with a covered tray. “Have you tried to get up? If you can sit at the table—” But Paks could not manage this. Haran packed pillows behind her shoulders with a briskness that conveyed disapproval, put the tray on her lap, and went out again. Paks struggled with the food and utensils. She could not grasp the fork properly; it turned in her hand. By the time Haran returned, with a tray for herself, Paks was both annoyed and worried.

“Marshal, I’m sorry, but I can’t—” as she spoke, the fork slipped from her grasp entirely and clattered on the floor. Haran stared at her.

“What is it? Can’t you even feed yourself?”

“I—can’t—make it work.” Panting, Paks fought with the knife and a slice of mutton. She felt as clumsy as an infant just learning to reach and grab.

“You’re holding that like a baby,” said Haran, with exasperation. “All right. Here—” She put down her own tray and came to the bed. “I don’t see why you can’t—” And with a few quick motions, she cut Paks’s meat into small bites and retrieved the fork from the floor. “Now can you do it?”

Paks stared at her. She could not understand Haran’s hostility. “I—I hope so.”

“I, too.” Haran strode back across the room, shoulders stiff, and began eating her own meal without another word. Paks tried again with the fork. Her hands felt as big as pillows, and it was hard to get the food to her mouth. After a few more bites, she stopped, and lay watching Haran eat. When the Marshal finished her own meal, she came to take Paks’s tray.

“Is that all you’ll eat? I thought you were hungry.”

“I was. I just—”

“Well, don’t decide you want more in an hour or so. Finish your water; you need it.” She stood over Paks until the mug was empty, then snatched it away. In a moment she had left the room, carrying both trays. Paks sank back on the pillows, still confused. What could she have done while unconscious to anger someone she’d only met once before? A knock on the door interrupted her musings. She spoke, and recognized the Duke’s voice.

“Come in, my lord.”

He opened the door and entered quietly. “Where’s your watchdog?” Paks could not think what to say, and he went on. “That Marshal who keeps your door. Haran, I think she’s called.”

“She’s taking trays back.” Paks felt, as she had when a recruit, the menace of the Duke, the sheer power of the man. He prowled around the room like a snowcat, tail twitching.

“I’ve been wanting to see you, and they keep saying wait.” He turned to her. “Are you well? How are they treating you?”

“I don’t know. I just woke a little while ago. I can’t feel much of anything . . .”

“That’s for the best, I’d think, after what they—I tell you, Paks, I came near to killing the lot of them.”

“What?”

“To see you like that, with all of them working over you. I feared for you.”

“My lord, they had to—” Now she remembered more, and fear grew in her.

“Hmmph. Have you been up yet?”

“No, my lord. I couldn’t get up to eat.”

He shrugged. “It’s been some days; the weakness is normal after so long asleep.”

“I wish I knew—” In his presence, still more of the warnings came clear, and the emptiness inside was no comfort at all.

He looked sideways at her. “What?”

“If I will be all right again. I don’t know how I’ll know. And now that I remember what they did, I can’t think of anything else.”

He sat near the bed, and laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t fret about it. You remember that worries before a battle don’t help. When it’s time, when you’re stronger, then you’ll find out.”

“But what do you think, my lord. Do you think it’s gone?”

He sighed, and did not ask what she meant. “Paks, from what I saw, they stirred the very roots of your mind with powerful magicks. From such stirring nothing would be safe. You don’t look different, bar being pale from days in bed, but I can’t tell by looking. The test of a sword is not its polish, but its temper.”

“I want to be . . . myself.” Paks whispered the last, thinking.

“You are yourself, Paks, and always will be. Yet people change with time, with age—”

“Not like that. I can’t stand it, my lord, if I can’t—if I become—”

“Paks.” His grip on her arm tightened. “Look at me.” His face, when she looked, was as grim as ever she’d seen it, his eyes hard. She feared him suddenly. “Paks, you are yourself, and you can stand whatever comes. I swear to you. I was not always a duke, I had—”

“But you were always brave, always a warrior!”

“No.” His gaze slipped past her into an immeasurable distance. “I will not tell you that tale now, but no: I was not always brave. And you do not yet know you have lost anything. Take heart, Paks, until the time comes.”

“But why does Haran dislike me so?”

“Haran?” His face relaxed, puzzled. “I don’t know. The Marshal-General assigned her here; perhaps she’d rather be elsewhere. Has she been unkind?”

“No. But she seemed not to like me, or something I’d done.”

“My lord Duke!” Haran’s voice, from the doorway, was indignant. The Duke turned slowly. Paks saw the muscles bunch in his jaw.

“Marshal Haran.” His tone would have warned anyone in his Company.

“What are you doing with her?”

“I? I came to see how she was, and found her awake and willing for company. Have you an objection?”

“No. I would have sent, later, to tell you she was awake—”

“Thank you. As you see, I found out for myself.”

“I had to take the trays back—” Paks realized Haran was defensive.

“No matter.” The Duke waved, as if a squire were apologizing for an overdone loaf of bread. “Tell me, if you can—is the Marshal-General satisfied with her recovery?”

Haran bristled visibly. “I can’t speak for the Marshal-General. She knows best. But she did say—” a sharp glance at Paks, “that the evil was safely destroyed.”

“And at what cost?”

“That she did not say.” Marshal Haran sat down near the fireplace. “Whatever the cost, it would be worth it.”

“Whatever?” The Duke turned to her, his hand still on Paks’s arm.

“Duke Phelan, I am a Girdsman. A Marshal. The most important thing is that evil be defeated—destroyed. Nothing else matters. Whatever stands in the way—”

“A life?” asked Phelan softly.

“Yes.” Haran looked stubborn, her brow furrowed. “I have risked mine. Any Girdsman knows the risk: we are to serve good, and only good.”

“Ah, yes. Good. Are you sure you know good?”

“Of course.” Her chin was up; she met his look boldly.

“Yes. Of course. You are sure, Marshal, that you know what is good, but I am not so sure.” He paused, as if waiting for her comment, but she said nothing. “I have not been sure, for some years, that you Gird’s Marshals really do know good from evil, and as yet nothing I’ve seen here has convinced me.” His hand left Paks’s arm; she could feel the taut control of that movement. “You do not, perhaps, think I have any such standards myself. But I assure you, Marshal, that a professional soldier, as I am, has had more combat experience than you. I have seen men and women under great stress, repeated stress. And I know those soldiers more thoroughly than you ever will.” He paused again. Haran looked furious, but still said nothing. “Paks is one of them.”

Paks stirred, and said, “My lord—”

“Paks, this is not your argument; you but furnish the opportunity. What I am saying, Marshal, is that you have known her but a short time; I have known her for years. You have seen her in one trouble; I have seen her in many. I know her as someone trustworthy in battle, in long campaigns, day after day. You see some flaw—some little speck on a shining ring—and condemn the whole. But I see the whole—the years of service, the duties faithfully performed—and that is good, Marshal. Is there one of us with no flaws? Are you perfect, that you indict her?”

“I don’t—I never said—”

“Not you personally, but the Girdsmen here. You’re one of them; you said so.”

“Well—I—” Haran looked at Paks, then back at the Duke, clearly gathering herself for an attack. “She’s supposed to be so special—”

“What!” Paks flinched at the Duke’s tone even though he spoke to Haran.

“She came only last fall; she was paladin candidate after Midwinter Feast. That’s different, if you like! Promising, they all said. Remarkable. Chosen to go on quest, when she’s not even past her Trials. And then she gets herself captured, like any half-wit yeoman without battle experience, and rather than die honorably, as most yeomen would have done, she cooperates with the kuaknom and is contaminated by Achrya.” Haran slapped the table and drew another breath. “And now they make this fuss over her—I can understand it from you, who aren’t even Girdish, but the others! It makes me sick!”

“Haran!” None of them had noticed the Marshal-General’s arrival. She looked almost as angry as the Duke. Haran paused, then shook her head.

“Marshal-General, I’m sorry, but I don’t care. It’s true. Paksenarrion should never have been accepted as a candidate; she wasn’t fit, she hadn’t served long enough. Of course the evil had to be rooted out; if something was lost, she’ll just have to live with that. It’s nonsense anyway: if she had had sufficient courage, there would be no danger of losing it. I don’t see all this pussyfooting. It’s not that she’s special, it’s that she’s had special treatment. And far too much of it!” Haran turned on her heel and stalked out. The Duke moved to follow, but the Marshal-General held up her hand.

“Please, my lord Duke! Hear my apology first, and allow me to discipline my own.”

“I’m listening,” he said grimly.

“I am sorry—I did not know Haran felt that way, or I would never have had her here. I wanted Paks to have Marshals, whose oath of secrecy I could trust, caring for her. I knew Haran was a bit prickly—she always has been; it’s why she has no grange—but she has always been fair before.”

“Well, then. And what of Paks?”

The Marshal-General came past him to Paks. “To you, as well, I apologize for Marshal Haran’s words. May I ask if she has done you any harm?”

“No, my lady.” Paks still felt numb from the force of Haran’s attack.

“No harm but to bully and insult her,” put in the Duke.

“My lord, I understand that.”

“Good. Marshal-General, I came hoping you would be here as well as Paks. Can you tell yet what has happened to her?”

Paks watched the Marshal-General’s face, hoping for reprieve from imagined dooms, but it was still and unreadable. “No, my lord,” she said to Phelan. “I cannot tell. It is early yet, and she is still recovering.” She turned to Paks again, her expression softening. “Paksenarrion, you must have realized, from what Haran said, that some fear you have been badly damaged. I would not lie to you: as I warned you before, great loss is possible. But I think we will not know until you have regained your strength. We worried because you lay senseless so long, but that may mean nothing. Please tell me if you feel anything different in yourself at any time.”

“I—I couldn’t eat—” Paks said softly.

“Couldn’t eat? What was wrong?”

“I couldn’t—couldn’t hold the—” Suddenly she began to cry, and tried to smother it. “—the fork—I couldn’t cut—I dropped—”

“Oh, Paks!” The Marshal-General took her hands. “Don’t—It will get better. It will. You are weak, it’s too soon—”

“But she said—like a baby—” Paks turned into the pillows, ashamed.

“No. Don’t say that. She was wrong. It will come back, faster than you think.” The Marshal-General looked aside; Paks watched the line of her jaw and cheek. “If you keep trying, Paks, it will come back.”

“All of it?” asked the Duke softly, echoing Paks’s thought.

The Marshal-General’s lips thinned. “My lord Duke, please! We cannot know yet. It will do her—or you—no good to worry about that now.”

“But she cannot help it, Marshal-General. Nor could you, if you were in that bed, and she beside it. I, too, tried to tell her not to worry about the future, but that’s empty wisdom no one can follow. What can she think about, save this? Nothing but knowledge will ease her.”

“I have no knowledge,” said the Marshal-General. She shook her head, and met Paks’s eyes again. “But believe this: I do not think as Haran does, nor do your other friends. And Haran will not think that way long. Only someone of great courage and strength could have held off that evil so long, once it entered.”

A knock on the door interrupted them again. Marshal Belfan, whom Paks had known before the journey to Kolobia, put in his head. “Now or later?” he asked.

“Come on in, Belfan.” The Marshal-General got up. “Paksenarrion is awake, but weak.”

“So Haran said. Gird’s grace to you, Paksenarrion, my lord Duke. Old Artagh says first snow by morning, Marshal-General.”

“Winter starts earlier every year,” grumbled the Marshal-General; Belfan laughed. He had an easy way with him, and hardly seemed a Marshal most of the time.

“You said that last year,” he said. “It comes,” he said to Paks and the Duke, “of having a Marshal-General who grew up in the south.”

“In Aarenis?” asked the Duke, clearly surprised.

“No. Southern Tsaia.” The Marshal-General was smiling now. “Around here they call any place where it doesn’t frost the Summereve flowers the south. Gird knows I like hunting weather as well as anyone, but—”

“You’re getting older, Marshal-General, that’s what it is.” Belfan stuck his hands in his belt, chuckling. She gave him a hard look.

“Is it indeed, my young Marshal! Perhaps you’d like to trade a few buffets in Hall and find out just how old I am?”

“Perhaps I’ll throw myself down the steps on my own, and not wait for you.”

They all laughed, even Paks. Belfan came over to her. “You look enough better that I expect you’ll be throwing the Marshal-General down the steps in a few days yourself. What a time we’ve had! The long faces around here looked more like a horse farm than Fin Panir’s grange and Hall.”

“What about something to eat?” asked the Marshal-General. “I can have something sent up for all of us.”

“Good idea.” The Duke smiled down at Paks. “If we stuff her with food, she’ll soon feel more herself.”

And when faced with a bowl of thick soup, Paks was able to spoon it up with few spills. No one commented on the mess; the Marshal-General wiped it up matter-of-factly, while talking of other things. When they had all finished, she helped Paks sit up on the bed: she could not lift herself, but could balance alone.

The next time she woke, the Marshal-General and Belfan helped her stand, wavering, between them. She walked lopsided and staggering, but with their aid could make it across the room. Several days later she could walk alone, slowly but more steadily. Her improvement continued. When she could manage stairs, she went outside, to the Marshal-General’s walled garden. After that came her first walk across the forecourt, to the High Lord’s Hall. The glances of the others pricked her like nettles; she looked down, watching the stones under her feet. Haran had claimed that others felt as she did: some of them saw cowardice on her face, with her scars. But she hoped, while fearing her hope was false, that with the return of physical strength she had nothing else to fear.

She had grown strong enough to fret at the confinement of the Marshal-General’s quarters, and had begun taking walks on the training fields, usually with the Duke, or one of the Marshals. She did not question their company, noticing that they rarely left her alone, but not wanting to know why. One crisp cold day, she was with Belfan when a thunder of hooves came from behind. They turned, to see several students galloping up, carrying lances. Paks felt a wave of weakness and fear that took the strength from her knees. Sunlight glittered from the lance-tips, ominous as dragons’ teeth; the horses seemed twice as large as normal, their great hooves digging at the ground. She clutched Belfan’s arm, breathless.

“Paks! We thought you were going to be shut up forever!” It was the young Marrakai boy, waving his lance in his excitement. “I wanted to tell you: I’ve been put in the higher class! I can drill with you now—” As his horse pranced, Paks tried not to flinch from the sudden movements. Another of the students peered at her.

“You’ve got new scars. They said—”

“Enough. Begone, now.” Marshal Belfan spoke firmly.

“But Marshal—”

“Paks, what’s wrong? You’re shaking—” The Marrakai boy’s sharp eyes glittered; she could see the curiosity and worry on all their faces.

“Go on, now.” The Marshal took a step forward. “This is nothing for you.”

“But she’s—”

“Now!” Paks had never heard Belfan bellow like that, and she jumped as the students did. They rode away, looking back over their shoulders. He looked down at her. Only then did she realize that her legs had failed her, and she had collapsed in a heap. “Here—let me help you up.” His hand, hard and callused, suddenly seemed threatening in its strength; Paks had to force herself to take it. She felt the blood rushing to her face. What would the students think? She knew. She knew what she thought. She had never felt such fear, never been mastered by fear like that. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She heard Belfan sigh heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was still cheerful, though Paks thought she heard the effort behind it.

“Paks, don’t think one time means anything. Some days back you couldn’t take a single step alone. Now you can walk around the wall. This is the same; this weakness can pass, just as the weakness of your legs passed. What frightened you most?”

But this she could not say. Noise, movement, speed, the sharpness of the lances, the memory of old wounds and what that speed and sharpness could mean, in her own flesh—all these jumbled in her mind, and left her speechless. She shook her head.

“Well, it came suddenly, all at once. Like a cavalry charge, and here you were unarmed: no wonder.” But to Paks his voice carried no conviction. “I daresay it will be better, when you begin training with one weapon at a time. Your skills will be slow to return, perhaps, as you were slow to walk, but they’ll come back, and so will your confidence.”

“And if it doesn’t?” She spoke very low, but Belfan heard her.

“If not, then—something will come for you. Most of the world is not fighters, after all. If you’d lost an arm or leg, you’d have to learn something else. This is not different. Besides, it hasn’t come to that yet.”

Paks returned to hauk drill, in a beginning class: clumsy, as she now expected, in the first days. When someone lost the grip, and a hauk flew through the air, she flinched, and tried to hide it. Afraid of a hauk! She forced herself on, exercising early and late, and the strength and coordination came back. But that only hastened sword drill.

When she first gripped a sword again, it felt odd in her hand. Marshal Cieri looked curiously at her, and adjusted her grip. “Like this,” he said. It felt no better. She looked down the length of dangerous metal—for he had seen no reason to try her with a wooden practice blade—and tried not to show her fear. The edges, the point, stood out in her eyes; she was afraid to move it lest she cut her own leg. He faced her, and lifted his own sword. Paks stared at it, eyes widening. It seemed to catch the sunlight and throw it at her in angled flashes that hurt her eyes. She blinked. “Ready?” he asked.

Her mouth was dry; her reply came as a hoarse croak. He nodded and moved forward, lifting the tip for the first drill movement. Paks froze, her eyes following the sword. She tried to force her own arm to move, to interpose her own blade, but she could not. She saw the surprise on his face, the change to annoyance, and then some other emotion she could not read, that terrified her with its withdrawal.

“Paks. Position one.”

She struggled, managed to move her arm awkwardly. His blade touched hers, a light tap. She gasped, whirled away, tried to face him again, and dropped her sword. As it clanged on the ground, she was already shaking, eyes shut.

The next time, and the next, were no better. If anything, they were worse. Soon she feared anyone bearing arms, even the Duke when he came to her room with his sword on his belt. As she felt herself weaker and more fearful, she saw the Marshals and paladins and other students as stronger, braver, more vigorous. Despite the Marshal-General’s protection, she had heard enough to know that many agreed with Haran. Their scorn sharpened her own.

At last even the Marshal-General admitted that she was not improving. “But as long as you want to try, Paksenarrion—” she said, eyes clouded with worry.

“I can’t.” Paks could not meet her gaze.

“Enough, then. We hoped the contact would help, but it hasn’t. We’ll see what else can be done for you—”

“Nothing.” Paks turned her head away, and stared at the pattern of the rug. Blue stars on red, white stars on blue. “I don’t want anything—”

“Paksenarrion, we are not abandoning you. It’s not your fault, and we’ll—”

“I can’t stay here.” The words and tears burst from her both at once. “I can’t stay! If I can’t be one of you, let me go!”

The Marshal-General shook her head. “I don’t want you to leave until you have some way of living, some trade or craft. You’re not well yet—”

“I’ll never be well.” Paks hated the tremor in her voice. “I can’t stay here, my lady, not with real fighters.” She would not, she told herself, tell the Marshal-General about the taunts she’d heard, the mocking whispers just loud enough to carry to her ears.

“Through the winter, then. Leave in spring, when the weather’s better. You can study in the archives—”

Paks shook her head stubbornly. “No. Please. Let me go now. To sit and read all day, read of others fighting—I can’t do that.”

“But—Paks—what can you do? How will you live?”

Nor would she admit she didn’t much care whether she lived. And she had thought of a reasonable plan. “I came from a sheep farm; I can herd.”

“Are you sure? Herding’s hard work, and—”

Paks drove the thought of wolves away—she would not be alone, on a winter range—and steadied her voice. “I’m sure.”

The Marshal-General sighed. “Well. I’ll see. If we can find a place—”

Before she left, she had a last talk with the Duke. He showed none of the anger she had feared, and no scorn; his voice was gentle.

“Take this ring,” he said, tugging a black signet ring from his finger. “If ever you need help—any kind of help—show this ring to anyone in the Company, or anyone who knows me, or send it. I will come, Paksenarrion, wherever you are, whatever you need.”

“My lord, I’m not worthy—”

“Child, you did not throw your gifts away. They were taken from you. For your service to me—for that alone—you are worthy of my respect. Now put that ring on—yes. You must not fail to call, Paks, if you need me. I will be thinking of you.” He hugged her again, and turned to go. Then he swung back. “To my thinking, Paks, you have shown great courage in consenting to risk its loss, and in trying so hard to regain your skills. Whatever others call you, remember that Phelan of Tsaia never called you coward.” Then he was gone, and Paks turned the ring nervously on her finger. It was loose, and she took it off and stuffed it in her belt pouch.

Two days later, the Marshal-General walked with her to the archway. “Remember, Paksenarrion: you will be welcome in any grange, at any time. I have already sent word. Gird’s grace is on you, and our good will follows you. If my parting gift is not enough, you can ask more, freely.” But Paks was determined not to spend that roll of coins, wound in a sock in the midst of her pack. “Right now you are unhappy, and reasonably so, with the Fellowship of Gird—”

Paks shook her head. “Not so, my lady. Not with you. I think Marshal Haran had the right of it, in part. My error let Achrya’s evil in, and my weakness could not withstand what you had to do—”

The Marshal-General stopped and looked at her. “That’s not true, and I’ve told you before. By Gird’s cudgel, I hate to let you go, thinking that. All paladin-candidates are vulnerable, and anyone with less strength than you would have been taken over completely far sooner. You must believe in yourself.” She paused, rocking from heel to toe, arms crossed. “Paks, please. Promise me that if things get worse, you will come for help.”

Paks looked away. She did not want to say what she thought, that more of such help as she’d had would leave her bedbound as well as craven.

“My lady, I’d best go, to be in the market on time.” Paks kept her eyes stubbornly on the ground. The Marshal-General’s sigh was gusty.

“Very well, Paks. You are sworn to Gird’s Fellowship, and Gird the protector will guard your way. All our prayers are with you.” She turned back through the gate, and Paks walked on, determined not to glance back.