Oath of Gold

12

Late fall rain had chilled to sleet; from the parapets the sentries could see only a short distance from the walls. The last bonfires were hard to keep alight. Foul smoke whirled away from the orcs’ bodies, but they would hardly burn. Finally the Duke had a barrel of mutton-fat melted and poured on, after all the remains had been dragged to one fire, and the ashes left from that smelled of nothing but ashes.

The next afternoon, a party on horseback came within bowshot of the gates before being seen; fog and sleet together hid them. Paks heard the alarm horn, and met the Duke heading for his stairs. She stayed beside him as he strode across the inner court. By the time they reached the Duke’s Gate, the sentries knew who it was: the Marshal, they sent word.

“Name?” asked the Duke irritably. Paks glanced at him. She knew his wounds must be hurting him, though he wouldn’t admit it. He had refused to let her “waste,” as he put it, a healing attempt on him.

“Connaught, was one, and Amberion, and Arianya—”

“The Marshal-General?” The Duke glared at the sentry. “You’re sure?”

“That’s what they said, my lord, them names. I don’t know—”

The Duke silenced him with a gesture and turned to Paks. “Is that likely? And why? Has she come to make mock of me, after all?”

“No, my lord,” said Paks firmly. “It would not be that. If this is the Marshal-General, she has come because of the urgency of your message, and because she feels you may need her help. Mockery is not like her.”

“No.” He rubbed his shoulder, considering. The sentry waited, hunched in the cold. “Blast it! I can’t get used to the idea—Go on, man, and let them in. Fanfare, but don’t keep them out there waiting while the troops parade: it’s too cold.” As the sentry jogged back to the gate tower, the Duke strode across the main court, calling his captains. High overhead the fanfare rang out, the trumpeters’ numb fingers missing some of the triples. The main gate hinges squealed in the cold, and the gates themselves scraped on blown sleet.

Through the gates, as the gap widened, Paks could see a dark clump of horsemen: sleet whitened the horses’ manes, and the riders’ cloaks and helms. They rode forward, ducking against the wind that scoured a flurry of sleet off the court and flung it in their faces. Paks could not recognize any of them, until they were less than a length away. The leading rider halted, and threw back the hood of a blue cloak.

“My lord Duke?” Arianya’s weathered face was pinched with cold.

“Marshal-General, I am honored to receive you in my steading.” Duke Phelan took the last few steps, and reached a hand to her. “By your leave, I suggest we continue our greetings in somewhere warmer.”

“Indeed yes.” But she sat her mount a moment longer, looking around the court as if memorizing the location of every door and window. Then she looked back at him. “Gird’s blessing on this place, and all within it, and on you, my lord Duke.” The Duke stiffened slightly, but bowed. Then she dismounted, as did the other riders, and one came forward to take her horse. “I hope it will not inconvenience you—we brought some along to care for the gear and horses—”

“Not at all. Arcolin, find room for these, and the animals. If you’ll come with me, Marshal-General—”

“To a fire, I hope. By the lost scrolls, this last day’s ride seemed straight into the wind, no matter which way the road turned.” Then she caught sight of Paks. “Paksenarrion! Is this where you—?” She broke off in confusion, and looked from the Duke to Paks and back again.

“Is that Paks?” Amberion, now, had come to stand beside her. “Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, I’m glad to see you looking so well.” She saw that his glance did not miss the sword at her side. “Are you—?”

But Paks did not mean to discuss everything standing out in the cold. She knew the Duke was in pain, and needed to get back inside. “Sir Amberion,” she said, nodding. “My lord’s right, sir; we should get within.”

The Duke led the way to the dining hall, and sent a guard to the kitchen for hot food. The visitors stood around the fireplace, their wet clothes already steaming. Within minutes, kettles of sib were on the table, and bowls of soup. Servants had taken away wet cloaks, and brought dry stockings for those whose feet were wet.

“I’m getting old for this,” said the Marshal-General frankly. “It’s been far too long since I left Fin Panir in wintertime. Ah! Hot soup. I may survive.” She smiled at the Duke, then her gaze sharpened. “My lord, you are ill—or wounded. Why did you come out in that cold?”

“I’m not a child!” snapped the Duke. Paks looked at him, worried, but he had already taken a long breath. “I’m sorry, Marshal-General. I was wounded a few days ago—it’s painful, but not dangerous. I would be shamed did I not welcome such visitors myself.”

“And you want no advice on it. Very well. But, my lord, we came to help, and if you spend your strength on hospitality, we are a burden, not help at all.” She took another spoonful of soup. “I would eat cobbles, were they hot like this, but this is good soup. You wonder, you say, why, in asking for a Marshal’s aid, you got the Marshal-General. I was in Vérella, having been called to a meeting with the prince and regency council.” She drank some more soup, and poured herself a mug of sib. “Then your message came, mentioning Achrya, and traitors, and a possible invasion of orcs. It seemed enough—the council was concerned already about your holdings here. I don’t know why.” She looked at the Duke, who sipped his own mug of sib and said nothing. “I did not, of course, read them your message, but I thought it would ease their minds to know I was coming.”

Arcolin came into the room, followed by the other captains. The Duke looked up. “Marshal-General,” Arcolin said, “we have stabled all your mounts, and assigned the rest of your party room in the barracks. Is that satisfactory?”

“Entirely,” she said. “Two of them are new with us, and it will be well for them to see barracks life; they’re nobles’ sons, and convinced we stint them by assigning only single rooms, rather than suites.”

Arcolin grinned. “Two of them did try to tell me something about their birth, but I didn’t have time to listen.”

“Good. Don’t. While I’m glad to see the fellowship of Gird expand, and as Marshal-General I can’t pass up a single blade, I often wish the nobly born would spend a few years of their youth where no one knew their birth. We do our best to knock some of it out of them, but as Paks knows, we don’t entirely succeed.”

Paks found herself laughing. She had wondered what it would be like to see the Marshal-General again, and had not looked forward to it. Even though she knew she was cured, she anticipated an awkward meeting and difficult explanations. But this was easy. The Marshal-General looked at her, as did the others.

“Paksenarrion, I find it hard to believe what I see, yet by Gird’s gift you are more than merely healed. Will you tell us, someday, how this happened?”

“Indeed, I would be glad to,” said Paks. “But parts of it I don’t clearly understand myself.”

“I sense great gifts awakening in you, if not already come,” said Amberion. “Are you still a follower of Gird?”

Paks nodded. “I am not forsworn, sir paladin. I gave my oath to Gird in the Hall of Fin Panir, and by that oath I stand. But much has happened that I did not anticipate, or you, I think, foresee.”

The Marshal-General’s eyes glittered with tears. “Paksenarrion, however you were healed, and by what power of good, matters not to me. We are all glad to see you so; we had all grieved over your loss. Gird witness that if you had turned to Falk or Camwyn and received healing there, I would be as glad, and would not condemn you for changing your allegiance. It was my error—not Gird’s—that led you into great peril, and in the end near killed you. I am not mean enough to begrudge any healing.”

“But,” Paks began delicately, “the powers I have—and some have come—did not come with your dedication at the Hall—”

“We have not all forgotten how paladins began,” said Amberion quickly. “The power comes from the High Lord—if he has lent it to the training orders, from time to time, that does not bind it there. If Gird spoke to you directly—” He looked a question at her.

Paks looked from one face to another. “I have not told anyone—not even the Duke—the whole story.”

“Nor is this the best time, perhaps,” suggested the Marshal-General. “If this stronghold faces peril from Achrya—”

“I think it is past,” said the Duke, slowly. “Paksenarrion unmasked the traitors within—when I sent for your aid, they were already dead. We had found a tunnel leading into a cellar from without, and expected an invasion of some sort. It came the next night. We burned the last of the bodies yesterday.”

“You have wounded that need healing?”

“Yes—but they are not all Girdsmen.”

“We’ll try what we can. Are you sure your traitors are all found?”

“I hope so. Paksenarrion wanted me to ask more help; she is not sure she would find them all.”

“We can help with that, certainly.”

“I had not expected so quick a response—and you come from Vérella—”

“Your messenger, my lord, came to the grange at Burningmeed; the Marshal there, Kerrin—” she nodded at her, “had come to Vérella to meet me. Her yeoman-marshal forwarded the message as fast as he could—which, for us, is very fast.”

The Duke nodded. “I remember.” He coughed, and Paks watched him, worried again. He took a careful breath, and went on. “My message was short, Marshal-General, as word of peril should be. But you must know that I acknowledge—have already admitted to my captains—that I was wrong, years ago, to blame you for my wife’s death—”

“My lord,” interrupted Arianya, “in dealing with great evils, as you and I have done, all make mistakes. The High Lord grant I never make a worse—in fact I have made worse.” She nodded toward Paks. “There is one, as you rightly said, and the elves said at the time. Certainly neither I nor my predecessor intended harm to your wife and children—or to Paksenarrion. But whether by error or overwhelming evil, harm came. If you can now believe that it was unintentional—that I sorrow for it—that is well enough.”

“I make bold to contradict a Marshal-General,” said the Duke, with a wry smile. “It is not—quite—enough.” He took a long breath, staring into his mug, and none thought to interrupt him. “You may remember that in the years before my wife was killed, this entire Company fought under the protection of Gird.”

“I do.”

“After that, when I was no longer any way a Girdsman, I thought to keep, nonetheless, the standards of honor, in the Company and in my holdings, that were appropriate.”

“So you do,” said Marshal Kerrin. “You’re known as a fair and just lord, and your Company—”

The Duke waved her to silence. “Compared to some, Marshal, that may be so. But compared to what this Company was—well, you can ask my captains, if you don’t believe me.” He nodded to Dorrin, Arcolin, and the others. No one responded. The Duke continued. “The last year I campaigned in Aarenis, even I had to admit the changes. We were short of men, through treachery—I expect you’ve heard the tale of Dwarfwatch—”

The Marshal-General nodded. “Yes. So I called back veterans, and when that wasn’t enough, I hired free swords in Aarenis itself. That changed the Company. Worse than that, I used them as I’d never used them before, and when Siniava was caught, I—” He looked up as Paks stirred. The Marshal-General, too, looked at her. Paks wished the Duke would not speak of that time, but he smiled at her and went on. “I was so angry, Marshal-General, at his treachery, at his cruelty to my men and others, that I would have tortured him, had Paks not stopped me. And I was angry with her, at the time.”

“But you didn’t.” The Marshal-General’s voice was remote and cool.

“No. I wanted to, though.”

“You could have—you, a commander, didn’t have to listen to a—what was she then, anyway? Private? Corporal?”

“Private. I did have to—I’d given my word. If you want the whole story, ask her or the paladin who was there.”

Amberion stirred. “That would have been Fenith. He died the next year, in the Westmounts.”

“So.” The Marshal-General took the conversation again. “You chose to honor your word, and by what you say gave up your anger at Paksenarrion—that sounds like little dishonor, my lord Duke.”

“Enough,” said the Duke soberly. “Enough to change the Company, to risk my people here—for that’s what happened, what I left them open to, when I took the veterans that could fight. And then to fall under the spell of Venneristimon’s sister—if that was his sister—”

The Marshal-General stood. “My lord, I would hear more of this, if you wish, but if you have wounded, we should see to them.”

“As you will. If you’ll excuse me, Dorrin can take you to them; if I go over there, the surgeons will scold.”

“Perhaps we should begin with you?”

“No. I’m not in danger. Dorrin?”

“Certainly, my lord. Marshal-General, will you come?” Dorrin moved to the door, and the Marshal-General and Amberion followed. Kerrin looked at her, but the Marshal-General waved her back.

“We’ll send if we need you, Kerrin; keep warm in the meantime.”

When they had gone, Kerrin looked at the Duke. “My lord Duke, I’ve seen you ride by, but not met you—”

“Nor I you. Yours is the nearest grange?”

“Southward, yes. West you might come to Stilldale a little sooner. It was but a barton until a few years ago.” She drained her mug of sib, and poured another. “You won’t remember, perhaps, but I had an uncle in your Company: Garin Arcosson, in Arcolin’s cohort. He—”

“I remember. He was file-second of the third. Killed by a crossbow bolt in—let me think—the siege of Cortes Cilwan, I think, wasn’t it? A lanky fellow, with a white forelock, that turned white early.”

Kerrin nodded. “I’m impressed, my lord, that you remember so well. That was years ago—”

The Duke shrugged. “It’s important to know one’s men. And I have a knack for names.”

“Even so. I remember when his sword came home, and his medallion; the Marshal of our grange hung them there for all to see. And my aunt, my lord, lived well enough on his pension.” She coughed delicately. “Do I understand, my lord, from what you’ve said, that you will be placing your Company under Gird once more?”

“That depends. In the years since the last Marshal here died, I have recruited many who were not Girdsmen—indeed, not Falkians, or following any of the martial patrons. Yet most are good men, hard but honorable fighters. I would not have them distressed—I owe it to them—”

“My lord, it would be far from my desire—and I believe I speak for the Marshal-General here—to coerce warriors faithful to another to change faith. I am aware that among your soldiers are those who follow Tir and Sertig as well as the High Lord, Gird, and Falk. And your responsibilities under the crown of Tsaia, I realize, will forbid any venturing of the Company for Gird. But should you desire such protection—even a Marshal resident here—that can be arranged.”

“You seem confident.” The Duke frowned at her.

“I am.” Kerrin turned her mug in her hands. “My lord Duke, it may seem strange to you, who have been at odds with the granges for so long, but Gird himself mistakes no honest heart. We have never shared that quarrel, only watched from afar.” The Duke started to speak, but Kerrin went on, heedless. “I swear to you, my lord, that if we had known anything definite—if we had been able to tell who or what was the source of that evil that tainted your lands and gossiped against you at court, we would have told you.” The Duke settled back in his chair; Paks noticed that the remaining captains were rigid in theirs. “But,” Kerrin went on, “without the right to come here, and investigate, we could do nothing. I don’t know if you believe prayer to have any power—but I tell you that at the granges at Burningmeed and Stilldale prayers for you and your Company were offered at every service. We of Gird—and sensible nobles of the Council—well knew that you and you alone stand between Tsaia and the northern wastes, and what comes out of them.”

“You could have said something,” muttered Cracolnya. The Duke shot him a look, but did not speak. Kerrin cocked her head.

“Could we? Think about it, Captain. How well would you have listened, had I come, or sent my yeoman-marshal, to tell you that something—undefined, but something—was wrong in your cohort or the stronghold? If I had seen the traitor—your steward, Venneristimon, wasn’t it?” Cracolnya and the others nodded. “If I had seen him, I might have known. But how to convince you?”

“Prayer,” muttered the Duke.

Kerrin gave a tight smile. “Just prayer, my lord. But Gird has more weapons than one in his belt, and he sent a fine sword.” She nodded at Paks.

“True enough.” The Duke sighed, leaning back in his chair. “With all respect, Kerrin, I would talk to the Marshal-General about this—”

“Indeed.”

“Even though I was wrong to be so angry before, still the Girdsmen make mistakes.”

Kerrin laughed. “My lord Duke, our legends say that even Gird himself made mistakes. We are but human. The Marshal-General admitted one to you herself. But we all fight, as best we know, against the powers of evil. We all try to strengthen our realm—whether steading or grange—in anything good.”

“Yes. Well—” The Duke paused. Paks, watching, noticed a grayer tinge to his face. She glanced at Arcolin, who met her eyes and nodded. He stood and moved behind the Duke’s chair.

“My lord, I must remind you of the surgeon’s orders.”

“Nonsense. We have guests—”

“Marshal Kerrin,” Arcolin went on, “the surgeons made me promise to remind the Duke of their opinion. If you will excuse him—”

“Certainly.” Kerrin looked concerned. “Should I call the Marshal-General?”

“No. Paks will fetch a surgeon.”

“Viniet is upstairs, Captain.”

“Good.”

The Duke started to protest, then subsided, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair. “Tir’s gut, Arcolin—excuse me, Marshal—it’s just—”

“A mere cut. I know. I know as well that you were hardly in your bed enough to warm it before going back to work. And if we’re truly, as the Marshal says, the one bar to the northern troubles, then we’ve no desire to lose you, my lord.”

Paks did not witness the Duke’s meeting with the Marshal-General in his study late that day. They were closeted for several hours; she spent the time talking with Amberion. He had been called to a border fort along the south border of Fintha, and had spent the summer convincing farmers in the area that they could indeed repel the mountain-dwelling robbers.

“Though most of those robbers were poor folk enough,” said Amberion thoughtfully. “Some years back they’d left a barony in a mountain valley because of the great cruelty of the baron. There in the heights they could not grow enough food for themselves, and when they lost weapons in hunting, could replace them only by raiding. Some of them would be glad enough to settle in the farmlands, if there were farmland to spare. A few, though—” he shook his head. “It’s easy for such demons as Liart to gain worshippers when men must live like wolves or die anyway.”

“But why farmers?” asked Paks. “Couldn’t the local lord—count or whatever—have held the keep and protected them?”

“No, not in Fintha. In Fintha nearly all farmland is freehold; our lords are those who hold enough that they can’t work it all themselves. Even then there are very few with such estates as the Marrakai or Verrakai—or even your Duke—in Tsaia and Lyonya.” When she looked puzzled, he went on. “Come now, Paksenarrion, you had more history than that in your months with us. Gird himself was a peasant. Fintha is the center of his cult. By Finthan law, each farmer owns the lands he can plow. Grazing land is usually owned in common, though in the north, where you came from, it may be held by the farmer. But the Hall never makes large grants of land, such as your Duke got, in return for raising a troop. Those who are given a grant must work it themselves, and each man owes service to Gird when it’s needed. If someone has more land, it was inherited, perhaps from two families. The nearest lord to that border fort could offer only himself and his older sons to aid. Which he did.” Amberion paused. “One of them died there.”

By the time Paks had told him about her summer in Lyonya with the rangers, the Duke’s conference was over. They were called in, along with the Duke’s captains.

“We have settled more than one thing,” said the Duke. He was somewhat pale, still, but seemed steadier. “First, it’s clear to both of us that the Company cannot go back as it was. It’s been fifteen years since my wife was killed, fifteen years during which no effort was made to screen out those who are not Girdsmen. The veterans of those fifteen years have served me well, and I will not change the rules on them now. Yet some of the changes in those years were for the worse, and we will work to reverse them.

“As far as my domain goes, the past fifteen years, again, have seen changes and growth in directions which Tamarrion and I had not planned. My relations with the Regency Council, my duties—these cannot be set aside.

“What we have agreed, then, is this: I will accept, in my domain, the influence of Gird. Granges will be built wherever enough Girdsmen gather; bartons will serve the rest. A Marshal will be stationed either here or on the plain between Duke’s East and West, at the discretion of the Marshal-General, and I will grant sufficient land for the support of that grange. Girdsmen among the Company will be encouraged to be active in the grange. As for me—” He looked aside, then around at them all. “Most of you know little of my background. Until I came to live with the Halverics—” a slight stir at this; Paks had not known it until Stammel mentioned it; neither had most of the others. “—until then, I followed no god or patron. I had heard of none I would follow.” His face had settled into grim lines. “The Halverics were, as they are, Falkians, and from them and their example I first learned of the High Lord, and of Falk. I had served Aliam Halveric as squire for some years, and he sponsored me as a novice with the Knights of Falk, as a reward. Too great a reward, as I found later; he never told me of the cost of such sponsorship. He hoped, I believe, that I would swear fealty to Falk, and become one of them.”

“But then—how did you end up a Girdsman?” Pont’s long face was sober.

“Well—as to that—I didn’t. Precisely.” The Duke shuffled a scroll across his desk. “To go back: I was knighted after two years, in the Falkian order, but I had sworn no word to Falk. I’m not sure why, actually, but I never felt a call to do so. Then—again with Aliam Halveric’s help—I began on my own as a mercenary captain in Tsaia. Arcolin remembers that. A couple of years here and there garrisoning forts no one else wanted to bother with. Caravan work. That sort of thing. Then my first big contract, as an independent with the crown. We didn’t even have a full cohort; Arcolin had to scour the streets to make up our numbers. But out of that came this—” He waved his arm to indicate the domain, “and many more contracts. Then Tamarrion joined the Company, and we married, and she was a Girdsman in full.” He stopped, and Arcolin moved quickly to pour him some wine. The Duke sipped, and went on.

“I had hired Girdsmen before because they were honest and hard-working. After her I hired them because she wished it. We married, as you know, in the Hall at Fin Panir—also her desire. But though I lived as a Girdsman, and gave freely to the fellowship of Gird, I never took the vows myself.” He took another swallow of wine. “Again, I don’t know why. Tamarrion often asked me, and it’s one of the few things I failed to do that she wished. I think I felt—” He stopped again, and looked past them all, as if across a field of battle. “I felt sometimes that another vow was waiting somewhere, and that I must be free to take it.” He shook his head. “Foolishness, perhaps. Yet Tamar felt, or so she said, that until I made my vow freely and willingly, Gird would not begrudge my waiting. And after she died, I—” His head bowed for an instant “I would not.”

“And now?” asked Dorrin.

“Now is difficult. You, Captain, have argued that I disgraced my former allegiance.” For the only time, Paks saw a flush on Dorrin’s cheek. “You were right, except that I had none. I agree that I was wrong, and I am willing to amend—but I still feel a reluctance to commit myself to Gird.”

“But surely—” Marshal Kerrin looked sideways at the Marshal-General.

“As things stand,” she said firmly, “I do not ask Duke Phelan to join the fellowship of Gird.”

“But why?”

Her eyebrows arched. “Are you asking what we said to each other? For therein lies the reason. Since you have a nearby grange, I will assure you it is from no lack of trust in him. But I agree with him that the time for making such a pledge has not come to him.”

“As for you, my captains,” the Duke said, regaining control of the room, “you may choose freely to stay or go, with full honor. I will be trying to do what Tamar and I had once planned, within the limits I’ve mentioned. I have enough wealth, now, and enough land is in plow, that I need not take the Company to Aarenis again—certainly not for several years. Instead, I will try to make of this domain what our vision was: a fruitful land, governed justly, and serving as a strong ward between the rest of Tsaia and the northern waste. If you are not comfortable with that vision, if you are unhappy with the thought of a Marshal constantly among us, you may come to me at any time, privately, and leave with my thanks and a substantial reward.”

“You know I will stay,” said Arcolin quickly, and the others nodded.

“That offer stands, nonetheless,” said the Duke. “If in the future you change your mind—any of you—you have served me well for many years, and you will not find me ungrateful.”

“But when will you tell the Company?” asked Arcolin. “Do you want us—?”

The Duke shook his head. “No. They should hear it from me, I think. Rumors are flying already, I daresay. Tomorrow—no, for Keri may die tonight. The day after, I think. Plan a formal inspection; the Marshal-General may like to see them up close. And I’ll tell them then. The same offer applies—I will be fair to my veterans no matter what their faith.”

A sharp wind had scoured all clouds from the sky, and left it pale and clean. Paks, standing now as squire beside the Duke, watched the Company wheel into review formation, after an hour of intricate drill. She glanced sideways at the Marshal-General. Her eyes were alight in that impassive face. Paks looked back at the Company. It had never seemed so impressive. She felt almost like two people—one here beside the Duke, cold from the wind, and another in formation, file first of the second file in Arcolin’s cohort, waiting for Stammel’s brusque commands.

They halted, lines straight as stretched string. Paks scanned the faces she knew so well. Stammel, his brown eyes watchful. Devlin, somehow conveying grace even while standing still (hard to believe he had five children, one nearly old enough to be a recruit.) Arñe, newly promoted to corporal, trying not to grin. Vik. Barra. Natzlin. Rauf, who would retire to his little farm as soon as they were sure the orcs had gone. The captains pivoted to face the Duke, and bowed. The Duke gestured to the Marshal-General, and they moved to the first cohort, Paks and the others following.

The Duke had a word for most of them. The Marshal-General, beside him, said nothing, but looked into each face. Paks felt very odd, walking along the lines, and knowing so well what it felt like to wait for the inspecting party to pass. When they reached the recruit lines, she was poised between laughter and tears. She knew the strain in the neck, the struggle to look only forward, the trembling hands that stiffened as they went by. One girl forgot to say “my lord,” and blushed so that Paks remembered her own lapse as a recruit. A boy’s voice cracked on the words, and he broke into a sweat. Another stammered.

At last they were done, and the Duke returned to his place before the Company. He waited a moment, as if for silence, though nothing had made a sound.

“Sword-brethren,” he began, and Paks saw as well as felt the response to that old term. “You all remember what I told you after we defeated the orcs attacking Duke’s East. You have seen the Marshal-General of Gird, High Marshal Connaught, Marshal Kerrin of Burningmeed, and the Gird’s paladin Sir Amberion. Some of you have felt the healing grace of Gird through them. You have sensed, perhaps, that a change has come to me, and through me to the Company. Some of you, I hope very few, may be worried about it.” He paused and looked slowly from one cohort to another. “You older veterans, who remember the days when Tamarrion Mistiannyi was my lady here, and our children were growing—” Paks saw the shock ripple across the faces of the older ones. “Yes, I can speak of that now. You will remember how the Company was then, when a Marshal of Gird lived here, in the stronghold, with us. Those days, my friends, are past these fifteen years. Yet good and evil have not changed, and I welcome, from this day on, Girdsmen, yeoman and Marshal, to this domain. I am not myself sworn to that fellowship, but I am sworn, as always, to the crown of Tsaia, and to the cause of good, as the High Lord and his servants Gird and Falk are.

“You have always served me well. You deserve, therefore, this choice: to stay, in spite of these changes, or to go, with my respect and a settlement reflecting your years of service. We will be in the north for a few years—no fat contracts in Aarenis, no chance of plunder. If you prefer such service, I will recommend any of you to any commander you name. Speak to your captains, or to me, and it will be done as you desire.” He paused again, but no one moved or spoke. Paks found tears stinging her eyes. “I hope,” he went on, “that none of you go. Girdsmen or no, you are all such warriors as anyone would be proud to lead. If you stay, we shall be making, by Gird’s grace, a place of justice, a domain fruitful and safe, and a strong defense for the northern border. Whatever you decide, I am proud to have had you—each one of you—in my Company. You may be proud of your deeds.” He stepped back, bowed to the captains, and they turned again to their cohorts. The Marshal-General nodded to him.

“You are as generous as just, my lord Duke.”

His voice was slightly husky. “They are—they deserve it.”

“If they do, I know where they learned it. By Gird’s cudgel, my lord, I must say that even after your message I had not hoped for this reception. I thought that at best you would let us help you in the crisis. You are not a Girdsman, and yet you have done as much as if you were—while being more than fair to your soldiers. My predecessor, Enherian, spoke very well of you—told me, when I became Marshal-General, that one of his regrets was the breach between you and the fellowship of Gird. Now I see why.”

The Duke moved away, eyes distant. “I have no quarrel with Gird’s view of things, as you know.”

“No.” She walked beside him, and Paks trailed, with the others. “I would like, my lord, to hear Paksenarrion’s tale of her healing. Do you mind?”

The Duke looked back to catch Paks’s eye. “It’s her story, Marshal-General. If she’s ready to tell it, I would like to hear it myself. But I will not command it.”

“I would be likelier to command a stone to fly, than that. But I confess a professional interest in it—I was wrong, but I’d like to know how I erred so.” The Marshal-General turned and grinned at Paks. “Will you tell us, or must we itch with curiosity the rest of our days?”

Paks found herself grinning, even though she had tensed at the question. “I will try, Marshal-General, but it’s a tangled tale, and parts of it I do not understand myself.”