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.”