Paks sat still, unable to move or speak. She had never really believed that anyone could think she was evil. She longed to be back with the Duke’s Company, where Stammel, she was sure, would defend her against any such accusation. Why had she ever left that safe haven? Into that shock, her leg intruded, throbbing more insistently. She blinked a few times, and lifted her head.
“Yes, sir,” she said, through stiff lips. “I—I will go pack.”
“Gird’s right arm!” The Training Master’s voice must have echoed through the entire first floor. “That’s not what I said, girl!” Paks stared at him. “You have the choice—make it!”
“Choice?” Paks could not think.
“You can become a Girdsman,” said the Training Master crisply. “Has that not occurred to you?”
“No,” said Paks with more honesty than tact.
“Then it should have. By the gods, girl, you think better than that in tactics class. You recognize what the problem is: you want to stay for more training, and we are unwilling to give more training without some return. How much do you want to stay? What are you willing to give? And what did you want the training for, if not to follow Gird?”
Paks felt her heart pounding so that she could scarcely draw breath. “You mean I could join—but if you think I’m bad, why would you—”
The Training Master gave a disgusted snort. “I didn’t say I thought you were evil. I said it was a possibility. Do you want to join the Fellowship of Gird? Will you pay that price?”
“I—” Paks choked a moment and went on. “Sir, I want to stay. If that is what—but will Gird accept it?”
“We can talk of Gird himself later, Paksenarrion. What we, the Marshals, are looking for is something less than what Gird may ask. Is it something your Duke told you, that makes you dislike Gird so? Or have you another patron you haven’t told us about?”
Paks shook her head. “No, sir. It’s nothing like that; all I have been told of Gird I admire, and here you teach that Gird is a servant of the High Lord, not a god to worship instead of him. But—” She could not explain the obscure reserve and resentment she felt, and worked her way toward it haltingly. “When I was in the Duke’s Company, I knew Girdsmen. Effa was killed in her first battle—but that doesn’t matter. I think it was when Canna was captured and killed. She was a Girdsman, but it didn’t help. She died, and not in clean battle, even though we were trying to reach the Duke, and tell him about Siniava’s capture of the fort. If Gird saved anyone, why not Canna, his own yeoman? Why me?”
“You don’t like the notion that great deeds reward the hero with a quick death?”
Paks shook her head more vigorously. “No, sir. And hers wasn’t quick, by what I was told. Capture, and a bad wound—that’s no reward for faithful service. And she was the one hit at the fort itself, by a stray arrow. Why didn’t Gird protect her then? She kept us together, led the way—it should have been her chance, that last day, not mine.” She felt the old anger smouldering still, and fought it down. “And more than that—the captain said it was probably Canna’s medallion that saved me from death in Rotengre—but I’m a soldier. Why didn’t Gird save the slave, or the baby? Why did they have to die?” Now more scenes from Aarenis recurred: the child in Cha, the frightened rabble in Sibili, Cal Halveric’s drawn face, old Harek dying after torture. And worse things, from the coastal campaign. She set her jaw, feeling once more that old sickness and revulsion, that helpless rage at injustice, that had driven her from the Duke’s Company to travel alone.
The Training Master nodded slowly; she could see nothing mocking in his face. “Indeed, Paksenarrion, you ask hard questions. Let me answer the easiest one first. You ask why Gird did not save his own yeoman, and the answer to that is that Girdsmen are called to save others, not be saved.” He held up his hand to stop the questions that leaped into her mouth. “No—listen a moment. Of this I am sure, both from the archives and from my own knowledge. Gird led unarmed farmers into battle with trained soldiers—do you think they won their freedom without loss? Of course not. Even the yeomen of Gird—even the novice members of the Fellowship—have to accept a soldier’s risks. Above that level, as yeoman-marshal, Marshal, High Marshal, and so on—and as paladin—Girdsmen know that their lives are forfeit in need. Gird protects others through the Fellowship—he does not protect the Fellowship as a shepherd protects sheep. We are all his shepherds, you might say.”
Paks thought about that. “But Canna—”
“Was your friend, and you mourn her. That is good. But as a yeoman of Gird, she risked and gave her life to save others—or that’s what it sounds like you’re saying.”
“It’s true.”
“Now—about those innocents who are not Girdsmen, and are killed. This is why the Fellowship of Gird trains every yeoman—to prevent just that. But in many lands we are few—our influence is small—”
“But why can’t Gird do it himself, if he’s—”
“Paksenarrion, you might as well ask why it snows in winter. I did not make the world, or men, or elves, or the sounds the harp makes when you pluck the strings. All I know is that the High Lord expects all his creatures to choose good over evil; he has given us heroes to show the way, and Gird is one of these. Gird has shown men how to fight and work for justice in the face of oppression: that was his genius. It is not the only genius, nor dare I say it is the best; only the High Lord can judge rightly. But as followers of Gird, we try to act as he did. Sometimes we receive additional aid. Why it comes one time and not another, or why it comes to one Marshal and not another, I cannot say. Nor can you. Nor will you ever know, Paksenarrion, until you pass beyond death to the High Lord’s table, if that happens.” He gave her a long look. “And I think that you blame Gird because you are still blaming yourself for these deaths. Is that not so?”
Paks looked down. She could still hear Canna’s voice, that last yelclass="underline" “Run, Paks!” And she had run. She could still hear the others. “It might be,” she said finally.
“Paksenarrion, Gird does not kill the helpless—someone alive, with a sword or club or stone, does that. If you still think, after the time you have been here, that the followers of Gird act that way—”
“No, sir!”
“—then you should leave at once. But if you see us trying to teach men and women how to live justly together, and defend their friends and families against the misuse of force, then consider if that is not your aim as well. Gird may ask your life, someday, but Gird will never ask you to betray a friend, or injure a helpless child. Consider the acts of your Girdish friend, and not her death, and ask yourself if these were good or bad.”
“Good,” said Paks at once. “Canna was always generous.”
“And so you are rejecting Gird because he has not acted as you would—is that it?”
Paks had not thought that clearly about it. Put that way it seemed arrogant, to say the least. “Well—I suppose I was.”
“You are not rejecting his principles, it seems, but the fact that they aren’t carried out?”
Paks nodded slowly, still thinking.
“Then it seems, Paksenarrion, that you ought to be willing to try to carry them out.” His mouth quirked in a smile. “If the rest of us are doing so badly.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“I thought you just did. However—” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “If you don’t think we are too corrupt, perhaps you will give us the benefit of your judgment—”
“Sir!” Paks felt her eyes sting; her head was whirling already.