“You crossed blades with a priest of Liart, child. That should have been the death of you. It shattered your blade, burned your hand—Fenith could scarcely believe it when he saw you kick at the priest after that. It was bravely done, but foolish, to take on such a foe—and amazing that you survived it.”
As he spoke, Paks saw a shadowy version of these things in her mind—not yet a memory, but the stirrings of what might become one. “Was there—someone in a red and black tunic, and a helmet with spikes—?”
“Yes. Are you remembering?”
“Not exactly. It’s not clear at all. Why should their blades burn my hand?”
“Because his weapon was no ordinary axe.”
“You mean magical?” She thought of Dorrin’s sword.
“If you call a curse magic.” The High Marshal frowned. “Do you know whose priests those were?”
“No… I’d never seen anything like them.”
“I should hope not. The Master of Torments, or Liart, is an evil deity not worshipped openly in lands where the Fellowship of Gird has any influence. His priests carry weapons of great power. Evil power. No ordinary weapon can turn their strokes; unless a warrior has uncommon aid or protection he dies. Liart desires the fear of those he controls. He delights in causing strife, in murders and massacres, in bloodlust and torture. His weapons cause pain as well as death, and slavery thrives in his dominion.” He smiled at her for a moment. “So you see why I am so interested in your symbol of Gird. I would not expect such a symbol alone to protect an ordinary wearer—even a Girdsman—from certain death. But I cannot think what else saved you—and something surely did. Are you under another deity’s protection?”
“No, sir. Not that I know of. I—we—where I grew up, we followed the High Lord—the old gods. I’d never heard of Gird until I joined the Company.”
“I see. Was that in the north?”
“Yes, sir. Far north—a village called Three Firs.”
“Which kingdom is it in?”
“I don’t know, exactly—it’s some way north and west of the Duke’s stronghold.”
“Fintha, or the borders of it. If you never heard of Gird, you heard heroes’ tales enough, I’ll warrant.”
“Yes, sir. Many of them: Torre’s Ride, and the Song of Seliast, and the Deed of Cullen Long-arm.”
“Ah, yes. Was it those songs made you decide to be a warrior?”
Paks blushed and looked away. “Well—in a way—when I was very small. I—I did dream about it, the magic swords and winged horses, and all. But then my cousin became a soldier. When he came back he had tales to tell, and he told me the best way would be to join the mercenaries, the good ones. He told me what to look for—not to join any wild band, but an honorable company. The others, he said, were full of thieves and bullies, and cared only for gold.”
“And that mattered to you? That your companions should be honest and fair?”
“Of course.” Paks stared at him in surprise.
“And have you found them so, in this company?” He was looking down at his hands, not at her.
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t exactly what I expected, but—surely no one could ask better companions. And it is an honorable company; the Duke keeps it so.”
“How was it not what you expected?”
“Oh—” Paks grinned sheepishly. “I hadn’t known about the camp work—cooking, cleaning, digging, all that. Jornoth left that out. Then I had thought I’d be fighting robbers and evil things—even orcs, maybe—as in the tales. But most of our fighting is against other mercenaries or militia—whoever we’re hired to fight. This year’s different, of course.”
The Marshal nodded. “And would you feel better if you were fighting for such a purpose all the time?”
Paks thought about it. “I don’t know. I like to fight—the Duke is very good, and fair. I’m glad to serve him. It’s hard to imagine anything else. And this year, we’re fighting a great evil. I like that. Siniava killed my friends last year, and tortured, too.”
“Yes, this campaign is clearly one of good against evil, and that suits you. But ordinarily—?”
She frowned, choosing her words. “Sir, I—I serve our Duke. That was my oath, when I joined. He is worthy of my service; he has never asked any dishonorable thing. I have no right to question—judge—the contracts he takes.”
The High Marshal looked at her thoughtfully. “I see. Yes, your Duke is a good man; I won’t argue that. And you are loyal, which is good. But something is moving you, which I do not understand, and I think you hardly realize. You may be called to leave your Duke, at least for a time. If so, I hope you will understand the need. Now I can see that you are tiring, and need your rest. Would you like anything to eat, or just more water?”
Paks was puzzling her way through what the High Marshal said; his final question caught her by surprise. “No sir,” she said. “Just—just water, if it’s near.”
He chuckled. “Your surgeon left a bottle here. Can you manage?” He passed it, and this time nothing happened when she lifted her head to drink. The water was cold; she shivered as she drank. The Marshal rose and brought another blanket from the pile. “Rest now,” he said. “I would like to speak to you again, if you don’t mind—” She shook her head. “Good. May Gird’s care be with you.” He moved away; Paks stared, still confused.
Chapter Twenty-six
When the sentry ushered the High Marshal into the tent, Duke Phelan and his senior captains were seated around his map table in conference. They looked up. Dorrin smiled, but the rest looked wary.
“I wanted to thank you, my lord, for permission to talk with Paksenarrion.”
“Have a seat,” offered the Duke. “Did you find out what you wanted?”
The High Marshal gathered his robes and sat down. “Not precisely, my lord. She is still dazed, and does not remember anything of the fighting. I did not wish to tire her. But what I learned confirmed my opinion that something is happening to her—and now I am reassured that it is more likely good than evil.”
“Evil!” Arcolin straightened and looked angry. “Were you thinking that Paks was evil? Why, she’s the best—”
“Enough.” The Duke’s voice was calm, but his eyes were flinty. “The High Marshal will no doubt explain himself.”
“Gladly. I had no wish to anger you, Captain, or to insult your soldier. All I had heard of Paksenarrion before I saw her was good. But one reason why a blow from such a weapon of evil might not kill is that the person hit is a servant of that same deity. If—”
“Not Paksenarrion!” interrupted Arcolin.
“No. I agree. But I had to be sure; I had to see her myself. Even with what you and others had said of her service last year. There have been a few cases of Gird’s symbol being worn as a mockery by those who hate him. And there are more cases of evil pretending to be good, for a long purpose.”
“I’d have thought,” said the Duke, pouring another mug of wine, and passing it to the High Marshal, “that you could have told that yesterday, when you found the medallion. Or—what’s his name? Fenith?—the paladin. Don’t paladins claim to know good from evil?”
“Yes, my lord, but only if the being is aware, which she was not.” He took a sip of wine and sighed. “And I’ll say again—we did not think it likely that she served evil knowingly, not in this Company, not when a Girdsman had left her the medallion. But we had to know. That leaves us, however, with the same puzzle. If she were Girdish, and his symbol saved her life, it would mean she had received special aid from Gird. We would consider that such a one might have a call from Gird himself—should go to Fin Panir, say, and train as a Marshal or paladin. But she is not Girdish; she has never considered becoming Girdish.” He paused, and a smile moved his face. “In fact, she had quite—primitive, I suppose I’d say—ideas about Gird. The recruit she met—Effa, I think she said—who told her about Gird, seems to have been highly enthusiastic and quite ignorant.”