DIVIDED ALLEGIANCEPrologue
Long ago, before the elder folk were driven from the lands south of the 
Hakkenarsk, the elves who dwelt in those heights had found a valley more lovely 
than any other. The shape of its rock and the clarity of its water brought joy 
to all who saw it. There for a time the elves lived, and built as they rarely 
build, while the greatest among them sang to the taig of that place, and wakened 
it to its own power. Over long years they shaped it, singing one song of beauty 
after another, and the taig responded, willing itself to flourish as the elves 
suggested. Very dear was this valley to all who could sense the taigin, both 
elder and younger folk, and it was known as the elfane taig, the holy place and 
living banner of the elves and their powers.
Then troubles came: the tales are lost that tell who brought them, or how those 
who fled sought refuge far away. Even to the elfane taig the evil came, and the 
elves fled, driven out by a power they could not resist for all their songs. The 
taig remained, crippled in its resistance to that evil by corruption placed at 
its heart, no longer truly elfane but banast, or wounded. Most of its great 
strength was spent in containing that corruption. The taig could not attack the 
embodied evil without loosing the worse danger, the periapt which would leave it 
permanently defiled.
Few travelers went that way at first, for its hazards were well known. The 
elves, when they were asked, warned all. No dwarf would venture so near the 
Ladysforest, and humans, for the most part, preferred the easier pass at 
Valdaire, or the shorter one over Dwarfwatch. So for long years the contending 
powers in the valley had only each other to feed on. A stray ore here, a 
wolfpack there—these nourished the conflict ill. And of the travelers that 
passed, not all were apt for use. Some, when the visions came, woke quickly and 
fled, leaving packs and animals behind. Others, greedy for treasure, stormed 
into the ruins without sense, and fell to the first of the traps and creatures, 
ending as servants of evil, or its food.
But ages passed, and time dulled human memories, and ever the contending powers 
sought lives and souls to serve them, to war in their long and bitter strife. As 
elven influence waned hi Lyonya, the nearest settled land, few asked elves for 
advice; fewer still obeyed. Bold explorers, half brigand, wandered the northern 
slopes. From time to time an entire band disappeared below the valley's ruins, 
to live in the eternal light of the old halls, and fight for whichever power 
could enchant each separate soul. There they died, for none came alive from the 
banast taig. So the treasure accumulated, over the years: most of it the 
weaponry and armor of wandering mercenaries or brigands, but also odd bits of 
magical equipment, scholars scrolls—whatever a lost traveler might be carrying.
Then two more travelers entered the valley.
Chapter One
When all Siniava's troops had been marched away under guard, most of the Phelani 
assumed they'd be going back to Valdaire—even, perhaps, to the north again. Some 
were already making plans for spending their share of the loot. Others looked 
forward to time to rest and recover from wounds. They were more than a little 
surprised, then, to be marched south, along the Immer, in company with Alured's 
men, the Halverics, and several cohorts of the Duke of Fall's army. These last 
looked fresh as new paint, hardly having fought at all, except to turn Siniava 
away from Fallo.
"I don't understand it," muttered Ken to Paks as they marched. "I thought we 
were through—Siniava's dead. What more?"
Paks shook her head. "Maybe the Duke has a contract."
"Contract! Tir's bones, it'll take us the rest of the season just to get back to 
Valdaire. Why do we need a contract?"
"Have you ever seen the sea?" asked Seli.
"No—why?"
"Well, that's reason enough to go south. I've seen it—you'll be impressed."
"What is it like?" asked Paks.
"I don't think anyone can tell you. You have to see it. I've heard the cliffs 
are tower here, at the Immer's mouth, than at Confaer, where I was. But even 
so—"
As they marched south beyond the forest, the river beside them widened. They 
passed through a few small towns and villages. Alured stationed some of his 
troops in each of these. Word trickled down from the captains that Alured was 
claiming the title of Duke of Immer. This meant nothing to Paks or the younger 
soldiers, but Stammel knew that the title had been extinct for several hundred 
years, since the fell of the old kingdom of Aare across the sea.
"I'm surprised that the Duke of Fall and the other nobles are accepting it," he 
said one night.
"That was the price of his help this year," said Vossik. All the sergeants were 
gathered around one fire for an hour or so. "I heard talk in Fallo's cohorts 
about it. If the Fallo, Andressat, and Cilwan would uphold his claim—and our 
Duke, of course—then he'd turn on Siniava."
"But why would they, even so?"
"It's an odd story," said Vossik, obviously ready to tell it.
"Go on, Voss, don't make us beg," growled StammeL
"Well, it's only what I heard, after all: I don't know whether those Fallo 
troops know the truth, or if they're telling it, but here it is. It seems that 
Alured used to be a pirate on the Immerhoft—"
"We knew that—"
"Yes, but that's the beginning. He'd captured another ship, and was about to 
throw the prisoners over, the way pirates do—"
"Into the water?" asked Paks.
Someone laughed. Vossik turned to her. "Pirates don't want a mess on their 
ships—so they usually do throw prisoners overboard—"
"But don't they swim or wade to shore?" asked ^Natzlin.
"They can't. It's too for, and the water is deep."
"I can swim a long way—" said Barra.
"Not that far. Tir's gut, Barra, you haven't seen the sea yet. It could be a 
day's march from shore, the ship, when they toss someone out." Vossik took a 
long swallow of sib and went on. "Anyway, one of the prisoners was a mage—or 
said he was. He started calling to Alured, telling him he should be a prince by 
rights."
"I'd have thought Alured wouldn't listen to prisoners' yells," said Stammel. "He 
doesn't look the type.
"No," agreed Vossik. "He doesn't. But it seems he'd had some sort of tale from 
his father—about being born of good blood, or whatever. So he had the man 
brought to him, and the mage told him a long tale about his ancestors. How he 
was really heir to a vast kingdom, and was wasting his time as a pirate."
"He believed that?" Haben snorted and reached his own mug into the sib. "I'd 
heard pirates were superstitious, but—"
"Well, the man offered proof. Said he'd seen scrolls in old Aare that proved it. 
Offered to take Alured there, and prove his right to the kingdom."
"To Aare? That heap of sand?"
How do you know, Devlin? You haven't been there."
"No, but I've heard. No one's ever said anything was left in Aare but ruins."
"That's what the mage told Alured—that he'd been in the ruins, and could find 
the proof of Alured's ancestry."
"It seems to me," said Erial, "that it's extra trouble to hunt up ancestors like 
that. What difference does it make anyway? Our Duke's got his steading without 
dragging in hundreds of fathers and fathers' fathers."
"Or mothers," muttered Barra.
"You know they're different here in Aarenis," said Stammel. "Think of 
Andressat."
"That stuffed owl," said Barra.
"No—don't be that way, Barra. He's a good fighter, and a damn good count for 
Andressat. Most other men would have lost Andressat to Siniava years ago. He's 
proud of his ancestors—true—but he's someone they could be proud of as well."
"But go on about Alured, Voss," said Stammel. "What happened?"
"As I said, he already had some idea that he was nobly bred. So he listened to 
this fellow, and sailed back to old Aare with him. Then—now remember, I got this 
from the Fallo troops; I don't say it's true—then the mage showed him the proof. 
They say that Alured believed it—an old scroll, showing the marriages, and such, 
and proving that he was in direct descent from that Duke of Immer who was called 
back to Aare in the troubles."
"But Vossik, it wouldn't take much—any decent mage could fake something like 
that!" Erial looked around at the others; some of them nodded.
"I didn't say I believed it, Erial. But Alured did. It fitted what he wanted, 
let's say. If Aare had been worth anything, it would have meant the throne of 
Aare—if it was true. It certainly meant the lands of Immer."
"And so he left the sea, and settled into the forest to be a land pirate? How 
was that being a duke?"
"Well—again—this is hearsay. Seems he came to the Immer ports first, and tried 
to get mem to swear allegiance—"
"But he'd been a pirate!"
"Yes, I know. He wasn't thinking clearly, perhaps. Then he hired a lot of local 
toughs, dressed them in the old colors of Immer, and tried to parley with the 
Duke of Fall."
"Huh. And came out with a whole skin?"
"He wasn't stupid enough to put it in jeopardy—this took place on the borders of 
Fallo. The Duke reacted as you might expect, but—well—he didn't much care what 
happened in the southern forest, as long as it didn't bother him. And, so his 
men say, he's longsighted—won't make an enemy unnecessarily."
"But what about Siniava?"
"Well, Alured wasn't being accepted as Duke of Immer any more than Siniava was 
accepted as Count of the South Marches. Now this bit I got from one of Alured's 
men. Siniava promised Alured the dukedom if he'd break up the Immer River 
shipping, and protect Siniava's movements in the area. Thats why no one could 
trace him after Rotengre."
"Yes, but—"
"But a couple of things happened. First, Andressat. Andressat didn't accept 
Alured's claim, but he was polite: read the scroll, said he could understand 
Alured's feelings, but pushed the decision off on the Duke of Fall. He let 
Alured look at his archives, and said if Fallo was ever convinced, he'd back 
him. So when Siniava tried to get Alured to move on Andressat's flank, he 
wouldn't. Then the wood-wanderers: you remember that old man we met in Kodaly, 
that time?' Stammel nodded. "Alured had befriended them when he moved into the 
forest, so they were on his side. Same time, our Duke had befriended them for 
years in the north, and northern Aarenis. From that, our Duke knew what Alured 
wanted. And he knew what Fallo wanted, which was to marry into a northern 
kingdom—and he knew that Sofi Ganarrion had a marriageable child—"
"But Soft's not a king—"
"Yet. Remember what he's always said. And with Fallo behind him—"
"Gods above! You mean—"
"Somehow our Duke and the Halveric convinced the Duke of Fall that Alured's help 
in this campaign was worth that much to him. So the Duke of Fall agreed to back 
Alured's claim, and Andressat fell into line, and we got passage through the 
forest and Siniava didn't."
Paks shivered. She had never thought of the maneuvering that occurred off the 
battlefield. "But is Alured really the Duke of Immer?"
Vossik shrugged. "He has the title. He will be ruling. What else?"
"But if he's not really—by blood, I mean—"
"I don't see that it matters. He'll be better as a duke than a pirate: he'll 
have to govern, expand trade, stop robbing—"
"Will he?" Haben looked around the whole group before going on. "I wouldn't 
think, myself, that a pirate-turned-brigand would make a very good duke. >Vhat's 
the difference between taxes and robbery, if it comes to that?"
"He's not stupid, Haben." Vossik looked worried. "It will have to be better than 
Siniava—"
"That's my point. Siniava claimed a title—claimed to be governing his lands—but 
we all saw what that meant in
Cha and Sibili. He didn't cut off trade entirely, as Alured has done on the 
Immer, no—but would any of us want to live under someone like him? I remember 
the faces in those cities, if you don't."
"But he fought Siniava—"
"Yes—at the end. For a good reward, too. I'm not saying he's all bad, Vossik; I 
don't know. But so far he's done what any mercenary might—gone where the gold 
is. How will he govern? A man who thinks he's nobly born, and has been cheated 
of his birthright—what will he do when we reach the Immer ports?"
They found out at Immerdzan, where the Immer widened abruptly into a bay. It 
sheltered four ports: Immerdzan and Aliuna, across the river from each other, 
Ka-Immer, seaward of Immerdzan, and Seafang, high on the last rocky point of the 
bay on Aliuna's side. Seafang alone had not been controlled by Siniava in the 
past few years; it was more a pirates' lair than a port anyway. But Immerdzan, 
Ka-Immer, and Aliuna had been governed by Siniava's minions.
Immerdzan required no formal assault. It had never been fortified on the land 
side, beyond a wall hardly more than man-high with the simplest of gates. The 
army marched in without meeting any resistance. The streets were crowded and 
dirty; the air stank of things Paks had never smelled before. Paks got her first 
look at the bay, here roiled and murky from the Immer's output. The shore was 
cluttered with piers and wharves, with half-rotted pilings, the skeletons of 
boats, boats sinking, boats floating, new boats, spars, shreds of sail, nets 
hung from every available pole, and festooned on the houses. She saw small naked 
children, skinny as goats, diving and swimming around the boats. Most of them 
wore their hair in a single short braid, tied with bright bits of cloth.
Beyond the near-shore clutter, the bay lay wide and nearly empty under the hot 
afternoon sun. A few boats slid before the wind, their great triangular sails 
curved like wings. Paks stared at them, fascinated. One changed direction as she 
watched, the dark line of the hull shortening and lengthening again, now facing 
another way. Far in the distance she could see the high ground beyond the bay, 
and southward the water turned green, then blue, as the Immer's water merged 
with the open sea.
Around the Duke's troops, a noisy crowd had gathered—squabbling, it seemed to 
Paks, in a language high-pitched and irritable. Children dashed back and forth, 
some still sleek and wet from the water, others grimy. Barefoot men in short 
trousers, their hair in a longer single braid, clustered around the boats; women 
in bright short skirts and striped stockings hung out of windows and crowded the 
doorways. One of Alured's captains called in the local language, and a sudden 
silence fell. Paks heard the water behind her, sucking and mumbling at the 
pilings, slurping. She shivered, wondering if the sea had a spirit. Did it 
hunger?
Alured's captain began reading from a scroll in his hand. Paks looked for 
ArcoTin and watched his face; surely he knew what was going on. He had no 
expression she could read. Now the announcement, whatever it was, was finished: 
Alured's captain spoke to the Duke, saluted, and mounted to ride away. The crowd 
was silent. When he rounded the corner, a low murmur passed through them. One 
man shouted, hoarsely. Paks looked for him, and saw two younger men shoving a 
graybearded one back. Another man near them called in accented Common:
"Who ofyou speaks to us?"
"I, do." The Duke's voice was calm as ever.
"You—you are pirates?"
"No. What do you mean?"
"That—that man—he says is now our duke—he is a pirate. You are his men—you are 
pirates."
"No." The Duke shook his head. Paks saw Arcolin give the others a hand signal, 
saw the signal passed from captains to sergeants. It was unneeded; they were all 
alert anyway. "We are his allies, not his men. He fought with us upriver—against 
Siniava."
'THiat filth! The man spat. "Who are you, then, if you fight Siniava but also 
with pirates?"
"Duke Phelan, of Tsaia.'
"Tsaia? That's over the Dwarfmounts, all the way north! What do you here?"
"I have a mercenary company, that fights in Aarenis. Siniava—" The Duke's voice 
thinned, but he did not go on, "We fought Siniava," he said finally. "He is 
dead. Alured of the forest has been- granted the Duchy of Immer, and as he aided 
us, so I am now aiding him."
"He is no duke!" yelled the man. "I don't know you—I heard something maybe, but 
I don't know you. But that Alured—he is nothing but pirate, and pirate he will 
be. Siniava was bad, Barrandowea. knows that, but Alured! He killed my uncle, 
years back, out there in the bay, him and his filthy ship!"
"No matter," said the Duke. "He is the Duke of Immer now, and he rules this 
land—including this city. I am here to keep order until his own officers take 
over."
The man spat again, and turned away. The Duke said nothing more to the crowd, 
but set the cohorts on guard along the waterfront, and had patrols in the 
streets leading to and from their area. All was quiet enough, that first day. 
Paks felt herself lucky to be stationed on the seawall. She could look down at 
the boats, swaying on the waves, and catch a breath of the light wind that blew 
off the water. Strange birds, gray and white with black-capped heads, and large 
red bills, hovered over the water, diving and lifting again.
It was the next day that the executions began. Paks heard the yells from the 
other side of the city, but before they could get excited, the captains 
explained what was going on.
"The Duke of Fall and the Duke of Immer are executing Siniava's agents." 
Arcolin's face was closed. "We are to keep order here, in case of rioting—but we 
don't expect any." In fact, nothing happened in their quarter. The men and women 
went about their work without looking at the soldiers, and the children 
scampered in and out of the water freely. But the noise from across the city did 
not quiet down, and in the evening Cracolnya's cohort was pulled out to join the 
Halverics in calming the disturbance. They returned in the morning, tired and 
grim; Paks did not hear the details until much later. But the Duke's Company 
marched out of Immerdzan the following day, and the bodies hung on the wall were 
eloquent enough.
In Ka-Immer, the word had arrived before they did. The gates were closed. With 
no trained troops for defense, and only the low walls, the assault lasted only a 
few hours. This time the entire population was herded into the market square 
next to the seawall. While the Halverics and Phelani guarded them, Alured's men 
searched the streets, house by house, bringing more and more to stand with the 
others. When they were done, Alured himself rode to die edge of the square. He 
pointed at a man among the others. His soldiers seized him, and dragged him out 
of the mob. Then two more, and another. Someone yelled, from across the square, 
and a squad of Alured's men shoved into the crowd, flailing them aside, to seize 
him as well. The first man had thrown himself down before Alured, sobbing. 
Alured shook his head, pointed. All of them were dragged to a rough framework of 
spars which Alured's troops had lashed together.
A ripple of sound ran through the crowd; die people crammed back against each 
other, the rear ranks backing almost into Pak's squad. She and the others linked 
shields, holding firm. She could hardly see over the crowd. Then the first of 
the men lifted into sight, stretched on ropes slung over the framework. Paks 
stiffened; her belly clenched. Another. Another. Soon they hung in a row, one by 
the feet and the others by their arms. Alured's men petted them with mud, 
stones, fish from the market. One of diem hung limp, another screamed thinly. 
Paks looked away, gulped back nausea. When her eyes slid sideways, they met 
Keri's, equally miserable. She did not see the end, when Alured himself ran a 
spear into each man. She felt, through the movement of the crowd, that an end 
had come, and looked up to see die bodies being lowered.
But it was not the end. Alured spoke, in diat strange language, gesturing 
fiercely. The crowd was still, unmov-tng; Paks could smell the fear and hatred 
of those nearest her. He finished with a question: Paks recognized die tone of 
voice, the outflung arm, the pause, waiting for an answer. It came as a dead 
fish, flung from somewhere in the crowd, that came near to its mark. His face 
darkened. Paks could not hear what he said, but his own soldiers fanned out 
again, coming at the crowd.
Before they reached it, the crowd erupted into sound and action. Jammed as they 
were against a thin line of Phelani and Halverics holding the three landward 
sides of the market, they somehow managed to turn and move at once. PaksJs squad 
was forced back, by that immense pressure. They could hear nothing but the 
screams and bellows of the crowd; they had been ordered to guard, not attack. 
But they were being overwhelmed. Most of the people had no weapons; their weapon 
was simply numbers. Like Paks, they were reluctant to strike unarmed men and 
women—but equally, they did not want to be overrun.
Behind, in the streets that led to the market, Paks could hear other troops 
coming, and shouted commands that were but pebbles of noise against the stone 
wall around them. She tried to stay in contact with the others, tried to fend 
off the crowd with the flat of her sword, but the pressure was against them all. 
A man grabbed at her weapon, screaming at her; she raised it, and he hit her, 
hard, under the arm. Almost in reflex, Paks thrust, running the sword into his 
body. He fell under a storm of feet, that kept coming at her. She fended them 
off as best she could, pressing close to the rest of the squad as they tried to 
keep together and keep on their feet.
A gap opened between them and the next squad; the crowd poured through, still 
bellowing. Paks was slammed back into the building behind her; she could feel 
something—a window ledge, she supposed—sticking into her back. Faces heaved in 
front of her, all screaming; hands waved, grabbed at her weapon. She fought them 
off, panting. She had no time to look for Stammel or Arcolin; she could hear 
nothing now but the crowd. They had broken through the ring in many places, now, 
and streamed away from the market, lurching and falling in their panic. A child 
stumbled into her and fell, grabbing at her tunic as he went down, screaming 
shrilly. Paks had no hand to spare for him, and he disappeared under the 
hurrying feet.
By the time she could move again, most of the crowd was gone. She could see 
Alured riding behind his soldiers as they tried to stop those in the rear. She 
finally saw Arcolin, and then Stammel, beyond the tossing heads. Then she could 
hear them. The cohort reformed, joined the others, and was sent in pursuit of 
the fugitives. But by sundown, barely a fifth had been retaken, mostly women and 
children too weak to run far, or too frightened. Paks, still shaken by the 
morning's events, was upset still more by the treatment of those she helped 
recapture. Alured was determined that none of Siniava's sympathizers would 
survive, and that all would acknowledge his rank and rule. To this end, he 
intended, as he explained to Phelan in front of the troops, to frighten the 
citizens into submission.
Paks expected the Duke to argue, but he said nothing. He had hardly seemed to 
smile since Siniava's death, and since reaching the coast had spent hours 
looking seaward. She did not know—none of them knew—what was troubling him. But 
more and more Paks felt that she could not live with what was troubling her. The 
looks of fear and loathing turned on them—the muttered insults, clear enough 
even in a foreign tongue—the contempt of Alured's troops, when the Phelani would 
not join them in "play," which to them meant tormenting some poor citizen—all 
this seemed to curdle her belly until she could hardly eat, and slept but 
little, waking from troubled dreams.
Paks tried to smother these feelings. She had spoken out once—that was enough 
for any private. As long as she wore the Duke's colors, she owed him obedience. 
He had done a lot for her, had honored her more than most. Surely the Duke's 
service was worth a little discomfort, even this unease. When they marched out 
of Ka-Immer, leaving a garrison of Alured's men behind, Paks tried to tell 
herself the worst was over. But it wasn't. In town after town, along the 
Immerhoft coast, the same scenes were played. Alured, it seemed, knew of 
Siniava's agents in every one. Or they refused his lordship, remembering him as 
a pirate, and he had to enforce his will. The mercenaries did not participate in 
the executions and tortures, but without them Alured lacked the troops to force 
so many towns.
None of them knew how long it would last—r-where the Duke was planning to stop. 
Surely he would, they thought. Any day he would turn back, would march to 
Valdaire. But he said nothing, staring south across the blue endless water. 
Uneasiness ran through the Company like mice through a whiter attic.
Paks thought no one had noticed her in particular until Stammel came to her 
guardpost one night. He stood near her, unspeaking, for a few minutes. Paks 
wondered what he wanted. Then he sighed, and took off his helmet, rumpling up 
his hair.
"I don't need to ask what's wrong with you," he began. "But something has to be 
done."
Paks could think of nothing to say.
"You aren't eating enough for someone half your size. You'll be no good to any 
of us if you fell sick—"
"I'm fine—" began Paks, but he interrupted.
"No, you're not fine, and neither am I. But I'm keeping my food down, and 
sleeping nights, which is more than you're doing. And I don't want to lose a 
good veteran in all this. We don't have that many."
Paks nodded slowly. "So many of us. aren't—aren't really the Company."
"Yes—all those new people we've picked up here and there. They aren't the same." 
Stammel paused again. He put his helmet back on, and rubbed his nose. "I don't 
know tf they ever will be—if we ever will be—what we were." His voice trailed 
away.
"I keep—keep seeing—" Paks could not go on.
"Paks, you—' Stammel cleared his throat. "You shouldn't be in this."
She was startled enough to make a choked sound, as if she'd been hit. 
"What-^why—"
"You don't." His voice gathered firmness as he went on. "By Tir, I can't stand 
by and see you fell apart. Not for this. You've served the Duke as well as 
anyone could. D'you think he doesn't know it? Or I?" Now he sounded almost 
angry. "You don't belong here, in this kind of fighting. That Marshal was right; 
even the Duke said you might be meant for better things." He stopped again, and 
his voice was calmer when he resumed. "I think you should leave, Paks."
"Leave the Company?" Despite the shock, she felt a sudden wash of relief at the 
thought of being out of it.
"Yes. That's what I came to say. Tir knows this is hard enough on me—and I'm 
older, and—But you leave, Paks. Go back north. Go home, maybe, or see if you can 
take knight's training somewhere. Don't stay in this until you can'tstand 
yourself, or the Duke either."
"But I—how can I ask—I can't go to him—"
Stammel nodded forcefully. "Yes, you can. Tell Arcolin. The captain'll 
understand—he knows you. Hell tell the Duke—or you can. They'll recommend you 
somewhere, I'm sure of it."
"But to leave the Duke—"
"Paks, I've got nothing to say against him. You know that. He's been my lord 
since I started; I will follow him anywhere. But—you stopped him once, when 
he—he might have made a mistake. Maybe—if you leave, maybe hell look again—"
Paks was speechless, faced again with the decision she thought she'd settled in 
Cortes Immer. How could she leave the Company, how could she return to the 
nQrth, alone? It was closer to her now than .family, more familiar than the 
rooms of the house where she'd been born.
"Paks, I'm serious. You can't go on the way you have been. Others have noticed 
already; more will. Get out of this while you still can. Will you?"
"I—I'll have to think—"
"Tonight. We'll be in Sord tomorrow—more of the same, I don't doubt."
Paks found that her eyes were full of tears. She choked down a sob. Stammel 
gripped her shoulder. "That's what I mean, Paks. You can't keep fighting 
yourself, as well as an enemy. Tir knows I know you're brave—but no one can 
fight inside and outside both at once."
"I gave my word," she whispered.
"Yes. You did. And you've already served your term, and more. You've seen 
Siniava die, which ends that oath, to my mind. I don't think you're running 
out—and I don't think Arcolin or the Duke will, either. Will you talk to them?"
Paks stared up at the dark sky spangled with stars. Torre's Necklace was just 
rising out of the distant sea. She thought of the distant past, when she had 
dreamed of being a soldier and seeing far places, and of the last town they had 
been through. "I—can't—go into another—"
"No. I agree."
"But it's too late. It—"
His voice was gentle. "Would you if it weren't so late?''
"Oh, I—I don't know. Yes. If the Duke would let me—"
"He will," said Stammel. "Or I don't know Duke Phelan, and I think I do." He 
called back toward the lines for one of the newcomers. "He'll take your place. 
Come on. If I know you, you'll convince yourself by morning that you owe it to 
the Duke to work yourself blind, deaf, and crazy."
The following hour was not as difficult as Paks had feared. Four of the captains 
had been talking in Arcolin's tent; the others melted away when Stammel asked 
Arcolin for a few minutes of conference. Arcolin himself looked at Paks 
steadily, but with no anger or disappointment.
"I had been thinking," he said, "that you were overdue for leave. And this isn't 
your land of fighting—mine, either, for that. But yes, if you want either leave, 
or to quit the Company entirely, you have the right to do so. I would hate to 
see you leave us for good; you've done well, and I know Duke Phelan is pleased 
with you. Would you consider a year's leave, with the right to return?"
Paks nodded. "Whatever you say, Captain."
"Then we'll speak to the Duke about it. I think you should come, too. He may 
wish to speak to you about your service."
The Duke also had not gone to bed. His gaze sharpened when he saw Paks behind 
Arcolin, but he waved them into his tent. Arcolin explained what Paks wanted, 
and the • Duke gave her a long look.
you displeased with my command, Paksenarrion?"
"No, my lord." She was able to say that honestly. It was not his command, but 
his alliances, that bothered her.
"I'm glad for that. You have been an honest and trustworthy soldier. I would 
hate to think I had lost your respect."
"No, my lord."
"I can see that you might well wish to leave for a while. A northern girl—a 
different way—but do you wish to leave the Company forever, or for a while?"
"I—don't know—I can't imagine living another way, but—"
"How could you? I see. Well, you perhaps should know that the Marshal we met 
outside Sibili had a discussion with my captains and me—" he glanced at Arcolin, 
who nodded. "You refused to leave, once—-perhaps this is the right time. You 
would benefit from advanced training, I think. If you decide to enter another 
service, I will be glad to recommend you. My own recommendation would be that 
you seek squire's training somewhere, or the equivalent. You're already good 
with single weapons—learn horsemanship as well, and you might qualify for 
knight's training." He stopped, and looked at Arcolin. "She'll need maps for the 
journey north; I suppose you've already arranged about pay and settlements—"
"Not yet, my lord. She came just this evening."
"Well, then. You might stay with the Company, Paksenarrion, until you have 
decided how you will travel. The state Aarenis is in, going alone would not be 
wise. If you can find a caravan—you could hire on as a guard—that might work. 
Ill be sending someone back to Valdaire a little later, if you wanted to wait—" 
There was more of this discussion, but none of what Paks had feared. The Duke 
seemed more tired than anything else, a little distracted, though kind. She 
shook his hand, and returned to the cohort area with Arcohn, a little let-down 
at how easy it had been.
Stammel was waiting. "You go on to bed. Tomorrow—"
"But tomorrow is Sord—"
"No. That's the day after. And you won't march with us. I'll have something for 
you to do."
"But—"           
"Don't argue with me! I'm still your sergeant! By the time you get into Sord, 
you'll be free of all this. Now get over there and go to sleep."
To her surprise, Paks slept all night without waking.
Chapter Two
"From Duke Phelan's Company, eh?" Paksenarrion nodded. The guard captain was a 
burly dark man of middle height. "Leaving the Company?"
Paks shrugged. "Going home for awhile."
"Hmm. Wagonmaster says you want to leave the caravan halfway—?"
"It's shorter."
"Mmm. Wagonmaster talked to your sergeant, didn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"It'll do, then, I suppose. Do you handle a crossbow?"
"Not well, sir. I have used a longbow, but I'm no expert."
The guard captain sighed. "Can't have everything, I suppose. Now listen to 
me—the caravan starts making up day after tomorrow, and we'll leave the day 
after that or the next, depending on how many merchants join up. I'll want you 
here by high noon day after tomorrow, ready to work. You come in drunk, and I’ll 
dock your pay. We have to watch the wagons as close in the city as on the trail. 
Don't plan on sleeping that night. Be sure to get some armor; the caravan 
doesn't supply it. I'd recommend chainmail. The brigands we'll run into along 
the coast use powerful bows. That leather you're used to won't stop arrows. You 
can buy mail from us, if you want." He cocked his head at her. "Clear so far?"
"Yes, sir. Be here at noon day after tomorrow, with armor.And not drunk."
Paks flushed. "I don't get drunk."
"Everyone gets drunk. Some know when. And by the way, no bedding with the 
merchants; it's bad for discipline."
Paks bit back an angry retort. "No, sir."
"Very well. See you day after tomorrow." He waved her off. As she left the room, 
she passed two armed men in the hall outside; one of them carried a crossbow.
"I can't believe you're going." Paks had hoped to slip out quietly, but Arne, 
Vik, and other friends had found her. "What'll you do by yourself?"
"I won't be alone," she said. "I'm doing caravan work—"
"Caravan work! Tir's gut, Paks, that's—"
"Some years the Duke does some. You know that."
"Yes, but that's with us—with the Company. To go out there with strangers—"
"Arne, think. How many strangers are in the Company this year?"
"You're right about that. But still, we're—we're your friends, Paks. Since I 
came in, you've been my friend. Is it that Gird's Marshal? Are you going to join 
the Girdsmen?"
"I don't know. No, I don't think so. I'm just—" Paks stared past them, trying to 
say it. "I'm taking leave—we're all owed leave—and I might come back or I might 
not.'*
"It's not like you." Vik scowled. "If it was Barra, leaving in a temper, I could 
understand it, but you—"
"I'm leaving." Paks glared at him. "I am leaving. I have talked to Stammel and 
Arcolin and the Duke himself, and I'm leaving."
"You'll come back," said Arne. "You have to. It won't be right." Paks shook her 
head and walked quickly away.
As she was leaving the camp, one of the Duke's squires caught her. "The Duke 
wants to see you before you go." he said. She followed him to the Duke's tent. 
Inside, the Duke and Aliam Halveric were talking.
"—And I think that will—Oh, Paksenarrion. The Halveric has a request to make of 
you."
"My lord?"
"Since you are going north—I understand you are planning to cut across the 
mountains?"
"Yes, my lord."
"If you'd be willing to delay your journey home long enough to carry this scroll 
to my steading in southern Lyonya, I will pay you well. It won't be much out of 
your way if you take the eastern pass."
"I would be honored, sir." Paks took the scroll, in its protective leather case, 
and rucked it into her belt pouch.
"Come look at this map. You should come out of the mountains near here. If you 
go north, you'll come to an east-west trail that runs from southern Fintha all 
the way to Prealith. You'll find Lyonya rangers, if you're in Lyonya, or traders 
on it in Tsaia, and any of them can tell you how to find it." He pointed it out 
on the map."Tell them Aliam Halveric's, or they'll send you north to my brother 
or uncles. You don't want to go that far out of your way. When you come there, 
be sure you give it to my lady: Estil, her name is, and she's several hands 
higher than I am. Your word will come to her sooner than a courier going back up 
the Immer, I think."
"Yes, sir."
"And I can trust you, I'm sure, to tell no one of this. There are those who 
would be glad to steal that scroll, and cause trouble with it."
"No, sir, I will tell no one."
"I thank you. Will you trust my lady to pay you, or would you take it now?"
"Of course I will trust you—your lady, sir. I have not delivered it yet, though 
I swear I will."
"Phelan says you may seek work in the north; is that so?" Pals nodded. "Well, 
then, Estil may be able to help. She will do what she can, I promise you."
"Paksenarrion," said the Duke, extending his hand. "Re- member that you are 
welcome in my hall, and in my Company, at any time. May the gods be with you."
"Ward of Falk," said the Halveric. Paks left the tent half unwillingly. It was 
hard to think that she had no right here anymore. If anyone had stopped her then 
and asked her to stay, she might have changed her mind. But she saw none of her 
friends, and passed through the sentries without challenge. As she neared the 
city gates, the thought of the journey ahead drew her on.
She moved quickly through the crowded streets of Sord. Now that she was out of 
the Duke's colors, in rough brown pants and shirt with a pack on her back and a 
longsword at side, she heard no more of the catcalls that bothered her so. It 
felt very strange, being in trousers again after so long. Her legs were hot and 
prickly. The longsword, too, rode uneasily at her hip. She pushed it farther to 
the back, impatient. The pack was heavy… she had thought it was too hot to wear 
the chainmail shirt, and warm woollen clothes as well were folded into the pack. 
She cocked an eye at the sun, and strode on.
At the inn, the caravan master bustled about the court; three wagons were 
already loaded. He grunted as he saw her, and jerked his head toward the inn 
door. Paks looked and saw the guard captain there.
"Ha," he said. "You're on time." He looked her up and down critically. "Where's 
your mail?"
"In my pack, sir," said Paks.
"Best wear it," he said. "With all the confusion around here, I wouldn't trust 
leaving it anywhere. Then you can put your gear in that wagon—" he pointed. "For 
now, just patrol around the packed wagons. As soon as some of the others arrive, 
I'll organize guard shifts."
By the time they had been on the road a few days, Paks felt a little more 
comfortable with the other guards. She still did not feel like trusting them in 
a bad fight, but she found them much like other soldiers she had known. A few 
were outcasts of this company and that militia, but most were reliable and 
hard-working. Some had never been anything but caravan guards, and had no skills 
beyond aiming a crossbow. Others were well trained, and had left respectable 
military units for all sorts of unimportant reasons.
Days passed. It was hotter on the Copper Hills track than any place Paks had yet 
been; the others told her this was the hottest part of the year.
"The smart ones take the spring caravans," said one, hunkered in the shade of a 
wagon one noon.
"When there is a spring caravan."
"Yes, well, what can you expect of merchants?"
"High prices." A general laugh followed this. Paks sweltered in her chainmail 
and looked east, toward the distant line of ocean. On some of the higher ground, 
when the heat haze didn't blur it, she could see the sand and water form long, 
intricate curves. It looked cool out there. Finally she asked someone why they 
didn't travel closer to the ocean.
"Where are you from?"
"The north,' she said. "Northwest of Verella."
"Oh. That's inland, isn't it? You don't know much about the sea. Well, if we 
went closer to the sea, we'd get down in the worst country you can imagine. 
Sand—have you ever tried walking through sand?"
"I walked on a little bit of beach, between Immerdzan and—"
"No, not a beach. Dry sand—loose sand. It's—oh, blast. It's—it's worse than a 
dry plowed field." That Paks could understand, and she nodded. He went on. "So 
think about these wagons—the wheels sink in, and the mules labor. We labor. And 
then it's swamp. Sticky, wet, salt marsh. And more sand. And it's not cool—its 
beastly hot, and the water is salt, and everything stinks. Ycch."
"And don't forget the pirates," put in another of the guards.
"I was coming to that. Pirates—they call it the robber's coast, you know."
"But how do pirates live there?"
"Some people like eating crabs and clams and things. There's plenty of that 
shellfish. There are fresh-water springs here and there, so they say. A few 
miserable shacky villages. And the pirates have ships, mid can sail away."
Despite the ominous name of robber's coast, and the caravan master's 
precautions—or because of them—no Bandits showed their faces, and the caravan 
crawled steadily northward without any trouble. Paks practiced the crossbow, and 
impressed the other guards with her fencing. She, in turn, spent plenty of time 
spirting out dirt after trying unarmed combat with the others. They had rricks 
she had never seen in the Company.
Finally she saw the smudge on the horizon ahead, where the Dwarfhiounts crossed 
the line of the Copper Hills. As they came closer, she could see that they ran 
east of the present coast line, and saw the angle of shore change from sand and 
mud to rock again.
"That's the Eastbight," said a merchant, when he saw her looking. "If you sail, 
you have to get well out for the best currents."
"And where you don't ever want to go," added one of the guards, "is over there—" 
He pointed to a wide bay that lay in the angle. "That's Slaver's Bay. If there's 
a robber on the coast, there's ten in Slaver's Bay. It'd take a Company the size 
of your Duke's to keep you safe in that place."
"I've traded there," objected another merchant. The guard looked at him.
"Well," he said finally, "they must not have liked your face—or your fortune."
The caravan had reached the crossroads, and turned west for the pass through the 
Copper Hills into the Eastmarches of Aarenis. Paks began to look arher map 
again, hoping she could find the trail that led to the eastern pass of the 
Dwarfwatch. The other guards kept suggesting that she find a companion, but she 
was reluctant to ask anyone; she didn't want everyone on the caravan to know 
where she was going. Finally they took it on themselves to look.
"If you want a traveling companion, there's another that's leaving us at the 
Silver Pass."
"Oh?" Paks kept working at the crossbow mechanism. "Who is it?"
"That elf." She looked up, startled. She hadn't known there was an elf with the 
caravan. Jori grinned wickedly. "Proud as elves are, you won't have to worry 
about *im bothering you."
Paks ignored that, "What's he leaving for?" Jori's smile faded. "Oh—says he's 
going to the Ladysforest You know, the elf kingdom. But he'd be going part of 
the way with you."
"Huh." Paks set the crossbow down and stood up, stretching. "Where is he?"
"Over there." Jori cocked his chin at the group around the big fire. "Ill 
introduce you, eh?"
"Not yet. I want to see him first."
"In the gray cloak, then," said Jori. He looked to be a fingersbreadth shorter 
than she was, Paks thought, and he didn't look like the elves she had seen, but 
for something a little alien in the set of his green-gray eyes, and his graceful 
way of moving. His voice held some of the elven timbre and music.
"No, I have business in my own kingdom," he was saying to a merchant of spice.
"But don't you fear the high trails alone?" asked another. "Fear?" His voice 
mocked them and his hand dropped lightly to the golden hilt of a slender sword. 
The merchants nodded and murmured. Paks looked closely at the sword. Very 
slender—a dueller's blade, she thought. If he had not been elvish, she would 
have suspected bravado rather than confidence in that word. He was slender and 
moved lightly. She could not tell, for the strange billowing style of his tunic, 
whether his shoulders were broad enough for a practiced warrior. His hands were 
sinewy, but she saw no training scars or calluses. Was it the firelight, or did 
elves not callus? One of the merchants looked up then and noticed her.
"Ho, a guard! It's that tall wench—come to the fire, girl, and be warm." He 
waved an expansive arm. Paks grinned and stayed where she was.
"Tis warm enough here, by your leave. But 1 heard talk of the high trails, and 
came near to listen."
"What do you want with that? Are you planning to skip the caravan and go north?"
"I'd heard of several trails," said Paks. She didn't want to say exactly how 
much she knew. "And I knew someone who'd been over Dwarfwatch. But if there's a 
shorter way—"
"Oh, shorter," said another merchant. "That's with where you're going in the 
north—" He looked closely at Paks, but she didn't say anything. After a moment 
he shrugged and went on. "If you go straight across at Silver Pass, you come out 
between Prealith and Lyonya, but there's a good trail on the north side that 
will bring you west again and out near the southeast corner of Tsaia." Paks 
nodded. She felt rather than saw the elf watching her. "That trail meets the one 
crossing from Dwarfwatch; there's a cairn at the crossing, and a rock shelter. 
If you're headed for Tsaia, the distance isn't less, but you can travel fester 
alone, and the passes themselves are easier than the Dwarfwatch route. Tliat 
high one—" he broke off and shook his head.
Paks followed this with interest. "I thank you, sir," she said. "I have no great 
knowledge of mountaincraft; I had heard only that the pass was short."
The merchant laughed. "Aye—it's short enough. If you get over it. Ice in 
midsummer, and blizzards—dangerous always, and for one alone—well, were I you, 
I'd take the eastern passes, the ones we spoke of. You'll be in mountainous 
country longer, but none of it as high or as cold. Does the Wagonmaster know 
you're leaving?"
"Of course, sir!" Paks was angry, but she saw by the reactions of the others 
that no insult was meant.
"I would ask him to free you for the eastern pass," said the merchant seriously. 
"Especially since you're traveling alone."
Paks nodded and said no more. The merchants returned to their usual topics: what 
product they had found in this or that port, and how well they sold; who ruled 
what cities, and what the recent war would do to the markets.
"What I worry about," said one enormous man in a heavy yellow cloak, "is what it 
will do to the tolls. They say the Guild League spent and spent for this last 
years fighting-—they'll have to get it back somehow, and what easier than by 
raising the tolls?"
"They need us too much," said another. "And they were founded to give trade a 
chance. The Guild League won't rob us, take my word for it."
"If they do, there's the river," suggested another. "Now Alured's settled down 
to play Duke, he'll be letting us use the river again—"
"Ha! That old wolf! By Simyits, you can't believe a pirates's changed by gaining 
a title, can you? And what nave we ever got, come to that, from the noble lords 
and their kind? They want our gold, right enough, when a war's brewing, but 
after that it's—oh, those merchanters: no honor, no loyalty—tax 'em down, 
they're getting too proud." Paks found herself laughing along with the rest, 
though she, too, thought of merchanters as having no honor—like the militia of 
Vonja. It had never occurred to her before to wonder what the merchanters 
thought of anyone.
When she came off watch that night, and stopped by the guards' fire for a mug of 
sib, a cloaked figure rose across 9ie circle of light to greet her. She caught a 
flash of green from wide-set eyes.
"Ah. Paksenarrion, is it not?"
Paks stood stiffly, uncertain. "Yes. And you, sir?"
He bowed, gracefully, but with a curious mocking style. "Macenion, you may call 
me. An elf, as you see." Paks nodded, and reached for the pot of sib. "Allow 
me—" he said softly, and a tin mug rose from the stack beside the pot, dipped 
into the liquid, and rose to Paks's hand. She froze, her breath caught in her 
throat. "Go on," he said. "Take it." She looked at the mug, then her hand, then 
folded her fingers gingerly around the mug's handle. She nearly dropped it when 
it sank into her grip. She let her breath out, slowly, and sipped. It tasted 
like sib—she wondered if he had put anything into it. She froze again as another 
mug rose from the pile, filled itself, and sailed across the fire to Macenion. 
He plucked it from the air, bowed again to her, and took a sip himself. "I 
apologize," he said lightly, "if I frightened you. I had heard you were a 
warrior of some experience."
Paks drank her sib, wondering what to make of this. She certainly did not want 
to admit being frightened of a little magic, but he had seen her reaction. She 
set the mug down firmly, when she finished, and sat down slowly. "I had not seen 
that before," she said finally.
"Evidently," he replied. He brought his own mug back to the stack and sat near 
her. "When I asked," he began again, "everyone assured me that you had an 
excellent reputation." Paks felt a tingle of irritation: what gave him the right 
to ask about her? "You were in Phelan's Company, I understand." He looked at her 
and she nodded. "Yes. One of the other guards had heard about you. Not the usual 
sort of mercenary, he said." Again Paks felt a flickering anger. "And this 
evening past, you said you were going north over the mountains before we reached 
Valdaire. Alone, I assumed—?" Paks nodded again. "I might," he said, looking 
down at his hands clasped in his lap. "I might be able to help you. I know those 
trails—difficult for one with no mountain experience, but safe enough."
"Oh?" Paks reached out and refilled her mug.
"Unless you prefer to travel alone. Few humans do."
Paks shrugged. "I have no one to travel with. I'd appreciate your advice on the 
trail." She was remembering Stammers warning about those who might seek to 
travel with her.
The elf moved restlessly. "If you are willing, I thought we might travel 
together—as iar as the borders of the Ladysforest, at least. I could tell you 
about the trails from there." He sat back, and looked at her from under dark 
brows. "It would be far safer for you, Paksenarrion, and a convenience to me. 
While the trails are not as dangerous as these caravan roads, all trails have 
their hazards, and it is as well to have someone who can draw steel at your 
back."
Paks nodded. "I see. It is well thought of. But—forgive me, sir—you seem to know 
more of me than I of you.
He drew himself up. "I'm an elf—surely you know what that is."
"Yes, but—"
His voice sharpened."I fear I have no relatives or friends nearby that you can 
question. You will have to trust my word, or go alone. I am an elf, a warrior 
and mage—as you have seen—and I am returning to my own kingdom of the 
Ladysforest."
"I'm sorry to have angered you, sir, but—"
"Have you been told bad tales of elves? Is that it?" Paks thought back to Bosk. 
"Yes—some." His voice eased. "Well, then, it's not your fault. You must know 
that elves are an elder race, older for than men. Some humans are jealous of our 
knowledge and our skills. They understand little of our ways, and we cannot 
explain to those who will not listen. But elves, Paksenarrion, were created by 
the Maker himself to be the enemy of all evil beings. It is elves that ores hate 
most, for they know their destiny is on the end of our blades: the dark powers 
of the earth come never near the elven kingdoms."
Paks said nothing, but wondered. She had heard that the elves were indeed far 
older than men, and that elves never died of age alone. But she had not 
heard-that elves were either good or evil, as ores and demons were clearly evil, 
and saints like Gird and Falk were clearly good.
In the next few days, she found out what she could of elves in general and 
Macenion in particular. It was not much. But as the higher slopes closed in on 
the caravan track, she saw how easy it would be to miss her trail. Traveling 
with someone who had been there before seemed much wiser.
Paks saw the last of the caravan winding away to the west, higher into Silver 
Pass, with great relief. She had not felt at home with the other caravan guards; 
she had not been able to give them her trust, as she had her old companions. But 
now she was free—free to go north toward home, to adventure as she would. She 
imagined herself, as she had so often, riding up the track from Three Firs to 
her home, with gifts for everyone and money to spend at a fair. She could almost 
hear her mother's gasp of delight, the squeals of her younger brothers and 
sisters.
She imagined her father struck silent, awed at her wealth and the sword she 
bore. She turned to grin at Macenion beside her, whose longsighted gaze lingered 
on the caravan's dust.
"Well, they're all gone by the smell. Let's get moving."
He turned his gray-green eyes away from the pass and glared at her. "Must you be 
in such hurry? I want to be sure no thief drops out to trail us."
Paks loosened her sword in its sheath. "Unlikely now. And with your magic arts, 
and this sword, we shouldn't have much to fear. I wanted to find a good camping 
spot before dark."
"Very well. Come along, then, and keep a good watch. Move as quietly as a human 
can."
Paks bit back an angry retort. It wouldn't do to quarrel with her only companion 
for the trip across the mountains; she had no other guide, and elves made 
dangerous enemies. She turned to the sturdy pack pony she'd bought from the 
Wagonmaster and checked the pack a last time, then stroked Star's neck, and 
started up the narrow trail that forked away from the caravan route. She hoped 
Macenion would mellow as they traveled. So far he bad been scornful, sarcastic, 
and critical. It seemed obvious that he knew a great deal about the mountains 
and the various trails across them, but he made his superior knowledge as 
painful as possible for anyone else. Now he walked ahead, leading his elven-bred 
horse whose narrow arched neck expressed disdain for the pack on its back.
But at the campfire that night, Macenion seemed to have walked out part of his 
bad temper, and was once again the charming elf she had first met. He lit the 
fire with one spell, and seasoned their plain boiled porridge with another. He 
set a spell to keep the horse and pony from wandering. Paks wanted to ask if he 
could not set one to guard the camp, so that they could both sleep through the 
night, but thought better of it, and offered to take the first watch instead.
Though it had been hot that afternoon, the night was cold, with the feeling of 
great spaces in movement that comes only on the flanks of mountains. Nothing 
threat- ened them that Paks could see or hear, but twice the hair on her arms 
and neck stood straight, and fear caught the breath in her throat. Macenion, 
when she woke him at the change of watch, simply laughed lightly. "Wild lands 
care not for humans, Paksenarrion—neither to hunt nor hide. That is what you 
feel, that indifference." She surprised herself by sleeping easily and at once.
For two days they climbed between the flanks of the mountain. Midway of the 
second, they were high enough to see once more die caravan route below and 
behind them, and the twist where it crossed the spine of the Copper Hills. Paks 
could barely discern the pale scar of the route itself, but Macenion declared 
that he could see another caravan moving on it, this time from west to east. 
Paks squinted across the leagues of sunlit air, wavering in light and wind, and 
grunted. She could not see any movement at all, and the brilliant light hurt her 
eyes. She turned to look up their trail. It crawled over a hump of grass-grown 
rock—what she would have called a mountain, if the higher slopes had not been 
there—and disappeared. In a few moments, Macenion too turned to the trail.
To her surprise, the other side of the hump was forested; all that afternoon 
they climbed through thick pine-woods smelling of resin and bark. Paks added dry 
branches to Star's pack. They camped at the upper end of that wood, looking out 
over its dark patchwork to the east, where even Paks could see the land fall 
steeply into the eastern ocean. Macenion gazed at it a long time.
"What do you see?" Paks finally asked, but he shook his head and did not answer. 
She went back to stirring their porridge. Later that night he began to talk of 
the elves and their ways—the language and history—but most of it meant little to 
Paks. She thought he seemed pleased that she knew so little.
"My name's elven," she said proudly, when Macenion seemed to be running down. "I 
know that much: Paksenarrion means tower of the mountains."
"And I suppose you think you were named that for your size, eh?" Macenion 
sneered. "Don't be foolish; it's not elven at all."
"It is, too!" Paks stiffened angrily. She had always been as proud of her name 
as its meaning.
"Nonsense! It's from old Aare, not from elves. Pakse-enerion, royal tower, or 
royal treasure, since they used towers for their treasuries."
"That's the same—" Paks had not clearly heard the difference in sounds.
"No. Look. The elven is—" Macenion began scratching hnes in die dust. "It has 
another sign, one that you don't use. Almost, but not quite, the same as your 
'ks sound—and the first part means peak or high place. The elven word enarrion 
means mountain; the gnomes corrupted it to enarn, and the dwarves to enarsk, 
which is why these mountains are the dwarfenarsk—or in their tongue, the 
hakkenarsk. If your name were really elven, it would mean peak or high place in 
the mountains. But it doesn't. It's human, Aaren, and it means royal treasure."
Paks frowned. "But I was always told—"
"I don't care what you were told by some ignorant old crone, Paksenarrion, 
neither you nor your name is elven, and that's all." Macenion smirked at her, 
then pointedly lifted the kettle without touching it and poured himself another 
mug of sib.
Paks glared at him, furious again. "My grandmother was not an ignorant old 
crone!"
"Orphin, grant me patience!" Macenion's voice was almost as sharp as hers. 'Do 
you really think, Paks, that you or your grandmother—however worthy a matron she 
may have been—know as much about the elven language as an elf does? Be 
reasonable."
Paks subsided, still angry. Put that way she could find no answer, but she 
didn't have to like it.
Relations were still strained the next day when they came to the first fork of 
the trail. Macenion slowed to a halt. Paks was tempted to ask him sharply if he 
knew where he was going, but a quick look at the wilderness around her kept her 
quiet. Whether he knew or not, she certainly didn't. Macenion turned to look at 
her. "I think we'll go this way," he said, gesturing.
"Think?" Paks could not resist that much.
His face darkened. "I have my reasons, Paksenarrion. Either path will get us 
where we wish to go; this one might provide other benefits."
"Such as?"
"Oh—" He seemed unwilling to answer directly. "There are ruins on some of the 
trails around here. We might find treasure—"
"Or trouble," said Paks.
His eyebrows went up. "I thought you claimed great skill with that sword."
"Skill, yes. I don't go looking for trouble." But as she spoke, she felt a 
tingle of anticipation. Trouble she didn't want, but adventure was something 
else. Macenion must have seen this in her face, for he grinned.
"After these peaceful days, I daresay you wouldn't mind a little excitement. I 
don't expect any, to be sure, but unless you're hiding a fortune in that pack, 
you wouldn't mind a few gold coins or extra weapons any more than I would."
"Honestly—no, I wouldn't." Paks found herself smiling. Ruins in the wilderness, 
and stray treasure, were just the sort of things she'd dreamed of as a girl.
Macenion's chosen path led them back west, by winding ways, and finally through 
a narrow gap into a rising valley, steep-sided, where the trail led between many 
tall gray stones. These stood about like tall soldiers on guard.
"What are those?" asked Paksenarrion, as they began to near the first ranks of 
them. The stones gave her art odd feeling, as if they were alive.
"Wardstones," said Macenion. "Haven't you ever seen wardstones before?"
Paks gave him a sharp look. "No. I wouldn't have asked, if I had." She didn't 
want to ask, now, what wardstones warded, or whom. But Macenion went on without 
her question.
"They're set as guardians, by the elder peoples," he said. "Humans don't use 
them, that I know of. Can't handle the power, I suppose."
Paks clamped her lips on the questions that filled her mind. How did they guard? 
And what?
"It's the patterns they make," Macenion went on. "Patterns have power; even you 
should know that—" He looked at her, and Paks nodded. "If intruders come, then, 
it will trouble the pattern, and that troubling can be sensed by those who set 
the stones."
"Are we intruders?" asked Paks.
Macenion laughed, a little too loudly. "Oh my, no. These are old, Paksenarrion, 
very old. Whatever set them is long gone from here."
"But are they still in those—those patterns you spoke of?" Paks felt something, 
an itch along her bones.
Macenion looked around. "Yes, but it doesn't matter."
"Why not?" asked Paks stubbornly. "If it's the patterns that have the power, and 
they're still in the patterns, then—"
"Really, Paksenarrion," said Macenion loftily. "You must realize that I haven't 
time to explain everything to you. But I do know more about this sort of thing 
than any human, let alone a very young soldier. You must simply take my word for 
it that we are in no danger from these stones. The power is long past. And even 
if it weren't—" he fixed her with a glance from his brilliant eyes, then tapped 
his wallet suggestively. "I have spells here to protect us from such as these."
Paks found nothing to say to this. She could not tell whether Macenion really 
knew about such magic, or whether it was all idle boasting, but her bones 
tingled as they passed between the wardstones, rank after rank. Did Macenion not 
feel it because of his greater powers? Or perhaps because of his duller 
perceptions? She did not care to find out. For the next glass, as they climbed 
between the stones, she thought as little as possible, and resisted the 
temptation to draw her sword.
They were nearly free of the stone ranks when Paks heard a sharp cry from 
behind. Before she thought, she whirled, snatching her sword free of the 
scabbard. Macenion was down, sprawled on the rocky trail, his face contorted 
with pain. When he saw her standing with naked sword in hand, he gave another 
cry.
"No! No weapons!" He was pale as milk, now. Paks felt, rather than heard, a 
resonant thrum from around them. She spared a quick look around the valley, and 
saw nothing but the shimmer of the sun on many stones. She moved lightly toward 
Macenion.
"Don't worry," she said, grinning at him. "It's not drawn for you. What 
happened?"
"Sheathe it," he said. "Hurry!"
Paks was in no mood to listen to him. She felt much better with her sword in 
hand. "Why?" she asked. "Here, let me help you up." But Macenion had scrambled 
away from her, and now staggered to his feet, breathing hard. She noticed that 
he putlirtle weight on his left foot. "Are you hurt?"
"Paksenarrion, listen to me. Sheathe that sword. At once." He was staring behind 
her, over her shoulder.
"Nonsense," said Paks briskly. "It's you that's being silly now." She still felt 
a weight of menace, but it was bearable as long as she had her weapons ready. 
"Come—let's be going. Or shall I bring Star, and let you ride?"
"We must—hurry, Paksenarrion. Maybe there will be time—" He lurched toward her, 
and she offered her left arm. He flinched from it, and started to circle her. 
Paks turned, scanning the valley again. Still nothing. Sun glittered off the 
wardstones, seemed to shimmer as thick as mist between them. She shook her head 
to clear her vision. Macenion was already a few yards ahead of her.
"Wait, now—" she called. "Let me lead, where I can guard you." But at her call 
Macenion stumbled on even fester. He reached the horses, and clung to Windfoot's 
saddle as he clapped Star on the rump. Paks lengthened her stride, angry now, 
and muttering curses at cowardly elves. The quality of light altered, seeming to 
match her mood, ripping across the stones. Paks was too angry to be frightened, 
but she moved fester. For an instant Macenion turned a white face back towards 
her; she saw his eyes widen. Then he screamed and flailed forward. Paks did not 
look back; she broke into a run as Macenion and the animals took off up the 
trail. She felt a building menace behind her, rising swiftly to a peak that 
demanded action. As they passed the last pair of stones, the light seemed to 
fail for an instant, as if someone had filled the valley with thick blue smoke. 
Then a blaze of white light, brighter than sunlight, flashed over them. Paks saw 
her shadow, black as night, thrown far ahead on the trail. A powerful blow in 
the back sent her sprawling face-down on the trail; she had no time to see what 
had happened to Macenion or the horses. Choking dust rose in clouds, and heavy 
thunder rumbled through her body. Then it was gone, and silence returned. From 
very far away, Paks heard the scream of a hawk.
When Paks caught her breath and managed to rise to her feet, she saw nothing 
behind or before her on the trail. Afternoon shadows had begun to strip the 
narrow valley; the trail itself was latticed with shadows from the stones. 
Ahead, upslope, the trail was scuffed and torn where Macenion and the horses had 
fled. Paks scowled at the place the trail disappeared behind a fold of mountain. 
Alone, in unknown wilderness, without supplies or her pony… She looked back at 
the valley and shook her head. She knew without thinking about it that she had 
no escape that way. And perhaps she could catch up to Macenion—he had been 
limping.
In fact, by the time she reached the turn that left the valley safely behind, 
she could hear him, coaxing the horses to come. When she trudged around the last 
rocks, she saw him, limping heavily and trying to grab Windfoot's rein. The 
horse edged sideways, nervous, keeping just out of reach. Paks eyed the 
situation for a moment before speaking.
"Would you like some help, Macenion?"
He whipped around, nearly falling, his mouth open. Then he glared at her. "You 
fool!" he said. Paks had not expected that; she felt her ears burning. He went 
on. "What did I tell you—and you had to keep waving that sword!"
"You told me there wasn't any danger," snapped Paks, furiuos.
"There wasn't, until you drew your sword," he said. "If you had only—"
"What did you think I'd do, when you let out a yell?"
"You?" He sniffed, twitching his cape on his shoulders. "I should have realized 
the first thing a fighter would do would be draw steel—"
"Of course," said Paks. "You hadn't said a word about not drawing, either."
"I didn't think it was necessary," muttered Macenion. "I never dreamed you 
would, for no reason like that—" Paks snorted, and he went on hurriedly. "If we 
went through quietly, nothing would happen—"
"You told me nothing could happen." Paks felt the length of her blade, lightly, 
to see that it was unharmed, then slid it into the scabbard. "If you'd warned 
me, I wouldn't have drawn. I don't like liars, Macenion." She looked hard at 
him. "Or cowards. Did you even look to see if I was still alive?"
"I'm no liar. I just didn't think you needed to know." He looked aside a moment. 
"And I was coming back as soon as I caught Windfoot or Star, to find you—or bury 
you."
Paks was not at all sure she believed that. "Thanks," she said drily. "Why did 
you choose this path—the real reason, this time."
"I told you: it's shorter. And there are ruins—"
"And?"
"And I'd heard of this place."
Paks snorted again. "I'll warrant you had. So you wandered in to see what it 
looked like, eh?"
"I knew what it looked like." He glared at her. "Don't look at me like that, 
human. You nearly got us both killed—"
"Because you didn't tell me the truth."
"Because all you thought of was fighting—weapons. I knew what it looked like 
because I'd spoken to someone who was here—a cousin of mine. She said it was 
quite safe for peaceful folk." He emphasized peaceful. Paks had nothing more to 
say for the moment. She looked at Windfoot, and spotted Star behind a screen of 
trees. She clucked softly, holding out her hand. Windfoot looked from her to 
Macenion, and took a few steps back down the trail. Paks stepped into the middle 
of it, and clucked again. Windfoot's ears came up; the horse looked at her. Paks 
walked forward, and took the dangling rein in her hand. The other rein was 
broken near the bit ring. Macenion was staring at her strangely; she handed him 
the rein without comment, and called Star. The pony nickered, pushing through 
the undergrowth. Once out of the trees, she came to Paks at once, pushing her 
head into Paks's chest.
"All right, all right." Paks untied one side of the pack and pulled out an 
apple. They were going soft anyway. "Here." The pony wrapped her lips around the 
apple and munched, dribbling pungent bits of apple from her mouth. Windfoot 
whuffled, watching Star, and Paks dug out another apple for the horse. "How's 
your foot?" she asked Macenion, who had watched this silently. "I saw you were 
limping."
"Not bad," he said. "I can walk." Paks started to say he could run, but decided 
not to. She turned back to Star, checking her legs and hooves for injuries and 
the packsad-dle for balance. Everything seemed to be in place. Macenion, 
meanwhile, mended the broken rein. They traveled until nearly dark, hardly 
speaking.
Chapter Three
More than ever Paks realized how she had depended on the plain honesty of her 
friends in the Duke's Company. Perhaps they were not magicians or elves with 
mysterious powers—but they did not pretend to powers they did not have. What 
they promised, they performed. And in a fight of any kind, they would never 
leave her behind, possioly injured or dead. Now, wandering in the mountain 
wilderness with Macenion for a guide, she wondered if he even knew where they 
were. He had said nothing more about the wardstones—nor had she. He seemed as 
confident as ever. But she felt almost as trapped as if she were in a dungeon.
Their way—or the way Macenion led them—continued upward, day by day. The distant 
sea was hidden behind the shoulders of mountains now. Paks had asked if that 
meant they were across the pass, but Macenion had laughed. He tried to show her, 
on the map, how far they had come. But to Paks, the intricate folds of the 
mountains and the flat map had little to do with each other. Most of the time 
the trail ran through open forest, broken with small meadows. Paks thought it 
might be good sheep country. Macenion said no one farmed so far away from any 
market.
Wild animals had been scarce. Macenion told her of the wild sheep, the 
black-fleeced korylin, that spent the summers just above timber-line. He had 
pointed out an occasional red deer in the trees, but Paks lacked the experience 
to spot them. They had seen plenty of rock-rabbits and other small furry beasts, 
but nothing dangerous. Nor did Macenion seem especially worried. Wolves, he'd 
said, were scarce in this region. The wild cats were too small to attack them, 
at least until they were high above timberline. If they saw a snowcat, he 
said—but Paks had never heard of snowcats.
"I'm not surprised," said Macenion, with his usual tone of superiority. "They 
are large—very large. I suppose you've seen the short-tailed forest cats?" Paks 
had not, but hated to admit it. "Humph. Well, snowcats are about three times 
that size, with long tails. They're called snowcats because they live high in 
the mountains, among the icepacks and snow; they're white and gray."
"What do they live on, up there?"
Macenion frowned. Paks saw his shoulders twitch. Finally he answered. "Souls," 
he said.
"Souls?"
"And anything else they can find, of course. Wild sheep, for meat. But—I don't 
think well have much trouble, at this season, Paksenarrion. The pass should not 
be snowed in. But if we do see one, remember that they're the most dangerous 
wild creature in the mountains. I don't except men—a snowcat is more dangerous 
than a band of brigands."
"But how? Are they—"
"I'm telling you. The snowcat is a magical beast, like the dragon and the eryx. 
It lives on both sides of the world, and feeds on both sides. For meat it eats 
wild sheep, or horses, or men. For delight it eats souls, particularly elven and 
human, though I understand it takes dwarven souls often enough that the dwarves 
fear it."
"I thought elves didn't have souls—"
Macenion suddenly looked embarrassed. "I didn't know you knew so much about 
elves."
"I don't, but that's what I heard—they don't have souls because they don't need 
them—they live forever anyway."
"TTiat's not the reason—but in feet, you're right. Elves don't have souls—not 
full-blooded elves. But—' he gave her a rueful smile. "I don't like to admit it, 
Paks, but in feet I am not pure elven."
"But you said—"
"Well, I'm more elven than human—I do take after my ;!elven ancestors much more. 
You yourself wouldn't call me human—"
Paks had to agree with that, but she still felt affronted. "Well, if you're not 
elven—"
"I am. I am—well—you could say—hatf-elven. Human-elven. If you must know, that's 
how I gained my mastery of human wizardry as well as elven magic." He drew 
himself up, and took on the expression she found most annoying.
"Oh,'Paks left this topic, and returned to the other…"But the snowcat—can't we 
fight it off? We have a bow, and—"
"No. It is truly magical, Paksenarrion. It can spell your soul out of you before 
you could strike a blow. I am a mage and part elf; it will desire mine even 
more."
Paks thought about it. It seemed to her that this meant nothing more than death. 
She started to ask Macenion, and he turned, startled.
"No! By the First Tree, you humans know nothing, even of your own conditionl It 
is not die same thing as being killed. When you die, your soul goes—well, I 
don't know your background, and I'd hate to upset your beliefs—" Paks glared at 
him, and he went on. "You have a soul, and it goes somewhere—depending on how 
you've lived. Is that plain enough? But if a snowcat eats your soul, it never 
gets where it should go. It's trapped there, in the snowcat, forever."
"Oh. But then—what does it want with a soul?"
"Paksenarrion, it's magical. It does magic with souls. I don't know how it 
started, or why; I only know it does. Somehow the souls it eats feed its magic 
powers. If we see a snowcat, well flee at once—try to outrun it. Whatever you 
do, don't look into its eyes." He walked on quietly some hundred paces. Then: 
"Paksenarrion, how did you make Windfoot come to you?"
She had not thought about his surprise since that day. "I don't know. I 
suppose—he knows me now. He knows I have apples. Horses have always liked me."
Macenion shook his head. "No. It must be something more. He's elfbred; our 
horses wouldn't go to humans unless—do you have any kind of magical tools? A—a 
bracelet, or ring, or—"
Paks thought of Canna's medallion; surely that wouldn't have moved an elfbred 
horse. "No," she said. "Not that I know of."
"Mmph. Would you mind if I checked that?"
"What?"
"I could—urn—look for it."
"For what?"
Macenion turned on her, eyes blazing. "For whatever you used, human, to control 
my horse!"
"But I didn't! I don't have anything—"
"You must. Windfoot would never come to a human—"
"Macenion, any horse will come to anyone kind. Look at Star—"
"Star is a—a miserable, shaggy-coated, cow-hocked excuse of a pack pony."
Paks felt the blood rush to her face. "Star is beautiful! She's—"
Macenion sneered. "You! What do you know about—"
"Windfoot came to me. I must know something." Paks realized that her hand had 
found her sword-hilt. She saw Macenion glance at it. He sighed, and looked 
patient.
"Paksenarrion, I'm sorry I abused Star. But she is a pony, and human-bred; she 
is not an elfbred horse. There's a difference. Just look at Windfoot." They both 
looked. Windfoot cocked an ear back and whuffled, whether at Star or Paks was 
uncertain. Paks could not sustain her anger, with Windfoot's elegant form before 
her. Macenion seemed to recognize the moment her anger foiled, because he went 
on. "If you're carrying a magical item, without knowing it perhaps, it could be 
dangerous—or very helpful. Magical items in the hands of the unskilled—"
Paks bristled again. "I'm not giving you anything."
"I didn't mean that." But Paks thought he had meant exactly that. "If you have 
such an item, I can show you how to use it. Think, Paksenarrion. Perhaps it's 
something that would call danger to us—wolves, say—or—"
"Ail right." Paks was tired of the argument. "All right; look for it. But, 
Macenion, what I have is mine; I'm not giving it up. If it calls danger, well 
just fight the danger."
"I understand." He looked pleased. "We can camp here—I know it's early, but I’ll 
need time. And the horses could use the rest. They can graze in this meadow."
Shortly they had the camp set up, and both animals had been watered and fed. 
Macenion withdrew to one sio!e of the fire, and brought out his pouch. Paks 
watched with interest as he fished inside it. He looked up at her and glared.
"Don't watch."
"Why not? I've never seen a mage—"
"And you won't. By Orphin, do you want to get your ears singed? Or your eyes 
burnt out? Can't I convince you that magic is dangerous?" Paks did not move. She 
was tired of being sneered at. Macenion muttered in what she supposed was elven, 
and turned his back. She thought of circling die fire to see what he was doing, 
but decided against it. Instead she lay back, staring up at the afternoon sky 
bright overhead. So far they had had good travel weather; she hoped it would 
continue. She shifted her hips off a sharp fragment of rock and let her eyes sag 
shut. She could hear the horses tearing grass nearby; to her amusement, she 
could distinguish Star and Windfoot by sound alone. Star took three or four 
quick bites of grass, followed by prolonged chewing; Windfoot chewed each bite 
separately. She opened her eyes to check on them and glanced at Macenion. His 
back still faced her. She closed her eyes again and dozed off.
"I found it." Paks opened her eyes to see Macenion's excited face. She rubbed 
her face and sat up.
"You found what?"
"The magic ring you're wearing." Macenion sounded as smug as he looked.
"What? I don't have any magic ring!"
"You certainly do. That one." He pointed to the intricate twist of gold wires 
that Duke Phelan had given her in Dwarfwatch.
"That's not magic," said Paks, but with less assurance. The Duke had said 
nothing about magic, and surely he would have known.
"It is. Its power is over animals; that's why you could use it on Windfoot."
"I didn't use it on Windfoot. I just called him and held out my hand…"
"That's all it would take. You touched it—perhaps accidentally, since you say 
you didn't know about it."
"I didn't—and I don't believe it." But Paks was already half convinced.
"Where did you get it?"
"It was—my commander gave it to me, after a battle."
"As a reward?"
"Yes."
"Was it part of the loot from Siniava's army?"
"Yes."
"Well, then. He and his captains used magic devices often, so I heard. Perhaps 
your commander didn't know. It is magic and it is how you controlled Windfoot. 
You can prove it—call him now, with the ring. Don't say anything, or move, but 
touch the ring and think that you want him to come."
Paks looked across the meadow to see Windfoot and Star grazing side by side. She 
clenched her hand around the ring, and thought of Windfoot. She didn't like the 
idea that a ring—a ring she had received from the Duke—could have such power. 
She had always liked horses; horses had always liked her. She thought of 
Windfoot: his speed, his elegance. A quick thudding of hooves made her look up. 
Windfoot came at a long swinging trot, breaking to a canter. Star followed, her 
shorter stride syncopating the beats. Windfoot stopped a few feet away, and came 
forward, ears pricked.
"All right," said Paks quietly, holding up her hand for Windfoot to sniff. Star 
pushed in and shoved her head in Windfoot's way. "But I didn't call Star—"
"No, she came for company, 1 think. But that is definitely a magic ring, with 
the power to summon animals. See if you can make Windfoot go away."
Paks wrinkled her brow. It did not seem fair to control Windfoot this way. She 
flipped her hand, and the horse threw up his head and backed.
"Not that way," said Macenion, annoyed.
"Yes." Paks pushed Star's head away. "Go on, horses! Go eat your own dinners." 
She stood up. "1 believe you; it's magic. But I don't like the idea."
"You'd rather have the power in yourself?"
"Yes. No—I don't know. It just doesn't feel right, to be able to call and send 
them like that."
"Humans!" snorted the elf. Paks glared at him, and he modified it. 
"Non-magicians don't understand magicians, that's all. Why involve right and 
wrong in it? The ring is magic, it's useful magic, and you should use it."
Paks had had no idea what a mountain pass would be like. Macenion told her that 
the pass at Valdaire wasn't really a mountain pass at all. Now, as they climbed 
past the forested slopes to open turf and broken rock, she wondered how, in this 
jumble of stone, anyone could find the way. It was a gray morning, and she felt 
the cold even through her travel cloak. Macenion pointed out marking cairns.
"But it's just another pile of rock."
"No, it's not just a pile of rock. It's a particular pile of rock. Look—do you 
see anything else like that?"
Paks looked. Rocks everywhere, but nothing that tall and narrow. "No."
"Now, look here." He pointed to a smaller pile on one side. "This is the 
direction."
"What is?"
"This—Paksenarrion, pay attention. The big pile tells you that this is the 
trail, and the little pile tells you which way is downhill."
"But are we across the pass? Aren't we going uphill?" Then she realized the 
simple answer, and felt her face burning. "I see," she said quickly, before 
Macenion could tell her. "I know. We go the other way."
"Yes. And we know it's the right trail because of the runes."
"Runes?"
"Look at this." He lifted the top rock of the small pile and turned it over. On 
the under fece were angular marks gouged in the rock. "That's the rune for 
silver, which means that this is the way to Silver Pass."
"Oh." Paks looked around again. "But that only says what's downhill. Can we tell 
where this will come out?"
"Easily." Macenion's smile was as smug as ever. He turned over the top rock of 
the big pile and showed her another rune. "This means gnomes, and means that 
this trail ends at the rock shelter on the border of Gnarrinrulk, die gnome 
kingdom south of Tsaia."
"I didn't know there was one."
"Gods, yes. And you don't want to wander in there without leave." Macenion 
replaced the stones carefully. "It's simple, really. The big pile points uphill 
and has the uphill trailend rune, and the small one points downhill and has the 
downhill trailend rune. Can you remember that?"
"Yes," said Paks shortly.
"Good. Let's hurry. I don't like the smell of this weather." Macenion looked at 
die sky above the peaks, which was, as they had often seen from below, thickened 
into cloud. As if his words had been a signal, a cold rain began to leak down, 
thin at first. They started upward.
As they climbed, forty paces at a time, Paks watched the stones near the trail 
darken in the rain. Instead of die rustle of rain on leaves, the water tinkled, 
as if a thousand thousand tiny bells rang in the stillness. The slopes around 
them closed in, and the trail became steeper. It was more like a stairway than a 
trail. When they stopped for rest, Paks looked up. The clouds seemed lower. She 
looked back down the trail. The cairn had disappeared into a hollow behind and 
below them. She was surprised at how fer they had climbed.
Macenion shivered beside her. "It's getting colder—we'd better keep climbing. 
There's no good place to stop until we're over the top."
"You mean, this is the actual pass?"
"Yes—didn't you know? What I'm afraid of is snow—it can snow all year up here. 
We've been lucky with weather so far, but this rain—and if it gets colder—'
"What if it does?"
"Then we keep going. There are some undercut ledges near the top, but they 
aren't good shelter. We won't stop if we can possibly make it through."
But as mountain weather changes from minute to minute, so it thickened around 
them. Rain changed to sleet which coated their cloaks and the horses' packs, and 
made the trail treacherous. Paks did not even suggest stopping to eat. She 
fumbled a strip of meat from under her cloak and chewed it as they climbed. Wind 
began to funnel the sleet, now mixed with snow, down the trail. Macenion showed 
Paks how to wrap a cloth around her face to keep it from freezing.
All too soon the rocky slopes around them whitened as snow flurried past. They 
climbed higher, leaving clear tracks that filled quickly behind them. Rocks 
disappeared under the snow. Macenion had to shout in Paks's ear that he thought 
the snow had been falling at this height for more than a day. As they came 
around a shoulder of mountain on their right, the pitch flattened. Paks expected 
a change to a downhill slope, but instead met a blast of wind that nearly took 
her off her feet. Macenion, ahead of her, disappeared in a white fog of snow. 
She stumbled, and forcea her way on, dragging Star behind her.
Paks finally found Macenion by stumbling into him. Windfoot was sideways to the 
wind, trying to turn. Macenion grabbed her arm and yelled into her ear.
"Paks! We can't go any farther this way. Drifts! Go back!"
"Back!" He pushed her a little, and Paks turned carefully, bracing against the 
wind. Star had already turned, and Paks followed her back the way they had come. 
At least, she hoped it was the way, for nothing remained of their tracks. With 
the wind at her back, shoving her along like a giant hand, she could see a 
little way. A dark smudge to one side caught her eye; before she could ask, 
Macenion's arm on her shoulder pushed her that direction. "It's one of those 
overhangs," he yelled in her ear.
Star and Windfoot shouldered their way to the bade of the shelter and stood, 
heads down and together, their breath making a cloud in the gloom. Paks swiped 
the snow off Star's pack and rump, and wiped the pony's face clear. Ice furred 
her eyelashes and muzzle. Both animals were quivering with cold and exhaustion. 
Macenion, meanwhile, was doing what he could for Windfoot. When he had the 
saddle off, he turned to Paks.
"We need to block the ends of this completely," he said. "Snowdrift will help, 
but we'll have to work hard before we dare rest."
Paks groaned inwardly; she wanted to fell on the ground and sleep. She looked 
where he pointed. Snow blocked most of the uphill end of the overhang, but some 
blew in above the drift. Wind roared through the gap, swinging the horses' tails 
wildly and freezing their sweat.
"Well use the cover off your pack," Macenion went on. "Anchor it with rocks—" He 
was picking rocks off the floor of the shelter as he spoke. "If we re lucky, we 
won't have to compress the snow much—that's the hardest work." Paks began 
wrestling the pack off Star, and tried to unwrap the cover. The knots were 
frozen, and the rope stiff as iron, but she dared not cut it. She took off her 
gloves to 6ght with it, and muttered a curse as the rope scraped her fingers 
raw.
"Here—" said Macenion suddenly. "Let me help with that. Get your gloves on; you 
don't need frozen hands." Paks sat back. Macenion glared at her and she backed 
farther away. He moved his body between her and the pack, and said a few words 
she did not know. When he stepped back, the knots were untied, and the ropes 
were supple again. Paks shook out the pack cover, and Macenion reached for it.
By the time Macenion was satisfied that their campsite was safe, Paks felt she 
could not move another inch. They had managed to secure the pack cover in the 
upwind gap. Snow drifted against it quickly, and now—so Macenion said; Paks had 
not gone back out in the wind to see—covered it several feet deep. The other end 
of the shelter was still open; they had nothing large or strong enough to block 
it. Macenion wanted to form blocks of snow, but finally gave up when Paks simply 
stared at him, exhausted. He managed to light a small fire of the wood they had 
packed along, despite the wind that still gusted in and out of their overhang. 
Paks helped steady their smallest pot above it. She thought longingly of hot 
food, hot mugs of sib. But the snow that finally melted and boiled was hardly 
hot enough to warm her.
"It's the cold demons," explained Macenion. "They're jealous of their territory; 
they hate the warm-bloods who come up from the plains. So they steal the heat 
from fire, up on these heights."
Paks drank the lukewarm sib, and decided she might never be warm again. Marching 
in a cold rain now seemed like a pleasant excursion. Only a few feet away, the 
wind whirled veils of snow past their shelter. She huddled in every scrap of 
clothing and blanket she could find. But as the afternoon wore away, she 
regained both strength and warmth. The horses, too, seemed to recover. Paks gave 
them some of the warm water, and dampened Star's grain. Macenion claimed that 
elven horses didn't need such coddling, but Paks noticed that Windfoot tried to 
push Star away from hers. She poured warm water on the pile of grain Windfoot 
had been ignoring, and the horse ate eagerly. Macenion glared, but said nothing 
more. He ventured outside several times, trying to judge the weather. As the 
light faded, he reported that both snow and wind were lessening.
"We might get through tomorrow, if the drifts downhill on the other side aren't 
too bad. It'd be easier without the beasts—"
"You wouldn't leave them!" said Paks, horrified.
"No, of course not. We need the supplies. But we can walk over drifts they'll 
stick in. Anyway, get what sleep you can. If we can get out tomorrow, it will be 
early—as soon as it's light. Ill watch tonight—I'm more used to the cold and the 
height."
Paks resented his usual tone, but was too tired to resist. She fell quickly into 
a light doze, waking as Macenion replenished the fire. She squinted around the 
shelter. The horses stood head-to-tail near the rock wall; she could see the 
firelight reflecting from Star's eyes. Hardly man-high, the ledge of rock 
overhanging them glittered as if it were fall of tiny stars. Paks blinked 
several times, and decided the rock itself had shiny fragments to catch the 
light. Firelight turned the snowdrifts into glittering gold and orange—pretty, 
she thought, when you didn't have to be out in it. She snuggled deeper into her 
blankets, took a long breath, and slid back into sleep.
Macenion's choked cry brought her hallway out of her blankets before her eyes 
were open. She had her sword in hand. He stood rigid beside the fire, mouth 
open. Paks tried to see beyond him, to the outside. Nothing but a wavering dark. 
She glanced back at the horses. Both of them were alert, heads high, nostrils 
flared. Star's ears were back; Windfbot's tail was clamped tight. Paks began to 
untangle herself from the blankets as unobtrusively as possible: she felt they 
were both easy targets, in the firelight
It was then she saw the pale blue glow of eyes.
"Paksenarrion!" Macenion's whisper was hoarse and desperate.
"I'm awake," she said softly. What, she wondered, had eyes like that? Farther 
apart than human eyes, that was all she could tell. Big eyes.
"Paks, it's a—" he choked, and then recovered. "It's a snowcat."
"Holy Gird," said Paks without thinking. When she realized what she had said, 
she wished she'd kept quiet.
"What?" asked Macenion.
Paks felt herself blushing in the dark. "Nothing," she said. "Now what?"
"Can't you see it?"
"No—nothing but eyes."
"I don't know what we can—" Macenion's voice suddenly sharpened. "Paks! Your 
ring!" For a moment Paks had no idea what he meant. Macenion spared a glance at 
her, furious.
"Your ring, human! Your special ring," he went on. Paks nodded, then, stripped 
off her glove to touch it.
"But are you sure it will work? Maybe the thing—the snowcat—will just go away if 
we let it alone."
As if in answer to that suggestion, the glowing eyes moved closer. Now Paks 
could see a suggestion of the body's outline, a long, powerful catlike form, 
crouching as if to spring.
"You fool!" cried Macenion. "It knows we're here! It's about to jump. Stop it! 
Hold it!"
Paks thought she could see a twitch in that long tail, like the twitch she had 
seen in the mousers at the barn, the last instant before they sprang on a rat. 
She pressed her thumb hard on the ring and thought "Hold still, cat." She 
wondered if those words would work.
"Are you?" asked Macenion hoarsely.
"Yes," said Paks. "How long does it—"
"As long as you concentrate. Keep holding it."
Paks tried to concentrate. She wished she could see the snowcat better. Macenion 
turned to rummage among his things. She was afraid to look sideways at him, lest 
the cat jump. She forced her eyes back to the shadowy cat-form. Suddenly light 
flared around her, and she jumped.
"Don't look," said Macenion harshly. The light was clear and white, brilliant 
enough to show true colors. Now she could see the snowcat clearly. Its body was 
man-long; it would stand almost waist-high on her at the shoulder. As Macenion 
had said, its fur was white and blue-gray, patterned with dapples that reminded 
Paks of snowflakes enlarged. The ears bore long tufts of white, and it had a 
white beard and short ruff. The eyes, despite the blue glow they'd shown before, 
were amber in Macenion's spell-light.
"Macenion, it's beautiful. It's the most beautiful—"
"It's spelling you," he said firmly. "It seems beautiful because it's trying to 
use magic on you."
"But it can't be. It's—" she stopped as Macenion came forward into her field of 
view. "Macenion, what are you doing?"
"Don't be silly, Paks. I'm going to kill it."
"Kill it? But it's helpless—it can't move while I—"
"That's right. Just keep holding it still. It's the only way I have a chance—"
"But that's not air—it's helpless—" Paks let her concentration waver, and at 
once the snowcat moved, shifting in a kind of constricted hop, as she caught her 
control back. She was distracted again by this evidence of her power and its 
limitations, and the cat managed to rear, swiping at Macenion's head with one 
massive paw. He ducked, and Paks forced the cat to stillness again.
"Damn you, human! Hold that beast, or we're both dead. Worse than dead—you 
remember what I told you!" Macenion glared back at her, then turned, raising his 
sword.
Paks felt a wave of fear and pain sweep through her mind. It was wrong, terribly 
wrong—but what else could she do? "Macenioo—" she tried again, staring into the 
snowcat's huge amber eyes. "It's not right—"
"It's not right for us to end up soul-bound to a snowcat, no," he said roughly. 
"It's easy enough, though, if you forget yourself one more time. If that's what 
you want, go ahead."
Paks looked down, biting her lip. She could not watch, and then she thought she 
must. The snow cat made no resistance—could make no resistance—but it could cry 
out, in fary and pain, and so it did. That wailing cry, ending in an almost 
birdlike whistle, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. He came back 
to the fire almost jauntily.
"A snowcat. That's quite a kill, even if you don't think it was fair. Ill just 
take the pelt before it freezes—"
"No." Paks glared at him.
"What d'you mean, no? Snowcat pelts are nearly priceless, it's so rare to take 
one—you noticed how careful I was not to damage it when I killed—"
Paks erupted in fury. "By the gods, Macenion, I wonder if you ever tell the 
truth! You dare pride yourself on kilting a helpless animal? It might as well 
have been a sheep trussed up, for all the courage and skill it took—"
"I didn'tnotice you out there—"
"You told me to stay here—"
"I told you to hold it still. You could have helped me, if you were able to hold 
more than one thought in mind at a time. As it was you nearly killed me—"
"I!" Paks flourished her own sword. She noticed with some satisfaction that 
Macenion backed up a step. "I but tried to save your honor and mine—not that I 
would have thought an elf would care so little for it—"
"You know nothing about elven honor, human!" Macenion seemed to swell with rage. 
"You are my travel companion, oath-bound to defend me—as I defended you just 
now—against all dangers. As for the snowcat having no defense, it was trying to 
spell you the entire time."
Paks felt her anger leak away into the cold. Had she been half-spelled? Had she 
nearly failed her oath because of it? Macenion took quick advantage of her 
hesitation. "I don't blame you," he said more quietly. "You are human, unused to 
magicks of any kind, and this may be the first magical beast you've seen." She 
nodded unwillingly. "It would have killed all of us, and feasted many days while 
our souls were enslaved to it, if we had not managed to kill it. Or send it 
away." He cocked his head and gave her a sly grin. "If you'd been quick enough 
thinking, o lover of animals, you might simply have sent it away."
"Sent it—it would have gone?"
"Oh, yes. I'm surprised it didn't occur to you, Paksenarrion. Just as you sent 
Windfoot—oh, that's right. You didn't. But you could have."
"Then you didn't have to kill it," Paks cried, angry again. "You told me—"
"I told you what seemed best to me. Kill it and it's gone forever. Send it away 
and it might come back—though you could have laid a compulsion on it to avoid 
us. Besides, this way we have a valuable pelt." Macenion turned again to his 
pack, and pulled out a short wide skinning blade. Paks moved between him and the 
snowcat; when he rose and saw her, he frowned.
"I won't let you," said Paks, fighting back tears. "You told me I had to hold 
it, or it'd kill both of us—and you lied about that. It isn't the first lie, 
either. You're not going to profit by it, Macenion—I was wrong to hold it that 
way, and that's the worst thing I've done. I won't let you do more."
"You mean you'd waste a perfectly good pelt—already back in winter coat—just 
because you didn't think of sending it away?"
"No—because you lied to me." Paks had backed slowly and carefully across the 
ledge outside their shelter, until she bumped her heels into the snowcat's 
corpse. Now she turned, and with a powerful heave pushed the snowcat over the 
edge.
"You're a stubborn fool," said Macenion, but without the anger she had feared. 
"That's enough gold for both of us to live on for a month, that you threw away. 
But—" he shrugged. "I suppose it meant something to you. Now don't stand there 
and freeze, Paksenarrion—we still have to cross the pass tomorrow."
It was not the next morning, but the one after that, when they finally ventured 
from their shelter. Dawn that day was clear, the wind hardly moving, and nothing 
in the white drifts below looked like the remains of a snowcat. They had said 
little to each other in the storm-whitened hours between—only what must be said 
about the fire, the care of the animals, and packing up their campsite. Now they 
moved through a pale rose and blue world, leaving blue-shadowed tracks behind. 
Once through the pass, Paks could see—not the rolling forests of the Eight 
Kingdoms she had hoped for—but more ridges and steep valleys. Far below and 
ahead, forests clothed the slopes. Somewhere beyond, the mountains ended. She 
hoped to make it there.
Chapter Four
Paks had not slept well since the killing of the snowcat. Despite 
Macenion'ssarcastic reassurance, she knew that she had dishonored her sword, and 
the ring that she had used. She had stayed with him only because she had no 
other guide out of the mountains. Now, as they came through a gap in the trees 
into yet another narrow valley, she wondered whether she should refuse to 
accompany him any farther. Surely here, with the bulk of the mountains behind 
her, she could find her own way north.
"Well, indeed—" said Macenion, in a tone that meant he wished to be asked what 
he meant.
"Well, what?" Paksenarrion turned half away from him, and bent to check her 
pony's hooves.
"It's what I hoped to find—the right vaDey."
Paksenarrion looked at the valley, this time, and saw, in its widest span, a 
group of stone piles. "More of your ruins?" she asked sourly.
"Much more important," said Macenion. He was grinning again, and when he caught 
her eye he winked. "Didn't I say there was treasure to be won in these 
mountains?"
"You've said a lot." Paks had turned back to Star, and was adjusting the ropes 
on her pack.
Macenion sighed. "Come now, don't be tiresome. You're carrying a new sword, for 
one thing, and—"
Paks knew Macenion had parted with the elf-wrought blade (if it was one) only 
because he wanted to soothe her after the snowcat's murder. The sword felt well 
enough—it was better than the one she'd bought—but she resented the whole 
incident. And she wasn't about to be grateful.
"And you say there's more. And, as usual, you want me to bodyguard you while we 
get it—right?"
"I will need your help." Macenion sighed again. "Paks, I'm sorry about the 
snowcat. I didn't know you'd feel that way."
"I'd have thought an elf would—"
"So my human parentage betrayed me. It's not the first time. But listen, at 
least, before you stalk off in outrage."
Paks looked around at the tree-clad slopes. She thought she saw a feint trail 
across from them, leading south, but she knew the ways of apparent trails that 
appeared and disappeared and tangled together. She shrugged and stared down at 
the ruins while Macenion talked.
"This valley," he said, "is forbidden to elves. My mother's cousin told me that, 
and also told me how to find it. He meant the directions to keep me away. But 
here is a great treasure—the stories are clear on that—and much of it is 
magical. Something happened here that the elves don't want to talk about, and so 
they went away and never came back/'
"Elves lived here?" Paksenarrion frowned. "I thought they lived in forests, not 
stone buildings."
"It's true that elven cities are surrounded by trees and water, but they're 
constructed, nonetheless."
Despite herself, Paksenarrion was interested. "What happened, then? Why did the 
elves leave?"
"I don't know." The answer had come so fast that Paks disbelieved it and gave 
Macenion a sharp look. He spread his hands. "It's true—I don't know. I suspect, 
but I don't know. They say they haven't come back because the valley is haunted 
by evil, but I'm fairly sure that they just don't like to admit mistakes."
"You were more than fairly sure that the wardstones wouldn't work any longer," 
Paks reminded him. Macenion scowled.
"This is different," said Macenion loftily. "Those were human artifacts. This is 
elven. My elven blood will sense the truth—and my magic will enable us to pass 
safely what might be perilous for others." He patted the pouch that held his 
magical apparatus. Paksenarrion said nothing. "And the treasures here are worth 
a risk. Elf-made weapons, Paks, and magic scrolls and wands: I've heard about 
them. They were all abandoned when the elves fled. My relatives—well, I hate to 
say anything bad about the elves, but they haven't been any too generous with 
their goods. I feel I have a right to whatever I can find in there." He nodded 
toward the ruins. "But what about the evil whatever-it-is?"
"That's why I've waited this long. First, my power as a mage is much greater 
now; I've spent years in study and practice, and I have some powerful new 
spells." He showed her the polished end of a scroll-case. "And, as well, I'm 
traveling with a very experienced and able warrior—you."
"I see."
"I'm quite sure that whatever is there—if anything—will be no match for the two 
of us."
"What do you think is there?"
"Oh—if the underground passages are still open, some animals may have moved in. 
Perhaps even an ore or two. As for an evil power—" Macenion tilted his hand back 
and forth. "If it were very strong, I'd be aware of it here. And I'm not."
Paksenarrion looked around again. She felt nothing. After the wardstones, she 
thought she might, if anything like that were going on. She touched her sword 
hilt for comfort. "Well, then, I suppose we could take a look." Macenion smiled, 
and turned to lead the way down. It was farther than it looked. The path they 
had followed from the slopes above disappeared in a tangle of undergrowth that 
cloaked tumbled rocks as big as cattle. The sun had long disappeared behind the 
western peaks when they hacked their way free of the thorny stuff and found 
themselves on short rough turf still several hours away from the ruins. In fact, 
these were no longer visible; the floor of the valley was uneven.
"Let's make camp," said Paksenarrion. "It'd be full dark by the time we came to 
the ruins. The horses could use a rest, too." Star had a long bleeding scratch 
down one leg, and Windfoot was streaked with sweat.
"I suppose so." Macenion was staring toward the ruins. "I wish we could go right 
on, but—"
"Not in the dark," said Paks firmly. He seemed to shake himself.
"You're right." Still he sat, feeing west, silent, while Paks gathered wood from 
the brushy edge for a fire. She touched his arm when it was ready to light, and 
he jumped.
"The fire's ready," she said, pointing.
Macenion looked around at the gathering darkness, and threw back his cloak. He 
glanced up at Paks. "Perhaps tonight we should use the tinderbox.'
"You? The great magician?" Paksenarrion turned to the horses. "I thought you 
were sure it was safe."
"There's no sense making it obvious we're here—just in case."
"Then we shouldn't have a fire at all." Paks pulled her own pack near the 
stacked wood. "That's fine with me; I know fires draw trouble."
"Yes. Well—let's not, then." Macenion pulled his cloak around him again, and 
began to unload his horse. Paks eyed the hollow they were in. It was not 
particularly defensible, if Macenion thought they might be attacked. But when 
she asked, he was disinclined to move. Paks shrugged, and pulled her sword from 
its sheath. As the darkness closed in, the rasp of her whetstone on the blade 
seemed louder and louder. When she tested the blade, and found it well enough, 
she noticed how still a night it was.
Paksenarrion woke in the first light of dawn; the peaks behind were just showing 
light instead of dark against the sky. For a moment or so she was not sure where 
she was. The visions of her dream were still brilliant before her eyes. She 
shook her head vigorously and rolled on her side, hardly surprised to find that 
she held her sword hilt in her hand. She looked toward Macenion, a dark shape in 
darkness. Was he stirring? She spoke his name softly.
"I'm coming!" His answer was a shout, and he sprang to his feet. "Begone, you 
foul—" She heard a gasp, and then, in a different voice, "By all the gods of elf 
and man, what was that?"
"I don't know. I thought you were waking, and called, and you jumped up—"
"A dream. ' Paks heard Macenion's feet on the grass. "It must have been a 
dream."
"What dream?" Paks wondered if this were a haunted place, a place that gave 
dreams. Hers had been vivid enough.
"It was—it's hard to say. I felt something—almost as if—" He paused for a long 
moment. Paks tried to see his face in the dimness, but could not.
"I dreamed too," she said finally. "A—I don't know what to call it—a spirit of 
some sort, I suppose—was imprisoned, and calling for help—"
'Yes—and was there a yellow cloud that stank of evil?" Macenion's voice sounded 
alert and eager.
"I saw no cloud," replied Paks. "But something tall, in a yellow robe, with a 
staff. I wondered if it was an elf."
"That was no elf, whatever it was. I must have seen the aura of power, and you 
saw the physical form. But it was evil, and the—" Macenion paused again as if 
searching for a word. "I can't think," he said finally. "I should know what it 
was, that was calling. Something to do with elves, and the places they've lived 
for long. It needs our help."
"So that was a sent dream," said Paks. "Not something we dreamed on our own."
"It was sent, certainly," said Macenion. "The question now is—"
"Who sent it."
"No, I wasn't worried about that. The question is, what do we do? I know what we 
should do, but—"
"I still want to know who sent it."
"One of the gods, of course. Sertig or Adyan, probably. Who else would?"
"The—the thing itself? The one that needs our help? It might want us to come, 
and caused the dream."
"Nonsense. If it's strong enough to do that, it wouldn't need our help against a 
mere sorcerer or wizard."
"I don't know…" Somehow Paksenarrion could not believe Macenion's explanation. 
He had been wrong about so many things. She wished, not for the first time, that 
she knew more herself about the world beyond the Duke's Company. She had not 
realized, until she left it, how little she had learned in three years of 
soldiering. For all she knew, Macenion himself could have caused the dream, to 
ensure that she would be willing to enter the ruins. She pushed that thought 
aside. Until they were clear of the mountains, she had no real choice; Macenion 
was the only available guide. Her hand found its way to the pouch that held 
Canna's medallion. She stopped herself from taking it out, and squatted down to 
reroll her blankets.
"In your dream, did you—did it offer you any treasure?" Macenion, too, was 
packing up.
Paks nodded, realized it was still too dark for him to see that gesture, and 
spoke instead. "Yes. I didn't know what all of it was, but the weapons and armor 
were beautiful."
"It can't hurt, Paksenarrion, to take a look—" His voice was almost pleading.
Paks laughed despite her worries. "No, I suppose not. Don't worry, Macenion, 
your hired blade won't leave you. I've got more loyalty than that. But I hope 
you really do have the skill to handle whatever magic comes up."
"I think so. I'm sure of it." He didn't really sound sure.
It took them four hours to reach the ruins. As they came nearer, Paks recognized 
that the grassy mound before them was the ruin of a defensive wall. They entered 
through a gap that had once been a gateway. Two of the stones that had formed 
the framework were still standing. Although they were scarred as if they had 
been scorched, much of the decorative carving was still visible. Paks stood 
bemused, enjoying the intricacy of the interlacing designs, until Macenion 
touched her arm.
"It's meant to do that," he said, grinning. "Elves use patterns for control. In 
feet, elves taught men how to set the patterns for the wardstones. You'd better 
not let yourself look at any of the decoration that remains, just in case."
Paks felt herself flush with embarrassment. She said nothing, but followed 
Macenion deeper into the complex of ruins, her hand on her sword.
Little remained but irregular mounds overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and 
there a bit of stone showed through, and a few doorways still stood wreathed in 
ivy. Although Paks could hear birdsong in the distance, the ruins themselves 
were quiet. No lizards sunned themselves on the mounds, to scuttle away as they 
passed. No rabbits found shelter in the occasional briar. Macenion moved almost 
as carefully as Paks could have wished, pausing beside each mound before 
crossing the next open space. As they went deeper into the complex, the silence 
grew more intense. The horses' hooves made no noise on the turf. Paks could not 
bring herself to speak. The breath caught in her throat, but she could not 
cough. At last Macenion raised his hand for a halt. When he turned to look at 
her, his face was paler, she thought, than it had been. He swallowed visibly, 
then spoke, his voice soft.
"We'll leave the horses here. They won't stray. They have grass, and there's a 
fountain ahead. Ill put a spell on them, as well."
Now that the silence had been broken, Paks found she could speak, though it was 
still an effort. "Have you found the way to what we're looking for?"
"Yes. I think so. Look there—" Macenion pointed out one of the mounds ahead, and 
Paks saw that under an overgrowth of ivy and flowering briar (flowering? she 
thought) it was almost intact: a curious round structure with columns on the 
outside and a bulbous roof. She could see, as well, the fountain that lay before 
it, a clear pool whose surface rippled as if in a breeze. "I've heard that such 
a building lay in the center of this place," Macenion went on. "From it, 
passages lead to the vaults below and to other buildings. I in sure that the 
being we are to help is trapped somewhere below; this is the surest way down.'
Paks frowned. "If so, it's surely known to others, as well. To the enemy of that 
being, for instance. I'd rather not go in by such a public entrance."
"Scaredr Macenion's face twisted in a sneer. He glanced at her sword, then back 
at her face.
Paks fought back an angry retort. "No," she said quietly. "Not any more scared 
than you, with your pate face. But you brought a soldier along for a soldier's 
skills, and I learned in my first campaign that you don't go in the door that 
the enemy expects. Not if you want to live to have your share of the loot."   f
Macenion flushed in his turn, and scowled. "Well, that'sthe only way down that I 
know how to find. Besides, in my dream, this was shown as the way."
"Did your dream show both of us going in that way?"
"How else?"
"You hadn't thought we might need a rear guard."
"What for?"
"What for?" Paks glared at Macenion. "Haven't you any experience? Suppose that 
whatever-it-is, that evil tiling, has its own way to the surface, it could come 
after us, and attack from the rear, or trap us underground."
"Oh, I'm sure it wouldn t—couldn't—"
"Like you were sure about the other things? No, Macenion, I'm not going down 
there without knowing a little more about it. Surely your magrc can show you 
something, or guard the way behind us.'
Macenion looked thoughtful. "If you insist, I suppose I can think of something. 
It might be better, after SM-" He burrowed into his tunic, then gave Paks a 
sharp look. "You can walk around a bit—-look for another entrance—"
"I wish you'd quit worrying. I'm not another magician, and I couldn't use 
anything I might see."rt
Macenion drew himself up. "It's a matter of principle.
Paks snorted, but moved away. She decided to take the packs off Star and see if 
there was anything she might want to take underground. Macenion, she noticed, 
hadn't thought of that. As she went through their gear, she wondered again what 
she was doing following such a person. She did not like the thought of going 
undergrouncf, in a unknown place against unknown dangers, at all. Especially 
with someone like Macenion. Perhaps with a squad of the Duke's Company, but a 
single half-elf? But a scene from her dream recurred: after victorious combat, 
she was receiving the homage of those who had asked her help—she was given a new 
weapon, of exquisite workmanship, and a suit of magical armor. Honor—glory—her 
reputation made as a fighter. She shook her head, driving the vision away. A 
chance for glory, Stammel had always said, was a chance to be killed 
unpleasantly. Still—she had left the Company to seek adventure and fame and a 
chance to fight for such causes as now lay before her. Could she miss the 
chance? She piled on one side the things she thought would be useful, and made 
the rest into a small bundle.
"Well need something to light the way," said Macenion suddenly^ "Whatever the 
elves used may not be working, and I don't want to use magical light until it's 
needed." He was going through his own pack. "This should do. This oil—these 
candles—and yes, I can set a spell at our backs that will keep out any 
trouble—at least give us warning. We probably won't be that long, but I suppose 
we should take water and some food."
"How about the fountain? Is it safe?"
"I should think so. Try it." Macenion held out his water bottle to Paks. She 
frowned.
"If it's elvish, you try it first."
"What a brave warrior! Very well, then." Macenion dipped his bottle in the 
fountain pool. Nothing happened. "You see? Just water."
"Good." Paks, too, filled her water bottle from the fountain pool, then bent to 
drink directly from it. The water was cold and had a feint mineral tang. 
Although the water seemed perfectly clear, she could not see the bottom of the 
pool. Somehow, after drinking, she no longer considered not following Macenion 
under the ruins.
Macenion led the way through a tangle of ivy into the building. From within, 
Paks could see that the original domed roof had been pierced by a number of 
skylights, each with an ornamental molding around it. The interior walls were 
still covered with inlay of many-colored stones that formed a dazzling array of 
designs. Hie floor was a mosaic of cool grays and soft greens, rounded pebbles 
that looked like those in any mountain stream, but chosen carefully to match in 
size and shape.
"Here it is," said Macenion, pointing to a circle of darker stones laid in the 
center of the room.
"What?"
Macenion looked smug. "The door—the way in."
"That?"
"Yes." He drew out a short black rod; Paks looked down, more frightened than she 
cared to admit. Some-tiling sizzled, and she looked quickly at die circle: it 
was gone. A hole in the floor revealed a spiral stair. Dust lay thick on the 
stone steps.
Paks took a deep breath. "Do you think we're the first to come this way? The 
first to be asked for help?"
"I don't know. Probably not. Only a magician could find this way down, you know. 
Perhaps others couldn't find a way to help and went away. You stay here a 
moment, while I take a quick look down." Macenion set a careful foot on the 
first step. Nothing happened. He went down several more, bending to look beneath 
the floor. Pafo looked out the way they had come in, half expecting some monster 
to appear on their trail, but there was nothing. As she watched, Macenton's 
horse moved past die opening to drink at the fountain; she heard it sucking the 
water up. When she looked back at the hole in the floor, Macenion was coming 
back up. "Just below, the ceiling's much higher, we won't have any problem. And 
I don't see that any-thing's disturbed the dust. The only thing is, the stair is 
only one person wide—"
Paks suppressed a last shudder of doubt about the wisdom of this whole project, 
and grinned at him. "I suppose you'd like the fighter to go in front, eh? Well, 
I can't see behind myself; I'd just as soon know who's at my back." She drew her 
sword as she spoke. "But I’ll have this out, just in case. What about tight? 
Must I carry a candle or torch?"
"No-o—" said Macenion, climbing out of her way onto die floor. "There's light."
"What sort of light?"
'I'm not sure. It may be the same the elves used. But it's easily light enough 
to see."
"What if it goes out? You'd best keep some sort of flame alight, Macenion."
Why should it go out if it's lasted this long? Oh, all right—' he answered her 
look of disgust. "But you're so suspicious."
MI'm alive," said Paks, "and I intend to stay that way."
"As a fighter, an adventurer?"
"Some do," said Paks, starting down the stairs. "And from what I hear, those 
that do stay suspicious. Magicians, too."
The stair dropped steeply, and curved to the right, back under die floor. Paks 
found that she did not have to duck at all; when she thought about it, she 
remembered that elves were, in general, taller than humans. Light filled the 
stairwell as far as she could see, a gentle, white light with no apparent 
source. She looked back once, to see the deep scuffing footprints she had made 
in the dust. Macenion was just in sight, several steps higher. After what she 
judged was die first half-turn, the steps were not so steep. She could move more 
easily now, and, of course, anything coming up could do so as well. She glanced 
back again, for Macenion, and thought of the spefl he had promised to put at 
their backs.
"What did you do up there?" she asked softly, nodding upward.
"It's open," he said. "If I'd closed it, and anything happened to me, you 
couldn't get out that way. But I put a spell on the opening that should repel 
anything from outside trying to get in. And just in case, I put another spell on 
it to give us an alarm if something does go through."
All that sounded impressive to Paksenarrion. She hoped it would work. "Do you 
know how far this goes down?'
"No. It should open into a wide hall at die bottom, though."
Paks went on. The mysterious light bothered her. The silence bothered her. She 
felt her hand grow sweaty on her sword hilt, and that bothered her. Nothing had 
happened; no danger appeared, and yet her breath came short, just as if she were 
a recruit in her first battle. She concentrated on the construction of the 
stair: pale gray stone underfoot, and slightly darker gray stone on the walls 
and vaulted ceiling. The stair treads were ribbed, under the dust, and when she 
reached to feel the walls, she found that they were lightly incised with an 
intricate design. Remembering Macenion's warning, she took her fingers off the 
wall. She looked back over her shoulder again. Macenion, too, had one hand on 
the wall; when he met her eyes he smiled at her.
"It's decoration and information both," he said. "I can read some of it, though 
I'd have to stand here a long time to figure it out. But for those who lived 
here, it would be a way of telling how far they had come, though that's not what 
it says, exactly." He moved his hand along the section of wall nearest him. 
"This, for example, is part of an old song: The Long Ride of Torre.' Do you know 
it?"
Paks nodded. "If that's the same Torre as Torre's Necklace."
"Of course. Do you know the story?"
"Yes." Paks turned again and kept stepping down. The dust seemed no thicker, and 
with no changes in light or silence, she had a hard time figuring out how for 
they had come. At last she saw an opening ahead, rather man a curving wall. As 
she came to the last step, and waited for Macenion to close in behind her, she 
could see a space of dusty stone paving, and nothing else. Although it was light 
beyond the opening, any walls were too far away to show.
"Now this, I believe, was the winterhall," said Macenion, peering past her. "Go 
on, Paksenarrion."
"And have whatever's waiting beside the door take my head off? Let's be 
careful." Paks unslung her small shield and reached for Macenion's walking 
staff.
He jerked it away. "What?"
Paks sighed. "Remember what I just said about doorways? Better a piece of wood 
than my neck."
"Oh, all right." Macenion handed over his staff grumpily. Paks tied the shield 
quickly to one end, and stuck it through the door. Nothing happened. She pulled 
it back, handed Macenion his staff, tightened the shield on her arm, and slipped 
quickly through the doorway, putting her back to the wall beside it.
She was in a large bare hall, lit by the same mysterious means as the stair. It 
stretched away on either side of the doorway she'd come through for twice the 
distance of its width. No furniture remained, and dust covered the broad floor. 
Macenion came through after her, and looked up. Pafcs followed his gaze. Far 
overhead the arched ceiling was formed into intricate branches and vaults, a 
tracery of stone such as Pales had never seen. Between ribs of dark stone, 
patterns of smaller colored ones gave almost the effect of a forest overhead.
"That's—beautiful—" she whispered, hardly aware of speaking.
For once, Macenion did not take a superior tone. "It's—I've never seen the like 
myself. I knew this was once the seat of the High King, but I never imagined—" 
He took a few steps out into the hall, and looked at his footprints. "Certainly 
this has not been disturbed for many years—perhaps not since they left."
Paks had noticed, at the right end of the hall, a darker alcove. "What's that?"
"That should lead to other passages. But I can't understand why there are no 
signs at all." Macenion stopped and shook his head. "We won't find out anything 
by standing here. Let me think—"
Paks scanned the walls again. At the left end of the hall was a dais, four steps 
up from the main level, and at the back of it an arched doorway. Two heavily 
patterned bronze doors closed the opening. Across from her, on the other long 
wall, were four doorways, also closed with heavy doors. At the right end, no 
doors showed save the alcove, if that was, as Macenion said, an opening.
"Do you know where any of these doors lead?" she asked.
"The door on the dais leads to the royal apartments. The others—no, blast it, I 
can't remember. We'll have to look and see."
"Would the doors be locked?"
"I doubt it. They may be spelled, though. Luckily I have ways of handling that. 
Perhaps we should start with the royal apartments. We might find something 
worthwhile there."
Paks felt a twinge. "We're here to help that trapped thing, first. I don't think 
treasure hunters would be lucky here."
"I was thinking we might find something that would help us free the spirit, 
Paksenarrion. It wasn't just greed."
Paks was not convinced. She turned from one side to the other, trying to feel 
which way to go. Was that a pull toward the right end? Or the door directly 
across from her? And if it was, did it come from the one they wanted to help or 
from the enemy? She shook her head, as if to clear it, and watched Macenion 
approach the royal doors. A feeling of wrongness grew stronger. He reached the 
foot of the dais.
"Macenion! No!" She surprised herself as much as him with her shout.
He whirled to face her. "What?"
"Don't go that way." She was utterly certain of danger. She moved quickly to his 
side, and lowered her voice. "That's wrong; I'm sure of it. If you go up there, 
well—"
"Paksenarrion, you're no seer. I assure you that we may very well find, in the 
royal apartments, clues to what sort of spirit may be locked here. We'll 
certainly find information about the layout of the underground passages."
"That may be, but if you open that door, Macenion, you'll wish you hadn't."
He looked at her closely. "Have you had some sort of message? From a—a god, or 
something like that?"
"I don't know. But I know you shouldn't go that way. And I may not be a seer, 
Macenion, but I have had warning feelings before, and they've been true."
"A fighter?" He arched his brows.
"Yes, a fighter! By the gods, Macenion, carrying a sword in my hand doesn't mean 
I don't carry sense between my ears. If a warning comes, I heed it."
"I wish you'd told me before about your extra abilities. It comes hard to 
believe in them now, when I've never seen them." He gave her a superior smile. 
"Very well, then… since you're so sure. We'll wander about down here with no 
other guidance than your intuition. Perhaps you're turning into a paladin or 
something."
Paks glared at him, angry enough to strike, but relieved that he had turned away 
from the dais. Macenion looked around the hall.
"Which door would you suggest, since you don't like my choice?"
"What about that alcove?" asked Paks. "Or the center doors on the long side 
there?"
Macenion shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me. Why not the alcove? It's as far as 
possible from those you rear." Paks flushed but held her peace as they walked 
the length of the hall.
The alcove was deeper than it looked; the light was deceptive. Within it were 
two doors, both bronze. One had a design on it that reminded Paks of a tree; the 
other was covered with interlacement bands that enclosed many-pointed stars. 
Macenion looked at her. "Do you have any feelings about either of these? My own 
preference would be for the stars; stars are sacred to elves."
Paks felt, in feet, a stubborn desire to use the door with the tree, but she 
felt no special menace from the other one. With Macenion grinning at her in such 
a smug way, she didn't want to press a mere preference. "That will do. I don't 
have anything against it, anyway." When Macenion simply stood there, she asked 
sharply, "Aren't you going to open it?"
"As soon as I figure out how. It's locked, spell-locked—if you laid a hand on 
it, you'd be flat on your back. I'm surprised your intuition didn't tell you 
that."
Paks wondered herself, and thought that if her intuition worked on bigger 
things, they'd better pay attention to it. She said nothing, however, and as 
Macenion stood in apparent thought, she turned to keep watch on the rest of the 
room.
When she looked the length of the room toward the dais, she thought she saw a 
feint glow around the doors there. She looked at the other doors in the room. 
They looked the same. When she looked back at the dais, the glow was more 
definite. It had an irregular shape, and seemed to be coming from the joint 
between the doors—as if it were seeping through.
"Macenion!"
"What now?!" He turned to her angrily. Paks pointed toward the dais. "I don't 
see—by the gods! What's that?"
"I don't know. I don't like it. Did you step up on the dais?"
"No. You yelled, and I—I may just have touched the lower step with my foot—"
"I hope not. It's brighter, now."
"So I see. I wonder if it's—by Orphin, I'd better get this spell correct."
"What is it?"
"Not now! Just watch. Tell me if it gets more than halfway down the hall."
"But what can I do to hold it back?"
"If it's what I think, nothing. Now let me work."
Paks turned to stare at the mysterious glowing shape, which grew slowly as she 
watched. It seemed to spread, widening itself to the width of the dais, and 
slowing its forward movement as it did so. At first she had been able to see 
through it clearly, but as it grew and thickened, she could no longer see the 
doors behind it. She felt sweat crawling through her hair. Her intuition had 
been right, but what was this thing? Surely there was a way to fight it. Now it 
reached the forward edge of the dais. Paks could hear Macenion muttering behind 
her. She heard a feint sizzle, then a little pop. Macenion cursed softly and 
went back to muttering. The glowing shape extended along the front edge of the 
dais, and began to grow taller. Slowly it filled the space above the dais, from 
the doors behind to the lowest step in front, rising higher and higher to the 
canopy that hung between the dais and the ceiling. When this space was full, the 
glow intensified again. It seemed more and more solid, as if it were a definite 
shape settling there. As it solidified, it contracted a little, no longer so 
regular. Just as Macenion's triumphant "Got itl" broke her concentration, Paks 
thought she could see the shape it was condensing toward.
"Come on, Paks. Quickly!" Macenion grabbed her arm to hurry her through the 
now-open door, and looked back. "Great Orphin, protect us, it is a—Come on!"
Paks tore her eyes from the glowing shape, and darted through the door after 
Macenion. He waited on the other side and threw his weight against the heavy 
panel. As it swung closed, a curious hissing noise came from the hall they had 
left.
"Help me—close it!" Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him. 
She, too, leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch 
with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it 
from the other side. "Don't let it come open," warned Macenion. "If that gets 
out, we're dead."
"What is it?"
"Not now! I'm trying to—" Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a 
language Paks didn't know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other side 
of the door. "Blast! Wrong one. " Macenion began muttering again, as Paks held 
the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that she 
needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. "That should do it," he 
said. "I expect it will. You can let go now, Pales."
"What was that?" Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.
"I don't know how to explain it to you."
'A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any intruder, 
elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, aH of them unpleasant."
"And a sword would be no use against it?"
Macenion laughed. "No."
"Is it the thing we came to find? What's holding the other thing prisoner?"
"No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may prove 
harder than I thought. And we certainly can't risk returning this way to the 
surface."
"Unless we've destroyed that thing." Paks felt better. Her intuition had been 
right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits. 
Macenion looked at her curiously.
"Don't you understand? We can't destroy that—and we don't know any other way 
out. If what we're looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out."
Paks grinned. "I understand. We took the bait, and we're in the trap: and we 
don't even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don't know the size of 
their catch." She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment. "You 
managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly 
clangers. And—I've been in traps before."
"Yes, but—Well, there's no help for it. We'd better keep moving. We want to be 
well away from that door if it breaks through."
They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and ahead 
of them was an archway into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was thick with 
dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion followed.
The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but 
two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many 
feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their 
right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.
"That should have been the cellar," said Macenion. "I wonder if any of the wine 
is left."
Paks chuckled. "After so long? It wouldn't be worth trying."
"I suppose not. We'll go this way, then. He gestured to the left. As they 
crossed the kitchen, Paks looked around for any sign of recent disturbance but 
saw nothing.
"Was that thing back there what drove the elves out?" asked Paks.
"No. I don't think so. Enough high elves together would be able to drive it 
away. It's—weD, you humans know of gods, don't you? Good and evil gods?"
"Of course." Paks glared at him for an instant.
"Do you know of the Court of Gods? Their rankings, and all that?"
Paks shook her head. "Gods are gods."
"No, Paksenarrion, they are not. Some are far more powerful than others. You 
should have learned that in Aarenis, even as a soldier. You fought in Sibili, 
didn't you? Yes—and didn't you see the temple of the Master of Torments there? I 
heard it was sacked."
Paks shivered as she remembered die assault on Sibili. "I was knocked out," she 
said. "I didn't see it."
"Well, you've heard of the Webmistress—"
"Of course. But what—"
"Liart—die Master of Torments—and diat odier, they're both fairly low in the 
court of evil. Between the least of the gods and die common evils of the world, 
there are still beings—they have more power than any human or elf, but not 
nearly so much as a god."
Paks was suddenly curious. "What about the heroes and saints like Gird and 
Pargun?"
"Who knows? They were humans once; I don't know what, if anything, they are now. 
But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far below the 
gods. Our gods—the gods of elves."
The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and 
saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway blocked 
by a dosed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks noticed that 
the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps began to ring on 
the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had moved the dust. 
Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his head.
"I don't know. Draft under that door, possibly—"
"Underground?" Paks remembered that she didn't know much about underground 
construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible 
toward the door.
In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and 
intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently. It 
felt a slightly warm under her hand. "That's odd. It's—"
The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a 
blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather 
and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.
"'Ere's our bonus, lads!" he said. "The ears off these'll give us something to 
show the lord—"
Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of 
pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her 
throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one 
of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner 
ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost 
silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the attackers 
to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most of them, and 
she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her concentration; 
as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She grunted, 
grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall to skewer 
her opponent. Macenion's arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks shifted her 
ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her helmet that 
gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood trickling down toward 
her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword away from one of their 
attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face. They advanced again; the 
other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two were still fighting. The 
others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay scattered on the corridor floor. 
Paks expected them to break away and flee, but they didn't; instead, they fought 
doggedly on, until she and Macenion managed to kill them.
Chapter Five
Paks leaned against the wall breathing heavily. Her side ached, and she could 
feel a trickle of blood running down die side of her face. Her shield had 
broken; she pufled the straps free and dropped the pieces. Macenion had ripped a 
length of cloth from his tunic, and was wrapping the wound on his arm. As he 
moved, she caught a gnmpse of the bright mail under his outer clothing.
"If I a known you wore mail," she said finally, "I wouldn't have worried so 
much. I was sure you were being skewered."
Macenion glanced up. "I nearly was. By Orphin, you're a good fighter in trouble. 
I wouldn't have made it alone, even with mail." He looked at her more closely. 
"You're bleedings-is it bad?"
"I don't think so. Just a cut on the head, and they always bleed—a mess." Paks 
swiped at her face with her free hand, and found the cut itself, a shallow gash 
near the edge of her helmet.
Here—" Macenion sheathed his sword and came over. "Let me clean that out." Paks 
looked at title bodies on the floor as he wiped out the cut with something from 
a jar in his pack. It burned, but the bleeding stopped. The bodies did not move, 
this time. When Macenion finished, she pushed herself off the wall, grunting at 
the pain in her side, and wiped her sword clean on the dirty cloak of the 
nearest enemy. She wished they could stop and rest, but she distrusted the 
flavor of the air down here.
"I suppose we ought to keep going," she said, half hoping that Macenion would 
insist on rest and food.
'Definitely. Whatever sent these guards will know, soon enough, that we've 
passed them. If we're to have any surprise at all, well have to go on. Why? Are 
you hurt?"
"No." Pales sighed. "Bruised, but no more. I wish we were out of here."
"As do I." Macenion gave a short laugh. "I begin to think that my elven 
relatives have more wit than I gave them credit for—they may have been right to 
tell me that I would find more trouble here than treasure."
But along with her fear and loathing of the underground maze in which they were 
wandering, Paks felt a pull of excitement and interest. With each encounter they 
were pressed more closely, but so far they had won, penetrating deeper and 
deeper into their enemy's lair. In a corner of her mind, Paks saw herself 
telling this tale to Vik and Arne in an inn somewhere. She checked her sword for 
damage, finding none, and turned to Macenion. He nodded his readiness, and she 
set off carefully, sword ready.
They passed an open door into an empty room on their right, and another like it 
a few feet down on the left. Ahead of them, the corridor turned again. Paks 
looked at Macenion and he shrugged. She flattened against the wall and edged 
forward to the turn. She could hear nothing. She widened her nostrils, hoping 
for a clue to what lay ahead. Her own smell, and Macenion's, overwhelmed her 
nose. Finally, with a mental shrug, she peeked around the corner. An empty 
corridor, its dusty floor scuffed and disturbed. Four doorways that she could 
see in the one quick look she allowed herseE A crossing corridor a short run 
ahead.
"Do you have any of your feelings about any of this?" asked Macenion when she 
described what she'd seen.
"No. Not really. The whole things feels bad, but nothing in particular."
"Nor can I detect anything. I wish our friend who wants our help would give us 
some guidance."
Paks felt around in her mind to see if anything stirred. Nothing but a feint 
desire to get moving. She sighed. "Let's go, then."
The doors that opened off the corridor were all of wood; all bore the scars of 
some sort of fire. One was burned half through, and they could see into a small 
room with stone shelves built into the walls. At the cross corridor, Paks took 
one corner and Macenion the other. To the right, her way, the corridor ended in 
a blank stone wall perhaps fifty paces away. To the left, it opened after 
perhaps thirty paces into a chamber whose size they could not guess. Macenion 
cocked his head that way, and Paks began to edge along the wall of the cross 
corridor toward the chamber door. Macenion stayed where he was.
As she neared the opening, Paks felt a wave of confidence. Surely they were 
going the right direction. Macenion was being too cautious, as usual. She 
hesitated only a moment before putting her head around to see what the chamber 
was like.
Here, for the first time, was something not desolate and ruined. The floor had 
been laid of colored blocks of stone, pale green and gold, and was swept clean 
of dust so that the pattern was clearly visible. At the far end of the chamber, 
a great ring of candles seemed to hover in midair. After a moment, Paks realized 
that they were attached to a metal framework suspended from a chain that ran to 
a ringbolt in the high ceiling. Candlelight warmed the cool white light of the 
corridors to a friendlier hue. In that warm glow, on a brilliantly colored 
carpet, stood a tall figure robed in midnight blue. Its face was subtly like 
Macenion "s, and yet different; Paks knew at once that she stood in the presence 
of an elf, and someone of high rank. Along the for wall of the chamber were 
several motionless figures: humans, for the most part, clad in rough garments of 
gray and brown like poor servants. Paks looked at the elf's face. Its bones 
showed clearly under the skin, yet there was no hint of age or decay. Hie eyes 
were a clear pale green. She felt no fear, though she was fully aware of the 
elf'spower, so much greater than Macenion's. The elf'swide mouth curved in a 
smile.
"Welcome, fair warrior. Was your companion too frightened to come so far with 
you?"
Paks shook her head, uncertain how to answer. She had the vague thought that no 
elves should be here. But perhaps this was the person they had come to help? She 
could not seem to think clearly. The elf was not frightened of her, and did not 
seem angry—and elves were, if uncanny, at least not evil. As she thought this, 
she realized that she was walking forward, moving out into the chamber. 
"Excellent," the elf continued. 'I shall be glad to receive you both into my 
service." He gestured to the line of servants. "You see how few I have, and you 
have just killed some of my best fighters. It is only fair that you take their 
place."
Paks found her voice at last. "But, sir, I have a deed to perform, before 1 can 
take service with another." She tried to stand still; her feet crept forward 
despite her efforts. She knew she should be afraid but she could feel nothing. 
"Oh?" The silvery elven voice was amused. "And what is that?"
Paks found it difficult to say, or even think. A confusion of images filled her 
mind: die Halveric's face as he handed her a sealed packet, the Duke's parting 
words, the images of victory and glory that had come in the dream of the night 
before. She had advanced to the edge of the carpet. This close to the elf, she 
noticed a distinct, slightly unpleasant odor. Even as her nose wrinkled in 
distaste, the odor changed, becoming spicy and attractive. She drew a deep 
breath.
"Now—" the elf began, but at that moment, Macenion cried out from the for end of 
the chamber. "Pales! What are you—"
Only for a moment those green eyes shifted from Paks; then the elf chuckled. 
"Well, so your companion finally gathered his courage. Stand near me, fair 
warrior, and show him your allegiance." And Paks stepped onto the soft carpet 
and stood silent beside the elf, unable to move or speak. She could just see 
Macenion from the corner of her eye. The elf went on. "You think yourself a 
mage, I understand—you have scarcely the powers to match me, crossbred runt."
Macenion reddened at this reference to his human ancestry. "You don't know what 
I might have—" he began.
"If you had any abilities I need worry about, you'd not have let yourself walk 
into this trap. You sensed nothing, at the last turn—you said so."
Macenion glared, and slid his hand stealthily under his cloak.
The elf nodded. "Go ahead—try your little spells if you wish. It won't do any 
good. Nor will that wand. But try it, if you like—" He laughed. "Do you not even 
wish to know who it is that you face, little mage? Are you in the habit of 
loosing spells on chance-met strangers?
"We are not chance-met, I fear," said Macenion. He came forward a short 
distance, then stopped. "And if I cannot put a name to you, still I have a good 
idea what you are."
"What and not who? What erudition! And what makes you think I cannot charm you 
to obedience, as I did your—delightful—companion, here?"
Macenion smiled in his turn. "Charm a mage? You well know what that would get 
you. If you would use me as a mage, you need my mind unclouded—"
"But not unbroken, little one. Remember that."
Macenion bowed, as arrogantly as Paks had ever seen him. "Yet a pebble," he 
said, "may be harder to break than a pine, though insignificant beside it."
"Are you to quote dwarvish proverbs to me?" The elf sounded slightly less amused 
than before. Paks, listening to all this, could scarcely pay attention to it; 
her mind seemed to float at a slight distance.
Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated 
movement of his right hand, and said a few strange words loudly. Paks heard the 
hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move, she 
felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she even 
knew she could move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the ruin of 
it, and the stench stung her nose,
"Paks!" shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A blast 
of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword met 
another in his hand.
"Cross blades with me, will you?" The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze from 
them to watch the sword hand. "No human has skill to match an elf—arid I am no 
common elf." Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability. Paks fought 
on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided a quick 
trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to hesitate an 
instant—an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on, furiously. 
Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, but he had won her freedom from 
whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and show this creature 
what human skill could be.
Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as often 
her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she found herself 
grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same smile curved 
his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist began to ache, as 
he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually taller than those 
she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a longer reach. One of 
his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one knee. She felt the links 
of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the next blow and staggered back. 
She wanted to look for Macenion, but darea not. The elf'ssmile widened.
"You are outclassed, human fighter," he said lightly. "You are quite good, for a 
human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your lord, 
and this can end."
Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement 
behind the elf? She lunged again, her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided 
his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her 
face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she 
meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on 
with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf's astonished stroke. The 
frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring, 
Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she kicked 
out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt slipping 
from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the frame as it 
fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself from the ring, 
Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which caught his robe 
afire, he parried her blows weakly.
And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil 
supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel. A 
foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire, 
denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to 
her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air 
rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that 
Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She 
managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants, were 
shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.
When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had 
dragged her. The elf'sbody had not been consumed in the fire, though it was 
horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it, 
frowning.
Paks tried several times before she could speak. "What's—wrong? He's dead, isn't 
he?"
"I wish I knew. That land of power—it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that took 
over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I wonder if 
he is dead—truly. I've heard tales of such—"
Paks didn't want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and 
found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and 
forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely 
connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion 
were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over to 
see.
"Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn't be here without it. 
Can't you do something to make sure he stays dead?"
For once Macenion did not seem complacent. "No," he said soberly. "That's beyond 
my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he chose a 
simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for me, or 
perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now—"
"Couldn't we put a stake through his heart?"
"What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his 
corpse to a crossroads, too?"
Paks flushed. "I don't know. I just remembered some old stories…"
"That won't work for him. Whatever took him over won't be withheld by any simple 
measures."
"We could—" Paks swallowed hard, then went on. "We could cut—dismember him."
"You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, 
Paksenarrion, I don't even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor 
should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see 
that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is 
blackened but unblistered."
"Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?"
Macenion shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body 
from whatever power holds it so."
"But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?"
"Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, 
their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways."
Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry—and 
thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a 
couple of swallows, she felt much better. "It's too bad," she said, "that you 
don't know what's in that fancy scroll you're so proud of."
Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. "I never 
thought of that," he said. "I wonder if—' and he rummaged around inside his 
tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. "It's 
difficult—" he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. "You 
remember I told you how expensive it was?" Paks nodded. "Thing is, a magical 
scroll—one that has on it a workable spell—-can be written only by a magician 
who can cast the spell without it. I don't know why; it seems a silly rule, and 
it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there 
it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he 
trusts; his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is 
which—or he sets his private mark on each—and all's well. But for someone who 
comes across one of these scrolls—for away from the person who wrote it—it's 
difficult to tell what it is without reading it."
"Then read it," said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. 
"You can read—?"
"Of course, I can read! That's not die point. That's how it's^used—by reading 
it. If I read it, whatever it is happens."
"Oh. But if it's not the right thing, can't you just read another?"
"No. Think! In the first place, suppose it's a spell to turn everyone but me in 
the room to stone. I read it, and there you are; stone."
"Right away?" Paks was startled.
"Yes, right away. And before you ask: no, I don't have any spell to turn you 
back—if one exists, and if I cared to use it. Contrary to popular belief, 
reading the spell backwards doesn't make it reverse. And in the second place, 
once it's read, it's gone. Poof!"
"Gone how?"
"Gone from the scroll. The magic is used up, and it—leaves.**
"Oh. So there's no way to—to peek?"
Macenion allowed himself to look amused. "No. Not that I ever heard of. There 
are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts 
to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the 
marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it's worth 
chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good." He peered at the 
scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.
"I might just take a look into the corridors," said Paks casually. "In case 
someone is coming—"
"Good idea. Then you'll be out of range if something does happen." Paks had not 
realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but 
looked into the corridor diagonally opposite to that from which she'd entered 
the chamber. This was the way the "servants" had left. She could see no one 
before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. 
He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. "Gp 
on—not too far. I think I'll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they 
should be fairly powerful." Paks went on as far as the turn.
It seemed a long time before he called. His voice was high and excited. Paks 
swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a 
blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf's body. A dry clatter brought her 
eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they 
crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion's 
eyes. He was pale and trembling.
"It worked," she said unnecessarily.
"Yes. It—by Orphin, I'm tired. That—even reading it—that was beyond my powers—" 
He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time 
unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak 
under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. 
"What—? Oh yes. That." Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long 
drink, and shook his head at the food. After another swallow, he rolled up to a 
sitting position and shook his head sharply.
"Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?" 
Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, 
she had little hope of escape.
"I think so. That—was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for 
you, or been more practiced at swordplay—we wouldn't be here."
'Then what were we to free? The elfs body? That couldn't have called us. What 
else is there?"
Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. "No. You're right. We haven't been 
greeted with cries of joy and armfüls of reward, have we? Something still to be 
done—by Orphin, I don't know if I can manage any more spells today." He reached 
for the food and started earing slowly. "Maybe you won't need to. If whatever it 
was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it."
"I hope it's that easy." Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. "I just 
had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn't trapped in a jewel or something worn 
by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we're out of luck."
"If only we get out of this," said Paks, "we'll be in luck."
"True. Did you see anything down that corridor?"
"No. Nothing."
Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways 
to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, 
Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if 
for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.
"Wait—" Macenion's face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own 
sword, and tested the balance. "I sense something—"
"Not that thing in the Winter Hall!" Macenion shook his head. "No. Not so dire 
as that. But it's as if my blood tingled—some enemy is below, and coming 
nearer."
Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corndor was slightly too wide 
for two to hold. "We'd better go on, then, and hope for something we can use."
Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.
"Don't you want to stay back and prepare your spells?"
"I told you—I can't do that again today. I'd never be able to cast a simple fire 
spell, let alone anything useful."
The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was 
increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found herself 
whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her curiously, 
and she blushed and fell silent.
Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. "What's that?"
Macenion looked eager. "Ah, I might have known. Ores, that's what. They would 
move in when the elves were driven away."
"Ores?" Paks had heard of ores; they had raided Three Firs in her 
great-grandfather's day, but she had not expected to meet any.
"Ugly but cowardly," said Macenion briskly. "If that was their master, they'll 
want nothing better than escape. They won't be looking for experienced fighters 
like us—"
"If they want to escape, we can let them," suggested Paks.
"Let ores loose? Are you crazy? They're disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy—"
"How many are likely to be in a group?" Paks didn't care how disgusting they 
were; enough ores could kill them.
"Oh—not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by 
myself one time."
"But Macenion—"
"Paksenarrion, I've seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about. If 
we can handle that thing up there—" he jerked his head back where they'd been, 
"—we can handle a few ores. Trust me. Haven't I been right on this so far?"
"I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. Let's find a 
hiding place, and—"
"Where?"
Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still 
going down. They had passed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She 
shrugged, and went on.
Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks 
looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one 
wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere 
ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty ^gap opening into a tiny 
bare room. She grabbed Macenion's arm and pulled him in. He glared at her, but 
said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.
The first ores were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor covered 
their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly to the 
floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner curve, and 
the second dragged a short spear, short enough not to impede a fighter in the 
corridor. Paks noted toe spare knives in sheaths on both hips, and helmets that 
came low over the nose. Behind the first pair came another, whose voice they had 
heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and carried a spiked whip as 
well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others must have been unpleasant, 
for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled back at it. Paks flattened 
herself into the angle of wall away from the door, and hoped the ores would quit 
arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned toward the door. She realized 
suddenly that he was about to attack. He looked back at her and cocked his head 
at the door.
If he attacked them and was killed, they'd be sure to look in the room. Paks 
cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the door, 
sword ready.
"It's only three," hissed Macenion. "We can take them easily."
Paks hoped so. The argument outside was even louder. At least they could 
surprise the ores. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!
Her first blow caught the third ore low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than 
she'd expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing. 
Macenion had gone for the spear carrier and missed; the other sword bearer took 
one wild swipe at Macenion's head, then turned to Paks. The ore she had wounded 
flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The ores were 
faster than she'd expected. She parried the curved blade on one side and danced 
back from the wounded ore's whip. Macenion was trying to get past the guard of 
the spear carrier. She didn't envy him.
Once out of reach of the wounded ore, she found fencing with the other one 
strange but not as hard as she'd feared. Its reach was almost as long as hers, 
but low; it couldn't match her height. She had little trouble defending herself. 
Attack was harder. Her overhead blows fell on heavy armor. Paks abandoned that 
tactic and tested its quickness. Perhaps she could get behind it. She heard a 
yelp from Macenion, then a guttural command from the fallen ore. When she 
looked, Macenion was fencing left-handed, shaking blood from his right hand. 
That was the second wound to that arm. She attacked her own ore with sudden 
ferocity, and made a lucky stab under the right shoulder. The ore fell, 
snarling, and stabbed at her legs. Paks skipped back and ran to Macenion's 
opponent. He could not use a spear in two directions at once. Paks ran him 
through when he thrust at Macenion. But before they could do anything about the 
first ore she had wounded, it was bellowing even louder.
"Gods above!" gasped Macenion. "There's more of them!"
Paks heard the clamor almost as he spoke. "Which way?"
"I don't know! I—" He stared wildly around.
"Here!" Paks ripped a length of cloth from his cloak and wrapped it around his 
arm. "If we've got more to fight, you don't need to be dripping like that." She 
still could not tell where the sound came from; the corridor echoed confusingly.
"Well go down," said Macenion suddenly.
"Down! But—"
"Come on!" He whirled away from her and strode down the corridor; the noise was 
much louder. Paks looked after him an instant, and ran to catch up.
"How do you know they're not—" But Macenion wasn't listening. He hurried ahead, 
and again she had to stretch her tegs to catch him. "Macenion!" She caught at 
his arm as he neared the next turn.
It was too late. From around the turn erupted a wild band of ores, stinking and 
dressed in filthy leather armor. Before she could guess how many of them they 
faced, she was engulfed in a deadly lacework of iron: swords, knives, and axes 
swung around her. The harsh clamor of their voices and the ring of blades filled 
her ears; it seemed all she could see was weapons and armor. Then she realized 
that Macenion was nearby, fencing with skill she had not suspected. That slender 
blade he Bore had more strength than she'd thought.
"This way, Paks!" he yelled. He seemed to be ahead, still, and downward. Paks 
grunted and It toward him, taking a solid blow in one side as she came away from 
the wall. She felt the rings of her chainmail shirt dig in to die same place 
she'd been hit earner, but it held whatever blade that was. She caught one ore 
under the chin, and dodged another. The place was full of them—she saw a 
doorway, now, and another doorway, and ores in both. She slipped on something 
underfoot and staggered. Lucidly they couldn't all reach her at once, and she 
hacked on, grimly determined to kill as many as she could before they killed 
her. She couldn't see Macenion, now.
Suddenly the ores gave way in front of her, and she plunged through them to find 
herself in a circular chamber, hi front of her, Macenion lay nice down as be had 
fallen, an axe standing out of his back. Beyond his body rose a focus of light 
that changed color as she looked. She whirled to face the ores. They blocked the 
doorway, grinning and muttering. One at the rear of the mass yelled out, and 
they started toward her. She gave one quick glance to the chamber—no other door. 
And entirely too many ores: no hope of winning through them all. She took a deep 
breath and laughed, at peace with her fete.
Afterwards she was never sure How she came to move into the light. As the ores 
came forward, she ran to fight them over Macenion's body. They were too many, 
and pressed her back, and back again. Someone or something was calling 
her—wanted her to do something—but she had no lime, no hands, for anything but 
die fight. As in a dream she felt one ragged blade catch her arm, and another 
stabbed deep into her leg. Ore stench choked her nose; she gasped for breath, 
with a sudden memory of the young soldier in her first battle, a wry grin for 
the girl who would never get home. Back, and back again, a step at a time. She 
kept expecting a blow from behind, but it never came. Her arm felt heavy and 
clumsy; her sword slid off an ore helmet as the dagger in her left hand parried 
another blade. She took a deep breath—her last, she thought—and lunged hard at 
the ore in front of her.
She could not reach him. He stood as close as her own arm, but his sword, 
thrusting at her, jabbing wildly, touched her not at all, nor hers, him. And a 
pressure filled her head, as if a river poured itself in one side and found no 
outlet. She felt herself falling under that pressure, her hand loosening, losing 
its grip on the dagger.
—Take—It was more of a picture than a word: a hand, grasping.
Paks stared at her own hand, open as if it were reaching for something.
—Take… this… thing—The pressure moved her eyes; she looked as it directed, and 
saw a blue egg-shaped object. She could not tell how far away it was, orhow big, 
or even what it was. She tried to frame a question. Instead, the command 
returned, and filled her whole head; she felt it would burst.—TAKE IT—
She reached toward the object, and felt an unpleasant oily sensation on the 
insides of her fingers, as if they were sinking slightly into it. But her hand 
closed around the object firmly. It felt disgusting, in ways she could not 
describe, and had never imagined. She would have dropped it, thrown it far away, 
but it clung to her hand. When she tried to open her fingers, they wouldn't 
move. All at once she felt the pain of all her wounds, the exhaustion of all die 
fighting, a great heaving wave of sickness that seemed to cut her fees from 
under her. She tried to raise her sword for one last blow.
And the pressure within suddenly burst out in a vast roar, a vibration so deep 
she felt it in her bones and hardly at all in her ears. The light was 
gone—darkness churned around her—she caught a last confused glimpse of ores 
screaming, tailing stones, Macenion's body glowing blue as fire—then a 
deafening, whirling confusion.
And silence.
Chapter Six
When she managed to lift her head, she was lying on the turf near the well. The 
building they had entered was down, collapsed in a heap of stones. It was broad 
daylight, with the sun's warmth filtered through high clouds. Paks took a 
breath, and sneezed. She was stiff and sore, and it was hard to think what had 
happened. Her head felt empty; her ears rang like a bucket. She looked at her 
hands—die one still cramped around the hilt of her sword, and the other empty, 
but with the feel of something filthy on it. She scrubbed it in the grass. Her 
eyes watered, and she swiped at them clumsily with her sword hand.
She knew she should get up, but she wished she could lie there and rest forever. 
After a moment, sighing, she forced hersetf up; elbows, knees—she rested there 
for a bit. Her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She looked at her sword; blood and 
dirt were caked on it. She shuffled on her knees to the well and took a handful 
of water to clean it. After a mouthful or two of that clear water, she began to 
feel more alert. The sword slid back in its scabbard sweetly—it feared nothing 
near. She looked around for the horses. Macenion's had disappeared; that seemed 
right. Star grazed unconcernedly across the well from her. There were the packs, 
lying open outside the ruins of the little building. Whatever had happened, 
there below, was over. She could do nothing for Macenion now. She must go on.
Even so she might have sat beside the well for the rest of the day if something 
had not moved her. The pressure she had felt before seeped back into her mind. 
This time it was more delicate: she was aware of it as a separate being. There 
were thanks, for her and Macenion. There were directions, specific and detailed. 
Slowly she rose to her feet, and slowly she gathered up her belongings. She 
wondered what to do with Macenion's things, and the being told her. This to the 
well, and that under a stone, and those to lie open on the grass, for the wind 
and sun to play with. Star came to her quietly, and she tied her pack to the 
frame.
Before she left, the being demanded one thing more. She was tired and found it 
hard to think, but the pressure gave her no ease until she obeyed. In that 
mound, through that gap—and take those things. She packed, vaguely aware that 
much of it was treasure: weapons decorated with gold and jewels, coins, rings, 
and baubles. But why the scrolls? She didn't understand, but she obeyed, picking 
up what she was bid, and stowing it away in Star's pack. As she worked, the 
clouds thickened overhead, and a chill wind rolled down from the mountains. She 
didn't notice. She felt no triumph, only a great tiredness.
As she stumbled away on the narrow track she had been nudged to follow, the 
first dancing flakes of snow fell from the thickening clouds behind her. Soon a 
light dusting whitened the tops of the mounds in the valley, outlined the limbs 
of trees and clung to the cedars in little furry clumps. The clouds reached out, 
northwards, and gathered in the trail Paks had taken. Snow hung in the air 
around her, filling her lungs with its damp clean smell. She hardly noticed. It 
was harder and harder to walk. Every step seemed to take the last of her 
strength, as if she were pulling her legs out of the ground. Her left hand still 
felt dirty, and she rubbed it on her trousers as she walked, without realizing 
it. Uphill—it was all uphill, trying to clear the ridge on the far side of the 
valley. Paks caught at Star's pack, clung to it, and the sturdy pony plowed on, 
through the deepening snow, ears flat and tail clamped down. Her left side 
caught the blast of wind off the mountains. Soon it was numb, and she stumbled, 
lurching into Star, and then back, to tall face-down in die snow. A wave of 
nausea swept over her, but she had nothing to heave. Her stomach cramped. She 
couldn't push herself up; she felt the snow on the back of her neck, and then
The eHane taig, having won, settled back into place with satisfaction. Its rule 
ran to the boundary stones placed by die elves when first they came. If it could 
do something, for die one who freed it from such contamination, it might do 
so—but beyond the stones it could not go. And, as well, die troubles of weak 
mortals are of little interest to such as die eHane taig. Even less when it had 
suddenly been restored to its powers, and had much to do. She had received her 
reward. The elfane taig had no notion, of course, of die human value of what she 
had been given; gold, it knew, was prized by humans. Some of die other objects 
had come from humans in the first place. The eHane taig thought their return 
appropriate.
In die darkness the first elf mistook her snow-covered body for a drift of snow, 
and stumbled over it. His muffled curse disturbed the pony, huddled in a thicket 
nearby, and she snorted.
Quickly die next elves found die pony and soothed her, whisking die snow from 
her back and running deft hands over rhe pack straps. Meanwhile die first elf 
felt what was under the drift, and called for more light. Torches flared in die 
windy darkness.
"A human." Contempt laced the silver voice.
"A robber by die look of it—her," said another, holding out die patched cloak.
"Robber indeed," said one of die elves near Star. "Tnis Htde one is loaded with 
such treasure that she can hardly walk. And more than that, it comes from die 
banast taig.'
"Mother of Trees! I had not thought even die humans bold enough to rob there. Or 
skilled enough to escape." The leader of the group looked at a dagger and sheath 
from die pack and shook his head. "With such to carry, it must not DC escape, 
but something worse."
"She is alive," said the first elf, after finding a pulse.
"Not for long," said the leader. "We may not be able to challenge that evil, but 
we can deal with its minions. We can leave—"
"Look at this," said one of those going through the pack. He held out to the 
leader the sealed message from the Halveric. "Is this stolen as well?"
"We must know what we have here, before we decide what to do," added the one at 
Pak's side. "I feel no great evil in her." He had brushed the snow off her, and 
now caught his breath as he saw the rings on her hand. He worked off the one 
with the Duke's seal, and read the inscription inside. "This is no common 
robber, cousins. Here is a ring given for honor to a soldier of the Duke 
Phelan—Halveric's friend, and—"
"And we all know of Kieri Phelan. Yes. If she did not steal that as well. We 
shall wake her, then, and see what she says. I doubt that any fair tale can be 
told resulting in such a one bringing treasure out of the banast taig. But we 
shall see."
Pales was vaguely aware of voices talking over her head before she woke fully. 
They were strange-sounding voices, musical and light but carrying power 
nonetheless. Light glowed through her eyelids. She struggled toward it, and 
finally managed to raise her heavy lids.
"You waken at last," said one of the strange beings before her. He turned to 
speak to another, and Paks saw torchlight play over the planes of his face. It 
was clearly unhuman, and in it she saw full strength the strangeness that 
Macenion had shared. These must be elves. He looked back at her, his expression 
unreadable. "You were very cold. Can you speak now?"
Paks worked her jaw around, and finally managed to say yes, weakly.
"Very well. We have many questions for you, human warrior. It would be well for 
you to answer truthfully. Do you understand?"
"Who—are you?" Paks had no idea of elven politics, if any.
"Do you not know elves, human, when you see them?"
"I thought—elves—but who?"
Arched eyebrows rode up his forehead. "Do humans now concern themselves with the 
genealogy of elves, having so little themselves? If you would know, then, I am 
of the family of Sialinn—do you know what that means?" Paks shook her head. 
"Then you need know no more of my family. Who are you, and what lineage gives 
you the right to question elves?"
Paks remembered now Macenion's pride, and how Bosk had always said elves were 
haughty and difficult.
"I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she began. "Of Three Firs, far to die north 
and west—"
"Far indeed," said one of the other elves. "I have seen that place, though not 
for many years. Is there a birch wood, a day's ride west of it, in the side of a 
hill?"
"I don't know, sir; I never traveled so far before leaving to join the Duke's 
Company. Since then, I have never been home, or near it."
"Whose company was this you joined?"
"Duke Phelan s. He has a stronghold in northern Tsaia, and fights in Aarenis."
"A red-haired man?" Pals nodded, and the elf went on. "This packet sealed by the 
Halveric, in your baggage: how came you by that?"
"1 was given it, by the Halveric, to take to his home." Even as she spoke, Paks 
felt the cold darkness rolling over her again. One of the elves exclaimed, and 
she felt an aim under her shoulders. A cold rim touched her tips, and fiery 
liquid trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Warmth edged its way along her 
bones.
Not too much of that," said the first elf who had spoken to her. "In case we 
must—" He broke off and looked at her again. "You have come to a strange place, 
soldier of Duke Phelan and messenger of the Halveric. You have come to a strange 
place, anoyou seem—forgive me—weaker than I would expect such a soldier to be. 
Give us now an account of how you came here, and what you were doing in the 
valley of the banast taig."
Paks found it difficult to tell a coherent story. Events and places were tangled 
in her memory, so that she was hard put to distinguish the encounters of the 
last day or so from those in the past. Still she managed to convey the call she 
and Macenion had received, and the outline of their adventures undergound. The 
elves listened attentively, interrupting only to ask for clarification. When she 
finished, they looked at each other in silence. Then a burst of elven; it 
sounded to her like an argument. The leader turned to her again.
"Well, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you have told an unlikely tale, to be sure. 
Yet on the chance that it is true, I am sending one of my party into the banast 
taig to find out. Should he not return, or return in jeopardy, it will go hard 
with you."
In the snowy darkness, Paks could not tell how long the elf was gone. She lapsed 
into a doze, hardly aware of her surroundings. She was roused by a hand on her 
shoulder.
"Awake, warrior. You will need this—" and a hot mug pressed against her lips. 
She swallowed, still half asleep, and found the taste strange but pleasant. 
Slowly her drifting mind came back to her. She tried to sit up on her own, but 
was still too weak. The elves had pitched a shelter over her, and a tiny fire 
flickered in one corner, under a pot.
"You still need healing," said the elf leader. "I admit surprise, Paksenarrion. 
I would not have believed such a thing without proof. The banast taig freed to 
be the elfane taig again, and the pollution gone from its heart! We rejoice to 
know that. But you have taken more damage from that combat than you know: humans 
cannot fight evil of that power unscathed. Without healing, you would die before 
daylight."
Paks could not think what to say. She felt weak, and a little sick, but no worse 
than that. As the elf seemed waiting for something, she finally asked. "Was—did 
you find out about Macenion?"
"Macenion!" It was very nearly a snort. "That one! The elfane taig buried him 
cleanly with his orcish murderers; he is well enough."
"But he was an elf—half-elf, I meant. I thought you would—"
"Macenion a half-elf? Did he tell you that?" Paks nodded, and the elf leader 
frowned. "No, little one, he was not hatf-elven—not a quarter elven, either. He 
had so much elvish as might your pack pony have of racing blood."
"But he said—" Paks broke off. It was hard to talk, and she realized that 
Macenion's behavior made more sense the less elven he was.
"He lied. What did he tell you, Paksenarrion, to get you into that valley?"
"That—his elven cousins—denied him his rights to elvish things. That he knew 
of—treasure there—that should be his."
"Did he not warn you of evil at all?"
"Yes—but he said his magical talents could fight that; he needed a warrior for 
protection against—physical things. Like the ores."
"I see that you speak truly. I apologize, Paksenarrion, for the untruth of this 
distant cousin; it shames me that any elven blood could lie so."
"That's—all right." Paks felt as if she were slipping down a long dark slope.
"No! By the gods of men and elves, we shall redeem the word of our cousin." And 
the elf shook her again, lifting her up until she could drink from a cup one of 
the others held. The darkness crept back. The elven faces came back into focus. 
Then one of them laid his hand on her head, and began to sing. She had never 
heard anything like that, and in trying to follow the song she forgot what was 
happening. Suddenly she felt a wave of strength and health surge through her. 
The elf removed his hand, and smiled at her.
"Is that better now?"
"Yes—much better." Paks sat up, and stretched. She felt well and rested, better 
than she'd felt in days.
"Good. It will be day, soon, and we must be going. We have much to say to you in 
the few hours left us."
The snow had stopped before dawn. A light wind tore the last clouds to shreds 
and let the first sunlight glitter on the snowy ground. In daylight the elves 
bade her farewell, and Paks saw their beauty clearly. She felt ashamed to have 
thought Macenion elvish-looking. One of them caught her thought, and laughed, 
the sound chiming down the long slope.
"No——don't be sorry, fair warrior. Your eyes saw truly, to find what was there 
in so little. Remember what we have told you, and fere well."
And as she turned to climb the slope upward to the ridge and the trail the elves 
had spoken o£ she felt far distant from the self of yesterday. She felt a surge 
of the same spirit that had sent her away from home in the first place, a sense 
of adventure and excitement. Anything might happen—anything had happened. She 
still found it difficult to think clearly what it was—what nature of thing she 
and Macenion had fought against, and what had helped her at the end. The words 
eliane taig meant nothing to her. The elves' explanation meant very little more.
But she was on a trail once more, alive and eager to be going. Star moved 
slowly, burdened heavily by the gifts of the elfane taig. Paks had transferred 
some of that to her own back. The pony snorted a little with each heave of her 
hindquarters. Paks grinned to herself. No more mountains, they had told her. 
These, that would have been mountains anywhere else, counted but as foothills, 
and in another two days she would be on die gentler lowland slopes.
On the for side of the ridge, only a few patches of snow whitened the trail, and 
by noon these had melted. Now other trees mingled with the pointed 
evergreens—duller greens, more rounded shapes. Paks did not need her cloak, for 
warmth. She was alert for danger, but the elves had told her that they sensed 
nothing dire moving in the area. She hoped they were right. As far as she could 
see, the forested slopes wove into each other endlessly, the trail angling down 
one and up another, always edging west and north.
Her solitary camp that night was almost too silent. She had resented Macenion's 
lectures—yet to sit alone, in the middle of a vast wilderness, was worse than 
anything he had ever said to her. She doused her tiny fire early, and sat awake 
a long time, staring at the stars. The night was half gone when she realized 
that she was missing more than Macenion. She had never, in her life, spent an 
entire night alone like this. Not even once had she slept outside, out of 
hearing or sight of others. The thought itself made her shiver, and she got up 
to check on Star. The pony's warm rough mane reassured her. She looked at the 
stars again, her hands still tangled in Star's mane. The night sky seemed to go 
on forever, up and up without ending, as if the stars were sewn on veils that 
lay one behind another. She looked for Torre's Necklace; it was still behind the 
mountains. Of the other stars she knew nothing.
A breeze began to move lightly along the ground. Star moved away from her hand, 
and lowered her head to graze. Paks went back to the blankets she'd laid out. A 
wild animal cried out in the distance; she stiffened, but no sound followed. 
Paks felt an urge to take out Canna's medallion; her hand found her pouch before 
she thought. Her fingers touched it, smoothed the crescent shape. When she 
pulled it out, Saben's little horse came along; the thongs were tangled. She 
woke stiff and cold in the morning, with Star nosing her face, and the horse and 
crescent still clutched in her hand.
That day warmed quickly. Paks looked over the whole treasure she had been given, 
and made her first estimate of its value. She had not realized what she'd 
taken—it was too much—it shouldn't be hers. But she was not going to return to 
the elfane taig with it, that was certain. She thought the elves must have 
examined it as well, and if they said nothing about it, she would not. Sunlight 
glittered on die items she'd laid in the grass—the ruby-decorated dagger and 
sheath, the gold and jewel inlaid battleaxe, gold and silver coins, both 
familiar in stamp and strange, a set of chainmail that was oddly light when she 
lifted it, and looked as if it would fit. She thought about that, looked around, 
and tried it on. It did fit—perfectly—which made her scowl, thinking. Where had 
she heard of enchanted mail, evil stuff—? But when she reached for Canna's 
medallion, nothing happened; it felt easy in her hand. Was it dress mail, then, 
good for nothing? She tried her own dagger on the sleeve, notching the dagger. 
Lightweight, the right size—she scowled again, but kept it on. Over it she put 
on the best clothes she had—not that any of them looked like much, she thought 
ruefully, remembering the money she'd spent in Sord to outfit herself.
It was late when she started moving again, and she traveled slowly, as much for 
her own benefit as the pony's. She was beginning to wonder what she would find 
when she came out of the wilderness into settled lands again. The elves had been 
quite specific in their directions—go to Brewersbridge, they had said, by this 
trail, and tell the Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya about the elfane taig. 
But they would say no more about either Master Oakhallow or the Marshal, or why 
these would want to know about events so far away.
As Paksenarrion came around the slope of the hill, she could see cleared fields 
and orchards some miles ahead, their straight edges easily visible against the 
broken forest and meadowland. The track's gradient lessened as she descended; 
she saw sheep grazing on the slopes to her right, and a barelegged child with a 
crook watching them from a rock. Gradually the track changed from rock to dirt. 
Star stepped out more easily. Paks lengthened her own stride to keep up. She saw 
smoke rising from the center of the cleared area; perhaps it was the village the 
elves had spoken of. She wondered if the people were friendly. At least it was 
the north again: home.
In an hour, she was among the fields and orchards. She had passed two farmsteads 
set back from the road. Hie farms looked prosperous; she noted tight bams, 
well-made stone walls, sleek livestock. A boy picking early apples from a tree 
near the track told her the village ahead was Brewersbridge; when she'd passed 
she looked back and saw him running for the farmhouse. Now the track joined a 
lane, bordered on either side by a wall, wide enough for wagon traffic. She 
noted wheelruts grooving the surface. On the right, a wedge of forest met the 
road; she could not tell how large it was. Ahead were a cluster of buildings and 
another road coming in from the right.
Two cottages now on the left, one opening directly on the road. Beyond them was 
a large two-story building with a walled courtyard to one side. A bright green 
and yellow sign hung over the road, and a paved area fronted it. Paks squinted 
at the sign: The Jolly Potboy. It must be an inn; it was too big for a tavern. 
She looked around.
The inn sat at the crossroad, feeing north. The road Paks had come on continued 
generally west, wandering among houses and shops. The north road was straighter, 
with buildings along its west side and forest on the east. The ground floor of 
the inn had a row of tall windows feeing the road; these were open, and Paks 
heard the murmur of many voices from inside. She wondered if she had enough 
money to stay there. The treasure—but she didn't know what it was worth, or if 
they would accept the old coin.
As she hesitated, a stout man in a big apron came out and spoke to her.
"Just arrived?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you be wanting a room?"
"I don't know, sir. How much are they?"
"A silver in the common loft; that includes bread and beer for breakfast. A gold 
crown for a private room; two for the suite. A silver a day for stabling, 
including grain, hay, grooming, and safe storage for your tack."
Paks thought a moment. It seemed high, but she had enough southern money for a 
night or two. She could always find a cheaper place the next day. Star could use 
a good bait of grain. "I'd like a private room," she said. 'And stabling for 
Star."
"That'll be in advance, please," said the man. "I'm Jos Hebbinford, the 
landlord.'
Paks wrapped Star's lead around her arm and dug into her belt pouch. "Here—" she 
handed over the money. "I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, from Three Firs."
The landlord looked closely at the coins she had given him. "Hmm. From 
Aarenis—that your home?"
"No, sir. Three Firs is north and west of here. I was with Duke Phelan's company 
in the south, and I'm headed home."
"I see, A fighter, are you?" Paks nodded. "Are you a Girdsman, too?"
"No. I've known those who were."
"Hmmm. We don't think much of brawling, here."
Paks flushed. "I'm not a brawler, sir."
"Good. Just a moment—Sevri! Sevrienna!" At his call, a short stocky redheaded 
girl came out of the courtyard and ran up. "My daughter, Sevrienna," said the 
landlord. "Sevri, this is Paksenarrion, who will be staying this night. This is 
her horse—" he glanced at Paks.
"Her name's Star," said Paks. "She's gentle."
"Sevri will take Her to the stable," said Hebbinford. "If you'd like to see your 
room—?"
"If you don't mind, sir," said Paks, "I'll just give Star a rubdown first, and 
check her hooves. She's come a long way over rocks."
"Very well. Sevri will help you. When you come in, I'll take you to your room."
"Come on—this way," said Sevri. Paks followed. The walled courtyard was large, 
paved in flat slabs of gray stone. A flock of red and black hens scratched and 
pecked in the entrance of the stable that ran along one side; a black cock with 
gold on his throat and a green tail stood atop the dungheap. Along other sides 
of the courtyard were barns full of nay and an open shed with two wagons and a 
cart beneath it.
Sevri led Paks to a box stall big enough for a warhorse; all the stalls were 
big. "I can rub her down," Sevri offered. "You're paying for grooming."
Paks smiled at the child. "I want to check her and make sure she hasn't hurt her 
hooves on the rocks. If you want to rub her down—"
Sevri nodded. "Surely. She'll be easier than the big horses, and I do them. Do 
you want her to have grain, or would a mash be better?"
"A mash would be good for her, if it's not too much trouble."
"I'll put one on, then come back and start on her. If you want water to work on 
her feet, here's a bucket, and the well is out there." Sevri jerked her head 
toward the courtyard.
When Sevri had gone, Paks untied the bundles from the saddle, and lifted them 
down. Star sighed. "Poor pony," said Paks. "That was a load. Here now—" She 
uncinched the pack saddle and lifted it from Star's back. Underneath, Star'scoat 
was matted and damp. Paks moved the bundles to one side of the stall, and bent 
to feel Star's legs. Then she took the bucket Sevri had pointed out, and fmed it 
at die well. Back in the stall, she lifted Star's feet, one at a time. They were 
dry and hot. Paks found a rag in her pack that she'd used for a headcloth and 
dipped it in the water. She washed out each hoof and dampened the coronary band. 
The pony reached down and mumbled Paks's hair. "No, Star; stop that." Paks 
shoved the pony's head away. She found a cut on the off hind pastem, and cleaned 
it out carefully.
"You must like her a lot," said Sevri. Paks jumped.
"I didn't hear you come."
"That's because I'm barefooted," said Sevri. "Are her feet all right?"
"Yes, but for one little cut. Just dry from the rocks."
"She is wet. You want me to start rubbing her now?"
"Yes. Just let me get these things out of the stall." Paks grunted as she 
hoisted the bundles. She dumped them in the aisle. Sevri was watching her.
"That must be awfully heavy."
"It is," said Paks shortly.
Sevri had brought two lengths of coarse woolen cloth and a brush. When she 
picked up one cloth and started work on Star's sweaty back, Paks took the other 
and began the other side.
"You don't have to help me," said Sevri. "I can do it by myself."
"Do you mind, though? I'm used to doing her."
"No-o. But I am strong enough."
"I don't doubt that," said Paks, though she did. Star turned her head and nudged 
Sevri with her soft nose. Sevri stopped and stroked Star's head.
"She's gentle," said Sevri. "Have you had her long?"
"Not very. She is a good pony, though—seems to like everyone. Only don't come 
near her with apples unless you want to lose a few."
Sevri laughed. "I'll bring her one. Is she greedy about other things?"
Paks shrugged. "She's a pony. I've never known a pony that wouldn't eat anything 
it could find, have you?"
"That's true." Sevri looked across Star's back at Paks. "Are you a fighter?"
Paks paused before answering. "It depends on what you mean by fighter. Your 
father seems to think a fighter is the same as a brawler, a troublemaker. That's 
not what I am. I was a mercenary, a soldier in the Duke's Company."
"But you can use that sword?"
"Oh, yes. I can use a sword. That's how I've earned my keep since I left home. 
But that doesn't mean I go picking fights everywhere."
"I see." Paks thought by the tone of Sevri's answer that she didn't see. She 
decided to change the subject.
"Sevri, I have a message for two people here: can you tell me where to find 
them?"
"Surely."
"One is a Master Oakhallow—" she stopped as Sevri gasped audibly.
"You—you know Master Oakhallow?"
"No, I don't know him; I've never been here before. But someone I met a few days 
ago gave me a message for him. What's wrong?"
"Nothing. He's the Kuakgan, that's all."
Paks felt a chill. "Kuakgan? I didn't know that."
Sevri nodded. "He's a good man, it's just—he's very powerful, Master Oakhallow. 
My father's told me about him; he helped in the troubles."
Paks said, "Well, I must speak to him, at least. Where is he?"
"In his grove, of course. I'll show you, when we're through. Which way did you 
come in?"
"From the southeast," Paks pointed.
"Well, then, you saw part of the grove on your right, as you came into town."
"I remember. I was surprised to see uncleared forest so near the town."
"Don't go in except by the entrance," said Sevri. "It's dangerous. Now: who else 
was it you wanted to find?"
"There's a grange of Gird here, isn't there?" Sevri nodded. "I must speak to a—a 
Marshal, I think it was, by the name of Deordtya."
Sevri stared. "She isn't here any more. We have a new Marshal now, called 
Cedfer, and a Yeoman-marshal called Ambros. But what kind of message can you 
have for the Kuakgan and the Marshal?"
"I'm sorry, Sevri, but I must speak with them first."
"Oh. Of course, I shouldn't have asked."
"That's all right. Now, where can I put the packsaddle, and where's a safe place 
for these bundles?"
"Here—" Sevri ducked around Star and led Paks down the aisle. "Put your things 
here—and I'll be around watching, if you'll trust me. You can leave your bundles 
here, too."
Paks looked at the freckled face and wondered.
"They'll be safer here than in your room," said Sevri frankly. "The rooms have 
locks, but Father's (airly sure we have a thief staying with us. Nothing's 
happened yet, but—I can watch your things, out here.'
Paks sighed. "All right, Sevri. I'll be back when I've made my visits."
"Don't miss supper," said Sevri, grinning. "We have good food."
Paks smiled back at her. "I won't miss dinner, not after my journey." She left 
the stable and entered the inn. The landlord saw her at once and came forward.
"Sevri taking care of you?"
"Yes, sir. She's most helpful."
"Come this way—upstairs—to your room." He turned and led the way across the main 
room to a broad stone stair. Paks followed, glancing about. The main room 
evidently served as both tavern and dining room; it was furnished with tables 
and benches. Haifa dozen men were scattered about the tables drinking; two were 
men-at-arms in blue and rose livery, one was dressed all in black, with a black 
cloak over trousers and tunic, two looked like merchants, in long gowns, and one 
was a huge burly fellow in a patched leather tunic over russet hose. Two women 
sat near the fireplace: the gray-haired one drew out yarn on a hand spindle, 
while the dark one marked something in a book. Paks went on up the stairs.
A landing at the top of the stairs opened onto a passage on one side and a 
fair-sized room with pallets in it on me other. The landlord led the way down 
the passage, past two doors on the left, and three on the right, to stop at the 
third on the left. He took a ring of keys from his belt and fitted one to the 
lock. The door swung open silently.
The room was compact but not cramped. A sturdy wooden bedstead with a thick 
straw pallet on it stood against the left-hand wall. Linen sheets were stretched 
over the pallet, and two thick wool blankets were folded at the foot. A 
three-legged stool stood at the foot of the bed, and a low chair (leather 
stretched on a wood frame) stood under the window. A row of pegs ran down both 
walls of the room, and a narrow clothespress stood beside the door. The walk 
were whitewashed, the wooden floor scrubbed, and the room smelled as clean as it 
looked. Paks looked out and saw the window overlooked the crossroads.
"Will this do?" asked the landlord.
"Oh, yes. It's very nice," said Paks.
"Good." He worked the key to the room off his ring and handed it to her. "Return 
this, please, before you leave. Is there anything more?" Paks shook her head, 
and be turned away. Paks shut the door, then took down her hair and combed it. 
If she was to see a Kuakgan and a Gird's Marshal, she would be neat, at least. 
She brushed her cloak as well as she could, rebraided her hair, and left the 
room, locking it carefully behind her.
Chapter Seven
Paks left the inn, wishing she didn't have to go. She felt eyes watching her 
from the inn's wide windows; her shoulders twitched. Evening light glowed in the 
changing foliage of the trees on her right; a few shrubs were already brilliant 
crimson. She saw two men-at-arms in the local livery coming toward her. They 
stared, and she returned the stare coolly, hand near the hilt of her sword. One 
opened his mouth, but his companion nudged him in the ribs and they passed by in 
silence.
Ahead on the right she saw a break in the wall of trees and leaves. As she came 
closer, she saw that it was an arch of sorts: vines binding branches, with a 
narrow path winding away toward the wood. Paks paused before the opening. She 
could go in the morning, she thought, and started to turn away—tut there on the 
road were more men-at-arms, and these moved towards her. She stepped under the 
arch and went in.
She had taken only a few steps when she became aware of the silence. Voices from 
the road did not penetrate the grove. Her own breathing seemed loud. She slowed, 
and looked around. Trees, irregularly spaced. More light than she would have 
expected under the trees, but—she looked up—the leaves were worn and frayed with 
autumn. Golden light spilled through. The path, though narrow, was easy to see, 
picked out in rounded white stones that looked like river cobbles. She moved on, 
alert and watchful. Sevrienna had not had to warn her about Kuakkganni and their 
groves. Everything she had ever heard of them was danger.
A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves around her. As the rustling faded away, 
she heard somewhere ahead the gentle laughter of falling water. The path twisted 
once, then again. The trees framed more light: a glade, open to the sky. Almost 
in the center was a simple fountain, water welling up in a stone basin and 
trickling over the edge to fell into another, and then another. The last was a 
small pool from which Paks could see no outlet. Beside the fountain was a rough 
block of stone with a wide bronze basin on top. Paks moved towards it, eyes 
scanning the clearing. Now she could see a low gray house, close under the trees 
on the far side of the clearing; it looked almost like a fallen tree-trunk, it 
was so rough. Paks made out a door and windows, shuttered, but nothing else. The 
clearing was otherwise empty.
Still nervous, Paks neared the fountain. Its water was perfectly clear, a silken 
skin that rippled with every breath of air; the felling drops from one level to 
the next sparkled like jewels. Paks looked back to see if the sun was still that 
high. It had gone behind the trees but scattered rays, she assumed, lit the 
fountain. She tore her gaze from the water and approached the bronze basin on 
its pedestal of stone. An offering basin, she was sure: but what offerings were 
acceptable to Kuakkganni? Childhood memories of the dark tales her grandfather 
told clouded her mind. Blood, he'd said. Kuakkganni follow the oldest gods, and 
blood they demand.
"It is customary to place one's offering in the basin." The voice was deep and 
resonant, complex. Paks jerked her head up and found herself face to face with a 
tall, dark-faced man in a hooded robe of greens and browns. Her heart leaped 
against her ribs; she felt sweat spring out on her back. She had heard nothing.
"Sir, I—" she swallowed, as her voice foiled, and tried again. "Sir, I know not 
what offerings would be acceptable—to a Kuakgan."
The heavy brows arched. "Oh! And why would one with no knowledge of Kuakkganni 
come seeking one?"
Paks found it Bard to meet those dark eyes. 'Sir, I was told to."
"By whom?"
"By die elves, sir." Paks did not miss the sudden shift of shoulders, the 
movement of brows and eyelids.
"Go on, then. What elves, and why?"
"Sir, die elves of the Ladysforest. Tlie one who sent me said that he was of the 
family of Sialinn."
"And his message?"
"That the etiane taig had woken again, the lost elf been freed."
"Ahh. That is news indeed. And did he chance on you, to be his messenger, or had 
he other reasons?"
"I had been there—" Paks began to shiver, remembering as if it were happening, 
the final conflict in the round chamber.
"Hmmm. So there is more reason than chance. Well, then, I’ll have your name, 
wanderer, and you shall indeed ofler something to the peace of the grove which 
you
My name is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—"
"From the northwest, by your patronymic. And for an offering, what have you?"
Paks pulled the little pouch out of her tunic. "Sir, as I said, I do not know 
what would please—but I have these—" She poured out on her palm the largest 
jewels from the treasure."
"Any would be acceptable," said the Kuakgan. "Place your ottering in the basin." 
Paks wondered why he did not simply take one, but chose a green stone from them 
and set it carefülly at the base of the bowl. The others she returned to the 
pouch.
"And 1," said the Kuakgan as if continuing a sentence, "am Master Oakhallow. As 
you knew, a Kuakgan. But I think you must have strange ideas, child, of what 
Kuakkganni are—what, then?"
To her surprise, Paks found herself telling her grandfather's lore. "And he 
said, sir, that—that Kuakkganni ate babies—sir—at the dark of midwinter."
"Babies!" The Kaukgan sounded more amused than angry. "That old tale still! No, 
child, we don't eat babies. We aon't even kill babies. In feet, if you use that 
sword you're wearing for anything but decoration, I daresay you've spilled more 
blood than I have."
Paks stared at him. Despite the undertone of amusement, he still radiated power. 
She wondered if he could tell what she was thinking. Macenion had said that 
wizards could—were Kuakkganni the same?
"Are you a warrior?" he pursued.
"Yes, sir."
"Hmm. And involved somehow in the wakening of the eUane taig. Well, then, tell 
this tale: where are you from that you came to that dread valley, and what 
happened?"
Paks looked again at his face, trying to gauge nis mood. It was impossible. His 
dark eyes seemed to compel her to go on. She began, haltingly enough, to explain 
that she had left a mercenary company in Aarenis to return to the north. When 
she came to tell of her companion, the Kuakgan stopped her abruptly.
"Who did you say? Macenion? He said he was an elf?"
"Yes, sir." Paks wondered at his expression. "Later he said He was but 
half-elven—"
"Half-elf! Hmmph! No wonder the elves sent you here." He motioned for ner to 
continue. She went on to tell of the early part of their journey, at first 
slowly, but warming up to it when describing Macenion's behavior among the 
wardstones. Her resentment flared again: he had lied to her, he had pretended to 
knowledge he didn't have, he might have gone on and left her… She stopped 
abruptly, at the look on the Kuakgan's face. Suddenly that quarrel seemed silly, 
like the attempt of a half-drunken private to explain to Stammel that a drinking 
companion was really to blame. She rushed on, skimping on the other adventures. 
This was no time to bring up the snowcat Then she came to Macenion's decision to 
enter the valley of the ettane taig.
"He said whatever was there wouldn't hurt me, because I was human, and the power 
was elvish. He said that the elves had tried to keep him away out of jealousy, 
but he knew he could control whatever evil was there, and regain his 
inheritance."
"And what did you think, human warrior?" Paks could not tell if the deep voice 
was scornful or merely interested. She felt the same confusion at his questions 
as at the elves' persistent interrogation. Why would anyone expect her to have 
an opinion about something like the eliane taig? She explained about the dreams, 
and Macenion'sconfidence in his own wizardry.
"Did you trust him?" asked the Kuakgan, in the same
Paks remembered too well the sinking feeling she'd had as they entered the outer 
wards. But he had died well. "Yes," she said slowly. "He could be good with a 
sword. And he could make light, and windshift, and that."
The Kuakgan looked at her closely. "Don't lie to me, child. Did you truly trust 
him, as you would have trusted a member of your old company?"
"No, sir." Paks stared down at the grass blades between her feet.
"And yet you went with him: knowing that danger, and powers a human should not 
fece, lay below?"
"Not faiotwEng, sir. I felt clanger, and was worried, but I didn't know what we 
faced. And we had traveled together for weeks. Besides, he knew more than I—"
The Kuakgan frowned. "You said that before. You seem to be convinced of it. And 
you followed this so-called half-etf, whom you did not trust, into unknown 
dangers. Followed him, it seems, even to the depths of that ruin?"
"Yes, sir." She went on with her story, not quite sure bow much detail to put 
in. When she came to her first sight of the old elf-lord, she stopped short, 
trembling and sweating. She could scarcely get her breath, and her vision 
blurred.
"No," came a firm voice, like a command, and a sharp scent tickled her nose. She 
took a long breath, and saw the Kuakgan's brown hand beneath her fece, the tough 
fingers twisting some gray herb. "You must tell this tale," he said, "but I will 
make it easier. Sit there, on the pool's edge." Paks sank down, her sword 
banging against her leg. The Kuakgan scattered more leaves on the pool, and 
their scent seemed to clear her head. "Now," he said above her. "Now go on."
She was able to continue by clenching her mind to the task, forcing out the 
words phrase by phrase. Since her wakening to the elves' care, she had carefully 
avoided those memories, and they lay bright and sharp as shards of glass, still 
capable of injury. She could see the elf-lord's ravaged face, the strange blue 
flames, the very chips and notches on the ores' weapons. Their stench stung her 
nose; their hoarse cries rasped her ears. Macenion's body lay once more dead at 
her feet.
"We couldn't stay together," said Paks bleakly, unaware of the tears that ran 
from her closed eyes. "I tried to stay near him, but—"
"Enough." A strong hand gripped her shoulder. "And what of the elfane taig?"
"The elfan taig?"
"That which you freed."
She had never understood what happened at the end; describing it clearly was 
impossible. But again the disgusting touch of whatever she had had to take 
shriveled her mind. And then, with relief, she told of the escape, of the 
journey from the valley, and the felling snow.
"When did the elves find you?" asked the Kuakgan.
"That night, I think. I don't remember. I woke, and it was cold, and snowing, 
and dark. I couldn't move. The elves were there; at first they seemed angry, and 
then suddenly they were kind."
"Hmmm." The Kuakgan sat, suddenly, in front of her. "Paksenarrion 
Dorthansdotter, you give your name freely—look at me." Paks looked, and could 
not look away. She could not say afterwards how long she met the Kuakgan's gaze. 
He broke it at last, rose, and offered a hand up. "Well," he said briskly, 
"you're an honest warrior, at least. Kuakkgannl rarely have to do with warriors, 
but I've been known to make exceptions." Paks stood, once more aware of the 
glade's silence. "Are you planning to be here long?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir. I might be, if someone hired me; otherwise I'll be going on 
when Star has rested from the mountains."
"You're looking for work? As a fighter?"
"Yes, sir. At least—I want to send my father what he paid on my dowry before I 
left."
The Kuakgan's eyes shifted to look at the jewel winking in the offering basin. 
"Hmmm. If you've many of that quality, I'd think they would cover most dowries. 
Was your lather a wealthy man?"
"No, sir. A sheepfarmer, near Three Firs. He had his own land and flocks, but he 
wasn't rich. Not the way people are in cities."
"I see. You should have those things valued, then. I think you have enough for 
repayment of any likely sum. But tell me, what sort of employment were you 
hoping for, after the mercenaries?"
Paks flushed at the tone of his question. "It was an honorable company, sir," 
she said firmly. "I wasn't sure—I thought a guard company perhaps. The Duke 
suggested that."
"Duke? What Duke?"
"Duke Phelan, of Tsaia—"
"Ah," he broke in. "The Halveric's friend? A redhead?" When Paks nodded, the 
Kuakgan went on. "So that's die company you've been in. Why did the Duke suggest 
you leave, young warrior?"
Paks did not want to get into that question, least of all to a Kuakgan. Her 
confusion and reluctance must have shown, because the Kuakgan shook his head. 
"Never mind, then. I have no right to ask that, unless the answer poses a danger 
for those under my care, and I judge it does not. But tell me, did the elves 
give you any other message here?"
"Not to you, sir. They did say I should speak to Marshal Deordtya, but the 
innkeeper's daughter said that she was no longer here: she said a Marshal Cedfer 
had taken her place."
"The elves sent you to Girdsmen?" the Kuakgan seemed surprised at this.
Paks didn't want to answer any more questions. "Yes, sir, and I'd better be 
going now—"
"You just arrived this afternoon. Are you in such a hurry?"
Paks sensed more behind the simple question. She took refuge in stubbornness. 
"Yes, sir. They told me to come to you, and to the Marshal. I should do that as 
soon as 1 can."
"Well, then, Paksenarrion, I expect I'll see you again. You may come here, if 
you want to, and you need not bring such an offering each time. One of Jos 
Hebbinford's oakcakes will do."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." Paks was not sure why she was thanking the Kuakgan, but 
she felt much less afraid of him, though she didn't doubt his power. When he 
nodded dismissal, Paks turned and went back along the path to the north road. As 
she stepped through the arch of vines and trees, the village noises returned. A 
boy and a small herd of goats were jogging toward the crossroads, the goats 
baaing loudly. Somewhere nearby a smith was at work; the cadenced ring of steel 
on anvil made Paks think of Star's worn hooves. She wondered if it was a farrier 
or a weaponsmith. She looked about, but the sound came from behind the first row 
of buildings, and she decided not to look for it right away. At the crossroad, 
she turned right, as Sevri had told her, toward the Gird's grange, and followed 
a curving lane past one small shop after another. Faces glanced out at her, 
curious; those she passed in the street looked sideways: she felt the looks.
The lane angled around a larger building, set back in a fenced yard, and dipped 
toward a small river. Over the river was a stone bridge, unexpectedly large, 
with handsome carved endposts on the parapets. Upstream a millwheel turned 
slowly; downstream on the near bank was a large building and yard. At first Paks 
thought it was another inn, for a group of men sat on its wide veranda drinking 
ale, but the sign over die gate said "Ceddrin and Sons: Brewmasters" with a 
picture of a tapped barrel. Across the river from the brewery, and a Ottle down- 
stream, was a yard foil of hides hung on frames, and stinking tubs: the 
tanner's. Paks crossed the bridge, and saw a great barnlike building looming 
over the cottages between. If Sevri was right, that was the grange.
As Paks came nearer, she noted the construction of the Girdsmen's meeting place. 
It was very much like the barns she'd seen in grain-growing regions, 
stone-walled to twice a man's height, and closely fitted boards above that. Tall 
narrow windows began in the top course of stones and rose to the eaves of a 
steeply pitched roof. On die end nearest the road, wagon-wide doors of heavy 
dark wood barred with iron were tightly closed. Above them was a square hay-door 
with the hoist in place. Paks wondered what they could possibly use that for. 
Along one side of the grange was a space closed off by a stone wall half again 
as tall as Paks. A narrow gate of iron palings barred the way in, but she could 
see that it was nothing but a bare yard, beaten hard by heavy traffic. Across 
from the outer gate was another, of wood. She wondered what was behind it.
"It's not the time for meeting," said a voice close behind her. Paks whirled, 
her hand dropping to her sword hilt. The man who had spoken led a donkey, its 
back piled high with sticks. He wore no weapon, but his brawny shoulders and 
muscular arms were no stranger to fighting: he had training scars on both arms, 
and a long scar on his leg that had come from a spear.
"How would I find the Marshal?" asked Paks. She had noticed that he had not 
flinched when she reached for her sword; his eyes met hers easily.
"Oh. You're a traveler, aren't you? Well,the Marshal—" he cocked his head at the 
sky. "This time of day hell be just finishing his drill with the young'un, I 
don't doubt. Go round the side there, past the barton, and ask at the door 
you'll come to. Gird ward you, traveler." He nodded and stepped away before Paks 
could answer.
The walled yard, or barton, was not quite as long as the grange itself. Despite 
what she knew of Girdsmen, Paks was hot happy to find that the door she was to 
find was out of sight of the road, in an angle behind the barton wall. It too 
was shut, but she gathered her nerve and knocked.
Nothing happened for a few moments, then the door was swept open and she found 
herself facing a red-faced young man in a sweaty homespun tunic. The red lumps 
of fresh bruises marked his arms; he had a rapidly blackening eye. For an 
instant they stared at each other, silent, until a voice called from within.
"Well? Who is it, Ambros?"
"Who are you?" asked the young man quietly. "Did you want to see the Marshal?"
"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," began Paks. "I have a message for the 
Marshal."
"Wait." The young man turned and called her name to the interior. In a moment an 
older man, a hand shorter than Paks, came into the room. He had brown hair, 
streaked ' with gray and matted with sweat, and a short brown beard. The younger 
man stepped back to let him come to the door.
"Paksenarrion, eh? A fighter, I see. Yeoman, are you, or yeoman-marshal?"
"Not either, sir," said Paks. He grunted and looked her up and down.
"Should be, with your build. Well, let's have your message. Come on in, don't 
stand dithering in the door." He turned abruptly and strode into the room, 
leaving Paks to follow. "You got those boots in Aarenis, I'll warrant," he said 
over his shoulder. "I hear it's been lively over the mountains this year." Paks 
did not answer, but followed him into a narrow passage, and then a small room 
fitted with desk and shelves on one side, and two heavy chairs on the other. The 
man dropped into the chair nearest the desk. "Have a seat. So—you're not a 
Girdsman at all?"
"No, sir."
"Who sent you?"
"The elves, sir, that I met—"
"Elves!" He looked at her sharply. "You run with elves? Dangerous company you 
keep, young warrior. So: what message did they have for the Marshal of Gird in 
this grange?"
"To tell you, sir, that in a high valley east and south of here the elfane taig 
had been wakened, and the lost elf-lord had been freed."
The Marshal sat straight up. "Indeed! That old evil gone, eh? And they had done 
this, the elves? I thought they claimed they could not."
"Sir, they hadn't done it. They—we—ft happened, sir, while I and another were 
there—"
"Happened! Such things do not happen, they are caused. Are you the cause? Did 
you fight in that valley and live to return?"
"I fought there, yes. But they did not say the evil was gone, only that the 
elf-lord was freed."
"I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to find 
a new one that will serve so well. And die elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That will 
please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there; you were 
a fighter. What was your part in this?"
For the second time that afternoon Paks found herself telling over what had 
happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshal: almost like telling 
Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked 
grave, his lips pursed.
"Well," he said finally. "You have been blessed by the gods—and I would think by 
Gird himself as well—to come through that alive and free of soul. I'd not dare 
call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For all I've 
just finished drill, we'll go into the grange and give you a chance to show your 
appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids—?" Paks had no idea what he meant, 
but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious about them since 
the events in Aarenis.
Marshall Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the 
door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the 
vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of 
weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a 
candle, then lifted die candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks 
saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth.
But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored with 
broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily large 
enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several more 
torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed Ambros's face 
in the doorway. So did the Marshal.
"Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the 
elf-lord possessed by the demon is freed. She's a little travel-weary, but I 
just finished drill, so that will be fair." He went over to a rack on the wall 
and took down a sword. "This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a 
Girdsraan, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of 
fighters?" Paks nodded. "Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with our 
skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but great 
evil: you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross blades, 
therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our thanks. 
Unless—" he paused suddenly. "Do you have a wound that would pain you? I should 
have asked before."
"No," said Paks. "I have none. But what is the purpose to which we fight? Am I 
to wound you, or—?"
"Oh no. It's like weaponsdrill. We are not enemies, to draw blood. Gird is no 
blooddrinker, like some gods. This will not take long; just spar with me."
Paks drew her sword and stepped onto the platform with the Marshal, who had 
thrown off his robe to reveal a tunic as drab and worn as Ambros's. He eyed her 
thoughtfully. "Are you sure you won't take off your cloak? You might find it 
troublesome." At that, Paks realized that she was still wearing her chainmail 
shirt; she hardly thought of it these days.
"Sir, it will not trouble me, but is it right that I wear mail? If I must 
change—" She wondered as she said it why she was so willing to please him by 
this exercise.
"Oh no. Oh no, that's no problem. I'm a Marshal, after all; if I can't face mail 
without it, I'm a poor follower of Gird, who fought in an old shirt and a 
leather apron, or less than that. Now, Ambros, turn the quarterglass, and we'll 
begin."
And with a quick tap of greeting, the Marshal began testing Paks's control of 
her weapon. When she proved strong, he tried quickness. When she proved 
quick—and he smiled broadly when his lunges failed—he tried movement. Paks met 
his attacks firmly, but concentrated on defense: she did not want to know what 
would happen should she injure a Marshal of Gird in his own grange.
He was skilled indeed, as skilled as any human she had faced but for old Siger, 
perhaps. Still, he did not penetrate her defenses, though she had to shift 
ground more than once. She sensed the sand passing through the quarterglass, and 
changed her tactics slightly, pressing the Marshal a bit. Was he just a little 
slower to the right? Were his returns to position sluggish there? She felt the 
impact in the blades through her wrist. It had been long since she had such good 
practice.
Suddenly the Marshal quickened his pace, surprising her; she'd thought he was 
slowing. She gave back, turning, her rhythm slightly off, but fending him off as 
much by reach as stroke. She took a breath, and stepped back to gain room for 
her own attack, but her foot found nothing to step on: she had come to the edge 
of the platform.
Instantly she threw herself sideways and tucked, hitting the stone floor on her 
left side, and rolling up to a fighting position. But the Marshal had not 
followed up her fall.
"Forgive me!" he cried when he saw her up. "I had forgotten, Paksenarrion, in 
the fighting^ that you were not one of us, and did not know the platform well. 
It was ill-done of me to press you so close to the edge." He racked his sword 
and came to her side. "Were you hurt in the fall?"
Paks-took a breath. Her side hurt, but that was as much the old bruises as the 
new ones. "No, sir. It's all right, truly it is. I've had harder falls."
"Oh, aye, I'm sure you have. But you're not a yeoman here for training. I should 
have warned you—glad you're not hurt." As Paks sheathed her blade, he picked up 
his robe. "It's customary," he said, "to make an offering toward the armory, 
too. Though as you're not a Girdsman, it isn't strictly required—" Paks found 
that Ambros had come to her side with a slot-lidded box. She fished out the 
pouch from her tunic again, thinking to herself that it seemed hard to be dumped 
on the floor and then asked for money. She took the first jewel at random and 
dropped it into the box. The Marshal did not appear to be watching.
"You're very good with that longsword," he commented. "Don't most mercenary 
companies use a short one?"
"Yes, sir, we do, but we had the chance to learn other weapons. And out of 
formation a longsword has great advantage."
"Yes, of course. With your height, too. I was surprised to see that you moved so 
freely with it, though- Most who come from formation fighting are used to 
depending on the formation, and are static. Though you're not a Girdsman, you're 
certainly welcome to drill with us here at the grange, as long as you're in 
Brewersbridge. We have open drill three nights a week, in the barton usually. 
You'll find most of the local yeomen fairly good at basic things, though few of 
them are up to your standard. And I'd be honored to partner you for advanced 
swordsmanship—or Ambros, here: he's certainly up to a bout with you. Have you 
had any training at unarmed combat?"
"Yes, some. And some with polearms," added Paks, hoping to forestall further 
questions.
Excellent! I certainly hope you'll come; you'll be most welcome. Tonight's a 
beginner's class in marching drill—I hardly think it would interest you—but 
tomorrow?"
"Perhaps, sir. I thank you for your invitation." Despite herself, Paks was 
curious to see the sort of drill a Marshal of Gird would conduct. And she needed 
to keep her own skills honed; it couldn't hurt to come once or twice.
Outside the grange it was full dusk; stars shone overhead to the east. She made 
her way quickly back to the inn, where the great open windows laid bars of 
yellow lamplight across the crossroad. As she entered, Jos Hebbinford caught her 
eye.
"I thought you weren'tgoing to make it back for the meal," he said, 
half-laughing.
"Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought." Paks looked around the common 
room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. "Where—?"
"I've no single tables left. How about over here?" He led her to a round table 
where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. "Master Feddith 
is a stonemason, a local here, and that's his senior journeyman." Feddith, a 
burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper 
introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks 
ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for 
her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense—it had to do, she assumed, 
with stonework—she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or buckstone.
Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same 
white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire with 
a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen dresses 
sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths, drinking a bit 
too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress was tight across 
the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched Hebbinford go to their 
table in response to another shout for ale, snaking his head. One of the youths 
started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet appeared beside the 
innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw coins on the table and 
left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went out the door.
"Here, miss," said a serving wench at Paks's shoulder. She turned to find a 
platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory 
gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. "And will you 
take ale, miss, or wine?"
"Ale," said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master 
mason watching her.
"You're not from around here," he challenged.
"No, sir."
"Are you a Girdsman?"
"No, sir."
"Ummph. A free blade, then: that's not any livery I know."
"Yes, sir."
"Humph. Were I you, young woman, I'd keep my blade sheathed here. We're not 
partial to troublemakers.
Paks flushed. "I've no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am."
"Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you 
serve?"
Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. "The High 
Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from."
His gaze flickered. "Well enough. But if you're planning to stay here long, 
you'd best find a master who can vouch for you. Before Paks could think of 
anything to say, he had pushed back his stool and gone, his cloak swirling. Her 
stomach clenched with anger. Why did they all think she was a brigand, trying to 
cause trouble? Then she thought of the wandering fighters in Aarenis—perhaps 
they had had trouble here, though she had not heard of such in the north. She 
took a deep breath to calm herself and settled to her meal.
Hebbinford, as he came back past her table, had a smile for her. "Did I hear 
Master Feddith growling at you? Don't take ofiense; he's on the Council here, 
and we've had some trouble. I hear you visited our Master Oakhallow and Marshal 
Cedfer this afternoon—no wonder you were late. Marshal Cedfer alone can take up 
half a day, with his drills and lectures."
"Does everyone here think fighters are bad?" asked Paks.
"Well—no. Not all fighters. But we've had those come through that were: got 
drunk, broke things, started fights with focal boys, even robbed. You've known 
some nice that, surely." Paks nodded.
"So, you see, we've got careful. As long as nothing happens, you're welcome, but 
we don't want the street full of idle blades looking for mischief."
"I can see that."
"Now, Sevri tells me you're quiet-spoken even to servants, and Master Oakhallow 
had nothing against you, so—" He broke off as someone yelled across the room, 
smiled again, and left. Paks finished eating. The food was good. It had been too 
long since she'd eaten well-cooked food. She finished with a slice of bread 
drenched in honey. The room was much emptier. Most of the men-at-arms were gone, 
and the rest were leaving, throwing down coppers and silvers as their boots 
scraped on the stone. Paks decided to check on Star before going to bed.
The bed was so soft that at first she could not sleep. Her room was far enough 
from the common loft that she heard nothing from it, but boots rang on the stone 
outside the inn from time to time. Even with the window open to the cold night 
air, it seemed strange to be sleeping inside again.
Chapter Eight
She woke at first light, aware of the clatter of small hooves in the road below. 
Looking out, she saw a herd of goats skittering along the north road. She looked 
east, at a clear dawn lightening over the hills, and shivered in the cold. 
Minutes later she was downstairs. The innkeeper was poking in the fireplace, and 
she could smell fresh bread from the kitchen.
"You're an early one," he said, surprised. "Did you want breakfast now?"
Paks grinned. "Not yet. I want to check on Star."
"Sevri'll feed her—"
"Yes, but she's used to me. And I'm used to being up early." Paks went out the 
side door of the common room into the stable yard. The green-tailed rooster was 
racing after a hen, and a group of cats crouched near the cowbyre. Paks watched 
as a stream of milk shot out the door, neatly fielded by one of the cats. She 
went into the stable, and found Star looking over the top of the stall door. The 
pony looked well-rested, and Paks rubbed her behind the ears and under the jaw. 
When she checked her tack, the packbags were intact.
"Is it all right?" asked Sevri, who had come into the passage.
"Yes, fine. I didn't realize I'd gotten up too early for you."
"It's not. Most of fhe travelers sleep late, that's all. Some of them sleep 
through breakfast. Star doesn't get much grain, does she?"
"Not when she's not working. Let's see your measure—oh, half of that, and tell 
me where your hay is—I'll bring it."
"Over there—" Sevri nodded toward a ladder that rose to the loft. "You can just 
throw it down, if you want."
Paks was already up the ladder. "Why don't I throw down what you need for all of 
them?"
"You don'thave to—but if you wish—" Sevri looked up as Paks tossed down an 
armload for Star.
"It's no trouble; I'm already up here."
Sevri peered up at her. "I didn't think soldiers knew how to care for animals."
"I grew up on a farm," said Paks shortly. "How much more hay?"
"Just pitch it down, and I’ll tell you." Sevri disappeared from the hold, and 
Paks threw down several armloads. "That should do it. We have just the two big 
horses in." Paks climbed down, brushing off the hay.
"Who does your milking?" she asked, wondering if Sevri did everything but the 
inside work.
"My brother Cal," said Sevri. "He's got bigger hands; it takes me too long, and 
Brindle is a crabby cow." Paks laughed.
"We milked our sheep," she said.
"Sheep?"
"Yes. I've never milked a cow, but I've milked my last sheep. I hope." Paks 
watched as die girl dumped hay into each feeder. She noticed a blaze-faced black 
horse that laid its ears back when Sevri neared the stall: obviously one of the 
"big horses" she'd mentioned. "When can I ask for breakfast, without being 
rude?"
"There won't be anything cooked, yet," said Sevri doubtfully. "The bread's out, 
and you could have eggs and cold roast and bread, if that's enough."
"It's plenty." Paks felt her stomach churn in anticipation.
"Just tell Father, then."
"Thanks." Paks returned to the common room to find the innkeeper waiting.
By the time she had finished breakfast, the other guests were stirring. First 
down was a man in dark tunic and trousers over soft boots. He gave Paks a look 
up and down that lingered on her sword-hilt, and sat down to his meal with no 
comment. Then came two heavily built men that Paks classified as merchants, 
followed by a tall man in a stained leather tunic over patched trousers. He had 
a longsword at his hip, a dagger at his belt, and the hilts of two daggers 
sprouted from his boot tops. Paks noticed that he chose a seat against a wall, 
far from the others.
After breakfast, she managed a private word with Hebbinford. He was willing to 
tell her about the moneychangers in town, and described them for her.
"Well," he began slowly, "as you ask me, I'd say Senneth. He's a Guild member, 
but the northern guild's not the same as that in Aarenis, if that means anything 
to you."
"Which guild?" asked Paks.
"The moneylenders, of course. I've heard that down south they were mixed up in a 
lot of—well—all sorts of trouble, let's say. But Master Senneth is as honest as 
any of that sort, say what you will. He's given me honest weight, at least. Or 
there's Master Venion—some prefer him. He's not a Guild member, but some say his 
commission's less. But for myself, I'd see Senneth."
Paks did not know what he meant by commission, and asked.
"Well, if he takes your raw gold and gives coin, say, or changes southern coin 
for local, he's got to make something on the trade. Or if he arranges a transfer 
far away—you said you wanted your dowry to go home. If you don't want to take it 
yourself, he could arrange it for you. But it would cost you. Now Venion might 
charge you less, but—how would you know it got there? The Guild, now, it'll see 
things are done right. It's whether you want to pay for it, that's all."
Paks nodded. "Where is Master Senneth?"
"Just across from the Hall." Paks looked blank, and he explained. "When you went 
to the Grange last night, before you crossed the bridge: did you see the large 
building on your left with a fenced yard?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's the Hall. Master Senneth is right across from it. It's easy to 
find. He's got a guard at the door." Paks raised her eyebrows. "And you won't be 
able to take your weapons in, either. The guard stacks them for you."
Master Senneth was a brisk, trim man in a tight-sleeved gown of black wool. He 
smiled at Paks as she came through the door. "Yes? What may I do for you?"
Paks explained her needs.
"Hmmm. Valuation, yes. It would be better for you, actually, to take anything 
really valuable to a larger town, or to V&ella. For one thing, you can get 
several appraisals, and for another, they can offer more who have a market to 
hand. HI tell you frankly that I probably can't give you the best price you 
could get, except for southern coin. That's because we trade coin across the 
mountains each year. Some items I may not be able to take at all; those, of 
course, I'll note as we go along. Now transfer—if it's money alone, that's the 
easiest. If it's specific items, that can be quite expensive. Have you brought 
it all along?"
"Yes," said Paks. "But most of it's outside; your guard said he would watch the 
packs." She had tied Star to the railing outside.
"Well, let's bring it in and take a look, if you wish." Paks nodded and he came 
from behind his counter to the door. "Arvid, bring this lady's packs in, 
please." The guard unloaded Star, staggering a bit at the weight, and carried 
the packs inside. As he left, Master Senneth called after him. "And see that 
we're not disturbed until we're through, Arvid." Then to Paks. "I suppose you 
don't want half die town wandering in as we're counting, and knowing just what 
you have."
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Paks.
"Ah, they would," he said darkly. "They saw you come in yesterday, and watched 
you come here with a loaded pony. If they could look through walls—" He made a 
warding sign. "But they can't. Now, what's first?"
Paks began unstrapping the packs. "I don't know what—some of this is weapons, 
but fancier ones than I'd use." She pulled out the pair of jewelled daggers 
sheathed in silver. Senneth caught his breath.
"My—those are lovely. Where did you say—no. No matter. Only—" he looked at her 
sharply. "Were these stolen, somewhere in Aarenis?"
"No." Paks shook her head. "I didn't steal them. You can ask Marshal Cedfer or 
Master Oakhallow, if you like."
"You're not a Girdsman nor a kuakkgannir."
"No, I'm not. But they know where they are from, and how."
"I see." He returned to the daggers. "What lovely tracings. And these gems are 
valuable in themselves, not just in this design."
Paks pulled out the small battle-axe. She had forgotten the gold inlay tracing 
runes along the blade.
"That's dwarf-work!" Senneth shook his head. "A rare piece, though I don't know 
where I'd find a buyer. That's the sort of thing you'd get a better price for in 
V6rella." Looking at it again, Paks wished she could keep it. But she knew she 
had no use for a battleaxe, one weapon she'd never handled. She pulled out the 
ivory-handled dagger with a red stone set in the pommel, and the matching sheath 
with the dragon carved around it, and two red stones for eyes. Laying these 
aside, she pulled out one of the sacks of coins.
Master Senneth looked at the treasure, then at Paks, with dawning respect. 
"Young lady, that's a remarkable amount of wealth you have there. Are you sure 
you're not an elf princess in disguise, checking to see if humans are still 
greedy? I assure you, my honest commission for handling all this will well repay 
my time."
Paks sat back on her heels, grinning. "No, Master Senneth, I'm no princess, elf 
or human. A very lucky young warrior, yes. And my old sergeant said, if ever we 
got a chance to set some aside, to do it. If there's enough, after sending my 
dowry home, that's what I'll do."
"Not spend it all on new clothes and wine, eh? Wise head on young shoulders—and 
a fighter, at that. You're a new one on me. What was your name again?"
"Paksenarrion."
"Lady Paksenarrion, what other surprises have you?" He smiled over the coins, 
sorting them quickly into heaps of like kind, while Paks pulled out everything 
else. When all the coins had been counted, he turned to the jewels, rolling them 
out on a square of black velvet on his counter, and angling a mirror to catch 
sunlight from the window. His fingers moved among them deftly, turning them this 
way and that. At last he looked up.
"Unless your father was a very wealthy man, I'd say you have ample to repay any 
dowry, and my commission for the transfer, and enough over to live well for a 
long time. Let me start making notes. If you don't accept my value for anything, 
just retrieve it: as I said, you can get more for many of these things in a 
city. Now—" He opened a tall book, fetched a pen and a soft piece of chalk to 
mark the slate that topped one end of his counter. "Let me start with the coins. 
You realize that those are all quite old. I don't even know the issue on the 
ones where the imprint is visible. They have value only for the metal content; 
they 11 have to be melted and re-struck. So I use the weight to determine the 
value—" He pulled out a set of scales.
As Paks walked back toward the inn, leading Star, she tried to think how much 
money she actually had. She was hungry; by the sun it was long past time for 
lunch. How many hours, then, had she been closeted with the moneychanger? She 
had seen the spiky columns of figures climb up the pages of his account-book, as 
he added the value of coins, jewels, the small pieces of weaponry. But she 
couldn't make sense of it in terms of her salary in the Duke's
Company. He spoke of gold crowns and silver coronets and halflings instead of 
the natas and nitis she was used to. She couldn't manage to convert it, in her 
head. But it seemed she could send home twice what she thought her dowry had 
been and have plenty left. She need not take the first guard job that came 
along. She could buy a riding saddle for Star—perhaps even a full-sized horse. 
She had left most of her money on deposit with Master Senneth, but she had 
enough with her to order a few new clothes, and eat the best the Jolly Potboy 
offered for that night's dinner.
On the way back, she remembered Sevri's directions to die smithy, where Master 
Doggal shod all the horses for miles around. Now she turned from the main road, 
and led Star between two small stone buildings down an alley that led to the 
forge. In the paved courtyard before the blacksmith's shop, the tall, 
rough-looking man from the inn was haggling with the smith over the cost of 
shoes; his black warhorse, its ears twitching nervously, stamped and shifted, 
the shoes in question ringing on the stones. Paks recognized it by the blazed 
lace; it had tall white stockings on all four legs.
"I charges iair," the smith rumbled. "Nobody says but what I charges fair. That 
beast of yours has feet so big, and stands so bad—aye, he come near tearing 
loose, that he did, and kicked me as near as maybe. It's not the shoes being set 
wrong has him titrupy like that: he's a wrong 'un, and too handy with them white 
socks." The smith was a head shorter than the other, but his massive arms and 
shoulders made his hammer look small.
The tall man put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but the smith hefted his 
hammer.
"You just pay me, now," the smith went on. "Pay as you ought, and we'll have no 
trouble."
"And if I don't?" The black horse shied at that harsh voice; die tall man jerked 
die bridle viciously. Neither man had noticed Paks, but the horse winded Star 
and stood still, head high and ears pricked, snuffing.
"Well, if ye don't I’ll have die law on ye—"
"The law, is it?" The tall man laughed contemptuously. "In this town? What law 
here could touch me?"
"This," said the smith, and quick as a snake's tongue his hammer tapped the 
man's shoulder.
With an angry snarl, the big man dropped the reins, drew his sword, and swung at 
the smith. The black horse walked over to Star as Paks dropped the lead and 
whipped out her own blade. Only then did the smith see her.
"Another one of ye, eh?" He blocked one swipe of the big sword with his hammer; 
she noted that he handled it as if it were weightless. "Well, I can take two of 
ye, no doubt, but still—Aieeeh! By the Maker!" His bellow split the early 
afternoon stillness. Paks heard a startled outcry in the distance, as she ran 
forward.
"Not against you, Master Smith," she said as her sword rang against the other. 
"But you, you coward. I can see that horse has new shoes—and you owe the 
smith—and you've no business attacking an unarmed man with a sword!" The 
swordsman had turned, furious, with her first blow, and now concentrated on her.
"Unarmed, is it?" cried the smith. "And you a woman? Is any smith unarmed that 
has his hammer and the strength of the forge in his arm?" Paks made no answer; 
the tall man was skilled, and she saved her breath for the fight. The smith 
threw his hammer on the ground and- bellowed at them both. "Is it a barton of 
Gird you think I have here, and not a smithy? By the Maker, is a smith to be 
reft of his fight by any wandering female? I can collect my own debts, you silly 
girl, without your help. I was just teaching this fellow a lesson—" Paks quit 
listening. The tall man had the reach of her, and his blade was the heavier. She 
missed her helmet and shield; he had a round iron pot on his head, and heavy 
bracers on both arms. His black eyes gleamed from under the helmet.
"Eh—the girl from over the mountains! A wild one, I see. I like wild ones." He 
grunted as her sword pricked his shoulder. "I'll tame you, little mountauvcat, 
and then I'll see to him—" He jerked his head at the smith, without giving Paks 
an opening.
"You will, will you?' yelled the smith. "By the Maker, you're a fine one, if you 
think you canl" And before Paks realized what he was about, he darted behind the 
tall man and brought the hammer down on his head with a resounding clang. The 
tall man sagged to his knees and fell over in a heap. The smith glared at Paks 
over the crumpled body. "A sword," he said severely, "is a pitiful weapon, young 
woman, and only fit for those that don't have the strength for a hammer. It was 
by the hammer that Sertig the Maker forged the world on the Anvil of Time. The 
hammer will always win, with the strength of the faithful behind it."
Paks had dropped the tip of her sword and stood panting. "Uhm—yes—"
"Don't forget that."
"No—" She took a deep breath and wiped her sword on her leg before sheathing it.
"Not that yours isn't a fine bit of work," the smith went on. "It's just that 
swords are inferior weapons." Paks did not feel like arguing with him. She was, 
however, a bit disgruntled. She'd only tried to help someone.
"Doggal!" A shout from the alley. "Need help?" Paks could see two hefty men, 
armed with clubs.
"Nay, nay. Twas a bit of trouble with a fellow from outside, that's all." The 
smith sounded smug. "He'll have a headache, if he wakes at all."
"Will you need someone to take him away?"
"He's not dead yet. He's still snorting. If this lady will lead his horse back 
to the inn, I can throw him over—" He turned to Paks. "If you're going that way, 
that is." The men waved and turned back up the alley.
"I was coming here," said Paks. "To get my pony shod. But i£-"
The smith suddenly grinned, and looked like a different man. "Oh? That's no 
problem. He'll keep a bit, just there. I did wonder what you were doing up my 
alley, to be sure, but if it was on business, then—" He looked around. "That's 
your pony, with the star?"
"Yes. Just a moment." Paks started toward Star, who stood stiffly, nose-to-nose, 
with the black horse. Both shifted away from her, eyes wide.
"Come on, Star," said Paks crossly. She felt the smith was laughing at her. 
"Come on, pony." She rubbed her thumb on the gold ring. The wildness left Star's 
eyes, and the pony minced toward her. The black horse, too, lowered his head and 
stretched his neck.
"Catch up that fancy-socks, if you can," called the smith. "Be careful: he's a 
mean one, but he'll do no good running loose." Paks caught Star's lead, and 
rubbed the ring again, talking softly to the black.
"Come on, then, big one. Come on. I'd like to have one like you someday." The 
black horse came forward step by slow step until she could reach the reins. She 
talked on as she led them toward the smithy itself. She could feel the horse's 
fear trembling in the reins as they neared the building.
"Well!" The smith sounded surprised. "You've a rare way with a horse, that you 
have. I'll take the pony, then, if youTl hold that one. What sort of shoes? Are 
you going into the mountains again?"
Paks shook her head. "No. And she won't be carrying as much weight. Ill be going 
toward Verella, I think."
"Umph." He had one of Star's feet up, then another. "I'd still say low caulks in 
front. It'll frost before these wear out."
By the time Star was shod and the shoes paid for, the tall man had grunted and 
groaned and shifted around on the stones. His eyes were still closed, though, 
and he had said nothing coherent.
"You wanted to help," said the smith with a bit of his earlier belligerence. 
"Suppose you take him back to the inn for me. Ill tell the watch about it, and 
Jos can ask me, if he wants. And look—" The smith bent down with a grunt and 
opened the man's belt pouch. "You know he owes me for the shoeing of that devil 
there: see, I'm taking just what he owes." Paks nodded, and the smith heaved the 
man upright and slung him over one broad shoulder. "Now, I think your pony would 
carry him better than his horse. Can you lead both?"
"Yes—" Paks was reluctant, nonetheless, to go out on the streets leading another 
man's horse, with the man himself slung unconscious over her pony. "But don't 
you think that—I mean, since you hit him, shouldn't—?"
"A warrior like you doesn't want credit for defeating him?" The smith's voice 
was scornful, and his look more so. Paks reddened. Nothing and no one in this 
town was as she had expected. "I'd have thought," the smith continued, "that 
such as you were quite used to hauling bodies around. Or did you just leave 
them?"
Paks opened her mouth and shut it again. There seemed nothing to say to that. 
But as the smith folded the man over Star's back, the Gird's Marshal walked into 
the courtyard. His glance rested on Paks, then on the smith and his burden.
"I heard, Master Doggal, that you had had a disturbance."
The smith stopped, with a hand on the tall man's back where he lay across the 
pony. "If you heard that, Marshal, you heard I needed no help."
The Marshal glanced at Paks again. The smith caught the look and raised his 
voice. "No, and I didn't need her, either. Is that it, is she one of your 
precious yeoman?"
"No. I merely wondered."
The smith began tying the man to Star's pack pad with the thongs. "Took you long 
enough. If I had needed help, I'd have been dead long since." He turned to Paks. 
"Now, lady, just you work whatever magic you used on that horse, and take him 
and this fellow back to the inn for me." Paks saw the Marshal give her a sharp 
look at the word magic, but he turned back to the smith as that individual kept 
talking. Paks started to move away, but the Marshal raised his hand to stop her.
"You seem to think, Marshal, that we'd have no order here without you Girdsmen. 
I'm not denying you're a brave bunch, and useful when we have trouble too big 
for one man or two. But I can hold my own with any single man, and most two or 
three. As I was telling this lady—" Paks wondered why she had been promoted from 
"girl" and "female" to "lady."
"As I said to her, the Maker's hammer wielded by a faithful arm will stand over 
a sword any time."
"Yet the Maker is said to have made many a blade, in the old tales," said the 
Marshal, with a kindling eye. "And you, I know, have made most of the blades in 
this village—"
"Oh, aye, that's true. When I have time. And it's a test of the art, that it is, 
to make a fine-balanced blade that will hold an edge and withstand a hard fight. 
I won't say against that. But I will say—"
"That you can hold your own in a fight. And I’ll agree to that, Master Doggal. 
But the captain did ask me to keep an eye on things, after that last trouble, 
and the Council as well—"
The smith had calmed down a lot, and the discussion seemed, to Paks, to be 
working over well-plowed ground. "That's so. If it's for the Council, then I 
might as well tell you all that happened. Saves seeing the watch. This fellow 
came to have his horse shod—that black one there—and quarreled with my price, 
after. The beast is vicious: doesn't look it now, I’ll admit, but just you try 
and put a shoe on it. I charged more for it. Always do, as you know. If I'm to 
risk my head, I must have gain for it." He paused and the Marshal nodded. "Well, 
then, he said as much as that I'd no way to make him pay. I tapped his arm to 
show I meant my words, and he drew on me. Then this lady—I'd not seen her 
come—she drew as well. I thought they were together, and raised a yell. Then it 
seemed she thought to aid me—but, you see, I'd already raised a cry—so I thought 
I'd let her fight, was she so eager to. They were well-matched. He'd the reach 
of her, and was heavier, but she was quicker and her blade had more quality. 
Then—well—it's hard to stay out of a fight, so I broke his head with the hammer, 
after all."
"Mmm." The Marshal looked at Paks. "I'd have told you our smith can handle 
himself in a fight. It's not well for newcomers to brawl in the streets."
Before Paks could answer, the smith was defending her. " Tis not her fault, 
Marshal. I'd think you'd be pleased, even if she's not one of yours. She thought 
she saw an old man—" he rumpled his thin gray hair "—beset by an armed bully. 
She did well."
"Hmm. Well, I suppose—if you have no complaint against her—" the Marshal was 
frowning.
"Not at all. Not at all. Suppose I had slipped and fallen? She was trying to 
help. And, you might notice, on the side of that law and order you praise so 
highly. I've no complaint. In fact—but go on, now, and get that lummox out of my 
yard." He turned abruptly and dove back into die forge.
"Ill walk with you to the inn," said the Marshal to Paks in a neutral tone. Paks 
followed him down the alley, leading both animals. She kept her thumb firmly on 
the ring.
They were almost to the crossroad when the Marshal spoke again. "If I'd defended 
you," he said without preamble, "old Doggal would be lodging a complaint to the 
Council somehow. He won't agree with me on anything but smithing itself if he 
can help it."
"Then—you aren't angry with me for this?"
"For going to his aid? Of course not. You might wait, another time, to see 
whether your aid is needed, or someday you'll be killed over some little thing, 
and nothing gained. I'll just have a word with Hebbinford," he said as they came 
to the inn door. "You take that horse around back."
Paks found herself leading the tall black warhorse to the stable before she 
quite realized the Marshal had taken Star's lead. She heard, behind her, the 
innkeeper's voice and the Marshal's, and the exclamations of the serving 
wenches.
Chapter Nine
When she came in to supper that night, the.common room stilled. Someone dropped 
a dish, and it clattered on the floor. She could hear the rustle of cloth as 
someone bent to pick it up. Paks carefully did not meet any of the eyes in the 
room, but picked her way to an empty table. As she sat down, a muted hum 
resumed. She heard a phrase here and there, but tried to ignore the voices. They 
all knew, as she did, that the tall man lay unconscious in his room upstairs. 
She didn't know what stories were going around, but obviously she was in them. 
She ordered the special dinner: roast beef, mushrooms, hot bread, and pastry. 
She was halfway through it before she remembered that she'd thought of going to 
weapons-practice at the Girdmen's that evening. If she ate all that—she sighed 
and pushed the dishes away.
"Is something wrong with your meal?" asked Hebbinford, pausing by her table.
"No, not at all. I thought I'd go to the grange this evening, though, and 
drill—and not on a full stomach."
"I see. Well, we can put that by for you, for when you get back, if you like."
"Thank you." Paks had not thought of that. "I'd like that—this is too good to 
waste. If it's not too much trouble—?"
"Not at all. Marshal Cedfer mentioned that you might be visiting this evening. I 
suppose, a warrior must always practice, eh?"
"Yes, if we want to stay good. And it's been too long since I had a proper 
drill.'
"Fights don't count?"
"No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need to 
practice. I should drill every day—we did in the Duke's Company. But no one can 
practice well on a full belly." Paks leaned back and fished into her pouch for 
the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she noticed several 
of the diners watching her.
Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street. 
Uncurtained windows were open to the cool evening air, and torches burned at 
either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with tight; torches 
flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that the 
gate to the barton and door to the Grange both had sentries before them. She saw 
two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange greetings 
with the sentries.
Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long 
billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks 
wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. 
Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes 
wide.
"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she said. "The Marshal invited me to come to 
weapons-practice."
"Oh—eh—you're the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?"
"Yes," said Paks. "May I pass?"
"Oh—well—if the Marshal said—yes, lady, go on in. Are—are you really a fighter, 
like they say?" This last, as she was nearly past.
Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "Yes. Did you doubt it?"
"Oh, no, lady. I—I just wondered, like."
Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard 
was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching 
his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, 
smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros 
with an armful of short clubs that reminded Faks of hanks. She heard more men 
coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from 
the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap 
near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.
"Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you 
come in? Or hell be out here in a few moments."
"I'll wait," said Paks. "I can warm up out here." She unbuckled her sword and 
laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the 
same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.
"Eh, Can," said another. "If you've ate as much as I smell, you won't last the 
night."
"Air and onion won't slow any man," retorted Can, grinning. "Might just set off 
my opponent—"
Paks ignored them. It was much like drill in the Company—the familiar mixture of 
joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her 
sword. The barton was half-full of men—she saw no other women—and they were all 
mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four had 
pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.
A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came 
into the barton, followed by five other men.
"Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?" he asked.
"We are ready, Sir Marshal," they answered in unison. Paks was silent.
"Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for 
the safety of our land."
"In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent," came the response.
"We have a guest here tonight," said the Marshal less formally. "Paksenarrion, 
come forward. I want all our yeomen to know you." Paks edged past the others to 
stand near the Marshal under the torches. "Though she is not a Girdsman, 
Paksenarrion is an experienced warrior. She has accepted my invitation to drill 
with us. Those of you who drill with swords will have a chance to cross blades 
with her if you wish. Now, bring your weapons and let me see—" The Marshal began 
to look over the weapons, commenting on their condition. He was as thorough as 
any of the Duke's armsmasters. Ambros explained that some of the weapons 
belonged to the men, and the rest were stored in the grange. Then the Marshal 
began assigning drills: some to one-on-one, others to two-on-one, and others to 
more basic exercises. When they were all occupied, he led Paks to a corner of 
the barton where Ambros waited with two short swords.
"If you don't mind," said the Marshal, "I'd like to work with these short 
swords. I suspect you are for more skilled with a short blade than I am. It 
would be best for the yeomen, I think, to learn the short. Of course, you'll 
want a chance to work with your own, but—"
"That's fine," said Paks. "But I haven't drilled with a short sword in several 
months. I may be clumsy with it."
"Not as clumsy as I am," said the Marshal. "I haven't been able to teach the men 
to fight in lines with it."
Paks unbuckled her long sword, racked it, and took one of the short ones from 
Ambros. "We used a small shield with these, in formation," she said. "Do you 
have shields?"
"Yes, but we rarely practice with them. As I said, most of our men are not at 
all skilled with swords. Once they learn that, then we'll try adding the 
shields." The Marshal, too, had taken a short blade; he gestured at another man 
to come over. He looked closely at Paks. "You aren't wearing your mail."
"No. 1 didn't think all of you would have mail." Paks wished she had a banda, 
but was not about to ask for one.
"Mmm. I always say, the stripes you take in training reinforce the lesson." The 
Marshal looked pleased, and the other two grinned. "Now—well warm up hi pairs, 
then go two-against-two. Is that all right?"
"Surely." Paks moved the sword around, feeling its balance. It was subtly 
different from the one in the Duke's Company. Lighter, she finally decided.
As she had expected, the Marshal was not nearly as inexperienced as he'd 
claimed. They tested each other's ability and strokes, without either making a 
touch, for a few minutes. Then the Marshal gestured a pause.
"Yes, indeed," he said. "I see you have much to teach us. Now, Ambros, you stand 
with her, and Mattis, you take my right."
Paks shot a look at the young man who came to stand beside her. She felt queer, 
standing in formation with a stranger against strangers. But if she joined a 
guard company somewhere, this is what it would be like. Again the blades came up 
in salute, and the drill began.
Ambros, she saw at once, wanted to move around too much. He shifted from side to 
side with each stroke, alternately crowding and leaving her flank uncovered. The 
Marshal's partner, Mattis, looked as if he couldn't shift at all, but at least 
he was keeping some sort of Une. Paks managed to cover Ambros's lapses at first, 
but finally the Marshal's blade leaped in and rapped his side sharply. Paks had 
managed two touches on Mattis, but none on the Marshal. He signalled another 
halt.
"I think I see our problem," he said. "Ambros, you aren't holding your position. 
Isn't that it, Paksenarrion?"
She was not sure how critical she 'could be without angering them. "Well—yes, 
part of it. A line works only if it holds together. But I think those who learn 
a long blade first have more trouble. It seems to me that you, sir, and Ambros 
both are trying strokes more suited to a long blade. More wrist, and less elbow 
and shoulder."
"Ah. I see. Suppose you stand out, and watch us, and give corrections.' The 
Marshal lined up with Ambros this time, and a nervous Mattis braced himself to 
meet both of them. Paks shook her head.
"No, sir, by your leave. Let all of you line up, and go slowly—do you ever count 
the cadence for a slow drill? Yes? Good. If those of your men with the short 
clubs use much the same strokes, they can partner you, and the line can be long 
enough to work. I can anchor the center of the opposing line." The Marshal 
agreed, and soon they had a line of four swords (for another man took up a 
blade, a little uncertainly) against Paks and three men with clubs. At first the 
drill was very ragged, but in a few strokes they all caught on, and Paks was 
able to talk them through it.
"You see," she said, as the blades met clubs with light taps, "if you are in 
close formation you'll hurt your partners if you shift too much. And leave 
yourself open, as well. There is a rhythm—and a trust—that your partner will be 
there. Not so much turn to the side—yes—and if you have a shield as well, you 
can foul your partner's blade if you turn." As practice went on, they grew used 
to the limited sideways movement, and Paks encouraged them to increase the 
tempo. After some minutes, the Marshal called a halt.
"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Very good indeed. Anything else?"
"I didn't notice it in the others, sir," said Paks, "but you and Ambros still 
seem to have too much flex in the wrist. You are trying to do more with the 
point than a short sword allows—it's the quick thrust you want, not fencing 
about." She expected him to be angry, but he was not.
"So. Each craft has it masters, and a knight's training ill-suits an infantry 
soldier. I'll try to remember that. Perhaps you'll give us the benefit of your 
training again. And now, since you carry a long blade by choice, you should have 
the chance to practice with it, if you will." He handed Ambros his short blade 
and gestured to Paks. She handed over the short sword and went to pick up her 
own blade. When she had settled it to her satisfaction,the Marshal had also 
armed himself, and awaited her.
"I suggest we go into the grange itself," he said. "The light is better."
Paks followed him in. So, she noticed, did many of the other men.
"I don't suggest the platform, since you aren't used to it. But here—" his 
glance cleared a space in the crowd, and he drew.
"Now," said Paks, smiling, "I expect you will have plenty to teach me."
The Marshal grinned. "I should hope so. You have some good strokes; I noticed 
that yesterday, but—" He moved to attack.
For the next few minutes they circled first one way then the other, blades 
ringing with stroke after stroke. Paks had to use everything she knew and all 
her size, to keep from being pricked again and again. She could feel the sweat 
pouring down her back and burning her eyes. The Marshal was much more a 
swordsman than Macenion. Every thrust was met with a firm repulse, and she found 
herself more often defending than attacking. She found no weakness she could 
exploit, and wondered what old Siger would do against him. That thought almost 
made her laugh—she'd still back Siger against anyone, even a Marshal of Gird.
"Very good," the Marshal said finally, still hard at work. "You certainly have a 
thorough grounding in long blades. I have a few tricks, but as for as plain 
fighting goes, you do very well." Paks said nothing, needing all her 
concentration. Despite her best efforts, he made a touch the next moment, 
ripping her left sleeve from shoulder to elbow. "There, now," he said. "I have 
regained the respect of our yeomen. Would you rest a bit?" He stepped back, and 
Paks lowered her weapon.
"I could stand to," she said ruefully, wiping her face. "I see I still have a 
lot to learn—just as I thought."
"The willing student learns quickly," he said. "You need naught but experience 
to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat 
now, quite easily I imagine."
"Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft," said Paks. She thought of Saben's teasing 
with a pang. "I always have."
"Good, then. You're welcome here, any time. Ill be glad to drill with you; 
you're good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind-—" he saia 
briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, "mind, I intend to have you a Girdsman 
before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause. We need 
such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle gain." Paks 
felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. "No—" He stopped and 
rubbed his head. "I shouldn't say that of you, when I don't know your 
allegiance, but Gird knows we've trouble enough coming, and few to meet it." He 
grinned at her suddenly. "I still think you'll make a fine Girdsman someday—even 
a Marshal, who knows?"
The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and 
taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was 
talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.
A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. "If—if you'd come again, I'd like to 
drill with you—"
"Oh, I'll come again, while I'm here. It's good practice. But—don't you have any 
women drilling with you?"
Ambros shook his head. "No. Not at this level. We'd had some in the beginners' 
class—in feet, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal 
sends elsewhere for more training."
"I see."
"Were there many women in your company?"
"Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains."
"I've heard of Duke Phelan. Isn't his title from the court of Tsaia?"
"Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border." Paks sighed. "I 
might—I might be going back there."
"But you left the company, didn't you? We thought you were a free sword."
"Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another 
company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I've thought of going back."
"Oh." Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, 
starting to say something and stopped, and finally said, "Well—Gird go with you. 
We'll be glad to see you again."
It was late. Most torches in the village were out. Paks made her way down the 
dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the 
Grange.
Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff 
from the tanner's crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw 
light spilling from the inn's windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few 
who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her 
shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, 
then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back 
downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.
"Do you want the rest of your dinner?"
"Yes, if it's not too much trouble." Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford 
brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the 
leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice 
of bread and began eating.
Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of 
ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that 
Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his 
elbow. Two men in merchants' gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking 
around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her 
table.
"I'm Gar Travennin," said the older. "A merchant, as you see, from Chaya. Could 
we talk with you?"
Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was 
balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.
"We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis." Paks nodded again. "I heard 
there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year. Is that 
so?'
Paks took a sip of her ale. "Yes. That's so. Had you heard of Lord Siniava?" The 
man nodded. "Well, he tried open war against the Guild League cities and the 
northern mercenaries all at once. He lost."
"Ah … so. Do you think, then, that trade will be back to normal by next spring? 
I held off this year, but I've a caravan of fine wool that needs a buyer."
Paks thought back to the turmoil in Aarenis. She spread her hands. "I can't say, 
sir, for certain. I came north with a late caravan, as far as the Silver Pass, 
but whether they made it safe to Valdaire I don't know."
"Were you with a regular company?" Travennin asked as if he had heard already.
"Yes. Duke Phelan's Company. The Duke was—much involved." Paks was not sure how 
much to say; the old habit of silence held her still.
"Mmm. And why did you leave?"
Paks felt irritated. "Why, sir, I enlisted for two years. My time was up."
"I see. You had had no trouble—?"
Merchants! she thought disgustedly. No honor at all. "No, sir. No trouble." She 
went on eating.
"I heard the Duke and Aliam Halveric were much in each other's pockets," said 
Travennin, his eyes roaming around the room.
Paks gave him a hard look and returned to her meal. "Oh? I couldn't say."
"After some kind of trouble last year—over the pass? Some border fort, I forget 
the name—"
She thought of Dwarfwatch at once, and said nothing. The smell of that mountain 
wind came to her, and her last sight of Saben and Canna in the rain, and Captain 
Ferrault's dying face.
"-—do you know it?" the merchant persisted.
Paks stopped eating and slowly put both hands flat on the table. He glanced at 
her and froze as she glared at him. "Sir," she said finally, in a voice she 
hardly recognized. "I have nothing to say about our—the Duke's—Company. Nothing. 
And by your leave, sir, I’ll finish my supper in peace." She stared at him until 
he reddened and pushed back his stool. She had lost her appetite. All those 
deaths, that grief and rage—The merchants she had traveled with had not been so 
crass. But of course, they had been in Aarenis during the war. They knew. Her 
breathing slowed; she took another sip of ale. The merchants were back at their 
own table, heads together. The man in black was watching her. As he met her 
eyes, he lifted his glass in salute and grinned. She looked away. All at once 
she wished she were anywhere but here. No, not anywhere, but back with the 
Company, laughing with Vik and Arne, talking with Stammel or Sell or Dev. Tears 
stung her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She drew a long breath and 
drank more ale.
She had thought she'd feel at home in the north; she was northern. But 
Brewersbridge was for from home. Maybe that was it. She thought of Verella, 
thought of going straight on to Three Firs. She had money enough now; she could 
make more show than even her cousin. She imagined her mother's smile, her 
father's scowl—but he might not be angry, with the dowry repaid. She wondered 
what she would tell them, and what they would ask. Her musings ended there. She 
could not tell them anything they would understand. They would see her as these 
folk did: dangerous, wild, a stranger. She started to pour more ale, and found 
the tankard dry. She was still thirsty. She beckoned to Hebbinford, but when he 
came she doubted the steadiness of her voice and asked for water. His expression 
approved that choice. The merchants left the room and went upstairs.
Paks drank the water and thought of what she would do the next day. She needed 
new clothes, at least a new shirt. A saddle for Star. She knew where the 
tailor's shop was, and the leatherworker's—if he made saddles. She would order a 
shirt or two, and then think about how long to stay. Suddenly she remembered the 
tall man the smith had felled. How was he? She was unwilling to ask the 
innkeeper. She picked up the pastry from a dish she had pushed aside and bit 
into it absently. It had been a long day.
Chapter Ten
Next morning she woke again at dawn. This time Hebbinford seemed to expect her 
when she padded down the stairs and out to the stableyard. There she stretched 
and twisted, working the stifihess out of her shoulder. When Sevri came out, 
they fed the horses together. Paks stopped to watch the black horse eat. She 
wondered what would happen to it if its master died. She imagined herself riding 
away on it—then wondered if she could even mount it.
The tailor, she found after breakfast, was away on a trip. "Buying cloth up at 
the Count's fair," said his wife. "He's got a commission to make cloaks for the 
new council members, and has gone to buy cloth. He won't be home for a sennight 
or more. But what did you need, lady? Perhaps 1 could serve?"
"Well—some shirts, at least. I'd wanted a cloak, a heavy traveling cloak for 
winter."
"Fur? I couldn't do fur, nor does he, without it being paid in advance."
"No, not fur. Just good warm wool, weatherproofed—"
"Plain shirts, or fancy ones?"
Paks thought of her money. "Plain. Maybe one fancy one."
"The plain shirts I can do. And here—here's our silks, from the south. They say 
you've been there; you'll know these are good."
Paks looked at the goods. The silk was so soft—she decided on a silk shirt, 
green, with gold embroidery on the yoke. For that, the woman said, she'd have to 
await the tailor's return. In the meantime, a linen shirt—Paks explained the cut 
she wanted, to free her arms for sword-play. The tailor's wife took her 
measurements.
"You're as big as a man," she said, a little nervously. "Even in the neck—"
Paks laughed. "It comes of the fighting," she said. "Wearing a helmet every day 
would thicken anyone's neck. Makes it harder to cut through." But the woman 
didn't take the joke, and only looked frightened. Paks sighed, and ordered 
trousers as well, of die local wool, thicker and softer than she'd found in 
Aarenis. The tailor's wife knew someone who knitted for sale, and by noon Paks 
had ordered new socks and gloves for the coming winter.
As she came back to the inn, well satisfied with her morning's work, she noticed 
a crowd round the door. She slowed. A group of men came out, carrying something 
on a plank. Boots, scuffed and worn, poked out from under a blanket. The tall 
man. Paks shivered. Marshal Cedfer, walking with the carriers, nodded shortly to 
Paks as he led the group toward the Grange. Paks went on to the door, staring 
after them.
Just inside the inn door, Hebbmford was talking to Master Oakhallow.
"—doesn't do the inn any good," he was saying. "And besides—Oh. Paksenarrion. 
Master Oakhallow was looking for you."
Paksenarrion felt a tremor in her gut. The Kuakgan was looking at her without 
expression. She opened her mouth to say something about lunch, and thought 
better of it.
"For a simple warrior," said the Kuakgan, "you certainly have managed to make a 
stir in our quiet village." Hebbmford moved away, into the common room. Paks 
thought of several things to say, and decided against all of them. "You were 
about to eat?" Oakhallow went on.
"Yes, sir." Paks tried to judge his expression. "But if you needed—"
"No. I think I’ll join you for lunch, if that's acceptable."
Paks wondered what he would say if she said no. Instead she nodded, and followed 
him into the common room. He murmured something to Hebbinford, and the innkeeper 
waved them on into the kitchen. The serving wenches were wide-eyed. The Kuakgan 
moved to a table at the kitchen window, overseeing the courtyard, and sat down. 
Paks hesitated, then sat opposite him. Hebbinford brought a platter of sliced 
meat, a loaf of bread, and a round of cheese to the table. One of the girls 
brought a pitcher of water and two rnugs.
"You might as well know," the Kuakgan began, as he pulled out a dagger and 
sliced the round of cheese, "that you're causing a stir. I don't mean that dead 
bully, necessarily, though that's part of it. Not your fault, I agree with the 
Marshal, but you were involved. Then Master Senneth, after you left his place, 
has had a—how shall I put it?—a complacent look. And he called you 'lady,' I 
hear. In his vocabulary, that means rich. Folk here know the Halveric Company, 
and most have heard of your duke. After your comments last night, to the Chaya 
merchants, no one has much doubt that he's still your duke. You gave both to me 
and to the Grange a jewel worth a knight's ransom—apparently without knowing 
their worth. You walked off with a horse that the smith claimed was an outlaw." 
He paused to eat a slice of cheese.
Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of 
meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she'd tried to show off. She finished 
that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was coming, or 
what to do.
"Marshal Cedfer says," the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water, 
"that you're uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short 
sword—which I'd expect, where you've been—and also good at instructing in 
weapons. We didn't expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me 
you're good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren't, as a 
rule. In feet—" Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. "In feet, 
Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-mercenary. 
Now Kuakkganni—" he gave a slow smile that changed his whole face. "Kuakkganni 
have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge that you're as 
honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm—not that no harm comes of it. 
You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come out—and soon, I 
judge—if they're not to hurt you later. But unless you choose to confide in me, 
it's not my business." Paks thought of the snowcat with a mental wince, and 
looked down. "Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only join the Grange to be a fine 
addition to our town: that's a compliment; he's hard to please. But you've come 
to the notice of our local Guard, and the Council, and it's best you know the 
eyes they have on you."
Paks stirred restlessly. "But, sir—Master Oakhallow—why should they be so 
interested? I won't be here long—"
"No? Are you sure? The simple answer, chikL is that they can't fit you in. You 
aren't one of the Count's Guard at the new Keep. You aren't an ordinary soldier 
on leave. You aren't a Girdsman, which would put you under command of Marshal 
Cedfer, or a kuakkgannir, which would put you under mine. You have no skill but 
war, isn't that so?" Paks nodded. "And you come from war, from Aarenis, where I 
hear the whole land is one great bubbling stew of fighting. Where an army might 
come over the pass, the short way, and be on us before we could send for aid. 
Can you imagine a southern army up here?" Paks thought of it and nodded. "And 
you come with treasure—how much, only you and Master Senneth know, but I can 
guess. Agents carry such treasure, Paksenarrion. Agents hiring troops, or buying 
loyalty ahead of invasion."
Paks stared at him, shocked. She couldn't speak. Finally she choked out: "Agent? 
But—but I never thought—"
"No," said the Kuakgan grimly. "You didn't think. That much is obvious. An agent 
would think, would have acted very differently. But the Council can't know what 
I know.
They are concerned. So they should be. Your tale of the elfene taig, and the 
elves' aid, and having to meet me and Marshal Cedfer, and treasure—well, it 
would be stupider men than our Council that could see where that might come 
from." He went back to his meal. Paks sat frozen, her appetite gone, the food 
she had already eaten a cold lump in her belly. She watched him eat. Finally he 
pushed his plate away. "And on top of all," he said, "a green shirt. With gold 
embroidery. I suppose you don't know what that means?" She shook her head. 
"Hmmph. You must have gone straight from your sheepfarm into the Company, and 
straight into Aarenis from there."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, child, Brewersbridge is near the border of Tsaia and Lyonya. Our local 
Count, such as he is, is a vassal of Tsaia. His colors are blue and rose. Green 
and gold are the colors of the royal house of Lyonya."
"Oh." Paks thought suddenly of the Halveric colors: dark green and gold. She did 
not even consider asking.
"I told them you didn't mean anything by it. I assume you just like the colors? 
Yes. They'll be asking you anyway. There's a Council meeting tonight, and you're 
summoned. Ill be there, and Marshal Cedfer. You met our Master Mason the other 
night. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, the Count's military representative, and 
commander at the new Keep. Probably his mage, Master Zinthys. Jos Hebbinford you 
know, and Master Senneth. Our mayor is Master Ceddrin, the Brewmaster. You'll be 
asked for a clear account of yourself, and for news of what's happened this past 
year in Aarenis." He stopped again. Paks noaded, and he went on.
"I thought you might give a clearer account, if you had the afternoon to think 
about it. If there's anything you haven't told the truth about, you'd better be 
prepared to tonight. You'll probably be asked to submit to an Examination of 
Truth—'
"What's that?" asked Paks.
"A spell. Under its influence, you cannot lie. You can refuse to answer 
questions, however, should you wish. The Council consented to my telling you 
this, because of my judgment of you, I think you have nothing to fear from the 
Examination or the Council, but you must expect sharp questioning: don't get 
angry. If you are unwilling to come before the Council, you must leave 
Brewersbridge at once. You can't go north, deeper into the Count's lands, 
without Sir Felis's permission, which you won't get. You could go west, if you 
went fast, and were beyond the bounds by sundown. East, as you know, has its own 
hazards, and south is back up the mountains. And if you go, they 11 assume 
you've lied. I advise you to stay."
"I wouldn't have run away," said Paks.
"Good. Jos Hebbinford will tell you what time to come. After supper. You might 
want to dress for it, if you can." He stood, and Paks scrambled to her feet. 
"You are, you know, as welcome at the Grove as at die Grange." He turned away. 
Paks thought of the snowcat again. Should she tell him? She wondered what he 
would say.
By midaftemoon, Paks had bathed and washed her hair. Her good shirt, mended, was 
drying in the stableyard; she wore the ragged one in her room. She bad oiled her 
boots, and was working on her sword belt while her hair dried in the breeze from 
the window. She heard boots coming down the passage, stopping before her door. 
She froze, and reached for the sword, where she'd laid it on the bed. Someone 
knocked, and called her name softly.
Paks glanced around the room, then at the door, conscious of her loose hair, the 
mail shirt hanging on a peg. She shrugged, and answered.
"Yes?"
"I'm Arvid Semmmson, lady, a traveller also staying here. You've seen me in the 
common room, in black trousers. I heard you were staying in this afternoon, and 
I've been wanting to speak with you. May I come in, or could we meet downstairs 
shortly?"
Paks thought of the man in dark clothes. She had no idea what his profession 
was, which itself made thief most likely. She thought of the Council meeting 
that night, and decided that she didn't want to meet anyone privately. "I'll be 
downstairs a little later, if that will suit."
"Very good," came the voice through the door, a mel- low and pleasant voice. "I 
shall be honored to buy you a tankard of Hebbinfbrd's best ale, or wine, 
whichever you prefer." The footsteps went away, back toward the stairs. Paks ran 
her hands through her hair, which was almost dry, and began to comb it. Somehow 
it was much worse to be found with loose hair: she did not feel like a fighter 
with hair down her back and wisping into her face. She braided it tightly, then 
finished her work on the sword belt. Her sword was clean and sharp, as always. 
She took off her trousers and looked them over. The previous mending still held. 
She could do nothing more for the shirt she had on. She had patched the worst 
rents, but the other holes and scorches remained. She had brushed and aired her 
cloak, but it, too, was stained and worn. The leather tunic, though bloodmarked, 
was better over her shirt than nothing. She slipped it over her head, decided 
against the mail, and felt her boots. Still damp and oily. It would be another 
hour or so before they were dry. She pulled out die thin leather liners she'd 
worn in the high mountains, and put them on. More respectable than socks or bare 
feet. She strapped her sword belt on over the tunic, made sure she could get her 
dagger easily, and went downstairs.
Arvid Semmmson had chosen a table with a good view of the stairs. He smiled as 
he saw her, and waved. Paks came to his table. Only one other person was in the 
common room, a great cheerful youth she had seen before, happily downing a 
tankard of ale at a swallow. He was leaning on the wall behind his table, and 
looked half asleep.
Semminson's clothes, Paks noticed as she came closer, were, if not new, at least 
unpatched and whole. By the drape of the shoulder and sleeve, the cloth was of 
fine quality. The belt at his waist was polished black leather, new enough that 
die edges had not curled; his dagger's sheath was well-oiled and unscarred. He 
himself had neatly trimmed dark hair, a smoodi-shaven face, and bright black 
eyes. His mouth quirked in amusement.
"Do I pass your inspection, lady?" he asked pleasantly.
Paks thought of her own ragged shirt and patched trousers, and reddened. "I've 
no right to inspect," she muttered.
"No, but you were. Everyone does. I expect that. See here, lady, I'll be 
straight with you—no secrets. I'm no merchant, nor mercenary fighter. Our 
esteemed innkeeper thinks I'm a thief, though I haven't robbed him. That's 
neither here nor there. But you, either you're—how shall I say?—in a related 
business to mine, or you're simply unaware of the situation. Either way, I can't 
let such an attractive young woman wander into a trap without warning. Do you 
follow me?"
Paks shook her head. She felt a certain distaste for his attempt at flattery. 
After the tailor's wife's comments, she had no illusions about being "an 
attractive young woman" by local standards.
"Well—" he looked her up and down. "It might be that our interests would lie 
together. Or if not, a favor done might earn a favor later, who knows? But you 
know there's a Council meeting set for tonight?"
"Yes, but—"
"And you've agreed to go."
"Yes."'
He snorted, "Then either you're a great deal more knowing than you act, or you 
know nothing at all." He leaned closer to her. "You can't hope to come out of 
that easily, you know. They'll get you one way or the other."
"What do you mean?"
He ticked off the points on his fingers. "A stranger in town, with plenty of 
money, and no liege to worry about angering, and under no protection they know 
of? Don't be silly. They'll find some excuse, and then pfft! You're in trouble."
"But I haven't—"
"—done anything," he finished for her, and laughed again. "And just what do you 
think that has to do with it, eh? No, let me give you some advice. It's too late 
to escape, if you would. But be very careful. After they back you in a corner, 
they'll probably offer you some sort of deal, if they can't find anything to 
imprison you for at once. Consider it very carefully, whatever it is. Very 
carefully. Make no promises you can avoid. Beware of that wizard, if he's there: 
he'll try to bind you with some sort of spell, if you aren't careful."
"But why are you telling me all this?" asked Paks, thinking hard.
"As I told you. A favor. I may need one from you someday. You can't do me any 
good if you're in a cell, or dead. And if they do offer you a deal, I'd like to 
know about it. Before I came here, I'd heard the Council had hired outsiders for 
some kind of interesting work. Since I arrived, no one will tell me anything. 
Maybe they'll tell you, if they think they have a hold on you. And if you end up 
taking a job—well, you might want someone with you who wasn't one of theirs, if 
you know what I mean."
Paks was both fascinated and repelled. What he said almost made sense, almost 
fit with the Kuakgan's words. She still could not understand what sort of hold 
anyone could have on her, or why they would want to find her guilty of 
something. In Aarenis, they might have wanted an excuse to seize her for the 
slave market, but not in Tsaia. She wondered if Semminson was the kind of agent 
that the Kuakgan had been talking about. Would anyone, ever, try to help a 
southern army invade the north? She was sure not, until she remembered that Soft 
Ganarrion was planning to come north to fight for his throne. She said nothing, 
rubbing her toe against the top of the other foot. Semminson was watching her.
"Well," she said finally. "Whatever comes, I'll be meeting with the Council 
tonight."
"Just keep what I said in mind," he urged.
"Mmm. I will." She noticed Hebbinford watching her from the kitchen door. She 
looked away and stood.
"Good luck to you," said Semminson softly. "I fear you'll need it." Paks went on 
out to the stableyard to gather her clean clothes from the line.
All in all, she had little appetite for supper that night. Her clean shirt had 
only die one tear, which she had mended, and everything was as neat as she could 
make it, but she still felt shabby. She wondered whether to wear her mail. If 
Semminson was a thief, she hated to leave it behind, but she didn't want them to 
think she was looking for trouble, either. She thought it over, and finally 
cornered Hebbinfbrd to ask him.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "It's valuable, and you're a fighter—wear it if 
you wish. You can't carry a sword into Council, but die guards will keep it for 
you. Whatever you're comfortable with."
She wasn't comfortable at all, but decided to go upstairs and put on the mail. 
Semminson was coming out of a room farther along the hall, and he gave her a 
knowing look. She put on the heavy jingling shirt, buffed her helmet on the 
blanket, and put that on as well. With a captain of soldiers coming, she might 
as well look like a soldier.
Hebbinford sent one of the girls to her room to call her; she came down the 
stairs with a sort of muddled determination to do the right thing and not be 
trapped. He was waiting at the door, dressed in a long blue gown under a 
far^joUared cloak, instead of his usual tunic and apron. He smiled and they set 
off for the Hall together. Paks heard horses behind them, and moved to the edge 
of the street automatically. Hebbinford turned to look, and waved to the lead 
rider.
"Ah, Sir Felis. You haven't been in town these past few days."
No. There's enough to do at the keep." Paks looked up at the mounted figure, his 
face lit by his escorts' torches. He wore chainmaD and helmet, and she could 
tell nothing about him except that he sat his horse like a soldier. He looked 
down at her and spoke to Hebbinford. "Is this the person I've heard of?"
"Yes, Sir Felis. This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter."
"Hmmph." She saw the glitter of his eyes as they scanned her. "You look more 
like a soldier than a free blade, young woman. You were with Duke Phelan's 
Company?"
"Yes, sir."
"What rank?"
"As a private, sir. File leader, my last year."
"I see. What—? No, I'll wait until we're in session." He gave a casual wave of 
the hand to Hebbinford, and rode on past them.
The hall, when they reached it, was lighted by torches in brackets along the 
front, as well as inside. Two of the captain's escorts stood guard at the door. 
Paks felt sweat spring cold on her forehead; she wanted to yawn for no reason. 
Semminson's veiled warnings seemed suddenly appropriate. She heard voices 
inside. Hebbinford nudged her, and she surrendered her sword to the guard on the 
right, and went on through the door.
At the far end of a large room, much larger than the common room at the inn, a 
knot of people clustered around the one table. Paks recognized Marshal Cedfer, 
now in mail, and looking much more like the Marshal she'd seen in Aarenis. His 
surcoat bore the crescent of Gird on a dark blue field. Master Oakhallow, in the 
same long robe he had worn in the afternoon, was already seated, and talking to 
one of the other men. Another man in mail—Paks assumed it was Sir Felis—stood at 
the end of the table, lips folded tightly as he listened.
Paks heard someone come in behind her, and turned to see the stonemason, Master 
Feddith. He gave her a cold look and stumped over to the table at once. 
Hebbinford, too, moved to that side of the room, and Paks followed slowly. A man 
she had not seen in town before, tall, with a generous belly, sat behind the 
table and looked up as the master mason and Hebbinford approached.
"Ah," he said. "We're all here, then. Have a seat, Councillors, have a seat. 
Let's get on with this." He looked at Paks. "So you're the young woman I've 
heard so much about? Paks—" He looked down at a sheet before him. "Paksenarrion 
Dorthansdotter? Of Three Firs?"
"Yes, sir," said Paks. The others were all taking seats around the far side and 
end of the table.
"Good. Let me introduce you to the Council. I'm the mayor, Brewmaster Ceddrin. 
You saw my place on your way to the grange. You know Marshal Cedfer, and Master 
Oalchallow, and Master Hebbinford already. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, our 
count's military representative—" Sir Felis nodded shortly; in this light Paks 
could tell that he was a lean, weatherbeaten man somewhat shorter than Duke 
Phelan. His beard was carefully trimmed. "—and
Master Zinthys, the mage—" Paks looked at the slender, handsome young man in a 
long velvet robe lavishly banded with braid. He had rings on both hands, and a 
great polished crystal hanging by a silver chain on his chest. Master Zinthys 
smiled. The mayor went on. "This is Master Feddith, the stonemason, and I 
believe you also know Master Senneth, the moneychanger." He looked up and Paks 
nodded. "Also with us tonight are past Councillors: Master Hostin, our miller, 
Trader Garin Carinsson, and Master Doggal, the smith. Eris Arvidsdotter is here 
representing the farmholders." Trader Garin wore merchants' robes, and Eris 
Arvidsdotter wore a wool gown and cloak. She was as tall as Paks, and 
broad-shouldered; her gray hair was in a braided coil. The mayor paused until 
Paks had nodded at each of these. Then he picked up a heavy gavel lying on the 
table and rapped three times; the table boomed.
"The council of Brewersbridge is in session," he said loudly. "I ask the 
protection of all the gods, and the guidance of all good spirits, to be over us 
in this meeting. May wisdom and truth prevail. In the name of the High Lord, and 
all the powers of light." It sounded stilted, as if he didn't open the council 
formally that often.
"May it be," responded the others.
"We are met," he said in a lower tone, "to learn what we can of a traveler here, 
one Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. We have heard disturbing things all this year 
of trouble in Aarenis. We will examine this person to see what her business is 
here, and how it may be bound in with what has happened there." He waited, and 
Paks noticed that both the mage and the Marshal were taking notes. "Does anyone 
object to my asking the questions?" asked the mayor. Heads were shaken around 
the table. "Very well, then. If you have other questions, when I'm through, just 
say so. Now—is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter your true name?"
"Yes, sir, but I'm called Paks, since I left home."
"I see. And you come from Three Firs? Where is that? In Tsaia?"
"I—I'm not sure. The closest larger town was Rocky Ford; that's where I joined 
Duke Phelan's Company—"
The Marshal cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mayor, but Rocky Ford is just within 
Tsaia, near the Finthan border in the north."
"I see. Three Firs was small, then?"
"Yes, sir. Much smaller than Brewersbridge. My father's land was a half-day's 
sheep drive out on the moors. We went to Three Firs rarely."
"And Rocky Ford?"
"I'd never been there before I—I ran away to join the Company."
"So you went directly from home to Duke Phelan's Company—hmm. And what was your 
father?"
"A sheep farmer," said Paks. "I learned about mercenary companies from my cousin 
Jornoth; he'd left several years before, and came back with a horse, and gold, 
and said he was in the guard."
"Where? In Tsaia?"
"He didn't say, sir. But he said 1 couldn't go directly to a job that good. He 
said I'd have to start somewhere else, and he told me what to do."
"Hmm. Not common, for a girl from a remote farm to join an army."
"No, sir. But I'd always wanted to be a warrior—"
"As a mercenary?" put in the Marshal.
Paks blushed. "Not—exactly, sir. But Jornoth said that was the way to start."
The mayor took control again. "You say you were trained at Duke Phelan's 
stronghold, and went from there to the wars in Aarenis?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long were you in Aarenis?"
"I was there for three campaign seasons, and in winter quarters in Valdaire. 
Only a few come back north in the winters."
"You must have had a short season this year," he said, looking at her sharply. 
"Why did you leave your Company?"
Paks hesitated. "The war—Siniava had been killed, and my two years were up."
"You have told Marshal Cedfer and Master Oakhallow what happened to you; we also 
would like to know, from your own lips."
"Yes, sir. ' Paks gathered her wits. She hurried over the first part of the trip 
with Macenion, merely mentioning his half-elf ancestry and the knowledge he 
claimed of the mountains. Then she described the valley of the elfane taig as 
they had first seen it, and the dream that came to both of them. The Councillors 
listened without interrupting as she described the underground passages, and the 
chamber where they'd found the elf-lord. Through the battle with him, the 
burning, and the running fight with the ores, and the last struggle that ended, 
beyond her comprehension, with her alone on the surface, no one spoke or 
stirred. "Some sickness came on me," she said finally. "I couldn't go far along 
the trail; a snowstorm came down off the mountains, and I fell. Then it was that 
the elves came. They healed me, and entered the valley to see whether I had told 
them the truth. When they returned, they told me how to find my way here, and 
gave me messages to Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya. I was to say that Ae 
elfane taig has awaked, and the elf-lord was freed/ Paks stopped, anal looked up 
and down the table. The faces were intent, but no longer hostile.
After a moment's silence, Sir Felis turned to the mayor. "If you don't mind, I'd 
like to ask a few questions."
"Go ahead."
"Paksenarrion, you say you served three campaign seasons. How soon after you 
joined the regular company were you made private from recruit?"
"The first battle, sir."
"What was your file position?"
"File second, the first year, sir, and the second. Tjüs past year we moved 
around a lot, but at the end I was file leader."
"I'm not clear on something. You've spoken both of leaving the Company, and of 
being on some sort of long leave. Are you still the Duke's soldier, or not?"
Paks sighed. "Sir, the Duke had reason to give me a long leave. He and others 
had suggested that I might leave the Company for a year or so. For other 
training, or experience, they said. But the Duke said I would be welcome back 
any time. I hadn't decided yet, sir, how soon to return."
"But you have no complaints against Duke Phelan, or he against you?"
"I have none against him, sir, and as far as I know he has none against me. And 
the Company is all I've known. I miss them."
"Have you any sort of token or pass from your Duke, that might prove what you 
say of his opinion?*
Paks remembered the ring he had given the survivors of Dwarfwatch, and reached 
into her pouch to get it. "Here is a ring—" She handed it to the mayor, who 
peered at it, and passed it along the table. When they had all looked at it, the 
mayor passed it back.
"Dwarfwatch," the mayor said. "Isn't that die name of that Sorellin fort on the 
south end of Hakkenarsk Pass?"
"So the traders say," said Master Senneth.
"So. Those rumors, last spring, of a major battle there—" mused Hebbinford. "You 
must have been there. Why were you so angry with the merchants, Paksenarrion, 
for mentioning it?"
Paks glanced quickly at Sir Felis and the Marshal, then back to Hebbinford. 
"Sir, it is the Duke's business. 1 don't talk of it with merchants. But—by 
treachery, most of my—of a—cohort was lost at Dwarfwatch, to Lord Siniava. Most 
of a cohort of Halveric's, too. For those of us who lived, the Duke had these 
rings made."
"So he's fought understrength this past year," commented Sir Felis. "And the 
Halveric, too, I presume."
The Marshal was not deflected from the original story. "What was it, a siege, or 
what?"
"If she considers it her Duke's business, Cedfer—" began the Kuakgan.
"Nonsense. Anything that's happened almost a year ago is public knowledge in 
Aarenis, and well know the details here sooner or later."
Paks took a deep breath and tried to shove her private memories back into 
hiding. All the mercenary companies in the south knew the story; Cedfer was 
right. She gathered her wits and began. "One cohort of the Duke's Company was 
detached from the siege of Rotengre—the Guild League cities had joined in 
that—and garrisoned Dwariwatch while the Sorellin militia, who had been there, 
helped with the grain harvest." She paused, and they all nodded. They listened 
intently as she described Halveric Company's approach, the surrender, the 
departure of all but a guard cohort of Halveric's and Siniava'sattack, the fete 
of die prisoners marched away toward Rotengre, and the desperate defense of the 
few who held the fort.
"And you were in that. I see." Marshal Cedfer glanced at the Kuakgan and back to 
Paks. "Were you one of those sieged in the fort, or were you taken prisoner?"
'Neither, sir. Three of us were not taken—by chance, we were gathering berries 
in the brambles and they didn't see us. We took word to the Duke." Paks stopped 
there and looked at them. Sir Felis was leaning forward, alert and eager; the 
Marshal's eyebrows were up; the Kuakgan was frowning slightly. The rest merely 
looked interested. "How far did you go?" asked Sir Felis. "Where was the Duke?"
"Outside Rotengre, with the rest of the Company," said Paks. She wished they 
would go on to something else. She didn't want to think about that journey, 
about Saben and Canna.
"I can see," said the Marshal, "why you would be trusted by Duke Phelan. 
Remarkable. Well, then—so the Duke relieved his force at the fort. And where was 
the Halveric? I should think he'd have been there, too."
"He had taken most of his Company toward Merinath," said Paks. "They arrived the 
next day, too late to fight there: but they came to Rotengre."
"And how many troops did Siniava have?"
"We thought about eight hundred, altogether—"
"But Phelan's force is what—three cohorts altogether?"
"Yes, sir. He had help from the Claris and Count Vladi—"
"And Gird, no doubt," said the Marshal firmly. "Well, indeed. That's quite a 
tale, but straight enough.Now, what's happened this last year? We've heard of 
widespread fighting, open war from the mountains to the sea, armies marched 
clear from the Westmounts to the Copper Hills. What about it?" The mayor was 
watching the Marshal closely, but did not interfere.
Paks wondered where to start. "Sir, after the year before, the Duke and the 
Halveric were certain that Siniava meant to conquer all of Aarenis. The Guild 
League cities blamed him for the piracy of Rotengre, and other things as well. 
My lord Duke pledged to spend himself on a campaign against Siniava, for what he 
had done to us. He gathered most of the northern mercenaries to his aid. And the 
Guild League cities fought on their own lands, and sometimes marched abroad as 
well."
"Ahal" Master Senneth was rubbing his hands together. "I always suspected the 
like, sirs, I did indeed. Too many caravans were robbed on the trade roads 
between Merinath and Sorellin, and none of the goods ever showed up here. They 
must have been taken on south. And I'd heard through—well, I'd heard that 
Siniava had bought into some of the guilds."
Paks nodded. "We heard the same, sir, after Cortes Cilwan fell."
"Cihvan fell?" asked Sir Felis sharply. "What happened to the Count?"
"He was killed," said Paks. "But Vladi's men got his heir out, the boy, and he's 
safe in Andressat, the last 1 heard."
"Succession wars," muttered the Marshal. "They'll have succession wars, as well 
as everything else."
"Go on," said the mayor, with a gesture that silenced the others. "What then?"
Paks shrugged. "I don't know it all, sir; I was only a private, after all." She 
described the campaign as best she could. Sir Felis and the Marshal listened 
intently, their fingers moving as if on maps. The others reacted more to 
descriptions of cities fallen, battles fought, factions implicated in this plot 
or that. Finally, dry-throated with the length of the tale, she came to that 
last few days, when Siniava's remaining soldiers were neatly trapped with the 
help of Alured the Black. "We caught up with the last of them," Pales explained, 
"in an old ruin where the Immer and Imefal meet."
"Cortes Immer," said the Kuakgan softly. "No one's held that since the old 
duke's line died."
Paks looked at him. "Is that what it is? It's still a great citadel, built into 
the living rock like Cortes Andres. Anyway, Siniava was killed, trying to escape 
secretly from the citadel, and after that his army surrendered to^the militia."
"I can hardly believe Siniava is truly dead/' mused the mayor. "How many years 
have we worried that he might gain control of Aarenis and come over the 
mountains? I remember the first word we had of him, don't you, Master 
Oakhallow?"
"Indeed yes."
"And now he's gone. And no more agents of his will come through, trying to spy 
out defenses, such as they are."
Chapter Eleven
"If she's telling the truth," said Feddith harshly. "If. Twould be months before 
we could check her tale. She might be an agent herself."
Paks tensed, but Sir Felis answered. "I don't think so," he said. "She carries 
the duke's ring, and showed it willingly. I know that crest."
"It could have been stolen," said Feddith stubbornly.
"She fights like a soldier trained in Phelan's cornpany," commented the Marshal. 
"I know what training Phelan's soldiers would have, and she has it."
"And as well," said the mayor, with a look at the mage, "we have a way to tell 
if she lied. If Master Zinthys is willing—"
The mage looked at Paks, and smiled disarmingly. "I should say, if the lady is 
willing. Without any special arts, sirs, I see no liar there. An honest soldier, 
it seems to me, and I daresay to Captain Sir Felis." He caught Felis's eye, and 
the captain nodded. "I would not wish to cast a spell on her if she's opposed, 
sir; I would not indeed."
The tradesmen of the Council looked taken aback. Master Oakhallow smiled 
faintly. Marshal Cedfer spoke up, brisk as always.
"I'm sure she'll have no objection; it's an honorable request. Isn't that right, 
Paksenarrion?"
Paks felt the tensions in the room, and wondered what to do. She wished they'd 
agreed with the mage to let her alone. What was this truth spell like? Even with 
the Kuakgan's assurance in the afternoon, she feared to be involved in more 
magic.
"Sirs," she began cautiously, "the only time I know of that I've been spelled, 
it was by the elf-lord. Could I ask what the spell is, that Master Zinthys would 
use? I have no wish to put myself in another's power for anything but the truth 
alone."
"Well said," murmured the Kuakgan. The others nodded, and Master Zinthys smiled 
at her.
"It's not like that at all—or rather, it may be a bit like that, but this spell 
is quite limited. You're absolutely right, not to let yourself be spelled 
without safeguards. Ill explain it to you. The power of this spell is that you 
cannot lie while it is active. Nor, for that matter, can anyone standing very 
close to you. I could, of course, cast it so that no one in the room could lie, 
but that takes a great deal of power. The limit of the spell is that while you 
cannot lie, you are not compelled to say anything at all. Nor does it affect 
acts other than speech—either compulsion or prevention. And when the spell wears 
off, you can lie at will. As a practical matter, the spell will wear off fairly 
soon; I see no reason to expend the power for a longer duration. Is all that 
clear?" He seemed quite proud of his explanation.
"Yes,' said Paks slowly. "But—" she looked around at them all. All strangers. 
"Forgive me, sirs and lady," she said, trying to be very polite, "but I know 
none of you well, and at most have known you for a few days only. How do I know 
that you—?" Her voice trailed off as they reacted. Some of the faces went red at 
once. The mason began to sputter, but the smith laughed out loud.
"She's got you there," he chuckled. "Ah, lady, you have hit on it. I should have 
known that anyone who could lead that black devil away would think in the end. 
You don't trust us to say truth, and no wonder."
"That's right," said Master Zinthys quickly. "I hold no rancor, lady, for your 
doubts. Nonetheless, the Council has a reason to make sure of you, and your 
tale."
"Is it that thief, Paks?" asked Hebbinford. "I saw him talking to you this 
afternoon."
"Sir, I don't know. I didn't believe much that he said, no. But—Master Oakhallow 
said I had caused so much talk—I've been foolish, it seems. It may be late in 
the day, but I think I should be careful now, however I've acted. I never 
traveled alone before, as I told you. I never thought how it would seem, coming 
alone from the mountains with a load of treasure. I can understand your 
suspicions. But still—I don't want to be magicked into anything."
The mayor, still red-faced, nodded. "I see. You don't know me at all; no use to 
tell you how my family founded this town, generations back. You've no call to 
trust me. Are there any here you could trust? Did you know any Girdsmen before? 
Or were you kuakkgannir?"
Paks thought about it. "Sir, I didn't mean to insult you, but I did, didn't I? 
Yes, I have known Girdsmen, and the elves sent me to both the Marshal and the 
Kuakgan. If they say it is all right, I am willing."
The mayor looked at her shrewdly. "You may simply be as inexperienced as you 
seem. We'll see. Well, Master Oakhallow? Marshal Cedfer?"
"To my knowledge," said the Kuakgan. "Master Zinthys is an honest mage, and the 
spell he speaks of works just as he said it did. Certainly I pledge that we are 
not planning any other magic on you."
"And I the same,' said the Marshal. "I assure you that Master Oakhallow and I 
are quite competent to prevent anything else, too."
"Yes, sir," said Paks miserably. "I just wanted to ask." She looked at Master 
Zinthys, fighting a hollow feeling in her belly. "Whenever you're ready, sir."
"You'd best sit down," said the mage. He rose and dragged a chair over for her. 
"It might make you dizzy for a moment. Now, try to relax." Paks had the feeling 
that he enjoyed showing his skill before the others, as he gestured fluicUy with 
his long graceful hands.
Once she was seated, the mage took from his robe a small pouch and from that a 
pinch of colored dust, which he tossed at Paks. It spread in the air, and seemed 
to hang a long time before settling. Then he took four wands from up one sleeve, 
and set them on the floor around her chair. Finally he stood back and began to 
chant in a language Paks had never heard before, while gesturing with one hand 
in front of her face. Behind him, the iaces of the others at the Council table 
were intent. Only the Kuakgan's showed amusement in the quirk of his mouth. She 
wondered why. At last the mage finished, and said in the common tongue: "Speak 
truth, or be silent, until the spell is done." Paks was surprised to feel 
nothing. No tingles, no pain, nothing at all düferent from before. She did not 
plan to he, but what would happen if she did? Had the spell worked?
The mayor began the questioning, asking the same things as before: her name, 
background, reasons for leaving the Duke, reasons for coming to Brewersbridge. 
He asked little about the conflicts she'd described, and no details she had not 
already given. She answered, as before, honestly. It went more quickly, since no 
one interrupted. When he was done, the mayor sat back and looked at the others.
"She's not lied. Her story's unusual, but true."
"Then why did she resist being spelled?" asked the mason, still hostile. "And 
how do we know the spell is working?"
The mage flushed and sat up straight, but Master Oakhallow's deep voice 
forestalled what he might have said. "Master Mason, Zinthys is a competent 
wizard. The spell is good."
"If you say so," muttered the mason.
"I wonder myself," said the Marshal, "that a soldier of her experience would 
show fear of a simple spell. But if the sorcery she suffered before were severe 
enough—"
The Kuakgan looked at him sharply. "Come, Marshal, you know as well as I the 
power in that place. Only a witless fool would want to risk that again."
"True—true."
"How long, Master Zinthys, will the spell last?" the Kuakgan asked.
"Not long. Another quarter-glass, perhaps, though 1 can counteract it now, if 
you wish.'
"It would be more courteous," he murmured, and the rest of the Council nodded.
Paks watched as the mage came near. He picked up the wands and stowed them up 
his sleeve, then began another incantation. When he finished, he grinned at her.
"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, sir." Paks still felt nothing. Foolish, maybe. She wished she'd agreed at 
once to the spell, since it had done her no harm. The mayor cleared his throat.
"We've been here for some time, and there's more to come." Paks tensed again. 
"Let's take a short break now, and ease our throats with a bit of ale. Is that 
all right with you, Paksenarrion?"
"Yes, sir." Paks wondered what was coming next, and thought of Semminson's 
warning. What might they want her to do? Meanwhile, she stood when the others 
did, and followed them out to the yard before the building. The mayor spoke to a 
man in servants' clothes standing there, and told him to fetch ale. It was quite 
dark out, and cool; Paks shivered. Sir Felis came up to her.
"I'm more than glad to know Siniava's dead," he began. "One reason the count had 
me down here is in case an army came over the pass. It will be a year or more 
before the keep is finished. But you haven't seen that, have you?"
"No, sir."
"That's my command. When it's finished, well have a place to fight from, if it's 
necessary. The last time there was a battle near here, we had no fortified 
position. No place to store arms, or haven for those who couldn't 
fight—nothing."
"We've built the grange since then," put in the Marshal.
"Oh, yes. But then, it's not designed as a keep, though it is stone. You 
couldn't hold it against assault."
"No, you're right. Not against a trained force. It would hold against bandits, 
though—we've used it for that."
"Before my time, Marshal—and wasn't it before yours?"
"Oh, yes. That was Deordtya's doing, not mine, years back. I suppose I shouldn't 
say 'we' when I mean Gird's grange; it's just habit."
The servant appeared at their side with a tray of tankards; each took one.
"This will be Ceddrin's private brew," commented the Marshal. "I doubt you've 
tasted as good, Paksenarrion."
Paks blew away the foam and sipped. It was rich and hearty. "It's very good," 
she said.
"Just what sort of training did Duke Phelan suggest you look for?" asked Sir 
Felis. "I'd have thought he could offer anything you or he might need."
"He thought, sir, that I might learn mounted warfare, and something of 
fortifications and defense—*'
"Huh. Sounds as if he were planning the education of a squire, not a 
man-at-arms. Had he suggested you work toward a knighthood, or something like 
that?" His voice hinted at the unlikeliness of this.
Paks nodded. "He said, sir, that nothing was certain, but that I might have the 
ability to become a cohort captain, or some such, years from now."
Sir Felis frowned. "The land's full of captains; I wonder that he'd risk losing 
a good soldier. Had he ever given you any command?"
"I was temporary corporal for awhile, sir, when one of ours was injured. And at 
the end of the campaign, when Siniava was trapped in—Cortes Immer, was it?—I led 
those who watched the bolthole."
"Did Siniava come that way?"
"Yes, sir." Paks offered no details. "He was captured and killed."
"I see. Phelan obviously thought well of you. I must tell you that there's not 
much chance my count would hire you, if you were hoping for that. He's done no 
recruiting this past year. You could, of course, go and ask him directly."
"I hadn't thought of it, sir. I know little of this country, or who holds which 
keep."
"Mmmm. I'll show you a map—can you read maps? Good. I've one of the kingdom, 
showing the principal fiefs. It may give you some idea where you could hope to 
hire on. Marshal Cedfer can tell you of opportunities of the grange and Hall. 
The Fellowship of Gird, you know, maintains several training centers for 
fighting men at every level. For that matter, they have fighting orders, as do 
followers of Falk and Camwyn."
"Is that where paladins come from?" asked Paks. "We saw a paladin in Aarenis."
Sir Felis choked on his ale. "Is that what you—!? Sorry. No, not exactly. The 
Marshal can tell you more than I, if you're interested in that. There's an order 
of knights, the Knights of Gird, just as there are Knights of the Dragon's 
Breath, followers of Camwyn Dragonmaster."
Paks was confused. "I thought knights were—were knights, all the same. Noblemen 
born, or those knighted for service."
Sir Felis stared. "Oh, no. Whatever gave you that idea? Oh dear, no. Where did 
you say you were from? A small border village, wasn't it? Now let me try to 
explain."
His explanation was hardly enlightening to Paks, since she knew few of the 
places and none of the rulers he mentioned. He finished his lecture with a 
gesture to the small gold device on his collar, shaped like a peal of bells.
"Now," he went on, after wiping his mustache, "members of my order may be 
followers of any honorable god or hero. I myself am a Girdsman, but my father's 
brother is Falkian, and so are my cousins. Our loyalty is to the crown of 
Tsaia—or, more accurately, to the heir of the House of Mahierian. But Knights of 
Gird swear their loyalty to the Marshal-General of Gird, through their Knight 
Commander. The—er—rules governing admission to each order depends—er—on the 
order, and the circumstances." He looked her up and down, doubtfully, as if she 
were an unpedigreed horse at a sale.
"I see," said Paks, more to stop him than because she did. She was still 
confused. She was actually relieved when the mayor tapped her arm.
"Let's get back; we have yet a good bit of business to talk over." This time 
they asked her to sit down at the beginning of the session, and the rest spread 
themselves around the table on all sides. Only the master mason seemed still 
faintly hostile.
"We appreciate your cooperation," began the mayor. "Now that we know something 
of your background, let me explain how things stand in Brewersbridge. We're on a 
major trade route from the west to the sea. We have a lot of traffic through, 
and want it—we depend on it. Nonetheless, I hope you won't be insulted when I 
say that the Council is opposed to having free blades hanging around town. Some 
of them, like you, are honorable folk, and cause no trouble intentionally. 
Others, like the fellow who died, pick quarrels everywhere. We've learned it's 
best to insist that soldiers and warriors either find a local lord or commander, 
to be responsible for their behavior, or move on." He smiled, as he said this. 
Paks wondered what was coming next.
"Now you," he said, "are perhaps a special case. While Master Senneth, even for 
the Council's peace of mind, won't divulge how much treasure you desposited with 
him, he has assured us that you will not need to rob anyone for the price of a 
meal before Midwinter Feast." A chuckle went around the table. Even the mason 
smiled. "So, since you've given honest account of yourself, we have one less 
thing to worry about. Nonetheless, our tradition is clear, and since Sir Felis 
has no employment for you, we would not willingly have you stay too long idling 
about. That would mean more than a few weeks, in your case: I understand that 
you've ordered goods from some of our local tradesmen. Certainly you may stay 
until they're completed, as long as nothing happens. On the other hand, we are 
prepared to offer you certain employment—the Council is, I mean. If you took it, 
we would not consider you in the same class as an adventurer."
Paks remembered Semminson's warning. "What sort of employment, sir, did you have 
in mind?"
"Work suitable for your abilities and training, I believe. And so says Marshal 
Cedfer. I think Sir Felis would now concur, would you not?" Sir Felis nodded. 
"We have been plagued, hereabouts, with brigands preying on caravans in the 
region. You can understand why that is critical for us; we depend on their 
trade. Sir Felis has swept the area several times, finding nothing. He has 
direct orders from the count to concentrate his time and men on the building of 
the keep north of town. We need someone to search out the brigands' hiding 
place, and lead a force against them. None of us have the training—or, to be 
frank, the time to take away from our trades. Would you be willing to take this 
commission?"
Paks could not suppress a grin. It sounded like fun, at least the part about 
finding the brigands' camp. But as for killing or catching them—"Sir, it is an 
interesting proposal. But, whatever Marshal Cedfer may think, I am hardly able 
to defeat a band of brigands on my own."
"Not at all," said the mayor. "Of course not. We would expect you to lead a 
force, including some of the local militia. And you could confer, perhaps, with 
the Marshal or Sir Felis, on the best method for defeating them, once you had 
found their camp. It is that we cannot do."
Put that way, it sounded even more attractive. Whenever Paks thought of 
brigands, she thought of those who had killed Saben and Canna. She nodded at the 
mayor. "I have no love for brigands," she said. "Ill be glad to hunt them for 
you."
"Good. What we propose is this: we will authorize you to call on members of the 
local militia who have free time, and they—or the town—will supply their 
weapons. We will not pay you, but we will grant you a share of any recovered 
goods, and a head-price for each robber killed or captured. If you need 
extraordinary aid, come to Marshal Cedfer, and he will arrange it as he sees 
fit. Is that satisfactory?"
Paks had no idea what such contracts were usually like, but it seemed 
reasonable. If many caravans had been robbed, surely the plunder would make a 
fair return. "Yes," she said. "That will do. But do you have any idea where they 
might be?"
The mayor leaned forward. "An idea, yes, but we aren't sure. Caravans have been 
attacked on all the roads around. But Eris—" he nodded to the farm woman, who 
nodded to Paks "—Eris tells us that farms have been robbed, too—and one or two 
wiped out—west of here. None close in, but those farther out have lost 
livestock. There are several ruins out that way which might be useful to 
brigands, though Sir Felis found no one there—"
"That's not to say they might not use them," Sir Felis broke in. "We've had no 
time for more than a fast sweep—^ they could have been hiding nearby, if they 
were clever."
"We think," the mayor went on, "that they must have some spy in town. More 
caravans are robbed on their way out—especially those that have come on a market 
day, and sold things in our market. I won't conceal the fact that these men—if 
it's humans—are dangerous. Typically they kill all the caravaners, merchants and 
guards alike. That'sten to twenty guards, and say five merchants or so, and the 
drivers. They've killed two farm families we know of—J suppose they surprised 
them robbing—"
"But, Sir Felis interrupted again, "it may be that some farmer out there is in 
league with them." Eris Arvidsdotter shook her head angrily, but Paks remembered 
the setup at "uncle's" in Aarenis. It would make sense. "Northwest of here," Sir 
Felis continued, "was Baron Anseg's land, but he died without a close heir years 
ago, and the title of that land is still being argued in Ve"rella. Once you're 
away fiom the river, and well into the woods beyond Brewersbndge, there's no 
lord for two days' travel, until Baron Velis's outside Bingham."
"The merchants* guilds," put in the mayor, "naturally have an interest in the 
safety of the roads. We have no Guild League, as in Aarenis, with real 
authority, but the guilds will support any effort to keep the roads safe where 
no lord has the responsibility."
"I see," said Paks. She was becoming confused again, and clung to what she did 
understand. "So you want me to hunt around and find where the brigands are 
hiding, and get a small force to drive them out? Do you want them driven away, 
or killed, or captured, or what?"
"Killed or captured, definitely," said Marshal Cedfer. "Drive them out, and 
they'll return as soon as you're gone."
"I say loll them," put in the mason. "What good are brigands anyway?"
Paks wondered if he'd ever killed anyone. Himself,
"And if you find out who is—I mean, who may be giving information here in 
Brewersbridge—" added the mayor.
Paks grinned. "You expect a stranger to find out what's going on when you, who 
know everyone, can't? I might be able to find the brigands, sir, and I know I 
can fight, but I've no experience in finding out secrets like that.
"Well, but if you should happen to learn—"
"I would telL—Marshal Cedfer, you wished me to report to? Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. Or me. But Marshal Cedfer is best."
Paks looked around the table. Everyone was watching her. The mage gave her a 
bright smile, as if to encourage her. The Marshal and Sir Felis looked 
impatient, as if she were a slightly stupid recruit. Master Oakhallow's level 
gaze held a challenge. She felt, suddenly, very tired. To fight brigands was 
well enough, and she'd be glad of an honest, above-ground battle again, but she 
had the feeling that they all expected something more. Something more.
"Yes," she said finally. "I'll do that—or try to. I suppose the first thing is 
to look for the places they might be. Do you have a map, perhaps, of the local—"
But at that they all began to talk.
"How good of you—"
"No need for that tonight, now that you've—"
"Perhaps tomorrow you can meet with Marshal Cedfer—"
"—out to the keep, and I'll introduce you to my sergeants—"
The mayor banged his gavel once, and everyone quieted. "One last thing. The 
town, as I said, will supply the militia, their food and weapons. But do you 
have what you need for yourself? I see you have armor—" He waited for her 
answer. Paks thought about her gear. To move about the countryside, as far as he 
had mentioned—a day's ride away?—she would need a horse of some kind.
"I could use a horse or mule," she said. "My pony's not the right animal for 
prowling around."
Sir Felis frowned. "I haven't any spares, right now. We've thrush in the stable, 
and horses lame."
The mayor shook his head. "It's so late in the season. The horses in town now 
are work horses—and in use every day. Marshal Cedfer?"
"No. Sorry, My own mount, and Ambros's, that's all I've got. If you wanted to 
buy one, perhaps Sir Felis could send to the count's stable—"
"There's one spare horse," said Hebbinford. "In my stable—that black horse."
Paks felt a surge of excitement. She had not thought of the black, but that was 
the sort of horse she had dreamed of in the past. A true warrior's horse. She 
looked at the mayor, and Hebbinford, and back again. "What about that one, then? 
No one else is using it."
"I suppose that's all right," said the mayor slowly. "I can see you need a 
horse, to go looking all over the country. If the rest of you agree—"
"What of the man's heirs?" asked Master Feddith. "He looked a friendless man, 
but if he had heirs, they'd have some right to the beast."
"What of the fines he'd have owed, for trying to rob the master smith, if he'd 
lived?" asked Senneth sharply. "I say the Council can claim his horse for 
damages, and sell it to Paksenarrion if we choose."
"Perhaps, sirs," said Paks, uncertain if she should speak. "I could but have the 
use of the horse at first—paying Master Hebbinford for his keep, of course. It 
may be that I have not the skill to master such an animal—" she paused as the 
smith snorted loudly, and all eyes went ^to him. "Even if I do, I will not need 
it after this, I think."
"That's well spoken," said the smith abruptly. " Twould do that beast good to be 
worked, that it would, and the trying of him out would be a reason for her to 
ride about the countryside. But as for skill—" He looked hard at Paks. "You've 
either skill of a horse-breaker, girl, or magic in your fingers, and that's a 
fact." Paks saw both the Kuakgan and the Marshal give her hands a quick glance. 
She was glad they were clasped to cover the ring.
"Well, then," said the mayor, "how think you? I see no harm in that, and it 
saves Master Hebbinford risking his own neck to keep the beast exercised, for I 
doubt you'd let Sevri try it, would you Jos?"
"Never," said Hebbinford, with a ghost of a grin. "Nor is my lass that crazy. 
I'm for it."
"And I," said the other Council members.
"And I hope you'll decide to buy that horse," said Senneth, as they rose. "If 
you go, and leave it here, the Council will be left with the care of it all 
winter until the spring fairs. We'll give you a good price, I swear."
"We can do better than that, Senneth," said the mayor, clapping him on the 
shoulder. "Should she succeed in routing all the brigands, we might call it a 
reward. Then she could not reiuse, and we need not worry about the feed."
The others laughed, and gathered around Paks for a few words each before 
leaving. When she had retrieved her sword from the guard at the door, she found 
Hebbinford and the Kuakgan waiting to walk with her. The night had turned even 
colder, and she looked forward to the new cloak the tailor would make.
Chapter Twelve
After so late a night, Paks would have been glad to sleep later than usual, but 
anticipation of the black horse woke her at dawn. She felt sure of the power of 
the ring, but once mounted she could not concentrate on her ring finger. She 
knew she should be thinking of the brigands, and less of the horse, but the 
black horse seemed far more important this day.
She had hoped to work with him in privacy first, but everyone in the inn seemed 
to have business in the stableyard, early as it was. Sevri had not groomed the 
beast, for he had nearly caught her with one of his powerful kicks on the first 
day, and his owner had done it after that. Paks kept her thumb firmly on the 
ring as she picked up a brush and eased into the stall by his head. The ears 
were alert but not flattened, and the great dark eye watched her calmly as the 
horse worked on its ration of grain.
"There now," crooned Paks, setting the brush to that massive shoulder. "There, 
quiet, stay calm, black one." She began to brush, more gently than would do for 
a thorough grooming, and with a wary eye on the ears. The horse was taller and 
more heavily built than the Duke's warhorses, as tall as Arcolin's favorite. She 
worked her way along the ribs, the croup, the rump, Dust and scurf flew; the 
horse had not been well groomed for some time. She brushed down the haunches, 
saw them tense, and concentrated on the ring for a moment. "Nothing's wrong, 
horse. I won't hurt you. Quiet, now, easy—" The bunched muscles relaxed; she saw 
the fetlock sink deeper in the straw. "You'd like to be out of here, wouldn't 
you? Go for a ride? Out in the open air—along the roads—good horse—" Soon she 
had brushed both sides, the belly (another pause for the ring's action there), 
brushed out the heavy tangled mane. She looked up and saw Sevri's awed face over 
the stall wall.
"I didn't think you could really do it," said Sevri.
Paks grinned at her, thumb firm on the ring. "I wasn't sure I could myself. Can 
you bring me a pick?"
"You're going to touch his feet?"
Paks shrugged. "What if he has a stone? If he's taken this much, he should take 
that."
Sevri handed over the hooipick. "I just finished Star. Here."
Paks leaned down beside the near fore, impressed again by the size of those 
platter-like hooves. "Come on, black one—let's have a hoof." She could feel the 
tension above her, and glanced up to see the horse watching, ears stiffly turned 
back. "No—come on, now—" She pinched the tendons as she'd been taught, wondering 
briefly if she should have done this outside a stall, just in case. But the hoof 
came up, at last, and she cleaned around the frog with her pick. The other front 
hoof went as well, but as she bent near the rear, the horse squealed and slammed 
a kick into the stall wall, narrowly missing her. Paks thought a loud NO through 
the ring, and the horse froze, trembling. She could see the cracked board where 
the hoof struck, and heard a murmur of voices at the stable door. Sevri was 
urging watchers away.
Slowly, concentrating on the ring, Paks slid her hand down the hind leg, over 
slick black hide to the white feather below the hock, and through that heavy 
hair felt along to the fetlock. The scar was hidden by the thick hair above it—a 
deep scar, and still sensitive, for the horse blew a rattling breath, despite 
the ring's compulsion, as she touched it. Paks straightened. "Easy—I'd warrant 
you have another on the off side as well. No wonder you don't like having your 
legs handled. 1 wonder what did that? Nothing good. Well, perhaps we can leave 
that a day, until you trust me more." She came back to the horse's head, and 
scratched under his jaw until the strained look left his eyes. "Surely the smith 
didn't do that, holding you to shoe you?" The horse relaxed enough to stretch 
its neck. Paks slipped out of the stall, shaking a little with the strain of 
using the ring for so long.
"Will you ride today?" asked Sevri, who was waiting by the door.
"He needs exercise," said Paks. "But he's got some injury to his back 
legs—that's why he's so touchy, I think. I hate to ride him out until I can 
handle those legs, but he's had as much as he can take, for now. Maybe later."
Paks went in to breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks of the others. If 
she was going to lead a group out against brigands, and train a horse, she 
needed several things from the shops. She made a list during breakfast, and 
asked Hebbinford where she could find some of the items. When she returned, 
everyone seemed to be out of the way but Sevri.
"If you want me to leave, as well—" she said shyly.
"No, but don't get too close. I don't know what hell do. Tir's bones, I don't 
even know how to rig that saddle." She went into the stable. The black horse 
nosed over the stall wall; she had not yet touched the ring. Perhaps it was not 
a true outlaw. Sevri brought the bridle, red leather decorated with copper rings 
that had tarnished green. The reins were broad and heavy, and the bit—Paks shook 
her head.
"I can't use that! Look at those spikes, Sevri."
"Hie warhorses we see here all have bits like that," said Sevri. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure of this—I won't use that bit. Tlie Duke didn't use anything like that. 
Where can I buy another one?"
"You can use my father's old one, if it'll do. He had a hauling team once, 
before he sold it to a caravaner that was short. Try this—" Sevri brought out an 
old, rusty-linked bit like those Paks had seen on cart horses. While Sevri shook 
it in a sandbag to get the rust off, Paks worked at the stiff lacings of the 
bridle. At last she had the old bit off, and the smooth one in place.
"If he's used to that mess in his mouth, he won't take the bit easily," said 
Paks. "Let's see—" And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse threw 
up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the noise. 
Sevri darted off for an apple.
"Will this work?"
"It might." Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the ring. 
She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit in 
place, and the crownpiece over the horse's ears as its teeth crunched the apple. 
She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was finished, 
and the last lumps passed down the black throat.
"I hope you can hold him with that," said Sevri doubtfully.
"With what?" came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks 
clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there, with 
Ambros just behind him.
"She changed bits," said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. "She 
wouldn't use that old one—" she nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the 
aisle.
"That's a mouthful indeed," said the Marshal, picking it up. "But what are you 
using instead, Paksenarrion? Tnat 'magic' Doggal mentioned?"
"No," said Sevri again. "It's one of my fether's old bits, a smooth one that he 
used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits."
The Marshal's face relaxed. "Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse 
can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try to 
use rough bits instead of training to get their horses' attention. A good 
horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may." He took a step forward to look at the 
horse more closely. "As I recall, Duke Phelan's troops use horses for transport 
only. I'm sure you ride—perhaps well—but I thought I could help you with the 
commands peculiar to warhorses, not traveling mounts."
"Thank you, Marshal," said Paks. "I realized this morning that even the saddles 
we used are not like this one—" she gestured at the heavy saddle with its tangle 
of rigging, on a peg nearby.
"You haven't cleaned it yet," said the Marshal, frowning.
"No, sir." Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.
"Hmm. Clean tack, Paksenarrion, is very important. Sevri, bring us a fresh pad, 
at least. Lead him out to the yard, Paksenarrion."
With her hand clenched around the ring, Paks led the black horse out. He 
followed as calmly as Star, for which she was grateful. Her neck prickled as she 
placed the sheepskin pad. The Marshal handed her the saddle.
"I see you know how to work with a bridled horse—see, Ambros. She's got her arm 
in the rein, just as I keep telling you. Now, Paksenarrion, let me explain all 
those extra straps." Paks needed the help, but wished it were someone else's. 
"That—yes, that one—is the fbregirth. Fasten it first. Good. Now the 
breastband—see those hooks on the saddle? Yes. Not tight—-just lying smoothly. 
That's so the saddle cannot slip back under any strain. Now the rest of that—by 
Gird himself! That fellow didn't know how to stow his gear. Roll that mess 
slowly out over his rump—be careful girl! Yes. Now see that loop on top? The 
tail goes through that. Wait, though—" The Marshal moved to the horse's rump and 
felt of the loop. "Heh. I might have known. Feel this. It's too stiff; it's 
probably rubbed him raw already. We'll take all this off—" and he began to work 
at fastenings on the back of the saddle as he talked. "You don't really need it 
yet. Oil and clean it—get it all soft—and I'll show you how to put it back on. 
In a fight, or traveling in rough country, it keeps the saddle from slipping 
forward, just like the breeching strap on a pack animal." He went to the other 
side, and finished there. "Here, Sevri, take these away." He watched as Paks 
checked the stirrup length; she left it unchanged. "Do you want me to hold him 
while you mount?"
Paks looked at the horse, which suddenly seemed very tall. Yet she had ridden 
Arcolin's horse, that once. Her mouth was dry. If the Marshal had not been 
there, she could have led the horse to a field, where she could hope to land 
soft. Instead, she sighed inwardly, and thanked him. "I must admit, sir, that 
this is the biggest horse—"
"You've ridden," he finished. "Yes, I thought it might be." He took the rein and 
the horse stiffened. Paks got her foot in the stirrup, and tried to swing up, 
but the horse shifted suddenly with her weight. She fell into the saddle with an 
ungraceful scramble. It was built high and close to her body; she had almost 
landed on, and not in, it.
"With a horse like this," said the Marshal, "you need to be quicker. Or else 
train him to stand." He stepped back, releasing the rein, as Paks straightened.
The saddle felt strange, as if it were hovering over the horse's back, and the 
ground was very far away. Paks nudged the horse lightly with her heels, and it 
lunged forward. She thumbed the ring, thinking "Easy!", and it settled again, 
ears flicking. Paks saw eyes at the inn door, and cursed silently. She could 
feel the horse tensing under her, the hump in its back that kept the saddle too 
high. "Settle down, horse," she said softly. "Settle down, and well go for a 
walk somewhere." It took one stiff step, then another. She laid the rein against 
its neck, to turn it around the dungheap, and it whirled on its hind legs, 
almost unseating her. "Easy!" she said. Arcolin's horse had been nothing tike 
this! For a moment she longed for gentle little Star, but she was conscious of 
the Marshal and Ambros watching. She was a warrior, and this was a warrior's 
horse. If she was ever to be a knight—She talked the horse forward, hardly 
daring to touch it with her heels. Nearly to the cowbyre: she had to turn. Again 
the light touch of rein, and the lightning spin, but this time she was ready for 
it.
"You might see what happens if you pull one rein lightly," called die Marshal. 
"Those that are trained to spin on one cue usually turn slowly on the other."
Paks tried a gentle pull, and the horse veered left. It was walking more freely 
now, and she finally managed a circle around the stable yard.
"Now the other way," commanded the Marshal. This, too, went well, though Paks 
could still feel a knot of tension in the horse's back. They walked around the 
yard once, then twice. She pulled back for a halt, feeling more confident, and 
the horse reared. Paks lurched backward and grabbed for mane. Someone in the inn 
door laughed, and cut it off. The horse stayed up—and stayed up—she felt like a 
fool. How could she get him down? She closed her legs on him, and the horse 
leaped forward, snapping her head back. He landed charging, whirling about the 
stableyard as Paks fought to stay on. The saddle, so uncomfortable before, 
seemed to grip her. She could hear frantic yells, and the clatter of shod hooves 
on stone. At last she remembered the ring, and thought "Whoa!" The horse skidded 
to a stop and stood rigid. Paks was breathless; pain stabbed her side, and her 
hands were shaking. She had been sure she'd fall. It was hard to believe 
anything so ponderous had moved so fast It had seemed easy when she'd seen 
others riding—she grinned at the memory.
"You can stay on, at least," The Marshal's voice broke into her thoughts. "But 
that beast may still be too much for you. Best not ride through town until you 
have better control."
"I—I won't, sir. I had—no idea—"
"Not well trained, either." The Marshal was walking around the horse. "He's got 
the makings of a fine animal, Paksenarrion, but he's been ill trained, and I 
would judge ill used. If you can retrain him, you'll have a formidable mount."
"I'm not sure," said Paks ruefully, "that I'll be able to figure out how to ride 
down the road, let alone fight on him."
"You're a long way from that, but—a stableyard is not the best place to learn. 
If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the drillfields behind, 
and I'll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the inn, and ride south of 
town, there's a ford upstream of the bridge."
"Thank you," said Paks. "I'll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the 
reins doesn't work, what will?"
"May I try?"
"Of course, sir." Paks slid off, finding it harder than she'd thought to clear 
die unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one 
smooth motion.
As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks 
flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the unleashed 
power.
"Don't worry," said Ambros. "The Marshal's good with horses." And indeed, after 
scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted stiffly 
around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal's rein and legs. Paks could not see 
what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told her.
TO halt him, you'll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That's all. 
Right now I wouldn't use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think you 
can manage?"
Paks wasn't at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal 
swung off as easily as he'd mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after a 
look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.
"Well, I made a considerable mess, didn't I? We'd best get at it, Ambros, if we 
want to keep our welcome—"
"No, Marshal, that's all right—" Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.
"No, it isn't. Ambros and I will take care of it." And to Paks's surprise, and 
the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from Sevri, 
and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back into a 
heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, ana returned with another shovel to 
help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the yard was tidy 
once more. "There now." The Marshal wiped sweat from his forehead, and handed 
Sevri the shovel. "Paksenarrion, early morning is a good time to train horses. 
Bring him along after feeding tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Paks hoped she wouldn't fell off before she got to the grange. The 
Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now had 
a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the 
Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse's performance, 
why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.
By that afternoon, the tailor's wife had one shirt ready for her to try on. Paks 
would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do more 
work. "See on the inside, lady? The edges there? Ill turn those down, and 
they'll not ravel or be rough—"
"But—"
"Nay, we're proud of our work, my husband and me—we won't let such as this leave 
our hands. But I'll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain shirts 
in two days—unless you'd rather have the trousers first?"
Paks thought of all the riding she'd be doing, and asked for the trousers next. 
Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler's, and bought a jug of the heavy 
oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal's yard, she found the smith forging heavy 
wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.
The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without 
help—but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein, 
but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a comer. 
Her attempt at a quick mount was as rough as the day before, but she had gained 
the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein gently, 
and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the horse seemed 
slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of the inn yard 
and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the village. She found 
the ford the Marshal had mentioned by following a cow path, and the black horse 
pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling under his hooves. Now 
she was at the lower end of the grange drilling fields; she could see someone 
standing near the grange. As she thought, it was the Marshal. Ambros, mounted on 
a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the street as she came up.
"You made it safely, I see," said the Marshal. "Ambros rides three times a week, 
and this will give both of you practice in riding with others."
Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of 
the other horse.
In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal was 
as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all 
occasional riders, Paks hated to trot—but the Marshal insisted that they trot 
most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, and way she 
held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped out 
from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return, 
without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring, 
except for grooming and mounting.
She was able to ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day 
learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work was 
excellent for a high-strung mount.
But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once it 
was the black horse's neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat. Another 
time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she'd ridden that 
day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she used the ring on 
the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to talk to the 
Kuakgan about it.
This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking to 
another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing from 
where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned to look 
the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white stones that 
should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches from her back. 
She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back, crawling down her ribs. 
She looked forward, and the clearing was open before her. Master Oakhallow, 
facing her, beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a deep breath and stepped 
out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she felt die quiet deepen. 
She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the basin.
"It is well," said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, "that you did not try to 
leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my groove unsettling.'
"Sir, it is not mat," said Paks. "But you were speaking to another. I would not 
intrude."
He smiled. "Your courtesy is appreciated. But you could not have come nearer 
than I wished. Enough: you came with a purpose. What troubles you?"
Paks did not want to meet his eyes. "Sir, I did not take the time to tell you 
all that happened on our way across the mountains—'
"You had no need to tell me all, or anything you would not," he interrupted. 
"But you shied from some part of your tale, and it speaks in your eyes yet. Is 
it mis you came for?"
Paks felt her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She wished she bad gone to 
Marshal Cedfer. She wished she had done nothing at all. From everything she had 
heard of the Kuakkganni—their deep love of wild things, their distaste for men's 
arts, their contempt for war and soldiery—she was in danger now, danger against 
which her sword was no protection. She ducked her head lower yet.
"Yes, sir. It is. I—did something, sir, and I—I can t—I don't know what to do."
"Are you sure," he asked, "that I am the one you wish to talk to? You have spent 
much time lately with Marshal Cedfer. You are not kuakkgannir; I have no claim 
on your actions."
"I'm sure," said Paks, righting the tremor in her voice. "It—has to do with—with 
the elf, and wild things, and he—Marshal Cedfer—he would think it silly. I 
think."
"Hmm. By elf, I presume you mean Macenion? Yes. And wild things. I doubt, 
Paksenarrion, that he would think it silly, but I am more used to dealing with 
those than he. Now—" his voice sharpened a little, and Paks flinched at the 
tone. "If you can spit out your tale, child, and let us see what it is, perhaps 
I can be of some use."
Paks took a deep breath, and began, haltingly, to tell of the night in the pass. 
The Kuakgan did not interrupt, or prompt her. When she told of the coming of the 
snowcat, she felt through the bones of her head the sharpening of his gaze and 
struggled on.
"Then he—Macenion—told me to use the ring—"
"The ring?" His voice might have been stone, from the weight of it.
Paks held out her hand and withdrew it. "This ring, sir. He said it was made to 
control animals. He said that after I caught his horse when it ran away, and he 
looked at it."
"You did not know that before?"
"No, sir."
"Where did you get it?"
"From the Duke, sir. He—he gave it to me, at Dwarfwatch last year, for bringing 
the word to him." Suddenly tears ran from her eyes as she thought of the honor 
of that ring, and how she'd used it.
"Did he know what it was, do you think?"
"No, sir. It was part of the plunder from Siniava's army that we'd beaten. He 
said he chose it for the form—the three strands for the three of us that went—"
"The others?"
"Died, sir."
"Mmmm. So, you had a ring to control animals, and you used it on a horse. 
Knowingly?"
"No, sir. I thought the horse came because—well—I like horses. Star always came 
to me."
"So why did Macenion think it was the ring?"
"He said his was an elf-bred horse, and that elf horses would not come to humans 
without magic. He said I had been wearing the ring, and wanting the horse to 
come." In telling this, Paks had calmed a little.
"So then you were faced with the snowcat. Had you heard of one before? No? And 
Macenion told you to use the ring. How?"
"He said, sir, to make—make the cat hold still. Not jump at us or the horses. 
And it worked—" Paks could feel, in memory, the surprise of that. She had still 
not believed her ring was magic, until the great beast crouched still on the 
trail before diem, the snowflake dapples on its coat blending with the felling 
snow. "And then he—told me how dangerous it was—"
"You didn'tsee that for yourself?" The Kuakgan's voice was edged with sarcasm.
"Sir, I could see that it was a hunting creature, and big—but it was so 
beautiful. I didn't know about the magic it had, until Macenion told me. He said 
we had no chance—and—" Pales faltered again.
"Go on." The Kuakgan was implacable.
"He told me to—to hold it still—and—" Paks squeezed her eyes shut against the 
memory. "And he took his sword—and killed it."
There was a long silence. Paks dared not move or speak. Her skin prickled all 
over.
"You held ft still, by magic, while Macenion killed it? Helpless?"
"Yes, sir," said Paks faintly. "I—I knew it was wrong. I asked him—"
"What!" The word shook the ground with power.
"I asked him not to," whispered Paks. "But he said—he said it was the only 
way—then—and I—I shouldn't have, sir, I know that, but what can I do now?"
Another long silence. "And men wonder," the Kuakgan said finally, in a quiet 
voice worse than a shout, "why evil roams the land. I should hope you knew it 
was wrong. Wrong, yes: bitterly wrong. And I assure you, Paksenarrion, that 
Marshal Cedfer would not think light of this. It was an evil deed, and whatever 
else they may be, the Marshals of Gird abhor evil. Do you claim, as your 
defense, that it was Macenion's fault, because he told you to do so?"
"No, sir," said Paks. "I should have thought—he toto me, later, when I spoke of 
it, that I could have used the power to send the beast away—"
"Macenion said that? After telling you to do it in the first place?"
"Yes, sir. I know it was my doing. I know it was wrong. But—what now? 1 thought 
you would know what to do.
"To make amends?"
Paks nodded. "I thought—even—I had dishonored my sword.I should—give it up, if 
you said so: not be a warrior."
"Look at me." Paks could not resist the command, and met the Kuakgan's dark 
eyes, her own blurred with tears. He looked every bit as angry as she had 
expected. "You would give that up? Your own craft in the world? You take the 
injury so seriously?"
"Yes." Paks fought again for control of her voice. "Sir, it was ivrong. I have 
not slept well since. How can I be—what I want, if I could do that?"
"But you are a soldier," he mused. "I judge you are a good one, as soldiers go. 
Have you any other skill?"
"No, sir."
"I think, then, that you must stay so. Kuakkganni do not hate soldiers, but the 
necessity of war. If you have dishonored your sword, you must cleanse it with 
honorable battles. As for amends—the snowcat is dead, and by now the eagles have 
feasted. Nothing can change that." He looked closely at her, and Paks nodded. 
"As I said, I have no responsibility for your actions. But if you will be bound 
by me, I will take a blood payment from you."
"Yes, sir."
"Give me the ring, with which you bound the snowcat, so that you cannot misuse 
such power again."
Paks froze. Give up the ring? Her hand closed on it. She could hear again the 
Duke'svoice as he gave it, feel again the throb in her injured leg.
"I will not compel," said the Kuakgan. She could feel, however, the withdrawal 
behind his words. She unclenched her hand, staring at the ring, its twisted 
strands that meant so much more than power over animals. Then she pulled it from 
her finger, feeling the tiny ridges for the last time, and laid it in the 
Kuakgan's waiting palm. His hand closed over it. She felt a cold wave sweep 
through her heart: that ring she had never meant to lose, save with her life.
"Child, look at my face." She looked again; he was smiling gravely. "You did 
well, Paksenarrion. I think the evil was not rooted too deeply in you, and this 
may have it out. Choose your companions with more care, another time, and trust 
your own honor more. No one can preserve it but you."
"Yes, sir."
"Go now. You have much to do, if you would accomplish what the Council set 
you—and train that black horse you've been busy with."
Paks started. She had forgotten, until then, that she had been using the ring on 
the black horse.
The Kuakgan gave her an open grin. "We will see whether Macenion was right, and 
all your skill with horses mere ring-magic. I think myself you have a way with 
animals, ring or no. And you can trust yourself, now. Is it not so?"
"Yes, sir." Suddenly Paks felt much better. She had not known how much it 
bothered her to control the horse with the ring.
"You may take a few extra bruises, but—I heard from Sevri the care you gave your 
pack pony when you arrived. Such care, Paksenarrion, and not magic, will 
accomplish what you hope for." He took her shoulders and turned her away from 
the fountain. "And there's your path out. Don't stray from it—and don't look 
back."
"Thank you, sir," said Paks. She walked toward the white stones, and along them 
to the lane.
Lighter in heart, Paks headed for the inn, thinking of what had passed. Her 
finger felt sore and empty without the Duke's ring. She would not have bartered 
it for food if she had been starving, it was that dear. But the Duke, she felt, 
would rattier have had her give it up, under the circumstances, than keep it in 
dishonor. She turned aside from the inn door and went around by the stableyard. 
Sevri was currying a trader's heavy cart horse outside. Paks went into the 
stable. Star pushed her head up over the stall side, and Paks scratched her 
absently, watching the black. He seemed more relaxed; he stood at ease, nose 
resting on the stall door, tail switching at intervals. Paks fed Star half an 
apple and took the rest to him.
He stiffened as she neared the stall, then caught the scent of apple. Paks held 
it on the flat of her hand. His nostrils quivered; his lip twitched. Slowly he 
reached out and lifted it from her palm. She reached up and scratched him, just 
as she would Star. Still crunching, he leaned into the caress. Paks murmured to 
him, the meaningless, friendly talk that soothes, and watched his eyes slide 
shut. She heard Sevri behind her in the aisle, leading the cart horse to its 
stall.
All at once Paks decided what to do. "Sevri?"
"Yes? Do you need something?"
"Only to tell you something." Paks paused. It wasn't going to be easy. She liked 
the girl. "Sevri, I—haven't been fair with you." The girl's face was puzzled. 
"The smith was right, Sevri, about this horse. I was using magic on him. To 
quiet him."
"What kind of magic?" She seemed more interested than surprised.
"A ring. It worked to quiet animals—to control them. That's why I could work on 
him at all."
"Oh. Are you using it now? Which ring is it?"
Paks spread her hand. "I don't have it any more. It was the gold one. I'm sorry, 
Sevri, I should have told you—"
"Why? All horse trainers have their secrets. And you weren't using it to hurt 
him. What happened to your ring? Was it stolen?"
"No. I gave it to Master Oakhallow." Paks was surprised at the girl's reaction. 
"But Sevri—your family are kuakkgannir, aren't they? I thought you would think 
it wrong."
Sevri shrugged. "I don't think you needed it. Master Oakhallow says the heart 
shows in all things. You were always kind to Star and the black, and that's what 
works with horses. If you used the ring to quiet him until he could trust you—it 
shortened your work, that's all."
Paks felt a wave of relief. She had feared die girl's disapproval more than she 
knew. "I—I thought you should know, that's all."
"I'm glad you trust me," said Sevri seriously, older than her years. "But I 
wouldn't tell those others. Let them think what they will. If they knew you'd 
had one magic ring, they might come looking for others. I learned that working 
here in the inn."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Paks. "Thank you. But now I suppose we might as 
well see how the training has gone, and bring him out."
To her surprise, the black horse was no worse than any other morning. Paks had 
just finished grooming him and turned to reach for the saddle, when she saw the 
Kuakgan beside her.
"You are doing well with him," said the Kuakgan. Paks could find nothing in his 
voice but polite interest. "Have you been able to cure the injuries he received 
earlier?"
Paks laid a hand on the horse's shoulder to steady herself. She had not thought 
to see the Kuakgan again so soon; her breath came short. "Sir, his mouth healed 
quickly, but—there's one thing. He has deep scars on his hind legs, and I don't 
know what can be done for them."
"I'll take a look." At the Kuakgan's touch, the horse relaxed even more, and did 
not flinch even when the Kuakgan ran his strong hands down the hind legs. He 
paused when he came to the scar on the near leg. "A rope or wire cut him deeply 
here; it's a wonder he was not crippled by it. The wound healed cleanly, but the 
scar has grown to hamper the action of the joint a little. Do you find he 
sometimes seemed to drag his hoof there?"
Paks shook her head. "I've never seen it myself. But Marshal Cedfer says he does 
so, when I'm training with him."
"Hmmm. Perhaps I can ease that for him." Paks did not see him do anything, but 
he laid his hand over the scar a long moment, and then on the other leg. "Now," 
he said, as he straightened up, "I would see you ride, young woman."
Paks felt her belly clench. Would he make the horse rear and buck? Bun away? She 
was sure he could do that. Or would he criticize what Marshal Cedfer had taught 
her? Her fingers felt huge and clumsy as she set the saddle on the horse's back, 
arranged the crupper and breastband, girthed up, and bridled. The Kuakgan 
inspected the tack, running the leather through his hands, touching the bit with 
his fingers. At last there was nothing to do but mount. The horse had picked up 
Paks's tension, and stiffened his ears, but he stood still while she gained the 
saddle.
Once up, habit reasserted itself, and she gave to the horse's movement. She rode 
around the stableyard twice, then made a few circles and other figures around 
the dungheap. She looked at the Kuakgan; he gestured for her to ride outside. 
Paks sighed, nodded, and guided the black through the gate. He had already 
passed it himself, and was walking out of town on the south-east road. Paks 
followed it, the black horse stepping along lightly. He turned as she caught up 
with him.
"I think you have done well so far," he said. "Ride ahead, now, and turn back 
when you come to the edge of the grove."
Paks nudged the horse into a slow trot, halted and turned where she was bid, and 
rode back.
"He should have no more trouble with those scars," said the Kuakgan. "He's 
moving easier. Could you feel it?"
"It seemed springier, somehow."
"Yes, and he wm be able to do some of those fency things the Marshal would like 
to teach you. It's too bad they re used for fighting only. If it did not risk 
his death or yours, I'd be happier about it." He smiled up at her. "But you and 
he were meant to be so, perhaps. I wish you well, Paksenarrion. You may come 
again to the grove, if you wish; you have a definite talent with animals. That 
is, in part, what hurt you so when you misused it." He waved and turned away. 
Paks sat still, and watched him cross die road and enter the grove by leaping 
the wall. She almost called a warning, then realized that it would hold no 
perils for him. He had disappeared among the trees when she lifted the reins and 
rode to the grange, along die street for the first time.
Chapter Thirteen
In the next two days, Paks rode along most of the roads near town, and began to 
explore the small lanes and paths that led to outlying farmsteads. She found 
nothing; she was not even sure what she was looking for. But at least, she 
thought, she had a better idea of the surrounding land. It was richer than die 
land around Three Firs. Most form folk had an orchard of apples and pears; for 
grain they grew wheat as well as northern barley and oats. Redroots, onions, and 
other vegetables grew in every kitchen garden. Paks saw the local hogs, hefty 
red beasts with yellow eyes, rooting in the roadside woods and hedges. Cattle 
were sleek, mostly dun-colored, with dark horns.
She was trotting the black horse along the west road one afternoon when she got 
her first clue. Low sun behind her threw her shadow far ahead. In that slanting 
light, she saw something glint on a treetrunk beside the road. She rode toward 
it, suddenly alert, her hand dropping to her swordhilt.
As she came nearer, she saw that it was nothing but the tree itself—instead of 
dark farrowed bark, pale underbark lay open to die sun from a narrow gash. Paks 
halted the black horse, her brow farrowed in thought. She'd heard of such 
signs—the scouts in the Duke's Company had had a system of marks on trees and 
wayside rocks. But she had no idea what this one meant—if indeed it were 
anything but an accident.
She turned the black horse off the road, and made a half circle in tile woods 
around the marked tree. Nothing but a game trail, that ended a few yards from 
the road. She came out to the road again, and thought about it. Came trail? Why 
would a game trail stop suddenly? She had seen others that crossed the road. Her 
neck prickled, and she looked around at the silent trees. Nothing. She thought 
of returning to die mysterious trail, but decided to ride on as if she had found 
nothing. As she jogged on toward town, she heard a distant call off to her 
right—a herdsman, perhaps, or perhaps someone else.
That night was drill night again. Paks drank a quick bowl of soup in the crowded 
common room, then went upstairs to change. When she came downstairs, the tall 
young man she'd noticed the first day in the common room called to her.
"Lady Paks! Going to drill! Walk with us, why don't you?" His grin was nearly as 
wide as his shoulders. Two other men, that Paks remembered but vaguely from the 
first night's drill smiled at her.
Paks nodded at them. She wondered who they were.
"I'm Mal Argonist," said the one who had called her. *I'm the forester here, 
since my brother went away. I saw you the day you came in."
"Amisi," said the dark one at his side. "I'm a fermer, just east there—beyond 
the Grove, those grain fields."
"Adgan," said the redhead. "I work for Amisi, right now."
"He's my senior herdsman."
"They're just learning sword drill," said Mal. "I told 'em they should use an 
axe, but—"
'Mal, for Gird's sake don't start on that—"
"What?" asked Paks.
"Axes. Mel thinks everyone should fight with an axe. It's aO right for him, as 
big as he is, and using an axe every day. But—"
"In formation?" Paks tried to imagine it. She knew that some knights fought with 
small axes; the smaller head was said to be easier to handle than a long blade. 
But she'd never heard of a foot soldier using one.
"Nah—not formation exactly." Mel laughed loudly. "It's a right Girdish weapon, 
that'sall, being taken from our tools, you see. And I've killed wolf with it—"
"With an axe?" Paks stared at him.
"Oh, aye. Just you swing it from side to side, see—like the Master Smith does 
his hammer, that's all. It's the very thing. Won't break like a sword will." He 
laughed again, and Paks eyed him narrowly. If she had seen him in a tavern in 
Aarenis, she'd have thought him a stupid lout. He was two fingers taller than 
she, and built like an ale barrel. She'd seen him drain a tankard at one 
swallow. Yet he didn't move like a drunkard, and his size was more solid than 
fat.
Several more yeomen had joined them, hurrying out of side lanes. For a few 
moments, Paks felt almost at home, almost as if she was going somewhere with 
Stammel and other friends. Then one of them nudged another and spoke.
"Is it true, lady, that the Council has hired you?"
Paks was too surprised to make a good pretence of ignorance. "Why do you ask?" 
she said finally.
"Well—you've got money enough, that's obvious, and you make no sign of leaving. 
Could be you bribed them, or could be they hired you."
"Doryan!" Mal's bellow startled Paks as much as the statement.
"Don't yell at me, Mal. I've a right to ask, as much as anyone." Doryan shifted 
away from Mal, nonetheless, and winked at Paks. He was middle-aged, slightly 
stooped, and she had no idea what his trade was. "If you don't want to say, 
that's all right. Just asking."
Paks thought what she could say. The Council had not told her to keep her 
mission quiet, but she had planned to say nothing. How else could she find the 
spy they thought lived in Brewersbridge? "The Council decided," she said, "that 
I was no threat to the peace here. I had ordered goods, and they gave me leave 
to stay until these were made up. They did say that you'd had trouble with 
brigands attacking caravans. Since I have been a soldier, they asked me to 
consider leading some volunteers against them.
"Huh!" Mal grunted and rubbed his neck as he walked. "Have to find them first, 
don't you? We all know they're out there, but no one's seen them."
"But who would go with you?" asked Doryan. He had an irritating whine in his 
voice. "We don't know you—the militia don't—and they don't think you could fight 
all those brigands yourself, do they?"
Paks answered Mal first. "You're right, no one can say where they are. I don't 
even know where to start looking. If I ever get that black horse tamed down—"
"I've seen you riding out," said Adgan. "One time I saw him shy, and you nearly 
went over his ears."
Paks blushed, grateful for the evening gloom. "Yes—the Marshal's teaching me, 
but I still fall off now and then. Anyway, I thought I could ride around and 
look for the brigands that way, but not until I can look at something besides 
his ears.'
"You rode though town today," said Doryan. Paks began to dislike him very much.
"Yes," she said shortly.
"You don't want to go looking for brigands alone," said Mal, more quietly than 
she'd heard him speak. "What if you found them?'
"I'd ride away," said Paks. "Very quickly."
"That's right; you're not a Girdsman." Doryan managed a sneer. Before Paks could 
react, Amisi and Adyan took him up on it.
"Doryan, that's stupid—"
"What's she to do, be hogstuck by a dozen brigands? TTiat's not Gird's way; you 
know the Marshal says Girdsmen have to think as well as fight."
"I still think—" began Doryan. Mal punched his shoulder hard enough to make him 
gasp.
"Doryan, you don't think. You just talk. The lady Paks is our guest in the 
grange, and if you treat her like this she never will join the fellowship of 
Gird. We've all seen her drill; we know she'd be a good Girdsman. Marshal hopes 
shell join the grange, and so do I. Leave her be, man. You haven't caught any 
brigands yoursetf."
By this time they were approaching the barton gate. This time the boy on guard 
recognized Paks and grinned at her as she entered. Drill went much as it had 
oefore, with most of her time spent teaching the few swordsmen to use the short 
blades in formation. Ambros and the Marshal did much better; Paks decided they 
must have been practicing in private. As he was dismissing diem from chill, the 
Marshal asked Paks to carry a message to Sir Felis.
"Cal or Doryan could take it," he said, as some of the men turned to listen. 
"But even though they live on that side of town, it's an extra couple of miles 
for either of diem—and they start work early in the morning. It wouldn't takeyou 
long, to ride out there—"
"III be glad to," said Paks honestly. She had been looking for a good reason to 
talk to Sir Felis in privacy.
"And I can'twork with you for a couple of days, the Marshal went on. "That's why 
the message must go tonight. I'm leaving for barton court rounds immediately. 
Ambros here will handle matters at the grange. Drill as usual," he said to the 
others. "I expect I’ll be back in a few days, but Ambros will take drill if I'm 
not. Paksenarrion, I suggest that you and Ambros ride together an hour or more a 
day—but don't try mounted drill until I return. And if you can give him a couple 
hours of swordplay, it'll be good for both of you."
The other men left at last, and the Marshal ushered Paks back to his study. On 
his desk was a leather tube; Paks could see the paper rolled inside. He nodded 
at it. "That's for Sir Felis; it explains what I'm doing. Now—you seemed uneasy 
tonight. What have you found?"
Paks told him about the blazed tree, and the "game" trail that ended a few yards 
from it and tine road. The Marshal nodded. "I think you've found something 
important. If you'll take my advice, don't ride that way tomorrow. If you were 
seen pausing there—well, it could be very dangerous. Right now a single arrow 
could end your campaign. Anything else?"
Paks hesitated. She glanced at Ambros, leaning against the door. He shrugged and 
moved back into the passage. "I—I'm not sure. One of the yeomen said something—'
"Asked or said?"
"Asked, at first, about my business with the Council. He asked if I'd been hired 
or if I'd—I'd bribed them."
The Marshal's face stiffened. "Who?"
"Sir, I don't think he meant insult—"
"I didn't ask that. I asked who it was."
"I think his name is Doryan."
Hie Marshal nodded. "That doesn't surprise me. Doryan is—d&icult, sometimes. He 
became a Girdsman after he moved here. Anything more?"
Paks thought of Doryan's words and decided none of them were important. "Not 
really, no."
He looked thoughtfully at her before going on. "Paksenarrion, it's my business 
to defend my yeomen, if they need it. Don't be afraid to tell me what they say."
"But I don't want to be—" she couldn't think how to say what she meant, that no 
soldier held another to close account for every word, or told even a sergeant 
what a friend had said.
"You are not of our fellowship yet," said the Marshal with a smile. "Now—I meant 
what I said about you and Ambros riding out together. Race the horses, if you 
will—anyone will understand that. Ride north and east for a day or so. Wear your 
mail, and keep alert. If you find where the brigands are hiding out, talk to Sir 
Felis before you do anything. Don't wait for my return, if you need to take 
action, but don't rush things, either. Ambros will not be able to go with you on 
an attack; until I return, his primary responsibility must be the grange."
A little later, Paks rode north out of town toward the keep. Most of the houses 
were dark; die black horse's" hoofbeats echoed in the quiet streets. She had put 
on her mail shirt, and kept one hand close to her dagger.
At the keep, torches burned at the perimeter fence and on the building itself. 
An alert sentry challenged her; she waited while he took her name in, and 
returned to escort her to the entrance, inhere another soldier led her upstairs 
to Sir Felis's workroom, a long room with two tables littered with papers and 
maps. Sir Felis and Master Zinthys, standing together near one table, looked up 
as she entered.
"You nave an urgent message from the Marshal?"
"Yes, sir." Paks pulled the leather tube from her tunic and passed it over. 
Zinthys smiled at her, as Sir Felis, frowning, worked the paper out of the tube 
and unrolled it. Zinthys wore a different, but equally rich-looking velvet robe, 
trimmed in white fur around the shoulders. Paks noticed, once again, the 
graceful movements of his hands.
"Why don't you sit down, Paksenanion. We have spiced wine ready on the 
fire—would you care for some?"
Paks shook her head, not certain what courtesy demanded, but sat in the chair 
Zinthys pointed out. He moved to the one next to her, and sat down with a sigh, 
stretching his legs.
"I'll have some then, if you permit." He hooked a potlift in the handle of a can 
on the hearth, and poured the wine into his mug. "Ah. These chill autumn nights 
make the best of wine. You should try it." He slid his eyes sideways at her. "Or 
perhaps you drink only ale?"
"I—most soldiers drink ale," said Paks. "Wine—we had that with an herb in it, if 
we were wounded."
"Numbwine. Yes. Not as good as a potion, but good enough. But you're hardly a 
common soldier now, lady, and you might find you liked spiced wine." Zinthys 
poured another mug full and passed it to her. Paks took it, and sipped. Zinthys 
watched her, his eyebrows raised. "Well?"
'It's—very good." She looked down, and sipped again. It was good, a red wine 
flavored with her favorite spices.
"Have you found any trace of our brigands?" asked Zinthys.
"No, sir, unless something I saw today—" She told him about the blazed tree, and 
answered his questions. She started to add what the Marshal had explained about 
the possible uses of such a blaze in setting an ambush, but remembered in time 
that Sir Felis probably already knew that. He nodded.
"Fresh blazes. There's that merchant from Chaya in town now—wasn't he planning 
to leave tomorrow, Zinthys?"
"That's right. Master merchant Cobai Trav-something, and his gnome partners—"
"Gnomes?" asked Paks, sitting up.
"Yes. What is it, haven't you seen gnomes before?"
"No. I've heard of them." She remembered Bosk talking about gnomes, elves, and 
dwarves on her first trip south.
"Well, around here you'll see gnomes fairly often. I'm surprised you didn't see 
these at the inn today. Two of the gnome kingdoms are less than a three days* 
ride from here. If you meet them, remember that they're very strict."
"Strict?"
Zinthys laughed. "They make a court judge look like a juggler, Paksenanion. They 
are full of dignity, and pride, and the right way to do everything—Ashto help 
you if you laugh at a gnome, or fail to complete a contract.'
"They don't like wizards," said Sir Felis drily. Paks glanced at him, and he 
grinned slightly, cocking his head at Zinthys. Zinthys flushed.
"It's not that, Sir Felis—it's that they're so—so—" he waved his hands in the 
air. "Sober," he finished. "Dead serious all the time, that's gnomes."
"Anyway," Sir Felis went on, "there's a west-bound caravan in town now—headed 
for the gnome kingdoms next, and then Verella. And if that blaze is fresh, it 
could mean that the brigands are planning to attack."
"It won't do any good to tell gnomes," said Zinthys.
"No, perhaps not. But I will send word to the caravan master. Not you, Paks—" he 
said, as she opened her mouth. "I don't want you to ride with this caravan—you 
weren't hired as a guard. If the brigands do strike, they should leave some 
trace you can follow to find their lair."
Sir Felis agreed with the Marshal's advice to ride out in other directions for 
the next day or so. Paks took this chance to look at his maps one more time, and 
fix in her mind the location of the ruined buildings he thought might harbor 
brigands.
The next morning when Paks went out to care for the black horse, die inn yard 
was busy. The day before she had been so excited about the blaze that she had 
not noticed the wagons and teams in the yard. Now teamsters were hitching teams 
of heavy mules to wagons. Paks realized that the short fellows she'd dismissed 
as someone's boys were actually not human—gnomes, she assumed. They were not so 
stout as the dwarves she'd seen; they wore plain clothes of gray and brown. 
Sevri merely nodded to her, darting quickly from one stall to another as she 
finished her morning's work. Paks decided to eat breakfast at the inn, after 
feeding the horses, so that she could watch the caravan leave.
It was not nearly so large as the one she had been with in Aarenis: seven wagons 
loaded with barrels and bales, with two guards besides the driver on each. The 
merchants—a blond human and two gnomes in sober colors but richer cloth than the 
gnome teamsters—rode saddle mules. Paks noticed that none of the gnomes smiled, 
though the human merchant grinned a farewell to Hebbinford, and
•promised to bring a barrel of "Marrakai red" on the way back. She went on with 
her breakfast, and was just washing down the last crumbs of it when Ambros 
appeared outside. She leaned out the window and called to nira.
"I thought I'd come here," he said, dismounting. "If we're riding east today—"
"Just a moment—" Paks gestured to Hebbinford, who came to take her coins. "I 
know I'm late, but I thought I'd have time to breakfast before work today."
"Don't rush." Ambros did not seem in any hurry. "Shall I saddle your horse for 
you?"
"No. I don't know how he'd behave." Paks hurried up to her room, remembering the 
Marshal's injunction to wear mail every day. She was startled to see the 
black-clad man lounging in the upper passage. Had he been trying her door? But 
he smiled and nodded, as if glad to see her. Paks unlocked her door thoughtfully 
and latched it behind her. Everything seemed to be in place. She donned the 
lightweight man the elfane taig had given her, pulled her shirt back over it, 
and caught up her old cloak. With that rolled into a bundle under her arm, she 
came back into the passage, and found it empty. She had heard no footsteps 
passing.
By the time she was back downstairs, Ambros had led his horse into the inn yard. 
He was munching a hot pastry, and grinned at her as she went into the stable. 
Sevri was busily cleaning out stalls; Paks thought of telling her about the 
black-clad man, but decided against it. She saddled the black horse without 
trouble, led it into the yard, and mounted, Ambros swung into his own saddle and 
they rode out, turning right onto the east road.
"How far out this way have you ridden?" he asked.
"Not very. I came in this way—on a trail that joins the road from the south."
"I know the one."
"I've ridden that far—no more."
"Let's go to the border, then," said Ambros. Paks looked at him. He seemed happy 
and younger, like a child at a fair. She wondered what the life of a yeoman 
marshal was like.
"How far is that?"
"Oh—if we keep moving, we can be there and back by tonight. Late tonight."
"Should we?"
Ambros grinned at her. "Probably not. But it would be fun. I grew up near the 
border; I know the country. We won't get lost, and I don't think anything this 
way will bother us."
"Well, the Marshal said—"
"The Marshal said ride other ways than west. This is other. By Gird, Paks, I 
haven't had a day to myself since—" he stopped suddenly, and ran his hand 
through his hair. Paks remembered suddenly that she had not brought her helmet, 
and felt stupid. What good was mail, when a head-blow was easy and deadly? 
"Anyway," he went on, more calmly, "I don't see that it will hurt to ride all 
day. If we don't make it that far by noon, then well turn back. Why not?"
Paks wondered if he really wanted to visit his home. She did not want to ask. 
She wondered what Ambros would say if she turned back for her helmet. Would he 
think she was a coward? Was he even wearing mail himself? She tried to see, and 
could not tell. The mail from the elfane taig, she had found, did not jingle as 
her other mail shirt had; she thought perhaps gooa mail did not. In the end she 
said nothing, and they jogged on together, into the morning sun.
When nothing happened for some time, Paks quit thinking so much about an arrow 
in the head, and instead enjoyed the ride. A thin haze covered the sun, 
thickening to a gray ceiling as they rode. Ambros frowned at the sky.
"If that keeps up, we'd better turn back."
"Why?"
"From that direction, it means rain, or even an early snow." He sighed. "I might 
have known that Gird himself would shorten my leash, with the Marshal gone."
Paks stared at him; he looked both unhappy and slightly worried. "Ambros, what 
is it?"
"I—I'll tell you, Paks, but please don't tell everyone. I'd hoped to—to go as 
far as my father's form. It's been over a year, now, and it less than a day's 
ride away. And I wonder if I’ll ever see them again."
"But if it's that close, why haven't you—?"
"Because the Marshal hasn't allowed it," said Ambros shortly, reining his bay 
around to the west. "It's been one thing after another—chores, drills, whatever. 
My lather's been in to Brewersbridge, of course, to the markets. My mother came 
once, last spring. But it'll be spring before either of them come again. I just 
wanted to see them one more time before winter." He sighed again. "It was a 
foolish idea."
"But why? I mean, just because it's going to rain—I don't melt in the rain, 
Ambros—not even in snow. How far is it?"
He shook his head. "No. Paks, you're not a Girdsman; I can't explain. But I 
tried to go on my own, and it's not what I should do. With Marshal Cedfer gone, 
the grange is my responsibility. The clouds are another warning; the first was 
in my own heart. We'll go back. I pray Gird that no more will be required."
Puzzled, and a little put out, Paks followed Ambros back toward Brewersbridge. 
The clouds did not lift, but thickened, and soon a fine drizzle wet her face. It 
was not enough to penetrate her cloak. She nudged the black horse ami rode up 
beside Ambros.
"Ambros, do you really think Gird made it rain because you wanted to see your 
family?" She thought even less of Gird if that was his sort of action.
"No, not exactly." Ambros spoke slowly, as if more lay behind his words than he 
wanted to say. ' I don't know, to be honest, where the clouds came from—the High 
Lord may grant the wind's keys to any he wishes, I daresay. But Marshal Cedfer 
did say the grange was my responsibility—even if you find the brigands, he said, 
I cannot fight them with you."
"But did he tell you not to visit your family?" Paks persisted.
"No. I think—I think he knew I would want to go, but did not insult me by 
telling me my duty." Ambros gave a short laugh. "He should have."
"But you—"
"Paks," said Ambros, with a look that stopped the words in her mouth. "Pales, 
you have been a soldier in many battles—have you ever had a dream of death?"
She stared at him, surprised into long silence. "Not—exactly,** she said 
finally. "Some of my friends have… I have had disturbing dreams, though, if 
that's what you mean."
"Have you—did you ever know someone to have a true dream Hire that?"
"Onoe." Paks swallowed with difficulty. She wondered what dream had come to 
Ambros. When she glanced at him, he was staring at his horse's mane, fists 
clenched on the reins.
"I—I saw myself," he said softly. She could barely hear him. "I saw myself 
fighting—and struck—and dying. And then nothing. I know—" he said, turning to 
meet her eyes. "I know that all Girdsmen train for this, to fight evil to Hie 
death. But—but Paks, it was so soon. You know this cut—" He pushed back his 
sleeve to show a cut she had dealt him in practice the night before. "It wasn't 
healed yet; I could see it, under the other marks."
Paks shivered violently. Ambros's face seemed to waver, changing from the ruddy 
living countenance before her to the pale fixed expression she had seen on so 
many dead. "It was a dream,' she managed to say. "And not all dreams are true."
"I know." He nodded, seeming more at ease. "I know that. But I thought—I thought 
I d like to see my father and mother again." He looked sideways at her. "Do you 
think less of me for that?"
"No. Of course not."
"I wondered—you being a soldier, and all. You've seen more fighting than I have. 
To be honest, I've never faced an actual enemy."
Paks did not know what to say. She did not feel like boasting of her experience. 
She thought, as she often did these bays, of her own home, and wondered for the 
first tone if she would see her own family again. But she had had no troubling 
dreams, and had no fears. She smiled at Ambros, hoping to reassure him. "You 
fight well, Ambros, in practice; I expect you'll fight well when need comes. I 
hope it is not as soon as you fear. Will you tell the Marshal of this dream?"
"I would have, if he had not left already. Yes, he must know, in case it is an 
evil sending. I thank you, Paks, for not laughing at me."
They were back at the inn in time for a late lunch; Paks persuaded Ambros to eat 
with her. She had decided to show him the scrolls from the eHane taig; if she 
had not laughed at his bad dreams, perhaps he would not laugh at her slow 
reading. But they ate slowly, and it was near midafternoon when she started 
upstairs to get the scrolls. She had them in her hand when a disturbance in the 
street below brought her to the window.
A yelling crowd surrounded a blood-stained man bareback on a fat mule. As Paks 
watched, Ambros erupted from the inn door, followed by Hebbinford. The crowd 
spotted him, ran to him.
"Robbers!" she heard. "Robbers! The caravan!" The man on the mule slid off 
sideways; two men caught him, half-carried him toward the inn. Paks saw Sevri's 
red head move through the crowd and take the mule by the bridle. She waited to 
see no more, but turned away and moved quickly downstairs.
Hebbinford and Ambros bent near the man, who half-lay in a chair near the 
fireplace, his clothes torn and bloody. Paks saw the black-clad man leaning 
quietly against the wall behind several others, who were chattering loudly. He 
caught her eye and smiled; Paks felt herself blushing. Ambros glanced up and saw 
her.
"Paks, good. Come here, will you?" Paks moved through the group, aware of 
curious glances. She had seen, from above, mat Ambros commanded more of their 
respect than she'd thought—at least when the Marshal was away.
"What is it?" she asked.
"This man says he was a teamster on the caravan that left this morning. They 
were attacked by brigands on the west road, and all die guards were killed."
Paks looked at the man—a stocky, darkly tanned man of medium height—and wondered 
just where on the west road. Ambros was asking more questions; she could not 
hear the soft answers. Hebbinford began clearing the others out of the room. 
Over his shoulder he said, "III tell the mayor." Paks wondered who would be sent 
to Sir Felis.
With the room empty and quiet, Paks could hear the man's replies to 
Ambros'squestions—hundreds of bandits, he said shakily. Hundreds and hundreds, 
with horses and bows and swords. They took the whole caravan, every animal and 
wagon, and lolled all the guards, and—
"How did you escape?" asked Ambros. "Isn't that one of the caravan mules?"
Paks would not have thought the dark face could darken, but it did. "I was the 
last wagon, sir. I heard a noise—that stretch of road has an evil name, you 
know—and so I cut the lead offside mule free, and—"
"Ran for it," finished Ambros, with the same tone Paks thought the Marshal would 
have used.
"Well, I tried." Paks watched the man's face as he took a long difficult breath. 
"But that Simyits-damned son of a Pargunese jackass bucked me off, that he did. 
And ran away, after dumping me flat in the midst of it all. So I lay there too 
stunned to run or fight, and I reckon that was best, in the end. One of 'em 
poked me a little, but I made shift to lie still and be quiet. I heard 'em 
talking, telling each other to be sure all the guards were dead. Then they tried 
to catch my mule, but they couldn't lay a finger on him, so they went off. I 
waited a bit—and I was some sore, too, sir—and then when I did sit up there was 
that damned mule not a length away, heehawing at the blood smell. Then he came 
to me, and thank the luck for that. I counted all the guards' bodies, sir, and 
so I know—"
"What about the merchants, and the other teamsters."
"The teamsters are all dead, gnome and man alike. I didn't see the merchants' 
bodies, but I doubt they live."
"Hmm." Ambros sounded, again, very Wee the Marshal. "Where was this? It seems to 
me you're back soon and luckily with such a tale."
The man paled a little. "Sir, please! I swear it's the truth. We left early this 
dawn, the landlord can tell you. And the road was dry; we made good time. Old 
Cobai—that's the master—he didn't want to stop for nooning in that stretch of 
woods, so we pressed on, eating on the seat as we drove. I had just finished my 
pickle when I heard the noise. Coming back, sir, I fair beat that mule to a 
lather."
Ambros gave Paks a quick look; she could not tell his meaning. But something 
made her speak up. "How badly are you hurt, can you tell?"
The man looked at her gratefully. "They poked me some, lady, and I fell hard 
before that. I wrapped my own shirt on it—this is off a guard—" He indicated his 
bloodstained shirt.
"Well, you'd best let us see. Yeoman-marshal, is there a surgeon in town?" She 
hoped she was right to use his title.
"Yes," said Ambros. "At the keep, with Sir Felis." He looked aside. "Well need 
clean cloths, and water—it's too bad the Marshal is gone."
"That's what they counted on, no doubt," said the driver.
Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath was 
an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.
"It's no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound," she commented. 
"What's your name?"
"Jens, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?"
"No. Be steady, now." Paks helped Ambros uncover the man's other injuries—mostly 
bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. "You're lucky, Jeris. They 
could easily have killed you."
"I know it." He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. 
"It—ouch!:—sorry. If that mule hadn't bucked, they might have got me sure; they 
had horses. I don't deserve it, that's the truth, but that's luck. It comes as 
Simyits pleases—"
"You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?" asked Ambros. "Is that 
what you learned in Lyonya?"
"Oh sir—in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy's faith. But I've been on the 
roads near twenty years, now, and I've seen good luck and bad come to all. As 
for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn't Sertig 
instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you might 
say, died today—they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am, alive a 
bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on my hard 
head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?"
Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves' god, and the 
gambler's patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros, however, 
was sober, and crouched down to meet the man's eyes.
"If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But 
there is one more near us than that—Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He had 
a hard head himself, and it's said he knows how to convince another. I would not 
call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were all 
dead—and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your mule love 
you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return to you?"
Jeris's face furrowed as he tried to think. ''Well—now—I see what you mean. To 
be honest, I wouldn't have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new dead 
like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head 6rst? 
Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?"
"Why is there winter? Why does water flow downhill only?" Ambros sounded even 
more like a Marshal. "The High Lord lets men deal with men, as often as not. As 
for you, perhaps Gird knew your mule could not outrun their horses—or perhaps he 
was seeking an entrance into your hard head, and tried knocking it first."
"Peace, Ambros," said Sir Felis from the doorway. "You can convert the man 
later, but for now I'd tike to know what happened." Behind him a surgeon carried 
a cloth bag of gear; Master Zinthys, in still another robe, followed him, and 
smiled at Paks.
When the man had told his tale again, and die surgeon had settled bun in one of 
the inn's rooms. Sir Fehs, Zinthys, Ambros, and Paks conferred in a small room 
opening off the kitchen.
"Hundreds of brigands I simply do not believe," said Sir Fehs. "They 
haven'tstolen enough food and forage for anything like that number. In this case 
they killed twenty, and captured several—we aren't sure how many. But out of 
ambush, that wouldn't take more than a score of well-armed, disciplined troops. 
Perhaps fewer. Certainly I don't think they can have more than—' he paused, 
looked up at the lamp, and thought a moment. "Thirty, I'd sajf. And fewer horses 
than that. Most of the caravans they've hit have been carrying dry goods, 
weapons, that sort of thing—not food."
"Yes, but now what?" asked Ambros, "You know Marshal Cedfer said I couldn't 
go—what do we do now?"
Sir Felis looked at Paks. "It's your choice, since you accepted the task—but if 
you want advice—"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I would say let me take a troop out there, as everyone expects, and pick 
up the bodies. Contrive some reason for riding that way yourself tomorrow—not 
just riding, something else—and see if you can find a trace of the wagons' 
movement. I won't even look; it'll be dark by the time I get out there with my 
men. If you find it, don't be in too much hurry to follow it up. They 11 be 
watching the road pretty closely for a day or so, I expect. Give them time to 
relax. Then—if it's where we think—go after them."
Paks shook her head. "By your leave, sir, I have another thought. An assault on 
a keep—even a ruined keep—is no easy matter. We tried that once in Aarenis. Why 
not try to frighten them out—catch them at their bolthole?"
"The game trail you're thinking of?"
"Yes, but close by the keep. If a show of frontal assault—"
"With what?" asked Sir Felis. "I can't give you a troop."
"No,but Master Zinthys might have some magical means." She glanced at him. 
"Macenion—the part-elf I was traveling with—had some illusions. I thought 
perhaps—"
Zinthys looked pleased, though Ambros frowned. "In feet. Lady Paksenarrion, 
illusions are a specialty of mine. Far less dangerous to the onlooker than, say, 
real firebolts."
"And easier to do," muttered Ambros softly. Zinthys glared at him.
"Young sir, if you think it is easy to produce even illusory fire, I suggest you 
try. My old master, who is well known in the arts, always said that a fine, 
convincing illusion was for more difficult—because reality carries its own 
conviction, and saves its own appearances. If you make a flame, it is a real 
flame, and you don't have to worry, once you've got it. But an illusory flame 
can go wrong in many subtle ways—even such a thing as forgetting which way the 
wind is blowing, so that it flickers the wrong direction."
"Sony," said Ambros, staring at the table. Paks thought he didn't sound sorry at 
all. She smiled at Zinthys.
"I don't know anything about it," she said, "but could you make something to 
scare them out—something to make them think a large force was coming at them?"
"I might do," said Zinthys, still obviously ruffled. He twitched his shoulders 
and glanced at Sir Febs. "It would be easier if I had a small matrix to work on, 
as a pattern."
 
"A what?"
"A form—a framework—or, in plain terms, if I had a few real men-at-arms, that I 
could simply multiply in illusion, rather titan creating the whole thing out of 
my head. It's easier to keep them in step, you see."
Paks didn't see, but nodded anyway. Sir Felis made a steeple of his hands. "How 
many, Zinthys?"
The mage looked at him, considering. "Oh—a half dozen, say?"
"Four." Sir Felis set down his mug. "Four is plenty to save your hide if it 
doesn't work, and I can't waste the time of more."
"Four," repeated Zinthys cheerfully. "You'll see, Lady Paksenarrion—I’ll do you 
an illusion that'll have them running out the back door for cover—by the way, 
how do you know there is a back door?"
"Never saw a keep without one," said Paks cheerfully, thinking of Siniava's many 
tricks. "Gods grant we choose die right place."
"That, said Zinthys with satisfaction, "is up to you soldiers. Just tell me when 
and where you want them frightened—I'll take care of that."
Chapter Fourteen
Mal, when Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected. He 
spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to think 
he might be an asset after all.
"So we're to find the place first, and find sign—then shell lead a troop?" He 
gave Paks a sharp look. "Have you led troops before, lady? I don't mean to be 
like Doryan, but—"
"I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts," said Paks.
"That means yes, I take it." He turned back to Ambros. "And what if their place 
is fortified? Do we try to take it?"
"No. There's a plan to get them out—if it's the place we think it might be, or 
one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?"
"Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place—unlucky, that 
is. Is that where you think they are?'
"It could well be—considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago."
"Then they're a brave bunch, that's all I can say. I wouldn't stay there for a 
silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale."
"And for you, that's saying a lot. All right, Mal—I know you don't like it. But 
if they're wicked enough, it might not bother them."
"What is it?" asked Paks. "Why are the ruins so bad?"
Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. "It's from before 
my time—I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But there was a 
wizard who settled in there—built a stronghold all in one year, by magic, some 
said- Like most wizards, he didn't care more for bad and good than a deaf man 
cares for music."
"I don't know as that's fair," Mal broke in. "Master Zinthys is a nice enough 
fellow."
"Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back 
in a fight?"
Mal considered. "Well—yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least."
"I like him myself," said Ambros. "I think he's as honest as any wizard, but 
they care more for magic and money than anything else—it's their nature. But 
this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn't much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I was 
told, because he wanted to rule. That's not what he said; he said he had come to 
study. But be had a small horde of magical creatures that he let loose, and then 
he threatened worse if people didn't pay'taxes' for protection from them. 
Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange."
"It wasn't Marshal Cedfer here then," Mal put in, grinning at Paks. "Nor yet 
Deordtya, but the one before her. I don'trecall his name."
"It doesn't matter," said Ambros shortly. "He made the mistake of believing the 
wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when the 
yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than be 
taken."
"I hope he blew himself up," said Mal darkly. "The way that place feels, I'm not 
so sure."
"He may have left spells," said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the 
brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had 
only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that
Seriyan's old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she'd found, 
and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the trail sign.
Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy 
pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him. 
Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.
"This way," he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford brought 
him without being told. "This way I'm just hunting a good straight bole of 
limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I can haul 
anything we find." Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at work. Mal 
saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching and 
listening. "See, lady, you don't know everything yet." Now his voice was louder, 
and more accented. "What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle, to bind 
these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bolt. With die 
front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels—now do you see?" 
Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels didn't fall out 
from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie it securely to 
the wood that held the wheels together.
"Ride along with me," said Mal, as if she had planned something else, "and I'll 
show you some more things you don't know about."
"I should find Ambros—" she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal laughed 
again.
"Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don't want to spend every day with him, do you? He'sa 
yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now—" He gave her an enormous wink, and 
swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his tankard. 
Someone laughed. Paks grinned.
"You go on ahead; I'll catch up when I've got my horse ready. Which way are you 
going?"
"Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a straight, 
tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if the trees I 
want are next to the road."
"Good," said Paks. "That way I can tell Ambros I «w>n't be riding with him this 
morning." Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle the 
black horse. She hoped their act had gone off we!!. She hated to think of a spy 
in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.
She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of 
Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside farm. 
He waved her to a stop.
"Paks, do you know Eris here?" It was the same woman Paks had met in Council. 
Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she'd thought.
"Yes, I remember you," said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no 
longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was 
learning manners. "I didn't know this was your farm."
"It wasn't, a few years ago," said Eris, with a slow smile. "We used to be out 
there—" she pointed southwest. "But raiders—bandits—something—kept breaking our 
fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and the boys 
married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to town."
"It looks good," said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the 
orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.
"Oh, it's a good farm," said Eris. "I miss the spring we had before—the best 
water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead 
animals in it, day after day—"
"Ugh—" Paks shuddered.
"Do you like apples?" she went on. "The good ones are coming ripe now—I'd be 
glad for you to have some."
"Between me and the horses," said Paks, "we'd eat half your crop. I'll buy a 
measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the 
horses."
"I would have given—"
"Eris," said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her 
the council title, "I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money, and 
you have apples to sell."
Very well," said Eris. "When you come back by this evening—or whenever—I’ll have 
mem near die gate, under the hedge."
"And you Know I want some, Eris," said Mal.
"You! I thought you lived on ale, Mall" But she was laughing as she said it.
They continued down the road, chatting freely. Paks continued to lead the black 
horse, since Mal was walking beside the cart. He pointed out different trees, 
but Paks quickly grew confused with it: colors and patterns of bark, and shapes 
of leaves, and the form of the tree meant httie to her. She could tell a 
star-shaped leaf from a lance-shaped one, and both those from the ferny-looking 
compounds, but that was her limit Mal teased her gently. In the meantime, they 
both watched the road for the signs of the caravan—the fresh wheel ruts and 
narrow mule hoofmarks. These they did not mention.
Paks wondered what would be left at the ambush site, since Sir Felis had sent a 
troop of his soldiers out to retrieve the bodies. Would she even notice it? As 
the sun neared its height, she began to worry that they'd missed it. But it was 
clear, when they came to it. Deeper tracks, round-hoofed, of ridden horses, and 
the mules' tracks veering from side to side. Bloodstains on the fallen leaves, 
and on the rocks that edged the road. A few spent arrows, mostly broken. Mal 
pointed out the traces she missed, chatting the while about trees. In the end, 
Paks found the way the wagons had been taken. Freshly cut boughs, the leaves 
hardly withered, disguised the wagons' track into the woods; the brigands had 
chosen a stony outcrop for the turn off die road. It led, or so Paks thought, 
the wrong direction—north—but Mal looked grim when he saw it.
"There's a farm to the northwest," he said. "Or was, until it burned. If they're 
using it, they may be using the old farm lane to bring the wagons back, and 
cross this road farther along. As I remember, that other farm lane hits this 
road in about the same place."
"Well, do we follow this?" asked Paks.
"No. Not with horses. We'd make a noise like an army in Acre, with a third of 
the leaves down as they are. If you'll take my advice, we'll go along the road 
and look for that other place, where the lane comes in."
Paks could just see the lane coming in ahead when Mal stopped abruptly. "Ha," he 
said loudly. "There's the tree I come for." She stared at him, surprised, and he 
winked. "You'd best go on up the road a ways," he went on. "I want to drop it 
right here in the road. Tell you what. You take these two wheels along with you, 
eh? Go on—yes—right along up there, at least as far as that lane. This'unll fall 
long, I tell you." Paks finally caught on, and wandered slowly up the road as he 
bade her. Behind her, the axe rang on the tree. She wondered if it really was a 
"Umber pine" or whatever.
It was hard to roll the wheels along with one hand and lead the black horse with 
the other. Several times a wheel got loose, and she had to bend to pick it back 
up. When she got both wheels as far as the lane crossing, she dropped them with 
a grunt and wiped her hands on the fallen leaves. The black horse nudged her, 
and she scratched his chin idly. She could just see Mal bending to his work.
"How long will you be?" she called back to him. The rhythmic axe blows stopped, 
and he stood up.
"Eh?"
"How long will you be?" She made it loud and distinct. "I thought I d ride on 
and find water for my horse."
"Oh—say—a finger or two of sun. Not longer, lucre's a spring up that lane—used 
to be a farm there, some years back. You could bring me some—my can's back here; 
this fellow won't fell till I drop him."
Paks mounted and rode back, to another of MaTs winks, and he handed her a tall 
can with a wire bail. "It's good water, or used to be," he said. "Look out for 
wild animals, though. I've heard of wolves using it."
"I’ll be careful," said Paks, and drew along the black horse's neck the tracks 
she'd seen: wagons and teams both. Mal nodded and waved her away.
Paks made no attempt at silence as she rode along the lane that led south. She 
found a thread of water beside the lane, and then a cobble-walled sprmghouse. 
Beyond was a half-overgrown clearing with the ruins of a farmhouse and 
outbuildings. She didn'tlook at it, but dipped the can in the spring, and let 
the black horse drink afterwards. It was not really thirsty, and wanted to sniff 
at fresh droppings a few feet away. Paks reined it around slowly, and rode back, 
glad of her helmet and mail shirt.
Mal had the tree down by the time she got back, and loudly directed her in 
placing the wheels under one end of it. He had trimmed the ends of the axle log 
into rough rounds, and once the wheels were in place split the ends andplaced 
cross-wedges in them.
"Thing is," he said, "the wheels have to turn on the axle, not with it—else it'd 
walk right off the end of the tree." Paks hadn't thought of that problem. Nor 
had she noticed the can of grease he'd brought to put on the axle. She did 
wonder how he'd gotten the large end of the tree into die cart. Surely he wasn't 
that strong. She glanced overhead for something he might have slung a tine from.
"Don't look up," he warned quietly. Paks froze. "If you want to know how I 
lifted that monster," he said more loudly, "I used its own limbs for levers. 
Trimmed 'em after, that's how! do it. Some men use lines, but then they have to 
have a taller tree nearby. Not always bandy-By Gird, I'm thirsty!" He drained 
the can at one swallow.
The journey back was slower; Mal's pony moved the tree at an easy foot-pace. The 
black horse fretted. Paks got off again and walked alongside. When they reached 
Eris's, they picked up the apples; Mal told Paks what the current price was, and 
she left it wrapped in the cloth Eris had put over the baskets. From there into 
town they talked softly of what Paks had seen. Mal said he had spotted a watcher 
in the trees. They agreed it would be too dangerous to scout the game trail if 
the brigands were still so alert.
It was nearly dark when they passed the grange; Ambros and several other yeomen 
were talking in the barton gateway, and called greetings.
"You can come help me on the bridge," Mal yelled back. "Paks here isn't much of 
a teamster."
"That's not a team," Paks retorted, sure by now that such joking was acceptable.
"I'd be glad to hitch your black up and let him do some work," said Mal.
"I doubt that." Ambros came up to them. "You weren't there die first time she 
saddled him. He'd be impossible in harness. Come on Jori, give us a hand here." 
Ambros and the other yeoman helped Mal get the wheels aligned on the bridge. 
Still talking, they followed along. Mal untied the log beside the Council Hall, 
and drove it off the back wheels. Then he let the weight drag it out of the 
cart. His pony gave a heavy sigh as the log fell, and the men laughed.
"Come on to the inn," said Mal. "Ill buy a mug for you."
They nodded and walked along; Jori and Ambros returned to some grange matter; 
Paks did not know what grange-set was, or what it had to do with a form's sale. 
She hardly listened, intent instead on figuring out just what Mal Argonist 
really was—not a simple forester, that was clear. Sne was beginning to wonder if 
anyone was actually a simple anything. Until Brewersbridge, she had not 
considered that an innkeeper might be a Council member as well—that many people 
had more than one role, and considered them all important.
The common room was moderately busy, but quiet. News of the attack made solemn 
faces. Paks stabled the black horse, and went back in to find that the others 
expected her at their table. She shook her head at Mal's offer of ale, and asked 
Hebbinford for supper instead.
"I eat before I drink," she said in answer to Mal's question. "I don't have 
your—" she paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as the others laughed. 
"—capacity,'' she said finally. Mal shook the table with his laughter.
"You didn't start young enough," he said. "When I was scarce knee high, my old 
dad had me down tankards at a time."
"Of ale?" asked Ambros.
"No—ale costs too much. Water. But it's the habit, Ambros, of an open throat. 
The feel of it sliding down—"
"Then why didn't you stick with water?"
"Oh, that was my brother." His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could 
sense the laughter underneath. "He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink 
like a man. So I did."
"If that's your reason," said Ambros, "you should be a kuakkgannir—you don't 
drink like a man, you drink like a tree."
They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and gravy. 
Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.
"It's luck," he said. "It's your good luck if someone else eats the first bite."
Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she had eaten, the room had 
almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew, 
would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of the 
apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in the 
room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon before the 
Council's summons; now he came to her table.
"May I sit?"
Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it 
down.
"I don't mean to pry," he said, "You seem in good favor now; I hope for your 
sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on the 
caravan—and if you are going to be part of it—I wish you'd consider my offer to 
come along. You might well want someone who was not—let's say—from here."
Paks looked at him a moment before answering. "Sir—Arvid, didn't you say?—" He 
nodded, smiling slightly. "You seem to be telling me that these people can't be 
trusted. Is that so?"
"I don't think I'd put it like that. I do think that those who live in small 
villages are more trustworthy to others of the village than to strangers. 
Haven't you found that to be true, in your travels? That these village folk 
stick together?"
"I suppose." Paks took another swallow from her mug, and prodded the remains of 
the tart. "It might be a reason not to trust diem fully, but—pardon me—why 
should I trust you?"
He gave her a suggestion of a wink. "Ah—I knew you knew more than you showed at 
first. That mountain traveling is enough to scramble anyone's wits. Now I don't 
have anything to say about their character—everyone knows how honest the 
Girdsmen are—at least to Girdsmen." When Paks didn't rise to this, he smiled a 
little and went on. "But you aren't Girdish. Or of this village. I don't think 
they d lie, exactly, but they might shade the truth. And if it came to your skin 
or theirs—-r*
"I s«e your point," said Paks quietly. "But you have still to answer mine."
"My dear," he began, as he drew his dagger and carefully trimmed his fingernails 
with it. "You should trust me only because it is ID your interest, as well as 
mine. I am neither Girdish nor a native here—therefore I am unlikely to 
sacrifice you for a brother's reputation or a friend's life. I don't expect you 
to trust me as you trusted your companions in Duke Phelan's Company—of course 
not. But I have no good reason to kill you—and several to keep you alive."
"And they are?" asked Paks curiously. She picked up the rest of her tart and ate 
it, waiting for his answer. His eyes narrowed. He resheathed his dagger.
"I told you before that our interests might march together. I think they do. 1 
wish the brigands no luck; I would be glad to see them dead. You need not know 
why. Obviously, no one official is going to encourage me to go after them—I'm 
not an experienced soldier, and thats what it takes. But if that is the charge 
they gave you, then I would be glad to assist. Perhaps to make sure it is done 
thoroughly.
"Have you a grudge against them?" asked Paks, honestly curious now. "Have they 
done you or your family an injury?"
"I will not tell you that at this time." Arvid turned a tittle, and signalled 
Hebbinford, who came over with a sharp glance for both of them. "Wine, sir, if 
you please." Paks shook her head, and the innkeeper moved away. "I perceive, 
lady, that you are of sufficient experience to have caution—but insufficient to 
recognize an honest offer. Nonetheless it stands. My word you would have no 
reason to trust—but I will tell you honestly that I will not kill you, and I 
will defend you within reason, if you accept me as one of your company. If you 
were wise enough to know what I am, you would know what that is worth."
Paks frowned, not liking the bantering tone or the subtle insults. It reminded 
her too much of Macenion, She looked up at him again. "If such a command is 
offered me, and if I accept you—what other suggestions would you have?"
His brows arched. "You ask much, with nothing given."
"I do? What of you—you ask my trust, with no evidence of your character. I have 
had such chances, sir, as make me distrust most strangers."
"But Girdsmen." His tone was sour. "Most soldiers have found Girdsmen to be 
honest, at the least, and usually brave as well. I don't know .your allegiance, 
either to gods or lords."
Arvid sighed. "I am a guild member in good standing. As such I obey my 
guildmaster, in Verella. It is an old guild, long established there—"
"What craft?" asked Paks.
He laughed. "What—do you think the Master Moneychanger here tells everyone when 
he travels what his guild affiliation is? Don't you know that some guilds bind 
their traveling members to secrecy? Do you want to bring down on me that very 
plague of thieves you think I represent?"
"No—" Paks flushed, confused.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have laughed. I understand your 
suspicion—and it does you credit. Any experienced adventurer is suspicious. But 
I cannot tell you my guild—at least not without asking—at this time. I cannot 
tell anyone here. I can only tell you what I have told you. In my judgement—and 
I am not without experience in the world myself—it is in both our interests to 
cooperate. I have an interest in those brigands—I want to see them removed. Does 
that sound like a thief or worse? You, I believe, have the Council's permission 
to mount an attack on them. And you could use someone at your back who has no 
reason to wish an honest witness dead. Sim-pose they are actually living in 
town—related to one of the Council members. Do you honestly think they!! thank 
you for capturing such as that? Let you take the risk, yes. Let you km and 
capture them, yes—perhaps. But let you Hve to take the credit, when it's their 
own? I doubt that much. If the brigands really are strangers, then you have no 
problem. But otherwise—"
Paks nodded slowly. She was not truly convinced, but she had worried that the 
spy the Council wanted her to find might turn out to be someone they liked. And, 
as well, they had asked her to involve the other adventurers in town if she 
could. Surely this Arvid Semminson was an adventurer.
From the hill west of the keep, the crooked path down the moat was clearly 
visible, as were die signs of age and decay: stones from the outer wall tumbled 
into the moat, leaving ragged gaps in the wall through which the battered 
interior could be seen. Paks, concealed behind a thick-leaved but prickly shrub, 
stared down at the broken walls and watted for die diversion Sir Felis had 
promised. She had ended up with a motley group: Mal and several other yeomen of 
Gird, including Doryan; the two traders she'd met some days before, who said 
they wanted to avenge the attack on the caravan; a servant of theirs whom they 
said was a good bowman; one of Eris's sons (a Falkian, Mal had reported sadly, 
but a good man), and Arvid. The sun rose higher, burning off the last of the 
mist from the moat and swamp around. Paks insisted that her group stay well back 
in cover, and refused to let them talk or light pipes. A subdued grumble 
followed these commands.
"Stands to reason," muttered the heavy-set bowman, "that if they could see us, 
we could see them. We can't see a thing, through these leaves. We could smoke, 
at least."
Paks shook her head fiercely. "Sun's in our eyes. They've got the better light. 
Think: how fer can you see a shepherd's breakfast firesmoke? There could be a 
dozen eyes looking out of that gap, from the shadow, and we'd never know it. Be 
still."
Someone cursed, but softly, and they rested as best they could in the positions 
Paks had chosen for them. The sun rose higher. Paks had to force herself to stay 
still. She wanted to walk back and forth, from post to post. Was this why the 
captains had so often walked the line before battle? She could hardly believe 
that she, the same old Paks, was commanding a group like this—a group of 
strangers.
She looked again at the keep, which seemed a different shape as the shadows 
shifted with the sun, and wondered if the magician who built it had, indeed, 
left a curse. A light wind sifted through the trees, shuffling the leaves and 
making the shadows dance. She wondered if the militia had left Brewersbridge on 
time. They were supposed to have left just enough time for her to get her group 
into position. It had been too long. She squinted at the sun, feeling the sweat 
spring out on her neck, chill as it was. She swallowed against the fear, and 
glared around at the others. Someone had shifted carelessly, and a rock 
clattered. She turned back to the keep. Nothing moved there but a cloud of 
midges over the moat, a shimmer in the sun.
At last she heard the rhythmic noise of marching men and horses. She eased 
forward to the edge of the wood, trying to see the north side of the keep, where 
the forest stood back a ways. The sound came louder, eddying in the uncertain 
wind. Now she could hear it distinctly. A movement in the distance caught her 
eye. A horn call swam through the air, mellow and long. She looked back at the 
keep. There: a flicker, quick as a lizard's tail, on the highest part of the 
ruin. The horn call came again, louder. She could hear a bellowed command from 
the oncoming force. She looked back at her group; they were all alert. Mal 
grinned at her, shifting his broad shoulders. She realized that he had moved 
forward, coming between her and the others. But she had no time to think of 
that.
The front of the captain's "show of force" was out of the trees now. She could 
not tell from this distance how many of them were illusion. Nor could she tell 
which was Zinthys. None of them wore die land of robes she had seen on him so 
far.
"There's one," said Mal, so softly she almost missed hearing it. Then she, too, 
saw the brown-clad man peering from a low gap in the keep wall. He passed 
through, carrying a plank and laid it on the edge of the moat. It extended to 
one of the fallen blocks farther out. He moved out onto the plank and at once 
another came, this one in a heavy mailed shirt, and dragging another plank. The 
second plank bridged the moat from the stone to the near shore. A third man 
appeared, carrying bows, and the three slipped across the bridge and spread to 
cover it. After a glance upslope, they concentrated on the corners of the keep.
Noise from the north side increased. Paks could not tell if it was a fight, or 
just noise. Suddenly a gout of flame rose up, and a thunderous boom echoed 
across the woods. Birds flew up screaming. The bowmen below did not flee, though 
one of them half stood, to be pulled back by the others. Another gout of flame, 
and another, followed. The noise was appalling, even though Zinthys had warned 
them. A deer broke cover and bounded through the woods, crashing and snorting. A 
hurrying file of men slipped from the gap and teetered across the bridge. Paks 
saw the glint of matt on most of them; they had their swords out, and bows slung 
to their backs. She counted as they came, hoping that Sir Felis's estimate was 
right.
She knew die last had come when the bowmen moved. The entire group—just over a 
score—started up the hill, as she had expected. The archers stayed in the rear, 
and two swordsmen took the lead, several strides ahead of the rest. Paks 
frowned. With that spread, some of them could escape, if they were quick. She 
thought they would be quick.
She turned to the stocky bowman. "Shoot low. Just in front of "em."
"Why?" But he complied. Two arrows thudded into the ground, and the two brigands 
in front slowed and peered up the slope.
"So they'll bunch up," said Paks. "As they are now." He gave her a quick look. 
"Hunh. That's quite a trick. Where d you learn—?" But they were all together 
now, and Paks called for another volley, from this man and the Girdish archers 
as well. Four of the brigands fell; Paks saw one of them struggle up and begin 
to crawl away along the slope. The others, furious and frightened, charged up 
the slope.
The bowmen shot as fast as they could, and seven more were hit before Paks led 
the others to break the charge. Some of them fell; others turned aside, limping, 
or jerked the arrows free and kept with the main group. She herself was in the 
lead, full of the same delight she often felt in battle. The sword she had 
carried since the elfane taig balanced easily in her hand. She met the first 
brigand with a sweeping blow that broke his sword at die hUt. He jerked out his 
dagger and thrust, but she was past him, the sword carving into another man's 
side. A blade she didn't see caught her in the ribs; she felt the blow, but 
rolled off it to take another brigand in the neck. She heard the yeomen of Gird 
call his name as they followed her. But compared to the battles she'd been in 
with the Duke's company, it was short and easy. Almost before she knew it, the 
clash of weapons ceased.
She looked around. Arvid Semminson was wiping the blade of his narrow sword; it 
was stained to die hilt. One of the merchants nursed a wounded arm; his bowman 
stood guard over him, dagger drawn. Mal had one brigand down, and was tying his 
arms; two of the other yeomen were guarding die remaining brigands who could 
stand. Ten of them were down, dead or dying of serious wounds. In the distance, 
Paks thought she saw two or three huddled forms limping away. None of her own 
force seemed badly hurt, barring die merchant. Paks walked over to look. He had 
a long, deep gash on the arm, but not a killing wound, though he seemed dazed. 
She hadn't expected much from him anyway.
"What now, Paks?" asked Mal. "Do we kill them, or take them back, or what?"
Paks glared at him, before she remembered the agreement. For an instant she had 
thought he might seriously mean to kill the prisoners. In that moment, the other 
merchant spoke.
"We ought to kill them."
"No." Paks shook her head for emphasis. "We'll take them to Sir Felis. He's the 
Count's representative."
"But they killed—"
"We've killed enough. How many do you want?" Paks turned away, and squatted 
beside Mals prisoner. She recognized the man who had led the others up the hill. 
He was bleeding from a cut on his head that had split the leather helm, and from 
a deep gash in one leg. "Better bandage that," she said to Mal, who nodded. She 
wiped the blood off her own sword and sheathed it. The prisoner watched her, 
dark eyes alert. He flinched when Mal touched his leg, then held still as it was 
bandaged. Paks said nothing, looking around at the others as she caught her 
breath. Then she met the prisoner's eyes.
"Your name?" she asked.
"Why should 1 tell you? We're just going to be killed—"
"Probably," said Paks. "Any reason why not?"
"Reasons!" His mouth worked and he spat blood. "Being poor's reason enough—that 
and going looking for work. That'll get you killed, that will—going along, 
trying to find a place, and nothing—nothing." He twisted his neck, wincing, to 
look around.
Paks felt an obscure sympathy she had not expected with this weatherworn robber. 
He did not look as if he'd enjoyed his life. For that matter, he didn't look as 
if he'd profited by it. "How many of you were there?"
"They're the lucky ones," he said sourly. "Dead and over with. Gods above, what 
chance did we have—"
"Chance?" rumbled Mal, coming back to confront him. "About the chance you gave 
Ens at her form, I suppose. Poor, eh? You think we're all rich?"
The prisoner closed his eyes briefly. "I don't—dammit, man, I never thought to 
be a robber. Not back when I—I had land once myself. A few cattle, enough. If I 
hadn't come here—"
"What about *hereT' asked Arvid, who had come up softly behind Paks. "What's so 
special here?"
"I—" The man seemed to choke, shook his head, and said no more. Paks pushed 
herself up. All of her group could travel as they were; of the brigands, four 
that might live could not walk. Those whose wounds were mortal she despatched 
herself, not trusting the others to give a clean deathstroke. But she told the 
others to gather the weaponry, such as it was: she had always hated stripping 
die bodies, and had avoided it most of the time. She had the yeomen supervise 
the prisoners in making litters for those who could not walk.
"Paks, what about those that got away?" Mal swung his bloody axe slowly in his 
hand.
"Well have to track them. They're all wowided." Paks sighed. "I don't know how 
many—"
"I thought four or five. There's a couple down there still—" he jerked his head 
toward the slope. "I'd better go—"
"No. You stay here—I'll take Doryan. You don't need him here." Paks started to 
protest, but thought better of it. She was sure Mal was trustworthy.
He had just started down the hill when five horsemen broke from the woods on die 
south side of the keep. Paks saw a flurry of motion in the bushes near them, and 
then four of the horsemen charged, driving out the remnant of tie robbers. That 
was over in a few seconds. Zinthys rode across the slope to greet her.
"Well done, Lady Paksenarrion," he said cheerfully. "Sir Felis will be pleased."
"You too. Tliat was a real show, that—" Paks stopped short, wondering if she 
should reveal his work as illusion. Zinthys grinned at her confusion, and spoke 
up.
"Most people find a fireblast alarming," he said casually. "I sent the rest of 
the troops back when we found the main keep empty—you seemed to have everything 
well in hand back here.'
Paks wondered what he would have said if she'd blurted out the truth, but merely 
smiled. "I'm glad you thought to send a few around back for the stragglers."
"Oh, of course. I see you have quite a few prisoners—how about transport?"
"If you could have someone send a cart or wagon out from town—and Master 
Travannen is wounded. It would be better for him to ride—"
"Certainly. Why don't I see to moving your mounts back along the road—then you 
can come out the way we came in. It's easier traveling."
"Fine." Paks looked around. The prisoners had rough litters ready, covered with 
their cloaks. They loaded the wounded and prepared to march out. Zinthys rode 
off with a wave of his hand; the soldiers from Sir Felis's command joined her, 
flanking the party. One of them offered his horse.
"No, thank you," said Paks. "I'll walk to the road." He shrugged and moved back 
into position. She wondered if she should have taken his offer.
"I wonder," said Arvid quietly at her side, "that you are unhurt. Didn't you 
know that a sword broke on your armor?"
Paks thought back to the fight—ft hardly deserved the name of battle. "I 
don't—oh—I remember a blow in the side—"
"Yes. 1 was just behind you then. It was a fair blow, and die man was as heavy 
as you, or more. I thought you'd get a broken rib out of it, at the least."
Paks took a deep breath, feeling nothing. "No," she said. "It must have caught 
at an angle."
Arvid shook his head. "I saw it. Either you're a good bit tougher than I 
thought—which is unlikely—or your armor has great virtue. Where did you get it?"
.Paks gave him a straight look. "I found it," she said. "In a ruin."
"Hmm. That's a good sword, too."
"Yes." Paks looked around. Everything seemed to be secure. Mal was moving up 
beside her. He had wiped the axe blade on something; it was clean.
"The others are dead," he said. "Too bad hurt to make it; the riders trampled 
some of 'em. I did it quick." He looked past Paks at Arvid. "You fight good, for 
a city man."
Arvid laughed easily. "Do you think all soldiers begin in a fermyardr
Mal'sforehead creased. "Nay, not that, sir. But the ones I know all did, and the 
city men I know are mostly merchants. This lady, now, says she comes from a 
fernr Isn't that so?"
Paks nodded.
"Many good things come from cities," said Arvid.
"Oh, I didn't mean any different. I know that Fine clothes, and jewels, and 
that. But there's more thieves in cities, too. My brother always said that 
wealth draws thieves like honey draws bees."
"I suppose." Arvid didn't sound interested; he turned to Paks. "What are you 
going to do now?"
Paks shrugged. "First things first. Get the prisoners to Sir Felis. Then he can 
find out how they've been operating, and if they've had contacts in town.'
Chapter Fifteen
Sir Felis met the party coming into town. Ambros was with him, as were several 
other yeomen. Some of the townspeople cheered; Paks felt her foce redden. She 
was glad she had the black horse; at least she didn't have to look up at Sir 
Felis.
"You've done well," he said, after a quick look at the group. "None of your men 
killed—or even badly hurt—"
"My arm—" began the merchant. Sir Felis gave Paks a quick look of amusement, 
soldier to soldier, before speaking to the man.
"I'm sorry, sir; I didn't see. The surgeon has been alerted; he's at the inn."
"God. It was a terrible fight—"
Paks saw one of Sir Felis's men roll his eyes. She choked down a laugh. Her 
knees felt shaky. In the stir around them, the black horse began to fidget. She 
met Ambros's gaze.
"How was it?" he asked.
"Went well." She worked the black horse over to the side of the road near him. 
"They all came out the bolthole, just as we thought. Your yeomen are good 
fighters—steady."
Ambros smiled. "I know. The Marshal's trained them well. I'm glad they were 
willing to go with you."
"What now?"
"Well—Sir Felis will take them to the keep. I suppose he'll ask you along. The 
Council's heard; of course they're happy about it. Do you think you got them 
all?"
"Twenty-one came out; we left eleven dead and have ten prisoners. Unless some 
stayed in the keep—and I wouldn't have, with what Zinthys did." Mindful of 
spies, Paks did not elaborate on that.
"They don't—they don't look so bad," said Ambros though tfully.
"Who, the brigands?"
"Yes. I thought—"
Paks glanced at him. "They'd all look like ores?"
He flushed. "I know I don't have your experience—"
"Don't be silly. I didn't mean that." Paks found herself annoyed with his 
sensitivity. "I was surprised myself, if you want to know. The only brigands I'd 
seen, in Aarenis, looked as vicious as they were. These men look like any poor 
farmer or soldier. The leader—that one in the litter there—he said something 
about not wanting to be a robber—"
"Eh, once he's caught, what'd you expect him to say?" The uninjured merchant had 
pressed close to Paks's side. "He's not likely to admit he's been a thief from 
birth."
"He hasn't been," said Arvid, with a certainty that made Paks wonder.
"How do you know?"
"Lady, I, like Master Zinthys, prefer not to reveal all the sources of my 
knowledge. But I will tell you that had he been a thief from birth, he would not 
have been in that keep."
"But how do you know?" Both Paks and Ambros stared at Arvid. He smiled, bowed, 
and passed on toward the inn.
"That one," muttered the merchant, idly putting his hand on the black horse's 
neck. It jerked aside; by the time Pales had it calm again, the merchant and 
most of the group had passed. Sir Felis beckoned; Paks moved the black horse 
beside his at the tail of the procession.
"Come on out with me to the keep, will you?" he asked. "Yd like to hear what 
happened. My cook should have something ready, too."
Paks nodded. She realized that Sir Felis might want her to be present when he 
questioned the prisoners. She wondered what the customs were.
"And you, too, yeoman marshal, if your duties permit," said Sir Fetis smoothly. 
"Since die Marshal is not here, I would hire a representative from the grange to 
be present"
Tne granges honor, Sir Felis," said Ambros. "May I ask how long this might take? 
It is customary for die yeoman of Gird to give thanks in the grange for the 
success of such a mission; I would like to tell them when—"
Sir Felis pursed his lips. "I am not certain, yeoman-marshal, but surely by 
dark. These men do not look so desperate as I thought."
Paks had feared that Sir Felis might, like Alured the Black of Aarenis, torture 
his prisoners; he did not need to. By the time Sir FeUs, trailed by Paks and 
Ambros, came down the stairs to question them, the brigand leader had decided to 
tell what he knew.
"We was all honest men once, sir," he said weakly. "I was a farmer, myself. Some 
of the others was trade or craft, but most was fanners. But that bad drought 
three years ago, in Verrakai lands—that's what drove me out. The taxes—and then 
no grass, and the cows dying—so my lord Verrakai put me out, and I went 
wandering. No one had honest work, sir, and that's the truth of it." He closed 
his eyes a moment; Paks looked around at the other brigands. The wounded lay 
quietly; the rest squatted against the dungeon wall, heads down. "I suppose Elam 
and I were the first," the man went on after a long pause. "He and I'd known 
each other back home—we traveled together. We come on this place in a 
storms-went in to get dry—and then—seems we couldn't leave."
"What stopped you?" asked Ambros.
"I don't know. Something. It—it called, like. We stayed there a couple of 
days—shot a bird for food, Elam was a good bowman. I stuck one of those things 
in the moat, but we couldn't eat that."
"What thing?" asked Sir Felis.
"You know. One of them—big things, like a frog only near man-sized. Smell 
rotten. They have teeth, too. Anyway we stayed there. Took a goose from a farm 
nearby—I d asked for work, and they drove us off. Called us robbers, they did, 
and we hadn't robbed before that. Made me mad." He stopped again, and rubbed his 
nose. "Elam wanted to go on somewheres else, but when we got an hour or so away, 
we both got the cramps bad. Had to come back. Then the others came." He nodded 
toward the other men. "One or two at a time, every week or so. Soon we'd hunted 
out all the woods around. If we took from the farms—well, most of us had farmed. 
We didn't want to."
"So then he said take caravans," put in one of the others, leaning back against 
the wall and tilting his head up to look at Sir Felis. "He says what's a caravan 
to you—them merchants are all rich, and what has rich done for you? That's what 
he says. Steal from caravans, and get rich yourself." The man spat. "Rich! Heh! 
All we ever see's enough to eat, and that not all the time. A few coppers now 
and then—a new cloak—that's all."
"You shouldn't talk about him," said the first robber, pushing himself up. "It's 
bad luck. Hell—"
"He can't do much here," said the other. "Teriam, think! It's listening to him 
has got us here—in jail, when we were born honest men. Robbers, we are, and it's 
him as profits by it."
"But you know what he said. He can reach us anywheres—that's why we couldn't 
leave. He could touch us here—right now—and—"
"And what? Kill us deader than they will, when they're through talking?" The man 
gave Sir Felis a bitter grin. "Tell you the truth, sir, if you can kill that 
devil, you'll do yourself more good than killing us. And III be glad of it."
Paks saw that some of the other brigands seemed very frightened, but they said 
nothing. The leader had fallen back, and now lay silent with eyes closed and jaw 
clenched.
"Who is this man that ordered you to rob?" asked Sir Felis. "Was he captured or 
lolled?*
"Not him," said the spokesman angrily. "Not him. He's got his own place, safe 
and deep, and all we know's his orders. I don't know his name, sir, or who or 
what he is—and I'm not sure he's a man, even. Teriam knows, I think—" he glanced 
at the leader.
"I don't." It came out as a harsh whisper. "I swear I don't know—I never seen 
him but the one time, and after that I couldn't—I couldn't—" He gripped his 
head, rocking back and forth. "He—he had black robes, that's all, and some land 
of—of dung on a chain—it—like a hand spread out, only it had too many fingers—*
Paks felt, rather than saw, Ambros stiffen beside her. "Gird's arm!" he said 
softly. Then more loudly, "Lite a spider, maybe?"
The man's head turned towards him. "It—it might be—tf—NO!" He began to flail 
about on the straw. "No! Don't let him—not here—I"
Sir FeMs swore, a soldier's curse Paks had heard many tunes. She could see 
nothing but the frightened man, waving his hands at nothing and trying to flee 
something no one could see. Ambros moved forward before the others shook off 
their surprise, and caught his arm.
"Be still, man—Tenant's your name? Be still; Gird will ward you from that evil."
"No one can—he said he could—"
"Gird's grace on you, Teriam. Gird Strongarm totfl ward you; give him a chance."
"You-you're a Marshal? Of Gird?"
"I'm the yeoman-marshal of this grange," said Ambros. "I am sworn to Gird's 
service, and Known to him. I give you my word that I place your name before 
Gird."
"Please—** the man's eyes were open now, and fastened on Ambros. "Please, 
sir—I'm not afraid to die—just not that filth, please sir—"
Ambros freed one hand and held out his medallion. Teriam touched it with the 
tips of his fingers. "You have been spelled by some evil, is that not so?* asked 
Ambros. "You fear that it will take your soul?"
Teriam nodded. "He said—he said he could do that. Wherever we tried to run, 
whatever we did—he would find us, and see us in—" He stopped, and lowered his 
voice. Paks could not hear what he said to Ambros, but she saw the sudden twitch 
of Ambros's shoulders.
"Well, and do you believe that the High Lord and Gird are stronger than that 
one?"
"I—I know I should, sir, but I'm feared—I'm feared they won't be for me—"
Ambros looked around at the other robbers. "And you? What do you think of the 
power of that evil one, when you are here? Do you think the High Lord is 
weaker?"
Some shook their heads; some simply stared. The man who had spoken so boldly 
before pushed himself to his feet. "Sir—yeoman-marshal—I was a yeoman of Gird 
once. Not a good one, you'll say, and I won't argue that. I never thought to 
find myself bound by such evil—just a drover like me. I don't know what that 
black-cape can do, but I will say the High Lord is right, if he kills me for 
it." Ambros gave him a bleak smile. "Yeoman of Gird, you must face the Count's 
judgement, but the High Lord knows his own servants."
The man's face lighted. "I swear, yeoman-marshal, that it was not fear of the 
Count's court that kept me there. Whatever the grange-court demands—"
"Gird will have somewhat to say in that, yeoman."
"Aye, yeoman-marshal." He turned to Sir Felis. "Sir, if you will, if the court 
demands my life, permit the grange to report the death of a yeoman." Sir Felis 
looked at Ambros, brows raised. Ambros nodded.
"The Marshal would say the same, Sir Felis. A yeoman may be spelled into evil 
deeds; I judge it was so with him, and perhaps with some others. The punishment 
must fall, but their names remain on the grange rolls. Only those who willingly 
serve evil, and refuse to repent, are cast out."
"He won't tell you," said Teriam softly, "but I will. He tried to get away more 
than once—we kept him until the curse softened him."
"I pray the High Lord's mercy on you, Teriam, for your deeds and your 
confessions."
Back upstairs, in Sir Felis's conference room, Ambros reddened under their gaze. 
Zinthys was studiously ignoring the others, setting wine to heat on the hearth. 
Sir Felis simply watched Ambros, his weathered face fixed in a neutral 
expression. Paks tried to see, behind that youth and inexperience, the power he 
had seemed to have with the prisoners.
"Well," said Sir Felis suddenly, as if he'd made a decision. He looked at Paks. 
"I say again, Paksenarrion, that you did very well. Very well indeed. I am not 
now surprised that your Duke recommended you for advanced training. I do not 
think many novice commanders could have taken over a score with a dozen, and had 
no casualties."
"I could not, without Master Zinthys's help," said Paks. "And your soldiers 
caught the stragglers."
"Even so," said Sir Felis. He looked her up and down. "And you, yourself, have 
no injury? I see your tunic "is slashed."
"No, sir," said Paks. "I wear armor, of course."
"Hmmph. Yes. Well, then, I think we'd better have a formal report to the 
Council—you know the sort of thing—I’ll speak to the mayor, and I expect we'll 
meet tonight. You'll be summoned. Yeoman-marshal—" Sir Felis turned to Ambros.
"Yes, Sir Felis?"
"Since some of the prisoners claim to be yeomen, I will delay trial until the 
Marshal returns."
"Thank you, Sir Felis."
"I will not promise that it will make any difference—**
"Of course not, Sir Felis. The grange understands that."
"Good. I'll see you later, then—will you be at Council in the Marshal's place?"
"Yes, Sir Felis."
"Good. Paksenarrion, do you wish to make your own reckoning of the arms 
recovered?"
"No, sir." Paks saw no reason to distrust Sir Felis's count.
"Then I’ll see you later. If you'll excuse me—" He shrugged into his heavy 
cloak.
"Certainly, sir." Paks and Ambros followed Sir Felis down the winding stairs and 
out to a sunny afternoon. A soldier brought their horses forward; Sir Felis was 
already mounted and riding off.
They were almost back to the Jolly Potboy when Ambros turned to Paks. "Can I 
have a talk with you?"
"Me?" Paks had been thinking about the report she would have to give to the 
Council; she dreaded it. "Of course—but what about?"
"Come on to the grange; I don't want to talk about it here."
Paks sighed. She had been up since long before dawn, and she had looked forward 
to a not bath. She had not had time for more than a brief handwash before the 
simple lunch Sir Felis had served. But Ambros looked so concerned that she 
nodded finally and turned the black horse away from the inn.
"I should have thought—" Ambros said quietly, nodding to a child in the street. 
"You're tired, aren'tyou?"
"I'm dirty and stiff as much as tired. And don't you still have to do whatever 
ceremony you were talking about?"
"Oh—yes. I'd forgotten, Curd forgive my thick head. Blast. But you'll want to 
see that, even you aren't Girdish. The Marshal would want you to be there."
"All right." Paks wished he'd get to the point. She saw Sir Felis's horse and 
escort outside the Brewmaster's gate as they passed.
Once at the grange, Ambros took charge quickly. "Ill rub down the black, and put 
him up—with the Marshal away, we have plenty of space. You can wash up if you 
want—there's plenty of water in the scullery—and if you need any bandages or 
anything—"
"No," said Paks, abandoning the idea of a good soaking bath. "Just to get this 
dust off—" She took off her helmet and sluiced her head as Ambros led horses 
away. The cold water woke her up; she wiped her neck with a wet cloth and had 
most of the grime off her hands and arms before Ambros returned.
"Now," he said, leading the way into the grange proper. "I expect the other 
yeomen will be here soon—they saw us ride by. What I want to know is whether 
you'll come with me when I go to seek that blackweb priest."
"What?" Paks was completely confused.
"Didn't you hear him? There's a blackweb—a priest of Achrya—somewhere in that 
keep. I've got to go and—"
"Wait—Ambros, didn't the Marshal tell you not to go after the brigands?"
"The brigands, yes. And I didn't. This is different. A true evil, Paks—something 
like this—I can't let it alone."
"But, Ambros, you're not a Marhsal. Can you fight such a thing? Wouldn't it be 
better to wait for the Marshal to come back? He said to stay with the grange."
Ambros shook his head. "What if he moved? Now we know where he is—the center of 
evil for this whole area:—and it's my responsibility."
"What about your dream?"
"That's just it." Ambros looked sober but determined. "Paks, such a dream could 
be an evil sending—to keep me from doing what I should. If I don't try—for fear 
of dying—what kind of Girdsmen am I?"
"It could be a warning from Gird, couldn't it?"
"Yes—but I can't tell."
"Then I think you should wait." Paks stuck her hands in her sword belt. "Ambros, 
you don't know anything about what's there except what a robber said. How do you 
know he's telling the truth? Even if he is, you don't know enough. A priest of 
Achrya—very good so for. But alone? With other troops? Human or other?"
Ambros had been pacing back and forth; he stopped. "I—see. I hadn't thought of 
that. It's your experience, I suppose."
"Not just that. I would go with you—but you said, the other day, that you had to 
obey the Marshal."
"I have to obey Gird. Ordinarily that means the Marshal, but—" He stopped as the 
yeomen who had been with Paks that morning came into the grange. Paks noticed 
that none of them had changed from their blood-stained clothing; she wondered 
why. Mal winked at her, as they all came to the platform. Ambros dimbed onto it
What followed seemed strange to Paks. He called on each one to give an account 
for his own actions. After each recital, Ambros crossed his blade with the man's 
weapon. When it came to Mal, the big man grinned as Ambros's sword tapped his 
axe blade. Then Ambros inspected all the weapons, and supervised their return to 
the grange racks—for only Mal had carried his own. After that, they all repaired 
to the inn for a round of ale.
Here die others who had been involved joined diem. Paks slipped upstairs for a 
hath and change of clothes. She put on me new clothes, enjoying the feel of good 
cloth. It was hard to believe that she'd been in a battle that morning—she 
thought back to the Duke's Company, and laughed to herself. Very different 
indeed. No Company chores, no guard duty at night. And the others had fought 
well. Perhaps she could get used to having strange companions at ner side—or 
none. Even so, she slipped die mail shirt back on and pulled her best leather 
tunic over it.
She opened the door to find a girl leaning on die wall opposite. Paks recognized 
her as one of die junior yeoman. The girl stood away from the wall as Paks came 
out.
"Please—lady—could I speak to you?" pfes," said Paks. "What is it?"
"You're a fighter, aren't you? I mean—I know you are, but isn't that—I mean, 
don't you make your living that way?" Ail this in a rush.
"Yes," said Paks, trying not to laugh. "Why?"
"Well—" The girl looked down, then back at Pafcs. She was as tall, Paks 
realized, and nearly as broad-shouldered. "I want to be a fighter, too," she 
said finally. "I—they laugh at me here, the people in town. I want to show 
them—the Marshal says I'm good—"
"Umm." Paks looted at her wrists. They were strong, already marked with training 
scars. "Well, I can tell you it's possible.! did ft. But—"
"I know—I know. They say—those who saw you fight today—they say you're good. The 
senior yeomen told us, too, after they'd drilled with you. I know I can do it, 
too. But will you let me?"
"Let you? How do you mean?"
"I want to—to train with you. Like a—a squire, or something."
"But I'm not a knight." Paks stared at her, bewildered. "I don't need a squire—"
"I’ll earn my way," the girl went on, heedless. "I swear I will. I'm a hard 
worker, and I’ll do anything you say, if you'll let me fight beside you."
"Listen—" began Paks, then stopped. She remembered too well how much she had 
wanted what she now had. What could someone have said to her, at that age? "I 
don't even know your name."
"Suli."
"Suli, it's not that easy—I don't know what I'll be doing next—"
"You're not going to quit fighting!"
"No. But I don'tknow when—or what—yet. T don't even know what training you've 
got. What if you can't—"
"You could talk to the Marshal—or even Ambros. They know me. Please, Lady 
Paks—I'll do exactly what you say. I can groom your horse, and take care of 
things—'
"If you want to learn to fight, Suli, why don't you join a mercenary company? 
The Halverics recruit around here, don't they?"
Suli shook her head. "I've heard about that—all marching and drill, and the same 
old thing day after day. I could do that here—just drilling with the yeomen. I 
want—" she looked down the passage as if across a field. "I want excitement. 
Battles. Travel. Like you've had."
Paks grinned. "Suli, I started as a mercenary. Gods above, I had as much travel 
and excitement as I could take. It's the best training—I swear it."
Suli shook her head again. "And you left. Why should I do it at all, when it's 
not what I want in the end? Please, please let me fight with you. If you don't 
Wee me, after a while, then you can send me away. But give me a chance." Her 
eyes held a look that Paks could not name—she was flattered and disturbed at 
once.
'Til think about it." Paks started down the passage; Suli was at her shoulder. 
She started to speak, but Paks held up her hand. "No, I didn't say yes. What 
does your family mink about mis?" She could hardly believe she had asked that. 
She, who knew only too well what families thought.
Suli scowled, "My family—they don't get along here. My dad's a trapper. He does 
a bit of day work in the tanner's sometimes. He's gone mostly, expects me to 
take care of everything. But my brothers—they're old enough to work, and all 
that. I don't care what he minks."
"Mmm." Paks turned to the stairs. "My father didn't want me to leave either."
"You see? I said we were alike. Please—"
"Enough, Suli. I said I'd think about it." Paks could see the others still 
clustered around two tables pulled together. Arvid and one of the yeomen were 
arm wrestling. Mal looked up and waved to her; she came to the table, aware of 
Suli watching her back.
"We were wondering if you'd decided to leave us for good," said Mal.
"No. Suli wanted to talk to me."
"Oh." Mal and several of the others exchanged glances. "Is she bothering you?"
"Bothering me? No. She has an exalted idea of my achievements." Paks snatched 
the top of a pile of fried cakes a serving girl put in front of Mal. "Good luck 
for you," she reminded him; the others roared.
"By Gird's arm, you're quick," said Mal, slightly redder man usual. "I never had 
anyone turn that trick back on me."
Paks smiled with her mouth full. A tankard appeared in front of her. She picked 
it up and took a sip.
"Seriously," began Ambros, "if Suli pesters you too much, I’ll speak to her."
"I should speak to you, rather. She wants to train with me—and work with me. As 
a squire, she said—but you know I'm not a knight, what would I do with a squirer
"As for that, you know much more man she (foes. She fights well, for the little 
training she's had—but she's got no more experience in actual fights than I 
have."
"Not exactly," said Mal. "She's been in somej-ows."
"Brawls," said Ambros. "That's not the same."
"No, I know that. She's an interesting girl, though." Mal took a long pull at 
his tankard; one of the other men shook his head. 'Seriously—she's one of the 
best of the junior yeomen."
"As for as fighting goes—but fighting's not all of it," said Ambros.
"Well, it's the most important part, isn't it? For Girdsmen, anyway. You know 
shes not happy here, Ambros—not since Deordtya left. She wants—
"She wants excitement and glory," said Ambros tartly. "She's more apt to get a 
broken head. Or don't you agree, Paks?"
Paks nodded slowly. "I told her she should join a mercenary company for more 
training. I haven't seen her fight; I don't know what she can do. Still, I can 
understand—I couldn't wait to get away from home. If someone like me had come 
through Three Firs, I'd have walked on fire to talk to her."
"I can't recommend her exactly," said Ambros, looking at his hands, "but I think 
she'd be honest and loyal. If you want someone—"
"I hadn't thought about it." Paks took another fried cake off Mal's platter. She 
wondered what it would be like to have a squire. The Duke had squires—she tried 
to imagine herself coming down that trail from the ruined wall, and someone like 
Suli throwing herself between an enemy and her own shield. It didn't seem right. 
She was not a knight; she had never been a squire herself; she didn't know what 
a squire should do, or now to teach it.
"Many free swords travel in pairs or trios," said Mal. "Then they have someone 
they can trust." He leaned back to let the other yeomen past—they nodded to Paks 
and Ambros, and went out.
"Sometimes." Ambros shook his head. "Not always. But if you wanted to hire her, 
Paks, go ahead. I don't think you'd do her any harm, and though she's a little 
wild, she'll serve you honestly."
"Is she a Girdsman?"
"Well—not exactly. She's not old enough for the final oaths, and her family 
isn't Girdish. She's sworn to die local grange only. Of course I'd rather she 
found a Girdish patron—"
"I wondered about that."
"But you seem honest enough yourself. Master Cedfer hopes you'll end up a yeoman 
of Gird." 1 might," said Paks thoughtfully.
"If it's permitted to answer," broke in Arvid, "I'd like to know if you found 
how those robbers were fencing their spoils."
"Fencing—?" Paks didn't know the term. Ambros did, and looked sharply at Arvid.
"He means, Paks, selling stolen goods somewhere—thieves call that fencing them."
Arvid smiled. "So do others, young sir—I see that you know the term."
Ambros scowled. "Indeed—honest men must learn thieves' speech or lose by it. But 
to answer your question, as much as I may—no, we didn't find out where the goods 
are being sent, or how."
"I told Paks, yeoman-marshal, that I did not believe those men had been thieves 
for long." Arvid sipped his ale, and went on. "I know you are suspicious of 
me—but that is the truth. And if I'm right, then someone else is running 
them—taking the stolen goods, fencing them—and that person, not those poor men, 
is the dangerous one. Until that person is caught, these attacks will continue." 
Paks saw a gleam of interest in Mal's eyes, but he was apparently relaxed and 
half-asleep, leaning on the wall.
Ambros was clearly interested. "How, if Paks has killed or captured all the 
active robbers?"
Arvid snorted. "How hard is it to fool poor men? How were those men trapped into 
thievery? As long as the world holds men whose arms are stronger than their wits 
or will, just so long will subtle men find simple ones to risk and die for 
them." Paks thought that could have more application than Arvid intended; she 
glanced at him and met a sardonic glint that set her mind on edge. Ambros missed 
it.
"I think, sir," he said quietly, "that you and I—and Paks, perhaps—should have a 
quiet word together."
"I mink mat indeed, young sir. Yet I would not have it noticed—for I am 
convinced that someone in this town is telling dangerous tales."
"You may be right."
"I am," said Arvid with calm authority. "We must meet—and we must meet quietly."
Mal sat forward. "Isn't that the way to be noticed, sir, in this town?"
Arvid glanced at him. "You would know, I expect."
Mal grinned broadly. "Oh yes… I would know. And if you're speaking to our 
yeoman-marshal, I guess I'd like to be there."
"Mall"
"No oflense, yeoman-marshal, but I've seen his sword-work, remember? You know I 
can keep quiet."
Arvid smiled the same charming smile at Mal. Paks noticed mat Mal simply 
absorbed it, without changing expression—-he looked very much tike a stupid 
country lout. "That's fine with me, sir. I am not intending assassination of 
your yeoman-marshal—or corruption, eitner-^-and you are welcome to watch me as 
closely as you wish."
The Council meeting that evening was straightforward. Paks, seconded by Mal, 
gave her account of the attack. Sir Felis reported his interview with the 
captured robbers, and turned over a list of the captured arms and other 
valuables. Paks was asked why she had not entered and explored the keep, but 
accepted her explanation without surprise or comment. Even the Master Stonemason 
seemed content. They argued a bit over the arms, and finally awarded her a third 
of their value. Hebbinford recommended mat the black horse be given to her 
outright, and after some discussion it was done. No one mentioned the 
master-thief that Ambros, Arvid, and even Sir Fells believed to be still lurking 
in the ruins.
Afterwards, Ambros, Paks, Mal, Sir Felis, and Arvid all gathered at the grange. 
Arvid lagged behind them, and when they were all sitting down in the chairs 
Ambros fetched from the Marshal's study, he lounged against the door.
"I have endured quite a bit of your suspicion," he said calmly. "I think perham 
I should tell you precisely what I'm doing here—though I should prefer mat you 
don't tell everyone else."
"Why not?" asked Sir Felis, looking grim.
"Because I can be a great help to you," said Arvid. "If you choose to spread my 
feme too widely, I'll simply leave."
"Well, then?"
Arvid looked pointedly at Ambros. "The yeoman-marshal is the one I'd like to 
speak to. Will you, young sir, swear to say nothing of my guild or mission?"
"I—I don't know." His hand was on his medallion. "If you're evil—"
"Evil!" Arvid laughed. "Sir, I am not what you would call good, but I serve no 
evil deity—that I will swear, and on your Relic, if you demand it." He looked at 
Paks. "I am no more evil than this warrior—she is not Girdish, nor am I, but we 
have both spilled robbers' blood today alongside your yeomen."
Ambros flushed. "I will keep your secrets, sir, as long as they do not dishonor 
Gird. But as to that, I will be the judge."
"Fair enough. I trust the honor of the Fellowship of Gird." Arvid glanced 
around, gathering all their eyes on him. "Now: some of you—and many others—have 
thought I was a thief. I am not. I am, 'however, acquainted with die Thieves 
Guild." He paused, and the silence thickened. "I am, in fact, on a mission for 
them at this time."
"And you ask me, a yeoman-marshal of Gird, to keep silence?" Ambros jumped up. 
Arvid's hand rested on his sword.
"Wait, sir. Hear me out. Your own yeomen will tell you I was happy enough to 
attack robbers this morning; I am no thief myself. The situation is more 
complicated than that." He waited until Ambros was seated again, and then pulled 
a chair near the door for himself. "Now, be attentive. The Thieves Guild, 
however little you like its craft, is hke any guild designed to keep the 
craftsman in order. As for as its power runs, and that is far, it controls not 
merely the theft but also the sale of stolen goods. Some time ago, the Guild 
Headquarters in Verella realized that caravans were being robbed near here—and 
their goods appeared distantly, sold without Guild authority. Or taxation." He 
looked around to be sure they were all listening. "Yon see the problem. It could 
not be permitted to continue. A renegade thief is a danger not only to you, but 
to other thieves. The Guild Council determined to find out who was responsible. 
They sent—investigators, I suppose you could call them. Your amiable Marshal, 
young sir, being a most diligent worker for good, caught one and scared another 
two out of town. Yet another disappeared entirely. So at last," he smiled at 
them all, "they sent me."
"And you are?" asked Sir Felis in a low growl.
"I am, as I said, Arvid Semminson. A man hired to find the false thief in charge 
of this operation, and either force him into the Guild, with full payment of 
dues and fines owed, or kill him."
"But you're not a thief."
"Oh, no. Never. Or at least, let's say that I am not presently in need of 
anything which it would be worth my while to steal. And I have no joy in theft, 
as some of our weaker members have. I have stolen a few items in my time—I 
suppose most people have—but does it mate this lady a thief that she stole a ham 
in Aarenis while in flight from Siniava?"
Paks was amazed that he knew about that—then remembered that she had mentioned 
"uncle's" establishment to the Marshal and Ambros. The others looked at her for 
a moment, a little confused by the change of emphasis.
Of course not," barked Sir Felis. "But—"
"What I am saying, Sir Felis, is that I want this ringleader dead as much, if 
not more, than you do. It was obvious at once to me that the robbers we captured 
were not in charge. They had not been fencing caravans of goods anywhere—they 
were poorly dressed and dull of wit. Whoever has been running this operation is 
not stupid. So we all have an enemy still at large—an enemy, moreover, who knows 
that we know where he's hiding—and who is responsible for his defeat. 1 think 
he's powerful, and probably either a magician or something worse—he probably 
spelled those poor men to keep them in his power.'
"How would you know about that?"
"Please—I am a man of experience in the world. All kinds of experience. Why 
should I not know of wizardry, and the greed of those who live by it? And, for 
that matter, something of the evil ones, as well. I judge we must move quickly 
against the ringleader, before he can gather new forces. I can help you—I am a 
skilled fighter, and I have other skills that you will find helpful. Underground 
in that old keep, for instance, you would find me a good tracker, and wary of 
traps. If you choose to let him go, you will shortly find that he is more 
powerful and dangerous—even deadly—to this whole community."
"I thought of that," said Ambros suddenly. "I was telling Paks—if it's a priest 
of Achrya, say, then we must move quickly. Every day may be important."
"Well, we can't do anything until the Marshal comes back," said Sir Felis. "You 
can't hope to go against anything like that by yourself, Ambros."
"I don't know when hell be back, Sir Felis. He said I wasn't to go chasing 
robbers, that's true—but this is different"
"I don't see that. Orders are orders."
Ambros sat up straight. "Sir Felis, with all respect, my orders come from Gird, 
as well as Marshal Cedfer."
Paks saw a gleam of satisfaction in Arvid's eyes. Sir Felis shook his head 
stubbornly.
"It wouldn't be the first time a junior officer thought he had divine guidance 
when he was simply aching for an adventure. I tell you, Ambros, that you're a 
fool if you tackle Achrya with a thief and a mercenary for aid." He gave Paks a 
hard look. "Assuming you're thinking of going with him. I think you're honest, 
but—"
Paks felt a burst of anger. "Sir Felis, if you have cause for that—"
"No. All right, I'll admit you've done well so far—I said it earlier. But you're 
all young, and like any young fighters, you've got the sense of a clatter of 
colts. Wait for the Marshal, Ambros. Don't drag others into your romantic 
dream." Sir Felis pushed himself up and made for the door, pausing beside Arvid. 
"And you, master thief-not-a-thief, if you push that boy into rash action, I'll 
not forget who started it."
"Sir Felis," said Arvid coolly, Til "not forget who was unwilling to root out 
the deepest evil." He moved aside from the door, as Sir Felis spat where his 
feet had been and went out.
Chapter Sixteen
Arvid's black-clothed form seemed to melt into the shadows as they moved farther 
away from the stairway, where a dim light came from above. Paks felt a tightness 
in her chest. Slie did not like dark underground places, and wondered for a 
moment why she had agreed to come. Ambros nudged her in the back. She waved a 
hand at him, and took another careful step. Another. Surely it was ridiculous to 
come on something like this with only six, one of them an untried junior yeoman, 
an eager girt who would be all too likely to do something silly trying to prove 
herself. Arvid signalled, a wave of his arm, and Paks moved lightly toward him. 
He was the scout, accustomed, he said, to noticing traps. Paks, the most 
experienced sword fighter, came second. After her, Suli and Ambros together. 
Paks hoped the yeoman-marshal would be steadied by steadying the junior yeoman. 
Mal brought up the rear with Jori, a friend of his.
"Door/ said Arvid quietly in her ear. "I'll try it. Hinges right. Swings out." 
Paks flattened herself to the left of the door; she saw a gleam of teeth as 
Arvid smiled. He ran his hands over the door for a moment, then did something
Paks could not see to the lock. A nod of satisfaction; he drew his own blade and 
slowly pulled the door open. Paks waited, ready to strike. Nothing happened. She 
craned her neck and looked. Within was deeper blackness. A sour smell wafted 
out, a stench like old rotting leaves and bones. Arvid put his sword through the 
door. Nothing. With a shrug, he leaned around the frame, poking at the darkness 
as if it were a pillow.
"Light?" asked Ambros softly. He had come quite close.
"Not yet. It makes a target of us."
"Yes, but we aren't cats—"
"Quiet. Wait." Arvid had told them their main danger at this level would be 
haste. Make a noise, he had said, clatter around like a horse fair, and our 
quarry will be ready for us. Paks waited, trying to see into the darkness by 
force of will. Spots danced before her eyes. Gradually she found she could see a 
little better. The room ahead was clearly a room—all shades of darkness, but 
smaller than the banquet hall above them. She tried to see if anything lurked in 
it. It seemed as if something—a pile of something—obscured the floor, but 
without light she could not tell.
"Go now," said Arvid, in Pak's ear. Together they moved under the lintel, 
separating at once on die inside to flatten against the inner wall. The others 
waited outside.
In here the smell was stronger. Paks wrinkled her nose, trying to decide what it 
was. It smelled—meatier, she decided. Rotting straw, bones, meat, and something 
like the inside of a dirty boot. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the 
smell seemed stronger every second. Arvid sniffed, a tiny sound she could hear 
clearly.
"That smell—" she heard from outside. She thought it was Mal.
"Quiet," said Ambros. Paks stood still, trying to hear anything past the pulse 
in her ears.
"Well go forward five paces," said Arvid quietly, "and then if nothing happens, 
well try a light."
Paks heard the scrape of his boot on the stone flags as he took the first step, 
and moved with him. One step. Two, three—and she stumbled over something, 
staggering on soft, springy, uneven footing. A yelp got out before she closed 
her throat; Ambros behind her scraped flint on steel at once. As the spark 
caught, that little light showed that she'd caught her foot on the edge of a 
pile of garbage. Dirty straw, old clothes, leftover bones chewed clean, a broken 
pot—she started to laugh with relief. Ambros's candle seemed brighter than she'd 
expected. She turned to Arvid; his eyes were wide with surprise.
"Just trash," she said, waving her sword at the heap. It was half her height, 
and easily three times her length. "They must have—"
Part of Ae pile heaved up—and up—a vast hairy shoulder topped by an equally 
hairy and vast face. A rheumy eye glared at her from under shaggy brows. And the 
mourn opened on a double row of very sharp teeth. By reflex, Paks struck at the 
arm that swiped down from the darkness. Her sword bit into it, slicing deep, but 
the arm's strength nearly cost her the grip. A deep bellow split the air, and 
the entire pile shuddered. Paks nearly lost her footing as die creature trampled 
its bed and attacked.
She had no tune to wonder what it was. Taller, broader, and apparently stronger, 
than any human, it had roughly a human shape. Heavy pelt over thick skin—it 
turned Ambros's first stroke—4ong arms ending in clawed hands, and a 
surpassingly ugry face—Paks noticed these without trying to classify them. Its 
deep-voiced bellows shook the air around them.
"Get back, Ambros!" cried Arvid. "Keep the light—this thing can see in the 
dark."
Ambros made a noise, but moved back. Suli had come up beside Paks, and was doing 
a creditable job with her sword—except that she couldn't penetrate the thick 
hide. Paks had wounded the creature several times, while dodging raking blows 
from its claws, but it was still strong. Arvid, she saw in a quick glance, was 
trying to attack its flank, but it was quick—he couldn't seem to get a killing 
blow in. Paks had just begun to wonder where Mal and his friend were, when she 
saw him working his way around the creature to its back. Once there, he swung 
his big axe in a mighty arc and sank it into the creature's back. It screamed, a 
hoarse, high-pitched sound, deafening in that space.
"The axe does it," he yelled. "It's got—" But tHe creature heaved backwards; 
Faks heard the axe-haft smack into something, and Mal grunted. She jumped 
forward, unsteady on the piled trash, and sank her sword deep in its belly. Now 
it lurched forward, bending. She dodged. Ar-vid got a stroke in on its left arm, 
Mal pulled the axe out of its back and swung again, this time higher. It went to 
its knees, moaning. Paks aimed a blow at the neck, and blood spurted out, 
drenching her arm. Still writhing, it sank to a heap, its eyes filming.
"So much for silence and caution," said Arvid tartly, when they had caught their 
breath. Mal and Suli had lit candles now as well, and they all took a close look 
at what they had killed. Half again as tall as Paks, and heavily built, it was 
like nothing she had ever seen.
"What is it?" she asked, wiping blood off her hands and face. The blood had an 
odd smell, and tasted terrible. Ambros shook his head. Arvid looked at her.
"I'm not sure, Paks, but it might be a hool. I've never seen one myself, but 
I've heard."
"Ahooir
"Big, tough, stupid, dirty, likes to lair underground. If you can imagine a 
solitary giant ore—"
"I thought hools were water giants," said Ambros.
Arvid shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong. Whatever it is, it's dead. And we have just 
announced ourselves to the entire underground."
"I never did think trying to sneak in was a good idea," said Ambros. "Gird is 
not subtle."
Arvid raised one brow, and smiled. "No. That's why I'm not a Girdsman. But don't 
worry—you'll have every chance for a suicidal frontal assault now."
Paks had been poking gingerly through the trash heap that the creature had 
laired on. A copper armband gleamed; she picked it up. "Look. This is 
human-size."
"Hmm. Not worth much," said Arvid.
"No, but—I wouldn't have thought the robbers would throw it away."
"That's true. I—" Suddenly he stopped. They had all heard the sound: a rhythmic 
pounding, not loud, but distinct. Paks looked around. In flickering candlelight, 
the room was large, dim in the comers. A doorway opened across from the way 
they'd come in, and another door, closed and barred, centered the right-hand 
wall. Other-. wise the room seemed empty.
"It's that door—the closed one," said Mal. He wrenched his axe free of the 
creature's backbone and started for it. Paks was there first, sword drawn. Arvid 
and Mal levered the heavy bars up and threw them aside. Then they pulled the 
door open.
Candlelight showed a small room, hardly more than a cell. A gnome, one shoe 
off", was poised by the door; his shoe was in his hand, where he'd been pounding 
the door. Another gnome lay on the bare stone floor, covered in cloaks.
The standing gnome nodded stiffly and put his shoe back on. Then he addressed 
Paks in gnomish. She shook her head, and he frowned, then spoke in clipped 
accented Common.
"It is that you lead this rescue? Or do you claim us prisoners?"
"I—" Paks looked sideways at Arvid. He spoke.
"Lady Paksenarrion commanded us for the capture of the robbers, and now we have 
come to see what else hides in this keep."
The gnome bowed from the waist, and met Paks's eyes as he stood upright. "It 
shall be that you have the reward of the Aldonfulk, lady. For this indeed shall 
value be given. It is that our partner of Lyonya is eaten by that monster, 
true?"
"We haven't seen him," said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. "Is 
that what you think happened?"
"It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will not 
say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical."
"Is your friend hurt?" The gnome on the floor had not moved.
"Only slightly—he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength."
Paks was surprised by the gnome's composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a 
dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome was 
calm and matter-of-fact. He turned to the other, gnome, and spoke loudly in 
gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to see if the 
others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor 
stirred, and opened his eyes.
"Surely you are hungry or thirsty," said Paks, counting how many days they'd 
been imprisoned. "We have water and food."
The response was less than she'd expected; the un-wounded gnome nodded and came 
forward. "It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the first 
day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gone. Then we had 
nothing. You wOl take us back to Brewersbridge?"
Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried it 
to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. "We need not 
so much food as you," he said, returning the flask. "If you take us now—"
"But we haven't found the priest," said Ambros.
"Priest?" asked the gnome.
"We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby—perhaps deep in this place—and 
directed the robbers."
"Oh." The gnomes looked at each other. "It is a matter for humans. We are not 
daskdusky, to search after the webspinner's lair. If return to Brewersbridge, 
the return of your favor will be granted."
"We might as well," said Arvid. "We've lost all chance of surprise."
"And we can't leave these behind us," said Paks. "They can't defend themselves, 
with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get them to 
safety."
"I agree," said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks 
realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. "I don't know as I can 
fight as good as most days." Ambros looked at him in surprise, then concern. His 
voice seemed slurred.
"Will your friend need to be carried?" asked Paks.
The ^gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. ' It is generous of 
the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far."
In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two 
gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader's death. Ambros 
and Mal hacked off the creature's right hand and an ear as proof of what they'd 
found. The gnomes took rooms at the Jolly Potboy—they were well known enough 
that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained with 
blood, found Suh dogging her every step.
"Did I—I mean, I couldn't get through the hide, but did I do all right 
otherwise? I didn't scream, or anything—"
Paks felt tired. "No. You did fine, Suli—I said that—"
"Yes, but—you are going back, aren't you? You'll let me come? And I can take 
your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them—"
"No!" It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not 
frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.
"But—"
"Sevri has her own duties—she's not a washing maid. I'll do it; any soldier 
learns to keep her own gear clean." Paks could see that this was not pleasant 
news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. "I told 
you before, Suli—being a warrior's not what you thought. Most of it is like 
this—cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you don't do 
it yourself, you can't be sure it's done right."
The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until 
she was tossed out.
"Your own sword, for instance," said Paks severely. "Have you inspected it yet? 
Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It's the grange's 
sword—you should return it in perfect condition.'
Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard—sticky with drying blood and 
hair.
"Go clean that," said Paks. "When you've got all the blood off, then polish it, 
and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard, then—"
"But how?" asked Suli. "It's inside, and—"
Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this one was a simple wood 
casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was 
notched for attachment to a belt.
"You're lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge—sedges are 
better—and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run 
clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to 
dry—don't put the sword back inside, or it'll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow, 
you're done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart."
"Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off," grumbled Suli. Paks 
glared at her, sure now of her ground.
"Trouble! You don't know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in 
your scabbard, and then nick yourself with duty steel" She remembered the 
surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. "It's the way some 
tribes of ores poison weapons, Suli. Store 'em in rotting flesh and blood." She 
was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further argument. 
"Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening—you 11 need to pick up 
another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us."
"Yes, Paks," said Suli, subdued.
Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the 
kitchen, and her wet hair stifl chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to tell 
her the gnomes wanted a word with her.
"Why?" she asked.
"Gird knows," he said. "Being as it's gnomes, it's some trading matter, I'd say. 
Remember that they're as full of pride as bees of sting—and as quick with it, 
too. ITiey don't like jokes, and they don't like someone misjudging them on 
their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange—good for j*ood, and blow for blow. 
They don't do favors, but they re perishing fair, if you can understand their 
idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of the world."
"Oh." Paks hoped they would understand ordinary courtesy as courtesy.
Both gnomes were seated before the fire in one of Hebbinford's private rooms 
when Hebbinford announced her. One jumped up and bowed. Paks made a sketchy bow 
in return. She thought she could see a gleam of satisfaction in that flat dark 
eye.
"Master Hebbinford if you would bring ale." The gnome gestured to a chair, and 
Paks sat; he returned to his own seat. His speech lacked the pauses and music of 
human language; Paks found it hard to follow, even though the words were 
pronounced correctly. "Is it that you were hired for our rescue?"
"No," said Paks, "not exactly."
"Then this rescue was in hope of reward?"
"No—what is it?"
"That is what I try to find out. For what service were you hired, if not for our 
rescue?"
Paks wondered how much she should say of the Brewers-bridge Council's afiairs. 
"Sir—pardon, if I do not know the correct address—" He took her up at once.
"Lady, it is our mistake. We thought you would not care to be precise. I am 
Master-trader Addo Verkinson Aldonfulk, sixth son of my father's house: the 
polite address in Common would be Master-trader Addo Aldonfülk, or Master Addo 
if in haste. This my companion is journeyman-trader Ebo Gnaddison Gnarrinfulk, 
the fourth son of my father's third sister: he should be styled Journeyman Ebo. 
And thine own naming?"
"Master-trader Addo—" Paks got that far before losing track. The gnome nodded 
anyway.
"That will do."
"—I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs—"
"Three Firs is thy clan?"
"No, Master-trader Addo, it is the place of my father's dwelling." Paks found 
her own speech becoming both stilted and formal.
"Ah. We know that some humans have no clans." He paused as Hebbinford himself 
returned with a large flagon of ale and three tankards. "Be welcome to ale as 
the guest of Aldonfülk, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter; no obligation is dune for 
partaking of this gift."
Paks stared, then caught her wits back. "I thank you, Master-trader Addo." She 
took the tankard he offered, and sipped cautiously. "You asked of my employment, 
sir. The Council of Brewersbridge has, as you may know, a policy against idle 
swordsmen in the town."
The gnome nodded. "An excellent policy. Human towns are too lawless as it is and 
human vagabonds cause trouble. We allow no masterless humans in the gnome 
kingdoms."
Paks reddened, but went on. "Master-trader Addo, the Council examined me, and 
decided that I might stay some time, but they asked a favor."
"Favor! What is a favor?"
She remembered Hebbinford's warning. "Sir, my—my „ vows are to another; I am 
traveling from Aarenis to the far north." That seemed safe enough. The gnome 
relaxed in his chair. "But they asked my aid in finding the hiding place of a 
band of robbers—the same who attacked you—and asked that I lead a force against 
them if I could find them."
"And what pay did they offer for this?"
"Well—that I could stay longer than they would otherwise allow, and the use of a 
horse, and a share of goods recovered from die hideout, if there were any."
"Hmmph." The gnome chattered in gnomish with his companion. Paks could not tell 
how old they were, or if die journeyman were younger than the master. They had 
earth-brown, unwrinkled faces, and thick dark hair. Addo turned back to Paks. 
"It seems little payment for an uncertain task. How many days were you bound to 
stay and work at it?"
"No time was set. But I had money enough, and reason to dislike brigands."
"Hmm. And after our caravan was taken did they say aught about rescue?"
'No, Master-trader Addo. It was thought you had been lolled with the others. One 
man escaped to tell of the attack. Many bodies were found."
"I see. Why then were you in the keep? To look for goods?"
"No. The robbers we captured said that someone else took over the goods. Ambros, 
die yeoman-marshal, thinks it is a priest of Achrya. Arvid Semminson says die 
goods are being sold at a distance."
"And you did not expect to find us."
"No, sir. But we were glad to find any diat had survived."
Another conversation in gnomish. Paks finished the ale in her tankard, and 
thought about pouring another. But she felt constrained to wait until it was 
offered. Finally Addo turned to her again.
"If you did not come and search the keep would anyone else have come?"
"No, Master-trader Addo. Most people around here think it is bad luck."
"Superstition. Luck is a fallacy of humans; things either are or are not. That 
creature who ate our companion—was it dangerous to armed men?"
"Yes, sir. It was very large, and fought well; it took several of us to loll 
it."
"It is true you command this force?"
Paks frowned. "I would not want to mislead you, sir. I was asked to command, and 
did command, the force which killed and captured die robbers themselves. Today's 
foray was not entirely my idea—yeoman-marshal Ambros insisted that it must be 
made at once. But because I have experience, I was at the head of the party."
Addo shook his head. "Even among humans, one must take command, and be 
responsible for all—I ask again if that was you or another. If another who would 
it be?"
"I—in diat way, sir, you could say I commanded." Paks thought it was not too 
great a boast—they had followed her orders, such as they were.
"You are not boastful as many human fighters are," he commented; she wondered if 
he could read her thoughts. "It is important to know who commands. It is the 
person the clans owe thanks to." He took a ring off his finger, and reached out 
to her. "At this time we have been robbed; we have nothing. But this is in 
earnest of your just claim on Aldonfulk and Gnarriniulk; it shall be redeemed 
fairly, on my word as Master-trader." Paks took the ring; it was black, like 
iron, and heavy. She nodded, wondering what to say.
"I thank you, Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk—and Journeyman Ebo."
"It is but right. You had no obligation; you had not been hired for this task. I 
ask your trust that this will be redeemed."
"Master-trader Addo, you have that trust. But I would free anyone from such 
captivity—"
"Oh?"
"It is right—"
"You have an obligation to a god? Are you sworn to such deeds, then?" He looked 
almost as if he might ask for the ring back.
"No, sir," said Paks. "But I serve the gods of my father'shouse, and they oppose 
evil."
"Umph. That is well, to stand with tradition. And such belief does not interfere 
with our owing. Keep the ring, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. You returned our 
lives."
"It was my pleasure to do so." Paks sat a moment; the gnomes were silent. "Would 
you," she ventured, "be my guest for another flagon of ale? With—with no 
obligation?^' Both gnomes nodded.
"We would not willingly owe thee more," said Addo, "but it is mannerly of thee 
to offer. We will be thy guests."
Their brush with death had not discouraged Ambros at all. He insisted that they 
go again the next day, Mal grunted; he was purple from hairline to jaw where the 
axe-haft had caught him, and he breathed noisily. f "I wouldn't have said it 
before, yeoman-marshal, but I'm still head-thick from this, and I don't trust my 
speed. A thick eye's bad enough in daylight."
"Then you can stay," said Ambros tartly. "I've other yeomen."
Mal sighed loudly. "By Gird's arm, Ambros, I'm willing enough, but—"
"Mal, I can't wait. I can't. Something bad is going on here—I have to deal with 
it."
"Ambros, we did well by scouting around before attacking the robbers," said 
Paks. "Why not look for the place where the goods are moving out? That might be 
a better way in." She was thinking of the tunnel at Rotengre.
"No." Ambros shook his head stubbornly. "It takes too long—let the priest think 
we were frightened back by that monster. It's a door-guard, I imagine."
"Certainly so," said Arvid.
"Then, when he knows we've killed it but have gone away, he may be careless for 
a space. A short space, in which we must strike."
Arvid looked at him curiously. "Are you angry, yeoman-marshal, that I bade you 
stay back with the light?'
"I was," said Ambros frankly. "Then I realized that you had to have light to 
fight. This time we'll let another carry . the flint—and another be prepared to 
light candle or torch for us as it's needed. Now—to plans."
The gnomes had told Paks die little they knew of the keep. Tney had seen only 
the passage and stairs which Paks had used. When one of the robbers banged on 
the door, a shuddering howl had arisen, and shortly after that six armed men in 
dark clothes had opened it from within, taken the prisoners, and shoved them in 
the cell. The gnomes thought these were the robber chiefs servants or personal 
guard. Ambros suspected they were servants of whatever power had snared the 
fugitives and forced them to banditry.
The next day, the stench from the open door was much worse. TTie dead creature 
was already swarming with vermin—in die light of the candles, a flurry of rats 
scattered away, squeaking. Beyond, the open doorway gaped. Again, Paks and Arvid 
were in the lead. Ambros had found six yeomen to come with them, including Mal. 
Two of them carried lighted candles. Suli followed Paks closely.
Beyond the empty doorway, a passage sloped downhill, its rough stone floor heavy 
with dust churned by many feet. Paks could see and hear nothing. She glanced at 
Arvid.          M ,
"Let me lead," he said quietly. "Stay close, but don'tpass me, and be ready to 
stop on my signal. It's the very place for some trap. He stepped forward. Paks 
waited until he was three paces ahead, and then followed. The passage went on 
for twenty paces—twenty more—then Arvid stopped. Paks caught his hand signal and 
froze in her tracks. Suli bumped her from behind. The others' footsteps seemed 
loud. Then silence, as they all stood still. Arvid was touching the side walls 
lightly. He looked back at Paks, and gestured her forward—one step. She took it. 
He pointed at ttre floor. She could see nothing, until he pointed again. A 
slight ridge in the dust, a ripple she would never have noticed. Where the feet 
had passed it, she could see an edge of stone.
"It's the trigger," he said softty. "If someone steps on that, then—" he pointed 
up. "That will fall." In the dimness overhead, Paks could make out a dark slit, 
and shining points. "A portcullis. It probably makes a noise, as well. There 
should be a safety block on one side, though, if they carry heavy goods through 
here. Ah-h." Paks couW not see what he did, but a small block of stone suddenly 
slid out of die wall a handsbreadth. "That should do it We might want to come 
out this way in a hnny. Meanwhile, make sure no one steps on the trigger stone."
Paks passed this information along, and everyone stepped carefully over the 
ridge. Arvid had gone on. He disarmed another such trap thirty paces farther on. 
"I expect," he said quietly to Paks, "that both would close together, and open 
arrow-slits in the walls as well. But we shall hope not to find out. " After 
that, Paks kept her eyes roving on all sides, trying to spot traps—but she 
missed the next, after the passage turned and dipped steeply. Arvid halted at 
the top of the steepening ramp.
Now this,"he said, "may be a chute trap."
"If you step on the trigger of a chute trap," he said, "it tips up and dumps you 
in someone's pot—or prison cell. Its die same. We're meant to go on—but you 
don't see footprints in that dust, do you?"
"No—but it's been disturbed—"
"Umm. More like something's been dragged on it. They may use it for the caravan 
goods—saves carrying. I'd rather arrive on my feet. We need another door."
Paks could see nothing but stone-walled passage. Arvid went over every stone 
with his long fingertips. Toe others fidgeted; Paks shushed them. Finally he 
tapped one section of wall and smiled. "This is the entrance. Hie trouble is 
that I don't know what's on the other side. They may have a guard right there—in 
which case, we're in trouble. It may be trapped to sound an alarm—I can't tell. 
But I judge it's a safer way down than that." He nodded at die chute.
"Well—we have to try something," said Paks. "Can you tell which way it opens?"
"No. I don't think it will rotate, tike an ordinary door. It should either come 
forward or sink in, and then slide sideways. I can't tell which." He looked at 
her, challenging. Paks was determined to figure it out for herself.
"Well, then—you're the one who can open it. Ill cover you, on your left side. 
The rest of you move three paces back and stay flat against this wall—you won't 
get hit by arrows, if there's an archer, and you can see how it works. Shield 
the candles with your hands, in case of a strong draft. Anything else?" She 
looked at Arvid. He shook his head.
"You've a feel for this, lady," he said.
She heard a click as he worked the mechanism. The stone before him sank back; 
feint light came through the gap. Soundlessly the stone slid to the left. Behind 
it was a landing; stairs went down to the left, where the light brightened, and 
up to the right. Across the landing was an alcove; four cross-bows hung from 
pegs. Paks moved quickly through the opening, and looked both ways. Nothing. She 
signed to Arvid, who nodded and motioned the others in. He did something to the 
touchstone lock, and murmured that he hoped he d jammed it open. His eyes slid 
to the crossbows. Paks quickly cut their strings. The two quivers of bolts she 
simply took and tied to her belt.
Down toward the light they crept, stair by stair. Halfway down, Paks could see 
that a passage led away ahead and another to the right. She motioned those 
behind her to the right-hand wafl of the stair. Now she could see a door, 
closed, at the foot of the stairs to the left. Arvid stayed in the lead, one 
stair before her. At the foot, he stopped a long moment to scan the passage 
ahead and the foot of the stair itself. Hie forward passage ended in another 
closed door not twenty paces away, heavy wood bound with iron. Neither hinges 
nor bars showed on this side. The light they had seen came from torches in 
brackets on both sides of the passage: four ahead, and obviously more to the 
right. The flame-tips bent toward the left-hand door, and even on the stairs 
Paks could feel die draft that kept the air fresh.
Arvid put the tip of his sword past the corner. Nothing happened. Very slowly he 
eased his face to the comer. Paks waited, feeling her heart race. He drew back, 
and motioned her back a step. Then he spoke softly in her ear. "It goes 
twenty-thirty paces, then turns left. Wide enough for four fighters. Torch every 
four paces. Mark on floor, good for bow."
"Run it," suggested Paks.
"Only way," he agreed. "Got to be quiet and fest." Paks did not see how they 
could all be fest and silent, but she told the others. Ambros and another yeoman 
moved up beside her; she told Suli to stay in the second rank.
They started off at a quick jog, as quietly as possible. Paks saw the pale 
stripes on the floor, four of them, and stepped over the first. Then she heard a 
noise from some where ahead, and leaped into full speed, the others with her. 
Four crossbowmen appeared at the far end of die passage; the first flight of 
crossbow bolts whirred by. Paks heard a yelp from behind; something clicked on 
her helmet. Behind them four more, shooting even as the first four dropped their 
bows and leaped forward with shortsword in hand. Paks did not hesitate; it would 
be suicide to stop in that bare passage. She reached the first swordsmen before 
they were set in position; Arvid and Ambros were hardly behind her, and they 
forced the line back into the others. Now all eight defenders had dropped their 
bows. Paks had never faced a shortsword formation with a longsword. She found 
herself fighting as if she had her Company weapon. At least they didn'thave 
shields—she smiled as her sword went home in one of them. He folded over, to lie 
curled on the floor. The man behind thrust at her, and she raked his arm. She 
noticed that Arvid, beside her, had downed another. The first man down tried to 
stab at her legs; Paks edged by, and Suli got him in the throat. Paks and Arvid 
were one step ahead of Ambros and the yeoman. Paks was beginning to dunk they 
might get through without too much trouble when four more men appeared.
"BlastI" said Arvid. "I'd hoped this was the first wave."
Paks said nothing, fighting her way forward a step at a tune. She was beginning 
to use the longsword more freely, with effect. Another man went down before her, 
and those behind seemed less eager to engage. But the noise in the passage was 
considerable. Ambros was yelling Girdish slogans, as was the yeoman; each had 
now defeated his man, and they were back in line. The clash of steel rang from 
the walls.
Then the torches went out as if they'd been dipped in water. Paks felt something 
rake across her torso; the mail held. She thrust hard ahead of her, and heard 
someone grunt, then sigh. She shook the weight off her blade and thrust again. 
Nothing.
"Arvid?" she asked.
"Here." His voice beside her was calm. She wasn't.
Ambros cursed, off to Arvid's right. Paks could hear heavy breathing in front of 
them somewhere. She moved forward a step, and her boot landed on something soft 
and moving. She kicked, hard, and stepped back.
"Light," said Ambros testily. She could hear die scrape of flint and steel, but 
saw no spark.
"You want light, servant of Gird?" came a silky voice out of the dark ahead. "I 
thought you Girdsmen claimed the knowledge of lightspells."
Paks tried again to move toward the voice, but Arvid grabbed her arm. She froze 
in place. She could sense that he was fumbling in his cloak. As her eyes 
adjusted to the darkness, she could tell that somewhere around the bend torches 
were still burning—vague shapes stood out against that dim glow. She could not 
tell how many. If they were reloading crossbows—if they had spears—we're crazy 
to stand here, she thought, like sheep in a chute. With a wild yell, she jumped 
forward, a standing leap that took her to the first of the dark shapes. She 
heard Arvid's curse, the others jumping after her. Her sword clashed against 
another, suddenly glowing blue. She heard other weapons striking, and pressed 
her own opponent hard by instinct, since she could scarcely see. She felt a blow 
on her shoulder, and another on the ribs. Her own blade flickered, a dancing 
blue gleam that lit only its target. Something raked her free hand, burning like 
fire or ice. She shook it, still fencing.
Their surprise attack brought them around the turn of the passage, over bodies 
now crumpled beneath the fighters. Ahead was a short stretch with a door to die 
right. Against the golden glow from that door stood a tall, slender robed 
figure. They were within four paces of it, when that same smooth voice spoke, a 
word Paks had not heard before. Her muscles slackened, as if she had been hit in 
the head; she nearly dropped her sword. Arvid fell back a pace. Even Ambros 
stopped where he was, and dropped the tip of his blade. The defenders leaped 
forward.
"Gird!" cried Ambros, in that instant. Paks felt her body come alive again; she 
covered Arvid's side with a desper- ate lunge, and took a glancing blow on her 
helmet. Suli pushed past Arvid, throwing a quick glance at Paks, and lunged at 
the man before her. Paks had time to notice that she was indeed quick, and quite 
good. Then the defenders retreated past the door, and turned to run. Paks faced 
the doorway. It was empty.
Within, the steady glow of lamplight revealed a chamber hung with rich 
tapestries in brilliant colors. In the center of the chamber stood a handsome 
young man in long black velvet robes edged with black für. He smiled at them, 
and held out empty hands.
"Don't you think you re being discourteous?" he asked. His voice was mellow as 
old ale. "It is friendlier to announce oneself, don't you think?"
"You—!" began Ambros. Paks noticed Suli edging forward and plucked at her 
sleeve. Suli turned, frowning, but obeyed when Paksgestured her back. "Spawn of 
Achrya," Ambros went on. The man laughed easily.
"Alas, young sir yeoman-marshal of Gird, I am not Achrya's spawn—if I were, you 
might have found another welcome. Tis true I have done her some service, 
but—what is that to thee?"
"I am the yeoman-marshal—"
"Yes, of Brewersbridge. This is not Brewersbridge. This is my keep, and you have 
broken in, attacking and killing my men—and you are not even the Marshal. It's 
not your grange."
"It is. It was left in my care. And you—corrupting men, robbing caravans, 
killing and looting—Gird's teeth, it's my business!" Ambros took a step forward, 
toward the doorway.
"So you really think a yeoman-marshal of Gird is a match for me? Or are you 
relying on your muscle-bound women for protection^' Suli lunged forward, and 
Paks caught her in the midriff with a stiff elbow. Suli gasped, and Paks spoke 
over her shoulder.
"Don't be a fool, he's trying to anger us. Stay back."
The man looked directly at her. Something about his gaze warned her, and she 
dropped her eyes. "My," he said sweetly, "a wise head rules that magic sword. 
Perhaps ni are not what you seem, eh? I had heard of a strange y swordfighter in 
Brewersbridge—a veteran of Phefen's Company, they said, who left because she 
would not see evil done. Is that you, then?" Paks fought back a surge of rage 
that roared in her ears and threatened to haze her vision. "Defeated that elven 
mage, and freed the ehane taig, that's what I heard. Near enough a paladin, I 
should think—not a Girdsman yet, what a shame—it that is, you defeat me. Do you 
think to defeat me, pretty one?"
Tnis too Paks ignored, fixing her gaze on his throat. She thought how she would 
like to sink her sword in it. But she heard what he said. Near enough a paladin? 
The thought beckoned, like a finger in the mist. But Arvid spoke up, having 
regained his position beside her.
"You, sir, seem to have some power of enchantment, or why do we stand here 
speaking to you? For me, I would see your blood on that handsome rug, and put an 
end to such delay." He moved forward a handsbreadtn and stopped, as if he'd hit 
a wall.
"Enchantment? Yes, indeed. And, since you've robbed me of robbers and guards 
alike, I'm in need of servants. You, I beh'eve, will do nicely. And the women; 
Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in die growth of a paladin of Gird. I 
hope, indeed, to convert all of you. How pleasant it will be to have spies in 
the grange of Brewersbridge."
"No! By Gird!" Ambros leaped forward, sword high. Paks shook herself, suddenly 
alert to her musings, and followed him. She was not surprised to see a sword 
appear in the man's hand, a dagger in the other. Ambros met the sword with his 
own, narrowly missing a dagger thrust. Paks came in on the Achryan's sword side. 
She turned his blade and thrust. Her blade seemed to stick la his robes; she 
jerked it free with an effort. Meanwhile his Made had raked her shoulder. She 
could feel the links of mail along that track.
No one else came to join them. As the priest of Achrya turned, Paks had time for 
a quick glance back. The others stood motionless, clearly unable to break free. 
Meanwhile the priest fought superbly, sweeping away their blades again and 
again. It seemed impossible to wound him. Every thrust that Paks thought went 
home caught in his robes, and he fought on unhindered. She did not notice that 
he worked them toward a comer of the room where dark blue velvet rose behind a 
carved black chair. He backed, backed again, turned, and grabbed for the chair 
arm. Paks, hearing a rustle above, jerked back and looked up. A tangled mass of 
black webbing fell down, catching her off balance. Where it touched her clothes, 
they turned black, charring. She slashed at the cords, her sword hissing as it 
sliced them. But they were tough and sticky; she could not free herself quickly.
Ambros had jumped forward, a long lunge at the priest, and the web caught only 
one foot. Before the priest could strike, he had cut himself free. Now they 
fought behind the chair, great sweeps of sword parting the air and ringing 
together.
"You might as well quit," the priest said. "You can't win now—two of you 
couldn't defeat me."
"Gird's grace," said Ambros between clenched teeth. "I won't quit—I will loll 
you."
"I think not, boy," said the priest with a smile. He made a gesture toward 
Ambros's face, and a length of something gray flicked at him. Ambros blinked but 
kept fighting. "You're a stubborn fool, boy—are you hunting your death?" Paks 
struggled with the web, hardly aware of the Company curses she shouted. She 
could see the blisters rising on Ambros's face, like the mark of a fiery whip. 
The priest spared her a look. "You won't get clear of that in a hurry, 
sweetling. Tis made of Achrya's own webs. As is this—" He lashed once more at 
Ambros's face. The yeoman-marshal screamed, one hand clawing at his face. "You 
see, boy, what you drive me to? Why will you not submit?"
Somehow Ambros had kept hold of his sword; Paks could see that the blow had 
caught his eye. He fought on, with less skill now, his movements jerky. Pales 
sawed frantically at the web, cursing again when it touched her bare skin; it 
burned like fire. The priest said something, a string of words she did not know, 
and the web moved, shifting around her, so that the cut strands were out of 
reach. Ambros called to her.
"Paks—call on Gird! With me—" he gave a sharp cry of pain as the priest's gray 
whip touched him again.
Paks opened her mouth to say something else, and found herself yelling "By the 
power of Gird Strongarm, and the High Lord, and all the gods of right—" Ambros, 
too, was yelling, holding his Girdish medallion now with one hand, as he flung 
himself on the priest. Light flared around them; Paks could hardly see, in the 
flurry of movement, what happened. Then me web lay still around her, and nothing 
moved in the heap of robes behind the chair. And die rest of the party, suddenly 
freed, ran forward full of questions and noise.
Chapter Seventeen
Suli grabbed the web strands that bound Paks, then yanked ner hand back as welts 
rose on her palm. Arvid ran past Paks to look at Ambros and the priest.
"He's dead," he said shortly.
"Both?" asked Mal.
"Yes. Both." Arvid sighed, then turned back to help Paks and Suli hack the web 
apart. "Lady, that's a dire trap you're caught in."
"I know." Paks was hardly able to speak for mingled anger and shame—Ambros was 
dead, and she had not been able to fight. She kept cutting grimly, until finally 
she could step out of the wet). Her domes were charred to rag^ and Arvid looted 
at her mail with respect.
fiat's … very good mail you're wearing."
"Yes—** Paks touched one of the burns on her fece gingerly, and went to look at 
Ambros's body. The priest's gray lash had laced blistered welts across his fece. 
Together, she and Mal straightened his body, wrapping his cloak around it. Arvid 
and the other yeoman stood watch at the door, but no sound came from the 
corridor. Paks suspected that with their master dead, and his control broken, 
the men they'd fought had Bed, either to the surface at once, or to deeper 
hiding places. Suli roamed the room idly, staring at the tapestries, then 
stooped over the dead priest's body.
"Look at this," she said, lifting a silver chain around the dead priest's neck. 
"It's got—"
"Drop that!" Paks remembered the cleric of Achrya in Rotengre. "It's magic."
Suli looked startled, and dropped it less quickly than Paks intended. But 
nothing happened.
Paks could not define what she felt. She had not wanted to go back underground; 
she had not wanted to meet another evil mage. But she liked Ambros, had gotten 
used to his cheerful face. When he told her the dream, she felt his trust in 
her—and as always, gave trust for trust in return. In a vague way she had 
hoped—and made herself believe—that what they might face under the keep was not 
nearly so bad as the possessed elf-lord had been. She thought Ambros's dream was 
the dream of an untried soldier, a recruit thinking too much of the coming 
battle.
Now he was dead. She had failed him. She, the seasoned soldier, had not been 
able to fight. The untried recruit, die boy (as she thought of him), had fought 
on, alone, and died without her aid. He was as dead as Macenion, as Saben, two 
others she had not saved. As she took the precautions she knew to take—setting a 
watch, planning their return to the upper level—her mind was roiling with 
confusion. Only after they were on their way did she start thinking what her 
position might be. What Sir Felis would think. What the Marshal would think. 
What everyone would think, when their yeoman-marshal was dead and the 
experienced fighter let herself be trapped in a net. She did not know how grim 
her expression was until Arvid spoke.
"Lady? Do you foresee some trouble I do not? Your sorrow for the yeoman-marshal, 
yes, but—what else?"
Paks shook her head. "I did it all wrong."
"All wrong?" Arvid looked at her with obvious surprise. "We went against a 
larger force, on their ground, ana lost one dead and a few are wounded, and you 
think you did it all wrong? By Simyits' eyebrow, lady, we could all be dead."
"No thanks to me that we aren't."
"Nonsense. You forget that you fought that priest too. Quite well, I might 
add—and you were right to jump ahead in the dark when you did. I only thought 
afterward that if flint and steel wouldn't spark, then my oil flask probably 
wouldn't burn anyway. That young man died bravely, but not because you failed. 
Though I expect you won't miss an overhead net trap again."
Paks shook her head, but felt a little better. The others said nothing, but 
smiled at her shyly when she looked at diem and tried to smile herself. They 
were at ground level again when Arvid beckoned her aside.
"I'll be saying farewell," he said with a smile. "Good luck to you, Lady 
Paksenarrion—you have the makings of a great warrior. You're already a good one. 
Keep thinking on all sides of a question—"
"But what do you mean, are you going?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"My work is done," he said with a shrug. "I was hired, as I said, to kill or 
convince the fellow to join the Guild. In my judgement, he would have made a 
poor member, even if he had been willing to join. I have seen him dead, and I 
have taken enough value to repay the Guild some of what it lost by his 
unlicensed theft." Paks had not seen him take anything; while she was still 
sorting that out, he dipped into a pocket and handed something to her. "Here—a 
gift for you. Unlike your gnomish friends, I prefer to pay my debts at once." 
Paks felt a handful of small round objects through the thin leather of her 
glove. "No—don't look now. Gratitude bores me. You see, I don't think I'd like 
to explain everything to the Marshal—or have another talk with Sir Felis. You 
have enough witnesses to your actions; I need none for mine, if I go now." He 
lifted her hand, still clenched around his gift, to his lips; Paks had never 
seen or imagined such a gesture. Before she could say anything, he had dropped 
it and moved lightly away, not looking back. She stuffed the handful, still 
unseen, into a pocket in her tunic, and turned to the others.
"And if I say it's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard? Ambros, at his 
age, tojeo baring off after a priest of Achrya! You, to let him—I" The Marshal, 
brows bristling in fury, strode back and forth in the grange, hands thrust into 
his belt. Paks, Mal, and the other yeomen stood against the wall; Ambros's body 
lay on the platform, still wrapped in his cloak.
"Marshal, if I may—" Sir Felis looked almost as angry as the Marshal. The 
Marshal stopped in midstride, balanced himself, and nodded shortly. Sir Felis 
looked at all their faces before he spoke. "Marshal, when he told me what he 
planned, I thought as you. A fool's plan, I told him. I think—I think I was 
wrong."
"Wrong! With him dead, and—"
"Wait, Marshal. I told him he had no experience. I told him that orders were 
orders. I insulted her—" he nodded at Paks "—and told him he was a fool to go 
anywhere with a thief and a mercenary. And then he told me, Marshal, that his 
orders came not only from you but from Gird."
The Marshal's face contracted, showing wrinkles it would not bear for many 
years. "It wasn't—"
"I didn't think it was Gird. I told him that, too—that too many youngsters 
thought the gods blessed their folly. But, Marshal—I think I said too much. Gird 
graces the hard head, as well as die strong arm. He was angry, at me, and that 
made him—"
"Maybe not." The Marshal sighed. "If it was Gird, if it wasn't just a childish 
stunt—" He looked at the others. "What do you know about this? Were you all in 
it with him—did he think it up—or what?" For a moment no one answered. Then Mal, 
his voice still distorted by the bruises on his face, spoke up.
"Sir Marshal, Ambros was determined to find the priest as soon as be came back 
from talking to the robbers. He told me then that Paks thought he should wait 
for you—but he was sure that he couldn't."
"Is that true, Paksenarrion? Did you try to dissuade him?"
Paks nodded. "Yes, sir. When he first told me, on the way back from the keep, I 
thought he was crazy." She felt the blood rush to her race, and glanced down. 
"I—he had told me, sir, of a dream, a few days before. He dreamed he was lolled, 
in some battle. It was the day after you left."
"Did he think it was a true dream?"
"He wasn't sure. He asked me—I didn't know. He thought it might be an evil 
sending to frighten him from doing what he should. That's what finally made him 
do this, sir, I'm sure. I tried—I tried to tell him it could be a warning from 
Gird—or something like that—but he thought he had to find out."
"But why couldn't he wait? At least a few days—" The Marshal looked toward 
Ambros's body.
"He—he thought it must be soon, sir." Paks felt the tears burning in her eyes. 
She hoped Ambros would not mind her telling the dream now. 'He could see—in the 
dream—the marks I gave him that last night at drill. The cut hadn't healed." The 
Marshal nodded, silent. Then he looked at the others.
"Did he tell any of you this dream?"
"No, sir." They answered in a ragged chorus. Mal went on. "I knew something was 
wrong, sir—he didn't say about the dream, but when I said something about not 
being in best shape to fight, he took me up on it and said I should stay 
behind."
The discussion had dragged on for hours. Finally the Marshal dismissed them, 
having, as it seemed, worn out his anger. Paks was so tired she could hardly 
walk, but her mind kept buzzing at her. She made it to the inn, and up the 
stairs, without a word to anyone. Stretched on her bed, still wearing her armor, 
she wondered what she'd done with her horse, and was too tired to get up and 
find out. She thought she would never go to sleep. Gold air rolled over her from 
the window. At last she managed to pull a blanket over her and slept.
Dawn was gray and foggy. She had left the shutters open; the floor near the 
window was wet and cold. Paks looked at the beads of moisture with narrowed 
eyes; she didn't want to move. She heard noises from the rest of the inn, 
footsteps and voices. Her legs hurt. Her shoulder ached. Something was poking a 
hole in her side. It was that which finally moved her—that hard lumpy something 
that seemed to be underneath a rib no matter how she squirmed. In one rush she 
threw back the blanket and staggered to her feet. Her boots skidded on the wet 
floor as she reached for the shutters.
The remains of her clothes hung on the fine chainmail like old leaves on a 
shapely branch. Only the leather tunic was whole, though scarred by the net as 
if it had been touched by flame. She ripped the rags free, glad she had worn her 
old clothes for that trip, rather than the new ones. She slid out of the mail, 
noticing as she did a lumpy pocket in her tunic. Arvid's present. She reached 
into it and pulled out a handful of fire.
After a moment, she could see what it really was. A string—several strings, 
interconnected—of fiery jewels, some white and some blue. It poured through her 
hand like sunlit waterdrops. The clasp was gold. She stared, openmouthed, then 
tucked it quickly away. When she opened the door, she nearly fell over Suli, who 
was curled up asleep outside.
"It won't work," said Paks firmly. She avoided Suli's eyes, tracing a design on 
the table with one finger. "It won't work because I'm not what you hoped for—and 
it's not as easy as you think."
"I know it's not," said Suli. "I know—I saw Ambros die—it was terriblel" Paks 
shot a glance at her; the girl's face was solemn. "I still want it—even though I 
know—and I don't see why you won't—"
"You don't know!" Paks lowered her voice after that. "Suli, if you think that 
was bad—one man dead, and quickly dead—you don't know anything." She thought of 
Etta's broken back, of Captain Ferrault at Dwarfwatch. "You think because you've 
survived a couple of fights—difficult fights, yes, I'll grant you—that you re 
ready—"
"Just to be your squire," pleaded Suli. "I know I couldn't earn ray way yet, as 
a soldier. But you could teach me—"
"I don't know enough myself. No, don't argue. I know what a private in the 
Duke'sCompany knows, and a little more. You think it's a lot—dial's because you 
don't know—" Paks broke off, shaking her head. Would ihis have convinced her, 
the year she left home? Would anything convince Suli, now glaring at the table? 
She could feel that stubborn resolution as if it were a flame. She tried again. 
"Suli, I do think you can be a good soldier. You are strong, fast, and fairly 
skilled. More skilled than I was when I left home. I'm not trying to keep you 
from becoming a fighter. If you don't want to join a mercenary company, try one 
of the guards' units. Or ask Marshal Cedfer about training in the Fellowship. 
But all I can teach is fighting skills, and I'm finding out how much more 1 
need. Why, when I first came, I'd never stayed in an inn before—"
"TTiat's why I don't want to join a company," said Suli. "Staying all together, 
never on my own. I already know how to uve on my own—and I can help you with 
mat."
"You fight too much," Paks said. She had heard that from Mal and the others. 
Suli blushed. Paks went on. "My old sergeant said soldiers were fools to get in 
brawls. Most folk don't like soldiers anyway, and you get a reputation for 
causing trouble, they're glad enough to see you in the lockup or sold to 
slavers."
"We don't have any slavers here," muttered Suli.
"No, but you've got a lockup." Paks drained her mug. "Look, Suli, that's beside 
the point. It's not you. It's me. I'm not ready to take on someone to train. I 
was looking for more training for myself. If I were just adventuring, it'd be 
different, but I'm not. I want—"
"But I’ll never have another chance," Suti burst out. "Nobody pays any 
attention—I'm just a crazy girl, that's what they think. I thought you would 
help—you're a woman, after all—and I'll never get out of this place if you 
don't—"
Paks slapped the table. "That's just what I've been telling you, Suli. How to 
get out and get die training you need. But you don't want to do it the right 
way. You want it to come all at once. I can see it in your eyes—you look at my 
sword, and my mail, and that big horse, and see yourself. What you don't see is 
the years in between, the years it took me to get all that. And there's no other 
way. Yes, I was lucky—I got some of it by a lucky chance. But die experience, 
the fighting skill, no. That came from years of just what you say you don't 
want—daily drill, daily work, battles that you call dull. That's what gave me 
the skill to take a chance when it came. You can't just leap from being a 
village girl with a knack for swordplay to—' she paused, uncertain how she would 
describe herself honestly.
"It could happen," said Suli. "It could. If you had found someone before you 
joined the company, she could have taught you everything you needed. You might 
have been rich and famous before now."
"I might have been dead before now, too. And Suli, knowing what I know now, I 
wouldn't have hired myself back then. It took the Duke's recruit company months 
to train any of us."
"But I've been training, with the Marshal. You've seen me—I'm not a beginner."
Paks sighed. She wondered if she had seemed so—so young, when she'd joined the 
Company. All that eagerness. At least she had taken Jornoth's advice, had not 
just run away to search for adventure on her own. She was trying to frame an 
answer, aware of Suli's intense gaze, when a shadow fell on her. She looked 
around. One of the senior yeoman nodded to her.
"Lady Paksenarrion? Marshal Cedfer would like to speak with you in the grange." 
He smiled at Suli, who reddened. "They say, Suli, that you fought weU with this 
lady."
"She did," said Paks.
"Well have to see about transferring you to the senior rolls," said the man to 
Suli. "Might make a yeoman-marshal, might she?" he asked of Paks.
"I—don't know how you choose yeoman-marshals, but Suli is a good swordsman." 
Paks stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get my cloak—" The yeoman sat down and 
began talking to Suli; Paks was relieved.
The Marshal's office was slightly cold; Paks wondered why he had lit no fire in 
the small fireplace. Then she saw that the Kuakgan stood leaning in the corner, 
quiet as a shadow.
"Come in, Paksenarrion," said the Marshal. "We've been talking about you." She 
glanced quickly at the Kuakgan, who said nothing. What had they said? The last 
talks with the Marshal had been painful enough; she knew he no longer blamed her 
for Ambros's death, but she still blamed herself a little. She sat down when he 
gestured at a chair; the Kuakgan moved forward to take another.
"You will be wondering why," the Marshal went on. "I, as you know, would like to 
see you join the Fellowship of Gird. As a Marshal of Gird, I am interested in 
all soldiers, as well as the cause of right. In your case, something more moves 
me. It is for this that I contacted the Kuakgan, and talked with him about you."
"Yes, sir," said Paks, when he paused as if for some comment. She didn't know 
what else to say.
"Before we go on, would you mind telling me whether you have accepted Suli's 
service? I know she wants to be your squire, or some such—she's been wanting a 
way out of Brewersbridge for the last three years."
"Marshal Cedfer, I was talking to her when your yeoman asked me to come here. I 
don't—I know I'm not a knight, and have no way to use a squire. I'm not a 
wandering free sword—which she seems to think—and I don't need a companion. I 
told her fhat."
"Have you any complaint of her?"
"No. None at all. She fought bravely against the hool, as I told you, and did 
well against the priest's guards. But sir—she's not ready to be a soldier, I 
don't think. And I'm not the one to train her. I need more training myself, to 
be what—what I'd like."
"Do you know what that is, Paksenarrion?" asked the Kuakgan.
"No—not exactly." Every time she tried to imagine herself in some noble's 
troops—even the Tsaian Royal Guard—the picture blurred and blew away. "Not a 
mercenary—what people think of as a mercenary. Not a caravan guard the rest of 
my life."
"A knight?" asked Marshal Cedfer. "A captain, perhaps?"
"Maybe." Paks looked at her hands. "I am a soldier, I enjoy swordplay, I want to 
be in that kind of life. But not just for—for fighting anything, or for show. I 
want to fight—"
"What needs fighting?" suggested the Kuakgan.
Paks looked at him and nodded. "I think mat's what I mean. Bad things. Like the 
robbers in Aarenis that killed my friends, or Siniava—he was evil. Or 
that—whatever that held the elf-lord. Only I don't think I have the powers for 
that. But I want to fight where I'm sure it's right—not just to show that I'm 
big and strong. It's the same as tavern brawling, it seems to me—even if it's 
armies and lords—"
The Kuakgan nodded. "You've learned a lot, Paksenarrion, besides what most 
soldiers know. I thought so before, but now I'm sure. Do you know anything of 
die rangers in Lyonya?"
"No." Paks frowned. "Why?"
"You have fought with the elfane taig. It may be that you can sense the taigin, 
and if so you would be able to work with them."
"Master Oakhallow—" the Marshal began. The Kuakgan waved him to silence.
"Marshal, I don't question the sincerity of Girdsmen. You know that. We honor 
the same gods. But some fighters have abilities Gird does not use. She may be 
one of them." He turned back to Paks. "Paksenarrion, we agree that you have 
shown ability to fight evil. You have shown a desire to know more of good, and 
to fight for it. We both think you have been touched by the evil you've 
fought—not to contaminate you, but in such wise that you should not go back to 
ordinary soldiering. Do you agreed?"
Paks was too bewildered to answer. Marshal Cedfer spoke up.
"Paksenarrion, when you came you said your Duke had recommended additional 
training—even toward a captaincy. We are prepared to guide you toward such 
training, but you must choose. I can give you a letter to the Marshal-General at 
Fin Panir; she will probably take my recommendation and let you study with the 
training order there. From that you can become a knight in either of the two 
Girdish orders—or even a paladin, if Gird's grace touches you."
"And I can give you introduction to the rangers of Lyonya," said the Kuakgan. 
"If you satisfied them, they might recommend you to the Knight-Commander of the 
Knights of Falk. That would be a few years away, however. But in either case, 
you would use your skills only in causes of good. If that way of fighting did 
not appeal, you could always leave."
"You could not take Suli with you, either way," said the Marshal. "That's why I 
asked. If you had contracted with her, the gnome merchants have told me that 
they can get you a contract from the gnome prince of Gnarriniulk. Something in 
the way of soldiering, I don't know what. But if you aren't taking Suli, then—" 
He stopped and cocked his head, waiting for her answer.
"But I'm not Girdish," she managed to say. Nothing else came out.
"No. But I daresay that in Fin Panir, at the High Lord's Hall, after training 
with others of the faith, that Gird would make plain his interest in you." The 
Marshal leaned back a little in his chair. "I think he has already, 
Paksenarrion. When I think of the things you have come through—" Paks thought to 
herself that he didn't know the half of it. She had not told him all about 
Aarenis. She remembered what the priest of Achrya had said: "near enough a 
paladin… Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in the growth of a paladin of 
Gird…" And the training at Fin Panir was famous throughout the north. She might 
become a knight—or even a paladin—she pushed the thought away. It was for the 
gods to think of such things, not a soldier. But the other way. Rangers—she knew 
nothing of them. The thought of more powers like the elfene taig daunted her, 
though she hated to admit it. And years of service, before she might think of 
the Knights of Falk.
She looked at the Kuakgan again, meeting his dark eyes squarely. "Sir—Master 
Oakhallow—I honor yon—"
"I know that, child," he said, smiling.
"If you have a—" she stopped, knowing what she meant, but not how to say it. If 
he demanded it, in return for releasing her from guilt for the snowcat's murder, 
she would go. She saw understanding in his eyes.
"I have no commands for you, Paksenarrion," he said softly. "You have served 
Brewersbridge well; you have fulfilled my trust in you, and my hope for you. Go 
with my blessings, whichever way you go."
"Then—" she looked back at the Marshal. Was it for Ambros, who had trusted her 
with his fears and died beyond her help? Was it for Canna, who had left her the 
medallion? Or for something else, something she felt dimly and could not define? 
"I would be glad, sir, of your recommendation," she said formally. The Marshal 
snot a triumphant glance at the Kuakgan; Paks nearly took her words back. But 
the Kuakgan's smile was open and friendly. He spoke to her alone.
"Paksenarrion, the Kuakkganni treasure all life created in the first song. We 
study, we learn, but we do not order a creature from its own way. And the 
creature itself knows its own way best, unless it is sorely hurt. If the other 
way had been best for you, you would have known." He turned back to the Marshal. 
"Marshal Cedfer, we are no more rivals than two men who plant a seed neither of 
them knows, and argue until it sprouts whether it will be fireoak or yellowwooa. 
The seed knows itself; it will grow as its nature demands, and when the first 
leaves open, all arguments are over."
To Paks's surprise, the Marshal looked shamefaced. "You're right, Master 
Oakhallow. I have no right—but I was hoping so, for some good to come of 
Ambros's death."
The Kuakgan nodded gravely. "And yet you know that good has come of it. The 
webspinner's priest is gone, and you will clean that filthy place from end to 
end. Ambros has shown that your training prepares untried lads for the worst of 
wars, and the best of ends. You live in constant combat, Marshal, and it makes 
you alert to each advantage—but the gods move in longer cycles, as well. Be at 
peace, honest warrior." He rose and left the room. For a long silent time, Paks 
and Marshal Cedfer sat in quiet, contented. Then the Marshal shook himself like 
a wet puppy and snorted.
"Gird's grace, that fellow could cast a spell on stone. He may have time enough, 
but I live a normal span, like any man. Paksenarrion, I will write my letter 
this afternoon. When will you be fit for travel?"
"In a day or so. I'd like to get everything cleaned up."
"Good. I think you should not linger; winter will close some roads soon, and it 
makes bitter traveling to the northwest. About Suli—do you want me to talk to 
her?"
"I told her she should talk to you, but she—"
"She doesn't want it; she knows what I'll say. I've said it before. All right. 
Ill say it again. I can send her to another grange—a larger one—with more women 
training. Let her know what she can work towards—yeoman-marshal, or something 
like that. Tell her to come, if you see her." Paks wondered if it would help, 
but said she would.
Chapter Eighteen
As autumn darkened into winter, Paks rode north and west, into Ve"rella of the 
Bells, and west along the Honnorgat, through one town after another, as the 
river narrowed. She passed from grange to grange, enjoying the hospitality of 
each, as the Marshal's letter opened the doors. As she neared Fintha, she tried 
to think of a more elegant name for the black horse, something suitable for a 
warhorse, but she had thought of him as Socks from the first, and it stuck in 
her mind. She thought of turning aside at Whitemeadow, and following a branch of 
the river north to Rocky Ford, and then on to Three Firs. But had her dowry 
arrived yet? Would she be welcome? She decided to wait until she had her 
knighthood, and ride home with Gird's crescent on her arm.
Frost whitened the ground the morning she first caught sight of Fin Panir. She 
had been on the road before dawn, the saddle cold as iron beneath her, and her 
breath pluming out before. When the sun rose into a clear cola sky, the ground 
sparkled in rose and gold; the tree branches interlacing overhead were 
glittering with frost. It was Wee riding inside a pearl. A tittle wind blew the 
sparkling frost in swirls before her. Paks found herself grinning, and nudged 
the black horse into a trot. He squealed and kicked out behind before settling 
down. She laughed aloud.
Then the forest broke apart, and she saw across a bend of the river the spires 
of the High Lord's Hall, gleaming in silver and gold against the blue sky. 
Beneath was a tangle of roofc and walls, multi-colored stone, tiles, sliced into 
fantastic shapes by the sharp shadows of a winter sun. Fin Panir was a walled 
city, but wailed like none Paks had seen, with multiple angles in and out. She 
rode toward it, yearning.
Within an hour she was near enough to pick out the gates. Between her and the 
walls, a small company of horsemen rode, armor glittering and banners dancing 
above. When she was near enough, they hailed her.
"Ho! Traveler! Where are you bound?" The leader was deep-voiced, a man of middle 
height in chainmail with a blue mantle bearing Gird's crescent.
"To the Hall in Fin Panir," said Paks. "I have a letter from Marshal Cedfer of 
Brewersbridge."
"For the Marshal-General?" he seemed surprised.
"Yes, sir. Can you direct me?"
"Yes, of course. But you might ask at the gates; she may be abroad this morning. 
You will have left Tor's Crossing early—or did you camp out last night?"
"I left early, sir."
"Well, the Marshal-General's quarters are in the Hall Courts. Take the first 
left, after the gate, and then a right—go straight past two turns, and then left 
again under the arch. Someone will take your horse there, and guide you. But, as 
I said, ask at the city gates if your message is urgent; they will know if she's 
ridden out somewhere."
"Thank you, sir." Paks lifted her reins and started forward. One of the other 
riders spoke to the leader, and he lifted a hand.
"Wait a moment—" He looked closely at her. "Are you a Girdsman?"
"No, sir." He looked puzzled. "You are carrying something of great worth—is it a 
gift from the Marshall'
"Gift? No, sir." Paks thought of the jewels she still had, and wondered if that 
was what he meant. Somehow she didn't think so.
At the city gates, a neatly uniformed guard waved her through after she 
explained her errand. When she asked, he said that the Marshal-General had gone 
to the practice fields west of the city, but that she might wait at the Hall if 
she chose. Paks followed the directions through stone-paved streets of middle 
width, and arrived at an arched entrance through a wall. Far above she could see 
the towers of the Lord's Hall. A grizzled older man stepped out of an alcove in 
the arch and asked her business.
"Marshal-Generai, eh? She'll be out until noon; can you wait?" At her nod, he 
stepped forward. "Good, then. Ill get someone to take your horse—"
"I can take him," Paks interrupted. "If you'll tell me where."
His bushy eyebrows rose. "A guest take her own horse to stable? What do you 
think we are, ruffians?" He turned and bellowed through the archway. "Seli! 
Seliaml" Paks heard the clatter of running feet, and a boy raced up, panting. 
"Take this horse to the guest stables, Seli. Have the stableboys see to him." 
The boy laid his hand on the rein, and Paks dismounted. She rummaged in her 
saddlebags for Cedfer's letter to the Marshal-General. "Seli will take your 
saddlebags to the guest house in a few minutes," the man said. "Would you prefer 
to wait there, or in the Marshal-General's study?"
"Could 1—" Paks suddenly felt shy. "I—I haven't been in Fin Panir before," she 
began again. "Could I see the High Lord's Hall? Is it permitted?"
His face split in a grin. "Permitted! Of course it's permitted. Let me find 
someone for the entrance, ana I’ll take you in myself Haven't been here before, 
eh? I daresay you've heard tales, though, haven't you?" He turned away without 
waiting for an answer, and yelled again through the arch. This time another 
older man answered the summons.
"What is it, Argalt? An invasion of ores?"
"No. A newcomer, who wants to see the Hall while waiting for die 
Marshal-General."
"And you want to show him—her, excuse me." The man smiled at Paks. "Gird's 
grace, lady, you've made Argalt's day. He loves to show off the Hall. And you've 
bright sun for it, too." He waved them away, and Paks followed the man through 
the arch and across a cobbled courtyard to the entrance of the High Lord's Hall 
of Fin Panir.
Broad steps led up to a pair of tall bronze doors, cast in intricate designs. 
Paks stopped to look at them, and her guide began to explain.
"These doors are not the original—those burned, hundreds of years back, the year 
the Black Lady fought to the steps here. But these were designed and cast by the 
han-elven craftsman Madegar. The middle of each door bears the High Lord's 
Seal—it's inlaid in gold, as you see. All around are the seals of the saints, 
and a little picture of each one doing something famous. There's Gird, with the 
cudgel, and Falk with a sword and the tyrant of Celias, and Cam wyn riding a 
dragon, and Dort shearing the golden sheep, do you see all that?"
"Yes." Paks traced the designs with her finger, as far as she could reach. She 
found Torre and her magical steed, Sertig with his anvil. She stared, 
fascinated, until the man tapped her on the shoulder. "Come along in, now, and 
see the rest." From the great doors, the Hall stretched away, longer than any 
grange Paks had seen. The grange at Brewersbridge, she thought, would have fit 
in sideways, and three more with it. The soaring arches that held the roof were 
lifted from stone columns like treetrunks springing from the floor. It reminded 
her, in that way, of the elves' Winterhall underground. At the far end, a double 
platform with a low railing took the place of die usual training platform in 
granges. On either side a railed gallery with stepped seating offered a clear 
view of the floor.
But all this she saw later. First she was aware of the great wash of brilliant 
tight, broken into dazzling chips of color, that poured through the great round 
window in the far end. All along both sides, high windows of colored glass 
spread fanciful patterns of light on the floor. She turned to^the guide, who was 
chuckling at her reaction. "How?" was all she could say. "You had seen glass in 
windows before?" he asked.
"Yes, but—" she waved a hand at the magnificence.
"It's colored glass, laid in a pattern, and bound in strips of lead. And I’ll 
have you know, it wasn't an elf designed that." Now that the first dazzle had 
passed, Paks could see that the colored glass made designs—even pictures, in 
some of the windows. The round window held a many-pointed star in shades of blue 
with accents of gold. Along the sunny south side of the Hall, she saw Gird with 
his cudgel striking a richly dressed knight, Camwyn riding a dragon whose breath 
seemed literal flame, a harper (she could not remember the name of the harpers' 
patron saint) playing to a tree that seemed to be turning into a girl, and Torre 
partway through her Bide, with half the stones of the necklace turned to stars. 
The longer she looked at each window, the more she saw. Each had smaller scenes 
inset in medallions around the main picture. Paks walked over to Torre's window. 
There was her home, with its six towers, and that must be her sorrowing father 
with the wicked king threatening him. Here was the stable, with the strange 
horse standing loose between the stalls, the ring of coals around its neck. A 
white flower stood for the first trial of her Ride, and three snowflakes for the 
next. A fat dwarf held the blue ring, and an elf in green held out the branch of 
yellowwood in flower, complete with two bees. The wicked king's ted banner blew 
from a tower on a cliff. A sleeping baby in a basket floated on a river. At the 
very top of the window, the stars of Torre's Necklace blazed out of blue glass 
just as they did in the sky.
Paks tore her eyes away and looked around again. Hie shadowed, northern side 
windows were pictures as well. Sertig pounding on his anvil, and Adyan writing 
the true names of everything in his book. Alyanya, the Lady of Peace, wreathed 
in flowers, with fruitful vines trailing around her. Some pictures she did not 
recognize at all. One seemed to be all animals, fitted into every available 
niche, all mixed together, large and small. One was simply a tree, whose gnarled 
roots and branches filled up the space above and below, curling and recurling 
until Paks could not tell how many little rootlets filled even one small 
section.
When she finally left the windows to look at the rest of the building, it was 
equally engrossing. The floor was paved with flat slabs of stone in a subtle 
pattern. Many of the slabs were engraved with names and dates that meant nothing 
to Paks—but much to her guide, when she asked.
"That there's Lolyin's marker—he was Marshal-General over a hundred years ago, 
and converted the King of Tsaia to the fellowship of Gird. That was the 
great-grandfather of the present crown prince. Under his name is the paladin 
Brealt. You might have heard of him, since I can see you've been in Aarenis. He 
freed the captives of Pliuni, and fought two priests of Uart by himself to do 
it." Paks had not heard of him, but she nodded. Hie old man went on. 
"Marshal-Generals and paladins of Gird—and a few others—they have their names 
and dates put here. Some say their deeds should be added, but the rule is that 
(hose who want to know should look them up in the archives. There's not one of 
them but is worth remembering. Take this—" he led her up near the platform. 
"This is Gird's own marker, put here by Luap—the oldest we have." The stone was 
worn in a hollow, and the letters were feint. "In the old way, all that joined 
the knights of the fellowship, or became paladins of Gird, would spend part of a 
vigil washing that stone, to keep Gird's name pure. But then they realized they 
were wearing it down, and only the Marshal-General does it now."
Paks could think of nothing to say. She had never imagined that anything built 
by men would be as beautiful as the Hall. That soaring space.seemed to liberate 
something inside her, as if it called for wings within. When they came out at 
last, she blinked in the sunlight, her head still full of what she'd seen.
She had no idea what to expect of a Marshal-General. Tfce Marshals she had met 
had been matter-of-fact, much like the Duke's captains. But what she'd seen of 
feudal commanders, and the splendor of the Hall, led her to think that the 
Marshal-General might be more—she tried to think of a word—impressive? 
magnificent? As the ser- vant led her through the passages and up a broad stair 
to the Marshal-General's office, she felt her stomach flutter. The door was 
open. Paks looked across a fairly large room to a table set under one of the 
south windows. Behind it stood two people, a woman and a man, both in blue 
tunics over gray trousers. Both had Gird's crescents on chains around their 
neck. They were looking at something on the table as the servant knocked; the 
woman looked u.
"A messenger, Marshal-General, from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge." He 
gestured at Paks.
"Ah yes. Argalt mentioned you—your name?"
"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said Paks, uncertain of the correct address.
"You're not a Girdsman?"
"No—my lady." Paks thought that was safest.
"Then you may not know I in Marshal-General Arianya. But you're a warrior—that's 
clear enough. " Paks nodded. "Well, then, let me see your message."
Paks walked into the room and handed over the Marshal's letter. The 
Marshal-Genera! was a tall woman of middle age, her graying curly hair cropped 
short. She wore no sword, but her tunic was marked by sword belt and scabbard. 
Her right hand bore a wide scar; Paks wondered how it had missed severing some 
tendons. The Marshal-General looked up from what she was reading.
"Do you know what Cedfer's written?"
Paks felt the blood rush to her face. "Some of it, my lady. He said he—that 
you—that I might take some training here."
He's recommended that you be admitted to a probationers' class in the Company of 
Gird. And he's said why—" She paused and looked at Paks closely. "It's most 
unusual, you know, for anyone not of the fellowship to be admitted here."
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 seemedtike fun. And she had always 
been able to learn warrior's skills. 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 were trained and 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'sgaze.
"Well, Paksenarrion, have a seat—there—and let's find out more about you. Cedfer 
sent word at once about the efcfane taig, but few details. Where are you from, 
and how did you come to join the Duke's Company?"
Tin from Three Firs, my lady. My lather is a sheepfarmer."
"Three Firs! I know that country—for 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 Jomoth had come visiting with a bright sword and hispurse full 
of silver. "My fether didn't—so I ran away." The Marshal-General nodded. "I 
joined the Duke's Company at Rocky Ford, and then—" she shrugged. "1 was a 
recruit, and then a private in the Company."
"You fought in die 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 give 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 Seti 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? Fentthr
"Yes, my lady." Paks didn't want to talk about that, either: the one tune die 
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 Loart, 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 md 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—"
"Watt. 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 die sweat cold on her neck as she began to tell die Marshal-General 
about their flight from Dwarfwatch. Knowing that she would insist on hearing 
those oarts of the journey that made Paks the most nervous didn'thelp. She had 
not mentioned the prayers over Canna's wound to anyone but Stammel, and it was 
no easier now. The Marshal-General seemed to grow more remote and august as she 
fastened.
"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."
"You didn't tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith," said the Marshal-General.
"No—I wasn't sure—"
"Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?" That, too, Paks told, 
even Captain Dorrin's remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.
"Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?"
"No, my lady. Falldan—or that's what one of the sergeants said."
"I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for 
you?"
"I didn't—I was frightened of it, lady. I didn't know what to do."
"Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?"
Paks shook her head vigorously. "Oh no. I—"
"You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance."
"I didn't want to, not then. I—I suppose I wished that it would just—just be 
over. I kept thinking about them—"
"Canna?"
"And—and Saben. He was my—our friend, that was with us."
"Your lover?"
"No." Ttie old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again, die 
Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.
"Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion—with surviving the blow 
of Liart's priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the 
enchantments when Siniava tried to escape—don't you think that there's clear 
evidence of Gird's action in your behalf?"
"I don't—I can't be sure—"
"Gird's teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?" Hie Marshal-General 
glared at her. "D'you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and explain 
everything in words a sheep&rmer's daughter can understand?*
"No, my lady." Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. She heard a gusty 
sigh.
"How old are you, Paksenarrion?"
Paks counted it out aloud. "I was eighteen winters when I left home—and then 
nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty—twenty-one after Dwarfwatch—near 
twenty-two, my lady."
"I see. Are you set against die fellowship of Gird?"
"Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more—but you see, my family was not 
Girdish. And I still think it's better to abide the gods you know—"
The Marshal-General sighed again. Paks looked up to find her gazing out one of 
the narrow windows, her face stern. After a long moment she turned back to Paks. 
"We are not," she said firmly, "a training camp for those who want fancy skills 
to show off." Paks felt her face reddening again. "If what you want is an 
accomplishment to display—like someone stringing another pearl on a necklace—you 
don't belong here, and I won't lend Gird's name to it. Those we train must go 
out as Gird's warriors, to serve the lands and defend them against the powers of 
evil. They must care, Paksenarrion, for this cause more than their own fame. 
Those sworn to the fellowship of Gird I have ways of testing. If you persist in 
remaining aloof, I must assume that your dedication is unproven. I wUl 
not—absolutely not—let you take advantage of this Company, and go off boasting 
that you trained with the Company of Gird at Fin Panir, unless you can show me 
what you will pay. Not in money, young warrior, but in your life."
Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and 
helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time, 
wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook her 
head rueftilly.
"I don't know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been 
trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in 
Brewersbridge—there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a 
squire to me. I knew I didn't know enough to be her—her commander, or whatever, 
but also—I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see. To wear a 
sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps—but she didn't know what it 
cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell her, tried to get her to join a 
regular company, as I had—"
"And did she?" The Marshal-General'svoice was still remote.
Paks shook her head. "Not as far as I know. I tried—but she wanted adventure, 
she said. It would be too dull, she didn't tike people yelling at her; she said 
she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge." Paks stopped before saying, "She 
had a very bad father, my lady."
"You ran away from yours."
"Oh, well… he wasn't like that. But I see what you mean—you think 1 want to—to 
make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong. 
You're right. But—I can't swear to follow Gird until I know—until I'm sure of 
myself—that I can do it."
"That's coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn't seem 
to trust Gird."
Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. "I don't—I mean, I don't know 
Gird, but you all say Gird is a saint, and I won't argue. But / don't know 
Gird—I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other gods and 
saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?"
The Marshal-General's eyebrows went up. "You would not believe the evidence of 
the medallion?
Paks set her jaw stubbornly. "I'm not sure. And I won't swear to something I'm 
not sure of."
To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. "Gird be praised, you are at least 
willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as 
yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny—but it may take Gird's 
cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The gods grant you are 
this stubborn about other things that matter." She sat forward, leaning her 
forearms on me table between them. "Now, what sort of training did you look 
for?"
Paks could hardly believe her ears. "You mean—you'll let me stay?"
"Let you! By Gird, I'm not likely to let someone like you wander the world 
unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you'll 
stay."
"But if I don't—"
"Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me 
cause to send you away. When—notice that I do not say if, being granted almost 
as much stubbornness as you, by Gird's grace—when you find that you can swear 
your honor to Gird's fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your 
strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General 
of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?"
Paks blushed. "No, my lady. I'm sorry, I—"
"Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn."
"Well-—everything about war—"
The Marshal-General whooped. "Everything? About war? Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, 
no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at 
once." I meant," muttered Paks, ears flaming, "weapons-skills, and things about 
forts—things the Duke's captains knew about, like tunnels—"
"All right," said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I see 
what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you're serious. 
Well, then. I'll assign you to the training company. Many of diem are younger 
than you—nobles' youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They've been 
someone's squires, and now they're preparing for knighthood. Some have come up 
through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You 
may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. 
You'll be assigned space in the courts—we don't have open barracks, for you'll 
need to study alone. You do read, don't you?" At Paks's nod, she went on, now 
writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. "Weapons practice daily—the senior 
instructor will assign the drills once he's examined you. Riding—do you ride? 
Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You're a few weeks behind 
one group they arrived just after harvest. That's when we start the new cycles. 
But we'll see if you can catch up to them." She looked up from her writing. 
Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. 
"What weapons do you have?" she asked.
"This sword," said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. "Another one, not so 
good—"
"That one's magical," said the Marshal-General. "Did you know?"
"Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battle-axe."
"Do you use all of them?"
"No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well."
"And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use 
your own weapons. The weapons-master will assign you weapons for training; yours 
may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer."
"Yes, my lady."
"Your clothes—" she glanced at Paks's traveling clothes. "We have training 
uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We discourage 
display of jewels and such, but you don't look the type to show up in laces and 
ribbons."
"No, my lady."
"Very well." She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. "Take this 
down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. Hell assign your 
quarters, and see that you're set up with the instructors. You will take your 
meals in the Lower Hall—by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder 
races, have you?^
"Elder races—you mean elves and dwarves?"
"Among others. We have quite a few here—you'll be meeting teem. Don't get in 
fights with them.**
"Oh no."
"Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird's grace be on you, and the High Lord's 
light guide your way." She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on 
the table edge.
"Thank you, my lady—"
"Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to 
deserve your thanks."
Chapter Nineteen
Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of 
passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. "Training Master, eh? So 
you're going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it 
paladin you're thinking of?"
Paks felt her ears burning again. "I—don't know, sir."
Argalt snorted. "I'm no sir, not even to the newest member of the training 
company. Argalt: that's my name and that's what you'll call me, young woman."
"Yes, si—Argalt."
"That's better. You're no hothouse flower of a noble house—where are you from?" 
Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. "Sheepfarmer's 
daughter? That's like Gird'sdaughter herself—barring he raised cattle and grain, 
so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I'll say, and a few 
busters on the hands. Where'd you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?" 
When she mentioned the Duke's name, he stared. "You were in the Fox's Company? 
And came here? I'll believe anything after that!" He shook his head as he led 
her across the courtyard, past the Lord's Hall. "I was in the Guards at Verella 
when I was young; what I don't know about that Duke—" But Paks asked nothing, 
and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long 
look outside the Training Master's office. "If you need someone to talk to, 
sometime, sheepfarmer's daughter—I'll share a tankard of ale with you."
"Thank you," said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned 
away.
The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in 
dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird's crescent embroidered on the breast. He 
read the Marshal-General's note, and Cedfer's letter, in tight-lipped silence. 
When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.
"If you're to catch up with the others, you'll have to work—and work hard. You'd 
best not loll about."
Paks repressed a surge of anger. She'd never been lazy. "No, sir,' she said 
stiffly.
"It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for 
tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer's right about your 
weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you 
more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, 
is beyond me." Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. 
He sighed, heavily, very well, then. How much gear do you have?"
"Only what was in my saddlebags, sir," said Paks. "I suppose it's—"
They'll have it brought to your quarters." He glanced for a moment at a chart on 
his wall. "Let me think. There's a room on the third floor, next to the end of 
the corridor. You can have that, for now. It's small, but it won't mean moving 
anyone else tonight. If it's too small, we can change things in a week or so." 
If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. "You'll need clothes; I’ll have 
the steward send something up. Come along." He pushed past her to die corridor, 
and led the way upstairs.
Toe room he opened seemed amply large to Paks—larger than her room at the Jolly 
Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. 
Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, 
stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table. Several 
blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all 
this in when he began speaking again.
"Students do not wear weapons except at practice," he said, with a pointed 
glance at her sword. "We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, 
but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you." 
Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. 
Just then a servant came in with her saddle-bags; behind him was the steward, 
with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward 
eyed her.
"You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do 
you use—Paksenarrion, or Dort-hansdotter?"
"Paks is all."
"Paksenarrion," said the steward cheerfully. "I need something long enough it 
can't be mistaken in anyone's handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you 
have something that fits well—"
Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. "Will this do?"
"Good—good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?"
"No, but near there. Brewersbridge."
Hie steward shook her head. "I don't know it. Trousers, too, if you've an extra 
pair." Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, 
and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of 
blankets, and left the room.
"If you're ready," said the Training Master, "there is time to see the weapons 
instructors Defore supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon 
enough." Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddle-bags behind the 
curtain, before following him out of the room. "You have fought mostly in a 
mercenary company, I understand."
"Yes, sir."
"Short sword or polearm?"
"Short sword."
"But you carry a longsword."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you used a bow?"
"In training, yes—it's not my best weapon."
"PolearmsP"
"Only in training."
"Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?" At each shake of her head, his lips 
seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important. 
She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little of 
the building around them—only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone flags 
of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three sides by 
stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were shoveling it 
into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a massive warhorse, the 
Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another passage. This time 
they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On 
their right, the stone building irouted a long finger; the Training Master 
turned toward sproi this.
It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no 
platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was empty 
at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from die far 
side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.
Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with 
swords and—Paks was surprised to see—hauks. To one side a burly man in blue 
watched diem closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks 
followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.
"This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said the Training Master abruptly. "The 
Marshal-General has assigned her to this class."
Sharp black eyes met hers. "Ha. She's no novice."
"So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri, do 
so."
"Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?" Paks thought by the tone that this 
was an old argument begun again. The Training Master's face relaxed.
"There are other skills of war, Cieri—"
"Oh, and so there are, but none of them any good if you can't keep a blade from 
your guts." He shook his head. "Never mind, Chanis, I know what you mean, and 
the Marshal-General, too. If she can spare the time, I’ll see to it. But only 
if, understand that." He cocked his head at Paks, and looked her over.
"See that she knows where to go, when you're through," said the Training Master. 
He turned to Paks. "Gird be with you, Paksenarrion. If you have any need, come 
to my office at any time."
"Thank you, sir," said Paks, still ruffled.
"Well, now." Cieri, the weaponsmaster, was walking around her. She turned to 
watch him. "Where have you fought? What weapons? I see marks of a longsword on 
your clothes." For the third time that day, Paks outlined her training. Cieri, 
at least, showed no doubt. "That's good. Three fighting seasons with Phelan—that 
means you bow your way with short sword and formation fighting. And you've used 
a longsword since—very good. Many who come to us with your background cannot 
fight without the others in formation. Not until I've trained diem, that is." He 
grinned broadly. For all that he was younger and heavier, he reminded Paks of 
Siger. "What about unarmed combat?"
"I've done it," said Paks cautiously. She knew that Siger himself had mastered 
only a few of the many styles.
"Can you fight mounted? I know Phelan has infantry."
"I have, some. Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge was teaching me, and I fought a 
little with a sword."
"Without cutting up the horse? Good. I see you're wearing mail—Chanis didn't 
give you time to change, eh? But we don't wear mail in practice sessions—you 
must not come to count on it. Today I'll test you, but tomorrow you show up in 
training uniform, rightr
"Yes, sir." Paks noticed that the others were watching covertly, slowing their 
own practice to see what she was doing. Cieri noticed that, too, and bellowed at 
them.
"Gird's gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and I’ll run 
you all around die field ten times before supper. D'you think an enemy'd let you 
gaze all around like a bunch of calves in pasture? Get to your work, or—" But 
the tempo had speeded back up at once. Cieri picked up two swords from a stack 
near the edge of the practice area. "Here—we'll start widi what you're 
comfortable with."
Paks took a sword and moved it, testing its balance. It was heavier than her 
own, and broader across die blade. Cieri stood casually, touched her blade with 
die tip of his, and leaped in so fast that she almost missed her own stroke.
"Ahal" he said. "If you were diat slow widi enemies, you would have more scars 
than you do. Don't hold back, girl—I'm better dian Cedfer, if you want the truth 
of it." Indeed he was, and Paks found herself working hard to keep his blade 
from clashing on her mail. She had gotten used to die delicate balance of die 
magic sword—that responsive tight spring—and she felt, at first, that she was 
fencing widi a lengdi of iron firewood. Several minutes later, sweating freely, 
she found her balance, and tried offensive strokes as well as defensive. Cieri 
countered diem easily, but grinned even more widely. "You're learning," he said. 
"You've got a reach on you, too. And reasonable speed." He tried one of the 
tricks she knew about, and she thrust it aside, lunging quickly to mark his 
tunic. "And you know something. Very good. You haven't wasted your time." But in 
a flash he shifted his blade to die other hand. Paks, confused, missed her 
parry, and felt the sharp blow along her side. Another, in die same place, and 
dien she countered with a blow diat drove him back a step.
She had forgotten diat he wore no mail, until after a fast exchange of heavy 
blows she caught his arm and blood darkened the tunic. "Hold," he said, but she 
had already lowered her blade. He glanced at his arm, and then at her widi new 
respect. "You do know something. By Gird, we may have a swordsman in tfüs class 
after all."
"I'm sorry—" she started to say.
"No matter. In a Hall full of Marshals, little wounds like these are no problem. 
Look here—" He pulled aside the ripped sleeve to show a narrow jagged wound 
already closing. "You must all learn to> fight, and strongly, and therefore I 
take a lot of healing."
Paks was startled. "But I thought—"
He looked closely at her. "Oh. You're not Girdish, are you? Most are. With an 
arm like that, you should be. It's nothing, here—Marshals can heal themselves as 
well as others, and Gird does not begrudge healing to weapons-masters."
"Then you're—"
"A Marshal, yes. You didn't know? Most of your instructors here are Marshals."
"Oh."
"Now put away that sword you obviously know how to use—that you can't learn 
more—and let's see what you do with staves." Paks had never fought with staves 
before, and collected a quantity of bruises proving her incompetence. Cieri then 
tried her in archery; her form, he said, was passable, but her ability to judge 
windage was abysmal. She could not throw a javelin at all, and when he saw her 
grip on a battleaxe, he told her to put it down at once. "And I won't have you 
try unarmed combat in mail just yet—tomorrow will do for that." By this time 
Paks was sweaty, tired, and sore enough to be glad of a rest. "You're beyond 
most of the class in sword handling," he said, after thinking a few moments. 
"Some of them have had lessons for years, but no actual fighting. That's what 
makes die difference. You'll need regular practice with die sword, but instead 
of new tricks with it, I want to improve your other weapons skills. When you 
finish, you should be able to instruct with at least five weapons. More if 
you're interested. Tomorrow morning, come with the others for mounted drill—do 
you have your own horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you can ride your own horse tomorrow. If it's trained enough, you'll 
bring it to every session, but we switch around. Marshal Doggal takes most of 
the mounted classes. Mounted work first thing in the morning, then your other 
studies, before lunch, then drill here. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. But—what about my horse? Where is he, and what about grooming—"
"You've been caring for your own horse? Good, good. You won't do that, for a 
while—this autumn session, we keep the class busy enough without, but in the 
spring each student is assigned a mount to care for. Just snow up at the right 
time in the mornings, and saddle up."
"Oh." Paks thought of explaining Socks's character, but decided not to.
"Now—" he looked at her closely. "I don't mean to insult you, but the order 
provides adequate clothing. Leave your soiled things near the door each morning, 
and they'll be cleaned." Paks nodded. "You look to be in feir condition, but 
you'll be sore and stiff with the schedule you've got. Hot baths are available 
each night. Many students prefer to bathe and change before supper—if they have 
time." He looked around at the rest of the students, and shook his head. "Nearly 
time to quit, and they know it. As you've come in from traveling, and are 
wearing mail, I won't send you—but we end with a run most days." He turned to 
the others, raised his voice. "Rufenl" A young man with dark brown hair stepped 
back from his partner, and came forward. "This is Paksenarrion; she's a new 
member. Take her back to the House, and show her where things are. She's got a 
horse for tomorrow, but doesn't know where it's stabled."
Rufen bowed, giving Paks a quick glance. She thought he was several years 
younger than she, Haifa hand shorter, and more slender. As he led her away, back 
through the empty armory, he looked at her again. "You're not a Girdsman?" he 
asked. Paks could not place his accent, which seemed slightly melodic.
"No," she said. She was not going to explain everything all over again. Not 
then.
"You fence well," he said, with another sidelong glance. "I've never seen Cieri 
move so fast, except against the knights. What land of horse have you?"
Paks answered stiffly, suspecting a joke. "Just a—a black horse. Warhorse."
They were in the stable courtyard by then, and he asked one of the workers. 
"That black with the stockings? And a wide blaze? He's in the new court 
stables."
"That's where guest horses are housed," explained Rufen. "I expect they'll move 
him in here, if they ve got a free stall. He led the way through a tack room 
full of racked saddles into another, larger, stable complex. Before he could 
find someone to ask, Paks heard Socks, and saw his wide head peering out over a 
half-door. Rufen looked startled when she pointed him out. "That's yours? If 
he's not Pargunese-bred, I'D take up the harp. Look at the bone of him." By this 
time they were at the stall, and Socks had shoved his nose hard into Paks's 
tunic.
"I don't have any," she said sharply. He seemed in good shape, and had obviously 
been groomed carefully; no saddle marks snowed on him. Rufen hung over the door, 
still talking.
"Great gods, what a shoulder. How's he trained? Did you train him? Do you have a 
pedigree? No speed, I'd say, out a lot of bottom." Paks had no chance to answer; 
the questions came too fast, and Rufen wasn't paying attention to her anyway. A 
groom came up.
"Tlüs horse yours?"
"Yes."
"He don't like his hind legs messed with, do he?"
"No—did he kick?"
"Kickl Look there at that board—" the man pointed. It was split along its 
length.
"He was hurt before I got him," said Paks. The groom eyed her sourly.
"That's what they all say," he said. "Hurt before I got him, pah! Could have 
trained him out of it, couldn't vour"
"I did," said Paks, suddenly angry again. "Look. She jumped up on the stall 
door. Socks threw his head up and snorted. Be still," she said firmly, and 
slipped onto his broad back, then down to stand beside him. She ran her hand 
over his massive rump, down the hind leg, and chirped. He lifted his hoof 
obediently into her hand, and she tapped the sole, then put it down. "There, you 
see?" The groom nodded.
"All right. Now tell that beast to let someone else do it."
"Come on in." The groom opened the stall door, Socks stiffened his ears, and 
clamped his tail. Paks soothed him with a hand, and the man followed her gesture 
and picked up the other hind hoof. "I suppose, come to think of it, that no 
one's handled his legs but me since I got him," she said.
"I hope hell remember this," said the groom.
"Try apples," said Paks.
"Bribe a horse?"
"That's what I did."
"It works," put in Rufen. "They're such greedy-guts, horses are. We use apples 
in our training."
"Yes, my lord," said the groom, with a slight bow. Rufen colored, glancing at 
Paks. When the man had left, and they were walking back across the stable court, 
he sighed.
"I suppose you know we use only one name here?"
"No—' Paks hadn't thought about it.
"Well, the—the servants and all, they know our noil names. But don't worry about 
it. Just call me Rufen."
"And I'm Paks," she said. He nodded, and led her back into the maze of 
buildings.
"It's simple, really," he said a few minutes later, after taking her to the Low 
Hall where they would eat, and then to the bath house and past some of the 
classrooms. "Hie High Lord's Hall opens into the Forecourt, and directly across 
from it is the Marshal-General's Hall.' Her quarters are upstairs, but they hold 
large meetings downstairs. And several other Marshals live there as well. Where 
you came in—that archway—that's all quarters for the gate guards and some of the 
servants. The other side of the Forecourt is die Training College—where we live 
and meet for classes. It used to be quarters for the Knights of Gird, but when 
the order grew too big for it, they converted it for us. The ground floor is 
much larger—rooms on the back side look over the roofs. That's because it 
doesn't have cellars; all the storerooms are above ground."
"Why?"
Rufen shrugged. "I don't know. I never wondered; they just told us when we came. 
Anyway, the Low Hall is more-or-less behind the Marshal-General's quarters; you 
saw where the kitchens were, between the steward's office and the Hall. The 
stables are really confusing, and I hear they're thinking of redoing them. Most 
of our horses—those assigned to training—are stabled in that little court just 
back of us. But the only way from there to the guest stables is through the 
tackroom—so you'll have to ride out the back of the guest stables, and around 
the smithy. Then the Knights* horses are stabled on the other side, south of the 
training armory."
Paks was still confused, but hated to admit it. "There are other armories, 
then?"
"Gird's teeth, yes. Each order of knights has its own, of course, and the 
paladins have theirs—and by the way, don't even think of trying to see what 
magical things they've got. Elis of Harway tried that, a year ago, and was 
knocked senseless for two days by the guard power they've set."
"Oh."
"And the Marshal-General chewed her out when she came to, and had her assigned 
to be Suliya's servant for a week." When Paks looked blank at that, he 
explained. "Suliya's a paladin—she—well, she stays here now." Paks said nothing, 
since he seemed uneasy. Finally he went on. "Sometimes, they say, even a paladin 
is defeated. You think of them dying, but sometimes—" He shook his head. "Of 
course, I've never seen her. Elis said it was—well, she said she'd fight any of 
us if we tried violating paladin secrecy. You don't know Elis, of course."
Paks began to think she'd like to know Elis. She was about to ask which of the 
students was Elis, when Rufen went on. "You won't, anyway, unless she comes back 
before you leave."
"Was she dismissed?"
"Elis? No, but her father died, and she was the oldest. She had to take his 
place. As soon as one of the others is old enough, she wants to come back. And 
she will. In the long run, if Elis wants it, she gets it."
They were now in the passage outside Paks's room. A neatly lettered card fitted 
into a slot she had not noticed before, so that anyone would know it was her 
room.
"I'm down four doors, across die passage," said Rufen. Paks finally found words 
for something mat had puzzled her.
"How did you know about Elis? I thought the Marshal-General said the new class 
had been here only a few weeks."
"Oh, them." Rufen laughed. "There are—oh—a dozen of them. They're all younger 
than you. I've been here a year and some."
"Were all those in practice with you?" Paks did not want to reveal how unskilled 
they had seemed to her.
"No—we train in groups according to skill. That's the most basic group, in 
sword-work. My father, you see, planned for me to be a scholar. I had a badly 
broken arm, as a boy, and he thought it would never hold up to fighting. I 
thought differently."
"Oh.' Paks found his composure as interesting as his story. He did not sound 
angry, or defensive—he might have been talking about the training of a horse.
"You won't do your sword-work with us, I'm sure. But then Aris and Seli won't do 
staves with you. By Gird, I've never seen anything so clumsy as your grip on a 
staff." Paks flushed, but he obviously meant no insult. "It gives me hope for my 
sword-work, for I was just as clumsy to start—perhaps you were so with a sword, 
and yet you've learned great skill."
"Well—I'll work hard," said Paks, trying to copy his calm.
"Oh, you'U learn. Cieri could teach a cow grace, if he wanted to. And he likes 
you somewhat—not that that will take the sting out of his blows. But if we want 
baths before supper, we'dbest get going. The rest of them'll be crowding in soon 
enough." He went in his own room, and Paks turned to hers. Already two complete 
sets of gray tunics and trousers were folded neatly on her bed. She took off her 
mail, and her sweaty clothes, and put on the loose bath-gown of heavy gray wool. 
A knock on her door. Rufen called from outside. "I forgot to tell you—lots of us 
don't wear the uniform to supper. It's up to you, but don't wear mail, or 
weapons but the dagger.'
"Thanks," she called back. She rummaged among her things, and decided finally to 
wear her second-best shirt from Brewersbridge. Perhaps they would think it 
strange if she showed up in students' gray at once. Then she thought of the 
Training Master, and wondered. It seemed that she could be wrong either way. Why 
hadn't they told her exactly what to do? She was willing to do what she was 
told. She looted from one stack of clothes to the other, biting her lip 
nervously, trying to remember exactly what the Training Master had said. At last 
she took up her own shirt and trousers, and headed for the bath house.
Bathed and dressed once more, Paks returned to her own room, wondering now how 
she would know when it was time .to eat. No one had mentioned a gong or other 
signal. Rufen's door was shut; she was too shy to knock. She heard voices in the 
passage, but could not distinguish the words. Suddenly a commotion began—shouts, 
thuds—Paks leaped for her sword, then stopped short. No weapons. She snatched at 
her door, and looked out.
A black-haired boy in red velvet lay flat on the floor, blinking up at two who 
had their backs to Paks. She saw Rufen's door open, and his narrow good-humored 
face peering out.
"And if you come up here again, Aris—" said one of those standing.
"What are you doing now, Con?" asked Rufen.
"Don't bother yourself, Rufen. Just reminding the juniors that they've no right 
to come up here—"
"I do!" began the boy in red, but the second of the standing pair laughed 
shortly.
"You do, eh? Then we've a right to dump you on your tail." He took a step 
forward, but Rufen came out of his room.
"No one has a right to brawl, Jori, and you and Con know it. I don't know where 
you got the idea that this is your passage—"
"You'd dispute that?" asked Con scornfully. "You? By Gird's toe, Rufen, I can 
throw you with one arm alone."
"I doubt that," said Rufen. The boy had started to roll to his feet, but Con 
aimed a lack in his direction.
"Stay there, little boy."
Paks had been growing angrier. Jori sneered at Rufen, and said, "We have to do 
something—the Master's put one of 'em on our floor!"
Rufen cocked his head. "So?"
"So, well have to teach them all a lesson—I don't suppose a peasant girl can be 
much trouble."
Paks felt her anger like a leaping flame. "You don't?" she asked, trying for a 
pleasant tone. The two whirled; she saw the shock in their faces as they saw her 
size and condition. Behind them, Rufen helped the boy in red to his feet. "What 
land of lesson," she asked, rocking slightly from heel to toe, "did you think to 
teach me?" She hoped they would jump her; she wished she had gone for them at 
once.
"Who in Gird's name are you?" asked Con, glancing sideways at Jori for support.
"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said Paks quietly, still ready to jump. 
"A—peasant girl, I believe you said, wasn't it?"
"You're the new—?" Con seemed unable to believe it.
"Yes." Paks waited, suddenly finding it funny.
"Paksenarrion," said Rufen pleasantly from behind them, "is a veteran of the 
wars in Aarenis. I believe she is known to Sir Fenith, as well as Marshal Cedfer 
of Brewersbridge and others." Paks glanced at him quickly, still balanced to 
fight. The boy Aris was grinning openly.
Con shook his head. "I'm sorry for what I said, then. You're no novice, barely 
trained as a squire. 1 had heard you were a sheepfarmer's daughter, but 
obviously—"
"I am a sheepfarmer's daughter," said Paks, dangerously quiet. "Does that change 
your opinion?"
He looked confused. "But you're not Girdish. Where did a—a girl like you learn 
warfare, outside the granges?"
"In Duke Phelan's Company," said Paks, glad to see the surprise return. "I began 
there, as a recruit."
'PhelanI" that was Jori, "But he's—" he looked quickly at Con.
"Yes?" Paks let her hand slip to her dagger hilt.
"I didn't say a thing—" began Jori. He held out his hands, palm up. "Look, 
Pak-Paksenarrion—I don't know Duke Pnelan, I only know what I've heard. Don't—"
"And what is this?" The Training Master had turned into the passage from the 
stairs. Paks, facing them all, saw their faces stiffen at his voice. She stood 
silent, waiting to see what would happen. No one spoke for a long moment. 
Then—"Well? Have you set a gauntlet for our new student to run? Aris, I thought 
you were to escort her to supper, and now I find you all standing about up here 
as if you had all night to chat."
Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing 
Con and Jori without looking at them. "Pardon, sir,' she said. "I did not know 
the usual signal for .supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You 
did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for 
tonight?"
"Yes—I did." The Training Master looked taken aback. "But—"
"Is it permitted to wear one's own dagger to the table?"
"Yes, of course, but—"
"Then," she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some 
land of shock, "I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you show 
me the way?"
The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her side, 
nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him 
thoughtfully. "Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here," he said at 
last.
"Oh, sir?" Aris managed to look doubtful.
"Yells," said the Training Master.
Paks intervened. "They were expecting a peasant girl," she said, carefully not 
looking at Con and Jori. "I think I surprised them."
"I see." The Training Master looked them all over carefully. "I will see you 
after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the 
house."
"Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?"
"Aris can show you." Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been 
called often to the Training Master's study. With a last nod, die Training 
Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When he 
turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and the 
Lower Hall, Rufen spoke. "Paks, thank you for not going into all that with him—"
"I thought we were in for it," added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.
"Soldiers don't complain to commanders about every trifle."
Con reddened. "That's not what I meant—"
"It's what I meant." She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her 
yet. "Where are you from, Aris?"
"From Marrakai's House, in Tsaia—do you know it?" Paks laughed. "No—but I've 
heard of Duke Marrakai."
"My father," said the boy proudly. "I'm the fourth son."
"And knows it, too," muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.
"At least my father is a Duke!" he said. "And I have three estates already to my 
name—"
"Oh Gird's grace," muttered Con to Jori, "did you have to start him off again?" 
Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy's intensity. But they were at the 
doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded tables. 
Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole village 
was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others between the 
tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with sliced meat, a 
dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice of something 
that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the hatch were 
mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.
The Hall was so crowded that they could not sit together; Aris found a space for 
the two of them, and the other three wandered away. Paks was hungry and began 
eating at once. When she slowed down enough to look around, the crowd was 
thinning out a little. Aris was chatting with another fairly young boy across 
the table—he was straw-blond, with gray eyes, and slightly crooked teeth. The 
person next to Paks had left without her noticing. She mopped up the rest of her 
gravy with die bread, and looked around the table. Next to Aris was a heavy-set 
redheaded man in a blue tunic, munching away steadily. Next to him, on the end, 
was a tall, slender—Pafcs stopped, and stared.
The elf looked up, and smiled at her. "1 did not hear your name, lady—will you 
share it?" The voice held that strange music that all elves voices shared, a 
hint of harpstrings or bells.
Paks choked down die last bit of bread. "Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, sir."
The cool gray eyes sharpened. "Would you be that Paksenarrion who traveled with 
one Macenion?"
"Yes, sir."
"Indeed. It is my pleasure, then, to welcome you—you are welcome to us, as to 
die Girdsmen. I am one of the embassy from the Westforest elves to Fin Panir; my 
elven name would be difficult for you to say, but you can call me Ardhiel."
Paks realized that Aris was staring at her, open-mouthed. He hissed at her. 
"Paksenarrion! The elf spoke to you? He's never said anything to me!"
Silvery laughter fell around them; the elf'seyes sparkled. "I do not know your 
name, young sir—and what would I speak with you about?"
Now the man beside Aris was also alert, listening.
Aris changed color. "I—sir, I—I only meant that—that I thought elves didn't talk 
to—"
"To students, rarely. We fear it might distract you from your own affairs—and 
your affairs, young sir, are not mine."
"But I—but she—but my father is Duke Marrakai!"
"Oh—you are the Kirgan?"
"No, sir. I'm the fourth son; the Kirgan is my brother Juris." The elf waved his 
hand, dismissing.
"Whatever, young Marrakai—your Gather's afiairs might march with mine, but 
yours—no. I mean you no discourtesy, but—"
"I'm not a child!" insisted the boy. Paks had to admit he seemed childish even 
to her: the elis face expressed nothing, but she could feel his withdrawal.
'No? For me, young Marrakai, all in this room are but a summer's memory. If you 
would be comfortable with elves, you must admit this. I have known your family 
for more generations than you have lived in your House." Aris ushed, and set his 
jaw stubbornly. When his friend across the table whispered, he rose to go, 
looking pointedly at Paks.
"The Training Master said I was to show you where to go/*
"Yes—thank you, Aris, I'll be right there." She looked back at the elf, whose 
eyes seemed for a moment sad. "Sir, I thank you."
"Lady Paksenarrion, it is nothing. I hope to see more of you hereafter."
Chapter Twenty
In the next few days, Paks felt that her mind and body both were battered and 
confused. Her instructors were forthright with both praise and criticism; other 
students accepted her presence without comment, but tested her skills 
relentlessly. Yet they tested each other just as freely, and seemingly held no 
rancor. She found it somewhat like being a recruit at the Duke's Stronghold, 
with the many hours of required drill. Yet out of class and drill there was no 
regimentation, no barracks chores. Clean clothes ap-peareoin her room each day, 
and the room itself was cleaned while she was out. Someone else maintained the 
jacks and the bath house; someone else groomed the horses and polished tack. She 
began to wonder if this was the way die nobles lived, playing at war with 
weapons drill, but with someone else doing the dirty work. She had to admit she 
liked it.
Once she knew where everything was, and which place to go when, she began to 
enjoy it as she had never enjoyed anything else. Most of the students cared as 
much about weaponry and tactics as she did. They sat up late, arguing problems 
assigned by the instructors: where should a cohort of archers be set, or which 
order of march was best in heavy forest. At first Paks was shy of speaking up to 
Marshals and High Marshals, but silence was no protection: they would ask her. 
For Marshals in Aarenis had brought reports of the last season's fighting to Fin 
Panir, and the problems set were those she had fought through.
It started with an analysis, in a discussion of supply, of the march from Foss 
Council territory to Andressat, "Assuming a march of five days," Marshall Tigran 
said, "what would you need to supply a cohort of a hundred soldiers?" Paks tried 
to remember if it had indeed been five days. When the others had answered, and 
she was called on, she simply remembered how many mules they'd used, and blessed 
Stammel for insisting that she learn how to divide everything by three.
"Mules?" asked Tigran, and someone laughed. He frowned at them. Paks shook her 
head.
"To carry the supplies, Marshal."
"Aha! That was going to be my next question—how to transport it." Somehow Paks 
was getting credit for a right answer she had never actually given. But the next 
one she earned on her own. "Then,' he went on, "how you do figure the extra 
transport for the supply taken up by transport?" Paks knew that, from Stammel's 
many tirades on the subject. One Tir-damned mule in four, he'd muttered, just to 
make sure the beasts have enough for themselves. Tijp-an looked at her with 
respect, as did the rest of the class. When he found she knew how long fresh 
mutton or beef could travel in different seasons, and how long it took to grind 
the grain for a cohort's bread ration, he grinned, and turned to die other 
students. "This is the value of practical knowledge," he said. "Some of you know 
in theory, and the rest of you are learning, but here's a soldier who has been 
in the field, and knows what die ration tastes like."
"Can you tell us if it's true what Marshal Tigran says, about not being able to 
fight without supply even for one day? I still think brave troops could do 
without—not for long, maybe, but for a day or so." That was Con, more interested 
than aggressive. Tigran nodded to Paks, and she thought back to the various 
campaigns, and the day of the ambush in the forest near the Immer.
Paks described the enemy's apparent retreat, her Company's forced march trying 
to catch them, and the ambush in the forest. No one interrupted with questions; 
even Con was quiet. She told them of the damp cold that night, when the wounded 
had no shelter, and no one had food, when the smell of the enemy's food drifted 
across the locked squares, making their hunger worse. And the next mornings 
attack, their allies' arrival. And finally of the sudden weakness that toppled 
more than one of them, that long march and heavy fighting without food or rest.
"It's not a matter of bravery," she said. "You can live long without food, and 
stand and fight for a time, but not march and fight."
Tigran nodded at her. "Most of you have never been hungry for long—and since you 
aren't seasoned warriors, never when fighting."
"I wonder why you came to study, Paks," said Con after that class. "You already 
know as much as the Marshals—"
"No. No, I don't." She wondered how to explain what she didn't know. "I know 
what a private knows—the soldier in the cohort—"
"It seems plenty—"
"No, listen. I always wanted to learn, and so I paid attention to the sergeants, 
and the captains when the; talked in my hearing. But I only know it from the 
bottom. I don't know how to plan—how to think of more than one cohort at a time. 
You know how to reckon amounts for any number—rightF He nodded. "Well, I don't. 
My sergeant taught me to divide by three, to find our cohort'sshare of die 
Company's supplies. And I can add that three times, to go from a cohort's share 
to the whole Company. But thats all. He told me one time that Marrakai, when he 
goes to war, has five cohorts. I can't reckon in fives at all."
"You can't? But it's not hard—"
"No, maybe not. But you know how, and I don't. And in tactics, I know some 
things not to do*, but I don't always know why. I can write well enough, and 
read—but I can't write a description of a battle, as Marshal Drafin showed us, 
or read one and make sense out of it. Hie sand table is one thing, but those 
books—"
"Huh. I thought after the first night that you knew everything—or thought you 
did."
Pals shook her head again. "I won't ever know anything—there's not time enough 
to learn all I want to know—"
"Now that's an interesting sentiment." The Training Master had appeared, as 
usual, without warning. Paks had begun to wonder if he had magical powers. "Are 
you serious in what you say?"
Paks was, as always, wary around him. "Yes… sir."
"You feel you have much more to learn—even with your practical experience?"
Paks felt an edge of sarcasm in his voice. She stiffened. "Yes. I said that.'
"Don't bristle at me." To her surprise, he was smiling. "One thing that worried 
the Marshal-General was the possibility that you might find these things too 
boring—"
"Boring!"
"Don't interrupt, either. We have had a few other veterans who found them so—who 
were so intent on what they had done already that they could not learn new 
things.' He looked intently at Con, who colored Paks wondered what that was 
about, but was glad enough he wasn't after her. "How are you coming with your 
reading?" He was after her. She wondered if he'd heard what she had said to Con. 
She hated having to admit her weaknesses.
"Not—very fast, sir."
"I thought so." It did not sound too sarcastic. "Paksenamon, die only way to 
learn to read faster and better is to read—just nice swordplay. You can't learn 
swordplay from a book, or reading from your sword."
"But if I can listen to someone who knows—"
He shook his head. "Paksenarrion, no one knows" everything—you're not alone in 
that. Writing stores knowledge, for others to use who may never know the writer. 
You know how tales told change in the telling—" She nodded, and he went on. 
"That's why writing is so important. Suppose you are in a battle; n you can 
write well enough to describe it accurately, then others can learn from your 
experience many years from now."
"It's too late." Paks looked down. She had hated turning in her scrawls when the 
others wrote neat, legible hands. "I—die ones who can write started earlier."
"And when did you start with staves? And you're already out of the novice class, 
into intermediate. Work at it. As for you, Con," the Training Master turned to 
him. "You quit worrying about your standing with the juniors, and start spending 
your evenings on tactics. And supply. Perhaps if you'll explain reckoning in all 
numbers to Pales, shell explain why you can't march a cohort for two days on 
sixteen measures of barley and a barrel of apples."
"Apples? I meant to write salt beef."
"Your writing is not much better than Paks's—neither Tigran nor I could decide 
what you really meant, so we called it apples. So might your supply sergeant, 
someday."
She could not remember when she had felt so at home. Not even in the Company, 
that last year. Instead of Saben and Canna, she had Rufen, Con, and Peli. They 
spent hours with pebbles and beans, teaching her reckoning. She taught them all 
one of her favorite sword tricks, so that Cieri, bested three times in one day, 
glared at them all, and accused Paks of trying to get his job as weaponsmaster. 
She began to read faster, and understand more complicated books and scrolls. 
They began to realize, as Rufen explained one night, that the soldiers they 
might command one day were real people.
"I knew they were," he said thoughtfully, "and yet I didn't. Here we talk about 
supplying a cohort, or positioning a squad of archers over here, and a couple of 
cohorts of pikes mere. They're just—^just bodies. Soldiers. Gird forgive me, 
being a Girdsman, but I looked like that at my father's guardsmen… they all wore 
a uniform, they all wore the same weapons. But after knowing you—and you were, 
as you say, 'just a private"—I know they're real people."
Paks looked down, suddenly moved almost to tears. She felt, for the first time, 
that these were real friends. She could talk to them about the Company—about die 
people in it—with no betrayal of trust. Little by little she opened up, talking 
a few words at a time about Stammel and Devlin, Vuc and Arne—even Saben and 
Canna.
She had special status with the juniors—for Aris Marrakai had told his friends 
about her protecting him from Con's bullying. They did not venture to intrude on 
the upper floors very often, but she was conscious of shy smiles and friendly 
greetings from the whole group that Con despised.
Then there were the other races, seen close-to for the first time. The elf who 
had spoken to her the first night often ate at her table. When he saw her 
interest, he taught her a few words of elventongue—polite greetings and other 
courtesies. Some evenings he played the hand harp and sang; Paks and the others 
listened, entranced. Paks might have thought him a mere harper and wordsmith, 
but he came to weaponsdrill from time to time, and only the most advanced 
students fenced with him. Paks lost her sword twice in one session.
The dwarves kept more to themselves, and Paks might not have met them but for an 
accident with an axe. She had asked to learn axe-fighting, remembering Mal's 
effectiveness, and Cieri shook his head.
"1 can teach axe-work, but to be honest, Paks, I don't know as I've ever seen a 
good swordfighter take to the axe. You're likelier to make a good spearman. But 
whatever you want—as long as you keep improving with staves."
"I still don't understand why that's so important."
Cieri grinned. "You don't, eh? Well, keep in mind that the rest of us are 
Girdsmen. Gird was a former, not a lord's son to have a sword at his side. He 
won the freedom of the yeomen with weapons they could find or make: dubs, 
staves, cudgels—and an occasional axe. Every Girdsman learns to use those first; 
every knight of Gird can not only use, but teach the use of, the weapons you can 
find anywhere. Then no yeoman of Gird is helpless, so long as a stick is within 
his reach."
Paks thought about it a moment. "You mean—ordinary farmers—fighting regular 
soldiers?"
"Yes, exactly. Surety you've heard that?"
"Well, yes—but—"
"But you still don't believe it?" He shook his head. "You were a former's 
daughter—and you wanted to fight—so in your mind you built up what a soldier's 
weapon can do.
When you become a Girdsman, Paksenarrion, I’ll show you, wood against steel, how 
Gird won."
"Why not now?"
Cieri gave her a long look. "Because you are not under Gird's law yet, and I 
just might lose my temper."
"Oh." Paks was not sure what he meant, and didn't think she should ask more.
"But as for axes, that's a Girdish weapon. Have you ever used one much for 
chopping?"
"No—we didn't have forest where I grew up."
"And in Phelan's Company?"
"The sergeants said they didn't have time to teach us axe-work."
"Wise. Well, go get one from the armory, and well start."
For a few days things went well; the basic drills were not hard, and Paks soon 
adjusted to the heavy axe-head hanging on the end of her arm. Or so she thought. 
Then Cieri set up a roughly carved log for her to "fight." It had a couple of 
branches for "arms.* Paks looked at it disdainfully. She had seen the amusement 
on the others' faces.
"Isn't this just like chopping a tree?"
"Ves, but you haven't chopped any trees, and we don't happen to need any trees 
chopped. This will be fuel for the main kitchens later, if youH get busy and do 
what I tell you." He took die axe from her, motioned her back, and with two 
smooth swings took a four-finger-deep chunk out of the log. "Like that," he 
said. "And remember what I told you about backswing and bounce. Wood is harder 
than flesh, but softer than armor—at least this wood is."
Paks took the axe, which now felt comfortable in her grip. The basic stroke, he 
had explained, was much like the sideswing in longsword—but for using two hands. 
Paks had not used a two-handed sword; she did not think that mattered. She swung 
the axe back over her shoulder, and brought it around smoothly. Harder than 
flesh—softer than armor: she put what she thought was the right force into it. 
Whack! She felt the blow in both shoulders, and the axe-head recoiled, dragging 
her off balance, and missing her knee by a fingersbreadth.
"You have to hit harder than that, Paks," said Cieri. "A two-handed blow is a 
twisting blow; get your back into it."
The next stroke caught the axe-blade in the wood. She struggled to wrench it 
free, while Cieri described what happened to fighters whose weapons caught in an 
enemy. She felt the back of her neck getting hot; yet she knew he was right. 
That didn't help. When she began again, she managed a series of effective 
strokes, knocking off chips much smaller than Cieri's, but not making any 
serious mistakes. He called a halt, and nodded.
"You're doing well for a beginner. Now see if you can hit a certain target." He 
brought out his pot of paint, and daubed red on both of the "arms," as well as 
two spots on the "body."
"Let's see you get the left arm first, then the upper body, then the lower body, 
then the right arm. Make your strokes work; use as few as you can. Remember, 
he's got a spear he's poking at you in the meantime."
Paks looked at the targets. "Axe fighters don't cany shields, do they?"
"Not using this kind of axe. There's a light battleaxe for riders that you can 
use one-handed—you could carry a shield with that. But here it's your 
quickness."
"I could break the spear with the axe, couldn't I?"
"You'd better. But that's a smaller target than you're ready lor. And it moves. 
You've something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe."
Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for a 
stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.
"Now look, Paks—you've got more sense than this. Look where you are."
She was sideways to the "enemy," in easy reach of the right "arm.**
"You can't face him directly with that axe—think! Where can you strike, and be 
out of range."
Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swung at 
the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep, and 
was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.
"Gird's blood! Do you think he'll stand still while you chop him up? Move, 
girl!"
Paks felt die blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and 
swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow, 
and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from die jump. 
Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main trunk, 
straight at Cieri's mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her shoulders, 
and hung in the air.
"Let go," said Cieri mildly. Pales looked at the axe, down at Tier leg, and then 
unwrapped her hands from the axe handle, The axe fell with a clang. "If the 
blade's damaged," Cieri went on, "you can grind it down yourself. I'd thought 
you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like that."
Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her lee began to demand attention. He 
came forward, and picked up die axe, running his fingers over the head and blade 
edge. Then he looked at her.
"You're damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?"
"I can learn." She was surprised at her own voice, lurry with anger.
His eyebrows rose. "Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way 
you're going, vouTI be an axe-fighter about the time you're holding the axe in 
your teeth.
"I could—if you weren't badgering me." Paks glared at him, saw die flash of his 
dark eyes.
"Me! You—not even a yeoman—you're telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I 
shouldn't heckle you? I thought you had more sense—and here you stand flatfooted 
like a novice, dien lose your temper just because I tell you so, and then this! 
I suppose I should be glad you aren't a Girdsman."
"I—" Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. "I'm sorry," 
she muttered.
"So you should be, he said crisply. "You'll miss days of work with that leg, and 
I don't dunk you'll find yourself in die same class when you come back. If you 
do.
Paks looked up, startled, to meet a grim cold Cieri she had never seen. "Sir?"
"It might pass in a novice, Paksenarrion, but not in someone who claims to be a 
veteran. Was all that just an act?"
"What?" Now she was completely bewildered. It must have shown, for Cieri's face 
softened a trifle.
"That even disposition you showed until today. That smile, that willingness. 
Which is the real you, Paksenarrion? Do you know yourself? Or are you acting a 
part all the time, inside and out?"
"I—I thought you—liked me," she said. She knew at once it was the wrong thing to 
have said.
"Liked you? Gird's arm, what do you mean by that? Listen, Paksenarrion, you come 
here on trial, not even a Girdsman—you come in full of life as a yearling colt, 
showing ofF, taking every trick I know, everything the other Marshals can teach 
you—and teaching your own tricks to the others—and you expect us to like it? 
Well, any teacher likes a willing student—but that's not enough for us. We're 
training knights of Gird, Paksenarrion, and paladins, who will go and and die 
for the justice Gird brought. You—you're playing with us, enjoying a safe, 
exciting time doing what you like to do. Then you'll go where you please, using 
what you've learned for your own ends. The rest of us aren't playing a game." He 
shook his head. "I've let you play; after all, you're a good practice partner 
for die others. I thought, from the way you seemed to be, that you might join 
the Fellowship and justify the time I've spent. But I won't waste my time on 
games any more. Well see what the Marshal-General says, before you return." Paks 
could hardly believe her ears. He was turning away when he glanced at her leg. 
"Better wrap that; you've bled a lot."
Paks watched him walk without a backward glance toward the other students, who 
were staring in the same shock she felt. He had them back to their drill in 
seconds, and did not look her way again. Paks forced herself to think, to move. 
She took off the scarf she had wrapped around her head against the cold, and 
bound it tightly around her leg. The bleeding had slowed, but she had left a 
sizeable stain on the ground. She could do nothing about that, but she did take 
a few seconds to stack the hacked limb neatly near the rest of the tree before 
limping back to the armory. Cieri still had the axe.
She looked back from inside the armory. Cieri was fencing with Con; no one 
looked her way. She felt cold, inside as well as out. She had been stupid—even 
rude—but was it really that bad? And had they all been resenting her since she 
came? She tried to think what to do. She took a roll of bandage material from 
its box beside the armory door, and retreated toward the stableyard, which had a 
well. It was midmorning; a stable worker trundled a barrow full of dung out the 
for archway as she came into the yard. No one else was in sight. Paks pulled the 
scarf away from her leg, wincing, and washed the wound out until the bleeding 
stopped before wrapping it with clean bandages.
The Training Master, she was thinking dully. I must see the Training Master—and 
then the Marshal-General. Her leg was hurting in earnest now, throbbing in time 
with her pulse. She rinsed the scarf in a bucket of water, and wrung it out. Her 
fingers were stiff with the cold water. When she looked up, two dwarves were 
watching her.
"Your pardon is it?" said the darker one. "Is it that you can say what way to 
the training field for the knights?^
Paks worked the meaning out of this. "Did you want Marshal Cieri?" she asked.
They nodded gravely. They hardly topped her head, the way she was leaning over 
the bucket, and she didn't think it would be polite to stand. The darker one 
carried a double-bladed axe thrust into his belt; the yellow-bearded one carried 
his in his hand. "It is that we were asked to show something of this skill with 
the axe," he said. "It is Marshal Cieri who teaches this, is it not so?"
"It is." Paks felt her ears redden. She felt even worse than before. If he had 
asked dwarves to come and teach her—"It is through that arch," she said, nodding 
toward it, "and then right, and through the building there." She could not 
explain; besides, it might be something else.
"What is it that you do herer asked the darker dwarf, peering into the bucket. 
"It looks blood."
Paks blushed deeper. "It is—I cut myself, and this wrapped it at first."
The dwarf nodded. "Cut—are you then not a student of the weaponsmaster?"
"I—am," Paks hesitated, wondering if she should claim that now.
"But he is Marshal, yes? It is that he heals those injured in training?"
"Not this time," said Paks, hoping they would go.
Four shrewd eyes bored into her. She could not read their expressions. Then the 
darker dwarf emitted a rough gabble of words that Paks had never heard before: 
dwarvish, she thought. The yellow-bearded one spoke to her. "I am Balkis, son of 
Baltis, son of Trok, son of Kertik, the sister-son of Ketinvik Axemaster, the 
first nephew of Axemaster. It is that you are not Gird's?"
Paks had never met a dwarf, and did not know that this introduction was normal. 
She was trying to remember it all when the question came, and for a moment did 
not answer. The dwarves waited patiently. "I am not of the Fellowship of Gird," 
she said finally.
"But you are here," said the darker dwarf. "How is it that you are here?"
"I was offered a time of training here," said Paks carefully, "because of 
something I had done."
"Ah." Another pause. Finally the yellow-bearded dwarf, Balkis, asked, "Is it 
that we might know your clan?"
Paks realized, belatedly, that she had not responded to his introduction with 
her name. "I'm Paksenarrion Dort-hansdotter, of Three Firs."
An exchange of dwarvish followed this. Balkis spoke in Common again. "Please—is 
it that Three Firs is a clan? We do not know this name."
"No, Three Firs is the village nearest my father's home. It is far from here, to 
the north."
"Ah. And your father is Dorthan, but of what clan?"
Paks wondered how to explain. "Sir, my father's father was Kanas Jorisson, but I 
do not think we have the same kind of clans you do—"
Both dwarves laughed loudly. "Indeed, you would not!
No—no, you would not. But some men think they have clans as we do, and give 
themselves names for them, and if you were such then we wished no insult by 
failing to acknowledge that name." Then Balkis leaned back on his heels watching 
her. "What is it that you did, to make a hurt the weaponsmaster would not heal?"
Paks looked down. "I—cut myself."
"Yes, but—" He stopped, and leaned close to place his face before her. "I would 
not have you to think that it is our nature to be inquisitive."
Abruptly, Paks found herself grinning. "Oh, no," she said. "I wouldn't think 
that."
"Good. But we have to study men, who come into our rocks and want things of us. 
So it is that you will tell us what is that cut?"
"I was trying to use an axe," said Paks slowly. "And I became angry, and struck 
too hard, and cut my leg."
"Ah. Angry with an axe is dangerous."
"So I found," said Paks ruefully.
"And this the weaponsmaster found badly done, is it so?"
"Yes. And I was rude." She wondered why she was telling them, but their interest 
seemed to pull it out of her.
"Rude—to a Marshal." Suddenly the darker one loosed a volley of dwarvish, and 
both of them began to quiver. Paks looked up to see their eyes sparkling with 
mischief. "You fear not Marshals?"
"I—" Paks shook her head. "I should fear them more. I was here as a guest, and 
my rudeness will cost my place."
"Ha!" Balkis nodded. "They are as a clan of adopjtion, and you are not adopted. 
So it is they can be unjust.
"It wasn't unjust," said Paks. "It—they thuik I have been unjust, to take their 
hospitality without giving in return."
Now they frowned. "You haven't?"
"No." Paks poured the stained water out on the cobbles and watched it drain away 
between them. "I thought—but I haven't."
"Hmph." The snort was eloquent. "But it is you that are the fighter interested 
in axes?'
"Less than I used to be," said Paks.
"Would you try again?" asked Balkis. His voice held a challenge.
"I might—if I have the chance."
"If it happens that your weaponsmaster refuses you, I will show something," he 
offered. "It is not every human that will be rude to Marshals of Gird, and be 
willing to work with axes past the first blood drawn."
"But I was wrong," said Paks, thinking ahead to what the Training Master would 
say. The dwarves both shrugged, an impressive act with shoulders like theirs.
"It is the boldness of the fighter," said Balkis. "We dwarves, we will not take 
lessons from Marshals, despite their skill, for they are always insulting us. 
Did you know any dwarves, where you came from?"
'No," said Paks. "You are the first I have ever met, though I saw dwarves in 
Tsaia and Valdaire."
"Ah. Then you know not our ways. It involves no clan-rights, but perhaps you 
would sit at our table some night?"
"If I'm here," said Paks.
They shrugged again, and passed out of the stableyard toward the training 
fields. Paks gathered up the damp scarf, pushed herself upright, and limped back 
toward her room. On the way, she saw the Training Master turn into the corridor 
ahead of her and called to him. He stopped, looking back, and came forward, 
looking concerned.
"Paksenarrion—what's happened? You're hurt?"
"Yes, sir. I—" Suddenly she felt close to tears. She pulled herself upright. 
"It's not that, sir, but I must speak with you."
"Something's happened?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, come along, then." He led the way to his study, and waved her to a seat. 
"What is it?"
Chapter Twenty-one
Paks took a long breath, clutching the sodden scarf in her hands. "Sir, I—I lost 
my temper, and was rude to Marshal Cieri, and he doesn't want me in his class."
"I see." His face looked almost as cold as the first day. "And you come to me 
about it—why?"
"I thought I should." She swallowed painfully the lump that had been growing in 
her throat for the past half-hour. "Sir."
"You want me to plead for you? Without hearing his story?"
"No, sir." Why was everyone misunderstanding what she meant? Paks plunged on. 
"It isn't that—I thought I was supposed to tell you—"
"He told you to?" That was with raised brows.
"No, sir,' said Paks miserably. "I mean—you're the Training Master—if it was 
back in the Company, I'd have to tell the sergeant—"
His voice gained a hint of warmth. "You're saying that you are doing what you 
would have done in Duke Phelan's Company? Reporting something you did wrong?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see." His fingers drummed on the desk. "You agree that whatever happened was 
your fault?"
Paks nodded. Thinking back, she knew that Siger or Stammel would have reacted 
just as Cieri had—if not worse.
"Well, suppose you tell me about it. And by the way, how did you get hurt?"
"You knew I'd asked to learn axe fighting?" Paks waited for his nod, then went 
on. "I'd been doing drills with the axe—not hitting anything, and today Marshal 
Cieri set up a target. A log, with limbs." Paks stopped. It seemed even worse as 
she tried to think how to say what had happened.
"Yes?"
"Well—sir—I had trouble with it—he'd said I would—"
"And you lost your temper over that?"
"No, sir. Not then. After a while I made some chips of it, and then he wanted me 
to hit specific targets. Only when I started, he—he got after me for not 
thinking of it as live, for giving it a chance to hit back." She looked up to 
see the Training Master's lips folded tightly. As baa as that, then. She went 
on. "Then I hit a limb—he said to think of it as an arm—and when I went to hit 
again, he was angry that I hadn't allowed for it to move. So I jumped at it, and 
hit it really hard, and the limb broke and the axe hit my leg."
"How badly?"
"Just a cut. But then I was angry, and I was about to—to swing as hard as I 
could, and he stopped the axe." Paks looked up again. "I didn't know he could do 
that."
"It's not something we demonstrate very often," said the Training Master, in a 
neutral voice. "Go on."
Paks ducked her head. "Then he said he thought I knew better than to lose my 
temper, and that I wouldn't be any good at axe-work, like he'd said. And that's 
when—"
"What did you say, Paksenarrion?"
"I said—" she paused to remember the words. "I said I could learn, if he 
wouldn't harass me. It—I was wrong, sir, and I know it. I knew it as soon as I 
said it—"
"Did you apologize?"
"Yes, sir; I told him I was sorry—"
"Did you mean it?"
Paks looked up, startled.
"Were you sorry for being rude, or sorry he was angry with you, or sorry you'd 
lost your temper in the first place?"
"I—I don't know, sir. I suppose—I was just sorry about everything."
"Hmph. So then what happened?"
Paks told the rest as well as she could, and on being prompted added the 
conversation with the dwarves. When she had finished, the Training Master 
sighed.
"So you came to me, because you thought you should, and you expect me to 
do—what? What do you think will happen now?"
Paks met his gaze squarely. "I think you'll send me away," she said. "If 
that'swhat all of you think—that it's unfair to spend the time when I'm not a 
Girdsman. And even if I were—he said it would be bad—you might still."
"Do you think we should send you away?"
Paks didn't know what to say to this. For a moment she looked away, but when her 
eyes returned to his face it held the same quiet expectancy. She thought the 
question over. "Sir, I—I don't know what your rules are—what your limits are. If 
I do what you don't want, then of course you have the right to send me away. But 
I can't think what is best for you—for the Fellowship. If it is best to, then 
you will. Otherwise—I don't know."
"Well, if you are convinced we will send you away, why come to me? Why not 
simply go pack your things and leave? Or tell us you're leaving, and not wait to 
be dismissed?"
"But—I couldn't do that. I would be—" She could not think of the right words; 
she knew it would be wrong, and somehow worse than wrong. "Discourteous," she 
finally said. "Ungrateful. It's my fault, and you have the right; I don't."
He shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning, Paksenarrion. 
You agree that we have the right to dismiss you, if you displease us—but you 
think you have no right to withdraw?
"If I didn't want to stay—or if something happened, perhaps to my family or 
something—then I could, but it wouldn't be fair to—to walk out when it was my 
fault."
He pounced on that. "Fair. You're trying to be what you think is fair?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you said 'if I didn't want to stay'—does that mean you do want to stay?"
"Of course I do, ' said Paks, louder than she'd meant to.
"There's no 'of course' to it," he replied crisply. "Many who come here to train 
don't like it, and don't want to stay. Are you saying that even after Cieri's 
thrown you out of his class—in front of everyone—you'd still prefer to stay 
here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
Her hands twitched. "It's—it's what I always wanted to learn. These weeks have 
been the best of my life."
"Until today."
"Yes, sir." Then she looked at him again. "If I could stay—today is not much, 
really—"
"Oh?" His brows went up again; Paks's heart sank. "You call an axe wound, and 
having the senior weaponsmaster refuse to have you in his class 'not much'? We 
have different views, Paksenarrion."
"You're sorry. I'm sure." He sighed again. "Paksenarrion, we accept occasional 
outsiders—non-Girdsmen—because we know that good hearts and good fighters may 
choose another patron. You have an unusual background; it may be that you have 
seen that which makes today seem minor to you. But to us it is important. We 
have all watched you, for these weeks, and been puzzled. You are capable, 
intelligent, hardworking, physically superior to most of the others. You have 
gotten along with the others, juniors and seniors both. You don't brawl, get 
into arguments, get drunk, or try to seduce the Marshals. If you were a 
Girdsman, we would be more than pleased with your progress. Yet you have 
reserves, you harbor mysteries, which we cannot fathom. All our skills say these 
are not evil—yet great evil has been known to masquerade as good, just as a 
beautiful cloak can cover an evil man. This—today—is the first chink in your 
behavior. Is it characteristic? Is this the true Paksenarrion coming out? And 
why have you refused to make any commitment?
Marshal Cieri does, in this way, speak for all of us. We would welcome you 
gladly as a (might-candidate—perhaps more—if you were of the Fellowship of Gird. 
But until you show us something, some willingness to give in return for what you 
are given—more than that surface pleasantness you have shown, I must concur with 
him."
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 Stam-me[ 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. Efia 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'sno 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 the 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.
Tlie 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, sure from die archives and from my own knowledge. Gird led unarmed formers 
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 then- 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 mate 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 
die High Lord's table, if that happens." He gave her a long look. "And I think 
that you blame Gird oecause you are still blaming yourself for these deaths. Is 
that not so?"
Paks looked down. She could still hear Canna's voice, that last yell: 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.
"I'm sorry." He actually sounded sorry. "I went too for, perhaps—1 forgot your 
leg. We'll talk again later—we must get you upstairs and let the surgeon see 
that."
"See what?" A voice in the doorway interrupted. Paks tried to turn her head, but 
felt too dizzy. Her ears roared.
"She's got a small wound, Arianya," said the Training Master.
"Not that small," said the voice. "It's bled all over your floor, Chanis. Better 
take a look."
Paks tried to focus on the Training Master as he came back around die desk to 
kneel beside her chair. Her eyes blurred. She heard the two Marshals talking, 
and then another excited voice, and then felt a wave of nausea that nearly 
emptied her stomach. She clamped her jaw against that, and roused enough to know 
that they were carrying her along the passage. Finally the motion stopped, and 
her stomach quieted. When she got her eyes working again, she was lying flat on 
a bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was dry, and tasted bad. She rolled her 
head to one side. That was a mistake. Her stomach heaved, and she hardly noticed 
the pail someone pushed under her mouth until she was through.
From a distance, someone said, "If she had the sense to match her guts, she'd be 
fine—"
"I don't call feinting from a simple cut like that guts, Chanis."
"She didn't, and you know it. We all pushed as hard as—"
"Well, however you say it, I still think—" Closer, someone called her name. 
"Paksenarrion? Come on now, quit scaring us." She felt a cup at her lips, and 
drank a swallow of cold water. Her stomach churned, but accepted it. She opened 
her eyes again to see the Marshal-General's flint-gray eyes watching her. Before 
anyone else could speak, Paks managed to force out her own message. "I want to 
join—the Fellowship—even if you send me away."
Silence followed this. The Marshal-General stared at her. Finally she spoke.
"Why now?"
"Because I was wrong about him—Gird. And so—and so I want to join, and do 
better."
"Even if I send you away? Even if you never go beyond yeoman?"
"Yes." Paks felt as stubborn now on this ground as she had before on others.
"I hope you feel the same when you've remade a couple of skins of blood." The 
Marshal-General sat back, and grinned. "Gird's ten fingers! Did you have to lose 
half the blood in your body to learn sense?"
"I didn't," said Paks. She had the curious feeling that her body was floating 
just above the bed. She knew she understood more than the others, only it was 
hard to speak. "It isn't lost—it's not in the same place, is all."
"And you're wound-witless. All right. If you still want to make your vows when 
you're strong enough, I daresay Gird will accept them. But that will be some 
time, Paksenarrion. For now you must rest, and obey the surgeons."
Not until some days later did Paks hear the full story of that day. She had had 
no visitors at first but the surgeons, the Training Master, and the 
Marshal-General. Finally the surgeons agreed that she could move back to her own 
room. She was surprised at how shaky she felt after climbing the stairs—from one 
simple cut, she thought. She sat down hard on her bed, head whirling, and leaned 
back against the pillows. Rufen and Con woke her some time later when they 
discovered her door open and looked in to see why.
"Paks?"
She woke with a start; the last sunlight came through her window. "Oh—I forgot 
to shut the door."
"Are you all right? You look pale as cheese," said Con. Paks gave him a long 
stare.
"I'm fine. I just—dozed off."
"The Training Master said you were back. He said not to bother you, but your 
door was open—"
"That's all right." Paks pushed herself up. She wondered what they were thinking 
about, and felt her ears going hot.
"Ive never been so mad in my life," said Con, moving into the room to sit at her 
desk. "I'd have taken Cieri apart if I could have—"
"Instead of which, he dumped you—how many times?" Rufen leaned against the 
doorframe, smiling.
That doesn't matter. Listen, Paks, if they'd thrown you out, I'd have—have—"
Paks shook her head. "Con—it's all right."
"No, it's not. It wasn't fair—we could all see that. I couldn't believe it, the 
way he hounded you—and you the best of us. Gird's flat feet, but I'd have blown 
up at him days before."
Paks stared at him in surprise. "But I thought you'd be on their side—I thought 
you'd agree that it wasn't fair for me to be here as an outsider."
Con shrugged. "That! What difference does that make? I've been a Girdsman all my 
life, and I never will be as good a fighter as you are. It's not as if you were 
bad: you don't quarrel even as much as I do. No one's ever found you doing 
something underhand or cowardly. They ought to be glad you're willing to come 
here at all. And that's what I told him."
"And then what?" Paks could not imagine that scene at all.
"And then he told me I didn't know what I was talking about, and until I did I 
should kindly keep to my own business, and I told him my friends were my 
business. And he said I should choose my friends with care, and I said I'd 
learned more from you since you'd come than from him since I'd been here—" Con 
stopped, blushing scarlet.
"And then," Rufen put in with a wide grin, "then Cieri said maybe he should have 
long yellow hair to catch Con's attention, and Con swung on him, and ended up 
flat on his back. Cieri asked the others what they thought, and apparently 
everyone was on your side. I wish Id been there—I knew I'd regret being in that 
lower class after you got here. I don't know if I could have done any more, 
but—"
"But you shouldn't have," said Paks, looking at Con. "He's—he's the 
weaponsmaster, you shouldn't argue with him."
"But he was wrong," said Con stubbornly, his eyes glinting. "Paks, if you've got 
a fault it's that you're too willing to be ruled. I know what you'll say—you'll 
say that's how a good soldier is. Maybe so, for a mercenary company. But we're 
Girdsmen; Gird himself said that every yeoman must think for himself. I don't 
care if Cieri is the weaponsmaster, or the Training Master, or the 
Marshal-General, if he's wrong, he's wrong, and if I think he's wrong I should 
say so."
"Just because you think he is wrong doesn't make him wrong," argued Paks. "How 
do you know you're right?"
"I can tell unfairness when I see it," growled Con.
"How do you know?" Paks persisted. "Sometimes things seem unfair when they 
happen, but later you can tell they weren't—so how do you know when something is 
truly unfair?"
"Well, when it's—I mean—by Gird, Paks, it's easier to know than to say. I know 
Cieri was unfair to you; he kept picking at you, trying to make you mad, and 
then when you got mad he blamed you for it. And you were hurt, dripping blood 
all over, and he didn't even offer to heal it for you.'
Paks shrugged. "If he thought I was wrong, he wouldn't."
"But it was his fault. And so it wasn't fair. Don't you know anything? Didn't 
you ever have brothers or someone in your Company that kept trying to put things 
on you—surely you know what I mean."
Paks shrugged again. "Con, I know enough to know that looking for the final 
fault, who's really to blame, just keeps trouble alive longer. I shouldn't have 
lost my temper, no matter what. If he was wrong to push me that far, it was 
still my fault. And the Marshal-General told me when I came that they were 
reluctant to train someone who had given no vows of service."
"But now you're joining the Fellowship, is that right?" asked Rufen.
"Yes. The surgeon says I should be up to a bout at Midwinter Feast.'
"How bad is your leg?"
"Not bad. They stitched it up; it's healing clean. It's mostly blood loss; I 
should have tied it up tighter to begin with." Then she thought of something 
else. "Con—did some dwarves show up at the field after I left?"
Con looked startled. "How did you know about them?" Then he grinned broadly. 
"That was something, let me tell you. Two of 'em came marching up, right into 
the class, in the middle of the row we were—anyway, came into the class, and 
interrupted us. I can't talk like they do—all that 'it is that' and 'is it that 
it is'—but the long and short of it was that Cieri had asked them to come and 
demonstrate axe fighting, and they were ready. Cieri told them he'd dismissed 
his student, and they grumped about being called out for nothing. So he said 
they could show the rest of us, and they glared around and said they wouldn't 
show anyone who didn't have the guts to learn. One of them challenged Cieri 
himself. Well, we saw some axe fighting let me tell you, and that axe you were 
using won't ever be the same."
Paks felt a guilty twinge of satisfaction. She tried to conceal it; Con needed 
no encouragement. "Is Master Cieri all right?"
"Oh, yes. He got a scratch or two, but you know he can heal that—it's nothing to 
him. Anyway, now that you're joining die Fellowship, you'll be coming back to 
class, won't you?"
"I suppose. I haven't seen Master Cieri." Paks wondered if he would hold a 
grudge against her.
"You are staying, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Then you'll be back with us. That'll be good. And listen, Paks, you keep in mind 
what I said. As a yeoman, you have a right to think for yourself, You're 
supposed to—"
"I do," said Paks. "You—"
"You do, and then you don't. I know what you're thinking, about me and the 
juniors, and you were right, there. You stand against us—the others in the 
class—when you think differently. But you don't stand against anyone over 
you—I’ll bet you never argued with your sergeant, or captain, or the Duke—"
Paks found herself smiling. She could not imagine Con arguing with Stammel more 
than once, let atone with ArcoUn. But she defended herself. "I did argue ^with 
the Duke once—well, not exactly argue—"
"Once!" Con snorted. "And he was wrong only once in three years? That's a 
record."
She shook her head at him; it was useless to try to explain. She tried anyway. 
"Con—privates don't argue with commanders. Not unless it's very important, and 
usually not then. And we don't see everything, we can't know when the commander 
is wrong."
"So what did you argue—not exactly—about?" •Paks froze. She had never meant to 
get close to that night in Aarenis again. "I—you don't need to know," she said 
lamely.
"Come on, Paks. I can't imagine you arguing with anyone like that—it must have 
been something special. What was it? Was he going to start worshipping Liart, or 
something?"
Paks closed her eyes a moment, seeing Siniava stretched on the ground, the 
Halverics at his side, the angry paladin confronting her Duke. She heard again 
the taut silence that followed the Duke's outburst, and felt the weight of his 
eyes on her. "I can't tell you," she said hoarsely. "Don't ask me, Con; I can't 
tell you."
"Paks," said Rufen quietly. "You don't look ready for supper in the hall; we'll 
bring something up for you.* His gentle understanding touched her; she opened 
her eyes to see them both looking worried.
"I'm all right," she said firmly.
"You're all right, but you're not well. If you're to make your vows at the 
Midwinter Feast, you don't need to be scurrying up and down stairs again today. 
It's no trouble—" he went on, waving her to silence. "If we go now, we can all 
eat up here in peace. Come on, Con." And the two of them went out, closing her 
door softly and leaving her to her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-two
Marshal-General Arianya headed the table; three High Marshals, two paladins, and 
five Marshals (three attached to granges, and two from the college itself) 
completed the conference.
"Will that new yeoman be ready to test for the Midwinter Feast, Arianya?" asked 
the oldest of the group, Marshal Juris of Mooredge grange.
"I think so. She says she's well enough now, butjthe surgeons don't want her 
fighting for another few days."
That would look good," muttered High Marshal Gonnaught, Knight-Marshal of the 
Order of Gird. "Nothing like a candidate feinting in the ceremony."
"She won't feint," said the Marshal-General firmly. Someone chuckled softly, 
thinking of it, and she frowned around the table.
"It's not that often we bring new yeomen in here, she reminded them. "It's 
serious to her—"
"I know that," said Marshal Kory, the Archivist. "It just slipped out, 
Marshal-General."
"Very well. And while we're on the subject, I would like to suggest something 
else."
"What you and Amberion were chatting about yesterday?" asked Marshal Juris. "If 
it's what I think, I'm against it
The Marshal-General glared at him. "You might at least give me a chance to 
present the idea, Juris." He waved his hand. She glanced around the table. "You 
know we're desperately short of paladins—" They nodded. "I have worn from 
Marshal Calith down in Horngard that Fenith was killed a few months ago."
A stir ran around the table. Several of die Marshals glanced at the two 
paladins, who stared ahead and met no eyes. Fenith had been Amberion's close 
friend, and Saer was his great-niece.
"We need to select a large class of candidates, if we can: the paladins in 
residence here agree that they can each take on two candidates—"
"Is that necessary?" Juris broke in, looking from fece to face.
"I think so." The Marshal-General spread a short parchment in front of her, and 
ran her hand down the page. "Juris, for the past two hundred years or so, the 
Fellowship of Gird has bad from twenty to thirty paladins recorded at a time. 
Those on quest vary from fifteen to twenty-five at any one time. We now have on 
quest only five—" She waited for the murmurs to cease, nodded, and went on. "You 
see? And here in Fin Panir we have only seven who can take on candidates for 
training. As you know, any of these may be called away at any time. If we can 
mid fourteen candidates—two for each training paladin—it will still be well over 
a year before any of those are ready to go. And in die meantime, we have no one 
to train a backup class—"
"I think we should feather that," said Marshal Kory. "If we chose seven now, 
then they might progress faster, having more of die paladins' time. In a 
half-year or so, choose more. Then we'd get a few out fester, and have more 
coming along."
The Marshal-General nodded. "That's a good idea—Amberion, what do you dünk?"
"I like that better than taking on two novices at once," said Amberion. "But I 
don't know if that will shorten the time any. Remember that each candidate has 
had, by tradition, all the time a single paladin-sponsor can give. We dare not 
test these candidates any less because times are desperate. It is in desperate 
times that we need most to be "sure of them."
"What list do we have?" asked High Marshal Connaught.
"A short one." The Marshal-General rubbed her nose. "I sent word to all the 
granges last spring, when Fenith wrote that Aarenis would be at war by summer. 
We talked of this last year, remember? But we've lost eight paladins in the past 
year—"
"Eight!"
She nodded gravely. "Yes. We all know that great evil has been moving in Aarenis 
and the Westmounts. Nearer home, we have seen outbreaks again in eastern Tsaia. 
Some reports indicate serious trouble in Lyonya. Marshal Cedfer, of 
Brewersbridge, reported that a priest of Achrya had been laired between his 
grange and the gnome kingdom nearby. Apparently he had preyed on nearby farms 
and caravans using spell-bound robbers."
"They'd say they were spell-bound," muttered Juris.
"That may be, of course. I have only his report to go by. But Brewersbridge has 
been a healthy community for years—since Long Stones, at least. If Achrya can 
have a priest there, where else may we not expect trouble?"
"What happened to the paladins, Amberion?" asked Marshal Kory.
"We are still finishing the reports for the archives, Marshal," said Amberion 
slowly. "Chenin Hoka—he was from Homgard originally; he hadn't been north of the 
mountains for years—was lolled by Liart's command, in Sibili, during the assault 
on that city—"
"I thought that's where Fenith was."
"He was there, yes. Chenin was taken some time earlier, while helping a grange 
near Pliuni defend itself; a witness thought he was dead. But Siniava's troops 
got him to Sibili, to the temple—and he was killed, finally, after long 
torments." Amberion said nothing more, and silence filled the room. Then he 
sighed, and began again. "I knew him, when I was a candidate; that was the last 
time he was north. He knocked me flat, I remember, and I lay there wondering why 
I'd ever wanted to be a paladin. Anyway. Doggal ofVeYella was lost at sea; he 
was sailing east along the Immerhoft coast. He'd told a Girdsman at Sul that he 
had a call to come north. The ship was seen going onto reefe near Whiteskull, 
and his body was recoverea some days later. We have no reason to doubt the 
identification. Garin Garrisson was killed in battle at Sibili; Fenith saw that. 
The two of them were holding light against a darkness cast by Liart's ranking 
priest. A crossbow bolt got him in the eye. Arianya Perrisdotter held a 
daskdraudigs away from a caravan in one of the mountain passes in the 
Dwarfwatch, but it fell on her in the end. Tekki Hakinier was apparently killed 
by a band of forest sprites—whatever they call them in Dzordanya. The only word 
we have is from a witness that says he was'stuffed with pine needles like a 
pin-pig,* which I suppose is what they call a hedgehog."
"No." Marshal Kory shook his head. "No, a pin-pig is bigger and lives in trees. 
They call it that because its flesh is sweet like pork. It sounds like those 
mikki-kekki—they come in waves, hundreds at a time. But what was he doing up 
there?"
Amberion shrugged. "I didn't know he was there until we got the word he'd been 
killed. The witness said some-tiling about a varkingla of the long house of 
Stokki, whatever that means."
Kory nodded. "It means Stokki's clan thought they had to move somewhere, the 
whole bunch. That's not common. Tekki was Dzordanyan, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"I would guess that they asked his protection, to move die clan through the 
forest, and the mikki-kekki didn't cooperate. They usually don't."
"Have you ever seen one?" asked the Marshal-General.
"Oh yes. When I was a rash boy, my three cousins and I
sailed across the Honnorgat to visit Dzordanya, That was the plan, at least. My 
uncle had told us we couldn't sail across the river like that; of course we 
thought he was just trying to spoil our fun."
"Why can't you?" asked Saer, speaking for the first time.
"You're from the mountains, aren't you, Saer? Yes. Well, any time you sail 
across the river, you've got its current to consider, just like rowing. But at 
the mouth of the Honnorgat, it's that and the tide and the sea current, all 
together. The short of it is that we ended up a long way up the coast. We 
couldn't even see Prealith any more. The way the current set, we couldn't sail 
back without going for out to sea. We may have been rash, but we had more sense 
that that, to sail a skin boat out of all sight of land. We thought we'd walk 
back along the shore, carrying the boat, until we got to the Honnorgat."
"Carrying a boat?" Saer was clearly skeptical.
"Skin boat. Not as heavy as you'd think. Hard work, though, with the sail and 
lines and all. Anyway, the forest in Dzordanya comes right down to the sea—and I 
mean all the way. You can walk with one foot in the waves, and slam into limbs. 
With a boat, we had to weave in and out as we could. Not easy. Halory, my oldest 
cousin, thought we should climb onto level ground, back in the forest, and go 
that way. Seemed a good idea to me. I'd nearly had my eye poked out by too many 
twigs already, trying to watch my footing.
"For a time everything went well. Not too much undergrowth, just tall dark firs 
and spruce, spaced so we could make it between them with the boat. Then we heard 
die first voices."
"The sprites?"
"Mikki-kekki. Nasty whispers, that you couldn't quite identify. Squeaks, little 
cries like someone sitting on a hot tack. I started to feel my neck sweat, and 
so did the others. Halory tried to hurry us, and we fell right into one of their 
traps. A sort of cone-shaped pit, lined with pine needles, and slippery as 
grease. We'd hardly caught our breath when they were all around it, chittering 
at us. They're much less than dwarf-tall, with greenish fur all over, and very 
long arms with long-fingered hands. It was the boat that saved us. When they 
started with their darts, we got under it and shook."
"What do they use, bows?"
"No. A sort of tube. They blow into it, and the dart flies out. They throw them 
by hand, too. The darts are poisoned, usually. Inory, my middle cousin, was hit 
by one and though he lived he was sick for weeks. That night we thought he'd 
die. If it hadn't been for some clan's long-house nearby—their sentries heard 
the mikki-kekki laughing and taunting us—1 wouldn't be here. They drove diem oC 
and pulled us out. It was two days before we got home, and my uncle—well, you 
can imagine." Kory shook his head.
"Well," said Amberion, "now we know about mikki-kekki." He went on with his 
list. "Sarin Inerith went into Kostandan, as you know, because we had word that 
Cirdsmen were held in slavery there. Her head returned to Piery grange: we have 
no idea what happened, where, or how. Jori of Westbells finally died of the 
lungfever that's plagued him these four years. And Fenith, as you heard, died in 
Horngard."
"What of the current candidates? Don't we have any who will finish this year?" 
That was High Marshal Suriest, Knight-Marshal of the Order of the Cudgel.
"At best we may have five this year, Amberion tells me. Kosta has withdrawn his 
candidacy, and transferred to the Marshal Hall. Dort withdrew. Pelis may 
withdraw. And of course we don't know what will happen in the Trials. Because we 
had so few paladins here to train, we don't have any scheduled for the following 
year; we would have had Elis, but she had to leave, as you remember. She may be 
back, but not soon enough."
"Which leaves us with the new list—what have we got?"
The Marshal-General shifted the papers in front of her, and glanced at another 
one. "We've talked over most of these before. Are you still opposed to the 
Verrakai squire, Amberion?"
He nodded. "Marshal-General, we cannot define die problem, but we would not be 
happy with him."
"Nor I," said High Marshal Connaught "Look at the time we put in on Felo 
Verrakai, and what came of that!"
"Well, then, as I see it we've got five good candidates. Four in die knight's 
classes, and Seddith, the Marshal we spoke of last time."
"And we need seven."
"And we need as many as we can find," said the Marshal-General. "Now—"
"I know what you're leading up to," interrupted Juris. "You want to include that 
new yeoman."
"What!" High Marshal Suriest turned his head; Connaught snorted. The 
Marshal-General held up her hand, and they all quieted.
"Juris, you could have let me say it—but yes, I do. Before you say anything, 
consider. She's a veteran of the Aarenis wars—"
"That's a recommendation?" But Kory subsided when the Marshal-General looked at 
him.
"We had a report from Fenith about her; he thought she should be considered a 
possibility if she ever joined the Fellowship. Marshal or paladin, he said. 
Cedfer reports that she freed the elfane taig, in die mountains southeast of 
Brewersbridge. He checked that report with full elves—and so have I, here. Also 
she cleared out that nest of robbers, and was able to fight the Achryan priest 
alongside Cedfer's yeoman-marshal. As far as weapons-skills, she heads the list. 
Since she's been here, Chanis reports that she has worked hard on everything 
we've thrown at her. She's even shown skill in teaching; Cedfer reported that 
from Brewersbridge, and I've seen how the other students follow her here."
"It's too soon, Marshal-General," said Juris, and several other heads nodded. "I 
grant she may be what you say, but what do we know of her as a Girdsman? 
Nothing. She's not even a member of the Fellowship yet. How can you think of 
giving this honor to an outsider?"
"But she won't be an outsider after she takes her vows," said the 
Marshal-General.
"No, but—" Juris squirmed in his seat. "I know we need candidates. But we need 
the best candidates. We need to be sure they're strong Girdsmen first, and 
then—"
"Watch them get spitted by better fighters?" The Marshal-General's voice 
sharpened. "Right now this outsider, as you call her, can outfight most of the 
Marshals here, unless they use their powers. I've seen her—Amberion has seen 
her—ask Cieri."
The Marshal-General folded her hands on the table. "Juris, I know it's not 
usual. But we haven't found anything wrong with her. Gird knows we've tested, 
prodded, tried-—Cieri had to set her up for days to make her lose her temper 
even once. And then she agreed she was wrong. Of course she's not perfect—no one 
is. Of course we wish she'd been Girdish all along, come up through the grange 
training. But allowing for that, she's the best candidate on the list. And if 
anything is amiss, it will come out in the stress of training, or in the Trials. 
It's not that we're choosing her over someone else—we haven't got anyone else."
Juris shook his head. "Arianya, you're wrong—and I don't think I can convince 
you. Suppose she is a potential paladin, that Gird will approve and call. But 
right now what she is, is a good soldier and a novice Girdsman. 1 don't care if 
she knows all the answers, can recite the Ten Fingers backwards and forwards: 
she hasn't experienced a grange. If she's so good, send her to me—or to another 
grange—for a half-year. Let's see how she does as a yeoman among yeomen. We've 
had unpleasant surprises before."
"Gird's gut, may the ale hold out! If I had a half-year, Juris, I'd send her. 
But we don't have it."
The argument went on some time, but the shortage of paladins won over caution. 
"We must have the candidates," said the Marshal-General finally. "We must. She 
will be with the others here, under our protection. Unless you can suggest a 
better, Juris, I must insist—"
"All right." He frowned, sucking his cheeks, but finally nodded. "All right, 
then. But be sure you do ward her,
Marshal-General. Don't rush that one through the training. She's not a knight 
yet, remember, and she's never had that sort of training.'
Paks, called to the Marshal-General's office, knew nothing of the argument. She 
expected to be told more details of the ceremony that would make her a Girdsman. 
She found the Marshal-General, the Knights-Marshal of both orders, and a 
stranger waiting for her.
"Paksenarrion, there are High Marshal Connaught, High Marshal Suriest, and Sir 
Amberion, a paladin of Gird presently attached to die Training Order. Please sit 
here."
Paks sat where she was told, her heart pounding. What now? Was she suspected of 
something so bad that it would take two High Marshals and a paladin to deal with 
it?
"You have not changed your mind about joining the Fellowship?" asked the 
Marshal-General.
"No, Marshal-General."
"You are ready to accept Gird as your patron, as you now accept the High 
Lora'sdominion?"
"Yes, Marshal-General."
"Do you feel any particular—um—call, such as we have talked about in the past 
days?"
Paks frowned. "Marshal-General, I have fe!t something, something I could not 
define, for some time. It began in Aarenis, when I was still in Duke Phelan's 
Company. I felt die need for a different kind of fighting—but I'm not good with 
words, Marshal-General. I don't know how to say what I feel, but that here it 
seems right. I feel that it's right for me to join the Fellowship of Gird; I 
feel that here I will find the right way to be the fighter I always wanted to 
be."
"You told Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge that you didn't want to fight for gold 
alone—you wanted to fight against 'bad tilings.' Is that still true?"
Paks nodded. "Yes, Marshal-General."
"Paksenarrion, I have talked to Marshal Ghanis and Marshal Cieri about your 
progress, and with these High Marshals and Sir Amberion about that and your 
past. They needed to hear what you have said from your own mouth." She looked at 
the others. "Well?"
One by one they nodded. Paks watched their faces, confused. What could she have 
said that was wrong? The Marshal-General tapped her fingers on her desk. Paks 
looked back to her.
"Paksenarrion, you must know—there's no way you couldn't know—that you are one 
of the best young fighters in the training company. Cedfer was right to send 
you. You can qualify easily for either of the knightly orders, if that's what 
you want." She paused, and Paks held her breath. The Marshal-General resumed. 
"Or—there is another possibility. Ordinarily I would not make this offer to 
someone who is not yet a Girdsman—in feet, ordinarily it conies only to those of 
proven service to Gird. But from the reports I've received, Gird has accepted as 
service several of your deeds in the past. The Training Council has agreed to 
it. So—would you accept an appointment as a paladin candidate?"
Paks felt her mouth open. She could not speak or move for an instant of 
incredulous joy. She saw amusement on their faces, felt her ears flaming again. 
"Me?" she finally squeaked, in a voice very unlike her own. She swallowed and 
tried again. "You mean—me? A—a paladin candidate?"
"You," said the Marshal-General, now smiling. "Now—this is not an order; if you 
don't feel you can say yes, then refuse. We will not hold it against you—indeed, 
there are those who think you need more experience."
"But—but I'm so young!" Paks could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Her heart 
was moving again, bounding, and she felt she could float out of her chair. "I—"
"You are young, yes; and you will be a novice yeoman, which is worse. But if we 
didn't think you could be a paladin, Paksenarrion, we would not suggest this." 
The Marshal-General turned to Amberion. "Sir Amberion, you might just tell her 
what the training is like, while she considers this."
Paks turned to the paladin, a tall, dark-haired man somewhat younger ihan the 
Marshal-General by his looks.
His open smile was infectious. "Paksenarrion, paladin-candidates receive 
training simultaneously as knights and as Gird's warriors. Each candidate is 
attached to one of the knightly orders, but spends much of his or her time with 
a paladin sponsor. The training is lengthy and intensive; die candidate must be 
tested in many ways, for any weakness could open a passage for evil. And even 
then, the candidate may foil, for the final Trials require proof that the gods 
have bestowed on the new paladin those powers which paladins must have. Of the 
few who begin this training, more than half never become paladins."
"It means, as well," said the Marshal-General, "giving up all thought of an 
independent life. Paladins are sworn to Gird's service; they own nothing but 
their own gear, and must go wherever Gird commands, on whatever quest Gird 
requires. For many, these restrictions are too onerous; even we Marshals have 
more freedom. So we do not expect that all to whom we offer candidacy will take 
it—or complete the training—and we respect those who withdraw no less than those 
who go on.'
Paks tried to control her excitement, but she could not think of anything but 
her oldest dreams. Paladin. It meant shining armor, and magic swords, and 
marvelous horses that appeared from nowhere on the day of the Trials. It meant 
old songs of great battles, bright pictures in her mind like that of the paladin 
under the walls of Sibili, all brightness and grace and courage. Another picture 
moved in her mind, herself on a shining horse, riding up the lane from Three 
Firs to her father's farm, with children laughing and cheering alongside. Her 
mother smiled and wept; her brothers gaped; her father, astonished, finally 
admitted he had been wrong, and asked her pardon. She blinked at that unlikely 
vision, and returned to hear the Marshal-General saying something about 
opportunities to change her mind later. But her mind would never change, she 
vowed. When the Marshal-General paused, she spoke.
"I am honored, Marshal-General; please let me try."
The others looked at each other, then back to her.
"You are sure, Paksenarrion?"
"Yes, Marshal-General—if you are. I can't believe it—" She fought back a 
delighted laugh, and saw by their faces that they knew it "Me—a sheepfarmer's 
daughter—a paladin-candidate!"
Now they laughed, gently. "Paksenarrion," said the Marshal-General, "we are 
pleased that you accept the challenge. Now let me explain why we are taking a 
chance on hurrying you." Quickly she outlined die situation: the shortage of 
paladins, the growing assaults of evil power in several areas. "You see, we must 
replenish the ranks—as fast as we can—or risk having no paladins to train new 
ones."
^'How long does the training take?" asked Paks. "It depends in part on the 
candidate's previous status. For you, it means becoming a knight first, and Uien 
a paladin—-more than a year, likely two years. It means some isolation—paladin 
candidates withdraw from the main training order, sometimes for months at a 
time, for meditation and individual instruction. Not all the candidates progress 
at the same rate. Do not be surprised if someone finishes before or after you 
who begins the same night."
"We will be taking the vows of the new candidates the same nightvou become a 
Girdsman," said the Marshal-General. "This is unusual—as I said—but I feel that 
it is even more important for your vows to be public. Then—if anything happens…" 
But Paks was determined diat mrthing would happen—everything would go well. At 
that moment, she would have done anything they asked, for Ae sheer joy of having 
a chance to prove herself a worthy paladin-candidate.
She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she went down. As she came through 
the arch to head for her quarters, she nearly ran into Argalt. She had spent a 
couple of evenings with him and his friends at a nearby tavern. He grinned at 
her. "Well—so you haven't been sent away, eh?"
"No." Paks felt like bouncing up and down. She wasn't sure if she should tell 
him; they had said nothing about keeping her selection secret.
"It must be good news. How about sharing a pitcher later?'
"I can't." Paks couldn't contain it any longer. "I have so much to do—you won't 
believe it, Argalt!"
"What—did they select you for paladin-candidate, now you're joining the 
Fellowship?"
Paks felt her jaw drop. "Did you know?"
He laughed. "No—but it's what I would do. Well, now, sheepfarmer's daughter, I'm 
glad for you. And you so stiff" when you came—remember what I said?"
"Yes—yes, I do." Paks threw back her head in glee. "I have to go—I have things—"
"To do, yes. I heard. I'll be watching you, now. You'd better show us 
something."
Paks had never imagined Midwinter Feast in Fin Panir. Back home, it had meant a 
huge roast of mutton, sweet cakes, and the elders telling tales around the fire. 
In the Duke's Company, plenty of food and drink, speeches from the captains and 
the Duke, and a day of games and music. Here, the outer court erupted at first 
light with all the juniors starting a snow battle. Paks took one look at the 
fortifications, and decided that they must have stayed out half the night 
building them. When the Training Master came out to quell the riot, he was 
captured, roiled in the snow, and rescued only when Paks led the seniors in an 
assault on the largest snow-fort. But by then he had agreed (as, she found 
later, was the custom) that the juniors had the right to demand toll of 
everyone—of any rank—crossing die court. Those who refused to pay were pelted 
with snowballs; some were even caught and held for ransom. The day was clear, 
after several days of snow, and no one could possibly sneak across the yard 
undetected.
The feasting started with breakfast. In place of porridge and cold meat, the 
cooks offered sweet cakes dipped in honey, gingerbread squares, hot sausages 
wrapped in dough and fried, and "fried snow," a lacy looking confection Paks had 
never seen. All day long the tables were heaped with food, replenished as it was 
eaten. And all day long the feasters came and went, from one wild winter game to 
another.
Paks had been told that she was free until midafternoon. With that, she joined a 
group that rode bareback out onto the snowy practice fields, where they jousted 
with blunt poles until only one remained mounted. Paks lost her pole early, but 
managed to stay on the black horse for most of the game, winning her bouts by 
clever dodges, and a quick straight-arm. She did not recognize the woman who 
finally shoved her off into a snowdrift; she floundered there, laughing so hard 
she could not work her way out for several minutes. After this, they tried to 
ride in a long line, all holding hands and guiding the horses with their legs. 
Soon they were all in the snow again, and after another few tricks they came 
back for more food.
Now the tables held roasts and breads as well as sweets. Paks piled her plate 
with roast pork and mutton, a half-loaf of bread yellow with eggs. Four juniors 
staggered in, their faces bright red with cold. Behind them came the dwarves she 
had met, eyes gleaming. They saw her, waved, and came to sit across from her.
"Is it that you have recovered, Paksenamon Dorthansdotter of Three Firs?" asked 
Balkis.
"Yes, indeed," said Paks. "But the surgeons didn't want me fighting until after 
today."
"Ah, we have heard that you make adoption into the Fellowship," said Balkis, 
stuffing a leg of chicken into his mouth. "This will make it that you are 
blood-bound to the others, is it not?"
Before Paks could answer, the woman who had dumped her in the snow slipped into 
a chair beside her, and answered the dwarves. "No—it is not that, rockbrothers. 
Ask not the child of the father's business." To Paks's surprise, both dwarves 
blushed. She looked at the woman in surprise.
"You're the one who—"
"Yes." The woman grinned as she took a sweet cake from a tray. "I'm the one who 
dumped you. I'm Cami, by the way—that's what everyone calls me, but my real name 
is Rahel, if you need it." She said something in dwarvish to the dwarves; Balkis 
looked startled, but the darker dwarf burst into laughter. Paks eyed her. Garni 
(or Rahel) was small and dark, a quick-moving woman who reminded Paks a little 
of Canna.
"Why are you called Garni if your name is Rahel?" asked Paks.
"Oh that Well, it started when I came here. They used to tease me that I should 
have been Gamwyn's paladin instead of Gird's—"
"You're a paladin?" Paks had not thought of any paladin being so light-hearted; 
Garni seemed almost frivolous.
'Tes." Garni stuffed the rest of the cake into her mouth, and then spoke through 
it. "It was what I did when I was young and wild. I won't tell you; you don't 
need ideas like that. But they started calling me Camwynya, only that was too 
long, and then Garni. You're a candidate, right?"
"After tonight," said Paks.
"I thought so. It's good that you know these rockbrothers already—
"I don't, really—" began Paks, but Garni shushed her.
"Better than many do, I can tell. Balkis Baitisson, I will speak no more 
dwarvish, for this lady knows it not, but it is not the blood-bond of brethren 
that she joins this night."
Not? How so? It is the Fellowship of Gird."
"Yes. The Fellowship is the blood-bond of Gird with each yeoman, sir dwarf; not 
each with the other."
"But it is that brother of brother is brother," insisted the dwarf. "It is that 
makes the clan-bond, the blood-bond."
"It is that for dwarves," said Garni. "For man it is other. The bond is like 
that of the Axemaster for each member of the clan, not between members."
"It is not possible to have one without the other," said Balkis, his eyes 
flashing. "If the Axemaster accepts adoption from any outlander, the putlander 
is blood-bound to the clan. Ah1 of it"
Garni shot Paks a quick look. "Paks, no one has ever convinced dwarves of 
this—and I won't—but I’ll keep trying." But now the second dwarf spoke for the 
first time.
"Lady Garni, you know me, Balkon son of Tekis son of Kadas, mother-son of Fedrin 
Harasdotter, sister-son he of the Goldenaxe, but to this lady I have not spoken 
in my own name." His voice was higher than Paks expected when speaking Common, 
midrange for a man, but much higher than Balltis's.
Garni nodded politely, and Paks copied her, wondering if she should state her 
own name again.
"You say this lady is to be paladin as you are?"
"Yes," said Garni, with another quick look to Paks.
"Last time we saw Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, she had hurt of an axe, and no 
healing of Marshal. That I thought was disgrace, or punishment. To be candidate 
must be honor, is it not? Why this then?"
Now it was Paks's turn to blush. She did not know how much Garni knew of the 
whole situation. But someone had to explain.
"Sir—sir dwarf," she began, copying Cami's style of address, "I said then it was 
not unfairness of the Marshal—"
"But we thought it so. It might be you did not know, being nedross." At that 
word, Cami choked on her food, and shook a finger at the dwarves. Paks, 
confused, waited for a moment, then went on.
"It was not unfairness. I told you they thought I had taken value from them in 
training, and had not returned value." Now they nodded, and she hurried on. "So 
they said if I wished to stay I must make a commitment; I was willing to make 
it, even if they did not let me stay, for the truth I felt of it"
"Truth." Balkon looked at her sharply. "It is that you have that power to see 
truth itself?"
"She might," interrupted Cami. "And not even know it. Nedross, indeed!"
"What is that?" asked Paks.
"I hope," said Cami severely, "that they're using it in the gnome sense, 
unwilling or unable to see insult, and not in the dwarf sense of cowardly."
Both dwarves burst into speech, protesting.
"It is not that we—"
"That is not what we—"
Balkon shushed his friend, and continued. "Lady Cami, Lady Paksenarrion, we did 
not think that this lady, this lady who would use an axe, would be cowardly. 
No—only that it is not always the same for man and dwarf when words be said, 
that some should be taken and others not. If it is that we make mistakes, and 
think someone unfair to this fine lady, who would use an axe, Sertig's first 
tool, then we ask pardon of the lady, but we are glad to see that she had honor 
now in this house, and is blood-bound to a dan we honor."
Paks was thoroughly confused. Cami turned to her with an exaggerated sigh. "I'd 
advise you to accept their good wishes, and apologies, and be glad you have 
found dwarven friends. They truly did not mean to say you were cowardly."
Paks smiled at them. "Sirs, I know not your words, but I thank you for your good 
wishes."
They both grinned back. "That is very good," said Balkon. "And tf you wish to 
learn, we still will teach you what we know of axes."
Paks nodded. "If I am permitted, in my training, I will ask it of you."
"Paks!" Aris Marrakai had come up behind her, with several of his friends. He 
shuffled from one foot to another when she turned. "I—I brought you something."
"Aris—you shouldn't have—" Paks took from his hand a carefully worked leather 
pouch, fringed and decorated with tiny shells. "It must have cost—"
He shrugged. "Not that much. And anyway, Rufen told me that paladins never have 
any money and can't buy things, and so I thought maybe you'd keep it and—and 
remember us."
"I'd remember you anyway, Aris," said Paks. "But thank you—I will treasure 
this." She knew already what would gp in it: Saben's little red stone horse, and 
Canna's medallion. Aris darted away; Paks met Cami's eyes.
"It isn't quite that bad," said Cami. "We don't get rich, but we can buy a fruit 
pie occasionally.''
"That's good," said Paks. "I like mushrooms, myself."
"Then pray you aren't assigned to the granges west of here for your duty," said 
Cami, laughing. "Dry and high—not a mushroom for days and days.'
"When do we have grange duty?" asked Paks.
"Just before the Trials," said Cami. "You may find it strange; you've never been 
in a normal grange, have you? No—then it's even more important for you. We all 
must know what limits Marshals face, and granges, and not think because we are 
gifted with powers that it's so easy for others."
"Cami!" The hall was filling now, as more and more cold revellers came in for 
warmth and food. Paks was startled to see the Training Master grab Cami by both 
shoulders and hug her. "Gird's right arm, I thought you were still in achael!'
"Through Midwinter Feast? Master Chanis, even the High Lord wouldn't keep me in 
achael through the best day in the year!"
"I suppose not. Are you out, or just on leave?"
"Out. Gird's grace for it, too; if I had missed Midwinter's Feast, and the 
installation, I'd have burst something."
"And are you fit to sing, Cami?" asked Sir Amberion, who had followed the 
Training Master into the hall. Cami looked at Paks.
"Ask Paksenarrion—I only dumped her a couple of times this morning."
Paks could not help grinning. "Only once—"
"Ah, but who stuck her foot in your black's ribs, in the line, to make him 
crowhop? And you flew off then, too."
"Was that you?" Paks joined the roar of laughter.
"It was," said Cami, "and I could do it again. Fit to sing? By the 
dragonstongue, I could sing and blow the lo-pipe at the same time." Again 
laughter, and Paks saw someone scurry away, yelling that a lo-pipe was coming 
up. But as she watched Cami move a tray out of her way and settle onto the 
table, the Training Master touched her shoulder, and beckoned. Paks followed him 
away from the hall.
To her surprise, it was already midafternoon. The rest of the day was taken up 
with preparation for the night's ceremonies. She had to change into the plain 
gray of the Training Company, but the steward handed her, as well, the white 
surcoat of a paladin-candidate. She would have to change hurriedly between 
ceremonies. Paks had lines to learn and, like the Finthan youngsters who were 
making their final vows that night, she spent some time in the High Lord's Hall 
in meditation. When spectators began arriving, the group was led away to a small 
bare room off one end. Paks felt her stomach tightening. Her mouth was dry. The 
otihers in this room were not the paladin candidates, but junior yeomen making 
their vows as senior yeomen—the honor of taking these vows at Midwinter Feast in 
the High Hall came to those whose grange Marshals had recommended them. Most 
were about die age Paks had been when she left home—eighteen or nineteen 
winters. They eyed her as nervously as she watched them.
The summons came with an ear-shattering blast of trumpets, as High Marshals 
Connaught and Suriest opened the door and called them out. The High Lord's Hall 
was brilliantly lit by hundreds of candles. The spectators sat and stood on 
either side of the wide central aisle. With the others, Paks stood just below 
the platform. The trumpet music ended, to be followed by an interlude of harps. 
Then another trumpet fanfare introduced the Marshal-General, resplendent in a 
white surcoat over her armor, with Gird's crescent embroidered in silver on the 
breast. Following her were the other High Marshals presently at Fin Panir, all 
in Gird's blue and white. Behind them came those visitors who would be honored 
during the ceremonies: two Marshals of Falk, in long robes of ruby-red, with 
gold-decorated helms set in the crooks of their arms. A Swordmaster of Tir, in 
black and silver; Paks remembered die device on his arms from Aarenis. Last of 
all came the seven paladins resident and whole of limb in Fin Panir, each in 
fall armor, carrying Gird's pennant.
Pals watched them come up the aisle, her heart pounding with excitement and joy. 
This was exactly what she had thought about in Three Firs—the music, the 
brilliant colors—she tried to take a long breath and calm down. She recognized 
Sir Amberion and Lady Cami, but none of the other paladins. They mounted the 
platform behind her, and she heard the footsteps move away to its far side. The 
the trumpets were still, and the Marshal-General's clear voice called out the 
ancient greeting:
"In darkness, in cold, in the midst of winter where nothing walks the world but 
death and fear let die brave rejoice: I call die light."
"I call the light!" came the response from every voice. It seemed to shake die 
air.
"Out of darkness, light. Out of silence, song. Out of die sun's death, the birth 
of each year." Paks naif-listened, knowing die words better than any other she'd 
heard from die Marshal-General. Just so had her grandfather said diem, when she 
was small, and just so her father had said diem, die last Midwinter Feast she 
was at home.
"Out of cold, fire. Out of death, life. Out of fear, courage to see die day." 
Widi the others, she gave die response. And together they all completed the 
ritual, raising first one hand then die other, and finally both, to defy 
sundeath and greet the sun. "In darker night, brighter stars. In greater fear, 
greater courage. In the midst of winter, the world's birth. Praise to die High 
Lord." This would be repeated between every segment of the ceremonies, until 
sunrise the next dawn. Paks remembered falling asleep, year after year—and die 
first year that she had managed to stay awake, die last year of her 
grandfather's life, to light die first morning fire widi new wood. For with 
sundown, all fires were destroyed—to show respect, her grandfather had said, and 
to prove their courage to endure. Here, too, die fires went out when the sun 
fell, to be kindled at daybreak. Only those desperately ill were allowed a fire 
on Midwinter Night.
"Yeomen of Gird," said the High Marshal then, and Paks pulled her mind back to 
die ceremony. "We have widi us diose who seek to join the Fellowship of Gird; by 
our ancient customs we will test them in their steadfastness, and you will 
witness their vows."
"By Gird's grace," came the response. Paks felt her neck prickle. She was 
suddenly cold, and wanted to rub her arms.
"Stand forth, you who would swear fealty to the Fellowship of Gird," said the 
Marshal-General. With those on her side of the aisle, Paks faced toward the 
center of the hall. One at a time they would mount those steps and face a 
Marshal for the ritual exchange of blows. Paks suspected that in her case it 
might be something more than a ritual. Her leg itched; she resisted the urge to 
rub it on her other leg.
Before she had time to worry, she heard her name. All at once she felt eager, 
and went up the steps quickly. To the questions she made response firmly; she 
acknowledged Gird as the High Lord's servant, the patron of fighters, the 
protector of the helpless. She swore to keep the Code of Gird, and obey "all 
Marshals and lawful authority over you." And then the questioner stepped back, 
and she faced the Marshal-General, who held out two identical staves.
Paks took one, with an internal prayer that she wouldn't look too foolish. The 
Marshal-General smiled, feinted, and aimed a smashing blow at her. Paks rolled 
aside, countering as best she could. The power of die Marshal-General's blows 
carried all the way up her arms. Ritual exchange of blows indeed, thought Paks. 
Hie staves rattled. She took a blow on the thigh, and managed to touch the 
Marshal-General's arm with a leftover move that carried little sting. Then her 
staff seemed to twitch in her hands and go flying through the air; the 
Marshal-General's staff tapped her head firmly before she could dodge. And the 
Marshal-General stepped back, bowed, and greeted her.
"Welcome, yeoman of Gird, to Gird's grange." As she spoke, she placed a Gird's 
medallion over Paks'shead.
Paks bowed as she had been instructed. "I am honored, Marshal-General, to be 
accepted in Gird's Fellowship." Then, dismissed, she left the platform and 
returned moved to a space behind it, where the Training Master waited to help 
her on with the candidate's surcoat and her new Gird's medallion.
The paladin candidates were presented just before dawn, after ceremonies 
honoring Marshals and paladins killed in the past year. It seemed to Paks a very 
plain aflair: the candidates were simply named and shown to the spectators, and 
assigned to one of the knightly orders and a sponsoring paladin. After the 
events of the day before, Paks had hoped to get Cami as her sponsor, but instead 
Amberion led her before the crowd. Cami was sponsoring a yeoman-marshal from 
somewhere in the Westmounts, she heard later. Paks knew none of the candidates 
well, and only four of them at all; the others had been sent from distant 
granges after earlier selection.
She had one more day of freedom—for the second day of Midwinter Feast was as 
lively as the first—and fell into bed that night completely exhausted and as 
happy as. she could ever remember being.
Chapter Twenty-three
Paks's first experience as a paladin candidate was a familiar one—moving into 
new quarters. These were south of the main complex, in an annex to the Paladin's 
Hall. She was surprised to find that she would still have a room to herself, but 
Amberion explained.
"You will spend time in solitary exercises; you will need the privacy. Later, 
you will learn the skills of meditation even when surrounded by noise and 
upheaval, but for novices it's easier to learn in solitude."
Paks nodded silently. She was still shy of her paladin sponsor; it was hard to 
believe that he and Cami were in the same order. He seemed more somber, far less 
approachable. She unpacked her things quickly, wondering a Utde at the 
requirement that her sponsor must see everything she owned. But for that, too, 
he had a reason. Paladins must be willing to go anywhere, anytime—able to endure 
hardship, not just discipline. Those who clung to treasured possessions, 
favorite foods, even friends, might make fine Marshals or knights, but not 
paladins. So in the early days of training, they must do without accustomed 
possessions. Those who withdrew would have theirs re- stored, but those 
continuing had to face the possible loss of items deemed too luxurious. Paks 
understood the reasoning, but could not imagine anyone preferring fancy clothes 
or jewelry to being a paladin. She said so, and Amberion grinned at her.
"I've seen it myself. And there is always something hard to give up. If not 
material things, habits and ways of thought. This may be a trivial test for you, 
but there are others. No one passes through this training without struggle. " He 
looked over her gear as he spoke, and told her to keep Saben's red horse and 
Canna's medallion. Aris's gift, her weapons, the shining mail the elfane taig 
had given her—all these went into storage. Then he said, "What about money? Do 
you have any gold or silver?"
Paks handed over the heavy leather sack she'd brought from Brewersbridge. "This, 
and some on account with the Guild in Tsaia."
His eyebrows went up. "Did Marshal Cedfer know how much gold you had?"
"I don't know." Paks thought back to Brewersbridge, already distant to her mind. 
"I told him the elfane taig had gifted me; he saw the jewel I gave the grange, 
and knew I had money for food, lodging, and clothes."
Amberion frowned, and Paks wondered what she'd done wrong. "Did you know that 
most orders of knights charge a fee for their training, which is waived for poor 
applicants?" he asked. Paks shook her head. She had assumed that the Training 
Company was maintained by the Fellowship of Gird, through contributions from the 
granges. "Perhaps Cedfer expected you'd become a Girdsman, as you have, and 
didnt bother to mention it," Amberion went on. "As a paladin, you may not hold 
wealth. We are bound to keep this for you, and restore it if you foil, but if 
you are called as a paladin… well…"
"You mean I owe the Training College?" asked Paks.
"Not precisely owe. Cedfer sponsored you here, at first, and you accepted this 
chance freely, as a gift. It would be ill grace on our part to ask alms of you 
now. On the other hand, while we would ask nothing of a farmer's daughter who 
had nothing, we would ordinarily ask a fee of some- one who could pay. And that 
gold, that fee, would not be returned, whatever happened." He shifted the bag 
from hand to hand. "What had you planned with this?"
"Well—" Paks had trouble remembering the clutter of plans and dreams with which 
she'd ridden from Brewersbridge. "I had sent money to my family, to repay my 
dowry, but I'd planned to send more if 1 became a knight, for then I could 
always earn my own way. And I'd thought of a new saddle for Socks—my black 
horse."
He nodded slowly. "You thought of warriors* needs ahead, and your family. Are 
they poor, Paksenarrion?"
"Not really poor, like some I've seen. We had food enought if not too much; we 
always had clothes and fire in winter. But there's no money, most times. It took 
me years to save up the copper bits I left home with. And all the other children 
to be raised and wed—" Paks shook her head suddenly. "But now I'm here—and if 
I'm a paladin, I won't need a saddle, will I? Someone else will take Socks. And 
I won't be looking for work. Tell me what the fee is, sir, and I can send the 
rest to them and be done with it."
Amberion smiled at her with real warmth. "You choose well. Would you agree to 
give this bagful to the Fellowship, and send whatever is on account to your 
family?"
"There's more on account," said Paks.
"No matter. We are not here to fatten ourselves at the expense of farmers. 
Now—what's this—?" He pushed at the little bundle of scuffed and tattered old 
scrolls left in her saddlebags. "I thought you weren't a scholar."
"I don't know," said Paks. "I found diem in my things after the elfane taig. I 
was going to ask Axnbros about them, but that's when the caravan was attacked, 
and after that I forgot. I couldn't read them then—maybe now—" She started to 
unroll one of them; the parchment crackled.
"Here—wait—" Amberion took it from her. "These are old, Paksenarrion—we must be 
careful with diem, or they'll go to pieces." He peered at the faded script. 
"Gird's arm, I can't—what do you think that is?" He pushed it back to Paks, who 
leaned close.
"I'm not sure. 'For on this day—something—Gird came to this village where was 
die—the—' is that word knight?"
"I think so," said Amberion. "I think it's 'knight of the prince's cohort, and 
there they—* something where that's rubbed out, and then 'and as he said to me, 
that he did, and called die High Lord's blessing on it'—" Amberion looked up at 
her for a moment. "Where did you say you found these?"
"I didn't find them, exactly," said Paks. "After the fight underground, the 
elfane taig got me back to the surface-somehow—and then had me pack up a whole 
load of things. I was too sick to notice much, but the elfane taig insisted. A 
day or so later, when I looked through the packs, the scrolls were there. I 
tried to read them, but—" Paks flushed. "I didn't read that well—and the script 
is odd."
"Yes—it is." Amberion seemed abstracted. "Paks—this has nothing to do with your 
training, but I believe these scrolls may be valuable. They're old—very old—and 
I've read something like this in the archives. Would you let the Archivist see 
them?"
"Of course," said Paks. "I'd be glad to know what they are and why the elfane 
taig gave them. I almost threw them away, but—"
"I'm glad you didn't," said Amberion. "If they're really an old copy of Luap's 
writings—"
"Luap? Is diat Gird's friend?"
"Yes. Most of what we know about Gird comes from the Chronicles of Luap. This—" 
he nodded toward the scroll he held, "seems to be part of that—it's talking, I 
think, about the battle at Seameadow." He put die scroll down and looked around 
the room. "That's all, then? Good. Now about your horse—what do you call him?"
Paks felt herself blushing again. "Socks," she mumbled. She had had enough 
comments to know that it should have been something grander. But Amberion did 
not laugh.
"Better, to my mind, than some long name you can't shout at need. You know that 
if you pass the Trials you'll have a mount?" She nodded. She had heard more than 
once of the paladins' mounts that appeared after their Trials, waiting fully 
equipped in the courtyard outside the
High Lord's Hall. No one knew whence they came; no one saw them come. "But in 
the meantime you can use Socks for training. Doggal says he's good enough. In 
feet, the Training Order would take him when you pass the Trials, unless you 
want to sell him elsewhere."
"Yes, sir."
"Take the things you won't need back to the steward, and then come back here; 
you'll meet the other paladins and candidates."
For some days after that, Paks heard nothing more about the scrolls. Her 
schedule kept her too busy to ask. It was unlike any training she'd had before. 
Instead of weapons drill or military theory, she found herself immersed in 
history and geography: which men had come to which area, and when, and why. She 
learned of their laws and their beliefs; she had to memorize article after 
article of the Code of Gird. Gradually she built in her mind a picture of the 
whole land about, and the beliefs of the people. She could see, as in a drawing, 
her father's family perched on the side of a moor north of most trade routes. 
They had believed in the High Lord, and the Lady of Peace, but also in the horse 
nomad deity Guthlac, and the Windsteed. Their boundary stones, and the rituals 
for keeping them, came from Aarenis; the well-sprite for whom she had plucked 
flowers every spring was called the same—Piri—from Brewersbridge to Three Firs, 
and south to Valdaire. But in Aarenis proper, the well-spirits were multiple, 
and called caoutin; they had no personal names.
She learned that elves claimed no lands: the elvenhome kingdoms cannot be 
reached by unguided humans anyway. In Lyonya, where elves and humans ruled 
together a mortal kingdom, human land-rights were held provisionally, and any 
change of use had to be approved by the crown. Dwarves claimed daskgeft, a 
stonemass, but cared little who traveled the surface. Gnomes held all property 
by intricate law, and to step one footlength on gnomish land without legal right 
could bring the whole kingdom down on the criminal. Even in human lands, the 
laws of property differed. In Tsaia, where land was granted by the crown in 
return for military service, those who actually farmed rarely owned the land 
they worked—but in Fintha nearly all farms were owned by the former.
High Marshal Garris taught them the lore of the gods—all that was known of the 
great powers of good and evil. Paks learned that Achrya, die Webmistress, had 
not been known in Aare—proof, according to Marshal Garris, that Achrya was a 
minor god, for the great gods had power everywhere in the known world. Liart, on 
the other hand, had been known in old Aare, but not to the northern nomads or 
the Seafolk until they met the men from Aarenis. She learned that her fear of 
the Kuakkganni came from mistaking them for kuaknom, a race related to elves but 
devoted to evil; the Kuakkganni, Garris insisted, were never wholly evil, and 
often good. Of the greatest evils, Marshal Garris taught only their names and 
general attacks: Nayda, the Unnamer, who threatened forgetfulness, and Gitres, 
die Unmaker.
"They are one in destruction," he said firmly. "They try to enforce despair, and 
convince you that nothing matters, for they will wipe out all. Never believe it. 
The elves call diem A-Iynisi, The Unsinger who unravels the Song of die Singer, 
but they know as well as we that the Singer lives, and living must create."
"But are they really one, or two?" asked Harbin, the yeoman-marshal sponsored by 
Garni.
High Marshal Garris shrugged. "No man knows, Harbin; no man needs to know. I 
think—but it is only my thought—dial it is only one, but one who appears in die 
guise you most fear. One fears die loss of feme, of being unknown and forgotten, 
and another fears having all his works unmade. All mortals have some form of 
this fear, and in search of immortality among men may do great evil without 
intention. It is hard to trust that die High Lord's court will remember and 
reward a good life, hard to risk feme or hfework when those are at stake."
Along widi this, all die candidates were encouraged to learn languages. Paks had 
already found, in her travels, tüat she was quick to pick up new phrases. Since 
she had made friends among the elves and dwarves in Fin Panir, Amberion urged 
her to spend her evenings with them, speaking elven and dwarvish in turn. At 
first this went quickly: she could ask for food and drink, and greet her friends 
politely, after only a few lessons. But the more she wanted to say, the harder 
it got. A simple question, like "Where are you from?" would bring on a flurry of 
discussion. Paks found the dwarves more willing to explain than the elves, but 
she could not follow their explanations.
"It is simple," said Balkon one night, the third time of trying to explain dwarf 
clan rankings. "Let us begin with the Goldenaxe." They had begun with the 
Coldenaxe before, but Paks nodded. "The Goldenaxe has two sons and a daughter."
"Yes, but—" Paks knew that something difficult was coming.
"Wait. The Goldenaxe that was, before this, had a sister who had a son, and so 
this Goldenaxe is the sister-son of the Goldenaxe that was."
"His nephew?" ventured Paks.
Balkon scowled. "No—not. In Common that is son of either brother or sister, yes? 
And this is only for sister-son. Brother-son is mother's clan."
Paks started to ask why, and thought better of it.
"Now—this Goldenaxe has no sister, only brother, and brother has no sons. But a 
daughter. It is clear?"
Paks nodded. She still had a thread to follow. The current Goldenaxe had a 
brother, with a daughter, and two sons and a daughter of his own.
"So will inherit to the title either the son of his brother's daughter, or his 
oldest son, or the son of his daughter."
"But why not just his son?" asked Paks.
"Because that is not his blood," said Balkon. "His son's son is not his clan, 
you see that—only his daughter's son—"
"Then why not his daughter?" asked Paks again.
"What? She be the Goldenaxe? No—that would rive die rock indeed. No dwarfinaid 
wields coldmetal—"
"They don't fight?"
"I did not say that. They wield not the coldmetal, the weaponsteel, once it is 
forged. You, lady, would not stand long against a dwarven warrior-maid in her 
own hall."
Paks went back to asking the names of common objects after that. With elves the 
trouble was different but equally impenetrable. Some questions were simply 
ignored, others answered in a spate of elven that drowned her mind in lovely 
sound. Ardhiel gladly taught her songs, and encouraged her to learn the 
elaborate elven courtesies, but as for learning more about elves themselves, it 
was "Lady, the trees learn water by drinking rain, and stars learn night by 
shining." Paks found individual words easy to speak and remember, but her best 
efforts at stringing them together sounded nothing like Ardhiel's speech, though 
he praised her.
She had also much to learn of paladins, as did the other candidates. Most of 
them had thought, like Paks, that being Gird's holy warrior meant gaining vast 
arcane powers—they would be nearly invincible against any foe. Their paladin 
sponsors quickly set them straight. Although paladins must be skilled at 
righting, that, their sponsors insisted, was the least of their abilities. A 
quest might involve no fighting at all, or a battle against beings no steel 
could pierce.
"Paladins show that courage is possible," Garni said to them one day. "It is 
easy enough to find reasons to give in to evil. War is ugly, as Paks knows 
well," she nodded toward Paks, who suddenly remembered the worst of Aarenis, the 
dead baby in Rotengre, the murdered farmfolk, Ferrault dying, Alured's tortures. 
"We do not argue that war is better than peace; we are not so stupid as that. 
But it is not peace when cruelty reigns, when stronger men steal from farmers 
and craftworkers, when the child can be enslaved or the old thrown out to 
starve, and no one lifts a hand. That is not peace: that is conquest, and evil. 
We start no quarrels in peaceful lands; we never display our weaponsldlls to 
earn applause. But we are Gird's cudgel, defending the helpless, and teaching by 
our example that one person can dare greater force to break evil's grasp on the 
innocent. Sometimes we can do that without fighting, without lolling, and that's 
best."
"But we're warriors first," said Paks before she thought. She wished she'd kept 
still. She had already noticed that the others, with their years in the 
Fellowship and service in the granges, had different views. Now they all looked 
at her, and she fixed her gaze on Garni.
"Yes," said Cami slowly. "Some evils need that direct attack, and we must be 
able to do it, and to lead others in battle. Did you ever wonder why paladins 
are so likeable?" It seemed an odd remark, and threw Paks off balance. 
Apparently others were confused as well, by the stirrings in the room. "It's 
important," said Cami, now with'tlat grin that pulled them all together. "We 
come to a town, perhaps, where nothing has gone right for a dozen years. Perhaps 
there's a grange of Gird, perhaps not. But the people are frightened, and 
they've lost trust in each other, in themselves. We may lead them into danger; 
some will be killed or wounded. Why should they trust usT No one answered, and 
she went on. "Because we are likeable, and other people will follow us 
willingly. And that's why we are more likely to choose a popular yeoman-marshal 
as a candidate than the best fighter in the grange."
Paks dared a sideways glance. From the thoughtful and even puzzled faces around 
her, the others had never con-sidered this. She herself, remembering the paladin 
in Aarenis, realized that she had trusted him at once, without reservation, 
although the Marshal with him had annoyed her.
"But you see how dangerous that could be, if someone wanted to do evil," said 
Cami, breaking into her thoughts. "We choose from those with a gift for 
leadership, those people will follow happily. Therefore we must be sure that you 
will never use that gift wrongly. Another thing: because we come and go, we make 
demands on those we help for only a short time. It's easier for them to follow 
us quickly, and then go home. Never scorn Marshals: when we have left, they must 
maintain their yeomen's faith. Perhaps we showed them what was possible—but we 
left them with years of work."
As for the powers legend had grafted onto paladins, in reality there were four.
"We all have powers, but not all of us have them equally," said Amberion one 
day. "Any paladin can call light—' A glow lit the end of this finger. "It is not 
fire, which gives light by burning, but true tight, the essence of seeing. There 
are greater lights—" At his nod, Cami suddenly seemed to catch fire, wreathed in 
a white radiance too bright to watch. Then it was gone; all the candidates 
blinked. "More than that," Amberion went on, "some paladins—but not all—can call 
light that will spread across a whole battlefield." Paks remembered the light in 
Sibili. "It is the duty and power of a paladin," said Amberion, "to show the 
truth of good and evil—to make clear—and that is what our light is for. It is a 
tool. Sometimes we use it to prove our call, but it must never be used for the 
paladin's own convenience or pride.'"
"But how do you make the light?" asked Clevis, one of the other candidates.
"We do not make it. We call it—ask it, in Gird's name. Later in your training we 
will graft this power onto you, for a while, so that you can learn to use it—but 
it will not be your power until you are invested as a paladin, in the Trials, 
and the gods give or withhold your gifts."
"You mean we won't know until then?" asked Harbin.
"You knew that, surely?"
"Well, yes, but—" He shook his head. "It seems a long time wasted, if we don't 
become paladins. Can't you tell earlier?"
"We can tell if you are doing badly," said Amberion. "But we have no power over 
the gods' decisions, Harbin. We prepare the best candidates we can find as well 
as we can, and then present them. Then they choose—why, we do not know. That's 
one reason the failing candidates are honored: it does not mean they are not 
worthy; they are the best we could find. Even those who withdraw from training 
are honored for Kaving been chosen to attempt it. Any one of you—" he looked 
around the small group. "Any one of you would make a fine knight in any order.
Most of you would make a fine Marshal—one or two, perhaps, are too independent 
of mind—but you would all do. But to be a paladin requires more than 
weaponskills, a gift for leadership, the willingness to risk all for good, the 
deep love of good and hatred of evil. Many good men and women share these with 
you. Beyond that, you must have the High Lord's blessing on that way for you, as 
shown by the gifts you receive in the Trials." They thought that over for some 
minutes in silence.
Saer, a black-haired woman with merry blue eyes, explained the gift of healing, 
second of the paladin's special abilities. This too was a gift, to be prayed 
for; the gift might be withheld at times. As well, it required knowledge of 
wounds and illness, the structure of the body and its functions. Paks would like 
to have asked her about Canna's wound—had she healed it, and was that any proof 
of Gird's favor?—but she was shy in front of the others. After a short 
discussion, in which she took no part, they passed on to other matters.
Sarek, who reminded Paks of Cracolnya in the Duke's Company, with his stocky 
body and slightly bowed legs, explained about the detection of good and evil. "A 
paladin can sense good and evil directly," he began. "Now you might think that 
makes everything simple: on one side are the bad people, and you kill them, and 
over here are the good people, and they cheer for you." Everyone laughed, 
including the other paladins. "It would be nice," he went on, "but that's not 
how it works. Normally you will experience people much as you do now—liking 
some, and not liking others. Most people—and that includes us, candidates—are 
mixtures, neither wholly evil not wholly good. But if you are close to someone 
intent on evil—an assassin, Achrya's agent, whatever—you will know that evil is 
near and be able to locate it.
"That's not the same as doing anything about it," he said, again waiting for the 
laughter that followed. "You must learn to think. Suppose you are trying to 
decide whom to trust in a troubled town. An evil person may lie, but he might 
tell the truth, if truth serves his plan. A good person may lead you wrong, 
being good and stupid. You, young candidates, are supposed to be good—and 
smart." Again they laughed. "But more of this later. Only realize that like any 
gift, it is a tool—and you must learn to use it carefully, or it can slip in 
your hand." He gave them a final grin, and waved Garni up.
"Most important of me gifts," said Garni, now more serious than Paks had ever 
seen her, "is the High Lord's protection from evil attack. Of course you can be 
killed—we are human, after all. But as long as you are Gird's paladin, your soul 
cannot be forced into evil by any power whatever. All magical spells that 
assault the heart and mind directly will rail. No fear or disgust, no despair, 
can prevent you from following the High Lord's call if you want to follow it. 
Moreover, you can protect those with you from such attacks. This is one reason 
our training is so long and so intense—for this, of course, we cannot test in 
training. We must be sure you do want this with a whole heart, that you are 
indeed under that protection, before you go out to battle the dark powers of the 
earth."
For that reason, they were told, their every act and word would be scrutinized; 
even small faults could reveal flaws too dangerous to be granted such power.
"But would the High Lord grant the powers to someone unfit to bear them?" asked 
one of the candidates.
"No. But evil powers might grant a semblance of such. It is hard to 
explain—though you will understand if you succeed—but during your training you 
are more open to evil influence than before. We must so harrow your minds: and 
as in a harrowed field both sun and frost strike deeper, so in your minds both 
good and evil can strike a firmer root. That is why you are kept apart from the 
others, once you begin the final training, and why you are always in the company 
of your sponsor, who can sense any threat and protect you from it."
"But we're supposed to be more resistant anyway," grumbled Harbin. Paks agreed, 
but said nothing. It almost sounded as if they were weaklings.
"You are—you were—and you will be," said Cami. "But right now, and for the time 
of your training, we are looking for weakness—searching for any crevice through 
which evil can assail your hearts. And we will find things, for none of us is 
perfect, or utterly invincible, except in the High Lord's protection." Paks 
wondered uneasily what weakness they would find in her, and what they would do 
about it.
"And," added Sarek, closing that session with a laugh, "remember that while a 
demon can't eat your soul, once you're a paladin, any village idiot can crack 
your skull with a rock. By accident."
Other such discussions followed. They learned that paladins never married 
unless—and this was rare—they retired from that service to another. Yet although 
celibate on quest—Paks saw someone frown, across the room, and wondered if he 
would drop out—they might have lovers in Fin Panir or elsewhere, as time 
allowed. "But those you love most are in the most danger," pointed out Amberion. 
"Choose your loves from those who can defend themselves, should Achrya's agents 
be seeking a weapon against you. We are here to defend the children of 
others—not to protect our own. And if we had children, and were good parents, we 
would have no time for Gird's work."
Soon Paks knew the paladins as people. She knew the room would bubble with 
excitement when Cami arrived, that Saer brought with her an intensity and 
mysticism almost eerie to experience, that Sarek's jokes always had a lasting 
sting of sense, that Amberion was the group'ssteady anchor. She, like the 
others, opened up under Kevis's warm and loving regard; and like the others she 
found her determination hardened by Teriam's stern logic. Garin, last of the 
seven, left on quest shortly after his sponsored candidate withdrew—the first of 
their group to rail. Paks had not known Amis well, and did not know why he had 
left. She knew less of the candidates than she'd expected, for when not in 
classes together, they were each with a sponsor or learning to meditate alone.
But even so she was conscious of a difference between these young Girdsmen, long 
committed to their patron, and herself. Matters that she thought trivia! were 
cause for hours of discussion, and the simple solution she always thought she 
saw never satisfied them. They picked away at the motives they claimed lay 
behind all acts, creating, Paks thought, an incredible tangle of unlikely 
possibilities. She had imagined herself committed to the defense of good . - . 
but was good this complicated? If so, why was Gird the patron of soldiers? No 
one had time to think of definitions and logic in the midst of a battle. The way 
Sarek had said it first made the most sense to her: here are the bad people, and 
you kill them; there are the good ones, and they cheer for you. Surely it was 
only a matter of learning to recognize all the evil. She prayed, as Amberion was 
teaching her to do, and said nothing. She was there to learn, and in time she 
might understand that other way of thinking. She had time.
Busy as she was, Paks had almost forgotten the mysterious scrolls when she 
received a summons to the Master Archivist, Marshal Kory. She found him at a 
broad table set before a window, with the scrolls all open before him.
"Paksenarrion—come and see the treasure." He waved his hand at the array. 
"Amberion tells me you had no idea what you brought?'
"No, sir."
"Well, if it were all you ever brought here, Paksenarrion, the Fellowship of 
Gird could count itself well repaid. We have all examined these—all those of us 
in Fin Panir with an interest in such tilings. I believe—and so do many 
others—that these scrolls were penned by Luap himself, Gird's own friend. How 
they got where you found them I doubt we will ever know for certain."
"But how can you know what they are?"
Marshal Kory grinned. "That's scholar's work, young warrior. But you would know 
a sword made in Andressat, I daresay, from one made in Ve'rella—"
"Yes, sir."
"So we have ways to know that the scrolls are old. We have copies of Luap's 
chronicles and letters; we compared them, and found some differences—but just 
what might have come from careless copying. And these scrolls con- tain far more 
than we have: letters to Luap's friends, little sermons—a wealth of material. We 
think the writing is Luap's own hand, because we have preserved a couple of 
lists said to be his—and one of the letters here mentions making that list of 
those who fell in the first days of the rebellion."
Paks began to feel the awesome age of the scrolls. "Then—Luap really touched 
those—I mean, he was alive, and could—
"He was a real person, yes—not a legend—and because he writes so, we know that 
Gird was real, too. Not that I charge you with having doubted it, but it's easy 
to forget that our heroes were actual men and women, who got blisters when they 
marched, and liked a pot of ale at day's end. Luap now—' His eyes stared into 
the distance. "That isn't even his name. In those days, luap was a kinship term, 
for someone not in the line of inheritance. The military used it too. A 
(uap-captain had that rank, for respect and pay, but had no troops under his own 
command: could not give independent orders. According to the old stories, this 
man gave up his own name when he joined the rebellion. There are several 
versions with different reasons for that. Anyway, he became Gird's assistant, 
high-ranked because he could write—which few besides lords could do in those 
days—and he was called Gird's luap. Soon everyone called him "the luap,' and 
finally 'Luap.' Because of him, no one used luap for a kinship term after that; 
in Fintha the same relationship now is called 'nik,' and in Tsaia it's 'niga' or 
'nigan.' " The Archivist seemed ready to explain the origin of that and every 
other term, and Paks broke in quickly, sticking to what she understood.
"And he speaks of Gird?"
"As a friend. Listen to this." Marshal Kory picked up one of the scrolls, and 
began to read. " '—and in feet, Ansuli, I had to tell the great oaf to quit 
swinging his staff around overhead like a young demon. I feared he would hit me, 
but soon that great laugh burst out and he thanked me for stopping him. If he 
has a fault, it is that liking for ale, which makes him fight sometimes whether 
we have need or no.' And that's Luap talking of Gird at a tavern in eastern 
Fintha. I'm not sure where; he doesn't name the town."
Paks was startled. "Gird—drunk?"
"It was after their first big victory. I've always suspected that the reason 
several of the articles in the Code of Gird dealt with drunkenness is that Gird 
had personal knowledge of it." He laid that scroll down and touched another with 
his fingertip. "We have Had the copyists working on these every day. It is the 
greatest treasure of the age—you cannot know, Paksenarrion, how it lifts our 
hearts to find something so close to Gird himself. Even when it's things like 
that letter—that just makes him more human, more real to us. And to have in 
Luap's own words the last battle—incrediblel Besides that, we now have a way to 
prove whether or not these scrolls are genuine. Have you ever heard of Luap's 
Stronghold?"
Paks shook her head. "I had not heard of Luap until I came here, sir."
"There's been a legend for a long time that Luap left the Honnorgat Valley and 
traveled west, to take Gird's Code to distant lands. For a time, it was 
believed, he had established a stronghold, a fortress, in the far mountains, and 
some reports had Girdsmen travelling back and forth. But no one has come from 
the west with any reports of him for hundreds of years, so most scholars now 
think it was just a legend. But in one of these scrolls, sent back, he says, at 
the request of the Marshal-General of that day, he gives the location of that 
stronghold. If someone were to go there, and see it, that would prove that these 
are, indeed, the scrolls of Luap."
Paks thought of it, suddenly excited. "What are the western lands like?"
"All we have are caravan reports. Dry grassland for some days' travel, then rock 
and sand, then deep gouges in the rocks, with swift-running rivers in the 
depths. Then mountains—but they don't go that way, skirting them on the south, 
to come to a crossways. North along that route is a kingdom called Kaelifet; I 
know nothing about it. Southward is more desert, and finally a sea."
Faks tried to imagine those strange lands, and felled. "Will you go, then, 
Marshal Kory?"
"Me!" He laughed. "No, I'm the Archivist—I can't go. Perhaps no one will. Some 
think it is an idle fancy, and the trip too long and dangerous to risk with evil 
nearer to hand. But I hope the Marshal-General sends someone. I'd like to know 
what happened to Luap—and his followers—and why they left Fintha. Perhaps there 
are more scrolls there—who knows?" He looked at her. "Would you go, if you 
could, or does this seem a scholar's question to you?"
"I would go," said Paks. "A long journey—unknown lands—mountain fortress—what 
could be more exciting?"
Chapter Twenty-four
The early spring flowers were just fading when Paks rode west up the first long 
slopes above Fin Panir. She still thought nothing could be more exciting. With 
the caravan, the year's first, rode Amberion, High Marshals Connaught and 
Fallis, and four knights: Joris, Adan, and Pir, from the Order of the Cudgel, 
and Marek from the Order of Gird. A troop of men-at-arms marched with them, and 
a number of yeomen had signed on as drovers and camp workers. Most of the 
caravan was commercial, headed for Kaelifet, but Ardhiel and Balkon rode with 
the Girdish contingent as ambassadors and witnesses for their people.
. Paks continued her training under the direction of die paladin and High 
Marshals. If she had thought the trip would provide a respite from study, she 
was quickly convinced otherwise. By the time they reached the Rim, a rough 
outcrop of stone that loomed across their path, visible a day's journey away, 
Paks had passed their examinations on the Gode of Gird and grange organization. 
She began learning the grange history of the oldest granges, the reasons for 
locating granges and bartons in certain places, the way that the Code of Gird 
was administered in grange courts and market courts in Fintha. Now she knew how 
the judicar was appointed in Rocky Ford, and why the required number of 
witnesses to a contract varied with the land of contract.
Their encounter with the horse nomads was a welcome break. She had been marching 
along muttering to herself the names of the Marshal-Generals who had made 
changes in the Code when one of the wagonmaster's sons came pelting along the 
line, crying a warning. As he neared the Girdsmen, he yelled "Sir paladin! Sir 
paladin! Raiders!"
"Where, lad?" Amberion was already swinging onto his golden chestnut warhorse.
"North, sir! The scouts say it's a big party."
Paks felt her stomach clench as she hurried to untie Socks from the wagon. Socks 
was tossing his head, and she scrambled up, uncomfortably aware of her 
awkwardness. At least she had her own armor and sword for the journey. She swung 
Socks away from the wagons, and unhooked her helmet from its straps. Amberion 
was already hel-meted, shield on arm.
"Paksenarrion!" he called. "Brine spears." Paks unfastened her shield from the 
saddle and slid it on her arm. At the supply wagon, she called for two spears, 
and a young yeoman slid them out the rear. Paks locked them under her elbow, 
whirled Socks, and rode off to find Amberion. To the north she could see a 
smudge of dust. The caravan itself was suddenly alive with armed troops. Their 
score of men-at-arms marched as a rear guard; the regular caravan guards rode 
atop each wagon, crossbows loaded and cocked. High Marshal Connaught carried a 
bow; he, Sir Marek, and Ardhiel rode toward the head of the caravan. The other 
three knights waited on High Marshal Fallis, whose bald-faced horse was throwing 
its usual tantrum. Paks grinned to herself. She'd had to ride that horse a few 
times herself; she could imagine the struggle to get helm and shield in place 
while staying aboard.
Then a bellow from the wagonmaster bought Amberion back. He shrugged at Paks, 
and she followed him to the cluster of mounted fighters. High Marshal Connaught 
was glaring, but the wagonmaster never looked up.
"You can't do it, I say, and you agreed when I took you on that you'd be bound 
by my orders."
"Thieves and outlaws—" began Connaught. The wagon-master interrupted.
"Horse nomads. Horse nomads I've met before, and will every year, whether you 
ride with me or not. Maybe you could hold them off—if it's one of the 
half-decent clans like Stormwind or Wintersun. But what about next year? We 
skirmish a little for honor's sake, pay our toll, same as a caravan would on the 
long route through Tsaia, and that's tt. None of your Girdish sermonizing here, 
Marshal: it'll get me killed."
"And if they attack?" said Amberion. Paks noticed that the wagonmaster's fixed 
glare softened a little.
"We fight, of course: that's why I have guards. But they won't, with you in 
sight. I'm glad enough to have the extra blades and bows, and that's truth, but 
for the rest of it, I'll pay toll." Connaught started to speak, but Amberion 
caught his eye, and he closed his mouth. Amberion smiled at the wagonmaster. 
"Sir, we agreed to follow your command while we traveled with you; forgive us 
for our eagerness to defend you."
It was not long before they could see die advancing warriors clearly: a mass of 
riders armed with lances, on shaggy small horses. Paks watched the war party 
ride closer—and closer. Now she could see the shaggy manes, the glitter of 
bridle ornaments, the colors of the riders' cloaks. On tall poles long streamers 
of cloth fluttered in the wind: blue, gray, and white. She could hear the 
drumming of those many hooves.
The wagonmaster had insisted that all but the parley group he led stay near the 
wagons, but he had invited Amberion to ride out with him. Paks followed, at his 
nod. As they moved toward the nomads, the wagonmaster gave them his 
instructions. Finally they faced their enemy only a bowshot away. Amberion waved 
his spear slowly, left to right. The nomads halted. Several of their horses 
whickered.
A single figure in the front of the group waved one of the streamered poles and 
yelled something in a language Paks didn't know.
"Parley in Common!" yelled Amberion.
The figure rode forward ten yards or so. "Why we halt?" he called. "Yer on our 
pasture, city folk. On the sea of grass, only the strong survive. Can ye stop us 
taking all you have, and feeding ye to the grass?" His speech was thickly 
accented, a mixture of several dialects.
"Aye, easily enough." The wagonmaster sounded confident.
"Ha! Five against fifty? Are ye demons, then, like that black one that walks 
north?"
"We are servants of Gird and the High Lord," said Amberion. The wagonmaster shot 
him a glance, but said nothing.
"Well met here, servant of whoever. Go tell yer master that those who travel our 
lands must pay our tolls—unless ye'd rather fight."
Amberion turned to the wagonmaster, brows raised. The wagonmaster nodded. "Oh, 
these aren't bad. These are Stormwinds—that's old Carga out there; he don't 
torture prisoners at all. Keeps slaves, of course, they ail do, but if there's a 
good horse nomad, it's Carga. Hell take our tribute and leave us alone. You 
notice he changed his demand, that second time?"
The wagonmaster had assembled a bale of striped cloth, a small keg of Marrakai 
red wine, several skeins of red and blue yarn, a sack of river-clam shells, and 
a bundle of mixed wooden staves of a length for arrowshafts. Now he waved, and 
some of the drovers carried the goods toward them.
The nomad leader rode forward slowly, alone, close enough that Paks could see 
the curl of hoof on its thong around his neck, the spirals tattooed on his 
cheeks, the clear gray eyes under dark brows. He rode without stirrups, in 
knee-high boots whose embroidered soles had surely never been used for walking, 
clear as the colors were.
"Ye ride with strange powers, cityborn trader," he said. "Yer men I know, but 
him—" he pointed at Amberion. "Wizard, is it?"
"A paladin of Gird," said Amberion. The nomad shrugged and spat.
"Never heerd of him, nor paladins neither. But ye stink of power." He watched 
closely as the goods were displayed before him, and finally nodded. "Go yer way, 
scarfeet riders—" It took Paks a while to understand this reference to their 
stirrups, and the marks those left on boots.
She hardly had time to enjoy the memory of the nomads before High Marshal 
Connaught had her hard at work again. Spring passed quickly into summer, the hot 
windy summer of the grasslands. At times it seemed they rode in the center of a 
bowl of grass, and Paks wondered if the world might be turning under them, so 
that they would never be free. Then the green turned grayer; the grass hardly 
reached their horses' knees. The dry air rasped in her nose, chapped her lips. 
Paks could see the ground's color showing through, as if the grass were a 
threadbare rug over the land, and then the grass foiled. The trail went on, a 
deep-bitten groove of dust and stone.
They moved from water to water. Paks learned to ride with a cloth over her face, 
and keep her mouth closed against the dryness. The horses lost flesh, despite 
their care. The caravaners showed the Girdsmen how to turn over every rock 
before sitting down: Paks loathed the many-legged creatures that lurked in that 
cool shade and carried poison in their tails.
It took days to cross the first deep canyon: first to ease the wagons down that 
steep trail without losing control of any of them, then to warp them across the 
roaring river, red with ground rock, then to drag them back up, foot by foot. 
And when they came out on top again, Paks could see tittle of where they had 
been. After another such canyon, the caravaners pointed out a line of purple 
against the northern sky. Mountains, they said. Elves, they said also, with 
sidelong looks at Ardhiel.
Paks asked him, and Ardhiel answered that those mountains were home to elves, 
but not of his family. He seemed troubled by something, but Paks knew better 
than to ask. Balkon, looking north, muttered eagerly about stone. He had 
confided to Paks that his family, the Goldenaxe clan, was looking for more 
daskgeft, more stonemass for the increase of the family. He hoped to find some; 
the descriptions Luap had written of the land made him think the stone there 
might be "dross," or suitable. Paks won- dered again how dross could have so 
many meanings in dwarvish: courage, wit, strength—almost anything good, it 
seemed to her, was dross.
Day by day the mountains seemed to march nearer their flank. Ahead was only the 
rolling level of the desert, broken by watercourses. Paks began to feel a 
pressure from those mountains; she understood why the caravaners would go around 
rather than through them, for that alone. Then one morning an edge of red rock 
showed ahead. As they marched toward it, it rose higher and higher. By the next 
afternoon, they could see the lighter rock below, great sweeping curves of white 
and yellow—the same color, Paks thought, as the walls of Cortes Andres. And two 
days later, marching under those great stone ramparts, the Girdsmen turned 
aside.
Here a river emptied itself from those stone walls into the sand and rubble 
outside. The caravaners muttered and made gestures, but finally moved on, while. 
High Marshal Connaught examined the map again. When the caravan was gone, he 
mounted his bay horse and led them up the watercourse, the horses lunging 
through the dry sand. Ahead, Paks could see towering white walls dosing in. She 
wondered how they could ride in such a narrow space if the water came up.
"Bad place for an ambush," said Amberion beside her.
"Yes, sir."
"By the map, well be leaving this soon, and climbing into another stream's 
valley. I hope the route can be climbed by horses."
Paks had not thought of that, but looking at the sheer walls of stone, she 
realized what they might face. "If they can't—"
"Then we'll leave them. Build a stout camp, leave die novice yeomen and most of 
the men-at-arms.'
Before the canyon walls closed completely, High Marshal Connaught turned left 
away from the river, leading them onto a rough slope of broken rock. He seemed 
to find a trail; Paks, far back in the group, could not see anything ahead to 
guide them. Socks heaved upward, stride by stride. They stopped often to rest 
the animals; the war- horses were curded with sweat. Amberion's horse, alone of 
all the animals, never showed the marks of hard riding, always slick-coated and 
fresh. Paks had noticed that about all the paladin's mounts in Fin Panir. Far 
back she could see the mules, head down, picking their way delicately and almost 
without eflbrt over the rocks. Below, the canyon they had come from disappeared 
into a jumble of shadow and light. Now she could see far to the right, more 
swooping curves of stone, patterned by dark cracks. Far up on the heights, she 
thought she saw trees.
By late afternoon, she could see a strange shape against the sky: a dark cone 
with a scoop out of the point. Amberion pointed to it.
"That's marked on the map. Blackash cone, it said: we must bear left of it." As 
they came nearer, always climbing, the rock changed abruptly from white to red. 
The trail led through a break in that vertical red wall. Suddenly the black cone 
was close; it looked like a loose pile of dark rock sitting on the red stone 
around it. Paks stared. Had someone—some giant, surely—built a cairn? Long 
shadows streaked the land, making weird shapes of the windblown rocks around 
them. Now they could see that the canyon they had climbed from was only a small 
section of something much larger that extended far to the east, ending at last 
in a higher rampart of white topped with forest. South, the land dropped 
abruptly into that hole. It was hard to believe they had climbed anything so 
sudden. Westward the land dipped to a rumpled plain of sand, and that again 
dropped shaiply: Paks could just see against the setting sun the distant 
mountains beyond that drop. Northward, their view was blocked by the black cone 
and the higher land behind it. Red clifis, these, with fortress-size blocks 
lying at their feet. Paks wondered if die others felt as small as she did.
That night they camped on the sandy plain just southwest of me black cone. A 
cold wind brushed the camp; stars blazed brighter than Paks had ever seen them. 
She woke several times to hear Ardhiel singing. Dawn came early on that high 
place. Paks saw the white stone below begin to glow even before she was aware of 
light in the sky. Then the high wall to the east stood clear against a green 
dawn. First light turned die red peaks north of tnem to fiery orange; then the 
light crept down to meet them, throwing blue shadows below.
They had some trouble to find the trail from there. Just to the left of the 
black cone, layers of stone like those that peel from a boiled egg curved 
downward, but the horses skidded and slipped. High Marshal Connaught sent Thelon 
ahead; he reported that the stony way ended in a drop four or five men high. 
Then they searched for a way around. Paks decided that walking in deep dry sand 
was harder than any marching she had ever done. The wind increased, blowing sand 
into their eyes. The horses flattened ears against it. The first three trails 
they tried led to sheer clifls, and it was early afternoon before the scout 
found a safe route.
It began in a narrow grove of pines, where broad low boles rose from drifted 
sand, old trees bent by strong winds into a tangled thatch of branches. Below 
the trees, the trail followed a twisting ravine, its bed choked with boulders of 
garish red and black on a bed of sand; they radiated the heat like coals. Across 
the ravine, as they went down, they could see outcrops of red rock. Suddenly the 
cleft they traveled angled back to die left, then crooked right again. They were 
on a narrow platform above a small valley that led straight away toward a tangle 
of clifis and canyons. On either side sheer clifis rose hundreds of feet, 
rose-red and orange, striped with black. To die right, an arm of die valley 
angled back away from them. Down die valley a stream reflected the sky; it 
looked wider than Paks had expected.
As they rode down into the valley, Paks heard conflicting opinions.
"What a farm diat'd make," said one of the yeomen with die mules. "Wind-shelter 
from those cliffs—water—must be good soil with all that grass."
"A long way to market," said another. "Unless you founded a grange out here, 
Tamar."
"Marry me, and we might," said the woman, laughing.
"Marry—I'd have married you in Fin Panir, but you wouldn't have it."
"And miss this? Come on, Dort, you weren't any more ready to settle down than I 
was. But couldn't we make a form here?"
"I'll tell you that when I find the nearest market." Paks heard them laughing 
for some moments after.
"It is not good," muttered Balkon, who had turned his pony aside from the others 
to look closely at the rock wall nearest them. "See—" He poked at it with his 
axe-haft. "It is soft here. Good rock there—" he pointed at the east wall of the 
valley, and at great cliffs beyond it. "But something is wrong here. With those 
cliffs, it must be deeper."
"Strange," murmured Ardhiel as Paks rode by. "It has an odd feel—very strange."
But most of the company liked its looks—green grass and water, walls far enough 
apart to allow maneuvering, yet close enough for protection. Then they rode out 
of the last rock-strewn mouth of the ravine, and found themselves once more in 
deep sand—this time wet sand.
"Ah," said the dwarf, eyes gleaming. "It is that this valley is choked with 
sand-—something blocks it there—" he pointed at the far end. "The side rock goes 
down, very for below this; I feel it meet under our feet."
"Find us firm ground," said High Marshal Connaught to the scout. "These horses 
can't handle boggy—" He threw himself off as his horse sank hock-deep by one 
leg. They all dismounted. Close up the valley was smaller than they had thought; 
the hills were low dunes rising above the level. The stream was only a trickle 
across the sand surface. "But plenty if we dig," the High Marshal assured the 
others. "It'slike those waterholes in the low desert."
While the scout and several men-at-arms searched for a firm path to the north 
end of the valley, the Marshals and knights looked at the angled canyon that 
wound away to the right. That way the ground seemed firmer, and the little 
stream, though narrower, gurgled ankle deep over fine gravel.
"It's too bad we aren't going this way," said High Mar- shal Fallis. "I suppose 
it's blocked at the far end by another cliff."
"Let's look at it," said Marek, one of the knights, and the only member of the 
Order of Gird. "We ought to learn the shape of the land, in case of trouble."
"In case of trouble," said Joris drily, "nothing in this land offers comfort. We 
should have been born with wings."
"I agree with Marek, though," said Connaught. 'We should know, and mark the 
map."
They set off on foot, the High Marshals, Amberion and Paks, the knights, and 
Ardhiel and Balkon. In a few minutes an angle of rock cut them off from sight of 
the others. On either hand the cliffs rose straight out of the sand, as if 
carved by a knife. Paks noticed a great arch set into the northeast wall. Under 
it a dark shadowed space looked large enough for a building. She looked from 
cliff to cliff, uneasy. In several places the stone seemed to have broken away 
leaving an overhanging arch, some much smaller than others. She nudged Balkon.
"Why does the rock do that? Is it natural? Did something shape it?"
"What—oh, it is the arch you mean? That is stone itself. I have not seen before, 
but I have heard. It is good stone that can take an arch; the arch is the 
drossen shape—" He saw her puzzled look, sighed, and tried in Common. "The shape 
that stone holds when it is sound—strong—healthy. Not nedross, like that stone 
that we came by, where the wall broke to let us in. Look in the High Lord's 
Hall—you see that even human masons know the right shape, the good shape, for 
stone holding stone. The longer die arch, the better die stone."
"Oh." Paks shivered. She did not like this valley; it was hard to judge how high 
the cliffs were, how far they had come from their friends. She looked back, to 
see someone leading a horse across the stream, heading down the valley. She 
could not see the other men-at-arms or horses at all; only a narrow view 
remained of the main valley. She craned her neck to look at the large arch 
again. Surely the whole party could shelter there—if you could get horses up the 
cliff. She started to laugh at that idea, and suddenly stopped. Something was 
moving in the shadow. For an instant she could not speak, but then she called to 
Amberion.
"What is it?" he asked, turning. Before Paks could answer, Ardhiel cried out in 
elven, swinging his bow from his shoulder and snatching arrows. Paks pointed 
upward, then staggered as an arrow slammed into ner helmet.
"Keep your faces down!" bellowed High Marshal Fallis. "Eyes—But Paks knew that, 
and had already dashed for a leaning rock. Pir and Adan were huddled there, too. 
More arrows clattered on the rocks around them. She heard a high-pitched cry 
from above, and then the terrible smack of a body on rocks. Another scream from 
across the canyon. Then silence.
"That won't be all," said High Marshal Fallis. Paks looked around. Ardhiel was 
close to the cliff on the far side; she saw Fallis near him. Connaught, 
Amberion, and Joris had taken shelter behind another rock near her, and Marek 
and Balkon behind yet another. She risked a quick glance upward, but could see 
nothing for the overhang.
"Beware!" Ardhiel's voice rose again, and he yelled something in elven. Paks saw 
a swarm of black-clad figures leap from cracks in the rock, turned just in time 
to meet more of them attacking on her side. She and the two knights leaped to 
their feet.
At first it seemed they might be cut down in their separate groups. The 
attackers were skilled with their narrow blades, and had numbers and height on 
their side. Adan staggered; a blade had gone deep in his leg. Paks covered his 
side; together she and Pir managed to fight their way back to High Marshal 
Connaught, half-carrying Adan between them. Fallis and Ardhiel dashed across to 
join them, and the group locked into a unit, back to back with Adan. in the 
center. From her position, Paks could not see if any of the others, far back 
down the valley, had noticed any disturbance. She was fighting too hard to have 
breath to yell. She did not even recognize what she was fighting until the top 
of Fir's sword flicked back one of the hoods.
"Elves!" she cried; the fine-boned face, the long grace- fill body now seeming 
the same as Ardhiel's. But the elf called to them.
"No—not elves. lynisin—unsingers—once of our blood—"
"And we are still the true heirs," called one of the enemy, in elven. Paks could 
just follow the words. The voice held the same music as Ardhiel's, but was 
colder. "We have not changed; you have fallen, cousin, making alliance with 
mortals and rockfolk, to the insult of your blood."
"Daskdusky scum," muttered Balkon, swinging his axe wide from his comer 
position.
Though outnumbered, the little group was able to shift slowly back toward the 
main valley. High Marshal Fallis, feeing that way, told them he saw the 
men-at-arms coming. Paks, Pir, and Amberion, holding the rear, stepped back 
cautiously, keeping the enemy blades at bay. Then Marek called a warning. Paks 
glanced up at the nearest cliff. There, moving swiftly on the sheer wall as if 
it were level, a great many-legged thing dropped down on them. At the 
overhanging ledge it stepped into the air and fell, swinging on a shining line 
behind it, leaping from its first touch on the ground to arc high above their 
heads. Pir swung and missed; Paks twisted, trying to strike behind her; her 
sword clashed on Fallis's, and the thing leaped out to whirl and attack again.
While they were still shaken by this creature, from overhead a loud voice cried 
a single word. Paks stopped short, hardly able to breathe. She felt as if she'd 
been dipped in ice. Her eyes roved, following the great monster. Now she could 
see it had almost the form of a spider, many legs around a bulbous body. She 
felt her hand loosening on her sword.
But with a ringing tone like that of a great bell, white light glowed around 
them. Paks could move again; she felt her heart beating wildly, but her hand 
clenched on the sword. As the monster leaped, she hacked at its head. Her sword 
skidded off the hard surface, but Pir's severed a leg. Pales thrust again, for 
the eyes. It reared back, aiming small tubes along its belly at her. Amberion 
shoved her aside. A gout of grayish fluid missed her; she heard Adan cry out 
behind. But by then Amberion's sword had severed the head, and the thing lay 
twitching on the ground.
"Stay close," said Amberion. "It is a spell of fear laid on us." Paks felt no 
fear, now, and fought on.
In the space of the monster's attack, more enemy fighters had come from the 
cliffs to cut them off from the rest of the party. These were bowmen, close 
enough that their arrows could wound even through armor. Between them and the 
bowmen were two ranks of swords. Paks took a deep breath. She had not expected 
to have such a short career as paladin—not even paladin yet, she reminded 
herself—but she thought she would as soon die in this company as any other. She 
saw Balkon bend to lass his axe. High Marshal Fallis had done something for 
Adan; he was standing more steadily. Connaught frowned at the enemy, lips 
folded. Amberion touched Paks on the arm.
"It's only five to one," he said, smiling. "Your Duke has faced worse than 
that."
Paks grinned. "Oh well—well win through easily, then."
"You stay close, though. You have no protection of your own against that fear." 
Paks thought she had, but wasn't going to argue the point. She saw Connaught 
draw breath to send them forward; she wondered why the archers hadn't shot yet. 
Then Ardhiel moved, taking from his side the old battered hunting horn he had 
carried from Fin Panir. He set it to his lips.
Whatever Paks expected, it had not been the sound of that horn. It began sweet 
and tender, swelling louder and louder to a triumphant blast that nearly 
shattered her bones. Wind swirled into the canyon, a great column of whirling 
air tunneling into and from the horn's throat. A roiling mass of pink and 
gold-lit cloud blotted out the hard clear blue of a desert sky. Paks could not 
see the clifis—the enemy—or Ardhiel himself. The cloud shimmered, steadied, 
became a piled and rumpled staircase of gold. Down it came a brilliant shining 
creature, winged with rainbow colors, so bright she could hardly stand to see 
it, and so beautiful she could not look away. On its back was Someone in mail 
brighter than polished silver, wearing a blinding white cloak. He spoke: the 
language was elven, the voice rang with authority and troubled the heart like 
elven harps. And Paks saw Ardhiel bow, and move to his side, and saw him mount 
that fabulous beast, and saw them rise once more into the clouds.
When the clouds blew away, in the last throbbing notes of that horn-call, the 
enemy was gone, though the rattle of their flight through the rocks echoed from 
wall to wall. Ardhiel lay unconscious on the ground, smiling, and the horn in 
his hand showed its true nature: the finest horn Paks had ever seen, jeweled 
with rubies and emeralds, shining gold.
With no delay, Connaught had them carry Ardhiel back to the others.
"It's an elfliorn, it must be," he said over his shoulder. "I'd heard of them, 
but Gird knows I never expected to see one. Let alone hear one. By the gods, 
this is a bad place. You were right, Balkon. Bad for an ambush, and I walked 
right into it. I hope it doesn't kill Lord Ardhiel. That'll take some 
explaining. 'Old hunting horn,' indeed. No wonder he wouldn't play on it for our 
dancing that night. It makes my skin itch to think of it."
"It's Gird's grace he brought it," said Amberion. "I wonder why they didn't 
shoot at once? They could have gotten us—'
"Or thought they could." Fallis grunted as his foot turned on a rock. "Damned 
treacherous ground. Probably a damned kuaknom behind every stone."
"Kuaknom?" asked Paks.
"That's what we call them—kuaknom, tree-haters—as elves are tree-lovers. The 
elves call them iynisin, the unsingers. Remember, it's the kuaknom that used to 
be confused with Kuakkganni."
Paks wondered how anyone could confuse those horrible parodies of elves with a 
Kuakgan. Confuse with elves themselves, yes—for her mind held the memory of the 
same beauty, the same grace. "Were they the same as other elves once?"
"Aye," answered Balkon, before anyone else could. "And some say they are still, 
the blackheart rockfilth. The elves like to pretend all the kuaknom foiled away 
many years ago. But here we see the truth of that! By Sertig's Hammer, all the 
fair-spoken ones would rather have a tongue of silver, though it lied, then tell 
iron truth at need."
Amberion shook his head. "Your pardon, sir dwarf, but in this I judge you wrong. 
The kuaknom parted long ago from the true elves, in a quarrel that began before 
men—"
"Not long before," muttered Balkon. "The Kuakkganni—"
"If they are truly men, then it was not before—but it was before other men. And 
the cause of that quarrel—"
"Was the Tree. Aye, I've heard that. But it seems a foolish quarrel to me. Would 
a dwarf enact rage because iron bends to any smith, or stone to any chisel?" He 
shook his head, and challenged them all with his look. "No, I deem not, and you 
know the truth of it. But I call no harsh name on Ardhiel's head, for his call 
saved us, and he has paid for that. The best of elves are fair indeed—aye, 
though we grumble, being made rough and ugly as rock and iron, we honor them for 
their grace. Well they name their lord the Singer of Songs; the best of them are 
true songs, well sung; but we are other, hammered on Sertig's anvil to bear the 
blows of the world. Our songs are the ring of steel on stone." Paks was 
astonished; she had never heard any dwarf speak so. He bowed stiffly, and was 
silent thereafter until they reached the men-at-arms, now coming forward in 
battle order.
The High Marshals led them swiftly out to the trail the others had found, and 
the whole company moved down the main valley while it was still light. Here the 
walls were nearly a bowshot apart. Thelon, sent ahead once more, had found a 
trail leading out: not where the valley seemed to end, for that was a jumble of 
house-size stones ending in a twenty-foot cliff, but climbing again over a 
shoulder of the western wall.
"But it is no trail you could take in the dark, Marshal Fallis," he reported. 
"Even the near part will tax the horses; after that it is easier, but the first 
of the trail going into the canyon beyond is worse. I could not go far enough to 
be sure they can get down. We may have trailwork to do; I judge you will not 
want to leave them here."
"By no means," said Marshal Fallis. "We had thought of that, when we saw this 
fertile valley, but we can leave no one behind to suffer attack of the kuaknom. 
And it is by no means so fertile as it seemed," For they had found all the 
valley floor to be sand, dry or wet or boggy; the green growth was sedge, not 
grass, and only a few trees dared that sandy expanse.
They made their camp near the foot of the trail, watering the beasts in a hole 
dug downstream. Paks helped with that, for it took two to dig away the sand that 
slithered into the hole while the horses and mules drank. The High Marshals 
ordered a line of fires between die camp and the eastern wall, the one they 
expected the kuaknom to use, Paks wondered briefly if the kuaknom might infest 
the western cliff as well, but she could see no holes or caves for access. By 
this time the valley was in shadow, lit by the sky. Gradually it faded. Paks had 
the late watch, and she rolled herself in a blanket against the surprising 
chill. The sand made a comfortable bed. She slept soundly almost at once.
Thelon, the scout, woke her for her turn at watch. Paks stretched, stiff from 
sleeping in armor, and took off her helmet to scratch her head. When she 
replaced the helmet, she let it sit loosely on her braid as sne came to the main 
fire for a mug of sib.
"Nothing so far,' reported Thelon. "I wandered across the stream—if you can call 
it a stream—far enough from the fires to see better, but I saw nothing. But it 
feels strange, and I don't like it."
Paks yawned. She took a long swallow of sib, aware of sand sifting through her 
clothes, itching. "I don't mind it feeling strange, as long as those kuaknom, or 
iynisin, or whatever they are, let us alone."
"Iynisin is the better word," said Tlielon seriously. "Elves are the sinyi, the 
singers of the First Singer's songs, and these scum are those who not only 
refuse to sing, but who unsing the songs, going against the Singer's will in 
everything. So, being created as the sinyi are to love trees and flowing water, 
these hate them, and burrow in stone, fouling bright water with their filth, or 
choking it—like this one—with stone dust. For die dasltin race, the dwarves, it 
is right to live in stone; they are the dasksinyi, the stone-singers, whose song 
is stone and its metals. They honor the stone. But these iynisin defile it. So 
Balkon will tell you."
"Yes, but he calls them something else—"
"In dwarvish, yes—but dwarftongue is not truesong; for the right names, the 
truenames of things, ask an elf. The singer is known by some as Adyan, the Namer 
of Names—"
"I thought that was different," said Paks.
Thelon laughed lightly, in the elven way. "Some also say that the god of men 
should be called the Sorter of Beads, for men worry more of such division, and 
not right and wrong." Paks scowled at him, but he held up his hand. "Indeed, you 
call your god the High Lord, and speak of his Hall as a seat of justice. What is 
justice, then, but judging and choosing—sorting feet from feet, and laying On 
one side the true, and on the other side the false? Now I, being but half-elven, 
have less pride of race than elves: my own thought is that the great king is one 
only: He Named the first Names, and Sang the first Song, and He rightly judges 
all things as true or false, good or evil. I would even say that Sertig the 
Maker is but another name for him—for surely one only came first, and did these 
things. Now we spend one time singing, and another time fighting, and another 
time learning or praying—but we are mortal—and even the immortal elves live 
mostly in one line—we divide, therefore, like a man who says that this mountain 
is gnomeland on one side, and his land on the other. But it is all one 
mountain."
Much of this Paks did not understand, but she liked the idea that the High Lord 
might be the same as Adyan and Sertig. She finished her sib, and went to her 
post, on the south end of the camp.
The nearest watchfires burned low, scarcely more than a heap of coals, for they 
had found little wood to burn. High Marshal Connaught had told them to keep wood 
back, in case of trouble, A chill wind drifted down from the higher land; Paks 
heard a distant moan where it poured over the lip of the valley into the lower 
canyons beyond. One of the other watchers coughed; a horse stamped. She thought 
of
Socks, tethered with the others at the north end of the camp, just under the 
bluff they would climb in the morning. Against the bright starry sky, the 
eastern cliff loomed, a black presence. It was strange to camp so near a stream 
and hear no water sounds, but the sand-choked flow moved silently. Something 
hissed along the sand near her; Paks jumped and looked around. Nothing. Her 
scalp itched; she pushed her helmet back again to scratch.
All at once die night was full of dark fighters, striking at every post. Paks 
yelled, with the other sentries, and the camp crashed into wakefulness. Someone 
threw wood on the nearest fire; by that light she saw the iynisin eyes gleaming 
under their hoods. She could not tell how many attackers they fought. Blades 
swept toward her out of the dark; she felt the force of their blows stinging 
along her arm as she countered them. Something struct her head. Her helmet, 
still loosely set on her head, bounced off, and her long braid thumped on her 
back. She had no hand free to find the helmet; several swords faced her. The 
iynisin cried aloud in their beautiful voices, words she should know—but she was 
fighting too hard to translate. She was forced back—and back again. Then her 
foot came down on something that rolled beneath it, and she fell, trying 
desperately to tuck and come up, but the heavy sand caught her. A great weight 
fell on her, forcing her face into the sand. Before she choked, she felt a blow 
to her head, and nothing.
Hie attackers fled as swiftly as they had come. When High Marshal Connaught 
called the roll, four foiled to answer. Sir Joris was dead, with an arrow 
through his eye. Two of the men-at-arms had suffered mortal wounds. And 
Paksenarrion had disappeared. They found her helmet, and her sword, but no trace 
of her.
Chapter Twenty-five
At first Paks was hardly aware that she was aware. It was dark and cold and the 
stone beneath her was hard and slightly gritty. She wondered vaguely if she was 
dreaming about the cells under the Duke's Stronghold. She tried to move, and a 
savage pain shot through her head. Not a dream. It was hard to think. Dark. 
Cold. Stone. She felt about with one hand. It met a wall rising from the surface 
she lay on. Fighting nausea from the pain in her head, she struggled to sit up 
and feel about her. Wall—another wall—yet another. All were stone; she could not 
feel any joints. Solid stone? She could not remember what might have 
happened—where she might be.
As she moved, she realized that her skin itched and stung as if she had rolled 
in nettles. She reached up to see what she had on—a tunic of some kind. It felt 
scratchy. She grew aware of something uncomfortable around her throat—something 
heavy, and slightly tight. And cold uncomfortable bands around her wrists and 
ankles. She reached to feel the thing at her throat. Pain stabbed her fingers, 
and she jerked them back with a gasp. Her throat tingled; it was hard to 
swallow.
For a few moments she held very still, fighting a rising panic. She tried to 
remember anything at all that would give her a clue to where she was. She 
thought again of the Duke's Stronghold. That wasn't right. A caravan. A caravan 
where she was riding, not walking. A tall black horse with white stockings and a 
blaze. My horse, she thought. All right… what next? She thought of gold, and at 
once remembered Amberion on his chestnut, remembered his name and the nature of 
the quest. She pushed at the cloud across her memory. They had been—coming into 
a canyon. No, they were in it. A day later—smoke from the cliffs, arrows—but 
nothing more. She remembered Ardhiel saying something about the black cousins, 
the iynisin the elves did not like to remember.
Suddenly she thought where she must be. Underground, taken by the iynisin. She 
felt around frantically for her weapons. They were gone. Of course, she thought. 
No sword, no battle axe, no armor—and no medallion of Gird. All gone.
She found herself breathing rapidly, almost gasping, and tried to regain control 
of herself. Think about it, she told herself. No, think about the others. Do 
they know? Will they come? Can they come? They will come, she thought hopefully. 
They won't leave me here; they will come. She tried to picture them, fighting 
their way down tunnels to find her. What if they fail? her mind asked suddenly. 
What if we all die under these rocks, and no one ever knows what happened? She 
tried to call on Gird, but something about the place—the quality of the silence, 
perhaps—stopped the words at her lips, and she could not say Gird's name aloud.
Yet thinking about Gird and Amberion helped. Whatever happens, she thought—and 
forced back the imagination of what might happen—I am a warrior of Gird. Whether 
I can fight my way free or not, I can fight to the end. She remembered Ambros 
felling as he gave the death-stroke to Achrya's priest. That would not be so 
bad. Any soldier expected to die someday. She had heard tales enough, in Fin 
Panir, of paladins and knights fighting against impossible odds, for the glory 
of Gird. For a moment she saw herself, fighting alone against—what?—she imagined 
many Mack-cloaked swordsmen—in a blaze of light.
Paks leaned on die wall and pushed herself up, dizzy as she was. Much better 
standing. The darkness was more than absence of light; it had a malign and 
bitter flavor. She edged around the walls, feeling her way along the stone. 
Wall. Wall—and something other than stone, colder than stone, and smooth. She 
felt along its edge. A door? Yes. Iron, she thought. She could find nothing but 
a smooth surface: no bars, no grille, nothing but the smooth metal itself until 
it met stone. Panic rose again. Suppose they just left her there forever?
You're not a silly recruit any more, she told herself firmly. Don't think of 
that. And if it happens, it happens. She moved past the door, feeling for 
hinges, but found none. Without that clue, she could not tell which way the door 
would open—could not even try to surprise someone coming in. She went on around 
to the next corner, and the next—which would be opposite the door, she 
thought—and leaned into it. It was hard to keep her eyes open in die dark. She 
felt herself slipping down the wall, and straightened with a jerk. Whenever they 
come, she vowed, they will find me on my feet.
Despite that vow, she woke on the floor of the cell when she heard scraping 
outside the door. She made it up before the door swung open, but her heart was 
racing, shaking her body, and her mouth was dry. She squinted against the light 
that poured in—a lurid yellow-green blaze. Something stank. Facing her was a 
tall slender figure, caped and cowled in black, face hidden by the shadow of its 
cowl. Evil radiated from it as it entered the cell. On its chest was a silver 
carved spider, a handspan across, hanging from a silver chain. Paks moved her 
hand in the warding sign she had learned as a child. The figure laughed, a 
liquid sound that would have been beautiful but for the evil aura.
"That won't help you," said the silvery voice, lovely as all elves' voices are, 
but utterly cold. "Surely they are not sending children, now, with children's 
little superstitions?"
Paks said nothing. She glanced past die first figure to see two torchbearers; 
the green-flared torches smelled like rotting flesh—the stench rolled from them 
in heavy waves. A third attendant, also black-hooded, carried a wood and leather 
case. "We were informed," the first one went on, "that you were a warrior of 
some importance—even a candidate for the order of paladins, or some such 
nonsense. I find that hard to believe, as easy as you were to capture, but we 
shall see." It came closer yet. Paks braced herself, whether to take a blow or 
give one she could not have said. "No, mighty warrior," it said. "You cannot 
touch me if you try.' Suddenly it threw back its cowl to reveal a face entirely 
elven but the reverse of Ardhiel's: the same fine bone structure, but expressing 
only evil, its nature cruelty and lust. She was instantly convinced that it was 
male.
Despite herself, Paks shivered as he reached out a slender long-fingered hand 
and touched the band around her throat. She could not move back; the band 
tightened just slightly.
"You see," the iynisi continued, "you wear already the symbol of our lady, and 
while you wear it you cannot harm any of her servants. Nor can your puny 
saint—whatever his name is—aid you. You have only yourself, your own 
abilities—if you have any—to help you here. If you amuse us, and learn to serve 
us, you may yet live to see the sky again. But, of course, if you prefer to 
starve alone in this cell—" he looked at her, waiting for an answer.
Paks tore her gaze from his eyes, and looked around die cell, in the green 
light. It was stone, cut out of living rock: just long enough to lie down in. 
Nothing else. Her glance flicked down her own body. The tunic she wore was 
black, and looked slightly fuzzy. The bands on her wrists were black, with hasps 
for chains. There were no chains in the cell. Yet. She tried to think of Gird, 
of Amberion, but her mind froze, clouded.
"Perhaps you need to partake of our sport before you can choose," said the 
iynisi. "You are already familiar with this cell. Since we want no foolish 
uproar—" he beckoned to the attendant with the case, who opened it. The first 
iynisi took out what appeared to be a nank of gray yarn. He unwound the stuff, 
which seemed slightly sticky, and reached for Paks's wrists. "One of our lady's 
arts," he said. "Not so cumbersome as chains, and of course, no use to you as a 
weapon. But you'll find it strong enough; it will bind dwarves, let alone 
humans. I advise you not to fight it. For now I am using the wristlets, but if 
you are troublesome. I'll wrap your bare flesh with it, and this—" he laid a 
strand against Paks's arm; it burned like a coal, like the strands of the net in 
the Achryan priest's stronghold, "—is what that feels like."
Paks shivered again, but made no sound. The iynisi nodded. "So there is 
something warrior-like in you after all. That is well. We should lose our 
amusement were you entirely craven. Come along, now." The iynisi turned to 
leave; Paks felt a tug at her wrists, now bound closely together. For an instant 
she thought of resistance to the pull, but the other attendants showed the long 
knives in their hands, and she knew it would be futile.
"Excellent," said the iynisi, as she took the first step to follow. "We had 
heard you were capable of thought and planning. It is so important for a warrior 
to know when fighting is hopeless."
No, thought Paks; it is never hopeless. You can always die. But she was already 
walking down a stone passage as she thought this, between the first iynisi and a 
torchbearer in front, and the other torchbearer and attendant behind. She 
thought of lunging at the one in front, tried to gather herself for it, but her 
body ignored the thought and kept walking. They passed a branching passage, then 
another. She tried to look around her, tried to pick out directions and 
openings, and orient herself, but the speed at which she was led, and the 
peculiar green light, made this impossible.
They turned into a wider corridor, dimly lit by a greenish blur along the angle 
of wall and ceiling. Paks could not see what it was, but it gave off a sour 
smell different from the rank stench of the green torches. Here were other 
iynisin, that hissed as they saw her. All wore black, but not the cape and hood 
of her escort, or the great spider emblem. TTiey melted from her path—or from 
the iynisi with her. As they went on, she thought she heard more and more 
following behind.
Her escort turned into a narrow passage that sloped downward to die right, 
falling away from the roof. Ahead of die iynisi, Paks could see a wider opening, 
and brighter tight She was led through it into a wide flat area, slightly oral. 
Surrounding it were tiers of stone seats, already ban full, and filling with 
more iynisin. On one side, a dark gaping maw replaced the first two tiers. As 
the torchbear-ers of her escort moved around the oval lighting torches set on 
brackets, she realized that the dark space was not empty. Eight eyes as big as 
fists reflected chips of green light. A vast bloated body hung in the web that 
stretched across the opening. Each of the eight legs, Paks saw, was as long as 
she was tall.
Paks was hardly aware of the chill that spread over her as she stared at the 
great spider in horror. Was this Achrya herself? Beside her the iynisi chuckled. 
"I see you have noticed our airy. No, that is not our lady—merely one of her 
representatives, you might say. But do not let fear of her make you less rumble. 
While you wear her symbol, she will not pursue you." By this time the 
torchbearers had finished lighting the whole circuit; now more green light 
flared from above. Paks looked up to see a great hanging framework, also made in 
the likeness of a spider with legs outspread on a web, holding more torches. By 
this light she could see that the seats were almost filled, and not alone with 
iynisin. Hunchbacked ores clustered in one section; grotesque dog-faced beings 
in another. All stared down at her, eyes glittering in the flickering light
"Your reputation has preceded you, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi, with a 
mocking smile. "You were involved in the loss of our friend and ally Jamarrin, 
in Brewersbridge." His voice rang out, now, and the rest of the chamber was 
silent but for the sputtering torches. "We would see for ourselves what skill in 
arms, what brilliance of strategy, defeated so fair a servant of our lady." Paks 
did not answer. She tried to think what this was leading up to, besides a 
miserable and public execution.
"We could, of course, simply kill you here," he said, echoing her thought. "Our 
lady would be pleased to see the—inventiveness—of our methods, and the torment 
of one who destroyed her servant Jamarrin. But such sport lasts briefly, with 
you human folk. Perhaps, also, you have been used by those you think your 
friends. Certainly the elves have not treated you fairly, stealing from you and 
clouding your memory." He reached out quickly and laid a cold, dry hand along 
her brow. As suddenly as light springs into a dark closet, she remembered the 
Halveric's scroll that she had sworn to take to his wife in Lyonya—and 
remembered the elves who had sent her instead to Brewersbridge, to take their 
messages, while they took the scroll. The iynisi smiled and nodded. "They 
'healed' you, as you thought—indeed, yes, and cast their glamour on you, to turn 
an honest soldier into their errand-girl, made oathbreaker and faithless by 
their enchantment. Was that well done? I see you have doubts of it now, and so 
you should. How much of what you said and did was their bidding? Perhaps you 
have never acted of your own will yet. We shall give you a chance, therefore, to 
earn your next day of life." Despite herself, Paks felt a leap of hope. If they 
would let her fight, even outnumbered—even unarmed—that would be a better death. 
Surely if she fought, Gird would come and help her, would protect her from the 
worst. She pushed the thought of the elves away: later she could worry about 
that, if later came. No doubt they had merely meant to save her trouble. But a 
faint doubt lingered, souring her memory of them.
"There are many here who would be glad to prove your reputation unfounded," the 
iynisi continued. "I myself think you do have some skill. We shall see. For your 
first trial you will face but a single opponent. Hardly a test of your ability, 
but he will be armed, and you not. If you dispute the fairness of it, you may 
always forbear to fight, and be cut down without resistance." The other 
attendants had gone away while he was speaking; Paks looked around as the iynisi 
stepped back. With a swift stroke of his knife, he cut the strands that tethered 
her wrists, and stepped farther back, bowing. Then he turned to the surrounding 
seats, one arm upraised. "Let the sport begin!" he cried. The spectators rose in 
their ranks and cheered. The caped iynisi ran lightly to the web across the 
arena, bowed to the huge spider, and swarmed up the web to the seats above.
Paks, alone now on the floor of the arena, looked about for her opponent. She 
tried again to call on Gird or the High Lord, but could feel nothing when the 
words passed through her mind. It was like calling in an empty room. For the 
first time she wondered whether Gird would even listen. Surely if he could hear, 
he would help—in something like this—but the words she'd been taught echoed in 
her head, unanswered. She heard the scrape of the boots from the passage by 
which she had come, and turned to see an ore stride into the lighted space. He 
wore leather body-armor and helmet, as well as the boots, and carried a 
short-thonged whip in one hand, and a curved knife in the other. Paks took a 
deep steadying breath and rocked from heel to toe, loosening her muscles. With 
her own weapons, such an opponent would have been no problem at all; without 
even a dagger, she was at a severe disadvantage. Still, she could fight—she 
reached for the spark of battle anger, and welcomed it.
The ore came to her slowly, with a low, smooth gait unexpected in such a bent 
shape. Paks crouched slightly, up on her toes, ready to shift any direction as 
chance offered. The ore grinned at her, and screeched something which the 
watching iynisin understood, for they laughed. She supposed it was a challenge 
of some sort. She felt a rising excitement, hot and joyous. Perhaps this was 
Gird's gift, instead of his presence?
"Come on, then," she said to the ore in Common. "Many of your land have I 
killed; come join them."
Closing abruptly, the ore swung the whip at her head; Paks ducked to save her 
eyes, watching its knife hand. Sure enough, as the knotted thongs bit into her 
neck and shoulders, the knife thrust toward her belly. She pivoted away from the 
thrust and caught the ore's wrist with one hand, jerking him forward. He went to 
his knees, and she tried to make it to his back. But he rolled as he fell, and 
she met another slash of the whip. This time the thongs wrapped her legs, and 
she fell heavily, narrowly missing another thrust of the knife as she twisted 
away from his hand. He was on his feet an instant before her, aiming another 
blow of the whip. She scrambled away from it; the iynisin above her tittered.,
"Sso … we… teach… to… humnss… what… iss… mannerss," said the ore in barely 
understandable Common. He grinned again. "For thiss one… no sswordss… just 
whipss enough." He swung the whip around his head; the thongs hummed. Paks kept 
her eye on the knife blade. He edged toward her again. Paks took a deep breath, 
from the belly, summoned up all the anger she could rouse, and charged an 
instant before he did. The whip was still in backstroke; she threw all her 
weight on him, both hands on die wrist of his knife hand. To her delight he 
sprawled backwards. She tucked as they hit die stone floor and rolled on, still 
digging her thumbs into his wrist. The knife clattered to the stone. He had 
already recognized the danger, and dropped the whip to grab for it with his free 
hand. Paks kicked it away; it skittered across the arena. The ore squealed and 
grabbed her leg, then sank its teeth in her ankle. Paks let go of the wrist, and 
reached for the whip. Again the ore anticipated her, and snatched it up an 
instant before she reached it. She rolled away, taking another hard lash of the 
whip before she was scrambling for the fallen knife.
This time she reached the prize first; she turned to face the ore with a weapon 
in her hand. She scarcely felt the whip welts or the bite. She grinned back at 
the ore as he came. Even now it would not be easy—the blade was short, and the 
ore's armor tough—but she, at least, was sure of the outcome. The ore paused, 
and screeched again in its unknown tongue. The iynisin were silent, except for 
one voice that by its tone denied a request.
"Did you wish to quit, ore?" asked Paks. "Have I endangered your soft hide too 
much?" It was the worst insult she knew, for Ardhiel had told her that the ores' 
name for themselves meant iron-skins.
The ore glared at her, baring its fangs and running a tongue around its mouth 
which was stained with her own blood. Paks spared a quick glance to see where 
she was. Nearly in front of the spider's web—not where she wanted to be at all. 
She slid sideways in a crouching glide. The ore turned to follow her, more 
slowly this time. She led it around the arena until its back was to the spider. 
By then the ore was beginning to grin again. She watched how it moved, decided 
where to strike.
Suddenly she stood at fall height and stretched her arms upward, like someone 
just arising from a comfortable sleep. As she expected, the ore darted in and 
aimed a vicious slash at her exposed torso. She sidestepped left, taking the 
force of the blow without pausing, and rammed her suddenly lowered right arm 
into the ore's neck. She had shifted the knife blade in that instant to a 
side-hold, and it slashed his throat from side to side, catching edge-on in the 
neckbone. The ore fell, blood pouring over her arm as she tried to free the 
blade. Above her the silvery voices clamored for an instant and were still. Paks 
rolled the dead ore on his back, and levered the knife free. It had a notch, 
where the bone had chipped it. She crouched, looking up at the circle of faces, 
as she tried to catch her breath.
"Well enough," called the caped iynisi from above the spider's lair. "It might 
have been done with more artistry, but the final stroke was admirable. Continue 
to amuse us so, and you may yet survive. For your next trial, you may keep the 
knife you have earned. For now, stand against the wall—" he gestured to the wall 
behind her.
Paks rose, not to comply, but found that the entrance to the arena was filled 
with heavily armed iynisin. They tanned out around her and forced her back with 
then-pikes. She could not have touched them with die knife, and did not resist. 
She watched as two of them dragged the ore's body across the the spider's web, 
and bowed as they placed it just beneath the lowest strands. With horrible 
quickness the vast bloated body came down and grasped the corpse, the huge 
abdomen bending around it so that Paks could see cords of silk from the 
spinnerets twisting around and around. Soon the ore was a neatly cased packet 
hanging in the web. Paks swallowed against a surge of nausea. So that's what 
would happen if she failed—she thrust that thought aside hurriedly. Holy Saint 
Gird, she thought, just help me fight.
As the battle anger left her, she began to tremble. She was terribly thirsty; 
the ore-bite on her leg throbbed; the whip welts spread a cloak of pain about 
her. She wondered again how long she had been imprisoned underground. Surely 
they knew she was gone—surely Amberion would come looking for her. Her vision 
blurred, and she leaned on the wall behind her. She had not noticed that the 
pike-bearing iynisin were gone until the caped one spoke again.
"I hope that is not weakness we see," came the silvery voice. "Surely such a 
champion does not think the trial is over after a trifling altercation like 
that? No, no… we must see more of your vaunted skills. Even now your opponents 
approach; do not disappoint us."
Paks ran her tongue around her dry mouth. How could she fight again without 
water or rest? She forced herself to straighten, to look toward the entrance 
tunnel. Get out in the open, she told herself. You've got to have room. She had 
stiffened, even with that brief respite, and now she limped on the bitten leg. I 
have to keep fighting, she thought. I have to.
Out of the dark entrance came two ores, this time armed with short swords and 
shields. Holy Gird, she repeated to herself. I can't fight two of them, two 
swords, with only a notched knife! But Siger's words, spoken long ago in 
Aarenis, trickled into her memory: the enemy's weapon is your weapon if you can 
take it. Two swords—if I can get one, then it's one to one. Even a shield will 
help—
As the ores came forward, she edged back to the wall. Until she got one of them 
down or disarmed, she wanted something at her back. She noticed that these two 
did not seem as eager as the first. One of them held its sword awkwardly. A 
trick? She waited, and let them come to her, heedless of the iynisin catcalls.
The taller, more skilwil ore came in on her right hand, her knife hand. The 
other edged to her left. Again she noticed that this one held the sword like a 
stick. The tall one thrust at her. She parried the thrust with the knife, 
thankful for her long arms. From the corner of her eye, she saw the small ore 
rush, sword extended stiffly. Paks leaped back to the wait, slamming against it, 
and grabbed the awkward one's wrist. The ore fell forward as Paks jerked, and 
she caught a glimpse of a terrified face under the helmet. This one's no 
fighter, she thought. She dug her thumb into the pressure point, and the ore's 
sword hand opened. Paks reached for the sword as the taller ore aimed a slash at 
her over the struggling body of its partner. She ducked. The ore she was 
fighting tried to slam the edge of its shield into her arm, but she had the 
sword hilt, as well as her knife, in her right fist. She kicked the ore, hard, 
and danced back to the wall, switching the knife to her left hand. A surge of 
triumph gave her momentary strength—that would show them!
The tall ore howled at her and charged, trying to force her sideways into the 
other one. The shorter ore tried to move in, staying low. Paks slid sideways 
along the wall, countering the ftirious thrusts and slashes as well as she 
could. She felt herself slowing; exhaustion clouded her vision. Only the 
reflexes developed under hours of Siger's instruction kept her blade between the 
ore's sword and her body. She had the reach of him, but she could not get past 
his shield. She tried to force him back, with quick thrusts of her own, but 
failed. The other ore closed in again, this time grabbing at her knife hand. 
Paks aimed a kick at the ore's knee, but it snatched at her foot and threw her 
off balance.
Paks fell heavily on her side, trapped close under the wall. Just over her, the 
taller ores blade clanged into the wall. She stabbed at his feet with her knife, 
rolling towards him to get inside his stroke. Again he missed her. This time his 
blade landed on the shoulder of the smaller ore, who was trying to grapple with 
Paks's legs. The little ore screeched and sat back. Paks jerked her legs into a 
curl and launched herself straight up at the tall ore. She had both blades 
inside his shield; the sword rammed .through his body armor into his belly, and 
the knife slid into his neck.
Before Paks could free the blades, she felt a weight hit her back, and a strong 
arm wrapped around her neck. Then the smaller ore's teeth met in her shoulder. 
Paks threw herself backwards. The ore grunted as it hit the ground, but did not 
release any pressure of hand or teeth. Paks saw its other hand groping toward 
the sword the tall ore had dropped. She swiveled, pushing hard with her legs, to 
get the ore out of reach of that blade. Her own knife was free, but the sword 
stuck fast in the dead ore's belly. She felt herself weakening, her left arm 
useless with that grip on her shoulder. The ore began to heave up from 
underneath; if it once got on top, she would have no chance.
Paks shifted her grip on the knife and struck back over her shoulder, feeling 
for the ore's eyes. She felt its jaw loosen even before the screams, and stabbed 
again. Then she raked the knife along the arm around her throat, feeling for the 
tendons. The grip softened. Paks worked the knife deep into the ore's elbow and 
twisted. The grip was gone. She rolled quickly and thrust into the ores throat, 
trying not to look at its face.
She tried to push herself up from the dead ore. I must get that sword, she 
thought. I must be ready. But her breath came in great gasps, and she could not 
see. She felt herself slipping into nothingness, and fell back across the ore's 
body. With her last scrap of consciousness, she tried to call on Gird, but the 
name rang in her head, empty of meaning.
She woke in a cell, whether the first or another like it she could not have 
said. A torch bumed in a corner bracket; by its light she saw a pitcher, mug, 
and platter near her. Her wounds smarted as if they'd been salted, but the 
bleeding had stopped, and she felt much stronger. She reached for the pitcher, 
then paused. Someone had said something about the clanger of taking any food or 
drink from the iynisin—or was that something from a child's tale she'd heard 
long ago? She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue was swollen and sore. 
If she had to fight again, she would have to drink something. And if they 
poisoned her, she would not have to worry. She shook her head, and winced at the 
pain. Was she thinking straight? But she had to be able to fight. Gird honored 
fighters. She was going to die here, almost certainly, but she had to fight.
She took the pitcher and looked into it… in the green torchlight, she could not 
tell what the liquid was. She poured it out, her hands shaking. Whatever it was, 
she thought, it was still liquid. She raised the mug to her lips, sniffing, but 
the torch stank so much she could smell nothing else. She took a swallow. It 
burned her throat all the way down, but she wanted more of it. She drained die 
mug. On the platter was a slab of some dried meat and a hunk of bread. Her 
stomach knotted, reminding her of the hours since she'd eaten. The bread was 
hard, and tasted salty and sour. The meat was salty too; not until she'd eaten 
most of it did she think what the salt would do. Thirst swamped all other 
sensation; she drained the pitcher at one draught, only to find that it gave 
strength without easing her thirst. She felt the burning liquid work its way 
along her body, stinging it awake. She was afire all over, with thirst and the 
wounds and that terrible itching she had felt since the first.
She found hersetf growling softly. Fight, she thought. Oh, I will fight—by holy 
Gird, I will fight exceedingly. She thought of the combat past, the unfairness 
of it, the knotted whip, the ore's teeth in her leg, her strokes, the ores' 
strokes. For a moment she grimaced at the thought of the last encounter, when 
she had stabbed die ore's eyes, but she forced die revulsion down. I had to, she 
thought. It wasn't fair; I was outnumbered, I had to do—whatever. She drew 
grimness around her like a cloak. Saint Gird of the Cudgel, she thought. If 
that's what you want, putting me in a place like this, that's what I’ll do—I’ll 
fight. Protector of the helpless, strong arm of the High Lord: I will be true. I 
will fight.
But a moment of doubt had her frowning. Gird was not for fighting only—she 
thought she remembered that. Fairness—truth—she shook her head, trying to think. 
She seemed to see StammeFs face, telling the recruits not to brawl, then the 
look he had given her in the cell when Sejek had banned her. Something was 
wrong; she should know something better. But of course something's wrong, she 
thought irritably. I've been taken by iynisin; I had to fight three ores 
unarmed; the stuff they gave me was poisoned—
When she heard scraping outside the door, she sprang to her feet, a little 
surprised at her body's quick response. She felt ready—even eager—for what was 
to come. They wanted to see fights, did they? She would show them fighting such 
as they had never seen.
"I see you have recovered from your shameful collapse." The caped iynisi entered 
the cell. It flicked a glance down at tie pitcher and platter. "Ah—refreshed 
yourself, have you? I fear you may find our ale a bit thirst-provoking, don't 
you? But it is strengthening. And if you are successful this next trial, we 
might give you water as a reward. What do you think, eh?"
Paks felt her lips draw back in an involuntary snarl. The iynisi laughed. "I 
suppose we must not expect to find fighters courteous," he said. "But how you 
humans do reveal your needs. It is a weakness of yours, which the elder races 
have learned to control." The iynisi snapped his fingers and an attendant 
brought forward the box from which he took another hank of the gray stuff. " Tis 
a pity this is necessary," he said. "If we had your word that you would cause no 
trouble—no? Discourteous. Perhaps we shall have to teach you manners as well. 
Hold out your hands, and pray that I remember to cut the bond before your combat 
begins." Paks found that she had extended her hands without thinking about it, 
nor could she jerk them back when she tried. She wondered if the iynisi used a 
spell—a ring?—surely something to control her.
As before, she was led into the small arena; this time the seats were mil when 
she came in. A sword, dagger, shield, and helmet were stacked in the center. 
"You earned these last tune," said the iynisi. "Possibly the body armor as well, 
but we differed on that. Convince us, if you can."
The combat that followed was a whirling confusion that was never after clear in 
Paks's memory. How many she fought, in that bout or another, or what arms they 
had, she could not say—only that she fought at the limit of her strength and 
skill again and again. She had no memory of individual strokes, how she won, or 
what wounds she took. When she won, she was rewarded with a dipper of water, a 
short rest, a weapon to replace one that had shattered. When she collapsed, of 
wounds and exhaustion—and she did not know how many times, or how often, that 
happened—she would awake in a cell, her wounds no longer bleeding, but afire 
with whatever had been used to treat them. She was given food and drink that did 
nothing to ease her hunger and thirst, but gave her strength to fight once 
again.
Soon she could think of nothing but the opponent at hand, the weapon that 
menaced her, the hands that wielded it. For a long time she tried to call on Cud 
before each onset, but she could never bring the name out aloud. At last it 
drifted from her mind while she lay unconscious between encounters. She fought 
grimly, then, to the shrill squeals of the watching iynisin and their allies, 
and never knew what she fought, or how. There was only pain, and danger, and the 
bitter anger that kept fear at bay.
That anger grew after every bout: it spread to include all she thought of. The 
High Lord should never have made the world to include iynisin, she thought 
bitterly, and if elves could turn so to evil, he should not have made elves. Now 
the distrust of true elves the iynisin had sown flowered in bitterness. She 
remembered the elf-lord laired deep under stone, bound to some power of evil, 
and drawing her to his side with irresistible enchantments. Macenion's lies, his 
greed and cowardice with the snow-cat, his arrogance. Even at their best, elves 
toyed with humans, clouded human memory for their convenience, sent them into 
dangers they could not assess, with that glamour upon them. Were a few tinkling 
songs and flowery compliments in a sweet voice a fair exchange for all this 
disdain of human lives and needs? Hardly. In a world where such evil existed, it 
ill-behooved elves to sit aside and cast human lives like dice for their 
pleasure.
It was monstrous that such evil existed—that innocents were tormented in dark 
places—that she was alone and helpless and frightened. But she wasn't 
frightened, she reminded herself. Death was the end of all things, and darkness 
surrounded all light, but she was no child to be frightened of what must come. 
If Gird wouldn't help—or didn't exist—she would get along without him. She would 
fight until the end, and then grapple death itself. That would show them.
When she thought at all of her friends, in bits and scraps of memory, she saw 
them standing idly in the sunlight while she was fighting against impossible 
odds underground. She had an image of Arne and Vik, chatting peacefully in Duke 
Phelan's barracks—of the other paladin candidates, safe in Fin Panir, looking 
forward to their own tests—of the rest of the expedition, feasting around a 
fire, leaving her behind with a shrug. For awhile she knew this was untrue; she 
reminded herself that her friends were better than that. But in the end that 
truth sh'pped away as well. They would find out, she thought grimly, and enjoyed 
imagining their grief and their pride in her deeds. And if they never knew—that 
might even be better. She was no longer angry with them; they could not 
understand, it was not their fault. It was their weakness, all those sUly 
thoughts of right and wrong, the rules made for gentler combats: if they had 
been where she was, they would know that only the fight itself mattered, the 
enemy's death, the anger sated by blood.
She awoke, once more in a narrow cell, to find the caped iynisi standing over 
her. She blinked, still under the influence of the healing methods they used. He 
beckoned one of his henchmen, who quickly raised her head and held a mug to her 
lips. She swallowed: the same burning liquid. As always, she wanted more. With 
every swallow, strength flowed back into her. She gulped down two mugs full 
before he moved away, then she rolled easily to her feet.
"You have given us good sport, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi. "Such sport that 
we are minded to reward you greatly—even to risk the displeasure of our lady. 
You remember your friends, don't you? Your friends outside?"
Paks felt her forehead wrinkle, as she tried to remember. Friends. Yes, she had 
friends somewhere—she could not remember their names, but she had friends. She 
nodded.
"Your good friends," he coaxed. "Such good friends." Paks felt a surge of anger. 
Why was he being so tedious? "Your friends are worried about you; they have come 
to find you. To free you."
Paks growled, then stumbled over the words. "Can free myself. Can fight"
The iynisi smiled. "Yes, that's right. You can fight. You can free yourself. We 
will let you fight, Paksenarrion. Just one more fight, and you will be free. You 
will be with your friends."
Suddenly Paks's mind cleared for an instant; she seemed to see Amberion, 
Ardhiel, and the Marshals before her. Those were her friends. Were they here? 
Mingled worry and hope rose in her. She glared at the iynisi: what did he mean, 
fight herself free?
"Ah—some memory coming back. This is well. Now listen to me. You must fight once 
more, fight your way through some of our lesser servants, to reach your friends. 
If you can do this, you may go free. Otherwise, you will die, and so will they. 
We will arm you in what you have won."
Before she could reply, he waved into the cell several iynisin carrying a suit 
of black plate armor, a black helmet crested in black horsehair, and a handsome 
longsword with a curious design at the crosshilts, Paks had no time to examine 
it. The iynisin began to fit the armor on her, she found, as always, that she 
could not move when the caped one commanded her to stand still The armor had a 
strange feel; it made her uneasy. The helmet was even worse. As it neared her 
head, she felt a sudden loathing for it, and tried to duck aside. The effort was 
hopeless. Down over her head came the helmet, close-fitting around her ears and 
cheeks. She felt breathless. Someone pulled the visor down. She squinted through 
the eyeslit, but found that everything wavered as if seen through a blowing 
mist.
"I can't see!" she said.
"That's all right," the iynisi answered. His voice echoed unpleasantly in the 
helmet. "All down here are your enemies, yes? All are enemies. Here—take the 
sword." She felt die sword hilt pressed into her right hand. She hefted the 
blade. It felt good. "All enemies—" said the iynisi's voice, now behind her. 
"Go—fight—fight for your rights, Paksenarrion. Fight your enemies. Fight—"
She hardly needed that encouragement. She was walking down the corridor, away 
from the cell, walking alone and unguarded for the first time. At first she 
coula barely see weu enough to stay away from the walls, but then her vision 
cleared a little. She saw iynisin ahead of her, all running somewhere. Those who 
looked at her screamed, and ran fester. Behind the visor, she smiled. Soon. Soon 
she would show them. She was no longer helpless; now she had the power she had 
longed for in all those dark hours. She wondered which way to go, heard a 
confused clangor from a wide cross passage, and turned to see what it was. A 
fight. A big fight. She saw the passage choked with armed figures: iynisin, 
ores, others. She drew breath and stalked forward, sword ready.
She struck the back of a confused mass, hating the black-dad iynisin who had 
laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and 
cleared a space around her. Those in front turned to face her; she leveled the 
great blade and swiped from side to side, laughing. The black cloaks melted in 
front of her. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and anger 
flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I wffl fight. I will fight 
through all of you, whatever you are. Fight through to my friends. By Gird—the 
name leapt into her mind, and she opened her mouth to yell it out loud. This 
time, at last, the sound passed her lips: not as a yell, little louder than a 
whisper: in the name Gird.
A vast space opened in her mind, and out of it a voice like stone said "Stop!" 
She froze. One arm held the sword up for another swing, one foot had nearly left 
the ground. At once she was bereft of vision and hearing, and plunged into 
darkness.
Chapter Twenty-six
Paks woke to darkness. She lay a moment, feeling cool air—living air—wash over 
her face. She lay wrapped in something soft, on something more yielding than 
stone. She blinked. She could see something glittering overhead. Stars. The 
current of air quickened; it smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. She could 
not think where she was. Her mouth was dry. She tried to clear her throat, but 
made a strange croaking noise. At once a voice—a human voice—spoke out of the 
darkness.
"Paks? Do you want something?"
Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. She could not speak. She heard a 
rustle of clothing, then a hand came out of darkness and touched her face.
"Paks? Are you crying? Here—" The hand withdrew, and after a sharp scratching 
noise, a light Bared near her and steadied. She thought: lamp. Her tears blurred 
everything to wavering points of light and blackness. The hand returned, a 
gentle touch, stroking her head. "There, Paks, it's all right. You're safe now; 
you're free."
She could not stop the tears that kept flowing. She began to tremble with the 
effort, and the person beside her called softly to someone else. Another person 
loomed beside her. "The spell's going, I think," said the first voice.
"About time, too. Can she speak yet?"
"No. But she's aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she's as dry as old bone."
"Ill lift her." The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks felt 
herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. "There now. 
Paks? You need to drink something. Here—" She felt a cool rim at her tips, and 
sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. "Good," 
said the voice. "That's whatyou need."
"I'D get more," said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She 
drank another Bask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who 
these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only mat ft was 
better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.
She woke in daylight: tight blue sky overhead, red rocks against the sky. She 
turned her head. She lay on a sandbank above a stream. She could see horses 
across the stream, and men in chainmail grooming them. Nearer was the pale 
flickering light of a campfire. Around it were three men, a woman, and a dwarf. 
One of the men and the woman left die campfire and came toward her. They were 
smiling. She wondered why.
"Pals, are you feeling better this morning?" That was the woman. Paks felt her 
way along the words, trying to understand. This morning. Did that mean that it 
was last night, the voices and the crying? Better? She tried to roll up on one 
elbow, but found she could hardly move. She felt utterly weak, as if she were 
hollow from die bones out.
"Can you speak at all, Paks?" asked the man. She looked at him. Dark hair with a 
few silver threads, short dark beard. Chammail under a yellow tunic. They wanted 
her to say something. She had nothing to say. They were smiling at her, bom of 
them. She looked from face to face. The man's smile faded as she watched. "Paks, 
do you know who I am?" She shook her head. "Mmm. Do you know where you are?" 
Again the headshake. "Do you know who you are?"
"Pals?" she answered softly, tentatively.
"Do you know your full name?"
Paks thought a long moment. Something seeped into her mind. "Paks. 
Paks—Paksenarrion, I think."
The man and woman looked at each other and sighed. "Well," said me woman, 
"that's something. How about breakfast, Paks?"
"Breakfast—" she repeated slowly. "Are you hungry?"
Again Paks thought her way to the meaning of the v- words. Hungry? Her stomach 
rumbled, answering for her. 3 "Food," she murmured.
"Fine," said the woman. "I'll bring it." She strode off. :Paks looked at the 
man. "Who is that?" she asked.
"The woman? Pir. She's a knight." His voice held slight coolness.
"Should—should I know her?"
"Yes. But don't worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?"
Paks shook her head before answering. "No. I don't remember anything much.Did 
I—did I do something bad?"
"Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?"
"I don't know." Paks turned her head to look the other way. She was looking up a 
narrow valley or canyon walled I with red rock on both sides. Nothing looked 
familiar.
The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskm 
slung from one wrist. "Here—stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit up?" 
Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he 
dragged from a few feet away. The woman set the bowl on the sand, poured water 
into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from die blanket 
around her, but the woman had to help her even with diat. When she took the mug, 
her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face and neck; it was 
icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her. "I'll help you with the 
stew," said the woman. "You're too shaky to manage it." She offered it spoonful 
by spoonfull.Paks ate, at first without much interest, but with increasing 
relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory returned, though she 
could not tell if it was recent or remote.
She looked at the man. "Is this Duke Phelan's camp?"
His fece seemed to harden. "No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?"
"I think so. He was—not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes—I thought I was still in 
his Company. But I'm not. I don't think so—am I?"
"Not any more, no. But if you remember that, then your memory is coming back. 
That's good."
"But where—? I should—I should know you, shouldn't I? You asked me that. And I 
can't—I don't know you—any of you—or this—" Her voice began to shake.
'Take it easy, Paks. It will come back to you. You're safe here." The man turned 
away for a moment, and waved to someone Paks could not see.
"But if I—when I was with the Duke, I was a soldier. I must have been. And 
you're wearing mail. What happened?" Paks tried again to push herself up; this 
time she got both arms out of the blanket around her. She had on a loose linen 
shirt; below its sleeves her arms were seamed with the swollen purple lines of 
healing wounds. Her wrists were bandaged with strips of linen. She stared at 
them, and then at the man. "What is this place? Did you—"
He reached out and took her hand; his grip was firm but gentle. "No, Paks, I did 
not deal those injuries. We brought you out of the place where that happened." 
He tumeatp another man who had just walked up to them. "She's awake, and making 
sense, but her memory hasn't returned. Paks, do you know this man?"
Paks stared at the lean face framed in iron-gray hair and beard. He looked stern 
and even grim, but honest. She wanted to trust him. She could not remember him 
at all. "No, sir," she said slowly. "I don't. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," said the second man. "I wonder," he said to the first, 
"whether we should try to tell her what we know."
"Names, at least." said the dark man. "Or shell be completely confused. Paks, my 
name is Amberion; I'm a paladin of Gird. And this is Marshal Fallis, of the 
Order of the Cudgel."
The names meant nothing to Paks, and the men looked no more familiar with 
strange names attached. She looked from one to die other. "Amberion. Marshall 
Fallis." They looked at her, glanced at each other, then back at her.
"Do you remember who Gird is, Paks?" asked Marshal Fallis.
Paks wrinkled her brow, trying to think. The name woke a distant uneasiness. 
"Gird—I—I know I should. Something—it's—what to do—to call—when—" She stopped, 
breathing hard, and tried again. "When you start to fight—only—I couldn't say it 
aloud! I tried—and it wouldn't—something on my neck, choking—No!" Paks shouted 
this last loud enough to startle the entire camp. She had shut her eyes tightly, 
shaking her head, her body rigid. "No," she said more softly. "No. By—by Gird, I 
will fight. I will—not—stop. I vri&fightl"
She felt both men's hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Amberion spoke. 
"Paks. Listen to me. You're out of that. You're safe." Then, more quietly, to 
Fallis. "And what do you suppose that was about. Surely she wasn't free to fight 
them?"
"I don't know," was Fallis's grim reply. "But I suspect we'd better find out. 
Considering how we found her—"
"I won't believe it," said Amberion, but his voice had thinned, Paks opened her 
eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at the sky, then shifted her eyes to look 
at Amberion. She could feel patches of memory coming back, unconnected still, 
but broadening. "Amberion? What—"
"You were injured, Paks. You don't remember much."
"I feel—strange. Will you tell me what happened?"
"We don't know all that happened. And it might be better to let you remember it 
for yourself."
Paks looked around. "I don't recognize this place. But the color of the 
rocks—something—is familiar."
"We moved the camp after you—after the fight."
"Are we in Kolobia yet?" Paks saw Araberion's face relax a little.
"Good. You- are remembering. Yes, we're in Kolobia. How much do you remember of 
the trip here?"
"Some of it—we were in a caravan, for a long way. We saw the horse nomads, 
didn't we?" Amberion nodded. "And I remember a bald-faced red horse, bucking—"
"That's my warhorse," said Fallis. "Do you remember why we were coming to 
Kolobia?"
Paks shook her head. "No. I wish I didn't feel so peculiar. Did something hit my 
head? Was it a battle?"
Fallis smiled at her. "You've been in several battles. Both on the caravan, and 
here as well. I think you'll remember them on your own when you've rested more. 
Your wounds are healing well. Do you need anything more?"
"Water, if there's enough."
"Certainly." The Marshal walked away and returned with a lull waterskin. He set 
it beside Paks, then he and Amberion walked upstream, looking at the cliffs on 
the for side. Paks managed to get the waterskin to her mouth. She took a long 
drink, then looked around again. The dwarf was looking her way, talking to the 
woman. When he caught her eye, he rose and came toward her. She tried to think 
of his name.
"Good morning, Lady Paksenarrion," said the dwarf. His voice was higher and 
sweeter than she'd expected. She wondered how she knew what to expect. "How fare 
you this day?"
"I'm all right. A little—confused."
"That is no wonder. Perhaps even names have escaped you. I am Balkon of the 
House of Goldenaxe."
The name fit; Paks could almost think she remembered it. As she looked at the 
dwarf, the distant silent scraps of memory came nearer and seemed to füse in his 
face. "Yes," she said slowly. "Master Balkon. You came with us from Fin Panir. 
You know about rock, where it will be solid or weak. You are a cousin of the 
Goldenaxe himself, aren't you?"
"Eighth cousin twice removed," said the dwarf with a smile. "I think you must be 
recovering very swiftly. We are glad it should be so, who saw you in such 
dismay."
"Dismay?" Paks felt a twinge of fear.
The dwarfs face constricted into a mass of furrows and then relaxed. "Is that 
not the correct term? You must excuse me, Lady Paks. I have not the skill in 
wordcraft as were I an elf. Dismay? Distress? Dis—oh, I cannot find the word, 
plague take it! But you were much hurt by those blackhearts, and that your 
friends sorrowed to see. And you are now much better, and we are glad."
"Thank you, Master Balkon," said Paks. She did not understand what he was 
talking about, exactly, but his kindness was welcome.
"I wanted to ask you—if it will not be too great a sorrow to speak of it—what 
those rockfilth used on your injuries."
Paks stared at him. "Rockfilth?"
"They corrupt the very stone, good stone, by living in its heart. Those 
blackheart elf cousins, I mean, who took you."
"Took me?" Paks shook her head, as a sudden chill ran over her. "I have no 
memory of such a thing, Master Balkon."
"Ah. Magicks, then." The dwarf muttered rapidly in dwarvish; Paks caught only 
one or two words. He stopped abruptly and looked sharply at her. "You remember 
none of it at all?"
"None of what?" Paks began to feel a prickling irritation. Everyone else knew 
something about her, but wouldn't tell what it was. It was unfair. She glared at 
the dwarf.
"Tech! Be still. That Lord Amberion, your paladin, and the Marshal Fallis, they 
will not have you told too much, for seeing what you shall remember in time. Do 
you make noise, they will come to see what we speak."
"Will you tell me?" asked Paks with rising excitement.
The dwarf smiled, a sly sideways smile. "And should I say what such men of power 
want not to be said? I am no prince or lord to rank myself above them. But they 
did not say to me what not to say—it is a point on which it is possible to 
differ. So—" he looked at her again. "I will say what I think should be said, as 
it would be done in the House of Goldenaxe."
Paks forced herself to lie still, remembering this much about dwarves, that they 
cannot be hurried in the telling of anything. The dwarf pulled out his curved 
pipe, packed it, lit it, and drew a long breath. He blew three smoke rings.
"Very well, then," he said, as if he had not paused. "You were taken by those 
blackheart worshippers of Achrya," he spat after saying that name, "such as 
elves like Ardhiel do not like to admit exist and are of elvish origin—despite 
having their own word for them. That was when they attacked our camp, the second 
night in this canyon, and they carried you away down their lairs, under that 
cliff yonder—" he jerked his head to indicate the cliff across the stream. "And 
there they held you, some days. We know not what befell you in that dark place, 
save the marks you carry. Dire wounds enough, they must have been, to deal such 
marks. We had some trouble to follow your path and find you—do you truly 
remember nothing of this?"
Paks had been listening in rising horror. She stared at the cliff, the rust-red 
and orange rocks streaked with black, and shook her head. "I don't—don't 
remember. Yet—as you talk—something comes back. Like—like seeing a valley from a 
hill, faraway and hazy."
'That will be the magicks, I don't doubt, or the knocks on your head that left 
such lumps. Well, then, when we found you, that was a strange thing too. We had 
fought several times in the dark ways, and came to another band of the enemy. 
None of us knew what was that black warrior so tall behind the others, all in 
black armor. You—but we didn't know then it was you—were killing them, the ones 
we faced, and when they parted seemed like to kill us too. Then—" he paused to 
puff on his pipe and blow more rings. Paks waited impatiently, a feeling of 
pressure swelling her head. "Then, Lady Paksenarrion, you were still, all at 
once, sword arm so above your head. Very strange. Very strange indeed. Lord 
Amberion and Marshal Fallis went to look—being careful, too, for any treachery. 
Then they lifted the visor of the helmet—and a nasty, evil thing that was, that 
I could sense from where I stood—and there was your face behind it, pale as 
cheese, and your eyes seeing nothing. All that bad armor was 
magicks—enchanted—your paladin and Marshal had their way with Gird. It split, 
finally, lying around you like a beetle's wingcases, then it shrivelled and was 
gone. But that wasn't all. Around your neck—"
"Master Balkon!" Neither Paks nor Balkon had noticed Amberion's approach. He 
looked more than a little displeased. "Is this well done, to tax her beyond her 
knowledge?"
"Tax her? I but tell her what things are lost to her."
"But you knew we thought it wise to tell her nothing."
"That you thought it wise, yes—but you never forbade such telling to me. And of 
the ill-doing of elves and their kindred we dwarves have more knowledge than 
those the elves would make their allies. To my wisdom it seems right that she 
should not be left to anxious wondering."
Paks felt a wave of irritation that they would talk over and about her as if she 
were not there. "I asked him, Sir Amberion, as I asked you. And he chose to 
think me whole-witted enough to answer me as one fighter to another, not as if I 
were a witless child." She surprised even herself with the bitterness in her 
voice.
Amberion looked at her, brows raised. "Surely, Paks, you realize that we do not 
think you a child—you, of all people. We were concerned that if we told you what 
we knew, you might never again regain your own memories, which must include much 
that we cannot know. Have you so forgotten the Fellowship of Gird, that you 
mistrust a paladin this way? It must be your wounds that make you so irritable."
Paks felt herself flush at the mild reproof. "I'm sorry," she muttered, still 
angry. "I—I was worried." Her voice trailed away, and she looked beyond Amberion 
to the cliffs beyond.
"Are you in much pain?" Amberion went on.
Paks realized that she did, in fact, ache all over as if with a fever; her head 
throbbed. "Sir, I do ache some."
He felt her forehead, and frowned. "It may be fever—and no wonder with your 
wounds—yet you feel cold. Let me see what I can do." He placed a hand on either 
side of her head, and began to speak. Paks felt she should know the words, 
anticipate the phrases, yet she could hardly concentrate enough to hear them. 
Her vision hazed. For a few moments the throbbing in her head merged with her 
aching body in one vast rhythmic pain, then it eased. As it disappeared, she 
knew how much pain she had felt, and wondered for an instant why she had not 
known it—had it been even worse, that she could accept it as normal? Her vision 
cleared. She felt Amberion's warm palms leave her head.
"Does that ease the pain?" he asked,
Paks nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I had not realized how much it was." Now her 
outburst of a few moments before seemed unreasonable to her; she could not 
understand why she had said such a thing to Amberion.
"Good." Amberion sighed, and sat beside her, across from the dwarf. He looked 
tired. "Master Balkon, I heard but the last of what you told her. Was it just 
the tale of her capture and our pursuit?"
"Aye, it was, and scantly told, at that. I did not speak of the capture itself, 
since none of us saw it, only that she was taken. Nor did I speak of the debate 
when she was found missing, or—"
"Well enough," Amberion interrupted. The dwarf scowled at him. "Paks, has any of 
that come back to you as he was telling it?"
"It seemed, sir, almost as if something were trying to break into my head. 
Something I shoula know. But as I told Master Balkon, what I do recall seems 
faraway, dreamlike."
"That's not unusual. By Saint Gird, I wish that elf would wake!"
"By his face," said the dwarf sourly, "that one is enjoying some rare dream such 
as elves delight in, too rare a dream to wake for our need."
'Elf?" asked Paks.
"Ardhiel," said Amberion. "From the embassy to Fintha—"
"Oh!" A live memory flashed into Paks's mind. "I remember him. In Fin Panir, 
when we—" she looked at
Amberion, then went on more slowly, with dawning comprehension. "When we planned 
this expedition—I remember that now. I was there. I was taking training, and 
then—" In her excitement, Paks tried to sit up, but could not.
"Ill get another pack for you," said Amberion. He brought a fat blanket roll, 
and propped her higher on it. For an instant she was dizzy, but recovered.
"I do remember,' she said eagerly. "On the caravan, and when we turned off—those 
canyons with the white stone high above. A black hill with a dip in the top. Is 
this farther down the canyon we went into, the one Master Balkon said was not as 
deep as it was meant to be?"
"Yes, Lady," said the dwarf. "This is the canyon choked with sand. I have not 
yet had the time to look, but I expect something—some rock fall, perchance—has 
blocked the downward end."
"And at the high end—that's where the clifis were that the smoke came from?"
"Yes, in a branch canyon to this one. Do you remember the fight?"
"Something of it. One of those black fighters called out, and it was hard to 
move after that."
Amberion nodded. "It affected most of our party, save Master Balkon and me."
"Then you did something, and it eased; they were shooting arrows down. Ardhiel 
and Thelon were shooting back—"
"Yes," said Balkon. "And then that black scum who called down the fear on us 
came down the cliff in the shape of his lady—" the dwarf spat again. "That one."
"Like a spider," said Paks. "I remember. It was horrible—he just came down the 
rocks, straight down, and then more and more of them swarmed out of holes in the 
walls, and Ardhiel blew that old hunting horn he carries, only it didn't sound 
like a hunting horn."
"No," said Amberion. "And after he blew it, its own shape returned. It was under 
some enchantment. It's an elven horn, the only one I've ever seen, and a rare 
treasure. Whatever or whoever it was who appeared when the horn sang, I know 
not, but great goodness and power were allied in him."
Paks shook her head. "I don't remember anything but the sound of it."
"Pretty enough," grumbled Balkon, "but I'd like to know what it means."
Amberion stretched and sighed. "It meant trouble for our enemies that day, and a 
long sleep for Ardhiel. Paks, I think your memory will come back; as it does, 
I'd tike to know about it." She nodded. "Master Balkon, we still think it would 
be best to let her recall these things on her own."
"I worry about those wounds," said the dwarf frankly. "The elves have some means 
of speeding and slowing growth. Something like that must have been used by those 
rockfllth—she'd still be bleeding, else. It's dangerous. I would know what was 
used on her, and would wish you to think what may be done." He grinned at Paks 
for an instant and went on. "Besides that, it is this talk which has brought her 
memory so far. Surely more would be better."
"It is that," said another voice, "which distinguishes dwarves from more 
temperate folk—they always think more is better." Paks looked over to see a dark 
man in stained leather clothes; she remembered that this was Thelon, a 
hatf-elven ranger from Lyonya. Master Balkon bristled at his words, but Thelon 
laughed gently, and lifted his hand. "My pardon, Master Balkon, but I could not 
resist. It has been long in this camp since anything seemed funny."
"I dont see—" began Balkon; Thelon shook his head then, and bowed.
"Sir dwarf, I am sorry. I had no intention of insult; I’ll say so before all, 
and confess a loose tongue."
Balkon shook his head, and finally smiled at Thelon. "You are but half-elven, 
and a ranger—which is another word for hardy, as we dwarves know. And I confess 
I am as fond of plenty as you are of enough. Let it pass, Thelon; I will not 
bear anger to you."
Tlielon bowed again. "I thank you for your courtesy. I came to ask Amberion to 
attend the Marshals. Ardhiel may be rousing from his sleep, and they asked for 
you."
Amberion looked sternly at the dwarf as he rose. "Master Balkon, we are as 
concerned as you, but if Paks doesn't remember, she can't tell you what they 
used. It would be better to let it be."
Balkon nodded. "If the elf is wakening, he might know far more than I—only he 
should be told at once, if he can listen."
"Then—r
"Then I will but bear her company, and no tales tell, until you bring word of 
Ardhiel," said the dwarf. And with that Amberion had to be content, and he 
turned away. Paks watched the dwarf, hoping he would resume his talk, but he did 
not meet her eyes. He poked and puffed at his pipe, until the smoke rose 
steadily. Then he looked at her. 1 am not one to break my word," he said 
fiercely, "even so little of it as that. Bide still; the time will come, and you 
will hear it all."
Paks slept again while waiting for Amberion to return, and woke hungry. She was 
able to feed herself this time. With the wizard's help, she managed to stand and 
stagger a short way to the shallow sand pit that served the camp for jacks. But 
that exhausted her, and she fell into sleep again as soon as she came back to 
her place. It was evening when she woke, with sun striking the very highest line 
of the opposite canyon wall.
No one was beside her at the moment. She saw the dwarf, hunching over the 
campfire. Pir stood at a little distance, staring up at the sunlit rock far 
overhead. Off on her right, Amberion and the Marshals stood talking to another 
taller figure. Paks recognized this as Ardhiel, the elf. She stretched, slowly. 
She felt a vague ache again, not so strong as before, and wondered at it. The 
only other time she had experienced a paladin's healing, the wound and pain had 
disappeared at once and forever. Perhaps she'd been lying awry.
She pushed up her sleeves to look at the marks on her arms. Ordinarily she'd 
have said the wounds were several weeks old; the scar tissue was raised and 
dark. But the others had said she'd been missing only a few days. She tried to 
remember what had happened. What Balkon had told her seemed to fit, yet her 
memories gave no life to his words. Captive—underground—that almost made sense. 
But what about the wounds? Had she actually fought? And who had she fought, and 
how? The marks gave her no clues—they looked like any healing cuts, could have 
been given by knife or sword or pike. The only unusual thing about them was the 
number—more scars than she had collected in three seasons of fighting with Duke 
Phelan. She could not understand how she had fought at all—how she had 
survived—with so many wounds, all given at once. Yet something about them seemed 
to convey that they'd been given in combat, rather than inflicted on a bound and 
helpless prisoner.
Amberion's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Paks, I'm glad you're awake again. 
Ardhiel is with us now, and he examined you this afternoon." Paks was suddenly 
angry. What right had they to stare at her while she lay helpless? She fought 
the anger down, surprised at its strength, and tried to conceal it. She knew 
they would not understand. Amberion went on. "He would like to talk with you, if 
you feel well enough."
"Yes, of course. I'm just—" she decided not to mention the aching to Amberion; 
he would think it weakness. "I'm still confused," she said finally. Ardhiel sat 
beside her; he seemed thinner than she remembered, but his face was alight with 
some joy.
"Lady Paksenarrion, I sorrow that I was not here to defend you. I did not know 
that when I blew the elven horn I would be carried away—"
"Carried away?"
"In spirit. I had always been taught that elves have no souls, that we are 
wholly one with our bodies; I had no idea that I could be plucked out, like a 
hazelnut from its shell, and be gone so long. It did not seem long to me—only a 
day at the High King's Court—but when I returned, I find that you have spent 
many dark hours with the iynism."
"So they say." Paks looked away, frowning. "I can't remember."
"Not at all?"
"Only vaguely. Balkon told me some, and it seemed to make sense—I had the 
feeling that he was right, as far as he knew. But I don't remember it, clearly, 
on my own."
"Ah." Ardhiel leaned back on the sand, staring skyward at the glowing blue that 
deepened as the sun lowered behind distant mountains. "I wish I knew more. We 
elves prefer to ignore the iynisin—even to pretend they do not exist, or are not 
distant kin. But at such times as these, that way is proved dangerous, for us 
and for our allies. I do know that they have the same magical abilities that we 
have, and share in the powers of those they worship: Achrya and Nayda, Gitres 
and Liart."
Paks shuddered as the four evil names seemed to foul the air. A face swam before 
her: elven, but evil. Frightening. "I—don't remember," she said.
"If it is truly wiped from your mind, by a blow on your head, for example, that 
is one thing. But if the memory has been blurred by the iynisin or their deity, 
then we must do what we can to bring it back. I could not tell, this afternoon—I 
was still half-enchanted by my own experience." Ardhiel sat up, stretching. 
"Amberion. Did you want to do this before ot after eating?"
"Do what?" asked Paks, alarmed. Amberion turned from watching the distant line 
of mountains, and smiled at her. She thought his face looked flat and 
featureless in the dimming Tight. He sat on her other side, and reached for her 
hand.
"We need to find out what magic the iynisin used on you, Paks. Surely you 
realize that. Ardhiel and I will each try what we know—"
"But—" Paks tried to think of some argument. "Isn't it—didn't you tell me 
that—that paladin candidates must not submit to spells?"
Amberion frowned, "Usually, that's so. But this is a special case—you have 
already been spelled, we think, by the iynisin. And you were assigned to my 
care. Gird knows, Paksenarrion, what I feel that I did not save you from that 
capture. But now—we must do what we can for you."
Paks nodded, meeting Amberion's eyes with difficulty. She could tell that he was 
concerned—even worried. For herself, she felt more annoyance than anything else. 
In time she would heal, as she always had, and be strong again; the memories 
would come, or not come. She wanted to hear what they knew—wanted them to trust 
her enough to tell her, as Keri and Volya had told her about the sack of Sibili.
"Amberion tells me that these wounds were already so healed when they (bund you, 
Paksenarrion." Ardhiel laid his long-fingered elven hand on her wrist. Paks 
tried not to flinch. "You were missing so short a time—either the wounds were 
never what they look like—that is, they were not real wounds, but created in 
this half-healed state—or they were magically healed."
Paks looked at her arms again. "Could they be—made that way? I never heard of 
such—"
"No. It's not widely known that it can be done, and it would only be done by 
evil intent. But the other is bad, too. To force flesh to such healing, out of 
time—that has its own hazards. I have known an elf, one of us, who could speed 
growth and healing. He used the gift on plants, but told me once it could be 
done on animals. What I would like to do, Paksenarrion, is try to lift the cloud 
from your memory. If it is what I think it may be, Amberion and I can do so—and 
you can then remember what you need."
As much as Paks had wanted to know what happened, she still shrank from this. 
The elf's glowing eyes seemed dangerous as coals. She looked at Amberion. He 
nodded. "Ardhiel has convinced me that this is best, Paksenarrion. The iynisin 
powers should be countered as soon as possible."
"Then Balkon was right—" she murmured.
"Right in his way," said Ardhiel. "You do need to remember, but you need to 
remember for yourself. It is this I will try."
"Well, then—go ahead." Paks looked from one to the other of them. "What should I 
do?"
"Think on Gird and the High Lord," said Amberion. "They will guide your 
thoughts—and your memories, we hope—^while we free them."
Paks closed her eyes and lay still. She could not keep from pushing at the dark 
curtains in her mind, and felt more and more breathless and trapped as she lay 
there. She was hardly aware of Ardhiel's hand when it moved to her brow, or 
Amberion's firm grip. Ardhiel began chanting something in elven—she did not even 
try to follow the meaning.
Shadows moved in her mind. Some were darker—some moved away from her, and others 
menaced her. She saw again an elven face, pale against a dark hood. She felt a 
burning pain at her throat, and tried to raise her hand, struggling. The shadows 
seemed to harden, thickening into reality. Sounds came, faintly at first, then 
louder. Shrill cries, mocking laughter, die clatter of weapons. Bitter fluid 
stung her throat, the stench of it wrinkled her nose. The faces came clearer out 
of the darkness: ores, their fangs bared, their taloned hands holding swords, 
knives, whips. Other fighters, whose land she did not know, in armor of leather 
plate. The light was green, a sickly shade that made spilled blood black.
Gradually she was able to remember the bargain the iynisin had made: she had to 
fight, fight for their amusement against opponents of their choosing, fight with 
whatever weapons they gave her, for the chance to live a little longer. As it 
had happened, so in the memory Ardhiel's treatment roused: she could not 
remember how long these fights had gone on, or the intervals between them. But 
she could remember, as if reliving them, the pain of her wounds, the hunger and 
thirst and exhaustion, the fear that she would never see daylight again. When 
Ardhiel took his hands away from her brow, she was aware. And the memories she 
had lost lay in a cold heap in her mind. She hated the thought of them, of 
stirring through them, but she had no choice. That, too, she resented: she had 
had no choice with the iynisin, and no choice here. It seemed unfair.
Chapter Twenty-seven
For of course Amberion insisted on knowing what, if anything, she remembered. 
She replied as quickly as possible, surprised at her own distaste, with an 
outline of the iynisin bargain and her fighting. She remembered even the blade 
armor, and her reluctance to wear it.
"And you called on Gird before each encounter?" asked High Marshall FaUis, who 
had come up to listen.
T tried. I couldn't—couldn't say it out loud." Paks hoped he would say nothing 
more about it.
But you tried—you intended to?" Amberion's eyes held hers.
"Yes—sir." Paks looked away with an eflbrt. "I tried. At least, all the times I 
remember—"
"That should be enough—" But his tone lacked conviction, and he looked across 
her to Ardhiel.
"I don't understand. What's the matter?" Even Paks could not be sure whether 
irritation or fear edged her voice.
Fallis sighed. "Paksenarrion, you had no way to tell-^-but if you handled cursed 
weapons, and in a cursedjcause—"
"And that black armor was definitely cursed—"
"But I killed ores—some iynisin—and they're all evil—"
"Yes. I know. That's why we think it may work out." Amberion shook his head, 
nonetheless. "I wish you hadn't touched those things…"
"But—" Paks felt ready to burst with the unfairness of it. She had been trapped, 
alone, captive, for underground—she had fought against many enemies and her own 
fear, to survive—and now they said she should never have touched a weapon. I'm a 
fighter, after all, she told herself. What should I have done—let them kill me 
without lifting a hand? Bitterness sharpened her voice. "I thought Gird would 
approve—fighting against odds like that."
"Gird does not care for odds, but for right and wrong." Fallis sounded almost 
angry. "That's what we're trying to—"
"Then should I have stood there like a trussed sheep and let them cut my 
throat?" Paks interrupted, angry enough now to say what she felt. "Would you 
have been happier to find my corpse? By—by the gods, I thought Gird was a 
warrior'spatron, in any fight against evil, and I did my best to fight. It's 
easy for you to say what I should and shouldn't have done, but you were safe in 
the sunlight, while I—"
"Paks!" Amberion's voice, and his hand on her arm, stopped her. "Paks, please 
listen. We know you had little choice; we are not condemning you. You are not a 
paladin. We do not expect such wisdom from you. And now you are still weak and 
recovering from your injuries. We shouldn't have told you our worries, I 
suppose, but we did. I think myself that you will be all right when your wounds 
heal, and you have rested. Eat well tonight, and sleep; tomorrow we need to move 
camp again, and be on our way."
Paks stared at him, still a little angry, but appalled at her own words when she 
remembered them. Had she really spoken that way to a paladin and a High Marshal? 
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I—I don't know what—"
"Anyone," said Amberion firmly, "anyone, coming from such an ordeal, would be 
irritable. Can you walk as far as the fire to eat, or shall we bring food here?"
"I'll try." Paks was able to stand with Amberion's help, and made it to the 
fire, walking stiffly but alone. She said htde to the others, concentrating on 
her own bowl of food. Master Balkon eyed her from across the fire, but said 
nothing. She wondered how much the others knew. She felt empty and sore inside, 
as if she had been crying for a longtime.
After die meal, High Marshal Fallis asked Ardhiel to tell the company about his 
experience. The elf smiled, sketched a gesture on the air, and began. Paks, 
listening, recovered a little of her first enchantment with elves. The 
intonations of his voice, even in the common tongue, gave it a lyrical quality. 
His graceful hands, gesturing fluidly, reminded her of tall grass blowing in the 
wind. He caught her eye, and smiled; she felt her own face relax in response. 
The story he told, of being taken away on the flying steed they'd seen, and 
feasting in the High King's Hall, was strange enough. Paks was not sure whether 
Ardhiel thought die High King was the same as their High Lord—or whether that 
was someone else entirety—but she did not ask.
When he had finished, full darkness had fallen, and the stars guttered brightly 
out of a cloudless sky. Paks began to wonder if she could make it back to her 
place; she did not feel nice moving again. Someone else began to talk wfth 
Ardhiel; she was too sleepy to notice who it was. Then she was asleep, hardly 
rousing when someone draped a blanket over her.
She roused again before dawn. One cheek was stiff with a cold wind that flowed 
down the canyon; the sky was pale green, like a bruise. She could see both rock 
walls clear against the sky, but down in the canyon shadows hid all detail. She 
rolled her face inside the blanket, and warmed the cold side of it with her 
breath. She felt stiff and sore, but much stronger than the day before. A horse 
whinnied; the sound echoed from the walls. Another one answered, louder. Now 
several of them called. Paks thought she could pick out Socks's whinny from the 
rest. She pushed herself up. Cold air swirled under the blanket and she knew 
she'd have to get up to get warm. A dark shape crouched over the fire, 
muttering. This morning she recognized one of the men-at-arms.
When she came to the fire, he handed her a mug of sib, grinning.
"Tis cold, these early mornings," he said. "It must be the mountains; I've 
always heard it's cold all year round in mountains."
"That's true of the Dwarfmounts," agreed Paks. She shivered, and spread her 
hands to the flames. She had on a linen shirt over her trousers; the wind seemed 
to go through it as if it weren't there. Where were her clothes? Which pack?
As if he had heard her thought, Amberion dumped a pack beside the fire. "Your 
pack," he said, and reached for a mug of sib. "Glad you're up. We'll be riding 
today."
Paks found a wool shirt to cover the linen one, then paused. "Should I wear 
mail?"
"Yes—better not take a chance. Oh. That's right—yours is gone. Well have to find 
you some." He finished his sib and stood up. Paks donned the wool shirt, and 
unrolled her cloak. She was still cold. She moved around near the fire, trying 
to warm up. Gradually the stiffness eased, though she still felt a deep aching 
pain along her bones. It was much lighter. Someone had started a pot of porridge 
for breakfast; when she looked for the horses, she saw several men at work, 
tacking them up. Socks was still bare, tied to a scrubby tree. Paks walked 
toward him.
"Will you be riding him today?" asked one of the men.
"I suppose so." She had no idea what sort of trail they would take, but if they 
had to fight, she wanted Socks. He stretched his neck when she neared him, and 
bumped her with his massive nose. She rubbed his head and neck absently, 
scratching automatically those itchy spots he favored. The man reappeared with 
her saddle and gear. Paks thanked him, and took her brush from the saddlebags. 
When she tried to lift the saddle to the horse's back, she was surprised to find 
she could barely get it in place. Every muscle in her back protested. She took a 
deep breath, and fastened the rigging. Foregirth, breastband, crupper, rear 
girth. Saddlebags. She was panting when she finished. Socks nosed at her. She 
fitted the bridle on his head, and untied him.
By the time they had ridden out of the canyon, onto a shoulder of the heights to 
one side, Paks felt she had been riding all day. Socks and the other horses 
toiled upward. Paks tried to take an interest in the country once more rising 
into view—the great cliffs of raw red stone, the fringe of forest on the 
plateaus above. Far to the north an angular gray mountain, dark against all the 
red, caught BaDcon's attention.
"Therel See that dark one? Not the same rock at all—that one comes from hot 
rocks, rocks flowing like a river, all fire-bright. It will be sharp to the feet 
if we come there."
"We shouldn't," said Amberion. "The map gives us a cross-canyon next, deeper 
than the last, and Luap's stronghold is somewhere nearby."
"Nearby, eh," grumbled the dwarf. "Nearby in this country can be out of reach." 
They were riding now through a little meadow of sand, carpeted with tall lupines 
in shades of cream and gold. Ahead the trail led up toward a curious spire of 
rock that looked, to Paks, as if it were made of candle-drippings that had been 
tilted one way and another while still soft.
"Is that some of your rock that flowed like a river?"
"No." Balkon grinned at her. "Rock that flows doesn't look like it 
afterwards—this is all sand-rock. Like that below, in the canyon."
All this time, the distant cliffs that Amberion and Fallis were sure lay beyond 
the cross-canyon drew closer. Paks could not believe that much of a canyon lay 
between diem and the clifis—until they reached the spire, and the rock fell away 
beneath their feet. A thin thread of trail angled back and forth down the rocks.
"Gird's breath, Fallis—we can't get the horses down there." Amberion took a few 
steps down the trail, stumbling on loose ledges of rock. ' It's as steep as a 
stair. Mules, mayhap, but the warhorses—"
"We can'tleave them here." Fallis looked around, frowning. "Those kuaknom, or 
iynisin, or whatever could come back—and you know the scroll mentioned dragons, 
as well."
"Yes, but—" Amberion slipped again, and the dislodged rock rattled down the 
trail several lengths before stopping.
"I'll scout ahead," said Thelon, pushing his way forward. "This may not be the 
best way down—"
"By the map it's the only way down."
"You're right. Take someone with you." He glanced at Paks, and she thought 
herself she should go—but her legs felt soft as custard. Amberion's gaze slid 
past her to one of the men-at-arms. "Seliam—you're hill-bred, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir." The man slipped by Paks and together he and Thelon disappeared down 
the trail, quickly out of sight. Meanwhile everyone dismounted, and moved the 
sure-footed mules to the front of the line.
""Iliough I'm not sure that's best," said Connaught. "This way the horses can 
fall on the mules. Of course, they're as like to fall completely off the trail 
as down it."
In die end it took the rest of that day to get everyone down to die bottom. They 
had only the one trail; Ardhiel and Thelon might have been able to take another 
way, but no one else. They took everything that could be carried down by hand, 
climbing back up for load after load, and then lea the mules down one at a time. 
The horses were last and worse; Paks was ready to curse their huge feet and 
thick heads by the time she had Socks down beside the stream that flowed swiftly 
and noisily in the canyon.
Here at least they had good water and plenty of wood. That night's camp, on an 
almost level bank some feet above me water, brought no surprises—Amberion and 
Ardhiel bodi thought the iynisin had been left behind. Paks said little. She 
could not understand why she was so tired, when Amberion and the High Marshals 
had done dieir best to heal her. She had found die strength to work with the 
others, but it had taken all her will to do it—nothing was easy, not even 
pulling the saddle off Socks.
The next day dawned clear again, and the two High Marshals began looking for the 
clues in Luap's notes. Paks forced herself to rise when diey did, managed to 
smile in greeting, and almost convinced herself that nothing was wrong. Others 
were groaning good-humoredly about their stiff joints; she had nothing worse 
than that. She brought deadwood for the fires, and thought of washing her hair 
and bathing. Thelon reported a bath-size pool, only a few minutes' walk 
downstream, already sunlit.
But when she stripped and stepped into the pool, the cold water on her scars 
seemed to strike to the bone. She shuddered, seeing the scars darken almost to 
blue against her pale skin; she felt suddenly weak. The current shoved her 
against the downstream rocks; they rasped her nerves as if she had no skin at 
all. She crawled out, gasping and furious. What would the others think, if she 
couldn't take a cleansing dip like anyone else. Her vision blurred, and she 
fought her way into her clothes. Let them think what they liked—she shook her 
head. No one had said anything. Maybe they wouldn't. She felt an obscure threat 
in her anger, in everything. By the time she climbed back to the camp, she could 
hardly breathe; her chest hurt.
But Amberion had gone with the High Marshals, and no one spoke to her. Paks 
crouched by the fire, worried but determined not to call attention to herseE 
They had enough other problems. When the scouting party came back, jubilant, 
having found the mysterious "needle's eye of rock" through which the detailed 
map of the stronghold could be seen, she was much better. She ate with the rest 
of them, and that afternoon they all prepared for the next day's journey. That 
night Paks slept better, and woke convinced that nothing but fatigue was wrong. 
She was even able to saddle Socks without great effort. They started on their 
way soon after daybreak.
Very shortly they came to a side canyon, emptying into the main one at almost 
right angles. They turned up this, clambering over and around great boulders 
until the horses could go no further. Here there was a glade, and a deep pool of 
water. Connaught left Sir Malek in command of half the men-at-arms, the other 
two knights, and the other yeomen, and told them to keep the animals out of the 
main canyon.
"The scrolls mention a dragon—and I've never seen country that looks more like 
it should have a dragon in it. But in this narrow cleft, you should be safe. 
Gird's grace on you. If we are successful, we can open a closer entrance from 
inside. Wait for us at least ten days before giving up."
The rest of them made their way around the pool, and began climbing the rock on 
the far side. It seemed to Paks like a great stair, each step perhaps ankle high 
and an arm deep, but with the treads tilted downward. She looked up and gasped, 
forgetting her pain and exhaustion.
There, far overhead, a great red stone arch hung in the air, spanning the 
distance from one massive stone buttress to another. Behind her, she heard 
Balkon mutter in dwarvish. Everyone stopped for a moment in amazement. Connaught 
called back to the yeomen below, and Paks saw them come around the pool and look 
up.
"I see it," shouted one. "By the High Lord, that's a wonder indeed."
They kept climbing. The stone slope, roughly shaped into tilted stairs, curved 
below and under the arch. Connaught led them toward the nearer, southern end of 
it. As they neared the vertical buttress walls, it was clear that someone had 
shaped the natural stone, flattening the increasing tilt of the treads. They 
reached the vertical cliff, and moved along it. Now the stairs were hewn clean, 
like any stone stair—except for the crescent of Gird chipped into the rise of 
every other one, alternating with an ornate L. The stairs steepened. Paks fought 
for breath; her chest burned and her eyes seemed darkened. She nearly bumped 
into Amberion, in front of her, when he stopped.
"Now well see if we have understood the message," said Connaught. "This should 
be a door—if I can open it—"
Paks could not see, from her position many steps down, what he did. But suddenly 
those in front of her moved, and she climbed wearily to a last small platform 
before an opening in the rock.
Inside she saw with a pang of dismay that the steps continued—even steeper, they 
spiralled up into darkness. Light flared above her; it must be Amberion lighting 
the way. Paks bit her lip and started up. When she reached a level again, her 
legs were quivering. The stairs had come out in daylight, on top of the clifls. 
Amberion touched her shoulder.
"Are you all right, Paks?"
"I'm tired," she admitted, hating that weakness. "I shouldn't be, but—"
"It's all right," he said. "Let me try to help." Paks did not miss the looks the 
men-at-arms shot her, as Amberion's hand touched her head, but the warmth of 
that touch and the strength she felt dimmed her embarrassment for the time.
They had come out on the clifftops; from below, Paks would have thought that the 
top of the mountain, but now she could see another lower row of cliffs and a 
rounded summit, heavily forested. A trail led south, along the edge of the 
clifis; Thelon reported that it ended at a small outpost, a simple rock shelter 
carved into the stone. Another led west,.toward the forested heights, but the 
main trail led north—out onto the rock bridge that they had seen from below. 
Paks felt her stomach heave at the thought. Others, she saw, had faces as pale 
as hers felt.
"Are we goin' out on that?" asked one of the men-at-arms.
"We must," said Connaught. "It is the only way to Luap's stronghold."
"And where is the stronghold?" asked the man, looking around that wilderness of 
great rocks in confusion.
"There." Connaught pointed to the opposite buttress. "Inside that mountain."
"I give them praise," said Balkon suddenly. Paks looked back to see his eyes 
gleaming. "That is a worthy stone; such a place would suit our tribe."
Despite her fears, when they walked out on the stone arch it was not bad. Wind 
was the worst problem, whipping past their ears from the southern desert and 
moaning in the great pines below. But once on the bridge they could not see 
below; it was too wide for that. It seemed, in feet, wide enough to drive a team 
on. They were almost at die for side when they were faced with a huge man in 
shining mail, who held a mace across his body. They stopped short.
'Declare yourselves," said a strong voice. "In whose name do you invade this 
place."
"In die name of Gird and the High Lord," answered Connaught. The figure bowed, 
and stepped aside. As Connaught's foot touched the stone beyond the arch, it 
vanished as suddenly as it had come. Paks felt a cold shiver all the way down 
her back.
On the far side, the trail was clear, a nearly level groove in the stone leading 
east along the buttress to its eastern end. From here they could see far to the 
north, to distant red rock walls, and that irregular gray mountain that Balkon 
insisted was fire-born. Eastward a still higher plateau broke suddenly into the 
maze of canyons they had wandered. On the very point of the buttress, another 
guardpost carved into the rock gave a clear view.
The way into Luap's stronghold was a circle carved in the rock, with Gird's 
crescent and Luap's L intertwined in its center. When High Marshal Connaught 
stood there, and called on Gird, the stone seemed to melt into mist, revealing a 
stone stair. They clambered down, with sunlight pouring in the well. Paks could 
not tell how far the steps went down. They seemed to spiral slowly, after the 
first straight flight, around an open core where the light fell. Finally they 
ended in a square hall with four arched entrances leading from it. Over each was 
a symbol, lit by its own fire: Gird's crescent, the High Lord's circle, a 
hammer, and a harp. Through each a passage could be seen, but nothing else. In 
the center of the hall a circular well opened to the depths.
They stood a moment, bemused by the designs, then without a word moved slowly 
toward one or another of the arches. Paks saw Balkon strut through the one under 
the hammer, and Ardhiel stepped under the harp. She and most of the others 
stepped under Gird's crescent.
They entered a Hall, as large as the High Lord's Hall at Fin Panir, its great 
stone columns carved on the living rock. Gentle light lay over it without a 
source that Paks could see. The floor was bare polished stone, the same red as 
the rest, except for a wide aisle where some polished white and black slabs had 
been set in, forming a pattern that Paks found compelling but confusing. Far up 
at die other end, rows of kneeling figures, robed in blue, faced a shallow 
platform. Paks looked around at the others, and met Balkon's surprised gaze. 
Beyond him was Ardhiel.
"I did not come with you," murmured Balkon. "I went under the Hammer, and 
saw—and saw great wonders of stone, and yet am here. This has the Maker of 
worlds shaped well."
Paks nodded, speechless. She had not thought she would like being so far 
underground, with the whole mountain's weight above her, but she could feel no 
fear. The Hall seemed to cherish them, protect them—Paks could not even feel die 
ache along her bones that was becoming familiar.
The two High Marshals walked slowly up the aisle; die rest of the party 
followed. As they0neared the rows of kneeling figures, Paks was suddenly seized 
by fear: would they turn and attack? But they did not move. She could not see 
even the gentle movement of breath, and then feared they were dead. Ahead, High 
Marshal Connaught turned to look into the faces of the rearmost row. He said 
nothing, and passed on. The silence pressed on them; it reminded Paks of the 
silence of the elfane taig, but itliad a different flavor, at once more familiar 
and more majestic.
When she reached the platform with the others, and turned to look, she saw rows 
of faces—perhaps a hundred in all—that seemed to be in peaceful sleep. Each held 
a weapon—most of them swords—point down, with hands resting on the hilts. Paks 
shivered. She saw the men-at-arms eyeing the figures, and then one another.
"Gird's grace, and the High Lord's power, rest on düs place of peace," said 
Connaught softly. The words sank into the silence. And then as if a drop of dye 
bad fallen into clear water, die silence took on another flavor, and shifted, 
pulling away from them to drape itself around the sleepers, protecting their 
rest, while leaving die company free to talk. It was as if a king's attention 
had passed to someone else, setting the pages free to whisper along the walls of 
die chamber,
"Well," said High Marshal Fallis, with a little shake of his shoulders. "I never 
expected to find this sort of thing."
"Mmm. No." Connaught had stepped onto the platform. "Look at this, Fallis." The 
platform was itself stone, apparently all one great slab of white stone, and 
into the upper surface a brilliant mosaic was set, unlike anything Paks had 
seen. "I wonder where he found someone to do this—" He turned to Paks. "You were 
at Sibilj, weren't you? Didn't they have work like this?"
Paks shook her head. "Sir Marshal, I don't remember—I had a knock on the head 
and don't remember anything. But—let me think—someone in our Company mentioned 
pictures made of chips of stone."
"Yes. I thought so. Along die coast of Aarenis they do düs work; I've heard that 
it was used a lot in old Aare."
"It could have come from Kaelifet," said Amberion. "I've seen bronze and copper 
ware from there ornamented widi bits of colored stone; perhaps diey do stone 
mosaics as well."
"It might be." Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the 
other, looking at die design. It spread from a many-pointed star in shades of 
blue and green to an intricate interlacement of curves and angles in reds and 
golds. "I would like to know what it is."
"It is a place of power," said Ardhiel suddenly. They all looked at him.
"I feel power in all this," said Amberion. "But what do you mean?"
ArcUel nodded toward the pattern. "That is a pattern of power. This place is 
made of many such. That—" he pointed to the black and white of die aisle, "is 
another of them."
"What do they do?" asked Fallis.
Ardhiel smiled, a quick flash of delight. "Ah—you men! You hear that I am saying 
more than ewes are wont to say, and you hope to learn great secrets. So—listen 
closely, and I will say what I can in Common. And in elven, for those who can 
hear." He threw Paks a smile at that. "This place is sustained by patterns of 
power, else those sleepers would have died long since, and the dust of time 
half-filled this chamber. How was it we each saw and followed the symbol of our 
lord—Master Balkon, I daresay, saw and followed the dwarfs secret symbols, and 
was met and welcomed as a dwarf, just as I saw and followed the Singer's sign, 
and was met and welcomed as an elf. Is it not so?"
"It happened," said Balkon.
"Yes. Then together we found ourselves in this Hall. A pattern of great power. I 
think more than men had the shaping of it."
"But—" began Fallis, and the elf waved his hand for silence.
"I will be as brief as the matter allows, Sir Marshal. In haste is great danger; 
the right use of power requires full knowledge. This pattern, on the platform, 
is much like one placed in every eliane taig, in the center of every elvenhome 
kingdom. I do not know if I can explain how—and I know to you that means much. 
We elves—we think that as the Singer sang, and we are both songs and singers 
ourselves, we both are and make the Singer's patterns. So our powers grow from 
the patterns of our song. We do not enjoy putting these aside—outside us." Paks 
could tell he was having a hard time saying what he meant in Common; for once an 
elf'sspeech seemed halting and out of rhythm.
"You mean, as men do in machines?" asked Amberion.
Ardhiel nodded. "Exactly. We have—we are—the power—as you paladins are: and I 
know what you will say, that it is the High Lord's, and he but lends it. That is 
also so of us, though we are given more—more—" he faltered, waving his hand. "We 
can choose more for ourselves, how to use it," he said finally. "But on occasion 
we have used built things—patterns of stone or wood, or growing things, to make 
patterns of power that any elf can use, even if he lacks a certain gift."
"At the eliane taig—" Paks spoke without intention, and Ardhiel looked at her 
sharply. "The stone's carving—if I looked at it—it held me—"
"Yes. Instead of having some always on guard, elves have used such to bemuse and 
slow an enemy. This pattern, though, is used for other things." He seemed 
reluctant to go on, but finally sighed and continued. "I might as well teu you, 
since it is clear that men used it before. With such a pattern, it is possible 
for a small group to travel a great distance all at once."
"What!"
Ardhiel nodded again. "Look here—and here—you will see that each of the high 
gods and patrons is included by symbol. This pattern draws on all their power, 
and can be used by a worshipper of any of these: elf, dwarf, gnome, those who 
follow the High Lord, Alyanya, or Gird, Falk, Camwyn, and so on."
"But how do you know where you'll go?" asked Fallis.
**I am not sure. If it were exactly the same as the elven pattern, you would go 
where you willed to go. You would picture that in your mind, and that you would 
see, and that is where you would go. It would be possible, however, to set such 
apattern for a single destination."
"And to set it offr
"An invocation of some kind—I do not know. Perhaps you will find guidance 
somewhere else in this place." Ardhiel was reverting to the more usual enigmatic 
erven reticence.
"In that case, I think we can wait. Perhaps we will find some guidance 
elsewhere." Fallis gestured to a narrow archway leading out of the Hall behind 
the platform. "Perhaps we should take a look?"
The group followed the High Marshals across the platform—Paks noticed that they 
skirted the pattern gingerly—and through the arch into another stone passage, 
well-lit by the same sourceless light. At intervals they passed arched doorways 
into rooms hollowed from die stone; most were empty. But one chamber, when they 
came to it, was very different. A desk and two tables were littered with scraps 
of parchment and scrolls. Shelves along the walls held neatly racked 
scroll-cases as well as sewn books; a brilliantly colored carpet on the floor 
showed the wear of feet, but no touch of moth. A hooded blue robe hung from a 
hook. And a pair of worn slippers, the fleece lining worn into little lumps, lay 
under a carved wooden chair, just where the wearer must have slipped them off to 
put on boots. Connaught touched them with a respectful finger.
"These—must be his. Luap's or his successor's—Gird's grace, I can hardly believe 
it—"
"He might have stepped out only moments ago," said Fallis softly. "There's no 
dust—no disarray—" He glanced at the loose sheets on the worktable. "Look, 
Connaught. Supply lists—names—and here's a watch-schedule of some kind: south 
outpost, east outpost, north—"
"I wonder what happened," murmured Amberion. "I feel no evil here at all, only 
great peace and good, but—some sleep, and others are gone—'
Connaught sighed. "Amberion, we wouldn't know if Falk himself slept out there 
with the others. Who knows what he looked like? The legends say he was thinner 
than Gird—and none of us ever saw Gird. I don't suppose," he said, turning to 
Ardhiel, "that you happen to be of an age to know what Falk looked like—"
Ardhiel shook his head. "Sir Marshal, I am sorry that this is not a mystery I 
can solve for you. Only I agree with Sir Amberion, that this is not a place of 
evil. Whatever happened here, happened for good."
'So—now what?' asked Fallis. "I feel strange, rooting around in these things 
that seem untouched. U it were a ruin, and everything half destroyed—but here, I 
feel like a—a—robber, almost."
"We asked Gird's grace, and the High Lord's power, Fallis. They know our need, 
and the needs of this place. We will be warned, I daresay, if we trespass where 
they do not wish us to go."
Fallis nodded. Connaught turned to the others. "Amberion, if you don't mind, you 
might lead a group looking for a lower entrance. They must have had a way to get 
animals in and out, and heavy loads."
"With all the magic this place holds," said Amberion drily, "perhaps they simply 
wished them inside." Connaught chuckled, then sobered abruptly. "By Gird, 
Amberion, I hope you're wrong."
Before Amberion got out of hearing, however, Fallis had found a map of the 
complex, in the wide desk drawer. They called Amberion back.
"Look—this is the main Hall—"
"And this is Luap's office, as we thought. So that corridor, if we'd gone on, 
would lead to the kitchens—"
"I wonder what they do for firedraught, so for down," said Fallis. "Master 
Balkon, do dwarves have any trouble with that?"
"Firebreath? No, it is important to make a hole for it, that is all."
"Look at these red lines, Amberion—could that be shafts?"
"It could be anything until we go and look. Let me—ah. Look here. Is there 
another sheet?"
"Yes. Two more; I put them on the table there."
"Good. Let me see—yes, look at this. I thought so. This keys to the other sheet, 
and this must be the ground level—if this mapmaker followed Finthan tradition, 
then this sign means a spring."
"But we saw springs coming out of the rock very high," said Connaught.
"Yes, but look—isn't that a trail sign? And it's twisting here, as in natural 
land, not straight or gently curved like these corridors."
Paks, looking over their shoulders, could make little of the brown, red, and 
black lines on the maps. She had found the Hall easily enough, and Luap's study, 
but the maze of corridors, and the strange marks that Amberion insisted meant 
ramps or stairs, confused her.
"I only hope," Fallis was saying, "that your trail isn't like that rockclimb we 
had."
Amberion laughed. "No—I'm sure it's not. Well go down that way and see. How many 
would you like left with you?"
"Who has a good writing hand?" asked Connaught. "We should make copies of what 
we find." Paks and one of the men-at-arms, who was known to write clearly, 
stayed with the High Marshals.
Paks heard later that day how Amberion had led the little group through echoing 
passages of stone, ever deeper, down gentle ramps. They had found a stone 
stable, clean but for a few ancient bits of straw, and the deep-grooved ruts of 
the carts that had carried in fodder and carried out dung. They had found great 
kitchens, three of them, and Balkon had told them why—that whatever way the wind 
blew, one of the hearths would draw perfectly. They had found storerooms still 
full of casks and bales—but across the doors lay a line of silvery light that 
Amberion would not try to pass. And finally, when the last wide corridor ended 
in a blank face of stone, Amberion had touched it with one glowing finger, and 
the stone vanished in a colored mist. The cold, pine-scented air of the canyon 
blew in, swirling a little dust around their feet. Some of the men were 
reluctant to go out, fearing the passage would close again, but it stayed open 
like a great grange door behind them.
Paks spent that time copying what seemed to her a very dull list of names. She 
supposed that the High Marshals had some reason to need a complete list of 
Luap's followers, with the years of their coming, but she could not understand 
it. Behind her she could hear them at the shelves, gently taking down one scroll 
or book after another, and murmuring to each other. She used up the small amount 
of ink that Fallis had had, and asked him for his inkstick. He reached over to 
Luap's desk, where a bowl of ink sat waiting, as it seemed, and handed it to 
her.
"Use this?" Paks asked.
"Why not?" He hardly looked at her, face deep in a large volume bound in 
cedarwood.
"But it's—it might be—"
"It's just ink, Paksenarrion. What else could it be?" Paks felt her shoulders 
tighten at the sneer she thought she heard in his voice, and ducked her head. 
How did he know it was just ink. Ink doesn't stay wet for years—all the years 
this place had been—whatever it had been. She stabbed at the ink with the pen, 
and felt vindicated when it clicked on the surface.
"It won't write," she said. "It's dried up."
"Oh?" Fallis put the book down, picked up die bowl, and tilted it. "That's odd. 
It looked wet, and I'd have sworn it shifted. Hmm. Well, here's the inkstick 
and—yes—here's a bowl for it."
Silently, Paks mixed a measure of ink with water from her flask. She pushed it 
over so that Elam could use it too.
Amberion reappeared to say that he had found the lower entrance, and had started 
moving the animals and others toward it.
"It's nearly dark, though, so I thought it better to camp for the night—that 
trail is barely passable in daylight. Will you come out, or shall I have food 
sent in?"
"We'll come out," said Connaught. "Everyone needs to hear all about this, and we 
should be together."
"I thought you might want to set sentries on the old guardposts."
Connaught shook his head. "Until we know more about how this place works, that 
would simply call attention to us. Paks—Elam—that will do for today. Let's go 
have some supper."
And Paks, rising from her seat, realized how stiff and hungry she was. She 
followed the others out without a word.
In the next two days, some of the party explored as much of the old fortress as 
the light would allow. One rash yeoman tried to pass a doorway barred with 
silver light, and fell without a cry. Amberion touched his head, and did nothing 
more.
"Hell wake with a headache, and more respect for these things. Someone stay with 
him, until he wakes."
Paks spent her time copying records. She wished she could roam around, seeing 
the things others spoke of in the evenings; it didn't seem fair that she had to 
act as scribe all the time. But no one had asked her what she wanted to do, and 
she refused to bring it up. Surely they could tell, if they thought about it, 
she thought bitterly. Finally, when one of the yeomen was describing a long 
climb up a narrow corridor to an outlook on the very top of the mountain, among 
the trees, Paks exploded.
"—and you could see so far," the man said, gesturing. "North of here, and 
west—what a view. Of course it was cold up there, and after climbing all that 
way my legs quivered like jelly." He grinned at Paks. "You're lucky, lady, that 
you get to sit all day in the warm, just wiggling your fingers with a pen."
"Lucky!" Heads turned at the bite in her voice. "Lucky to sit all day? I'd give 
anything to be where I could see something besides another stinking scroll! How 
would you like to travel all the way out here and then be stuck in a windowless 
room? I've already been underground as much as I care to—" She stopped short, 
seeing the worry in Amberion's face, the. High Marshal's stern expressions.
"You could have asked, Paks," said Fallis mildly. "We thought it would be easier 
for you, with your wounds still healing, than climbing all over."
"I'm sorry," she muttered. Now that she'd said it, she felt ashamed, and still 
somehow resentful. She shouldn't have protested—she shouldn't have felt that 
way. Yet she did, and it was unfair.
"Take some time tomorrow," Amberion said. "Ill show you some things if you 
wish." But Paks felt that he was humoring her, as if she were still sick.
When she tried to follow Amberion around the stronghold the next day, she found 
that in one thing the High Marshals were right. She was too weak to climb far. 
She pushed herself, determined not to show what she felt, but when Amberion 
turned back toward the lower levels, near midday, she was glad. That afternoon 
she copied lists without complaint, and that evening the High Marshals announced 
their decision to try to use the pattern on the Hall's platform.
"We won't take everyone; enough must stay here to go back, as planned. The maps 
show another way out of this canyon, down through the western cliffs, and a 
clear trail to the trade route from Kaelifet. We suggest that, instead of the 
trail that would take you past the kuaknom again. But if the .transfer works, we 
will return and the rest of you can travel easily that way. Wait ten days for us 
to rr-him before you leave; Ardhiel assures me that if we can *••••'? the 
pattern at all, we can return in that time."
Paks was elated to find that the^ wanted her to try the pattern with them. High 
Marshal Connaught, commander of the expedition, was staying behind; those 
returning were Amberion, High Marshal Fallis, Ardhiel, Balkon, and herself. With 
Connaught watching, they mounted the platform, standing as near the center as 
they could. Paks watched Balkon; he had confided to her that if he was to travel 
like this, he might as well go home if he could. Then the High Marshals together 
lifted their voices, calling on Gird and the High Lord. Ardhiel's silvery elven 
song joined them, then Balkon's chant in dwarvish. Paks thought she heard a 
faint and distant call of trumpets.
Chapter Twenty-eight
As the Hall of Luap's Stronghold faded around them, the sound of trumpets seemed 
to come nearer. Abruptly they were standing on the lower dais df the High 
Lord'sHall at Fin Panir, facing the Marshal-General as she came forward between 
the ranks of knights: the fanfare had just ended. The Marshal-General stopped in 
midstride, her face a stiff mask. Behind her, the knights drew sword; others 
burst into shouts, questions, even one scream, chopped off short. The 
Marshal-General's arm came up, paused… the hubbub stilled, no one moved. Then 
Amberion spoke, a formal greeting that Paks hardly noticed because she'd 
realized that Balkon was not with them, and grinned to herself. She had no doubt 
that he had chosen to return to the Goldenaxe, and hoped his magic worked.
In moments, the Marshal-General had reached the dais, touching each of them, 
eyes bright. And again the Hall was full of sound: greetings, whispers, 
comments, the scrape of feet, the rasp of weapons returned to scabbard and rack. 
To Paks, it seemed noisy as a windstorm after the calm of Luap's Stronghold. She 
felt at once submerged in it and remote, a solitary stone washed by contending 
waves. Eventually the noise receded, the crowds dispersed, and she went to her 
quarters, hardly noticing the shy greetings and questions of those few students 
who spoke to her.
A few hours later, the Marshal-General summoned her. When she arrived in the 
study, she found the Marshal-General and Amberion waiting.
"I have been telling the Marshal-General," began Amberion, "about your capture 
and ordeal with the iynisin—the kuaknom—" he said quickly, after a glance at the 
Marshal-General.
Paks nodded, at once alarmed and defensive.
"I wondered what your plans were, Paksenarrion," said the Marshal-General. "From 
what Amberion says, and the way you look, it seems that you may need a rest. 
Such wounds would slow anyone. Have you thought of it?"
"No, Marshal-General. I did not know if—I mean, I am tired, yes, but I don't 
know about rest. Do you mean you want me to leave?"
"No, not that. Amberion thinks you are not fit for a full schedule of training; 
he thought several weeks of rest would help. There are many things you could do 
here, without much strain, or—"
"I know what I would like," said Paks suddenly, interrupting. "I could go 
home—visit my family in Three Firs. It's been four years and more." As she 
spoke, the longing to go home intensified, as if she had wanted this for long.
Amberion frowned. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said slowly.
"Why not?" Paks turned to him, annoyed. "It's not that for, by the maps. I'm 
surely strong enough to ride that far—and there's no war—and—"
"Paksenarrion, no. It's too dangerous, as things are with you."
Paks felt a wave of rage swamp her mind. She was not weak, just tired from the 
fighting and the trip. They kept trying to make her believe something was 
wrong—"There's nothing wrong with me!" she snapped. "By Gird, just because I'm 
tired—and you said anyone might be—you think I can't ride a few days to see my 
family. I traveled safely alone on foot, with no training at all, four years 
ago—why do you think I can't do it now? You keep trying to convince me 
something's wrong—and whatever it is, it's not wrong with me!" She glared at 
them, breathing hard.
"It's not?" The Marshal-General's voice was quiet, but hard as stone. "Nothing 
wrong, when a paladin candidate feels and shows such anger to the 
Marshal-General of Gird? Nothing wrong, when you have not thought what what such 
a visit could do to your family?"
"My family—what about them?" Paks was still angry. She could not seem to fight 
it back.
"Paksenarrion, you have attracted the notice of great evil—of Achrya herself. Do 
you think you can travel in the world—anywhere in the world—without evil 
knowing? Do you think your family will be safe, if you show Achrya where they 
live, and that you still care for them? Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, be on your 
mind, that you think clearly."
Paks sat back, stunned. She had not thought. She shook her head. "I—all I 
thought was—"
"All you thought was what you wanted to do."
"Yes—"
"And you resented any balk—any balk at aU—"
"Yes." Paks stared at the tabletop; it blurred as her eyes filled. "I—I thought 
it was over!"t
"What?"
"The—the anger—Amberion can tell you. I thought it was past—that I had—had 
beaten it—' Paks heard the rustle of clothing as the Marshal-General moved in 
her seat. She heard Amberion clear his throat before beginning.
"Immediately after we got her out, she had a—I don't quite know how to describe 
it. Fallis and I thought we should let her memories return naturally—at least 
until Ardhiel awoke. But Balkon—the dwarf, you recall—he disagreed, and began 
telling her some of it. Anyway, I stepped in and interrupted, and Paksenarrion 
became angry. Very angry. I thought at the time it was the pain of her wounds, 
and attempted a healing—"
"It did help," said Paks softly, trying not to cry. "It eased them—and then I 
could see I was wrong—"
"But whatever it was recurred. A couple of times, in the next days—nothing bad, 
if it had been someone else, someone more irritable to start with. But it just 
was not like Paksenarrion—not the Paksenarrion we knew. We spoke to her of it, 
and made allowances for the wounds—which Ardhiel said had been healed so far by 
some kuaknom magic—and she seemed to have recovered, but for the weakness and 
exhaustion I spoke of to you."
"I see." The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for a 
blow. "Paksenarrion, what do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just the 
wounds? It's not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from 
illness or wounds."
"I—don't know. I don't feel different—except for being tired. But if Amberion 
says I am, then—" She shook her head. "I don't know. In the Duke's Company, I 
didn't get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I did get angry. 
I can't tell that it's any more now than it was then."
'Our fear," said Amberion, "was that the type of fighting she did, with the 
iynisin—the kuaknom—would open a channel for Achrya's evil—"
"I would hate to think so," said the Marshal-General. "I would hate that indeed. 
Paksenarrion?"
"I don't feel that, my lady. Truly, I don't—and I care for Gird, and for his 
cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong—to be angry at you, I mean, but 
I can control it another time."
"Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?"
"No." He smiled at Paks. "She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people, 
or telling lies—it's just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same."
"Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three Firs—" 
Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked it with a 
nod and smile. "Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look you over. 
It may be that rest and good food will brine you back quickly. Don't start drill 
again until I've talked with you. We may want you to help instruct a beginner's 
class."
Paks left the Marshal-General's office with mixed feelings. The thought of 
instructing was exciting—she could easily imagine herself with younger students, 
as she had worked with recruits in the Duke's Company—but the prescribed days of 
rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was restless, and could 
not relax.
"I'm about to do a dangerous thing," said the Marshal-General, pulling out a 
blank message scroll.
"WhatrAmberion watched her closely.
"I'm going to write Duke Phelan of Tsaia." Arianya trimmed her pen, dipped it, 
and began.
"Phelan? Why?"
"I think you're right. I think this child is in serious trouble. And I think we 
don't know her well enough. Phelan commanded her for three years; he will know 
which way she's turned."
"Then you sensed evil too?"
"Yes. Not much, as you said. But deep, and so rooted that it will grow, day by 
day, and consume her. By the cudgel of Gird, Amberion, this is a sad thing to 
see. She had so much promise!"
"Has still."
"Maybe. Right now—we must keep her from leaving, and from hurting anyone else. 
If she leaves us—" She shook her head. "The only thing standing between Achrya 
and her soul is the Fellowship of Gird. Ward her, Amberion."
"I do, and I shall."
It was some days later that Pak came into the forecourt to find familiar colors 
there: three horses with saddlecloths of the familiar maroon and white, with a 
tiny foxhead on the corners, and a pennant held by someone she had never seen 
before. She lingered, wondering if the Duke himself had come to Fin Panir, and 
what for, but she had urgent business with the Training Master, and had to go. 
Upstairs, in the Marshal-General's office, she herself was the topic of 
conversation—if such it could be called.
Duke Phelan faced the Marshal-General across her polished desk, his eyes as cold 
as winter seawater. "And you want me to help you? You, who could not protect, 
for even a year, a warrior of such promise?"
Arianya sighed. "We erred, my lord Duke."
Tir's guts, you did, lady! Not for the first time, either! I thought I'd never 
be so wroth with you again, as when my lady died from your foolishness, but 
this—I" He turned away, and paced back and forth by the window, his cloak 
rustling, then came to lean on the desk again. "Lady, that child had such 
promise as I've rarely seen in thirty years of fighting. Your own paladin saw 
that in Aarenis. You could not ask better will, better courage, than hers. Oh, 
she made mistakes, aye—beginner's mistakes, and rarely twice. But generous in 
all ways, willing—we hated to lose her, but I thought she'd be better off in 
some noble service. She had a gentle heart, for a fighter. I was glad to hear 
that she'd come here for training. She'll make a knight, and well-deserved, I 
thought. And then—!" He glared at her.
"My lord, we thought—" began Amberion.
"You thought!" The Duke leaped into speech. "You never thought at all. Make her 
a paladin, you thought, and then you dragged her into such peril as even you, 
sir paladin, would fear, and without your powers to help her. You think me gray, 
Girdsmen, compared to your white company, but I know better than to put 
untrained raw recruits into hot battle. Tis a wonder you have any paladins at 
all, if you throw them away so.*
"We don't, Duke Phelan," said Marshal Fallis. "They do not go out untrained. But 
in her case—"
"She did. Do you even know how young she is? What years you have wasted?"
"Duke—" began Fallis angrily.
"Be still!" roared the Duke. "I'll have my say; you asked me here for help and 
you'll hear me out. I have no love for you these fourteen years, Girdsmen, 
though I honor Gird himself. Protector of the innocent and helpless, you say—but 
where were you and where was he when my lady met her death alone and for from 
aid?" He turned away for a moment, then back. "But no matter. If I can help this 
girl, I will. She has deserved better of us all." He looked around for a chair, 
and sat. "Now. You say she was captured, and is now alive but in some trouble. 
What is it?
"My lord Duke, a paladin candidate can be assaulted in spirit by evil powers; 
that's why we normally keep them sequestered. We think that in defending herself 
during captivity she became vulnerable to Achrya's direct influence. Tlüs is the 
thought of Amberion and FaUis, who observed her at the time they brought her 
out, and also of Ardhiel the elf, who knows how kuaknom enchantments might 
work."
"I see. Then you think she is now an agent of Achrya?"
"No. Not yet." Arianya met his eyes squarely. "My lord, all we have noticed so 
far is irritability—unusual for her, for we have known her to be always 
goodnatured, willing, and patient. It would hardly be noticed in another 
warrior—indeed, many expect all fighters to be touchy of temper."
The Duke grinned suddenly. "I am myself."
"I noticed. But she has not been so since we've known her. You have known her 
longer; we thought you could tell us if she has changed."
"You want me to tell you if she has become evil?"
"No. She has not become evil, not largely. That I could certainly sense for 
myself. I want you, if you will, to speak to her—observe her—and tell us if she 
is changing in the wrong way. Becoming more violent, less controlled—that is a 
sign of contamination."
"And if she is? What then will you do?"
The Marshal-General paused long. "I am not sure. She is a member of our 
Fellowship, and a paladin candidate—as such, she is under my command. As she is, 
she cannot be a paladin—"
"You're sure."
"Yes. I'm sorry, but so it is. What is of no account in another may be a serious 
flaw in a paladin. If she had gone over to Achrya, it would be my duty to kill 
her—"
"No!" The Duke jumped to his feet.
"Please. Sit down. She has not—I am not saying she has—I am saying if that were 
true, which is not true. Yet. But if she is changing in the way—if the evil is 
growing—then, my lord Duke, we cannot tolerate an agent of evil among us. We 
cannot. Somehow, before that happens, we must prevent it."
"What can you do? Can you heal her, as you heal wounds?"
"Unfortunately not. Her wounds, indeed, have not yielded to our healing. The 
elf, as I said, says that this is because of some kuaknom magic used on diem. As 
for her mind … I think that we might be able to destroy the focus of evil—if, 
indeed, I am not misnaming it—but like any surgery it would leave scars of its 
own.
"You speak of magic?"
"If you consider the gods' powers and magic in the same light, my lord, which I 
do not. The High Lord has given us—Marshals and paladins both—certain powers. 
With them! might try to enter her mind and cleanse it."
The Duke shifted in his seat. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all, 
Marshal-General, and that's without any rancor for the past. It's bad enough 
that she had to bear such captivity, and such wounds as you describe. That she 
had to have that 61th trying to corrupt her mind. But then to let someone else 
in, to stir the mess further—"
"Believe me, I don't like the idea either. But what else is there? If we are 
right, and the evil is rooted there, and we do nothing, she will come to be such 
as even you, my lord, would admit must be destroyed. Could anything—even death 
now—be worse than that dishonor?"
"No, but—I dislike being the means of it. She is—she was, I should say—my 
soldier, under my command and protection. She has a right to expect more from 
me—"
"Now?" asked Fallis.
"Yes, now. By the gods, Marshal, I don't forget my soldiers when they leave. She 
served me well; I will not serve her ill."
"My lord, one reason I wrote you was that she had so often spoken of her respect 
for you. We are not looking for an accuser, my lord, but a friend who knew her 
in the past—"
"And do you think I will condemn her to you, having known her?"
"I trust you for that. You have always been, by all repute, an honest man—and so 
she thinks of you."
'I will not persuade her to your opinions—'
"We don't ask that. Go, talk to her, see for yourself. If you come and tell me 
I'm a fool, I will be best pleased by that. I don't think you will—but do your 
best for her."
The Duke ran his hand through his hair. "I'll tell you what, Marshal-General, 
you have set me a problem indeed. But you have one yourself. All right. I'll see 
her. But I think perhaps I'll have a new captain for my Company out of it, and 
you'll be a paladin the less."
"That may be so."
Pales came from the Training Master's office in the black mood that had begun to 
seem familiar. She was not to ride out with the others to hunt the following 
day, and she was not to plan on taking part in the fall competitions. She 
lengthened her stride, hardly noticing when several students flattened 
themselves oyt of her way. At least, she was thinking, I can take Socks out to 
the practice field. She turned hard right into the stable courtyard, and nearly 
bumped into a tall man in a maroon cloak. Before he turned, she knew who it was.
"My ford Duke!" She fell back a step, suddenly happier.
"Well, Paks, you've come far in the world." He looked much the same, but he 
spoke now as if she were more his equal.
"Well, my lord, I—"
"They tell me that's your horse, the black."
"Yes, my lord—"
"Will you ride with me? I'd like to see how the training grounds are laid out."
"Certainly, my lord." Paks turned toward the tack room, but a groom was already 
leading Socks out, ready to ride. The horse had recovered his flesh, and showed 
no ill effects of the expedition. The Duke's own mount waited, and after they 
mounted, he rode beside her.
"We were glad to hear," he began, "that you'd been accepted here. I had two 
years with the Knights of Falk, and I understand that the training here is as 
good if not better."
"It's thorough, my lord," said Paks. He laughed.
"Fortification? Supply? Field surgery?"
"Yes, my lord, and more."
"Good. And you enjoyed it?"
"Oh yes. Last winter was the happiest time of my life—" she stopped suddenly and 
looked at him. "I mean, my lord, after leaving the Company."
"Don't be silly, Paks—you weren't happy with us, that last year. Few were. Of 
course you'd like this better. Now—what's that?" For some minutes they rode in 
the training grounds, the Duke commenting and questioning on the equipment and 
methods of training that they observed, llien he turned to her again. "Did they 
teach you such riding here?"
"No, my lord. That was Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge, where I got my horse."
"Brewersbridge—that's in southeast Tsaia, isn't it?"
"Yes, my lord." Paks wondered if he would ask her about the details of her 
journey across the Dwarfmounts, but he said nothing for a bit. Then—"What's this 
journey you've been on, that they talk of so? And they said you were captured by 
some land of elf—is that so?"
Paks shivered, unwilling as always to remember that too clearly. "Yes, my lord. 
We had gone to the far west—a land called Kolobia—to find the stronghold of 
Luap, who was a friend of Gird himself. It goes back, sir, to when I left your 
Company: in the journey over the mountains, a traveling companion and I were 
enchanted by the elfane taig, and had to fight a demon-possessed elf 
underground."
"By Tirl And you lived?"
"Yes, my lord. And the elfane taig rewarded me with great riches, and gave me 
also a scroll. It seems that the scroll was written by Luap—it's very old—and 
contains much about Gird and his times that was not known, for die scroll had 
been lost. It was in this scroll that the stronghold of Luap was mentioned, and 
a map besides. So the Council of Marshals, and the Marshal-General, de- clared a 
quest that search should be made for this stronghold, and the rumors of lost 
powers."
"But why did you go? You were but a student here, isn't that so?"
"Yes—but they asked if I wanted to. Because I'd brought the scrolls, you see: it 
was a reward, an honor."
"I see."
"They didn't know, my lord, that I would have such trouble."
"No, but they might have thought." He shook his head. "Well, enough of that. How 
did you come to be captured?"
Paks told the tale as best she might, and the Duke looked grave, but listened 
without comment. When she finished with Ardhiel's treatment, he sighed.
"Are you well, then?"
"I think so. They—" Paks looked aside, but no one was near. "My lord, they seem 
to think not, but I don't know why. I have lost my temper once or twice—even 
spoke sharply to the Marshal-General—"
"That's nothing," said the Duke quickly. "I've done as much."
Paks grinned, thinking of it. Then she sobered. J'My lord, I don't want to be 
Dad; you know I never did." He nodded. "I don't think I am, yet they don't trust 
me any more. Just today the Training Master told me not to ride out hunting 
tomorrow—and not to join in the autumn competitions, either. Is that fair? I 
haven't done anything—I've oeen careful—I do all they ask me—I don't know what 
more I can do!" Her voice had risen; she took a deep breath and tried to 
continue more calmly. "They—they say that evil begins as a little thing—too 
little for me to sense. That it will grow, and consume me, until I become one of 
Achrya's minions. But sir, you know me—you've known me all along. Am I so bad?"
Phelan looked at her, a piercing gaze that she found hard to meet. Then he shook 
his head slowly. "Paks, I see you much as you were: a good soldier, loyal and 
courageous. You bear scars that I would not care to have, and you have suffered 
under both enchantments and blows. I do not see evil." Paks relaxed, but he went 
on. "But Paks,
I am no Marshal or paladin, to discern evil directly. The gods know I have no 
great love for the granges of Gird, but they are not evil. I think perhaps you 
should submit yourself to their judgment."
"My lord!"
"And if it is not fair, or if you do not agree, leave them. I will not forsake 
you; as you were my soldier, so you can be again. As I recall, you held the 
right to return when you left."
Paks said nothing, and after a while they rode back silently. She suspected that 
the Duke had come to Fin Panir because of her—and this was confirmed when she 
answered a summons late that afternoon to the Marshal-General's quarters. She 
was shown to a study she had not been in before, a level higher, with windows on 
three sides. Amberion, Fallis, Ardhiel, and Duke Phelan, as well as the 
Marshal-General, were all in the room. The Marshal-General began by explaining 
what they thought was wrong, and what she thought could be done about it, a sort 
of surgery of the mind.
Paks nodded gravely, trying to pay attention through a numb haze that fogged her 
mind. Arianya paused, for that nod, then went on.
"So much we think we can do. But that is not the whole story; I want to be feir 
with you. We are sure that if you live the evil will be destroyed, but some good 
may be destroyed as well."
"What—what sort of good?" asked Paks, her mouth drying with fear.
Amoerion looked away, at a tapestry on the outer wall. Arianya glanced down, 
then met Paks's eyes squarely. "Paksenarrion, the flaw, being made of an excess 
of your best qualities, is bound tightly in them. You may not be a fighter 
afterwards—"
"Not a fighter!" Paks felt the blood leave her face.
"No. I will not lie to you. You may be weak, clumsy, uncertain. You may lose 
your will to fight… your courage."
"No!" Paks clenched her fists, anguish twisting her face. "I cannot! You cannot 
want me to be so!"
"Lady Paksenarrion," said Ardhiel, "what we want is that you be healed and 
whole, and free of any taint of evil. But our powers are limited, and it is 
better to be free of the dark one's web than be a prince under her control."
"But—" Paks shook her head. "But you ask that I give up the only gifts I 
have—chance them—and if I survive a weakling or a coward, what good is that? To 
you or anyone? My lady," she said to Arianya, "the granges would not let me in, 
if I were a coward. I would be better dead, indeed. You say I am not so bad, 
yet. If I cannot be a paladin, I can still fight your enemies. Then if—if I go 
wrong, then do your treatment, or kill me."
Arianya started to speak, but Duke Phelan interrupted. "Paks, when you were in 
my Company, you learned that wounds must be treated at once, lest corruption 
begin. And if the surgeon cuts away good muscle, it's better than leaving the 
least infection to spread and engulf the whole body.'
"Yes, my lord, but—"
"Faksenarrion, the Duke speaks truly. If we thought the evil would not spread, 
or would spread but slowly, we would not try such a drastic cure. But it is the 
nature of such to spread with awesome speed. You yourself, being damaged already 
by this poison, cannot perceive how far it has gone already."
"But my lady—to lose all—and think how long I might live—what could I do? So 
long in disgrace—"
"It will not be disgrace, Paksenarrion, however it turns out. You have already 
won honors beyond your years. Nor will any grange of Gird be closed to you: that 
I promise. And if you have these troubles—and you might not—we will help you 
find another way to live."
Paks thrust back her chair and rose abruptly, striding to the window to stand 
braced against the embrasure, looking out at evening sunlight yellow on the 
cobbled court and the roof of the High Lord's Hall across the way.
"I always dreamed of being a warrior," she said softly. "Silly, childish dreams 
at first, of being the hero in old songs, with a silver sword. Then Jornoth 
came, and I was going to be a mercenary, a good one, and earn my living with my 
sword, and see strange lands, and win honor serving my lord. So I joined Duke 
Phelan's Company, and prospered as well, I think, as any recruit. Youve heard 
they thought well of me." She glanced at the Duke, who nodded gravely, then 
turned back to the outside view.
"I stayed three seasons, but—no fault of my lord Duke, who's as fine a leader as 
I ever hope to fight under—I saw things I didn't want to be part of. So I left, 
thinking I'd go north and home, and join some castle guard. You know what 
happened with the elfane taig, and near Brewersbridge. Marshal Cedfer… Master 
Oakhallow… they showed me fighting, but for cause, not for a person. My dreams 
grew—more than being a guard captain instead of a sergeant, I dreamed of 
fighting as Gird fought—for right, for the protection of the helpless. And you 
encouraged me: you, Marshal-General, and you, Marshal Fallis, and you, Sir 
Amberion. You said learn: learn languages, art of weaponry, supply and surgery, 
fortification—you said all these things were right." Paks's voice broke, and her 
shoulders shook. The listeners were silent, each with his own memories, his own 
visions. Paks took a deep breath, then another, and turned to face them, tears 
filling her eyes.
"And then you honored me, sheepfarmer's daughter, poor commoner and mercenary, 
beyond all dreams I'd dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a 
paladin. A paladin! Do you—can you—have any idea what a paladin means to a child 
on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder, all 
stars and dreams. A—a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins! And you 
said 'Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.' " She stopped for breath 
again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.
"I coula not argue, my lady. I felt you must know; you wouldn't say it if it 
weren't true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then—to go on quest, with Amberion 
and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And all of you 
were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion, the nomads' 
attack? You said I did well, then."
"Paks—" he said, but she went on heedlessly.
"And then we met the iynisin, and—then I was taken.
No, my lords!" She said as both Amberion and Ardhiel started to speak. "I blame 
you not, I said so before. The evil ones wanted me; it was my weakness or flaw 
that drew them to me. How could I blame you, who followed into the rocky heart 
of their lair to free me, outnumbered as you were? No. And while I was thus, in 
their hands, I tried to pray to Gird and the High Lord for aid, but I had to 
fight against their servants Test they kill me. I was alone—in the dark—I 
thought that to fight so—Gird would approve. I thought that was right."
She looked down, suddenly, and shuddered. "It wasn't—wasn't easy." Then she 
faced them again. "Now you say that because I fought them, because I didn't just 
die, I have opened a passage for great evil. I can't feel this myself; I don't 
know… But to chance all I can do, to chance losing all I've learned, all I 
am—that you helped make me—and to think how long I must live if it goes badly… 
Could such a one as I be a—a potter, or a weaver? Oh, better to kill me, my 
lady, and quickly."
Silence followed her words; Paks turned again and stared blindly out the window. 
Then Arianya took breath to speak, but Ardhiel forestalled her. "Lady 
Paksenarrion, elf-friend, may I tell you a true tale?"
Paks gazed at him, white-faced and desperate. "Yes, Ardhiel; I will listen. '*
"We elves, milady, know not death from age, and thus our memories are long, and 
we see slow processes in the world as easily as you might see the start and 
finish of a meal. Once, long ago, before ever this Hall was built or even 
started, I walked the green forests with an elf known for the beauty of his 
voice and the delight of his songs. From him I learned that very air I taught 
you, milady, when we first met. It was his craft to shape his instruments of 
living wood—a delicate business, to urge the growth of linden or walnut or 
mahogany so that it grew fidy shaped for harp or lute or lo-pipe. And to shape 
it so that in time the complete instrument could be separated from the tree 
without harm to it or to the creature it grew from. Long years of growth and 
shaping were required for a single instrument, but long years we elves have, and 
delight in.
"In that time, he was growing a harp: not a lap-harp, as might be grown from any 
angle of applewood or pear, but a great harp, on which he hoped to play before 
die throne of our king. If you think of the shape of a great harp, you will 
realize how difficult this would be, for if the harp frame were strong enough to 
withstand the tension of die strings, removing it would cause severe damage to 
its tree. I cannot tell you how it was done—it is not my craft—but he caused a 
part of the tree, the part between the instrument and the main plant, to 
withdraw, as it were. This process must be complete when the instrument was 
grown, else it became gross and unmusical, and required shaping with tools, 
which he abhorred. But if it was begun too soon, the withdrawal weakened either 
instrument or tree, and could allow woodrot and other decay to attack both.
"It happened that he had just begun shaping his harp-tree when our king 
determined to wed. Not immediately, for that is not our way; but the courtship 
and preparation began, and in twenty years or so, the wedding day was announced 
to all elf-kind. It would be another forty years, for the beauty of elf-maidens 
does not fade or wither, and the king's subjects would have time to prepare all 
good gifts for the festival.
"When he heard the news, my friend determined diat his wedding gift would be the 
great harp he was then shaping, a kingly gift indeed. He brought me to see it 
growing, though little I could see, and he had to point out which twig would 
grow to make the fret, and which root-sprout would form the shorter leg. The 
frame, you see, was to be grown all in one piece: trunk, branch, root, and 
sprout top-grafted to the branch. In twenty years, I happened by again, and the 
shape was far clearer. But my friend was concerned. By his craft, he knew that 
as it grew, it would grow too slowly—it would not be ready for die king's 
wedding. I laughed, I recall, and reminded him that elves have no need of hurry. 
For such a royal gift, die long would be well content to wait. He laughed with 
me, and seemed reassured.
"But though elves are not by nature hasty folk, we are proud of our crafts, and 
love ceremony. And ceremony means things done fitly, and in time, and by that 
love and desire that This gift might be the means of great pleasure at the 
wedding feast, my friend was betrayed into haste.
"I know not when he did it, or exactly what he did; he had ways of speeding and 
slowing the growth of all plants he worked with. Indeed, I've seen him grow a 
lo-pipe in but one season. If it cracked in ten years, what matter, if it served 
the need to gift a dying man? But somehow he tried to speed the growing of his 
harp, and the withdrawal of the parent tree, and out of this haste a flaw came 
into the wood. A part of the withdrawal moved into the harpwood, and weakened 
it, and the great post that would have to bear the greater strain of the 
stringing grew awry.
"I well remember the day he showed me, sorrowing, what had gone wrong. Fifty 
years and more of work, and a little space where the rot crept in had ruined it. 
To heal that, and reshape the post, would not only take time—years of time—but 
would also require that the weak part be burned out, regrafted with live wood, 
and supported while new growth took over. And, he. said,'twas more than likely 
that it would never grow true in shape, but be clumsy and crooked even if strong 
enough. Yet to ignore the woodrot would doom the harp and tie tree that bore it. 
I asked him what he would do. He looked at the tree a while, and said, It is not 
the fault of the wood, which grew true to its nature. I will amend what I can, 
and tune it as it will bear.'
"Lady Paksenarrion, it is not through your failure that this trouble has come, 
but we who should have been wiser tried to rush your growth into that beauty we 
saw possible. Yet now we cannot leave you to perish by our mistake; we must try 
to mend, though mending is not sure."
Paks had watched his face as he told the tale, but found it as mysterious as all 
elven faces; it held surmise but no answers. "Sir—you have always been kind to 
me," she faltered. "But—but need it be now? Could I not go to the green fields, 
just once, to be a—a memory?"
"Lady, I have known you—I, an elf, who will not die except in battle. You are in 
my memory and the memory of my people, and there you will not fade in all the 
years to come when men may forget. We will make songs of you, lady, whatever 
happens."
"Thats not what I meant," said Paks miserably.
"Paksenarrion, we cannot force you to this," said Arianya. "It would be better 
to do it quickly, but we cannot—and would not—force you. But you cannot wander 
alone, with this peril on you. Nor, I think, should you be much abroad with 
others. Whatever you decide, and whatever happens, it need not become common 
gossip."
Paks looked from one to another of those in the room, meeting troubled eyes 
everywhere, doubt and wariness where once she had seen delight and 
encouragement. Cold despair assailed her heart, more bitter than she'd felt in 
captivity. Then she had only enemies against her; these were friends. At last 
she looked at Duke Phelan, leaning against the wall in one corner, arms folded. 
He gazed back at her, holding her with the intensity of his grey eyes. After a 
moment, he came to her, still holding her glance at rest.
"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," he said. "I will trust you. I will trust you with 
my Company, the one thing I have built in my whole life, if you desire it. You 
may come with me, in spite of them, and take command as a captain, and I will 
trust you, who never foiled my trust before, to decide if you can do so in good 
honor. By my faith, Paksenarrion, you are a good soldier and a good person, and 
worthy of the trust you have had, and the trust I offer you. You will not foil 
in this. You have never foiled me, and here's my hand on it." And Paks felt her 
hand swallowed in the Duke's as her face flushed scarlet in relief and joy.
"Tir'sgut, you fools!" the Duke went on to the stunned group. "You'd think you 
were dealing with a weak, witless chit of a girl who couldn't do the right thing 
without being led in strings. Whatever she decides, whatever she is when you 
wise folk get through with her, she's got courage enough now, and wit enough 
now, for the lot of you. If you didn't think she could be trusted, you shouldn't 
have been trusting her." He turned to Paks. "Don't cry, captain. My captains 
don't cry before outsiders."
Paks, her hand still clasped in the Duke's, struggled against a wild mixture of 
emotions. Joy in the Duke's trust—that someone still trusted—came to her as a 
flash of light that let her see what lay within. Her arguments of minutes before 
showed false as tinsel, though she had believed herself true as she spoke. In a 
few moments she had mastered that turmoil, and the sudden change of her 
expression brought silence and attention to the chamber. 'My lord Duke," she 
said. "You have given me more than you offered, for by the light of your trust I 
can see what honor requires. I may never come to serve you again, my lord, as I 
should to thank you for this gift, but you will lie in my memory, however short 
it may be."
"Paks—"
"No, my lord. You know what it must be; I would not forfeit your trust. Sir—I 
would ask your blessing—" Even as she spoke, a prickle of anger stung her; she 
fought it away.
The Duke wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment. "My 
child—may all good be with you, wherever, however, whenever—may all evil begone 
from you forever. And if ever you come to me, Paksenarrion, in whatever state 
you are, I will help you as I can."
'"fliank you, my lord."
"And," he added with a growl, "I will stay until I see how you fere with these—"
"Thank you, my lord. Marshal-General—?"
"You are ready, then?" Arianya's eyes were wet, but she rose steadily, and 
waited the answer.
Paks stepped away from the Duke. She was trembling, but kept her voice firm. 
"Yes, my lady. It must be done, and, as you say, will be no better done for 
waiting."
Chapter Twenty-nine
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 if bit chains, chainmail, herd bells. 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, 
uien 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, "weve 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 iacfe, 
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 1 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 die 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 any 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 farrowed. "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 man 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 famished 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 made 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 lone 
enough- Of course the evil had to be rooted out; if something was lost, shell 
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." Pals 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 mink 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, Pafcs!" 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."
"AH 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 BeHan, whom Paks had known 
before the journey to Kolobia, put in his head. "Now or later?" Jie asked.
"Come on in, Belfan." Hie Marshal-General got up. "Paksenarrion is awake, but 
weak."
"So Haran said. Gird's grace to you, Paksenarrion, my lord Duke. Old Artagfa 
says first snow by morning, Marshal-General."
"Winter starts earlier every year," grumbled the Marshal-General; BeHan 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." Hie 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." BeUan 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 sh& 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 die ground. She clutched Belfen'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 nis 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 calloused, 
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. Well 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 well—"
"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 gol"
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 sheepfarm; 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. Ill 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 Dack.
Chapter Thirty
With that walk down to the market in Fin Panir, where she was to meet the 
shepherd who would hire her, a pattern was set that continued all that hard 
winter.
"Eh, you took your time," grumbled Selim Habensson, when she found him talking 
with several other sheepmen._ "Hated to leave the Lord's Hall, I suppose. Let's 
see—" He looked her over as if she were a ewe up for sale. "The Marshal-General 
says you're fit, and you've handled sheep—is that so?"
"Yes, sir. My father raised sheep."
"Good enough. Get in there and find me th' three-tit ewe w'the scarred hock and 
a double down-nick offside ear." As Paks paused to look over the pen of sheep, 
trying to see a likely earmark, he barked, "Get on, there—get in—I want to see 
you in with 'em."
Paks swung over the low railing, among the crowded sheep. She had not feared 
sheep since she had been able to see over their backs, but the shoving of woolly 
backs and sides made her feel strange. She saw one offside earmark, but it was a 
single notch. Most of this pen was nearside marked. There—on the far side—was a 
double down-nick, offside. She pushed her way slowly through the sheep, careful 
not to startle or disturb them. A quick look told her this was a normal ewe, not 
hock-scarred; she looked again for the right earmark, and found it in a corner. 
A ewe, a three-tit, and scarred on the near hock. She looked up to see the 
shepherd just outside the rail.
"Very welt—you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven't worked 'em lately, 
I'll warrant."
"No, sir."
"I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive." He spat on the 
cobbles outside the pen. "I hope to Gird you don't mind getting dirty."
"No, sir."
"All right. When market's over—another glass, say—-we'll be moving this pen and 
those two—" he pointed "—out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start for the 
south. Follow us out—make sure none of 'em stray in the city—and you'll be 
watching tonight."
Although bothered by the noise and bustle of the market, Paks had no trouble 
with the sheep on the way out—to her own and the shepherd's surprise. The sheep 
settled well in their temporary grazing ground, and Paks took up her assigned 
post on the far side while the other shepherds made camp and cooked supper. She 
had not thought to bring anything for lunch, planning to buy it in the market, 
so by evening she was hungry. When the first group had eaten, Selim called in 
the others to eat. Paks was given a bowl of porridge and a hunk of bread. She 
ate quickly, hardly noticing the others until she finished. Then she looked up 
to find them watching her.
"You eat like you thought there was more coming," commented Selim. She had, 
indeed, assumed there was more. He turned to the others. "Been living in a city 
for a while, she has. Fine clothes. Eating well. Listen, now: we're 
sheepfarmers, not rich merchants or fancy warriors. We work hard for what we 
get; you'll get your fair share, but not a drop more. Understand?"
"Yes, sir." Paks nodded, and cleaned her bowl. She was remembering that when she 
first joined the Duke's Company, the food had seemed rich and plenty—she had 
forgotten, in the years since, how her family had lived, and how she had longed 
for bakers' treats on market days.
"Good. You'll take first watch. Jenits, you relieve her at change. We'll start 
out at dawn."
In the next few days Paks became acquainted with hunger again. She felt cold and 
hunger as a force that dragged on her legs, making her labor to keep up with the 
flock. When a sheep broke free, and ran, she struggled to chase it, fighting a 
stitch in her side and leaden legs that would not hurry, Selim scolded her about 
it.
"By Gird's cudgel, this is the last time I'll hire on the Marshal-General's 
word! I've a half-grown lass that could do betterl" Paks forebore to say that 
she herself, as a half-grown girl, had done better. She saw clearly that excuses 
would only make things worse. She ducked her head and promised to work harder. 
And she tried. But Selim and die others never came to trust her, always saw her 
as an outsider who had been forced on them by the Marshal-General. In addition, 
the wounds she'd received from the iynisin began to swell and redden again. They 
had never faded much, but now they looked and felt much as they had when she 
first came out in Kolobia. The shepherds looked at the marks they could see and 
muttered.
So it was that when the flocks were safe in the winter pastures of southern 
Fintha, Selim turned her away, and refused to hire her through the winter.
"I'm not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she'd know 
the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they all 
think you're cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your fece 
turning dark like that; it's not natural. We've plenty of young ones in the 
village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here's your pay—" 
It was not much; Paks did not count it. "And I'll wish you well."
It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as 
always, hungry. "Is there an inn, here, where—"
"No, not here." His voice was sharp. "We're not some rich town. On that way—" he 
pointed to a side lane. "You could make Shaleford by tonight if you get a foot 
on it, or back the way we came." Paks looked from one to the other, irresolute. 
"You won't make it shorter by thinking on it," he said, and turned back into his 
own house, shutting the door.
Paks put the coins he'd given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way 
they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day's 
travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.
The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led 
up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on 
its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare 
countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she looked 
into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun fell behind 
heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a town, and 
wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on, and she saw 
sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept on. At least it 
was downhill.
She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light ahead. 
Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed her 
footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled, listening to 
die wind's howl, and wondering how far the light was.
Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be called 
an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at one end of 
the common loft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale, heavily, and 
eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second helping of soup 
and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-General's coins for 
a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she had anything worth 
stealing.
The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand over 
the winter. By the time she'd asked for work every place she could think of, it 
was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay another 
night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had a 
grange—she'd seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if they 
would let her stay there.
The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He'd been to Highfallow 
barton for their drill, and wouldn't be back until the next day. Yes, there'd 
been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal's business, and 
he couldn't say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General 
herself—Paks pulled out tüe safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over the 
seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.
"A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?"
"It's to any Marshal—about me." Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His 
glance flicked to her visible scars.
"You're a yeoman?"
"Yes—well—not precisely—"
"Well, then, what?"
"I was at Fin Panir—"
"The training company?"
"Yes'"
"And they sent you on a mission?"
Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand 
what she really was. "I don't think I can explain it to you," she said finally. 
"I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he's not here—"
"Even if I went, he couldn't get back before tomorrow."
"No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?"
"In the grange?" The yeoman-marshal's frown deepened. "Well-—I suppose. Come 
along." He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow 
back passage. "You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the 
exchange."
Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets 
whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number 
of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of 
someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.
"I can't." Her voice was thin.
"What!"
"I can't. I—it's in this—" she waved the Marshal-General's letter.
"Hmph." His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. ' I see you've been 
wounded recently—is that it?"
Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.
"I'd think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows—but—" He 
shook his head. "You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right, then. 
I'll just go put more meal in the pot."
Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the sort 
of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was away. She 
could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked around for the 
jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.
Her spare shirt smelled of sheep and smoke, but was, she thought, somewhat 
cleaner. The yeoman-marshal gave her a pail of water and soap for the dirty 
clothes, and she came to supper feeling more respectable then before. She had 
oiled her boots and belt, and the sheathe of her dagger. The yeoman marshal was 
obviously making an effort to be friendly.
"So tell me—what's new in Fin Panir? Is the quest back from the for west yet? 
Did they really try to find Luap's lost Stronghold, as we heard?"
"Yes, And found it, too." Paks told a little of the quest, hoping to stave off 
questions. Luckily, the yeoman-marshal was tired, and when she had told what she 
thought would interest him, he was yawning.
The next day, when the Marshal returned, he nodded when he heard her name. 
"Yes—Paksenarrion. I've heard of you; the Marshal-General mentioned that you 
might come this way in her last letter. Where are you bound next?"
"I—I'm not sure, sir."
"You could take a letter to Highgate, if you would. And I know there's traffic 
there—you might find work on the roads."
"I'd be glad to." Paks found herself almost eager to go. This Marshal, at least, 
had no scorn for her.
"If you stay a day, you'll be here for drill—oh, I know you can't bear arms, not 
at this time, but surely you can tell the yeomen about Kolobia, can't you? They 
like to hear a good tale, and finding Luap's Stronghold would interest any of 
them."
Paks didn't want to face a crowd of strange yeomen, but she felt she couldn't 
refuse. She nodded slowly. The rest of that day passed easily: she was warm and 
well-fed for the first time in days, and she dozed most of the afternoon. The 
Marshal offered a mug of herb tea which he said might ease the ache of her 
wounds, and it helped. But the next night, feeing the assembled yeomen, was 
difficult. She had told them about the trip west, the fight with the nomads, the 
brigand attacks in die canyons they crossed, but the closer she came to 
describing the iynisin attack, the worse it got. The Marshal had said she ought 
not to mention her own capture—not that she wanted to—but she could hardly talk 
of any of it. Finally she raced through it, skimping most of the action, and 
went on to Luap's Stronghold. When she finished, they stamped their feet 
appreciatively. Then one of them, a big man she'd seen in the inn, spoke up.
"If you re one of that kind, what are you doing here?"
"Any Girdsman is welcome in our grange,* said the Marshal sharply.
"Aye, I know that. But I saw her come in two days ago, cold as dead fish and 
smelling of sheep. Hadn't eaten in days, the way she started on her food over 
there—" he jerked his head toward the inn. "You know's well as I do, Marshal, 
that knights and paladins and such don't travel like that. The way she talks she 
wasn't walking the wagons out to Kolobia—she talks like she fought alongside 
that Amberion and that elf. So I just wonder why she's—" His voice trailed away, 
but his look was eloquent. Paks saw others glance at him and nod.
"Yeomen of Gird," said the Marshal with emphasis. "It is not my tale to tell. I 
can tell you that the Marshal-General has commended her to every grange—every 
grange, do you hear?—and to all the Fellowship of Gird. I daresay she travels 
where she does, and as she does, by the will of the High Lord and Gird his 
servant. I will not ask more—and you would be wise to heed me."
"Well," said the big man, undeflated, "if you ask me, she looks more like a 
runaway apprentice than a warrior of Gird. No offense meant—" he said with a 
glance at Paks.
"If so be I'm wrong, then—well—you know how to take satisfaction." With that he 
flexed his massive arms, and grinned.
"You're wrong indeed, Arbad," said the Marshal. "And I'll take the satisfaction 
for your discourtesy to a guest of the grange, on next drill night, or hear your 
apology now."
Evidently the Marshal's right arm was well respected, for Arbad rose and 
muttered an apology to Paks. The meeting broke up shortly after that. A lew had 
come to speak to Paks, but most huddled together in the corners, looking at her 
and speaking quietly to each other. The Marshal stayed near her, stern and 
quiet.
At Highgate Paks delivered the Marshal's letter to the Highgate Marshal, and 
shared a hot meal at the grange. He introduced her to a trader, in town on his 
way south and east, and Paks hired on as common labor. The rest of that day she 
unloaded and loaded wagons, and harnessed the stolid draft-oxen. With the other 
laborers, she slept under one of the wagons, and the next day they started on 
the road.
Kens Sabensson, the trader, rode a round-bellied horse at the head of the 
wagons; he had a drover for each wagon, five guards, and two common laborers. 
Paks was expected to do most of the camp-work, load and unload the wagons at 
each stop, and help care for the animals. She found the work within her 
strength, but was terrified of the guards, who tried to joke with her.
"Come on, Paks," said one of them one night when she jumped back from a playful 
thrust of his sword. "With those scars you've got, you've been closer than this 
to a sword. You know I'm not serious. Here—let's see what you can do." He tossed 
the sword to her. Paks threw out her hand, and knocked it away; it fell to the 
ground. "Hey! Stupid, don't do that! You'll nick it!" He glared at her.
"You can't tell me you haven't fought—what happened, lose your nerve?" Another 
one had her by the arm.
"Let her alone, Cam—suppose you ended up—"
"Like her? Never. I'll be a captain someday, with my own troop. Who'd you fight 
with, Paks—tell us."
"Phelan," she muttered. She could not break free, and was afraid to try.
"What? I don't believe it." Cam dropped her arm. "You were in the Red Duke's 
Company? When?"
"A—a couple of years ago." They were all watching now, eyes bright in the 
firelight. She swallowed, looking for a way out of their circle.
"What happened? Get thrown out?" Cam's grin faded as he watched her.
"No, I—" She looked into the fire.
"Tir's gut, Paks, you make a short tale long by breathing on it. What happened?"
"I left." She said that much, and her throat closed.
"You left." The senior, a lean dark man who claimed to have fought with the 
Tsaian royal guard, confronted her. He looked her up and down. "Hmm. You don't 
get scars like that from not fighting, and you're too old to have been thrown 
out as a recruit, and not old enough to be a veteran. But you're scared, aren't 
you?"
Paks nodded, unable to speak.
"Is that why you left Phelan?" She shook her head. "When did you—no, those scars 
are too new. Something happened—by the look of it, within the past few weeks. 
She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but felt it through her skin. No one 
spoke; she could hear the flames sputtering against a sleety wind, and the hiss 
of sleet on the wagons.
"All right," he said finally. She opened her eyes; he had turned, and faced the 
others. "I think she's told the truth; no one lies about serving with Phelan and 
lives long to tell it. She's got the marks of a warrior; something's broken her. 
I wouldn't want to carry that collection myself. Let her alone."
"But, Jori—"
"Let her alone, Cam. She has enough to live with. Don't add to it." With that he 
led them away to one side of the fire. Paks went on with her work but spent most 
of that night awake. She began to realize that she could not pass as a laborer; 
her scars would always betray her past. People she met would expect 
things—things she no longer had—and each meeting would be like this.
Two days later, a band of brigands struck the wagons. They were deep in a belt 
of forest, where the guards could not see far, and they had dragged Keris 
Sabensson from His horse and cut the traces of the first team before the guards 
got into action. The drovers reacted quickly, defending their teams and wagons 
with the long staves they carried; the other laborer ran forward and caught 
Sabensson's horse. Paks froze where she was, terrified. She could not move, 
could not help or run. And when the fight was over, and the trader, head 
bandaged, was settled in the first wagon, he fired her.
"I'm not having any damned fools here," he said angrily. "Stupid, cowardly—by 
all the gods I'd rather have a drunken swineherd to depend on. Get outl Take 
your pay—not that you've earned it!" He threw a few coins out of the wagon; one 
hit Paks in the face. "Go on—move!" He poked the drover, who prodded the oxen 
into motion. Paks stepped back, ignoring the coins at her feet. On the second 
wagon Cam smirked at her, but she hardly noticed. She stared blankly ahead as 
one wagon after another passed her, and the oxen blew clouds of steam.
At the last, Jori, now riding the trader's horse, stopped. "Paks, here." He 
handed her a small leather bag. "It isn't much—^what we—I mean—" He touched her 
head. "I know what kind of soldiers Phelan has. You be careful, hear?"
She stood a long time in the track, holding die bag, until she finally thought 
to tuck it into her belt and start walking.
At the next town, they had heard of her from the trader, still angry. She 
trudged past the grange without looking at it, and went on, going the way that 
the trader had not gone. She had not dared enter an inn, but had bought bread 
from a baker. At the town beyond that, after a night spent in a ruined barn, she 
found work in a large inn.
"Not inside," said the innkeeper after a look at her face. "No. You won't do 
inside. But if you're not afraid of work, I can use someone in the yard. Haul 
dung, feed, clean stalls—you can do that?" Paks nodded. 'Sleep in the shed—in 
the barn if it's not full. You get board and a copper crown a week." Paks 
thought dully that she must be back in Tsaia—Finthan coins were crescents and 
bits, not crowns. "Can you work with big horses?" She shook her head, 
remembering the disaster in Fin Panir when she had been unable to groom Socks, 
let alone ride him. Somehow her fear transmitted itself to horses, and made them 
skittish. "Too bad; it's a chance for tips. Well, then, stay out of the way. The 
grooms'll be glad to have the dirty work taken off them."
So they were. Paks hauled dung from the bams twice a day, pitched straw, bedded 
stalls, carried feed. Work began before daylight, and continued as late as the 
last person came to the inn. The shed she slept in was by the kitchen door, and 
half-full of firewood; it backed on the great fireplace, and she thought she 
could feel a little warmth in the stones, but that was all. She had no place to 
wash, and no reason to—the innkeeper was clearly surprised when she asked. She 
did not mention it again. As for board, the innkeeper was more generous than 
many: bread, soup, and porridge, and a chance at the scraps. Not that much was 
left after the kitchen help, indoor help, and the rest of the stable help took 
their share. She hid her own pack behind the firewood, and half-forgot it was 
there or what was in it.
She noticed that her scars from Kolobia had begun to fade again, as mysteriously 
as they darkened. This time, however, the pain did not fade with the color. It 
continued as a bitter bone-deep ache that sapped her strength. She did not think 
about it; she didn't think of anything much, but whether she could lift another 
shovel-full. Winter's grip strengthened; even within the courtyard there were 
days when the wind blew snow into a white mass that made it hard to breathe. She 
wore all her clothes, and still woke stiff in the mornings. Trade slowed, in the 
bitter cold, and the innkeeper told her she could sleep in the barn, now 
half-empty. It was warmer there, burrowing in straw, with animals heating the 
air.
She hoped to stay there all winter, but one night two drunken thieves drove her 
away. It began when they arrived and handed their mule's lead-rope to one of the 
grooms. The tall one caught sight of Paks and nudged the other. She saw this, 
and ducked behind a partition, but heard their comments. Late that night, they 
came out to the bam, "to look at our mule," as they said. The grooms were gone; 
one to the kitchen, where he had a lover, and one to a tavern down the street. 
Pafcs had gone to sleep in a far stall, carefully away from the mule. They found 
her.
"Well, well—here's a pretty lass. Hello, yellow-hair—like a little present?" She 
woke to find them standing over her. The tall one whirled something shiny on a 
ribbon; the other one carried a branched candlestick with two candles. She 
looked around wildly. She was trapped in a corner stall; they stood in the door, 
chuckling. She scrambled up, backing away from them.
"By Simyits, I think she's scared. Surely you aren't a virgin, sweetling—why so 
Brightened?" The shorter man came nearer. "Kevis, are you sure of her? It's easy 
to tell she works in the stables."
"Oh, I think so. It's the ugly ones and poor ones that appreciate presents. See 
this, sweetheart? It's a nice shiny ring. All for you, if you just—"
Paks jumped for the gap that had opened between them, trying to scream. As in a 
dream, little sound came out; the tall man grunted as she bumped into him, and 
grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth. "Now that's not nice, pretty 
lass—behave yourself." She struggled wildly, but the other man had set the 
candlestick on the stall partition grabbed her as well. "Quiet down, girl; 
you're not going anywh—Damn you, you stinking—" Paks had managed to get a finger 
between her teeth, but his other hand gripped her throat. She choked; the 
shorter man twisted her arms behind her.
"What, Cal?"
"She bit me, the stupid slut." Paks heard this through the roaring of her ears 
as he kept the pressure on her throat. "If we didn't need her, I'd-—"
"Let up, Cal. I've got her." The tall man gave a final squeeze, and loosed her 
throat. Paks gasped for air; it seemed to scrape her throat as it went in. She 
could not stand upright with the pressure on her arms. The shorter man increased 
it, and forced her to her knees. The tall man bent near her; she could smell the 
ale on his breath.
"Listen to me, sweetheart—you're going to help us, and you're going to give us a 
good time. If you do it right, you'll get a little reward out of it—maybe this 
ring. If you act stupid, like you just did, you'll die hurting. Now—do you 
understand?"
Paks could not speak for terror and pain. She was shaking all over, and tears 
sprang from her eyes.
"I asked you a question.' A knife had appeared in the tall man's hand; it 
pricked her throat. Paks heard herself moan, a terrible sound that she did not 
know she could make.
"Simyits save us all," muttered the shorter man, behind her. "It's no wonder 
they have this one in the stable. No wits at all."
"No wits, the better lay."
"Kevis—"
"Well, Cal, you know the saying. It tames wild mares and witches. Why not a 
stable hand?"
"What about time?"
"So how long does it take?"
"You may be right." Paks heard the grin in the voice behind her, and saw the man 
in front rumble with his trousers.
"I’ll go first."
"Greedy—you always go first." The man behind her let go her arms, and Paks fell 
face-down in the straw. She rolled away, trying to escape, but they caught her. 
The tall man backhanded her across the face, knocking her into the back of the 
stall.
"That's for the bite, slut. Now don't cause trouble." He grabbed her shirt, and 
ripped it open. "What a beauty!" His voice was cold. "Where a you get those 
scars—somebody whip you once?"
"More than once," said the other one. "By the dark goddess, I never saw anything 
like that outside of Liart's temples in Aarenis. Kevis—"
"Don't bother me, Cal." The tall man rugged at her belt. "I'm busy."
"Kevis, wait. If this is Liart's bait—"
"Cal, I don't care if it's the crown princess of Tsaia—"
"But Kevis—" The shorter man pulled at his companion's arm. "Listen to me. I 
know what I mean—Liart won't like it if that's one of his."
"Liart can go—" He had broken the belt, and forced his hands between her thighs. 
Paks tried to struggle, but he had her wedged against the wall where she could 
not move.
"Don't say that!" The shorter man used enough force to pull the other's arm 
away. "Kevis, it's serious. Liart is a jealous god; he'll loll—and I know how he 
kills—"
"Don't bother me!" The taller man turned away from Paks and pulled his knife. 
"Hells blast you, Cal, you're as craven as she is. Get back—"
"No! I'm not having any part of this if she's Liart's-^-"
"Then go away. Don't—I don't care—but don't—" He swayed a little on his feet, 
and the shorter man took his chance to pull him away from Paks. She watched 
through a fog of fear as they began to fight. They stumbled into her and away; 
she took stray blows and lacks, feeling each of them as a shattering force that 
left her still less will to move, to escape. Finally they staggered into die 
partition, and knocked over the candlestick. Light flared up from the 
neighboring stall; the man stopped short, staring.
"Hells below! See what you ve done?" The shorter man, breathing heavily, 
glowered at the other.
"Me! It was you, pighead! Come on—run for it!"
"What about her?'
"Leave the stupid slut." Paks heard their feet on the passage floor, heard the 
crackling flames hi the next stall. She could not move, she felt; her body was a 
mass of pain. She heard more yelling, and more, in the distance, but was hardly 
aware when someone grabbed her legs and dragged her out of the burning barn. By 
the time she had realized what had happened, she was already being blamed for 
it.
"I let you sleep there, out of the kindness of my heart, and what do you do? You 
not only whore around in the stalls, but you take candles—candles, open flames, 
Gird blast you!—into the stable and start a fire! If it hadn't been for Arvid 
coming back in, we'd have lost five horses. We did lose all that hay. He should 
have left you there."
"It wasn't—I didn't—" Paks could hardly speak, with her bruised throat, but she 
tried to defend herself. "They—they tried to rape me."
The innkeeper snorted. "I don't believe that! No one would pick you—gods above, 
I have comely girls in the house they'd likelier try. You've been using my 
barn—my barn!—for your tricks. Now get out! Where do you think you're going?"
"My pack—" said Paks faintly.
"I ought to take it for the damage you've done. All right, take the damn 
thing—it's probably full of lice anyway, dirty as you are." He hit her hard as 
she tried to leave, and drove her out of the gates with another blow and a lack. 
She fell heavily into the street, but managed to clamber up as he came toward 
her, and limped away.
It was dark and bitter cold. She followed the street by touching the walls along 
it, stumbling into them, choking down sobs. She felt as if a great vise were 
squeezing her body, twisting it to shapes of pain she had never imagined. When 
she thought of the past—of last winter—it seemed to recede, racing away into a 
distance she could never span. A last little bright image of herself at Fin 
Panir, happy and secure, gleamed for moment in her mind and disappeared. She 
stopped, confused. She had no wall to touch, and all around was a howling dark, 
cold and windy. It was one with the void inside.
Chapter Thirty-one
Marshal-General Arianya
High Lord's Hall
Fin Panir
To att Marshals of Gird, Greetings:
In the matter of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, recently a member of Gird's 
Company here, I request the courtesy and charity of your grange. Paksenarrion 
was a member of Gird's quest to the Stronghold of Luap; without her defense the 
quest would have failed more than once. Through the malice of Achrya, she has 
been left unfit for battle, and has chosen to work her way in the world rather 
than accept grange gift, which she was offered freely. Marshals, this is not 
weakness; she was assailed with such power as even you or I might fall before. 
Give her any aid she needs; report any contact to me in Fin Panir for 
reimbursement; defend her as you can against malice and evil, for she can no 
longer defend herself. On my honor as commander of the Fellowship of Gird, she 
has no taint of evil herself, and Gird's grace is on her.
She is tall, yellow-haired, and gray-eyed, and has many fighter's scars, 
including some that look recent, still inflamed. She carries a safe-conduct from 
me, but I fear she may be too shy to present it. Look for her. She is under our 
protection.
Marshal Kens
Shalefbrd Grange
To Marshal-General Arianya, Greetings:
As you requested, I am writing to report that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter has 
been here. I was away when she came, but yeoman-marshal Edsen took her in 
overnight. She seemed in good health; she seems to me a pleasant young woman, 
very willing to please, though not steady of nerve. She spoke to our yeomen 
about the quest to Kolobia, which they had not heard. I sent her with a message 
to old Leward at Highgate Grange; I know there is much traffic along the way 
there, even in winter, and thought she might find work; No one is hiring here.
I must say that with the little you wrote, it's hard to explain her to the 
yeomen here. Even Edsen wondered about her. Perhaps in more traveled areas, 
they'll be more understanding. If I understood you correctly, she has had her 
mind damaged by a demon—right?
It looks like another hard winter; I'm having trouble getting all the 
grange-gift without cutting the farmers too short. I'm sending the rolls; note 
that Sim Simisson died, and his widow has remarried into Hangman's barton. Their 
farm was split between the three boys, but Jori and Ansuti have moved away, and 
young Sim is farming it all. Gird's grace to you.
Leward of Highgate Grange To Marshal-General Arianya Greetings, Arnel
Did you hear that old Adgan finally died? Kori Jenitson told me a few weeks ago, 
when he rode by this way. I told him to write you, or send word from VeYella,
Kens sent that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter to me. What is the Fellowship coming 
to, after all? I know, I know. You had your reasons. But such things should 
happen to those of us with years enough to know better. She's nought but a young 
sprout, I don't care how many years she fought with Phelan. By the way, someone 
told me he'd been to Fin Panir. Is that true? Is he coming back to the 
Fellowship?
Anyway, I found the girl a place with a trader I know.
She looks strong enough, though much disfigured with those scars. Loading wagons 
should put a little muscle on her—then maybe she won't find swords so 
frightening. Kens, the trader, promised to keep her on all the way to the south 
if she earns her keep. Can't see any reason why she won't. She's certainly 
polite and better-educated than most. If she weren't scarred as she is, I'd be 
tempted to find a husband for her.
Remember me at Midwinter Feast. I will roast a pig in the honor of Luap's 
Stronghold.
Sulinarrion
Marshal of Seameadow Grange
To Marshal-General Arianya, Greetings:
Arne, I have sad news about your stray. Keris, a small trader, came storming in 
to complain of her. Leward of Highgate had placed her with him as a laborer, and 
according to Keris, she ran away, or fainted or something when bandits attacked 
his wagons. I know Keris of old; we see him in grange-court every few years when 
he either complains of short weight or gives it. He's a hasty, hot-tempered man 
who will cling to a mistaken idea until the nomads build walls. Anyway, he says 
he fired her on the spot—somewhere in the woods of Lowfallow, if I can tell by 
his tirade—and left her there. According to him, she was unwounded, and the 
bandits were all dead, so perhaps she has made it somewhere else. I asked to 
talk to his guards, and the senior, a Falkian named Jori, from Marrakai's 
domain, told me that she had simply frozen, neither attacking the bandits nor 
defending herself. He said some of the guards made up a small sum for her, and 
he gave it to her. He felt bad about it, he said, but he couldn't leave the 
wagons. I think it's the best we could hope for.
I've told my yeoman-marshals and my yeomen to keep looking for her, but no one 
has turned up yet (though they did find a tall blonde thief we've seen before; 
she's enjoying our hospitality in a different way, awaiting the Duke's Court). I 
told Keris what I thought of him, but it didn't do much good. He's so used to 
covering fear with bluster that he doesn't want to admit anyone can't.
I'm sorry I have no better news. On the bright side, we have had an unusually 
good year in all the eastern bartons, and the grange-lands themselves, and can 
help those west of us who are short. I've heard that some granges can't make 
their Hall share; you can see from our rolls that we can help out. I hope to 
come in sometime next spring—do you still have that dappled gray? I'll make an 
offer you can't refuse.
Sulinarrion
Marshal of Seameadow Grange
To Leward of Highgate Grange
Greetings.
Leward, why on earth did you place Paksenarrion with Keris? You must know what 
sort of rough clod he is! He came ramping in here complaining of her cowardice, 
and the dishonesty of Girdsmen, until I nearly hit him on the bead to shut him 
up. Didn't you warn him that she couldn't fight? He fired her after a bandit 
group attacked the wagons and she didn't defend them. Of course she didn'tdefend 
them. I know plenty of men—some of them, unfortunately, yeomen—who would run 
like rabbits in an unexpected attack. When I finally got the whole story out of 
one of his guards, it turns out Keris himself simply fell off his horse and 
bellowed the whole time. Now she'sdisappeared, and Gird alone knows what's 
happened to her. Next time you need something handled with delicacy, don't go to 
Keris.
Sim Arisson,
Marshal of Lowfallow Grange
To the Marshal-General of Gird
Greetings:
In accordance with your request for information about the whereabouts and 
welfare of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, I am writing you a full report of recent 
events in this area.
Several weeks ago, I was touring die bartons and was not in Lowfallow for some 
days. When I returned, the innkeeper of the largest inn called me to attend one 
of his grooms, who had been badly burned in a barn fire. The short of it is that 
the innkeeper blamed one of the stablehands for the fire, and claimed she had 
been in league with two thieves, who had robbed the inn on the night of the 
fire. I think this person was Paksenarrion, from the description and name given 
by the innkeeper. Apparently she sought work there a few weeks before the fire, 
giving her name but no reference to the grange. She worked well, according to 
Jessim (the innkeeper), and slept in a shed near the kitchen. A few days before 
the fire he had said she and another stablehand might sleep in the barn, trade 
being slow. When the fire broke out, the groom discovered her in the barn, with 
her clothes as much off as on. He could see a candlestick in the midst of the 
fire. Jessim assumed she'd been whoring, and either set the fire as a 
distraction for the thieves or made it carelessly. Jessim drove her out that 
night, being angry, as he said. No one saw her leave town; it was bitter cold 
and windy, and most were fighting the fire. The next day he reported her 
description (but not her name, which he had forgotten until I questioned him) to 
the Duke's militia, as an accomplice of the thieves.
After I spoke to him, he withdrew the charge, and I have cleared her name with 
the militia, though I have asked them to look for her, and let me know if they 
find her. I asked the grange here, and none of the yeomen knew her, or 
remembered having seen her. I swear to you, Marshal-General, that she did not 
come to my grange for aid; I would have given it gladly. We found no sign of her 
in Lowfellow or in the farmland around. You will understand that it took some 
time to look, for I was afraid she might have been hurt in the fire and unable 
to travel. I had my yeomen look in every ditch and bramble. We were heartened to 
find no body, but we did not find her.
I delayed writing you because I hoped to have more certain news. Jessim promised 
to ask any travelers that came in, and I nave spread the word to the distant 
bartons of my grange. Two days ago, one of my yeomen from Fox Barton reported a 
stranger living with an old widow in an outlying cottage. By the time we rode 
there, she was gone, but I am sure it was Paksenarrion.
The old women is not a Girdsman, but has a name for honesty and hard work. She 
is a widow (her husband died of fever; he was a woodsman) and supports herself 
and a crippled daughter with weaving and spinning. At first she did not want to 
talk about it, but after we convinced her we meant Paksenarrion no harm, she 
told her tale. It seems that Paksenarrion appeared one morning (she could not be 
sure of the date, but that it was a clear day after a cloudy one) in her shed. 
She described her as nearly frozen, half-naked, and hurt. Apparently one leg was 
injured, for the woman told us she limped for most of the time she stayed there. 
Anyway, the old woman took her in, mended her clothes, and fed her, though that 
was hard—which I could well believe, looking around. They found Paksenarrion to 
be, in their words, "gentle—she never said a rough word—" and she seems to nave 
helped them by fetching water, finding wood and breaking it up, and so on. They 
said she offered to pay for her keep, but the old woman could not use her 
Finthan coins without walking into Lowfellow to change them—which was too far, 
she said, in winter. I suppose that means she still has the money you gave her 
in Fin Panir.
They had hoped she would stay, as she seemed strong to them, but she was unable 
to spin or weave, though apparently she tried to learn. Without extra help, they 
could not earn enough to keep three. Paksenarrion decided to leave, although 
they protested, and she insisted they keep a few Finthan coins. The old woman 
asked me if I could change one for her in Lowfellow. I told her to keep it that 
die grange would aid to those who helped Girdsmen. I find that Fox Barton was 
already providing meat from tune to tune, but have put these women on the grange 
rolls. They need someone young and strong to board with them, and learn care of 
the daughter, who will never walk; we are working on that. In die meantime, I 
have sent supplies, and an order from the grange for two rugs a year. With your 
permission, I will name them on the Year Roll. They are not Girdish, but we owe 
them that.
Anyway, that's all I could find of Paksenarrion. Before I could extend the 
search, we had a thaw which left every road a quagmire. I have written 
neighboring granges, but it seems clear that she is avoiding granges. From the 
descriptions given by the women and by the innkeeper, I doubt that she will be 
recognized as anything but a vagrant. However, we will keep watch, and report 
anything we find.
I know you will be disappointed in this report. I think it hopeful that she is 
clearly still able to serve others weaker than herself. Perhaps some day Gird 
and the High Lord can restore her trust in the Fellowship and in herself.
Seklis, High Marshal Marshal-General Arianya Greetings:
While traveling from Valdaire to Ve"rella, I met a party on the road who spoke 
of an ex-Girdish warrior named Paksenarrion. When I reached VeYella, your 
waiting letter mentioned such a one. My news is meager indeed. At the time I was 
with the traders, I did not know of your interest, and did not question them as 
I might have. They said something about meeting an unusual sight—a Girdsman 
afraid of her own shadow, of barking dogs and horses. One of them said she'd 
been cursed that way, and gave it as proof that she was lapsed from the 
Fellowship. I do not recall where they said they had seen her, or where she was 
going—if they even said—but I report this because of your interest.
More important, I believe, is the continued conflict in Aarenis between the 
Guild League cities and the old nobility; trade is completely disrupted, and 
famine this year has been widespread…
Thus ends Book II of The Deed of Paksenarrion.