“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 them. 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 I 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 filth 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.”
Paks 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 out 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 lord 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. Then 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 kind of elf—is that so?”
Paks shivered, unwilling as always to remember that too clearly. “Yes, my lord. 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 Tir! 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 the scroll had been lost. It was in this scroll that the stronghold of Luap was mentioned, and map besides. So the Council of Marshals, and the Marshal-General, declared a quest that search should be made for this stronghold, and the rumors of lost powers.”
“But why did you go? You were a paladin candidate, 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. “My lord, I don’t want to be bad; 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 been 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 it 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.”