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.”
29
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 of bit chains, chain mail, herdbells. 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, then 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, “we’ve 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 face, 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 I 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 the 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 . . .”