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 think 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, Paks!” 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.”
“All 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 Belfan, whom Paks had known before the journey to Kolobia, put in his head. “Now or later?” he asked.
“Come on in, Belfan.” The Marshal-General got up. “Paksenarrion is awake, but weak.”
“So Haran said. Gird’s grace to you, Paksenarrion, my lord Duke. Old Artagh says first snow by morning, Marshal-General.”
“Winter starts earlier every year,” grumbled the Marshal-General; Belfan 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.” The 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.” Belfan 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 she 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 the ground. She clutched Belfan’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 his 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 callused, 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.