“And so you left them. Or did they throw you out?”
Paks shook her head. “No. They were generous. The Marshal-General offered to have me stay there, or train me to any trade I wished. But you know, sir, that Gird is a fighter’s saint. How can they understand? It’s not right, and Girdsmen know it. And the Duke—” Her voice broke again.
“Was he there?”
Paks fought for control. “Yes. He came when he—when they told him I—what they might do. He said he would take me then, as a captain or whatever. But—I knew—they were right. Something was wrong. It had to be done. I still think so. And he was there after, when we knew it had gone badly. He gave me—”
“That ring you left in the basin.” Paks nodded. The Kuakgan sighed. “Your Duke is a remarkable man. He has no love for the Girdsmen in general, and the Marshal-General in particular. He must think a lot of you.”
“Not now,” said Paks miserably.
“He gave you the ring afterwards, did he not? After he knew what had happened? Don’t underestimate your Duke, Paksenarrion.” He stirred the fire again. “I saw him once, long ago. I wondered then what sort of man he would be. I have heard of him, of course, in the years since, but only what anyone might hear. For the most part.”
“Why does he dislike the Girdsmen so?” asked Paks.
The Kuakgan shook his head. “That’s not my story to tell. I have it only by hearsay, and may have it wrong. Perhaps he will tell you someday.”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
“Because you think you’ll never go back? Nonsense. In courtesy you must see him again, and ease his concern.”
“But—”
“You must. Whether you draw sword for him again or not, Paksenarrion, you cannot leave him wondering whether you are alive or dead. Not tonight, no, nor tomorrow—but you must go. And when you go, you will agree with me on that.”
Paks said nothing. She could not imagine going to the Duke’s hold with her fear still unconquered. Unless she regained her courage, and could fight, she could not face the Duke and her old companions.
“One thing more, tonight, and then you will sleep. What was it like, when you first thought your courage gone? How did you know it?”
Paks thought how to describe it. “When I first trained, with the Duke,” she began, “I could feel something—an eagerness—in the drill. When Siger—the armsmaster—threatened with his blade, I felt it rising in me. Excitement, eagerness—I don’t know how to say it, but I wanted to fight, wanted to—to strike, to take chances. When he hit me, the pain was just pain, like falling. Nothing to be afraid of, or worried about. And after that, in the battles—I was scared, the first year, but even then that feeling was inside, to draw on. As soon as the fight started, it seemed to lift me up, and carry me along. It never failed me. Even in the worst times, when we were ambushed, or when Macenion and I faced the old elf lord, I might think that I was likely to be killed, but it didn’t affect my fighting. Unless, perhaps, I fought all the better for it. That’s how we all were; those that feared wounds or death left the Company. That danger was our life. Some, indeed, loved the fighting so much that they were kept from constant brawling only by the rules. I had had one trouble with brawling; I didn’t want more. I liked my fights for a reason.” Paks stopped again; she was breathing faster, and her mouth was dry. The Kuakgan rose and brought the jug of water. They each had a mug of it, then she went on.
“At Fin Panir it was like a dream. Everything I’d ever thought about, when I was a girclass="underline" the knights, the paladins, the songs and music, training every day with warriors known all over the Eight Kingdoms. There were none of the—the things that bothered me, in the south. We would fight only against true evil. And I met real elves, and dwarves. I could learn any weapon, learn as much as I could. They said I did well; they wanted me to join the Fellowship of Gird, they asked me to become a paladin-candidate. For me, for all that I’d dreamed of, that was—” She stopped, poured another mug of water, and took a sip. “I never dared dream so high, before. It came like a burst of light. All the strange things that had happened in Aarenis seemed to make sense. Of course, I agreed. I felt I was coming to my true home, the heart of my life.”
“And now?”
“It was the happiest time of my life.” Paks drank the rest of her water. “It will seem silly to you, Master Oakhallow, I don’t doubt. A sheepfarmer’s daughter with silly daydreams of wielding a magic sword against monsters, a runaway girl joining the mercenaries, still holding that dream somewhere inside. I couldn’t make them understand, in Fin Panir; maybe it’s so silly it doesn’t matter. But I had tried to learn my craft of fighting well enough to be of use, and there, where all were dedicated to honor and war—there I was happy indeed.”
“I don’t think it was silly,” said the Kuakgan. “Such a dream is most difficult to fulfill, but it is not silly. But tell me, now, what it was that changed, after the Marshal-General did whatever she did.”
“It was gone, that’s all. That feeling or whatever that came when I was fighting. It was gone, and left emptiness—as if the ground suddenly disappeared under one foot, and left me with nothing to stand on. I had no skill and no courage to cover the lack. I thought at first it would come back; I kept trying. After awhile I could move better, and control my sword, but as soon as I tried to fence with someone the emptiness seemed to spread and spread until all was gone. Sometimes I fainted, as I said, and sometimes—once I ran away, and once or twice just stood, unable to do anything. Now when I try to face something, when something frightens me, I have nothing inside to do it with.”
“So you left Fin Panir and—did you plan to come here?”
“No! Never! I wandered along the roads, looking for work. I thought I could do unskilled work, at least: farm labor, and that. But so many things frightened me—things that frighten no one but a little child—” She wondered whether to tell him about the trader’s caravan, the robbers at the inn, and decided not to. What difference did it make, after all? “I wandered, mostly. I didn’t know this was Brewersbridge until I came to the inn. I would have fled, but a guard thought I was acting strangely and wanted to take me to the keep.”
“Wouldn’t Marshal Cedfer have vouched for you? You said the Marshal-General promised safe-conduct in all the granges of Gird.”
“I suppose he would have, sir, but I couldn’t ask him. I asked, once, in Fintha—they don’t understand. If I had lost an arm or leg, something they could see, they might. But as it is—cowardice—they think of that as shameful weakness, or punishment for great evil. With soldiers it’s even simpler. Cowardice is cowardice, and nothing else. I suppose they’re right, sir, but I can’t—” Her voice broke, and tears burst from her eyes. “I can’t—live with that—with their scorn. The Marshal knew me before—he’d say I wasn’t a criminal—but he’d despise—”
“Enough. I know the Marshal better than that. He is fair, if sometimes narrow-minded. And you are not being fair to yourself. But it is late, and you need rest. We will talk more of this tomorrow. Don’t fear to sleep; your dreams are withheld for the present.”
Paks thought she could not face the morning, but when she woke, she felt more at peace than she had for a long time. She awaited the Kuakgan’s questions. But he said nothing during breakfast, and afterwards called her to walk with him in the grove as usual. The first hour or so passed in silence. As always, Paks found something new to look at every few paces. She had never lived near a forest before, and it had not occurred to her how full a forest could be. Finally he turned to her, and spoke.