Paks turned to Lieth. “Lieth, your wounds are serious; those weapons are poisoned. I must try to heal you, before the others, so that you can help Suriya with the tent; we’ll need shelter and food.” Paks took Lieth’s hands in hers and prayed. She could sense the poison in the wounds, slow-acting to sap her strength and cause pain, eventually killing days later. But the High Lord’s power entered her, and spread from her to Lieth. When she let Lieth’s hands fall, Lieth had regained her color. “How is it?” she asked.
“Well—very well, Lady. It—I’ve not felt like this since before the king’s illness.” Lieth got up slowly, and stretched. “Thank you—and the gods—”
Paks turned to Esceriel, who was in worse state than Garris. He had taken the full force of a deliberate attack. She laid her hands on either side of his face, trying to feel what damage had been done. His skin was stiff with cold; he made no response. Paks let herself sink deeper into awareness of him, calling again on the High Lord’s power.
When she looked up again, Lieth and Suriya had set up the tent some little distance away. All the horses but her red one were tied to a picket line. A fire crackled in the afternoon light, and something savory bubbled in a pot over it. Beneath her hands, Esceriel’s face held slightly more color; he lived, but did not waken. Garris was gone. “We took him inside, and wrapped him up,” said Lieth quickly, as Paks looked around. “Suriya’s with him now.”
Paks nodded. “Come help me with Esceriel.” Together they carried him into the tent. Suriya looked up from her place beside Garris.
“Is he better?”
“A little. Not enough.” Paks shivered, suddenly feeling the aftermath of the fight and her attempts to heal. Suriya unfastened her blood-drenched cloak, and wrapped a dry one around her shoulders.
“Sit, Lady. I’ll bring you something hot.” Paks sank down on a pile of bedding, glad enough to rest for a moment. Lieth smiled at her.
“Lady, even if Esceriel dies—even if I die—I am glad to have been here—to have been part of this.”
“Why them?” asked Suriya, coming in with a mug of hot soup. Paks wrapped her hands around it and savored the heat. “Why did he strike at Esceriel and Garris? Why not me?”
“If you’re asking why not you, Suriya,” said Paks, “all I can say is that I asked the same question of my sergeant, my first year in Phelan’s Company, and never did like the answer I got. But I think that Liart’s priests value physical strength so much that they assume big men are a worse threat than women. He struck at Esceriel and Garris for that.”
“And you,” reminded Lieth.
“And me—but I have certain protections, as you saw. Unfortunately, I don’t yet know all my abilities. Perhaps if I had, none of you would have been touched.” Paks shook her head. “But we’ve no time to spare for such guilt. Tell me, how are the horses?” One pack horse was dead, and the other injured. Two of the squires’ horses were injured as well. They had caught two of the attackers’ mounts, who seemed ordinary enough, and might do to replace their own. Paks took another long swallow of the soup, and felt its virtue warming her to the toes. Her injured shoulder was stiff, but she had recovered the use of her arm sometime in the fighting. Lieth was checking Garris and Esceriel; both were breathing, but unconscious. Paks and Suriya went to care for the horses.
When they were done, Paks looked back toward the site of the battle. “What did you do with the bodies and their gear?”
“Nothing—should we? We took the horses’ tack off where we caught them, and left it.”
“Good: you shouldn’t handle anything of theirs.”
“Do you think we’ll have more trouble?” Suriya’s face paled again. Paks smiled at her.
“More? Certainly we’ll have more—but not, I hope, tonight. Suriya, think: already you’ve met and survived as dire a threat as most Marshals of Gird, And we live, and they are freezing out there—” She waved her arm. “By the grace of Gird, and Falk, and the High Lord, you and I have met trouble—and trouble found us too tough to swallow. Don’t fear trouble—be ready for it.”
“Yes, Lady.” Suriya’s eyes came alight again.
“And since we’re traveling like this, can you relax enough to call me by my name? My fighting companions have called me Paks since I left home.”
“Call you—Paks?” Suriya looked shocked, but pleased. Paks thumped her shoulder.
“Yes, call me Paks. It’s the best way to get my attention—as you saw, when Esceriel yelled. When you say ‘Lady,’ I look around to see where she is.” Paks looked over the trampled snow, shaking her head. “What a mess. I’ll just make sure of them—”
“They’re all dead—Lieth looked—”
“I’m sure she did. But they can fool you, beasts and men alike. That priest, for example—” Paks walked over to the lance-bearer, sprawled where she had left him. “The armor may be enchanted. If it is, we can’t leave it here for someone to stumble over.” She extended the sword; its glow intensified. “See that? Some peril remains. Ask Falk’s aid, Suriya, and I will ask Gird’s.” Paks touched the dead man’s armor with her sword. Through the smear of white and gray that had disguised it, black lines emerged, angular designs that conveyed terror and menace. Paks called her light; the designs seemed to burn, then die away to white ash. Then the armor and body fell in, collapsing to a shapeless heap.
“What happened?” Suriya’s knuckles were white on her sword hilt.
“The gods helped us prevent trouble,” said Paks soberly. “Let’s see what else.” All the helmets reacted to her sword’s touch, as did two of the other corselets, but the men’s bodies did not disappear. The wolf-like beasts, dead, were simply dead beasts. They dragged them into a pile. Wood from the frozen streambed, caught against the rocks of the falls, provided fuel for a pyre.
“Now what?” asked Suriya, when it was alight.
“Now I go find my bow, in case we need it, and then we get cleaned up and see what we can do for Garris and Esceriel.”
Paks turned and found that the red horse was already mincing toward her. “Give me a leg up, will you?” She waved as she rode off, enjoying Suriya’s open mouth.
She found her bow easily, hanging from a branch, and retrieved her arrows from the body of the beast she’d killed. By the time she was back at their little camp, the sun was already low against the hills.
Despite her prayers, Esceriel died that night without opening his eyes or speaking. Garris, however, recovered enough to wake and look blankly at them before sleeping again. Paks turned away from them, too tired to weep.
“I’m sorry,” she said, aware of Lieth and Suriya watching. “I was given no healing for him—but he died bravely.”
Suriya nodded. Lieth unfolded a blanket across Esceriel’s body, looking long at his face before covering it.
“He was always that way,” she said. “He would always do things for others—” She turned her head aside, choking back tears.
Paks reached out and touched her shoulder. “Go on and cry for him, Lieth. The King spoke of him to me, his beloved son that he could not acknowledge, who never sought anything for himself, even a name. He has earned more tears than ours, and more reward than this.”
Lieth turned back to her, eyes streaming. “You’re tired—you need sleep. Yes—I’ll watch. I’ll take care. Sleep, Paks.” And Paks fell asleep almost instantly, to the sound of the others mourning.
It was broad day when she woke, another clear morning, with frost furring the inside of the tent. There was Esceriel’s body, covered with a blanket, and his sword laid across his chest. She could hear voices outside. When she turned her head, she saw Garris’s eyes, still a little blank, watching her.