“Did you find out who the others were?”
“Yes. The man’s some high rank in the moneylender’s guild. He’s got a bad wound; he may not live. The woman’s his sister or niece or something.” Arñe stopped and looked at Paks. “Do you know what happened with Canna’s medallion? Was it really St. Gird who woke you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand.” Paks could hardly convey her confusion. “Something happened, I know that. But—I keep wondering and wondering about it, and nothing comes clear.”
Three days later, as she watched the city militias march north from the bridge, she was still wondering. The High Marshal had talked to her again, and the paladin; the Duke had apparently talked to both of them. Dorrin had told of the incident in Rotengre, and Paks finally admitted that she’d tried to use the medallion to heal Canna. She could have had, if she’d wanted it, hours of instruction about Gird. She didn’t want it.
“I want to stay with you,” she’d told the Duke, while the High Marshal listened. “I joined your company; I gave you my oath. And my friends are here.”
The Duke nodded. “You may stay, Paksenarrion, as long as you’re willing. But I must agree with the High Marshal in this: some force—we need not agree on what—is moving you as well. The time may come when you should leave. I will not hold you to your oath then.”
“My lord—” the paladin had begun, but the Duke interrupted.
“Don’t bully her. If she’s to leave, she’ll leave, in her own time. You’ve seen she’s no fool.”
“That’s not what I meant, my lord.”
“No. I’m sorry.” The Duke had sighed, looking tired. “Paks, think about it. I know it’s not easy—but think. Talk to Arcolin or Dorrin, if you’d like; talk to Stammel. This company is not the only place you can be a fighter.”
But she had been determined. From a sheepfarmer’s daughter in Three Firs to a respected veteran in the Duke’s Company, with friends who would die for her, or she for them—that was enough. Those childhood dreams were only dreams: this place, these friends, were real. It was all she wanted, and all she ever would.
She waved, nonetheless, to Sir Fenith the paladin, as he rode out. Canna’s medallion was safe in her belt-pouch now. She would let it stay there. No more of those strange warnings to deal with, no more mysteries. And if she died, for lack of its warning—she grinned, not worried. Saben’s red horse would bear her to the Afterfields.