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.

"If not, then-something will come for you. Most of the world is not fighters, after all. If you'd lost an arm or leg, you'd have to learn something else. This is not different. Besides, it hasn't come to that yet."

Paks returned to hauk drill, in a beginning cla.s.s: clumsy, as she now expected, in the first days. When someone lost the grip, and a hauk flew through the air, she flinched, and tried to hide it. Afraid of a hauk! She forced herself on, exercising early and late, and the strength and coordination came back. But that only hastened sword drill.

When she first gripped a sword again, it felt odd in her hand. Marshal Cieri looked curiously at her, and adjusted her grip. "Like this," he said. It felt no better. She looked down the length of dangerous metal-for he had seen no reason to try her with a wooden practice blade-and tried not to show her fear. The edges, the point, stood out in her eyes; she was afraid to move it lest she cut her own leg. He faced her, and lifted his own sword. Paks stared at it, eyes widening. It seemed to catch the sunlight and throw it at her in angled flashes that hurt her eyes. She blinked. "Ready?" he asked.

Her mouth was dry; her reply came as a hoa.r.s.e croak. He nodded and moved forward, lifting the tip for the first drill movement. Paks froze, her eyes following the sword.

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She tried to force her own arm to move, to interpose her own blade, but she could not. She saw the surprise on his face, the change to annoyance, and then some other emotion she could not read, that terrified her with its withdrawal.

"Paks. Position one."

She struggled, managed to move her arm awkwardly. His blade touched hers, a light tap. She gasped, whirled away, tried to face him again, and dropped her sword. As it clanged on the ground, she was already shaking, eyes shut.

The next time, and the next, were no better. If anything, they were worse. Soon she feared anyone bearing arms, even the Duke when he came to her room with his sword on his belt. As she felt herself weaker and more fearful, she saw the Marshals and paladins and other students as stronger, braver, more vigorous. Despite the Marshal-General's protection, she had heard enough to know that many agreed with Haran. Their scorn sharpened her own.

At last even the Marshal-General admitted that she was not improving. "But as long as you want to try, Paksenarrion-" she said, eyes clouded with worry.

"I can't." Paks could not meet her gaze.

"Enough, then. We hoped the contact would help, but it hasn't. Well see what else can be done for you-"

"Nothing." Paks turned her head away, and stared at the pattern of the rug. Blue stars on red, white stars on blue. "I don't want anything-"

"Paksenarrion, we are not abandoning you. It's not your fault, and well-"

"I can't stay here." The words and tears burst from her both at once. "I can't stay! If I can't be one of you, let me gol"

The Marshal-General shook her head. "I don't want you to leave until you have some way of living, some trade or craft. You're not well yet-"

"111 never be well." Paks hated the tremor in her voice. "I can't stay here, my lady, not with real fighters." She would not, she told herself, tell the Marshal-General about .

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the taunts she'd heard, the mocking whispers just loud enough to carry to her ears.

"Through the winter, then. Leave in spring, when the weather's better. You can study in the archives-"

Paks shook her head stubbornly. "No. Please. Let me go now. To sit and read all day, read of others fighting-I can't do that."

"But-Paks-what can you do? How will you live?"

Nor would she admit she didn't much care whether she lived. And she had thought of a reasonable plan. "I came from a sheepfarm; I can herd."

"Are you sure? Herding's hard work, and-"

Paks drove the thought of wolves away-she would not be alone, on a winter range-and steadied her voice. "I'm sure."

The Marshal-General sighed. "Well. Ill see. If we can find a place-"

Before she left, she had a last talk with the Duke. He showed none of the anger she had feared, and no scorn; his voice was gentle.

"Take this ring," he said, tugging a black signet ring from his finger. "If ever you need help-any kind of help-show this ring to anyone in the Company, or anyone who knows me, or send it. I will come, Paksenarrion, wherever you are, whatever you need."

"My lord, I'm not worthy-"

"Child, you did not throw your gifts away. They were taken from you. For your service to me-for that alone- you are worthy of my respect. Now put that ring on-yes. You must not fail to call, Paks, if you need me. I will be thinking of you." He hugged her again, and turned to go. Then he swung back. "To my thinking, Paks, you have shown great courage in consenting to risk its loss, and in trying so hard to regain your skills. Whatever others call you, remember that Phelan of Tsaia never called you coward." Then he was gone, and Paks turned the ring nervously on her finger. It was loose, and she took it off and stuffed it in her belt pouch.

Two days later, the Marshal-General walked with her to 500.

the archway. "Remember, Paksenarrion: you will be welcome in any grange, at any time. I have already sent word. Gird's grace is on you, and our good will follows you. If my parting gift is not enough, you can ask more, freely." But Paks was determined not to spend that roll of coins, wound in a sock in the midst of Her pack. "Right now you are unhappy, and reasonably so, with the Fellowship of Gird-"

Paks shook her head. "Not so, my lady. Not with you. I think Marshal Haran had the right of it, in part. My error let Achrya's evil in, and my weakness could not withstand what you had to do-"

The Marshal-General stopped and looked at her. "That's not true, and I've told you before. By Gird's cudgel, I hate to let you go, thinking that. All paladin-candidates are vulnerable, and anyone with less strength than you would have been taken over completely far sooner. You must believe in yourself." She paused, rocking from heel to toe, arms crossed. "Paks, please. Promise me that if things get worse, you will come for help."

Paks looked away. She did not want to say what she thought, that more of such help as she'd had would leave her bedbound as well as craven.

"My lady, I'd best go, to be in the market on time." Paks kept her eyes stubbornly on the ground. The Marshal-General's sigh was gusty.

"Very well, Paks. You are sworn to Gird's Fellowship, and Gird the protector will guard your way. All our prayers are with you. She turned back through the gate, and Paks walked on, determined not to glance Dack.

Chapter Thirty.

With that walk down to the market in Fin Panir, where she was to meet the shepherd who would hire her, a pattern was set that continued all that hard winter.

"Eh, you took your time," grumbled Selim Habensson, when she found him talking with several other sheepmen._ "Hated to leave the Lord's Hall, I suppose. Let's see-" He looked her over as if she were a ewe up for sale. "The Marshal-General says you're fit, and you've handled sheep-is that so?"

"Yes, sir. My father raised sheep."

"Good enough. Get in there and find me th' three-t.i.t ewe w'the scarred hock and a double down-nick offside ear." As Paks paused to look over the pen of sheep, trying to see a likely earmark, he barked, "Get on, there-get in-I want to see you in with 'em."

Paks swung over the low railing, among the crowded sheep. She had not feared sheep since she had been able to see over their backs, but the shoving of woolly backs and sides made her feel strange. She saw one offside earmark, but it was a single notch. Most of this pen was nearside marked. There-on the far side-was a double down-nick, offside. She pushed her way slowly through the sheep, careful not to startle or disturb them. A quick look told her this was a normal ewe, not hock-scarred; she looked again for the right earmark, and found it in a 501.

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corner. A ewe, a three-t.i.t, and scarred on the near hock. She looked up to see the shepherd just outside the rail.

"Very welt-you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven't worked 'em lately, I'll warrant."

"No, sir."

"I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive." He spat on the cobbles outside the pen. "I hope to Gird you don't mind getting dirty."

"No, sir."

"All right. When market's over-another gla.s.s, say--we'll be moving this pen and those two-" he pointed "-out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start for the south. Follow us out-make sure none of 'em stray in the city- and you'll be watching tonight."

Although bothered by the noise and bustle of the market, Paks had no trouble with the sheep on the way out-to her own and the shepherd's surprise. The sheep settled well in their temporary grazing ground, and Paks took up her a.s.signed post on the far side while the other shepherds made camp and cooked supper. She had not thought to bring anything for lunch, planning to buy it in the market, so by evening she was hungry. When the first group had eaten, Selim called in the others to eat. Paks was given a bowl of porridge and a hunk of bread. She ate quickly, hardly noticing the others until she finished. Then she looked up to find them watching her.

"You eat like you thought there was more coming," commented Selim. She had, indeed, a.s.sumed there was more. He turned to the others. "Been living in a city for a while, she has. Fine clothes. Eating well. Listen, now: we're sheepfarmers, not rich merchants or fancy warriors. We work hard for what we get; you'll get your fair share, but not a drop more. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Paks nodded, and cleaned her bowl. She was remembering that when she first joined the Duke's Company, the food had seemed rich and plenty-she had forgotten, in the years since, how her family had lived, and how she had longed for bakers' treats on market days.

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"Good. You'll take first watch. Jenits, you relieve her at change. We'll start out at dawn."

In the next few days Paks became acquainted with hunger again. She felt cold and hunger as a force that dragged on her legs, making her labor to keep up with the flock. When a sheep broke free, and ran, she struggled to chase it, fighting a st.i.tch in her side and leaden legs that would not hurry, Selim scolded her about it.

"By Gird's cudgel, this is the last time I'll hire on the Marshal-General's word! I've a half-grown la.s.s that could do betterl" Paks forebore to say that she herself, as a half-grown girl, had done better. She saw clearly that excuses would only make things worse. She ducked her head and promised to work harder. And she tried. But Selim and die others never came to trust her, always saw her as an outsider who had been forced on them by the Marshal-General. In addition, the wounds she'd received from the iynisin began to swell and redden again. They had never faded much, but now they looked and felt much as they had when she first came out in Kolobia. The shepherds looked at the marks they could see and muttered.

So it was that when the flocks were safe in the winter pastures of southern Fintha, Selim turned her away, and refused to hire her through the winter.

"I'm not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she'd know the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they all think you're cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your fece turning dark like that; it's not natural. We've plenty of young ones in the village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here's your pay-" It was not much; Paks did not count it. "And I'll wish you well."

It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as always, hungry. "Is there an inn, here, where-"

"No, not here." His voice was sharp. "We're not some rich town. On that way-" he pointed to a side lane. "You could make Shaleford by tonight if you get a foot on it, or back the way we came." Paks looked from one to the other, irresolute. "You won't make it shorter by thinking 504.

on it," he said, and turned back into his own house, shutting the door.

Paks put the coins he'd given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day's travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.

The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she looked into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun fell behind heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a town, and wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on, and she saw sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept on. At least it was downhill.

She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light ahead. Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed her footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled, listening to die wind's howl, and wondering how far the light was.

Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be called an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at one end of the common loft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale, heavily, and eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second helping of soup and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-General's coins for a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she had anything worth stealing.

The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand over the winter. By the time she'd asked for work every place she could think of, it was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay another night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had a grange-she'd seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if they would let her stay there.

505.

The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He'd been to Highfallow barton for their drill, and wouldn't be back until the next day. Yes, there'd been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal's business, and he couldn't say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General herself-Paks pulled out tiie safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over the seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.

"A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?"

"It's to any Marshal-about me." Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His glance flicked to her visible scars.

"You're a yeoman?"

"Yes-well-not precisely-"

^WeU, then, what?"

"I was at Fin Panir-"

"The training company?"

!!Yes'"

"And they sent you on a mission?"

Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand what she really was. "I don't think I can explain it to you," she said finally. "I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he's not here-"

"Even if I went, he couldn't get back before tomorrow."

"No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?"

"In the grange?" The yeoman-marshal's frown deepened. "Well--I suppose. Come along." He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow back pa.s.sage. "You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the exchange."

Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.

"I can't." Her voice was thin.

"What!"

"I can't. I-it's in this-" she waved the Marshal-General's letter.

"Hmph." His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. ' I see you've been wounded recently-is that it?"

506.

Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.

"I'd think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows-but-" He shook his head. "You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right, then. I'll just go put more meal in the pot."

Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the sort of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was away. She could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked around for the jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.

Her spare shirt smelled of sheep and smoke, but was, she thought, somewhat cleaner. The yeoman-marshal gave her a pail of water and soap for the dirty clothes, and she came to supper feeling more respectable then before. She had oiled her boots and belt, and the sheathe of her dagger. The yeoman marshal was obviously making an effort to be friendly.