“No—the squire.”
Stammel snorted. “As if he’d ever done anything like that! I’ll warrant the Duke didn’t back him up.”
“Well—no. He didn’t. But—”
“Then don’t fret about a squire’s opinion. Which was it, anyway?”
“The youngest one. Jostin, I think his name was. I haven’t seen him today.”
“You won’t. The Duke sent him home. He’s got Selfer, Jori, and Kessim now.”
“What about Rassamir?”
“Oh, he went back to Vladi. He’s a nephew, or something like that. Well, then: what happened in the forest?”
Paks had relaxed; now she hunched her shoulders again. “We were moving fast; the light was fading…” She told it as it lived in her mind: the brigands suddenly around them, Canna down before she could string the bow, Saben fending off three, her own fall into the stream, the grinning man who ran down after her, sword in hand. “So—so I turned and—and ran.” Paks was trembling as she finished.
“Best thing you could have done,” said Stammel firmly. “Did they come after you?”
Paks nodded. “For awhile. They had bows—they shot. But the trees were thick, and it was getting dark—” There wasn’t much to tell about that long wet run in the dark, no way to describe what she’d felt, leaving her friends behind. “It took a long time, with the mud and all,” she said. “The sentry didn’t believe I was in the Duke’s Company at first. No wonder, really, dirty as I was. But Canna and Saben—” Paks could not go on.
“If you’d stayed,” said Stammel, “there’d have been three dead right there, besides all the prisoners, and those in Dwarfwatch as well. You didn’t kill them, Paks; the brigands did. Save your anger for them.” He leaned back against the wall and gave her a long look. “Do you really think their shades are angry with you? Canna left you her Girdish medallion, didn’t she?”
“How did you know that?”
“The Duke, of course. He was curious about that—asked me about you two. But think, Paks—if she’d been angry, she wouldn’t have left it for you.”
“I—I suppose not.”
“Of course not.” Stammel reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “Paks, the Duke thinks you did well—and by Tir, he should! So did Canna. So does everyone I’ve heard speak of it. It was a hard choice; you chose well. Sometimes there’s no way—”
“I know that!” interrupted Paks, fighting tears. “But—”
Stammel sighed. “They were your best friends—and after that—Paks, you may hate me for this, but—did you ever bed Saben?”
Paks shook her head, unable to speak.
“That’s part of it, then.” He held up a hand as she looked up, angry. “No, hear me out. I’m not arguing about whether you did or didn’t: that’s your choice. But you two were closer than friends; it’s natural in friends to want to have given everything. I’d wager part of your sorrow now is that you didn’t give him that, when he wanted it. Isn’t it?”
Paks nodded, staring at the table. “Yes,” she whispered, “And yet, I—”
“You truly don’t want to—that’s obvious. You know, Paks, you really have chosen the most difficult way—or it’s chosen you, I’m not sure which. Remember, though, that Saben respected your choice. I know, because he told me that back when you were a recruit, in that trouble with Korryn.”
Paks felt herself blushing. She had never imagined Saben and Stammel discussing her that way.
Stammel chuckled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Anyway, if it’s not your nature—and I think it’s not—you have nothing to reproach yourself for. Saben liked you, and respected you, and even loved you. Grieve for him, of course—but don’t hamper yourself with guilt.”
Paks shook her head. She felt hollow inside, as if she had cried for a long time; yet she felt eased, too. She realized how silly it was to think of Saben’s shade hanging around unsatisfied because of her. Such a man, after such a death, would surely have gone straight to the Afterfields, to ride one of the Windsteed’s foals forever. She let a last few tears leak past her eyelids, took a long breath, and sipped her ale.
“Better?” asked Stammel. She nodded. “Good. Now,” he said briskly, “I’m still curious about that Girdish medallion. You never listened to Effa—had Canna been talking to you? Had you handled it?”
Paks leaned back, staring at her mug. “Well—I did handle it, once.”
“Well?” prompted Stammel.
“It was—well, I don’t know. It was strange.”
“So you didn’t tell the Duke’s scribe about it?” suggested Stammel.
“No. No, I didn’t. It wasn’t anything that concerned the Company, like the rest of it. And I don’t know what happened. If anything happened.”
“Were you thinking of becoming a Girdsman?”
“No. Nothing like that. I suppose it started the first night, when Canna asked us to pray with her. She knew we weren’t Girdsmen, but said it would be all right. The next day we could tell that she was having a lot of trouble with her wound. It was swollen and hot, very red. When Saben and I woke up the next morning, I remembered hearing that St. Gird healed warriors sometimes. Canna was a Girdsman; I thought he might heal her.” Paks paused for a sip of ale. Stammel watched her, brows furrowed.
“I asked her; she said it had to be a Marshal or paladin. But I thought if we could pray to Gird to help our friends, why not for healing?” Stammel made a noncommittal sound, and Paks hurried on. “Canna said to hold the medallion, and then ask for what I wanted. I put it on her shoulder, where the wound was, and asked for it to be healed.”
“Then?”
“It didn’t work. It just hurt her; she said it felt like a cramp. It didn’t get worse, and she could walk fast all that day, and from then on. But we found that pot of ointment, too. I don’t know—”
Stammel heaved a gusty sigh. “That’s—quite a story, Paks. Have you told anyone else?”
“No, sir. I don’t truly think I did anything. But it might be why Canna left the medallion to me. Maybe she hoped I’d become a Girdsman.”
“Maybe. They encourage converts. But that healing, now—”
“But it didn’t work,” said Paks. “Not like that magical healing, my first year. Some the mage touched, and some got a potion, but it didn’t hurt, and the wounds were healed right away.”
“Yes, but that was a wizard, someone whose job it was. You aren’t a Marshal or paladin; I wouldn’t have expected anything at all to happen. Or if it angered Gird, or the High Lord, it should have hurt you, not Canna. Did you feel anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
“And she did get better, well enough to draw a bow only five days later.”
“That might have been the ointment,” said Paks.
“Yes. It could have been. Or else—Tir’s bones, Paks, this makes my hair crawl. If you did do something— maybe you ought to find a Gird’s Marshal, and tell him about it.” Paks shook her head, and Stammel sighed again. “Well. Has anything strange happened since you’ve been wearing it? You are wearing it, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And nothing’s happened—really.”
“No mysterious cramps that healed anyone, or saved lives?”
“No. Well—it’s not the same thing at all, but—it was a cramp in my back that saved me from a crossbow bolt in Rotengre.”
“What!”
“But it’s nothing to do with the medallion, Stammel. I’m sure of it. We’d been loading plunder all day; we were all tired. I was stooping over this slave we’d found, trying to talk her into getting up and coming along—she was so frightened, I didn’t want to drag her—and I got a kind of cramp in my back, and had to straighten up.”
“Yes?”
“And the crossbow bolt went where I’d been. There was a second concealed room behind the niche where we’d found the slave, and Captain Dorrin said the man in it was a priest of the Webmistress, Achrya.”
Stammel made a warding sign Paks knew. “One of
“That I was pushing my luck.”
