Elizabeth Moon: Divided Allegiance

“She’s taking trays back.” Paks felt, as she had when a recruit, the menace of the Duke, the sheer power of the man. He prowled around the room like a snowcat, tail twitching.

“I’ve been wanting to see you, and they keep saying wait.” He turned to her. “Are you well? How are they treating you?”

“I don’t know. I just woke a little while ago. I can’t feel much of anything . . .”

“That’s for the best, I’d think, after what they—I tell you, Paks, I came near to killing the lot of them.”

“What?”

“To see you like that, with all of them working over you. I feared for you.”

“My lord, they had to—” Now she remembered more, and fear grew in her.

“Hmmph. Have you been up yet?”

“No, my lord. I couldn’t get up to eat.”

He shrugged. “It’s been some days; the weakness is normal after so long asleep.”

“I wish I knew—” In his presence, still more of the warnings came clear, and the emptiness inside was no comfort at all.

He looked sideways at her. “What?”

“If I will be all right again. I don’t know how I’ll know. And now that I remember what they did, I can’t think of anything else.”

He sat near the bed, and laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t fret about it. You remember that worries before a battle don’t help. When it’s time, when you’re stronger, then you’ll find out.”

“But what do you think, my lord. Do you think it’s gone?”

He sighed, and did not ask what she meant. “Paks, from what I saw, they stirred the very roots of your mind with powerful magicks. From such stirring nothing would be safe. You don’t look different, bar being pale from days in bed, but I can’t tell by looking. The test of a sword is not its polish, but its temper.”

“I want to be . . . myself.” Paks whispered the last, thinking.

“You are yourself, Paks, and always will be. Yet people change with time, with age—”

“Not like that. I can’t stand it, my lord, if I can’t—if I become—”

“Paks.” His grip on her arm tightened. “Look at me.” His face, when she looked, was as grim as ever she’d seen it, his eyes hard. She feared him suddenly. “Paks, you are yourself, and you can stand whatever comes. I swear to you. I was not always a duke, I had—”

“But you were always brave, always a warrior!”

“No.” His gaze slipped past her into an immeasurable distance. “I will not tell you that tale now, but no: I was not always brave. And you do not yet know you have lost anything. Take heart, Paks, until the time comes.”

“But why does Haran dislike me so?”

“Haran?” His face relaxed, puzzled. “I don’t know. The Marshal-General assigned her here; perhaps she’d rather be elsewhere. Has she been unkind?”

“No. But she seemed not to like me, or something I’d done.”

“My lord Duke!” Haran’s voice, from the doorway, was indignant. The Duke turned slowly. Paks saw the muscles bunch in his jaw.

“Marshal Haran.” His tone would have warned anyone in his Company.

“What are you doing with her?”

“I? I came to see how she was, and found her awake and willing for company. Have you an objection?”

“No. I would have sent, later, to tell you she was awake—”

“Thank you. As you see, I found out for myself.”

“I had to take the trays back—” Paks realized Haran was defensive.

“No matter.” The Duke waved, as if a squire were apologizing for an overdone loaf of bread. “Tell me, if you can—is the Marshal-General satisfied with her recovery?”

Haran bristled visibly. “I can’t speak for the Marshal-General. She knows best. But she did say—” a sharp glance at Paks, “that the evil was safely destroyed.”

“And at what cost?”

“That she did not say.” Marshal Haran sat down near the fireplace. “Whatever the cost, it would be worth it.”

“Whatever?” The Duke turned to her, his hand still on Paks’s arm.

“Duke Phelan, I am a Girdsman. A Marshal. The most important thing is that evil be defeated—destroyed. Nothing else matters. Whatever stands in the way—”

“A life?” asked Phelan softly.

“Yes.” Haran looked stubborn, her brow furrowed. “I have risked mine. Any Girdsman knows the risk: we are to serve good, and only good.”

“Ah, yes. Good. Are you sure you know good?”

“Of course.” Her chin was up; she met his look boldly.

“Yes. Of course. You are sure, Marshal, that you know what is good, but I am not so sure.” He paused, as if waiting for her comment, but she said nothing. “I have not been sure, for some years, that you Gird’s Marshals really do know good from evil, and as yet nothing I’ve seen here has convinced me.” His hand left Paks’s arm; she could feel the taut control of that movement. “You do not, perhaps, think I have any such standards myself. But I assure you, Marshal, that a professional soldier, as I am, has had more combat experience than you. I have seen men and women under great stress, repeated stress. And I know those soldiers more thoroughly than you ever will.” He paused again. Haran looked furious, but still said nothing. “Paks is one of them.”

Paks stirred, and said, “My lord—”

“Paks, this is not your argument; you but furnish the opportunity. What I am saying, Marshal, is that you have known her but a short time; I have known her for years. You have seen her in one trouble; I have seen her in many. I know her as someone trustworthy in battle, in long campaigns, day after day. You see some flaw—some little speck on a shining ring—and condemn the whole. But I see the whole—the years of service, the duties faithfully performed—and that is good, Marshal. Is there one of us with no flaws? Are you perfect, that you indict her?”

“I don’t—I never said—”

“Not you personally, but the Girdsmen here. You’re one of them; you said so.”

“Well—I—” Haran looked at Paks, then back at the Duke, clearly gathering herself for an attack. “She’s supposed to be so special—”

“What!” Paks flinched at the Duke’s tone even though he spoke to Haran.

“She came only last fall; she was paladin candidate after Midwinter Feast. That’s different, if you like! Promising, they all said. Remarkable. Chosen to go on quest, when she’s not even past her Trials. And then she gets herself captured, like any half-wit yeoman without battle experience, and rather than die honorably, as most yeomen would have done, she cooperates with the kuaknom and is contaminated by Achrya.” Haran slapped the table and drew another breath. “And now they make this fuss over her—I can understand it from you, who aren’t even Girdish, but the others! It makes me sick!”

“Haran!” None of them had noticed the Marshal-General’s arrival. She looked almost as angry as the Duke. Haran paused, then shook her head.

“Marshal-General, I’m sorry, but I don’t care. It’s true. Paksenarrion should never have been accepted as a candidate; she wasn’t fit, she hadn’t served long enough. Of course the evil had to be rooted out; if something was lost, she’ll just have to live with that. It’s nonsense anyway: if she had had sufficient courage, there would be no danger of losing it. I don’t see all this pussyfooting. It’s not that she’s special, it’s that she’s had special treatment. And far too much of it!” Haran turned on her heel and stalked out. The Duke moved to follow, but the Marshal-General held up her hand.

“Please, my lord Duke! Hear my apology first, and allow me to discipline my own.”

“I’m listening,” he said grimly.

“I am sorry—I did not know Haran felt that way, or I would never have had her here. I wanted Paks to have Marshals, whose oath of secrecy I could trust, caring for her. I knew Haran was a bit prickly—she always has been; it’s why she has no grange—but she has always been fair before.”