Elizabeth Moon: Divided Allegiance

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 class: 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 hoarse croak. He nodded and moved forward, lifting the tip for the first drill movement. Paks froze, her eyes following the sword. 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. We’ll 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 we’ll—”

“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 go!”

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—”

“I’ll 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 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 sheep farm; 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. I’ll 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 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 back.

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?”