She looked at the Kuakgan again, meeting his dark eyes squarely. "Sir—Master Oakhallow—I honor you—"

"I know that, child," he said, smiling.

"If you have a—" she stopped, knowing what she meant, but not how to say it. If he demanded it, in return for releasing her from guilt for the snowcat's murder, she would go. She saw understanding in his eyes.

"I have no commands for you, Paksenarrion," he said softly. "You have served Brewersbridge well; you have fulfilled my trust in you, and my hope for you. Go with my blessings, whichever way you go."

"Then—" She looked back at the Marshal. Was it for Ambros, who had trusted her with his fears and died beyond her help? Was it for Canna, who had left her the medallion? Or for something else, something she felt dimly and could not define? "I would be glad, sir, of your recommendation," she said formally. The Marshal shot a triumphant glance at the Kuakgan; Paks nearly took her words back. But the Kuakgan's smile was open and friendly. He spoke to her alone.

"Paksenarrion, the Kuakkganni treasure all life created in the first song. We study, we learn, but we do not order a creature from its own way. And the creature itself knows its own way best, unless it is sorely hurt. If the other way had been best for you, you would have known." He turned back to the Marshal. "Marshal Cedfer, we are no more rivals than two men who plant a seed neither of them knows, and argue until it sprouts whether it will be fireoak or yellowwood. The seed knows itself; it will grow as its nature demands, and when the first leaves open, all arguments are over."

To Paks's surprise, the Marshal looked shamefaced. "You're right, Master Oakhallow. I have no right—but I was hoping so, for some good to come of Ambros's death."

The Kuakgan nodded gravely. "And yet you know that good has come of it. The webspinner's priest is gone, and you will clean that filthy place from end to end. Ambros has shown that your training prepares untried lads for the worst of wars, and the best of ends. You live in constant combat, Marshal, and it makes you alert to each advantage—but the gods move in longer cycles, as well. Be at peace, honest warrior." He rose and left the room. For a long silent time, Paks and Marshal Cedfer sat in quiet, contented. Then the Marshal shook himself like a wet puppy and snorted.

"Gird's grace, that fellow could cast a spell on stone. He may have time enough, but I live a normal span, like any man. Paksenarrion, I will write my letter this afternoon. When will you be fit for travel?"

"In a day or so. I'd like to get everything cleaned up."

"Good. I think you should not linger; winter will close some roads soon, and it makes bitter traveling to the northwest. About Suli—do you want me to talk to her?"