The Marshal-General shook her head slowly, but more in doubt than disagreement. "I'm not sure, child. What happened?"

"That's what I don't know." Paks remembered clearly Canna's yelp of pain, and then the seeming improvement in her condition. "It didn't go away at once," she went on, carefully telling the Marshal-General everything. "But she had been getting weaker, and feverish, and she was stronger afterwards. It looked cleaner and drier the next time we changed the bandage. But you see, we'd found some ointment in that farmstead, and used that too. I don't know which worked, or why."

"You didn't tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith," said the Marshal-General.

"No—I wasn't sure—"

"Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?" That, too, Paks told, even Captain Dorrin's remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.

"Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?"

"No, my lady. Falkian—or that's what one of the sergeants said."

"I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for you?"

"I didn't—I was frightened of it, lady. I didn't know what to do."

"Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?"

Paks shook her head vigorously. "Oh no. I—"

"You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance."

"I didn't want to, not then. I—I suppose I wished that it would just—just be over. I kept thinking about them—"

"Canna?"

"And—and Saben. He was my—our friend, that was with us."

"Your lover?"

"No." The old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again, the Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.

"Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion—with surviving the blow of Liart's priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the enchantments when Siniava tried to escape—don't you think that there's clear evidence of Gird's action in your behalf?"

"I don't—I can't be sure—"

"Gird's teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?" The Marshal-General glared at her. "D'you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and explain everything in words a sheepfarmer's daughter can understand?"

"No, my lady." Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. It wasn't fair; she only wanted to be sure . . . if the gods had a message, surely they'd make it clear. She heard a gusty sigh.

"How old are you, Paksenarrion?"

Paks counted it out aloud. "I was eighteen winters when I left home—and then nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty—twenty-one after Dwarfwatch—near twenty-two, my lady."

"I see. Are you set against the fellowship of Gird?"

"Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more—but you see, my family was not Girdish. And I still think it's better to abide the gods you know—"