Paks looked at the man. "Who is that?" she asked.

"The woman? Pir. She's a knight." His voice held slight coolness.

"Should—should I know her?"

"Yes. But don't worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?"

Paks shook her head before answering. "No. I don't remember anything much. Did I—did I do something bad?"

"Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?"

"I don't know." Paks turned her head to look the other way. She was looking up a narrow valley or canyon walled with red rock on both sides. Nothing looked familiar.

The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskin slung from one wrist. "Here—stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit up?" Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he dragged from a few feet away. The women set the bowl on the sand, poured water into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from the blanket around her, but the woman had to help her even with that. When she took the mug, her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face and neck; it was icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her.

"I'll help you with the stew," said the woman. "You're too shaky to manage it." She offered it spoonful by spoonful. Paks ate, at first without much interest, but with increasing relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory returned, though she could not tell if it was recent or remote.

She looked at the man. "Is this Duke Phelan's camp?"

His face seemed to harden. "No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?"

"I think so. He was—not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes—I thought I was still in his Company. But I'm not. I don't think so—am I?"

"Not any more, no. But if you remember that, then your memory is coming back. That's good."

"But where—? I should—I should know you, shouldn't I? You asked me that. And I can't—I don't know you—any of you—or this—" Her voice began to shake.

"Take it easy, Paks. It will come back to you. You're safe here." The man turned away for a moment, and waved to someone Paks could not see.

"But if I—when I was with the Duke, I was a soldier. I must have been. And you're wearing mail. What happened?" Paks tried again to push herself up; this time she got both arms out of the blanket around her. She had on a loose linen shirt; below its sleeves her arms were seamed with the swollen purple lines of healing wounds. Her wrists were bandaged with strips of linen. She stared at them, and then at the man. "What is this place? Did you—"