"You're getting older, Marshal-General, that's what it is." Belfan stuck his hands in his belt, chuckling. She gave him a hard look.

"Is it indeed, my young Marshal! Perhaps you'd like to trade a few buffets in Hall and find out just how old I am?"

"Perhaps I'll throw myself down the steps on my own, and not wait for you."

They all laughed, even Paks. Belfan came over to her. "You look enough better that I expect you'll be throwing the Marshal-General down the steps in a few days yourself. What a time we've had! The long faces around here looked more like a horse farm than Fin Panir's grange and Hall."

"What about something to eat?" asked the Marshal-General. "I can have something sent up for all of us."

"Good idea." The Duke smiled down at Paks. "If we stuff her with food, she'll soon feel more herself."

And when faced with a bowl of thick soup, Paks was able to spoon it up with few spills. No one commented on the mess; the Marshal-General wiped it up matter-of-factly, while talking of other things. When they had all finished, she helped Paks sit up on the bed: she could not lift herself, but could balance alone.

The next time she woke, the Marshal-General and Belfan helped her stand, wavering, between them. She walked lopsided and staggering, but with their aid could make it across the room. Several days later she could walk alone, slowly but more steadily. Her improvement continued. When she could manage stairs, she went outside, to the Marshal-General's walled garden. After that came her first walk across the forecourt, to the High Lord's Hall. The glances of the others pricked her like nettles; she looked down, watching the stones under her feet. Haran had claimed that others felt as she did: some of them saw cowardice on her face, with her scars. But she hoped, while fearing her hope was false, that with the return of physical strength she had nothing else to fear.

She had grown strong enough to fret at the confinement of the Marshal-General's quarters, and had begun taking walks on the training fields, usually with the Duke, or one of the Marshals. She did not question their company, noticing that they rarely left her alone, but not wanting to know why. One crisp cold day, she was with Belfan when a thunder of hooves came from behind. They turned, to see several students galloping up, carrying lances. Paks felt a wave of weakness and fear that took the strength from her knees. Sunlight glittered from the lance-tips, ominous as dragons' teeth; the horses seemed twice as large as normal, their great hooves digging at the ground. She clutched Belfan's arm, breathless.

"Paks! We thought you were going to be shut up forever!" It was the young Marrakai boy, waving his lance in his excitement. "I wanted to tell you: I've been put in the higher class! I can drill with you now—" As his horse pranced, Paks tried not to flinch from the sudden movements. Another of the students peered at her.