"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."