"I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to find a new one that will serve so well. And the elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That will please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there; you are a fighter. What was your part in this?"

For the second time that afternoon, Paks found herself telling over what had happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshal: almost like telling Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked grave, his lips pursed.

"Well," he said finally. "You have been blessed by the gods—and I would think by Gird himself as well—to come through that alive and free of soul. I'd not dare call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For all I've just finished drill, we'll go into the grange and give you a chance to show your appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids—?" Paks had no idea what he meant, but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious about them since talking to the High Marshal near Sibili, curious and reluctant at once.

Marshal Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a candle, then lifted the candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth. But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored with broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily large enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several more torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed Ambros's face in the doorway. So did the Marshal.

"Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the elf-lord possessed by the demon is freed. She's a little travel-weary, but I just finished drill, so that will be fair." He went over to a rack on the wall and took down a sword. "This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a Girdsman, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of fighters?" Paks nodded. "Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with our skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but great evil: you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross blades, therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our thanks. Unless—" He paused suddenly. "Do you have a wound that would pain you? I should have asked before."