“He wouldn’t let me alone,” Arvid said at last. “I thought I was crazy as one of those beggars who wanders the street claiming his god tells him what will happen or that he’s supposed to be king of all. Was that how it happened to you?”

“No,” the Marshal-General said. “In fact, I am not sure I have ever heard Gird’s voice that clear. I could envy you, Arvid.”

“Don’t,” Arvid said. “You wouldn’t if it happened to you. There’s no—no privacy, in my head.”

“So it’s all the time?”

“No … but a sort of feeling that he’s there, even when he’s not talking.”

“So … you hear Gird most in a crisis?”

“Yes … but it’s his definition of a crisis.” Arvid grinned in spite of himself. “He’s … not what I thought he was. Nor the Fellowship, for that matter.”

“I expect not.” She cocked her head. “Are you miserable with the change, Arvid? Is it difficult for you?”

“It was at first, but now—not really. I missed the Guild at first—but it’s different, having friends who I’m sure aren’t going to stab me in the back.”

She folded her hands, nodding. “Your situation’s unusual, as I expect your Marshal Porfur told you. Most Girdsmen never hear Gird’s voice; most do their best to follow the Code and obey the Marshal of their local grange. Marshals do their best to teach the Code and be good leaders, make good decisions. All that without hearing anything direct from Gird. It does happen; we know it’s not just crazy people who hear the gods’ voices. But it’s rare. Which means, Arvid, you’re rare, and Gird or another god has something in mind for you.”

“It frightens me.”

“I don’t doubt it. But you were brave and—in your way—honorable before this came to you, and I believe you will do whatever it is with the same courage and honor.”

“A thief’s courage? A thief’s honor?”

“No. Yours. Your innate qualities. A good horse can be used by an evil rider—it’s not the horse that’s evil. From what you tell me, something in you from childhood belonged more to good than evil.” She grinned. “And now you’re one of us. I’m happy for you, Arvid, and hope you aren’t grieving about what you lost.”

“Not much … though I’m not sure how I’m going to support my son. If he is my son.”

“Fatherhood is more than a squirt of spunk,” the Marshal-General said, shocking him out of any protest. “Whether or not you are his father by blood, you rescued him from horror and you’ve cared for him since. He seems a fine lad, much as you might have been.”