“Find the ringleaders and—” Arvid stopped as they all stared at him. Then he went on. “You know in any mob there are ringleaders. If you kill them—”

“Others will arise to avenge them,” High Marshal Feder said.

“Not necessarily,” Arvid said. “They claim to be more Girdish than the Marshal-General. What about challenging them one by one—any Marshal who incites his people to rebel?”

“That will take … a long time,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “But it might work if the others don’t take their granges to war at once.”

“The Marshal-General can’t do it all alone,” the Knight-Commander said. “We can’t risk her—”

“You can,” the Marshal-General said. “And we must—”

“No,” Paks said. “You met one challenger already and defeated him. Now it’s the duty of others. Besides, if you tried to challenge and fight them all yourself, it would take too long.”

“Arvid, what do you think?” the Marshal-General asked.

“Not you,” he said. “Or, only for those who come here one by one, according to the rules for trial by combat. The others—I do not know enough. How many, who, where to send them: that is up to you.” Then, feeling Gird’s push, he added, “I might help. Though I’ll be known here as one of your supporters, I would not in other places, and I have experience in gaining information.”

“It is nearly winter,” the Knight-Commander said. “That will slow them down, perhaps enough, if we act quickly.”

As they talked, Arvid found himself watching Paks. She was the same … and yet not the same. Were those strands of gray in her yellow hair? She was so young … had it been the ordeal? But he had seen her afterward; he had seen no gray then. How did paladins age? How long did they live? Then she turned, caught his gaze, and grinned at him; those thoughts vanished.

That afternoon, she came down the hill with him, ostensibly to visit several granges. The meeting had ended after midday; young Arvid was waiting in the Loaf’s entrance. The boy ran toward them, then hesitated, looking at Paks.

“This is my son,” Arvid said. He beckoned; the boy came nearer, shy until Paks squatted down and held out her hand.

“I’m Paks,” she said. “Your name is Arvid also, I’m told.”

“Yes…” Now he flushed. “And you’re—you’re a—a paladin!”

“Yes,” Paks said. “And a friend of your father’s. Did you know he saved my life years ago?”

“Da! You never told me!”

Paks stood up and gave Arvid a look he could not interpret. “He will tell you when it’s time,” she said to the boy. “I must go talk to your Marshal now; we will meet again.” That had the ring of prophecy. Arvid watched her cross the street to the grange, then led his son inside the inn.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Vérella, Tsaia