Across the glade, a pile of pillows and coverlets appeared, inviting her to lie down. The cat returned to four feet and butted her gently toward the pillows. She took a step, then another; the cat walked beside her, and when she faltered, she found its back under her hand, warm beneath the soft fur, a firm support.
She sank onto the pillows; the cat lifted one paw and gently pushed her down, then drew the coverlets up. With her last sight, she saw the impossible … the purple petals of the flowers rose up and flew to her, covering her with purple. When two petals touched her eyelids, she fell asleep in that instant.
Waking again was strange. For an instant, the forest glade overlaid the familiar room, as if the walls were draped in embroidered veils. Then the veils faded away, and she saw whitewashed walls and heard someone snoring across the room. The light coming in the window was dim, blue-gray … predawn? Near nightfall? She lay still, not wanting to wake the pain, listening to the snores. The wall seemed more distinct moment by moment; the air moving into the window carried a tinge of woodsmoke. A rooster crowed; a mule brayed. Morning, then. She moved one leg, then the other, then turned her head to see who was in the room with her. Slumped in a chair, feet up on a stool, Paks slept with one arm dangling, the other hand on her Girdish medallion.
In the passage outside, the slap-slap of light shoes came nearer. Then a knock on the door. Paks woke at once, the way a cat wakes, and turned to the door.
“Sib, lady. Cook says bread’ll be out in a half-glass, and porridge in less.”
“Thank you,” Paks said. She came back into the room with a tray and met Arianya’s gaze. “You’re awake—how do you feel?”
“What happened?” Arianya asked.
“That’s a story with two sides,” Paks said. “I know what we tried to do; you alone know what it was like for you.”
Arianya moved her left arm a little. Her shoulder was stiff but not painful. “It doesn’t hurt. And I—it’s clearer.”
“Want some sib?”
“Yes.” She tried to hitch herself up in the bed but achieved only a fingerwidth.
Paks came to the bed. “Let me help.”
With her help, Arianya was able to sit up against the pillows. Paks handed her a mug of sib. She sniffed—the familiar fragrance seemed even sharper than usual. She sipped; the slightly bitter, earthy flavors cleared her head.
Paks leaned on the table, drinking from her own mug and watching. She put it down when she drained it. “Marshal-General, you must be careful. We are not sure we got everything.”
“Two paladins of Gird? I’m sure you did.”
Paks shook her head. “No. It’s like what happened to me. Whatever it is they use … well, you know about me. That must not happen to you. I think you need a Kuakgan.”
“But I’m Girdish!”
“Yes. But the Kuakkgani have special skills. They were never enemies of the Girdish. You surely know many Girdish in Tsaia visit Kuakkgani—”
“They do?”
“Yes. Some ills the farm wife treats with sweetherb, some with tongue-bite, some with fever-bark. So with Marshals and Kuakkgani: Marshals have their skills, and the Kuakkgani have other skills. I am no less Gird’s because Master Oakhallow knew how to draw iynisin poison from my flesh and my spirit.”
“We should learn that,” Arianya said.
“If we could, yes. I suspect it would take a lifetime and maybe more to learn all the green blood can teach. You know the stories about how they become Kuakkgani …”
Yes, she knew the stories. She did not believe the stories, but then, she had never met a Kuakgan, only the occasional remote family who declared they were kuakgannir. Simpletons, she thought them. Had thought them until she heard Paksenarrion’s story, and even now …”Are there any Kuakkgani in Fintha?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I know there are some in Tsaia. If you ask for that help, I can bring one.”
Marshal-Generals should not need help from anyone but Gird. Something in her head snorted derision. Abruptly, she remembered the conversation she’d had with … someone.
Someone?
She looked at Paks, and Paks looked back at her—that same friendly face, that same apparent naivete. Yet Paks had seen, had experienced, the worst of both mortal and immortal viciousness. If Paks thought she needed a Kuakgan’s care … then it would be stupid to refuse it.
She pushed herself higher against her pillows, and this time her body responded almost normally. Surely, then, she was normal and needed no healing … yet Paks had thought the same.
“You think I should …” she began.