crossed

day before, and she had no desire to become a follower of Gird.
"You don't remember yesterday at all?" he asked, with a quick sideways glance.
"No, sir."
He sighed. "I wish you did. I'd like to know why it didn't kill you."
"What?"
"You crossed blades with a priest of Liart, child. That should have been the death of you. It shattered your blade, burned your hand—Fenith could scarcely believe it when he saw you kick at the priest after that. It was bravely done, but foolish, to take on such a foe—and amazing that you survived it."
As he spoke, Paks saw a shadowy version of these things in her mind—not yet a memory, but the stirrings of what might become one. "Was there—someone in a red and black tunic, t