Divided Allegiance

26

Paks woke to darkness. She lay a moment, feeling cool air—living air—wash over her face. She lay wrapped in something soft, on something more yielding than stone. She blinked. She could see something glittering overhead. Stars. The current of air quickened; it smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. She could not think where she was. Her mouth was dry. She tried to clear her throat, but made a strange croaking noise. At once a voice—a human voice—spoke out of the darkness.

“Paks? Do you want something?”

Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. She could not speak. She heard a rustle of clothing, then a hand came out of darkness and touched her face.

“Paks? Are you crying? Here—” The hand withdrew, and after a sharp scratching noise, a light flared near her and steadied. She thought: lamp. Her tears blurred everything to wavering points of light and blackness. The hand returned, a gentle touch, stroking her head. “There, Paks, it’s all right. You’re safe now; you’re free.”

She could not stop the tears that kept flowing. She began to tremble with the effort, and the person beside her called softly to someone else. Another person loomed beside her. “The spell’s going, I think,” said the first voice.

“About time, too. Can she speak yet?”

“No. But she’s aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she’s as dry as old bone.”

“I’ll lift her.” The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks felt herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. “There now. Paks? You need to drink something. Here—” She felt a cool rim at her lips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. “Good,” said the voice. “That’s what you need.”

“I’ll get more,” said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She drank another flask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only that it was better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.

She woke in daylight: light blue sky overhead, red rocks against the sky. She turned her head. She lay on a sandbank above a stream. She could see horses across the stream, and men in chainmail grooming them. Nearer was the pale flickering light of a campfire. Around it were three men, a woman, and a dwarf. One of the men and the woman left the campfire and came toward her. They were smiling. She wondered why.

“Paks, are you feeling better this morning?” That was the woman. Paks felt her way along the words, trying to understand. This morning. Did that mean that it was last night, the voices and the crying? Better? She tried to roll up on one elbow, but found she could hardly move. She felt utterly weak, as if she were hollow from the bones out.

“Can you speak at all, Paks?” asked the man. She looked at him. Dark hair with a few silver threads, short dark beard. Chainmail under a yellow tunic. They wanted her to say something. She had nothing to say. They were smiling at her, both of them. She looked from face to face. The man’s smile faded as she watched. “Paks, do you know who I am?” She shook her head. “Mmm. Do you know where you are?” Again the headshake. “Do you know who you are?”

“Paks?” she answered softly, tentatively.

“Do you know your full name?”

Paks thought a long moment. Something seeped into her mind. “Paks. Paks—Paksenarrion, I think.”

The man and woman looked at each other and sighed. “Well,” said the woman, “that’s something. How about breakfast, Paks?”

“Breakfast—” she repeated slowly.

“Are you hungry?”

Again Paks thought her way to the meaning of the words. Hungry? Her stomach rumbled, answering for her. “Food,” she murmured.

“Fine,” said the woman. “I’ll bring it.” She strode off.

Paks looked at the man. “Who is that?” she asked.

“The woman? Pir. She’s a knight.” His voice held slight coolness.

“Should—should I know her?”

“Yes. But don’t worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?”

Paks shook her head before answering. “No. I don’t remember anything much. Did I—did I do something bad?”

“Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Paks turned her head to look the other way. She was looking up a narrow valley or canyon walled with red rock on both sides. Nothing looked familiar.

The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskin slung from one wrist. “Here—stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit up?” Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he dragged from a few feet away. The women set the bowl on the sand, poured water into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from the blanket around her, but the woman had to help her even with that. When she took the mug, her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face and neck; it was icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her.

“I’ll help you with the stew,” said the woman. “You’re too shaky to manage it.” She offered it spoonful by spoonful. Paks ate, at first without much interest, but with increasing relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory returned, though she could not tell if it was recent or remote.

She looked at the man. “Is this Duke Phelan’s camp?”

His face seemed to harden. “No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?”

“I think so. He was—not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes—I thought I was still in his Company. But I’m not. I don’t think so—am I?”

“Not any more, no. But if you remember that, then your memory is coming back. That’s good.”

“But where—? I should—I should know you, shouldn’t I? You asked me that. And I can’t—I don’t know you—any of you—or this—” Her voice began to shake.

“Take it easy, Paks. It will come back to you. You’re safe here.” The man turned away for a moment, and waved to someone Paks could not see.

“But if I—when I was with the Duke, I was a soldier. I must have been. And you’re wearing mail. What happened?” Paks tried again to push herself up; this time she got both arms out of the blanket around her. She had on a loose linen shirt; below its sleeves her arms were seamed with the swollen purple lines of healing wounds. Her wrists were bandaged with strips of linen. She stared at them, and then at the man. “What is this place? Did you—”

He reached out and took her hand; his grip was firm but gentle. “No, Paks, I did not deal those injuries. We brought you out of the place where that happened.” He turned to another man who had just walked up to them. “She’s awake, and making sense, but her memory hasn’t returned. Paks, do you know this man?”

Paks stared at the lean face framed in iron-gray hair and beard. He looked stern and even grim, but honest. She wanted to trust him. She could not remember him at all. “No, sir,” she said slowly. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said the second man. “I wonder,” he said to the first, “whether we should try to tell her what we know.”

“Names, at least,” said the dark man. “Or she’ll be completely confused. Paks, my name is Amberion; I’m a paladin of Gird. And this is Marshal Fallis, of the Order of the Cudgel.”

The names meant nothing to Paks, and the men looked no more familiar with strange names attached. She looked from one to the other. “Amberion. Marshal Fallis.” They looked at her, glanced at each other, then back at her.

“Do you remember who Gird is, Paks?” asked Marshal Fallis.

Paks wrinkled her brow, trying to think. The name woke a distant uneasiness. “Gird. I—I know I should. Something—it’s—what to do—to call—when—” she stopped, breathing hard, and tried again. “When you start to fight—only—I couldn’t say it aloud! I tried—and it wouldn’t—something on my neck, choking—No!” Paks shouted this last loud enough to startle the entire camp. She had shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head, her body rigid. “No,” she said more softly. “No. By—by Holy Gird, I will fight. I will—not—stop. I will fight!”

She felt both men’s hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Amberion spoke. “Paks. Listen to me. You’re out of that. You’re safe.” Then, more quietly, to Fallis. “And what do you suppose that was about. Surely she wasn’t free to fight them?”

“I don’t know,” was Fallis’s grim reply. “But I suspect we’d better find out. Considering how we found her—”

“I won’t believe it,” said Amberion, but his voice had thinned.

Paks opened her eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at the sky, then shifted her eyes to look at Amberion. She could feel patches of memory coming back, unconnected still, but broadening. “Amberion? What—”

“You were injured, Paks. You don’t remember much.”

“I feel—strange. Will you tell me what happened?”

“We don’t know all that happened. And it might be better to let you remember it for yourself.”

Paks looked around. “I don’t recognize this place. But the color of the rocks—something—is familiar.”

“We moved the camp after you—after the fight.”

“Are we in Kolobia yet?” Paks saw Amberion’s face relax a little.

“Good. You are remembering. Yes, we’re in Kolobia. How much do you remember of the trip here?”

“Some of it—we were in a caravan, for a long way. We saw the horse nomads, didn’t we?” Amberion nodded. “And I remember a bald-faced red horse, bucking—”

“That’s my warhorse,” said Fallis. “Do you remember why we were coming to Kolobia?”

Paks shook her head. “No. I wish I didn’t feel so peculiar. Did something hit my head? Was it a battle?”

Fallis smiled at her. “You’ve been in several battles. Both on the caravan, and here as well. I think you’ll remember them on your own when you’ve rested more. Your wounds are healing well. Do you need anything more?”

“Water, if there’s enough.”

“Certainly.” The Marshal walked away and returned with a full waterskin. He set it beside Paks, then he and Amberion walked upstream, looking at the cliffs on the far side. Paks managed to get the waterskin to her mouth. She took a long drink, then looked around again. The dwarf was looking her way, talking to the woman. When he caught her eye, he rose and came toward her. She tried to think of his name.

“Good morning, Lady Paksenarrion,” said the dwarf. His voice was higher and sweeter than she’d expected. She wondered how she knew what to expect. “How fare you this day?”

“I’m all right. A little—confused.”

“That is no wonder. Perhaps even names have escaped you. I am Balkon of the House of Goldenaxe.”

The name fit; Paks could almost think she remembered it. As she looked at the dwarf, the distant silent scraps of memory came nearer and seemed to fuse in his face. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Master Balkon. You came with us from Fin Panir. You know about rock, where it will be solid or weak. You are a cousin of the Goldenaxe himself, aren’t you?”

“Eighth cousin twice removed,” said the dwarf with a smile. “I think you must be recovering very swiftly. We are glad it should be so, who saw you in such dismay.”

“Dismay?” Paks felt a twinge of fear.

The dwarf’s face constricted into a mass of furrows and then relaxed. “Is that not the correct term? You must excuse me, Lady Paks. I have not the skill in wordcraft as were I an elf. Dismay? Distress? Dis—oh, I cannot find the word, plague take it! But you were much hurt by those blackhearts, and that your friends sorrowed to see. And you are now much better, and we are glad.”

“Thank you, Master Balkon,” said Paks. She did not understand what he was talking about, exactly, but his kindness was welcome.

“I wanted to ask you—if it will not be too great a sorrow to speak of it—what those rockfilth used on your injuries.”

Paks stared at him. “Rockfilth?”

“They corrupt the very stone, good stone, by living in its heart. Those blackheart elf cousins, I mean, who took you.”

“Took me?” Paks shook her head, as a sudden chill ran over her. “I have no memory of such a thing, Master Balkon.”

“Ah. Magics, then.” The dwarf muttered rapidly in dwarvish; Paks caught only one or two words. He stopped abruptly and looked sharply at her. “You remember none of it at all?”

“None of what?” Paks began to feel a prickling irritation. Everyone else knew something about her, but wouldn’t tell what it was. It was unfair. She glared at the dwarf.

“Tech! Be still. That Lord Amberion, your paladin, and the Marshal Fallis, they will not have you told too much, for seeing what you shall remember in time. Do you make noise, they will come to see what we speak.”

“Will you tell me?” asked Paks with rising excitement.

The dwarf smiled, a sly sideways smile. “And should I say what such men of power want not to be said? I am no prince or lord to rank myself above them. But they did not say to me what not to say—it is a point on which it is possible to differ. So—” He looked at her again. “I will say what I think should be said, as it would be done in the House of Goldenaxe.”

Paks forced herself to lie still, remembering this much about dwarves, that they cannot be hurried in the telling of anything. The dwarf pulled out his curved pipe, packed it, lit it, and drew a long breath. He blew three smoke rings.

“Very well, then,” he said, as if he had not paused. “You were taken by those blackheart worshippers of Achrya,” he spat after saying that name, “such as elves like Ardhiel do not like to admit exist and are of elvish origin—despite having their own word for them. That was when they attacked our camp, the second night in this canyon, and they carried you away down their lairs, under that cliff yonder—” he jerked his head to indicate the cliff across the stream. “And there they held you, some days. We know not what befell you in that dark place, save the marks you carry. Dire wounds enough, they must have been, to deal such marks. We had some trouble to follow your path and find you—do you truly remember nothing of this?”

Paks had been listening in rising horror. She stared at the cliff, the rust-red and orange rocks streaked with black, and shook her head. “I don’t—don’t remember. Yet—as you talk—something comes back. Like—like seeing a valley from a hill, faraway and hazy.”

“That will be the magics, I don’t doubt, or the knocks on your head that left such lumps. Well, then, when we found you, that was a strange thing too. We had fought several times in the dark ways, and came to another band of the enemy. None of us knew what was that black warrior so tall behind the others, all in black armor. You—but we did not know then it was you—were killing them, the ones we faced, and when they parted seemed like to kill us too. Then—” he paused to puff on his pipe and blow more rings. Paks waited impatiently, a feeling of pressure swelling her head. “Then, Lady Paksenarrion, you were still, all at once, sword arm so above your head. Very strange. Very strange indeed. Lord Amberion and Marshal Fallis went to look—being careful, too, for any treachery. Then they lifted the visor of the helmet—and a nasty, evil thing that was, that I could sense from where I stood—and there was your face behind it, pale as cheese, and your eyes seeing nothing. All that bad armor was magics—enchanted—your paladin and Marshal had their way with Gird. It split, finally, lying around you like a beetle’s wingcases, then it shrivelled and was gone. But that wasn’t all. Around your neck—”

“Master Balkon!” Neither Paks nor Balkon had noticed Amberion’s approach. He looked more than a little displeased. “Is this well done, to tax her beyond her knowledge?”

“Tax her? I but tell her what things are lost to her.”

“But you knew we thought it wise to tell her nothing.”

“That you thought it wise, yes—but you never forbade such telling to me. And of the ill-doing of elves and their kindred we dwarves have more knowledge than those the elves would make their allies. To my wisdom it seems right that she should not be left to anxious wondering.”

Paks felt a wave of irritation that they would talk over and about her as if she were not there. “I asked him, Sir Amberion, as I asked you. And he chose to think me whole-witted enough to answer me as one fighter to another, not as if I were a witless child.” She surprised even herself with the bitterness in her voice.

Amberion looked at her, brows raised. “Surely, Paks, you realize that we do not think you a child—you, of all people. We were concerned that if we told you what we knew, you might never regain your own memories, which must include much that we cannot know. Have you so forgotten the fellowship of Gird, that you mistrust a paladin this way? It must be your wounds that make you so irritable.”

Paks felt herself flush at the mild reproof. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, still angry. “I—I was worried.” Her voice trailed away, and she looked beyond Amberion to the cliffs beyond.

“Are you in much pain?” Amberion went on.

Paks realized that she did, in fact, ache all over as if with a fever; her head throbbed. “Sir, I do ache some.”

He felt her forehead, and frowned. “It may be fever—and no wonder with your wounds—yet you feel cold. Let me see what I can do.” He placed a hand on either side of her head, and began to speak. Paks felt she should know the words, anticipate the phrases, yet she could hardly concentrate enough to hear them. Her vision hazed. For a few moments the throbbing in her head merged with her aching body in one vast rhythmic pain, then it eased. As it disappeared, she knew how much pain she had felt, and wondered for an instant why she had not known it—had it been even worse, that she could accept it as normal? Her vision cleared. She felt Amberion’s warm palms leave her head.

“Does that ease the pain?” he asked.

Paks nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you. I had not realized how much it was.” Now her outburst of a few moments before seemed unreasonable to her; she could not understand why she had said such a thing to Amberion.

“Good.” Amberion sighed, and sat beside her, across from the dwarf. He looked tired. “Master Balkon, I heard but the last of what you told her. Was it just the tale of her capture and our pursuit?”

“Aye, it was, and scantly told, at that. I did not speak of the capture itself, since none of us saw it, only that she was taken. Nor did I speak of the debate when she was found missing, or—”

“Well enough,” Amberion interrupted. The dwarf scowled at him. “Paks, has any of that come back to you as he was telling it?”

“It seemed, sir, almost as if something were trying to break into my head. Something I should know. But as I told Master Balkon, what I do recall seems faraway, dreamlike.”

“That’s not unusual. By Gird, I wish that elf would wake!”

“By his face,” said the dwarf sourly, “that one is enjoying some rare dream such as elves delight in, too rare a dream to wake for our need.”

“Elf?” asked Paks.

“Ardhiel,” said Amberion. “From the embassy to Fintha—”

“Oh!” A live memory flashed into Paks’s mind. “I remember him. In Fin Panir, when we—” she looked at Amberion, then went on more slowly, with dawning comprehension. “When we planned this expedition—I remember that now. I was there. I was taking training, and then—” In her excitement, Paks tried to sit up, but could not.

“I’ll get another pack for you,” said Amberion. He brought a fat blanket roll, and propped her higher on it. For an instant she was dizzy, but recovered.

“I do remember,” she said eagerly. “On the caravan, and when we turned off—those canyons with the white stone high above. A black hill with a dip in the top. Is this farther down the canyon we went into, the one Master Balkon said was not as deep as it was meant to be?”

“Yes, Lady,” said the dwarf. “This is the canyon choked with sand. I have not yet had the time to look, but I expect something—some rock fall, perchance—has blocked the downward end.”

“And at the high end—that’s where the cliffs were that the smoke came from?”

“Yes, in a branch canyon to this one. Do you remember the fight?”

“Something of it. One of those black fighters called out, and it was hard to move after that.”

Amberion nodded. “It affected most of our party, save Master Balkon and me.”

“Then you did something, and it eased; they were shooting arrows down. Ardhiel and Thelon were shooting back—”

“Yes,” said Balkon. “And then that black scum who called down the fear on us came down the cliff in the shape of his lady—” the dwarf spat again. “That one.”

“Like a spider,” said Paks. “I remember. It was horrible—he just came down the rocks, straight down, and then more and more of them swarmed out of holes in the walls, and Ardhiel blew that old hunting horn he carries, only it didn’t sound like a hunting horn.”

“No,” said Amberion. “And after he blew it, its own shape returned. It was under some enchantment. It’s an elven horn, the only one I’ve ever seen, and a rare treasure. Whatever or whoever it was who appeared when the horn sang, I know not, but great goodness and power were allied in him.”

Paks shook her head. “I don’t remember anything but the sound of it.”

“Pretty enough,” grumbled Balkon, “but I’d like to know what it means.”

Amberion stretched and sighed. “It meant trouble for our enemies that day, and a long sleep for Ardhiel. Paks, I think your memory will come back; as it does, I’d like to know about it.” She nodded. “Master Balkon, we still think it would be best to let her recall these things on her own.”

“I worry about those wounds,” said the dwarf frankly. “The elves have some means of speeding and slowing growth. Something like that must have been used by those rockfilth—she’d still be bleeding, else. It’s dangerous. I would know what was used on her, and would wish you to think what may be done.” He grinned at Paks for an instant and went on. “Besides that, it is this talk which has brought her memory so far. Surely more would be better.”

“It is that,” said another voice, “which distinguishes dwarves from more temperate folk—they always think more is better.” Paks looked over to see a dark man in stained leather clothes; she remembered that this was Thelon, their half-elven scout. Master Balkon bristled at his words, but Thelon laughed gently, and lifted his hand. “My pardon, Master Balkon, but I could not resist. It has been long in this camp since anything seemed funny.”

“I don’t see—” began Balkon; Thelon shook his head, then, and bowed.

“Sir dwarf, I am sorry. I had no intention of insult; I’ll say so before all, and confess a loose tongue.”

Balkon shook his head, and finally smiled at Thelon. “You are but half-elven, and a ranger—which is another word for hardy, as we dwarves know. And I confess I am as fond of plenty as you are of enough. Let it pass, Thelon; I will not bear anger to you.”

Thelon bowed again. “I thank you for your courtesy. I came to ask Amberion to attend the Marshals. Ardhiel may be rousing from his sleep, and they asked for you.”

Amberion looked sternly at the dwarf as he rose. “Master Balkon, we are as concerned as you, but if Paks doesn’t remember, she can’t tell you what they used. It would be better to let it be.”

Balkon nodded. “If the elf is wakening, he might know far more than I—only he should be told at once, if he can listen.”

“Then—?”

“Then I will but bear her company, and no tales tell, until you bring word of Ardhiel,” said the dwarf. And with that Amberion had to be content, and he turned away. Paks watched the dwarf, hoping he would resume his talk, but he did not meet her eyes. He poked and puffed at his pipe, until the smoke rose steadily. Then he looked at her. “I am not one to break my word,” he said fiercely, “even so little of it as that. Bide still; the time will come, and you will hear it all.”

Paks slept again while waiting for Amberion to return, and woke hungry. She was able to feed herself this time. With help, she managed to stand and stagger a short way to the shallow sand pit that served the camp for jacks. But that exhausted her, and she fell into sleep again as soon as she came back to her place. It was evening when she woke, with sun striking the very highest line of the opposite canyon wall.

No one was beside her at the moment. She saw the dwarf, hunching over the campfire. Pir stood at a little distance, staring up at the sunlit rock far overhead. Off on her right, Amberion and the Marshals stood talking to another taller figure. Paks recognized this as Ardhiel, the elf. She stretched, slowly. She felt a vague ache again, not so strong as before, and wondered at it. The only other time she had experienced a paladin’s healing, the wound and pain had disappeared at once and forever. Perhaps she’d been lying awry.

She pushed up her sleeves to look at the marks on her arms. Ordinarily she’d have said the wounds were several weeks old; the scar tissue was raised and dark. But the others had said she’d been missing only a few days. She tried to remember what had happened. What Balkon had told her seemed to fit, yet her memories gave no life to his words. Captive—underground—that almost made sense. But what about the wounds? Had she actually fought? And who had she fought, and how? The marks gave her no clues—they looked like any healing cuts, could have been given by knife or sword or pike. The only unusual thing about them was the number—more scars than she had collected in three seasons of fighting with Duke Phelan. She could not understand how she had fought at all—how she had survived—with so many wounds, all given at once. Yet something about them seemed to convey that they’d been given in combat, rather than inflicted on a bound and helpless prisoner.

Amberion’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Paks, I’m glad you’re awake again. Ardhiel is with us now, and he examined you this afternoon.” Paks was suddenly angry. What right had they to stare at her while she lay helpless? She remembered what the iynisin had told her about the elves who took the Halveric’s scroll. She fought the anger down, surprised at its strength, and tried to conceal it. She knew they would not understand. Amberion went on. “He would like to talk with you, if you feel well enough.”

“Yes, of course. I’m just—” she decided not to mention the aching to Amberion; he would think it weakness. “I’m still confused,” she said finally. Ardhiel sat beside her; he seemed thinner than she remembered, but his face was alight with some joy.

“Lady Paksenarrion, I sorrow that I was not here to defend you. I did not know that when I blew the elven horn I would be carried away—”

“Carried away?”

“In spirit. I had always been taught that elves have no souls, that we are wholly one with our bodies; I had no idea that I could be plucked out, like a hazelnut from its shell, and be gone so long. It did not seem long to me—only a day at the High King’s Court—but when I returned, I find that you have spent many dark hours with the iynisin.”

“So they say.” Paks looked away, frowning. “I can’t remember.”

“Not at all?”

“Only vaguely. Balkon told me some, and it seemed to make sense—I had the feeling that he was right, as far as he knew. But I don’t remember it, clearly, on my own.”

“Ah.” Ardhiel leaned back on the sand, staring skyward at the glowing blue that deepened as the sun lowered behind distant mountains. “I wish I knew more. We elves prefer to ignore the iynisin—even to pretend they do not exist, or are not distant kin. But at such times as these, that way is proved dangerous, for us and for our allies. I do know that they have the same magical abilities that we have, and share in the powers of those they worship: Achrya and Nayda, Gitres and Liart.”

Paks shuddered as the four evil names seemed to foul the air. A face swam before her: elven, but evil. Frightening. “I—don’t remember,” she said.

“If it is truly wiped from your mind, by a blow on your head, for example, that is one thing. But if the memory has been blurred by the iynisin or their deity, then we must do what we can to bring it back. I could not tell, this afternoon—I was still half-enchanted by my own experience.” Ardhiel sat up, stretching. “Amberion. Did you want to do this before or after eating?”

“Do what?” asked Paks, alarmed. Amberion turned from watching the distant line of mountains, and smiled at her. She thought his face looked flat and featureless in the dimming light. He sat on her other side, and reached for her hand.

“We need to find out what magic the iynisin used on you, Paks. Surely you realize that. Ardhiel and I will each try what we know—”

“But—” Paks tried to think of some argument. “Isn’t it—didn’t you tell me that—that paladin candidates must not submit to spells?”

Amberion frowned. “Usually, that’s so. But this is a special case—you have already been spelled, we think, by the iynisin. And you were assigned to my care. Gird knows, Paksenarrion, what I feel that I did not save you from that capture. But now—we must do what we can for you.”

Paks nodded, meeting Amberion’s eyes with difficulty. She could tell that he was concerned—even worried. For herself, she felt more annoyance than anything else. In time she would heal, as she always had, and be strong again; the memories would come, or not come. She wanted to hear what they knew—wanted them to trust her enough to tell her, as Keri and Volya had told her about the sack of Sibili.

“Amberion tells me that these wounds were already so healed when they found you, Paksenarrion.” Ardhiel laid his long-fingered elven hand on her wrist. Paks tried not to flinch. “You were missing so short a time—either the wounds were never what they look like—that is, they were not real wounds, but created in this half-healed state—or they were magically healed.”

Paks looked at her arms again. “Could they be made that way? I never heard of such—”

“No. It’s not widely known that it can be done, and it would only be done by evil intent. But the other is bad, too. To force flesh to such healing, out of time—that has its own hazards. I have known an elf, long ago in your time, and far from here, who could speed growth and healing. He used the gift on plants only, but animals too could be treated so. What we will do now, Paksenarrion, is try to lift the cloud from your memory. If it is what I think it may be, a cloud the iynisin placed there, you can then remember what you need.”

As much as Paks had wanted to know what happened, she still shrank from this. Now that she knew her memories could be made or unmade at elven will, as the iynisin had shown her, she wanted no more of that. But some doubt of them kept her from mentioning the Halveric’s scroll. The elf’s glowing eyes seemed dangerous as coals. She looked at Amberion. He nodded. “Ardhiel has convinced me that this is best, Paksenarrion. The iynisin powers should be countered as soon as possible.”

“Then Balkon was right—” she murmured.

“Right in his way,” said Ardhiel. “You do need to remember, but you need to remember for yourself. It is this I will try.”

“Well, then—go ahead.” Paks looked from one to the other of them. “What should I do?”

“Think on Gird and the High Lord,” said Amberion. “They will guide your thoughts—and your memories, we hope—while we free them.”

Paks closed her eyes and lay still. She could not keep from pushing at the dark curtains in her mind, and felt more and more breathless and trapped as she lay there. She was hardly aware of Ardhiel’s hand when it moved to her brow, or Amberion’s firm grip. Ardhiel began chanting something in elven—she did not even try to follow the meaning.

Shadows moved in her mind. Some were darker—some moved away from her, and others menaced her. She saw again an elven face, pale against a dark hood. She felt a burning pain at her throat, and tried to raise her hand, struggling. The shadows seemed to harden, thickening into reality. Sounds came, faintly at first, then louder. Shrill cries, mocking laughter, the clatter of weapons. Bitter fluid stung her throat, the stench of it wrinkled her nose. The faces came clearer out of the darkness: orcs, their fangs bared, their taloned hands holding swords, knives, whips. Other fighters, whose kind she did not know, in armor of leather and plate. The light was green, a sickly shade that turned spilled blood black.

Gradually she was able to remember the bargain the iynisin had made: she had had to fight, fight for their amusement against opponents of their choosing, fight with whatever weapons they gave her, for the chance to live a little longer. As it had happened, so in the memory Ardhiel’s treatment roused: she could not remember how long these fights had gone on, or the intervals between them. But she could remember, as if reliving them, the pain of her wounds, the hunger and thirst and exhaustion, the fear that she would never see daylight again, the grim and bitter anger she had summoned against that fear. When Ardhiel took his hands away from her brow, she was aware. And the memories she had lost lay in a cold heap in her mind. She hated the thought of them, of stirring through them, but she had no choice. That, too, she resented: she had had no choice with the iynisin, and no choice here.