Divided Allegiance

27

For of course Amberion insisted on knowing what, if anything, she remembered. She replied as quickly as possible, surprised at her own distaste, with an outline of the iynisin bargain and her fighting. She remembered even the black armor, and her reluctance to wear it.

“And you called on Gird before each encounter?” asked High Marshal Fallis, who had come up to listen.

“I tried. I couldn’t—couldn’t say it out loud.” Paks hoped he would say nothing more about it.

“But you tried—you intended to?” Amberion’s eyes held hers.

“Yes—sir.” Paks looked away with an effort. “I tried. At least, all the times I remember—”

“That should be enough—” But his tone lacked conviction, and he looked across her to Ardhiel.

“I don’t understand. What’s the matter?” Even Paks could not be sure whether irritation or fear edged her voice.

Fallis sighed. “Paksenarrion, you had no way to tell—but if you handled cursed weapons, and in a cursed cause—”

“And that black armor was definitely cursed—”

“But I killed orcs—some iynisin—and they’re all evil—”

“Yes. I know. That’s why we think it may work out.” Amberion shook his head, nonetheless. “I wish you hadn’t touched those things—”

“But—” Paks felt ready to burst with the unfairness of it. She had been trapped, alone, captive, far underground—she had fought against many enemies and her own fear, to survive—and now they said she should never have touched a weapon. I’m a fighter, after all, she told herself. What should I have done—let them kill me without lifting a hand? Bitterness sharpened her voice. “I thought Gird would approve—fighting against odds like that.”

“Gird does not care for odds, but for right and wrong.” Fallis sounded almost angry. “That’s what we’re trying to—”

“Then should I have stood there like a trussed sheep and let them cut my throat?” Paks interrupted, angry enough now to say what she felt. “Would you have been happier to find my corpse? By—by the gods, I thought Gird was a warrior’s patron, in any fight against evil, and I did my best to fight. It’s easy for you to say what I should and shouldn’t have done, but you were safe in the sunlight, while I—”

“Paks!” Amberion’s voice, and his hand on her arm, stopped her. “Paks, please listen. We know you had little choice; we are not condemning you. You are not a paladin. We do not expect such wisdom from you. And now you are still weak and recovering from your injuries. We shouldn’t have told you our worries, I suppose, but we did. I think myself that you will be all right when your wounds heal, and you have rested. Eat well tonight, and sleep; tomorrow we need to move camp again, and be on our way.”

Paks stared at him, still a little angry, but appalled at her own words when she remembered them. Had she really spoken that way to a paladin and a High Marshal? “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I—I don’t know what—”

“Anyone,” said Amberion firmly, “anyone, coming from such an ordeal, would be irritable. Can you walk as far as the fire to eat, or shall we bring food here?”

“I’ll try.” Paks was able to stand with Amberion’s help, and made it to the fire, walking stiffly but alone. She said little to the others, concentrating on her own bowl of food. Master Balkon eyed her from across the fire, but said nothing. She wondered how much the others knew. She felt empty and sore inside, as if she had been crying for a long time.

After the meal, High Marshal Fallis asked Ardhiel to tell the company about his experience. The elf smiled, sketched a gesture on the air, and began. Paks, listening, recovered a little of her first enchantment with elves. The intonations of his voice, even in the common tongue, gave it a lyrical quality. His graceful hands, gesturing fluidly, reminded her of tall grass blowing in the wind. He caught her eye, and smiled; she felt her own face relax in response. The story he told, of being taken away on the flying steed they’d seen, and feasting in the High King’s Hall, was strange enough. Paks was not sure whether Ardhiel thought the High King was the same as their High Lord—or whether that was someone else entirely—but she did not ask.

When he had finished, full darkness had fallen, and the stars glittered brightly out of a cloudless sky. Paks began to wonder if she could make it back to her place; she did not feel like moving again. Someone else began to talk with Ardhiel—she was too sleepy to notice who it was. Then she was asleep, hardly rousing when someone draped a blanket over her.

She roused again before dawn. One cheek was stiff with a cold wind that flowed down the canyon; the sky was pale green, like a bruise. She could see both rock walls clear against the sky, but down in the canyon shadows hid all detail. She rolled her face inside the blanket, and warmed the cold side of it with her breath. She felt stiff and sore, but much stronger than the day before. A horse whinnied; the sound echoed from the walls. Another one answered, louder. Now several of them called. Paks thought she could pick out Socks’s whinny from the rest. She pushed herself up. Cold air swirled under the blanket and she knew she’d have to get up to get warm. A dark shape crouched over the fire, muttering. This morning she recognized one of the men-at-arms.

When she came to the fire, he handed her a mug of sib, grinning.

“’Tis cold, these early mornings,” he said. “It must be the mountains; I’ve always heard it’s cold all year round in mountains.”

“That’s true of the Dwarfmounts,” agreed Paks. She shivered, and spread her hands to the flames. She had on a linen shirt over her trousers; the wind seemed to go through it as if it weren’t there. Where were her clothes? Which pack?

As if he had heard her thought, Amberion dumped a pack beside the fire. “Your pack,” he said, and reached for a mug of sib. “Glad you’re up. We’ll be riding today.”

Paks found a wool shirt to cover the linen one, then paused. “Should I wear mail?”

“Yes—better not take a chance. Oh. That’s right—yours is gone. We’ll have to find you some.” He finished his sib and stood up. Paks donned the wool shirt, and unrolled her cloak. She was still cold. She moved around near the fire, trying to warm up. Gradually the stiffness eased, though she still felt a deep aching pain along her bones. It was much lighter. Someone had started a pot of porridge for breakfast; when she looked for the horses, she saw several men at work, tacking them up. Socks was still bare, tied to a scrubby tree. Paks walked toward him.

“Will you be riding him today?” asked one of the men.

“I suppose so.” She had no idea what sort of trail they would take, but if they had to fight, she wanted Socks. He stretched his neck when she neared him, and bumped her with his massive nose. She rubbed his head and neck absently, scratching automatically those itchy spots he favored. The man reappeared with her saddle and gear. Paks thanked him, and took her brush from the saddlebags. When she tried to lift the saddle to the horse’s back, she was surprised to find she could barely get it in place. Every muscle in her back protested. She took a deep breath, and fastened the rigging. Foregirth, breastband, crupper, rear girth. Saddlebags. She was panting when she finished. Socks nosed at her. She fitted the bridle on his head, and untied him.

By the time they had ridden out of the canyon, onto a shoulder of the heights to one side, Paks felt she had been riding all day. Socks and the other horses toiled upward. Paks tried to take an interest in the country once more rising into view—the great cliffs of raw red stone, the fringe of forest on the plateaus above. Far to the north an angular gray mountain, dark against all the red, caught Balkon’s attention.

“There! See that dark one? Not the same rock at all—that one comes from hot rocks, rocks flowing like a river, all fire-bright. It will be sharp to the feet if we come there.”

“We shouldn’t,” said Amberion. “The map gives us a cross-canyon next, deeper than the last, and Luap’s stronghold is somewhere nearby.”

“Nearby, eh,” grumbled the dwarf. “Nearby in this country can be out of reach.” They were riding now through a little meadow of sand, carpeted with tall lupines in shades of cream and gold. Ahead the trail led up toward a curious spire of rock that looked, to Paks, as if it were made of candle-drippings that had been tilted one way and another while still soft.

“Is that some of your rock that flowed like a river?”

“No.” Balkon grinned at her. “Rock that flows doesn’t look like it afterwards—this is all sand-rock. Like that below, in the canyon.”

All this time, the distant cliffs that Amberion and Fallis were sure lay beyond the cross canyon drew closer. Paks could not believe that much of a canyon lay between them and the cliffs—until they reached the spire, and the rock fell away beneath their feet. A thin thread of trail angled back and forth down the rocks.

“Gird’s breath, Fallis—we can’t get the horses down there.” Amberion took a few steps down the trail, stumbling on loose ledges of rock. “It’s as steep as a stair. Mules, mayhap, but the warhorses—”

“We can’t leave them here.” Fallis looked around, frowning. “Those kuaknom, or iynisin, or whatever could come back—and you know the scroll mentioned dragons, as well.”

“Yes, but—” Amberion slipped again, and the dislodged rock rattled down the trail several lengths before stopping.

“I’ll scout ahead,” said Thelon, pushing his way forward. “This may not be the best way down—”

“By the map it’s the only way down.”

“Still—”

“You’re right. Take someone with you—” He glanced at Paks, and she thought herself she should go—but her legs felt soft as custard. Amberion’s gaze slid past her to one of the men-at-arms. “Seliam—you’re hill-bred, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The man slipped by Paks and together he and Thelon disappeared down the trail, quickly out of sight. Meanwhile everyone dismounted, and moved the sure-footed mules to the front of the line.

“Though I’m not sure that’s best,” said Connaught. “This way the horses can fall on the mules. Of course, they’re as like to fall completely off the trail as down it.”

In the end it took the rest of that day to get everyone down to the bottom. They had only the one trail; Ardhiel and Thelon might have been able to take another way, but no one else. They took everything that could be carried down by hand, climbing back up for load after load, and then led the mules down one at a time. The horses were last and worse; Paks was ready to curse their huge feet and thick heads by the time she had Socks down beside the stream that flowed swiftly and noisily in the canyon.

Here at least they had good water and plenty of wood. That night’s camp, on an almost level bank some feet above the water, brought no surprises—Amberion and Ardhiel both thought the iynisin had been left behind. Paks said little. She could not understand why she was so tired, when Amberion and the High Marshals had done their best to heal her. She had found the strength to work with the others, but it had taken all her will to do it—nothing was easy, not even pulling the saddle off Socks.

The next day dawned clear again, and the two High Marshals began looking for the clues in Luap’s notes. Paks forced herself to rise when they did, managed to smile in greeting, and almost convinced herself that nothing was wrong. Others were groaning good-humoredly about their stiff joints; she had nothing worse than that. She brought deadwood for the fires, and thought of washing her hair and bathing. Thelon reported a bath-size pool, only a few minutes’ walk downstream, already sunlit.

But when she stripped and stepped into the pool, the cold water on her scars seemed to strike to the bone. She shuddered, seeing the scars darken almost to blue against her pale skin; she felt suddenly weak. The current shoved her against the downstream rocks; they rasped her nerves as if she had no skin at all. She crawled out, gasping and furious. What would the others think, if she couldn’t take a cleansing dip like anyone else. Her vision blurred, and she fought her way into her clothes. Let them think what they liked—she shook her head. No one had said anything. Maybe they wouldn’t. She felt an obscure threat in her anger, in everything. By the time she climbed back to the camp, she could hardly breathe; her chest hurt.

But Amberion had gone with the High Marshals, and no one spoke to her. Paks crouched by the fire, worried but determined not to call attention to herself. They had enough other problems. When the scouting party came back, jubilant, having found the mysterious “needle’s eye of rock” through which the detailed map of the stronghold could be seen, she was much better. She ate with the rest of them, and that afternoon they all prepared for the next day’s journey. That night Paks slept better, and woke convinced that nothing but fatigue was wrong. She was even able to saddle Socks without great effort. They started on their way soon after daybreak.

Very shortly they came to a side canyon, emptying into the main one at almost right angles. They turned up this, clambering over and around great boulders until the horses could go no further. Here there was a glade, and a deep pool of water. Connaught left Sir Malek in command of half the men-at-arms, the other two knights, and the other yeomen, and told them to keep the animals out of the main canyon.

“The scrolls mention a dragon—and I’ve never seen country that looks more like it should have a dragon in it. But in this narrow cleft, you should be safe. Gird’s grace on you. If we are successful, we can open a closer entrance from inside. Wait for us at least ten days before giving up.”

The rest of them made their way around the pool, and began climbing the rock on the far side. It seemed to Paks like a great stair, each step perhaps ankle high and an arm deep, but with the treads tilted downward. She looked up and gasped, forgetting her pain and exhaustion.

There, far overhead, a great red stone arch hung in the air, spanning the distance from one massive stone buttress to another. Behind her, she heard Balkon mutter in dwarvish. Everyone stopped for a moment in amazement. Connaught called back to the yeomen below, and Paks saw them come around the pool and look up.

“I see it,” shouted one. “By the High Lord, that’s a wonder indeed.”

They kept climbing. The stone slope, roughly shaped into tilted stairs, curved below and under the arch. Connaught led them toward the nearer, southern end of it. As they neared the vertical buttress walls, it was clear that someone had shaped the natural stone, flattening the increasing tilt of the treads. They reached the vertical cliff, and moved along it. Now the stairs were hewn clean, like any stone stair—except for the crescent of Gird chipped into the rise of every other one, alternating with an ornate L. The stairs steepened. Paks fought for breath; her chest burned and her eyes seemed darkened. She nearly bumped into Amberion, in front of her, when he stopped.

“Now we’ll see if we have understood the message,” said Connaught. “This should be a door—if I can open it—”

Paks could not see, from her position many steps down, what he did. But suddenly those in front of her moved, and she climbed wearily to a last small platform before an opening in the rock.

Inside she saw with a pang of dismay that the steps continued—even steeper, they spiralled up into darkness. Light flared above her; it must be Amberion lighting the way. Paks bit her lip and started up. When she reached a level again, her legs were quivering. The stairs had come out in daylight, on top of the cliffs. Amberion touched her shoulder.

“Are you all right, Paks?”

“I’m tired,” she admitted, hating that weakness. “I shouldn’t be, but—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Let me try to help.” Paks did not miss the looks the men-at-arms shot her, as Amberion’s hand touched her head, but the warmth of that touch and the strength she felt dimmed her embarrassment for a time.

They had come out on the clifftops; from below, Paks would have thought that the top of the mountain, but now she could see another lower row of cliffs and a rounded summit, heavily forested. A trail led south, along the edge of the cliffs; Thelon reported that it ended at a small outpost, a simple rock shelter carved into the stone. Another led west, toward the forested heights, but the main trail led north—out onto the rock bridge that they had seen from below. Paks felt her stomach heave at the thought. Others, she saw, had faces as pale as hers felt.

“Are we goin’ out on that?” asked one of the men-at-arms.

“We must,” said Connaught. “It is the only way to Luap’s stronghold.”

“And where is the stronghold?” asked the man, looking around that wilderness of great rocks in confusion.

“There.” Connaught pointed to the opposite buttress. “Inside that mountain.”

“I give them praise,” said Balkon suddenly. Paks looked back to see his eyes gleaming. “That is a worthy stone; such a place would suit our tribe.”

Despite her fears, when they walked out on the stone arch it was not bad. Wind was the worst problem, whipping past their ears from the southern desert and moaning in the great pines below. But once on the bridge they could not see below; it was too wide for that. It seemed, in fact, wide enough to drive a team on. They were almost at the far side when they were faced with a huge man in shining mail, who held a mace across his body. They stopped short.

“Declare yourselves,” said a strong voice. “In whose name do you invade this place?”

“In the name of Gird and the High Lord,” answered Connaught. The figure bowed, and stepped aside. As Connaught’s foot touched the stone beyond the arch, it vanished as suddenly as it had come. Paks felt a cold shiver all the way down her back.

On the far side, the trail was clear, a nearly level groove in the stone leading east along the buttress to its eastern end. From here they could see far to the north, to distant red rock walls, and that irregular gray mountain that Balkon insisted was fire-born. Eastward a still higher plateau broke suddenly into the maze of canyons they had wandered. On the very point of the buttress, another guardpost carved into the rock gave a clear view.

The way into Luap’s stronghold was a circle carved in the rock, with Gird’s crescent and Luap’s L intertwined in its center. When High Marshal Connaught stood there, and called on Gird, the stone seemed to melt into mist, revealing a stone stair. They clambered down, with sunlight pouring in the well. Paks could not tell how far the steps went down. They seemed to spiral slowly, after the first straight flight, around an open core where the light fell. Finally they ended in a square hall with four arched entrances leading from it. Over each was a symbol, lit by its own fire: Gird’s crescent, the High Lord’s circle, a hammer, and a harp. Through each a passage could be seen, but nothing else. In the center of the hall a circular well opened to the depths.

They stood a moment, bemused by the designs, then without a word moved slowly toward one or another of the arches. Paks saw Balkon strut through the one under the hammer, and Ardhiel stepped under the harp. She and most of the others stepped under Gird’s crescent.

They entered a Hall, as large as the High Lord’s Hall at Fin Panir, its great stone columns carved on the living rock. Gentle light lay over it without a source that Paks could see. The floor was bare polished stone, the same red as the rest, except for a wide aisle where some polished white and black slabs had been set in, forming a pattern that Paks found compelling but confusing. Far up at the other end, rows of kneeling figures, robed in blue, faced a shallow platform. Paks looked around at the others, and met Balkon’s surprised gaze. Beyond him was Ardhiel.

“I did not come with you,” murmured Balkon. “I went under the Hammer, and saw—and saw great wonders of stone, and yet am here. This has the Maker of worlds shaped well.”

Paks nodded, speechless. She had not thought she would like being so far underground, with the whole mountain’s weight above her, but she could feel no fear. The Hall seemed to cherish them, protect them—Paks could not even feel the ache along her bones that was becoming familiar.

The two High Marshals walked slowly up the aisle; the rest of the party followed. As they neared the rows of kneeling figures, Paks was suddenly seized by fear: would they turn and attack? But they did not move. She could not see even the gentle movement of breath, and then feared they were dead. Ahead, High Marshal Connaught turned to look into the faces of the rearmost row. He said nothing, and passed on. The silence pressed on them; it reminded Paks of the silence of the elfane taig, but it had a different flavor, at once more familiar and more majestic.

When she reached the platform with the others, and turned to look, she saw rows of faces—perhaps a hundred in all—that seemed to be in peaceful sleep. Each held a weapon—most of them swords—point down, with hands resting on the hilts. Paks shivered. She saw the men-at-arms eyeing the figures, and then one another.

“Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, rest on this place of peace,” said Connaught softly. The words sank into the silence. And then as if a drop of dye had fallen into clear water, the silence took on another flavor, and shifted, pulling away from them to drape itself around the sleepers, protecting their rest, while leaving the company free to talk. It was as if a king’s attention had passed to someone else, setting the pages free to whisper along the walls of the chamber.

“Well,” said High Marshal Fallis, with a little shake of his shoulders. “I never expected to find this sort of thing.”

“Mmm. No.” Connaught had stepped onto the platform. “Look at this, Fallis.” The platform was itself stone, apparently all one great slab of white stone, and into the upper surface a brilliant mosaic was set, unlike anything Paks had seen. “I wonder where he found someone to do this—” He turned to Paks. “You were at Sibili, weren’t you? Didn’t they have work like this?”

Paks shook her head. “Sir Marshal, I don’t remember—I had a knock on the head and don’t remember anything. But—let me think—someone in our Company mentioned pictures made of chips of stone.”

“Yes. I thought so. Along the coast of Aarenis they do this work; I’ve heard that it was used a lot in old Aare.”

“It could have come from Kaelifet,” said Amberion. “I’ve seen bronze and copper ware from there ornamented with bits of colored stone; perhaps they do stone mosaics as well.”

“It might be.” Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the other, looking at the design. It spread from a many-pointed star in shades of blue and green to an intricate interlacement of curves and angles in reds and golds. “I would like to know what it is.”

“It is a place of power,” said Ardhiel suddenly. They all looked at him.

“I feel power in all this,” said Amberion. “But what do you mean?”

Ardhiel nodded toward the pattern. “That is a pattern of power. This place is made of many such. That—” he pointed to the black and white of the aisle, “is another of them.”

“What do they do?” asked Fallis.

Ardhiel smiled, a quick flash of delight. “Ah—you men! You hear that I am saying more than elves are wont to say, and you hope to learn great secrets. So—listen closely, and I will say what I can in Common. And in elven, for those who can hear.” He threw Paks a smile at that. “This place is sustained by patterns of power, else those sleepers would have died long since, and the dust of time half-filled this chamber. How was it we each saw and followed the symbol of our lord—Master Balkon, I daresay, saw and followed the dwarf’s secret symbols, and was met and welcomed as a dwarf, just as I saw and followed the Singer’s sign, and was met and welcomed as an elf. Is it not so?”

“It happened,” said Balkon.

“Yes. Then together we found ourselves in this Hall. A pattern of great power. I think more than men had the shaping of it.”

“But—” began Fallis, and the elf waved his hand for silence.

“I will be as brief as the matter allows, Sir Marshal. In haste is great danger; the right use of power requires full knowledge. This pattern, on the platform, is much like one placed in every elfane taig, in the center of every elvenhome kingdom. I do not know if I can explain how—and I know to you that means much. We elves—we think that as the Singer sang, and we are both songs and singers ourselves, we both are and make the Singer’s patterns. So our powers grow from the patterns of our song. We do not enjoy putting these aside—outside us.” Paks could tell he was having a hard time saying what he meant in Common; for once an elf’s speech seemed halting and out of rhythm.

“You mean, as men do in machines?” asked Amberion.

Ardhiel nodded. “Exactly. We have—we are—the power—as you paladins are: and I know what you will say, that it is the High Lord’s, and he but lends it. That is also so of us, though we are given more—more—” he faltered, waving his hand. “We can choose more for ourselves, how to use it,” he said finally. “But on occasion we have used built things—patterns of stone or wood, or growing things, to make patterns of power that any elf can use, even if he lacks a certain gift.”

“At the elfane taig—” Paks spoke without intention, and Ardhiel looked at her sharply. “The stone’s carving—if I looked at it—it held me—”

“Yes. Instead of having some always on guard, elves have used such to bemuse and slow an enemy. This pattern, though, is used for other things.” He seemed reluctant to go on, but finally sighed and continued. “I might as well tell you, since it is clear that men used it before. With such a pattern, it is possible for a small group to travel a great distance all at once.”

“What!”

Ardhiel nodded again. “Look here—and here—you will see that each of the high gods and patrons is included by symbol. This pattern draws on all their power, and can be used by a worshipper of any of these: elf, dwarf, gnome, those who follow the High Lord, Alyanya, or Gird, Falk, Camwyn, and so on.”

“But how do you know where you’ll go?” asked Fallis.

“I am not sure. If it were exactly the same as the elven pattern, you would go where you willed to go. You would picture that in your mind, and that you would see, and that is where you would go. It would be possible, however, to set such a pattern for a single destination.”

“And to set it off?”

“An invocation of some kind—I do not know. Perhaps you will find guidance somewhere else in this place.” Ardhiel was reverting to the more usual enigmatic elven reticence.

“In that case, I think we can wait. Perhaps we will find some guidance elsewhere.” Fallis gestured to a narrow archway leading out of the Hall behind the platform. “Perhaps we should take a look?”

The group followed the High Marshals across the platform—Paks noticed that they skirted the pattern gingerly—and through the arch into another stone passage, well-lit by the same sourceless light. At intervals they passed arched doorways into rooms hollowed from the stone; most were empty. But one chamber, when they came to it, was very different. A desk and two tables were littered with scraps of parchment and scrolls. Shelves along the walls held neatly racked scroll-cases as well as sewn books; a brilliantly colored carpet on the floor showed the wear of feet, but no touch of moth. A hooded blue robe hung from a hook. And a pair of worn slippers, the fleece lining worn into little lumps, lay under a carved wooden chair, just where the wearer must have slipped them off to put on boots. Connaught touched them with a respectful finger.

“These—must be his. Luap’s or his successor’s—Gird’s grace, I can hardly believe it—”

“He might have stepped out only moments ago,” said Fallis softly. “There’s no dust—no disarray—” He glanced at the loose sheets on the work-table. “Look, Connaught. Supply lists—names—and here’s a watch-schedule of some kind: south outpost, east outpost, north—”

“I wonder what happened,” murmured Amberion. “I feel no evil here at all, only great peace and good, but—some sleep, and others are gone—”

Connaught sighed. “Amberion, we wouldn’t know if Falk himself slept out there with the others. Who knows what he looked like? The legends say he was thinner than Gird—and none of us ever saw Gird. I don’t suppose,” he said, turning to Ardhiel, “that you happen to be of an age to know what Falk looked like—”

Ardhiel shook his head. “Sir Marshal, I am sorry that this is not a mystery I can solve for you. Only I agree with Sir Amberion, that this is not a place of evil. Whatever happened here, happened for good.”

“So—now what?” asked Fallis. “I feel strange, rooting around in these things that seem untouched. If it were a ruin, and everything half-destroyed—but here, I feel like a—a robber, almost.”

“We asked Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, Fallis. They know our need, and the needs of this place. We will be warned, I daresay, if we trespass where they do not wish us to go.”

Fallis nodded. Connaught turned to the others. “Amberion, if you don’t mind, you might lead a group looking for a lower entrance. They must have had a way to get animals in and out, and heavy loads.”

“With all the magic this place holds,” said Amberion dryly, “perhaps they simply wished them inside.” Connaught chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “By Gird, Amberion, I hope you’re wrong.”

Before Amberion got out of hearing, however, Fallis had found a map of the complex, in the wide desk drawer. They called Amberion back.

“Look—this is the main Hall—”

“And this is Luap’s office, as we thought. So that corridor, if we’d gone on, would lead to the kitchens—”

“I wonder what they do for firedraught, so far down,” said Fallis. “Master Balkon, do dwarves have any trouble with that?”

“Firebreath? No, it is important to make a hole for it, that is all.”

“Look at these red lines, Amberion—could that be shafts?”

“It could be anything until we go and look. Let me—ah. Look here. Is there another sheet?”

“Yes. Two more; I put them on the table there.”

“Good. Let me see—yes, look at this. I thought so. This keys to the other sheet, and this must be the ground level—if his mapmaker followed Finthan tradition, then this sign means a spring.”

“But we saw springs coming out of the rock very high,” said Connaught.

“Yes, but look—isn’t that a trail sign? And it’s twisting here, as in natural land, not straight or gently curved like these corridors.”

Paks, looking over their shoulders, could make little of the brown, red, and black lines on the maps. She had found the Hall easily enough, and Luap’s study, but the maze of corridors, and the strange marks that Amberion insisted meant ramps or stairs, confused her.

“I only hope,” Fallis was saying, “that your trail isn’t like that rockclimb we had.”

Amberion laughed. “No—I’m sure it’s not. We’ll go down that way and see. How many would you like left with you?”

“Who has a good writing hand?” asked Connaught. “We should make copies of what we find.” Paks and one of the men-at-arms, who was known to write clearly, stayed with the High Marshals.

Paks heard later that day how Amberion had led the little group through echoing passages of stone, ever deeper, down gentle ramps. They had found a stone stable, clean but for a few ancient bits of straw, and the deep-grooved ruts of the carts that had carried in fodder and carried out dung. They had found great kitchens, three of them, and Balkon had told them why—that whatever way the wind blew, one of the hearths would draw perfectly. They had found storerooms still full of casks and bales—but across the doors lay a line of silvery light that Amberion would not try to pass. And finally, when the last wide corridor ended in a blank face of stone, Amberion had touched it with one glowing finger, and the stone vanished in a colored mist. The cold, pine-scented air of the canyon blew in, swirling a little dust around their feet. Some of the men were reluctant to go out, fearing the passage would close again, but it stayed open like a great grange door behind them.

Paks spent that time copying what seemed to her a very dull list of names. She supposed that the High Marshals had some reason to need a complete list of Luap’s followers, with the years of their coming, but she could not understand it. Behind her she could hear them at the shelves, gently taking down one scroll or book after another, and murmuring to each other. She used up the small amount of ink that Fallis had had, and asked him for his inkstick. He reached over to Luap’s desk, where a bowl of ink sat waiting, as it seemed, and handed it to her.

“Use this?” Paks asked.

“Why not?” He hardly looked at her, face deep in a large volume bound in cedarwood.

“But it’s—it might be—”

“It’s just ink, Paksenarrion. What else could it be?” Paks felt her shoulders tighten at the sneer she thought she heard in his voice, and ducked her head. How did he know it was just ink. Ink doesn’t stay wet for years—all the years this place had been—whatever it had been. She stabbed at the ink with the pen, and felt vindicated when it clicked on the surface.

“It won’t write,” she said. “It’s dried up.”

“Oh?” Fallis put the book down, picked up the bowl, and tilted it. “That’s odd. It looked wet, and I’d have sworn it shifted. Hmm. Well, here’s the inkstick and—yes—here’s a bowl for it.”

Silently, Paks mixed a measure of ink with water from her flask. She pushed it over so that Elam could use it too.

Amberion reappeared to say that he had found the lower entrance, and had started moving the animals and others toward it.

“It’s nearly dark, though, so I thought it better to camp for the night—that trail is barely passable in daylight. Will you come out, or shall I have food sent in?”

“We’ll come out,” said Connaught. “Everyone needs to hear all about this, and we should be together.”

“I thought you might want to set sentries on the old guardposts.”

Connaught shook his head. “Until we know more about how this place works, that would simply call attention to us. Paks—Elam—that will do for today. Let’s go have some supper.”

And Paks, rising from her seat, realized how stiff and hungry she was. She followed the others out without a word.

In the next two days, some of the party explored as much of the old fortress as the light would allow. One rash yeoman tried to pass a doorway barred with silver light, and fell without a cry. Amberion touched his head, and did nothing more.

“He’ll wake with a headache, and more respect for these things. Someone stay with him, until he wakes.”

Paks spent her time copying records. She wished she could roam around, seeing the things others spoke of in the evenings; it didn’t seem fair that she had to act as scribe all the time. But no one had asked her what she wanted to do, and she refused to bring it up. Surely they could tell, if they thought about it, she thought bitterly. Finally, when one of the yeomen was describing a long climb up a narrow corridor to an outlook on the very top of the mountain, among the trees, Paks exploded.

“—and you could see so far,” the man said, gesturing. “North of here, and west—what a view. Of course it was cold up there, and after climbing all that way my legs quivered like jelly.” He grinned at Paks. “You’re lucky, lady, that you get to sit all day in the warm, just wiggling your fingers with a pen.”

“Lucky!” Heads turned at the bite in her voice. “Lucky to sit all day? I’d give anything to be where I could see something besides another stinking scroll! How would you like to travel all the way out here and then be stuck in a windowless room? I’ve already been underground as much as I care to—” She stopped short, seeing the worry in Amberion’s face, the High Marshals’ stern expressions.

“You could have asked, Paks,” said Fallis mildly. “We thought it would be easier for you, with your wounds still healing, than climbing all over.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. Now that she’d said it, she felt ashamed, and still somehow resentful. She shouldn’t have protested—she shouldn’t have felt that way. Yet she did, and it was unfair.

“Take some time tomorrow,” Amberion said. “I’ll show you some things if you wish.” But Paks felt that he was humoring her, as if she were still sick.

When she tried to follow Amberion around the stronghold the next day, she found that in one thing the High Marshals were right. She was too weak to climb far. She pushed herself, determined not to show what she felt, but when Amberion turned back toward the lower levels, near midday, she was glad. That afternoon she copied lists without complaint, and that evening the High Marshals announced their decision to try to use the pattern on the Hall’s platform.

“We won’t take everyone; enough must stay here to go back, as planned. The maps show another way out this canyon, down through the western cliffs, and a clear trail to the trade route from Kaelifet. We suggest that instead of the trail that would take you past the kuaknom again. But if the transfer works, we will return and the rest of you can travel easily that way. Wait ten days for us to return before you leave; Ardhiel assures me that if we can use the pattern at all, we can return in that time.”

Paks was elated to find that they wanted her to try the pattern with them. High Marshal Connaught, commander of the expedition, was staying behind; those returning were Amberion, High Marshal Fallis, Ardhiel, Balkon, and herself. With Connaught watching, they mounted the platform, standing as near the center as they could. Paks watched Balkon; he had confided to her that if he was to travel like this, he might as well go home if he could. Then the High Marshals together lifted their voices, calling on Gird and the High Lord. Ardhiel’s silvery elven song joined them, then Balkon’s chant in dwarvish. Paks thought she heard a faint and distant call of trumpets.