Divided Allegiance

2

“From Duke Phelan’s Company, eh?” Paksenarrion nodded. The guard captain was a burly dark man of middle height. “Leaving the Company?”

Paks shrugged. “Going home for awhile.”

“Hmm. Wagonmaster says you want to leave the caravan halfway—?”

“It’s shorter—”

“Mmm. Wagonmaster talked to your sergeant, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’ll do, then, I suppose. Do you handle a crossbow?”

“Not well, sir. I have used a long-bow, but I’m no expert.”

The guard captain sighed. “Can’t have everything, I suppose. Now listen to me—the caravan starts making up day after tomorrow, and we’ll leave the day after that or the next, depending on how many merchants join up. I’ll want you here by high noon day after tomorrow, ready to work. You come in drunk, and I’ll dock your pay. We have to watch the wagons as close in the city as on the trail. Don’t plan on sleeping that night. Be sure to get some armor; the caravan doesn’t supply it. I’d recommend chainmail. The brigands we’ll run into along the coast use powerful bows. That leather you’re used to won’t stop arrows. You can buy mail from us, if you want.” He cocked his head at her. “Clear so far?”

“Yes, sir. Be here at noon day after tomorrow, with armor.”

“And not drunk.”

Paks flushed. “I don’t get drunk.”

“Everyone gets drunk. Some know when. And by the way, no bedding with the merchants; it’s bad for discipline.”

Paks bit back an angry retort. “No, sir.”

“Very well. See you day after tomorrow.” He waved her off. As she left the room, she passed two armed men in the hall outside; one of them carried a crossbow.

“I can’t believe you’re going.” Paks had hoped to slip out quietly, but Arñe, Vik, and other friends had found her. “What’ll you do by yourself?”

“I won’t be alone,” she said. “I’m doing caravan work—”

“Caravan work! Tir’s gut, Paks, that’s—”

“Some years the Duke does some. You know that.”

“Yes, but that’s with us—with the Company. To go out there with strangers—”

“Arñe, think. How many strangers are in the Company this year?”

“You’re right about that. But still—we’re—we’re your friends, Paks. Since I came in, you’ve been my friend.”

“Yes, but I can’t—”

“Is it that Gird’s Marshal? Are you going to join the Girdsmen?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. I’m just—” Paks stared past them, trying to say it. “I’m taking leave—we’re all owed leave—and I might come back or I might not.”

“It’s not like you.” Vik scowled. “If it was Barra, leaving in a temper, I could understand it, but you—”

“I’m leaving.” Paks glared at him. “I am leaving. I have talked to Stammel and Arcolin and the Duke himself, and I’m leaving.”

“You’ll come back,” said Arñe. “You have to. It won’t be right.” Paks shook her head and walked quickly away.

As she was leaving the camp, one of the Duke’s squires caught her. “The Duke wants to see you before you go,” he said. She followed him to the Duke’s tent. Inside, the Duke and Aliam Halveric were talking.

“—and I think that will—Oh, Paksenarrion. The Halveric has a request to make of you.”

“My lord?”

“Since you are going north—I understand you are planning to cut across the mountains?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If you’d be willing to delay your journey home long enough to carry this scroll to my steading in southern Lyonya, I will pay you well. It won’t be much out of your way if you take the eastern pass.”

“I would be honored, sir.” Paks took the scroll, in its protective leather case, and tucked it into her belt pouch.

“Come look at this map. You should come out of the mountains near here—if you go north, you’ll come to an east-west trail that runs from southern Fintha all the way to Prealith. You’ll find Lyonyan rangers, if you’re in Lyonya, or traders on it in Tsaia, and any of them can tell you how to find it.” He pointed it out on the map. “Tell them Aliam Halveric’s, or they’ll send you north to my brother or uncles. You don’t want to go that far out of your way. When you come there, be sure you give it to my lady: Estil, her name is, and she’s several hands higher than I am. Your word will come to her sooner than a courier going back up the Immer, I think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I can trust you, I’m sure, to tell no one of this. There are those who would be glad to steal that scroll, and cause trouble with it.”

“No, sir, I will tell no one.”

“I thank you. Will you trust my lady to pay you, or would you take it now?”

“Of course I will trust you—your lady, sir. I have not delivered it yet, though I swear I will.”

“Phelan says you may seek work in the north; is that so?” Paks nodded. “Well, then, Estil may be able to help. She will do what she can, I promise you.”

“Paksenarrion,” said the Duke, extending his hand. “Remember that you are welcome in my hall, and in my Company, at any time. May the gods be with you.”

“Ward of Falk,” said the Halveric. Paks left the tent half-unwillingly. It was hard to think that she had no right here anymore. If anyone had stopped her then, and asked her to stay, she might have changed her mind. But she saw none of her friends, and passed through the sentries without challenge. As she neared the city gates, the thought of the journey ahead drew her on.

She moved quickly through the crowded streets of Sord. Now that she was out of the Duke’s colors, in rough brown pants and shirt with a pack on her back and a longsword at her side, she heard no more of the catcalls that bothered her so. It felt very strange, being in trousers again after so long. Her legs were hot and prickly. The longsword, too, rode uneasily at her hip. She pushed it farther to the back, impatient. The pack was heavy . . . she had thought it was too hot to wear the chainmail shirt, and warm woollen clothes as well were folded into the pack. She cocked an eye at the sun, and strode on.

At the inn, the caravan master bustled about the court; three wagons were already loaded. He grunted as he saw her, and jerked his head toward the inn door. Paks looked and saw the guard captain there.

“Ha,” he said. “You’re on time.” He looked her up and down critically. “Where’s your mail?”

“In my pack, sir,” said Paks.

“Best wear it,” he said. “With all the confusion around here, I wouldn’t trust leaving it anywhere. Then you can put your gear in that wagon—” He pointed. “For now, just patrol around the packed wagons. As soon as some of the others arrive, I’ll organize guard shifts.”

By the time they had been on the road a few days, Paks felt more comfortable with the other guards. She still did not feel like trusting them in a bad fight, but she found them much like other soldiers she had known. A few outcasts of this company and that militia, but most were reliable and hardworking. Some had never been anything but caravan guards, and had no skills beyond aiming a crossbow. Others were well-trained, and had left respectable military units for all sorts of unimportant reasons. Drinking, fighting, and gambling topped that list.

Days passed. It was hotter on the Copper Hills track than any place Paks had yet been; the others told her this was the hottest part of the year.

“The smart ones take the spring caravans,” said one, hunkered in the shade of a wagon one noon.

“When there is a spring caravan,” said another.

“Yes, well, what can you expect of merchants?”

“High prices.” A general laugh followed this. Paks sweltered in her chainmail, and looked east, toward the distant line of ocean. On some of the higher ground, when the heat haze didn’t blur it, she could see sand and water form long, intricate curves. It looked cool out there. Finally she asked someone why they didn’t travel closer to the ocean.

“Where are you from?”

“The north,” she said. “Northwest of Vérella.”

“Oh. That’s inland, isn’t it? You don’t know much about the sea. Well, if we went closer to the sea, we’d get down in the worst country you can imagine. Sand—have you ever tried walking through sand?”

“I walked on a little bit of beach, between Immerdzan and—”

“No, not a beach. Dry sand—loose sand. It’s—oh, blast. It’s—it’s worse than a dry plowed field.” That Paks could understand, and she nodded. He went on. “So think about these wagons—the wheels sink in, and the mules labor. We labor. And then it’s swamp. Sticky, wet, salt marsh. And more sand. And it’s not cool—it’s beastly hot, and the water is salt, and everything stinks. Ycch.”

“And don’t forget the pirates,” put in another of the guards.

“I was coming to that. Pirates—they call it the robber’s coast, you know.”

“But how do pirates live there?”

“Some people like eating crabs and clams and things. There’s plenty of that shellfish. There are fresh-water springs here and there, so they say. A few miserable shacky villages. And the pirates have ships, and can sail away.”

Despite the ominous name of robber’s coast, and the caravan master’s precautions—or because of them—no bandits showed their faces, and the caravan crawled steadily northward without trouble. Paks practiced the crossbow, and impressed the other guards with her fencing. She, in turn, spent plenty of time spitting out dirt after trying unarmed combat with the others. They had tricks she had never seen in the Company.

Finally she saw a smudge on the horizon ahead, where the Dwarfmounts crossed the line of the Copper Hills. As they came closer, she could see that the mountains ran east of the present coast line, and saw the angle of shore change from sand and mud to rock again.

“That’s the Eastbight,” said a merchant, when he saw her looking. “If you sail, you have to get well out for the best currents.

“And where you don’t ever want to go,” added one of the guards, “is over there—” He pointed to a wide bay that lay in the angle. “That’s Slaver’s Bay. If there’s a robber on the coast, there’s ten in Slaver’s Bay. It’d take a Company the size of your Duke’s to keep you safe in that place.”

“I’ve traded there,” objected another merchant. The guard looked at him.

“Well,” he said finally, “They must not have liked your face—or your fortune.”

The caravan had reached the crossroads, and turned west for the pass through the Copper Hills into the Eastmarches of Aarenis. Paks began to look at her map again, hoping she could find the trail that led to the eastern pass of the Dwarfwatch. The other guards kept suggesting that she find a companion, but she was reluctant to ask anyone; she didn’t want everyone on the caravan to know where she was going. Finally they took it on themselves to look.

“If you want a traveling companion, there’s another that’s leaving us at the Silver Pass.” Jori, some years older than Paks, had been one of the most insistent that she find a companion.

“Oh?” Paks kept working at the crossbow mechanism. “Who is it?”

“That elf.” She looked up, startled. She hadn’t known there was an elf with the caravan. Jori grinned wickedly. “Proud as elves are, you won’t have to worry about ’im bothering you.”

Paks ignored that. “What’s he leaving for?”

Jori’s smile faded. “Oh—says he’s going to the Ladysforest. You know, the elf kingdom. But he’d be going part of the way with you.”

“Huh.” Paks set the crossbow down and stood up, stretching. “Where is he?”

“Over there.” Jori cocked his chin at the group around the big fire. “I’ll introduce you, eh?”

“Not yet. I want to see him first.”

“In the gray cloak, then,” said Jori.

He looked to be a fingersbreadth shorter than she was, Paks thought, and he didn’t look like the elves she had seen, but for something a little alien in the set of his green-gray eyes, and his graceful way of moving. His voice held some of the elven timbre and music.

“No, I have business in my own kingdom,” he was saying to a merchant of spice.

“But don’t you fear the high trails alone?” asked another.

“Fear?” His voice mocked them and his hand dropped lightly to the golden hilt of a slender sword. The merchants nodded and murmured. Paks looked closely at the sword. Very slender—a dueller’s blade, she thought. If he had not been elvish, she would have suspected bravado rather than confidence in that word. He was slender and moved lightly. She could not tell, for the strange billowing style of his tunic, whether his shoulders were broad enough for a practiced warrior. His hands were sinewy, but she saw no training scars or calluses. Was it the firelight, or did elves not callus? One of the merchants looked up then and noticed her.

“Ho, a guard! It’s that tall wench—come to the fire, girl, and be warm.” He waved an expansive arm. Paks grinned and stayed where she was.

“’Tis warm enough here, by your leave. But I heard talk of the high trails, and came near to listen.”

“What do you want with that? Are you planning to skip the caravan and go north?”

“I’d heard of several trails,” said Paks. She didn’t want to say exactly how much she knew. “And I knew someone who’d been over Dwarfwatch. But if there’s a shorter way—”

“Oh, shorter,” said another merchant. “That’s with where you’re going in the north—” He looked closely at Paks, but she didn’t say anything. After a moment he shrugged and went on. “If you go straight across at Silver Pass, you come out between Prealith and Lyonya, but there’s a good trail on the north side that will bring you west again and out near the southeast corner of Tsaia.” Paks nodded. She felt rather than saw the elf watching her. “That trail meets the one crossing from Dwarfwatch; there’s a cairn at the crossing, and a rock shelter. If you’re headed for Tsaia, the distance isn’t less, but you can travel faster alone, and the passes themselves are easier than the Dwarfwatch route. That high one—” he broke off and shook his head.

Paks followed this with interest. “I thank you, sir,” she said. “I have no great knowledge of mountaincraft; I had heard only that the pass was short.”

The merchant laughed. “Aye—it’s short enough. If you get over it. Ice in midsummer, and blizzards—dangerous always, and for one alone—well, were I you, I’d take the eastern passes, the ones we spoke of. You’ll be in mountainous country longer, but none of it as high or as cold. Does the Wagonmaster know you’re leaving?”

“Of course, sir!” Paks was angry, but she saw by the reactions of the others that no insult was meant.

“I would ask him to free you for the eastern pass,” said the merchant seriously. “Especially since you’re traveling alone.”

Paks nodded and said no more. The merchants returned to their usual topics: what product they had found in this or that port, and how well they sold; who ruled what cities, and what the recent war would do to the markets.

“What I worry about,” said one enormous man in a heavy yellow cloak, “is what it will do to the tolls. They say the Guild League spent and spent for this last year’s fighting—they’ll have to get it back somehow, and what easier than by raising the tolls?”

“They need us too much,” said another. “And they were founded to give trade a chance. The Guild League won’t rob us, take my word for it.”

“If they do, there’s the river,” suggested another. “Now Alured’s settled down to play Duke, he’ll be letting us use the river again—”

“Ha! That old wolf! By Simyits, you can’t believe a pirate’s changed by gaining a title—can you? And what have we ever got, come to that, from the noble lords and their kind? They want our gold, right enough, when a war’s brewing, but after that it’s—oh, those merchanters: no honor, no loyalty—tax ’em down, they’re getting too proud.” Paks found herself laughing along with the rest, though she, too, thought of merchanters as having no honor—like the militia of Vonja. It had never occurred to her before to wonder what the merchanters thought.

When she came off watch that night, and stopped by the guards’ fire for a mug of sib, a cloaked figure rose across the circle of light to greet her. She caught a flash of green from wide-set eyes.

“Ah. Paksenarrion, is it not?”

Paks stood stiffly, uncertain. “Yes—it is. And you, sir?”

He bowed, gracefully, but with a curious mocking style. “Macenion, you may call me. An elf, as you see.” Paks nodded, and reached for the pot of sib. “Allow me—” he said softly, and a tin mug rose from the stack beside the pot, dipped into the liquid, and rose to Paks’s hand. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. “Go on,” he said. “Take it.” She looked at the mug, then her hand, then folded her fingers gingerly around the mug’s handle. She nearly dropped it when it sank into her grip. She let her breath out, slowly, and sipped. It tasted like sib—she wondered if he had put anything into it. She froze again as another mug rose from the pile, filled itself, and sailed across the fire to Macenion. He plucked it from the air, bowed again to her, and took a sip himself. “I apologize,” he said lightly, “if I frightened you. I had heard you were a warrior of some experience.”

Paks drank her sib, wondering what to make of this. She certainly did not want to admit being frightened of a little magic, but he had seen her reaction. She set the mug down firmly, when she finished, and sat down slowly. “I had not seen that before,” she said finally.

“Evidently,” he replied. He brought his own mug back to the stack and sat near her. “When I asked,” he began again, “everyone assured me that you had an excellent reputation.” Paks felt a tingle of irritation: what gave him the right to ask about her? “You were in Phelan’s Company, I understand.” He looked at her and she nodded. “Yes. One of the other guards had heard about you. Not the usual sort of mercenary, he said.” Again Paks felt a flickering anger. “And this evening past, you said you were going north over the mountains before we reached Valdaire. Alone, I assumed—?” Paks nodded again. “I might,” he said, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap, “I might be able to help you. I know those trails—difficult for one with no mountain experience, but safe enough.”

“Oh?” Paks reached out and refilled her mug.

“Unless you prefer to travel alone. Few humans do.”

Paks shrugged. “I have no one to travel with. I’d appreciate your advice on the trail.” She was remembering Stammel’s warning about those who might seek to travel with her.

The elf moved restlessly. “If you are willing, I thought we might travel together—as far as the borders of the Ladysforest, at least. I could tell you about the trails from there.” He sat back, and looked at her from under dark brows. “It would be far safer for you, Paksenarrion, and a convenience to me. While the trails are not as dangerous as these caravan roads, all trails have their hazards, and it is as well to have someone who can draw steel at your back.”

Paks nodded. “I see. It is well thought of. But—forgive me, sir—you seem to know more of me than I of you.”

He drew himself up. “I’m an elf—surely you know what that is.”

“Yes, but—”

His voice sharpened. “I fear I have no relatives or friends nearby that you can question. You will have to trust my word, or go alone. I am an elf, a warrior and mage—as you have seen—and I am returning to my own kingdom of the Ladysforest.”

“I’m sorry to have angered you, sir, but—”

“Have you been told bad tales of elves? Is that it?”

Paks thought back to Bosk. “Yes—some.”

His voice eased. “Well, then, it’s not your fault. You must know that elves are an elder race, older far than men. Some humans are jealous of our knowledge and our skills. They understand little of our ways, and we cannot explain to those who will not listen. But elves, Paksenarrion, were created by the Maker himself to be the enemy of all evil beings. It is elves that orcs hate most, for they know their destiny is on the end of our blades: the dark powers of the earth come never near the elven kingdoms.”

Paks said nothing, but wondered. She had heard that the elves were indeed far older than men, and that elves never died of age alone. But she had not heard that elves were either good or evil, as orcs and demons were clearly evil, and saints like Gird and Falk were clearly good.

In the next few days, she found out what she could of elves in general and Macenion in particular. It was not much. But as the higher slopes closed in on the caravan track, she saw how easy it would be to miss her trail. Traveling with someone who had been there before seemed much wiser.

Paks saw the last of the caravan winding away to the west, higher into Silver Pass, with great relief. She had not felt at home with the other caravan guards; she had not been able to give them her trust, as she had her old companions. But now she was free—free to go north toward home, to adventure as she would. She imagined herself, as she had so often, riding up the track from Three Firs to her home, with gifts for everyone and money to spend at a fair. She could almost hear her mother’s gasp of delight, the squeals of her younger brothers and sisters. She imagined her father struck silent, awed at her wealth and the sword she bore. She turned to grin at Macenion beside her, whose longsighted gaze lingered on the caravan’s dust.

“Well, they’re all gone but the smell. Let’s get moving.”

He turned his gray-green eyes away from the pass and glared at her. “Must you be in such hurry? I want to be sure no thief drops out to trail us.”

Paks loosened her sword in its sheath. “Unlikely now. And with your magic arts, and this sword, we shouldn’t have much to fear. I wanted to find a good camping spot before dark.”

“Very well. Come along, then, and keep a good watch. Move as quietly as a human can.”

Paks bit back an angry retort. It wouldn’t do to quarrel with her only companion for the trip across the mountains; she had no other guide, and elves made dangerous enemies. She turned to the sturdy pack pony she’d bought from the Wagonmaster, and checked the pack a last time, then stroked Star’s neck, and started up the narrow trail that forked away from the caravan route. She hoped Macenion would mellow as they traveled. So far he had been scornful, sarcastic, and critical. It seemed obvious that he knew a great deal about the mountains and the various trails across them, but he made his superior knowledge as painful as possible for anyone else. Now he walked ahead, leading his elven-bred horse whose narrow arched neck expressed disdain for the pack on its back.

But at the campfire that night, Macenion seemed to have walked out part of his bad temper, and regained his original charm. He lit the fire with one spell, and seasoned their plain boiled porridge with another. He set a spell to keep the horse and pony from wandering. Paks wanted to ask if he could not set one to guard the camp, so that they could both sleep through the night, but thought better of it, and offered to take the first watch instead.

Hot as it had been in the afternoon, it was cold that night, with that feeling of great spaces in movement that comes only on the flanks of mountains. Nothing threatened them that Paks could see or hear, but twice the hair on her arms and neck stood straight, and fear caught the breath in her throat. Macenion, when she woke him at the change of watch, and told him, simply laughed lightly. “Wild lands care not for humans, Paksenarrion—neither to hunt nor hide. That is what you feel, that indifference.” She surprised herself by sleeping easily and at once.

For two days they climbed between the flanks of the mountain. Midway of the second, they were high enough to see once more the caravan route below and behind them, and the twist where it crossed the spine of the Copper Hills. Paks could barely discern the pale scar of the route itself, but Macenion declared that he could see another caravan moving on it, this time from west to east. Paks squinted across the leagues of sunlit air, wavering in light and wind, and grunted. She could not see any movement at all, and the brilliant light hurt her eyes. She turned to look up their trail. It crawled over a hump of grass-grown rock—what she would have called a mountain, if the higher slopes had not been there—and disappeared. In a few moments, Macenion too turned to the trail.

To her surprise, the other side of the hump was forested; all that afternoon they climbed through thick pinewoods smelling of resin and bark. Paks added dry branches to Star’s pack. They camped at the upper end of that wood, looking out over its dark patchwork to the east, where even Paks could see the land fall steeply into the eastern ocean. Macenion gazed at it a long time.

“What do you see?” Paks finally asked, but he shook his head and did not answer. She went back to stirring their porridge. Later that night he began to talk of the elves and their ways—the language and history—but most of it meant little to Paks. She thought he seemed pleased that she knew so little.

“My name’s elven,” she said proudly, when Macenion seemed to be running down. “I know that much: Paksenarrion means tower of the mountains.”

“And I suppose you think you were named that for your size, eh?” Macenion sneered. “Don’t be foolish; it’s not elvish at all.”

“It is, too!” Paks stiffened angrily. She had always been a proud of her name and its meaning.

“Nonsense! It’s from old Aare, not from elves. Pakse-enerion, royal tower, or royal treasure, since they used towers for their treasuries.”

“That’s the same—” Paks had not clearly heard the difference in sounds.

“No. Look. The elven is—” Macenion began scratching lines in the dust. “It has another sign, one that you don’t use. Almost, but not quite, the same as your ‘ks’ sound—and the first part means peak or high place. The elven word enarrion means mountain; the gnomes corrupted it to enarn, and the dwarves to enarsk, which is why these mountains are the dwarfenarsk—or in their tongue, the hakkenarsk. If your name were really elven, it would mean peak or high place in the mountains. But it doesn’t. It’s human, Aaren, and it means royal treasure.”

Paks frowned. “But I was always told—”

“I don’t care what you were told by some ignorant old crone, Paksenarrion, neither you nor your name is elven, and that’s all.” Macenion smirked at her, then pointedly lifted the kettle without touching it and poured himself another mug of sib.

Paks glared at him, furious again. “My grandmother was not an ignorant old crone!”

“Orphin, grant me patience!” Macenion’s voice was almost as sharp as hers. “Do you really think, Paks, that you or your grandmother—however worthy a matron she may have been—know as much about the elven language as an elf does? Be reasonable.”

Paks subsided, still angry. Put that way she could find no answer, but she didn’t have to like it.

Relations were still strained the next day when they came to the first fork of the trail. Macenion slowed to a halt. Paks was tempted to ask him sharply if he knew where he was going, but a quick look at the wilderness around her kept her quiet. Whether he knew or not, she certainly didn’t. Macenion turned to look at her. “I think we’ll go this way,” he said, gesturing.

“Think?” Paks could not resist that much.

His face darkened. “I have my reasons, Paksenarrion. Either path will get us where we wish to go; this one might provide other benefits.”

“Such as?”

“Oh—” He seemed unwilling to answer directly. “There are ruins on some of the trails around here. We might find treasure—”

“Or trouble,” said Paks.

His eyebrows went up. “I thought you claimed great skill with that sword.”

“Skill, yes—but I don’t go looking for trouble.” But as she spoke, she felt a tingle of anticipation. Trouble she didn’t want, but adventure was something else. Macenion must have seen this in her face, for he grinned.

“After these peaceful days, I daresay you wouldn’t mind a little excitement. I don’t expect any, to be sure, but unless you’re hiding a fortune in that pack, you wouldn’t mind a few gold coins or extra weapons any more than I would.”

“Honestly—no, I wouldn’t.” Paks found herself smiling. Ruins in the wilderness, and stray treasure, were just the sort of things she’d dreamed of as a girl.

Macenion’s chosen path led them back west, by winding ways, and finally through a narrow gap into a rising valley, steep-sided, where the trail led between many tall gray stones. These stood about like tall soldiers on guard.

“What are those?” asked Paksenarrion, as they began to near the first ranks of them. The stones, roughly shaped into rectangles, gave her an odd feeling, as if they were alive.

“Wardstones,” said Macenion. “Haven’t you ever seen wardstones before?”

Paks gave him a sharp look. “No. I wouldn’t have asked, if I had.” She didn’t want to ask, now, what wardstones warded or whom. But Macenion went on without her question.

“They’re set as guardians, by the elder peoples,” he said. “Humans don’t use them, that I know of. Can’t handle the power, I suppose.”

Paks clamped her lips on the questions that filled her mind. How did they guard? And what?

“It’s the patterns they make,” Macenion went on. “Patterns have power; even you should know that—” He looked at her, and Paks nodded. “If intruders come, then, it will trouble the pattern, and that troubling can be sensed by those who set the stones.”

“Are we intruders?” asked Paks.

Macenion laughed, a little too loudly. “Oh my, no. These are old, Paksenarrion, very old. Whatever set them is long gone from here.”

“But are they still in those—those patterns you spoke of?” Paks felt something, an itch along her bones.

Macenion looked around. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter—”

“Why not?” asked Paks stubbornly. “If it’s the patterns that have the power, and they’re still in the patterns, then—”

“Really, Paksenarrion,” said Macenion loftily. “You must realize that I haven’t time to explain everything to you. But I do know more about this sort of thing than any human, let alone a very young soldier. You must simply take my word for it that we are in no danger from these stones. The power is long past. And even if it weren’t—” he fixed her with a glance from his brilliant eyes, then tapped his wallet suggestively. “I have spells here to protect us from such as these.”

Paks found nothing to say to this. She could not tell whether Macenion really knew about such magic, or whether it was all idle boasting, but her bones tingled as they passed between the wardstones, rank after rank. Did Macenion not feel it because of his greater powers? Or perhaps because of his duller perceptions? She did not care to find out. For the next hour, as they climbed between the stones, she thought as little as possible, and resisted the temptation to draw her sword.

They were nearly free of the stone ranks when Paks heard a sharp cry from behind. Before she thought, she whirled, snatching her sword free of the scabbard. Macenion was down, sprawled on the rocky trail, his face contorted with pain. When he saw her standing with naked sword in hand, he gave another cry.

“No! No weapons!” He was pale as milk, now. Paks felt, rather than heard, a resonant thrum from around them. She spared a quick look around the valley, and saw nothing but the shimmer of the sun on many stones. She moved lightly toward Macenion.

“Don’t worry,” she said, grinning at him. “It’s not drawn for you. What happened?”

“Sheathe it,” he said. “Hurry!”

Paks was in no mood to listen to him. She felt much better with her sword in hand. “Why?” she asked. “Here, let me help you up.” But Macenion had scrambled away from her, and now staggered to his feet, breathing hard. She noticed that he put little weight on his left foot. “Are you hurt?”

“Paksenarrion, listen to me. Sheathe that sword. At once.” He was staring behind her, over her shoulder.

“Nonsense,” said Paks briskly. “It’s you that’s being silly now.” She still felt a weight of menace, but it was bearable as long as she had her weapons ready. “Come—let’s be going. Or shall I bring Star, and let you ride?”

“We must—hurry, Paksenarrion. Maybe there will be time—” He lurched toward her, and she offered her left arm. He flinched from it, and started to circle her. Paks turned, scanning the valley again. Still nothing. Sun glittered off the wardstones, seemed to shimmer as thick as mist between them. She shook her head to clear her vision. Macenion was already a few yards ahead of her.

“Wait, now—” she called. “Let me lead, where I can guard you.” But at her call Macenion stumbled on even faster. He reached the horses, and clung to Windfoot’s saddle as he clapped Star on the rump. Paks lengthened her stride, angry now, and muttering curses at cowardly elves. The quality of light altered, as if to match her mood, rippling across the stones. Paks was too angry to be frightened, but she moved faster. For an instant Macenion turned a white face back toward her; she saw his eyes widen. Then he screamed and flailed forward. Paks did not look back; she broke into a run as Macenion and the animals took off up the trail. She felt a building menace behind her, rising swiftly to a peak that demanded action.

As they passed the last pair of stones, the light seemed to fail for an instant, as if someone had filled the valley with thick blue smoke. Then a blaze of white light, brighter than sunlight, flashed over them. Paks saw her shadow, black as night, thrown far ahead on the trail. A powerful blow in the back sent her sprawling face-down on the trail; she had no time to see what had happened to Macenion or the horses. Choking dust rose in clouds, and heavy thunder rumbled through her body. Then it was gone, and silence returned. From very far away, she heard the scream of a hawk.

When Paks caught her breath and managed to rise to her feet, she saw nothing behind or before her on the trail. Afternoon shadows had begun to stripe the narrow valley; shadows of the stones latticed the trail itself. Ahead, upslope, the trail was scuffed and torn where Macenion and the horses had fled. Paks scowled at the place the trail disappeared behind a fold of mountain. Alone, in unknown wilderness, without supplies or her pony. . . . She looked back at the valley and shook her head. She knew without thinking about it that she had no escape that way. And perhaps she could catch up to Macenion—he had been limping, she remembered.

In fact, by the time she reached the turn that left the valley safely behind, she could hear him, coaxing the horses to come. When she trudged around the last rocks, she saw him, limping heavily, trying to grab Windfoot’s rein. The horse edged sideways, nervous, keeping just out of reach. Paks eyed the situation for a moment before speaking.

“Would you like some help, Macenion?”

He whipped around, nearly falling, his mouth open. Then he glared at her. “You fool!” he said. Paks had not expected that; she felt her ears burning. He went on. “What did I tell you—and you had to keep waving that sword!”

“You told me there wasn’t any danger,” snapped Paks, furious.

“There wasn’t, until you drew your sword,” he said. “If you had only—”

“What did you think I’d do, when you let out a yell?”

“You?” He sniffed, twitching his cape on his shoulders. “I should have realized the first thing a fighter would do would be draw steel—”

“Of course,” said Paks, struggling to keep calm. “You hadn’t said a word about not drawing, either.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” muttered Macenion. “I never dreamed you would, for no reason like that—” Paks snorted, and he went on hurriedly. “If we went through quietly, nothing would happen—”

“You told me nothing could happen.” Paks felt the length of her blade, lightly, to see that it was unharmed, then slid it into the scabbard. “If you’d warned me, I wouldn’t have drawn. I don’t like liars, Macenion.” She looked hard at him. “Or cowards. Did you even look to see if I was still alive?”

“I’m no liar. I just didn’t think you needed to know.” He looked aside a moment. “And I was coming back as soon as I caught Windfoot or Star, to find you—or bury you.”

Paks was not at all sure she believed that. “Thanks,” she said dryly. “Why did you choose this path—the real reason, this time.”

“I told you: it’s shorter. And there are ruins—”

“And?”

“And I’d heard of this place.”

Paks snorted again. “I’ll warrant you had. So you wandered in to see what it looked like, eh?”

“I knew what it looked like.” He glared at her. “Don’t look at me like that, human. You nearly got us both killed—”

“Because you didn’t tell me the truth.”

“Because all you thought of was fighting—weapons. I knew what it looked like because I’d spoken to someone who was here—”

“It wasn’t you, I suppose, two lifetimes ago, or something?”

“No. It was—a cousin of mine. She said it was quite safe for peaceful folk.” He emphasized peaceful. Paks had nothing more to say for the moment. She looked at Windfoot, and spotted Star behind a screen of trees. She clucked softly, holding out her hand. Windfoot looked from her to Macenion, and took a few steps back down the trail. Paks stepped into the middle of it, and clucked again. Windfoot’s ears came up; the horse looked at her. Paks walked forward, and took the dangling rein in her hand. The other rein was broken near the bit ring. Macenion was staring at her strangely; she handed him the rein without comment, and called Star. The pony nickered, pushing through the undergrowth. Once out of the trees, she came to Paks at once, pushing her head into Paks’s chest.

“All right, all right.” Paks untied one side of the pack, and pulled out an apple. They were going soft anyway. “Here.” The pony wrapped her lip around the apple and crunched it, dribbling pungent bits of apple from her mouth. Windfoot whuffled, watching Star, and Paks dug out another apple for the horse. “How’s your foot?” she asked Macenion, who had watched this silently. “I saw you were limping.”

“Not bad,” he said. “I can walk.” Paks started to say he could run, but decided not to. She turned back to Star, checking her legs and hooves for injuries, and the packsaddle for balance. Everything seemed to be in place. Macenion, meanwhile, mended the broken rein. They traveled until nearly dark, hardly speaking.