Oath of Gold

23

Dawn found them far north and west of Aliam Halveric’s steading. Paks had chosen the direction, which took them across a low rolling ridge of forest toward the Tsaian border. As they rode, she tried to think which path north would bring them to Vérella with the least interference. She thought of going through Brewersbridge again—the Kuakgan might know more of the Duke than he’d said, might know if he could be healed. But Achrya knew she had been there before, knew where her friends were. She could not bring that danger to Brewersbridge. There would be blood in plenty before this was done; she would not start there. In first light, with the low sun throwing long blue shadows across the snow, she turned north.

“Lady?” Garris turned to her. “Are you sure? Where are we bound?”

She rode on some little time before answering. No one hurried her. Finally she halted; they formed a close group around her. “You all saw what we faced last night,” she began. They nodded. “It will have occurred to you that evil powers prefer that the true prince not be found. I had hoped we would be further with the quest before they noticed us; but paladins are not the spies of the gods, but their champions. I do not bring peace with me.”

“I understand,” said Suriya quickly, then blushed as the others looked at her. Paks smiled.

“Suriya, I believe you. I, too, before this—I would have said the same. Now let me go on. I have not told you all I know—nor will I. Believe that it is not my lack of trust in you, but the command of the gods I serve, that prevents me.”

“But—if you’re hurt—” Garris looked worried.

“Garris, if need comes, I will tell you. But for now, if you will come with me, you will ride into uncertainty.”

“We will come,” said Esceriel, looking around at the others. All nodded. “We trust you.”

“Trust the gods, rather,” said Paks. “You follow Falk; I honor him.” She looked at the lightening day. “Now,” she said, “the Webspinner is a creature of darkness; she toils in secret to plot the downfall of good. I think we will not have much trouble with her as long as we keep close watch by night, and travel swiftly. She does not much like forests, especially not these, where the elves and rangers have sung the taig so often. It is another I worry about more. How many of you know of Liart, the Master of Torments?”

“I do,” said Garris, shuddering. “In Aarenis—” Paks looked at each in turn.

“We were told, in the knight’s training,” said Lieth, “that he was evil, but not much more. No one follows him in Lyonya; I didn’t pay much mind.”

“I thought he came only where there was slavery,” said Suriya.

“No,” said Paks. “His followers may be anywhere. Liart sometimes allies with Achrya, in large plots. He’s hastier. More active. I fear that we have attracted notice in that direction. Liart’s followers practice torture as a ceremony; he delights in the fear of those victims. I say this not to frighten you, but to warn. If through some mischance we are separated and any of you is taken, your only shield is prayer. Do not despair; the High Lord will protect your soul, if only you can keep your mind on him.”

Their faces were set; none of them asked how she knew. Paks looked at them for a moment. Then she stretched, feeling the return of strength with the morning sun.

“In the meantime,” she said more cheerfully, “we have a clear day and far to ride. Gods grant they miss us after all—it’s likely enough. And together—well, they’d have a hard fight. Ride for an hour, companions—then it will be warm enough to stop for a meal.” And she legged the red horse into a spurt of speed, the snow flying up in cakes and lumps from his feet. Behind her she heard the other horses whinny and run. In a few minutes they slowed again, but everyone was in a lighter mood. The horses jogged on, snorting. Paks started humming “Cedars of the Valley,” and Suriya broke in, singing the words.

The others came in on the chorus:

Paks sang the second verse.

Again the chorus. Garris went next.

“That’s almost as bad as the lo-pipe, Garris,” commented Esceriel, grinning.

“You made me lose my place,” said Garris. He started again, where he’d left off, and finished the verse:

Paks listened with one ear to the singing, as the song wound on through its many verses (for it had been a marching song a long time), and with the other to whatever set the red horse’s left ear twitching sideways. Finally she held up her hand, and Lieth stopped in the middle of a word. Nothing now but the crunching of snow, the jingle of harness and breathing of the animals. They halted. Paks could still hear nothing, but the red horse stared at the woods to their left as if he could do better. He blew, rattling his breath; Paks felt the tension beneath her. Esceriel raised his brows.

“I don’t know.” Paks answered the look. “But with such a horse, I don’t ignore the warning, either.” She drew the elf-blade; its blue flash was a warning in daylight. She heard the scrape of scabbards as the squires drew their own weapons. The red horse snorted. Paks looked around. They were in a wide glade, with a frozen stream to their left and forest beyond it, and on their right. They moved on again, more slowly, the pack horses on short reins.

If the red horse had not kept watching to the left, Paks might have decided that nothing menaced them, for they rode a good distance without any sign of trouble. Then the forest closed in on their right, and the streambed plunged into a rocky hollow. Paks slowed, looking for a safe way down through the drifted snow. Ahead and below seemed rougher country, with the tops of boulders showing above piles of snow. She peered into the forest on their right. It was thick here, heavy with undergrowth even in winter, and she could see little but a tangle of leafless stalks and stems. Still, it looked like the way down was gentler off to the right. She reined the red horse toward the forest edge.

“Paks!” Garris’s shout brought her head around. Three huge white wolf-like creatures hurtled across the frozen stream, roaring. They were pony-high at the shoulder, with pale green eyes. The pack horses plunged wildly, and Suriya fought to control them. Lieth charged between the creatures and Suriya, striking at one. Garris and Esceriel too were trying to attack, but the creatures were as fast as they were big.

The red horse wheeled; Paks leaned low from the saddle and plunged the elf-blade into one of them. Its howl turned to a scream; she had severed its spine. Another had hamstrung a pack horse, and was fastened to its throat. The third raced in and out, slashing at the horses with its long teeth. Esceriel forced his horse close to the dying pack animal, and stabbed that one. It turned, with a terrifying howl, and flung itself upward against the sword. Lieth buried her sword in its back, just as the third creature attacked her mount. Her horse bucked wildly, and Lieth flew off, landing in a shower of snow.

Paks legged the red horse into a standing leap; they came down beside Lieth, who was just scrambling up. She caught Paks’s hand and swung up behind the saddle. Garris had finished the one that attacked Esceriel, but the third was racing after Lieth’s horse. Lieth whistled, but her mount kept going.

“Get down, Lieth—get up with Suriya. I’ll try to catch—” As she spoke, Paks sheathed the sword, and pulled her longbow from its case to string it.

“Not alone, Lady,” said Garris. “That may be what they want.”

“But we need the horse—” said Paks. She closed her legs; the red horse surged forward, back down their trail. Garris and Esceriel followed her. She could see the loose horse running flat-out beside the stream; the beast was hardly a length behind. Paks slid an arrow from its case, sparing a thought of thanks to the gods that she’d brought her bow along. Despite her weight, the red horse gained on the other, racing over the snow as if it were a smooth track. Paks drew and released. Her arrow sank into the beast’s hindquarters; she saw it flinch and slow. As she set another arrow to the string, the red horse gained still more. Her next shot was easier; they were nearly abreast of it, and she placed her arrow in its ribs. The beast howled, slowed more, running partly sideways now. Blood spattered the snow. She heard Garris and Esceriel yelling, and looked back.

Cutting her off from them were four riders, all in gray armor, with the spiked helms she remembered from Aarenis. One of the riders faced her, a leashed beast at his side; the others attacked her squires. Paks sent a last arrow at the beast she’d been chasing, and tossed her bow aside into a tree. The elf-blade flashed as she drew it again; she leaned from her saddle to behead the wounded beast, then sent the red horse charging at the gray riders.

The one facing her sent a piercing cry across the distance. It meant nothing to Paks, but she saw her squires wince and stagger. That rider unleashed his beast, and the white wolf-like thing flew toward her. But Paks had expected that; she had already gathered her horse, and when the wolf was a length away, they leaped high over it. By the time the beast reversed to follow them, Paks had attacked the first rider.

This close she could see that the gray armor was black, daubed with white paint or stain. He carried a jagged sword in one hand; Paks met that with the elf-blade, which rang to the blow, but held. Her mount shifted suddenly; she glanced down just long enough to see that the other horse had hooked barbs on its harness. The rider struck again, laughing. Paks laughed too, a different sound, as she met it, then slipped her blade under his, and thrust it into his side, where the armor jointed. Just then the red horse leaped, a sideways jump of some feet, and Paks nearly lost her grip on her sword. The white beast, which had leaped across its master’s mount, fell to the snow, off-balance for an instant. In that moment the red horse jumped again, coming down with all four hooves on top of it, then jumped away. Broken, it screamed at them, helpless.

But Paks had no time to kill it. Her squires were driven back, into a knot around the dead pack horse. Lieth fought on foot; Suriya’s horse was lame, hobbling on three legs. Esceriel and Garris tried to protect them, but one of the other riders carried a hooked lance, long enough to reach past their guard. She saw blood on all of them, and had no time to worry whether it was theirs or the horses’.

The rider she had wounded could still fight, but Paks went on to the others. She had to get that lance away. Before she could attack, two of them turned, leaving the lance-bearer to immobilize her squires. Both of them howled at her, screams of threat meant to terrify.

“Gird the Protector!” Paks yelled back. “The High Lord’s power is with us!” She charged one of the two directly, knowing that opened her quarter to the other, but trusting the red horse to jump when necessary. The one she charged fell back, luring her away from the squires. She knew better than that. She spun the red horse on his hocks, and caught the second a solid blow across the chest as he tried to attack from behind. His armor rang, and he rocked in the saddle. His horse rushed by.

Paks spun again, to meet the first rider blade to blade. Her horse reared, driving onto the other horse’s neck with both front hooves. Paks deflected a blow that would have severed tendons, and stabbed for the rider’s neck. He flinched and parried wildly. Under the pointed chin of his face-guard was a gap above the body-armor. As the horses squealed and fought, the weight of the red bearing the other down, Paks stabbed again for this gap. The rider tried to lean away, just as his horse staggered, backing away from the red but falling to one side. The rider lost his seat and fell half under his mount.

But as the red horse reared away, Paks felt a heavy blow on her back that nearly unseated her. Her left arm fell from the reins, useless, and she felt the pain tingle in her fingers. Just in time she got her sword in place, and met the first rider. He was a skillful swordsman, and strong; Paks felt every exchange all the way to her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she saw the rider she had wounded ride up slowly; he sagged to one side, but still held his weapon.

“Ward of Falk!” she heard from one of the squires.

“Gird!” she called in reply. “Gird and Falk, the High Lord’s champions!” Her blade rang on the other’s, again and again. The red horse shifted; Paks thrust at the wounded rider, opening a gash on his leg. Now the other; she aimed a slash at his neck. He jerked aside, swinging for her face. Suddenly Esceriel was there, swinging hard at the rider’s back. When he turned on Esceriel with that voice of fear, Paks thrust deep in his side. He slid from the saddle; his own horse trampled him. Paks slammed into the wounded rider again, blow after blow, until he, too, lay in the bloodstained snow.

Now the lance-bearer was alone. But he did not flee. He backed his horse a few steps, and swung down his lance, facing Esceriel.

“Get back,” said Paks urgently. “Pray, and get back.” He stared at her.

A bolt of light shot from the lance, catching Esceriel full in the chest; he fell without a cry. Quick as a snake’s tongue, the rider turned the lance on the others, standing in shocked stillness. Paks had already sent the red horse forward in great bounds, but she could not intercept the bolt that struck Garris from the saddle. The lance swung toward her; the rider mouthed the same dread words. Paks called out, and a light sprang from her sword to meet the other; the noise of that meeting shook her ears. Then she was close enough to strike directly.

At the first touch of his weapon on hers, Paks knew she faced one whose powers would test her limits. Back and forth they fought, their horses trampling the snow to a stained rag. Again and again Paks narrowly escaped a killing blow; the pole of the lance was spiked, and she could see that the spikes were poisoned. As the fight went on, she could feel through her legs that the red horse began to tire. Sweat broke out on his neck, and then foam rose in white curds. Yet he turned and twisted beneath her, saving her time after time. The sun rose out of their eyes, and glared from the snow. Then the red horse slipped, skidding down onto one hock. Before he could scramble up, the lance caught Paks between arm and body, and flicked her out of the saddle like a bit of nutmeat from the shell. She landed rolling; somehow the barbed hooks had not caught in the mail, and she was free. The rider laughed, and charged. But she was up, with sword in hand, and the days were long past when a horse running at her could make her freeze. She dodged the point of the lance, and jumped, grabbing the rider’s arm with one of hers, while her sword arm swung.

Both of them fell from the running horse, Paks on top as she’d hoped, and the rider lost his grip of the lance in that fall. And before he could resist, she had cut his throat from ear to ear.

It was suddenly very quiet. Paks pushed herself up, feeling the blood chill and dry on her. His blood. Her blood. She shook her head, feeling cold and tired. A few lengths away, Lieth and Suriya held Garris in the snow. They were staring at her, white-faced. Esceriel lay where he’d fallen, to one side.

Paks took a long breath. “Thanks be to Gird and Falk, and the High Lord himself.” She wiped the elf-blade on her cloak. Then she walked over to the squires. “Is Garris—?”

“He’s alive,” said Suriya. “He breathes—” She bowed her head, fighting back tears.

“You did well,” said Paks gravely. “All of you. Are you wounded, Suriya?”

“No, Lady.” Her voice was muffled. “And I—I didn’t fight—as I should—”

Paks stripped off her bloody gloves and laid a hand on Suriya’s shoulder. “Suriya, you did well. Believe me. These were such as most fighters never face. Lieth—how about you?”

The older woman nodded. “Not badly, Lady, but a few cuts from that lance, and from one of the swords.”

“I must check Esceriel—Suriya, you come with me, while Lieth stays with Garris. Then I will do what I can for your wounds.”

Esceriel lay on his back, arms wide, as he had fallen; he was cold to the touch, but Paks thought she could feel a breath when she bent near.

“Come—we’ll carry him over there.” She lifted his shoulders, and Suriya picked up his feet.

“Do you know what that was—that light?” asked Suriya.

“In a way. It’s an attack these evil ones have, that strikes as lightning out of the sky. Sometimes it kills; it always stuns.” Paks laid her hands on Esceriel’s face, then Garris’s. “They are both alive, but I cannot yet say if they will live. We must get them into shelter, out of the cold; even if I can restore them, they will need rest and warmth.” She looked up, startled to hear hoofbeats on the snow, and saw her red horse jogging slowly away. For a moment she was terrified—why would he leave?—but a reassuring nudge to her mind calmed her. She saw far along the frozen stream Lieth’s horse standing uncertain and nervous; her own had gone to bring it in. She looked back at Suriya, whose face was less pinched, and told her to unpack the dead horse, and ready the tent.

Paks turned to Lieth. “Lieth, your wounds are serious; those weapons are poisoned. I must try to heal you, before the others, so that you can help Suriya with the tent; we’ll need shelter and food.” Paks took Lieth’s hands in hers and prayed. She could sense the poison in the wounds, slow-acting to sap her strength and cause pain, eventually killing days later. But the High Lord’s power entered her, and spread from her to Lieth. When she let Lieth’s hands fall, Lieth had regained her color. “How is it?” she asked.

“Well—very well, Lady. It—I’ve not felt like this since before the king’s illness.” Lieth got up slowly, and stretched. “Thank you—and the gods—”

Paks turned to Esceriel, who was in worse state than Garris. He had taken the full force of a deliberate attack. She laid her hands on either side of his face, trying to feel what damage had been done. His skin was stiff with cold; he made no response. Paks let herself sink deeper into awareness of him, calling again on the High Lord’s power.

When she looked up again, Lieth and Suriya had set up the tent some little distance away. All the horses but her red one were tied to a picket line. A fire crackled in the afternoon light, and something savory bubbled in a pot over it. Beneath her hands, Esceriel’s face held slightly more color; he lived, but did not waken. Garris was gone. “We took him inside, and wrapped him up,” said Lieth quickly, as Paks looked around. “Suriya’s with him now.”

Paks nodded. “Come help me with Esceriel.” Together they carried him into the tent. Suriya looked up from her place beside Garris.

“Is he better?”

“A little. Not enough.” Paks shivered, suddenly feeling the aftermath of the fight and her attempts to heal. Suriya unfastened her blood-drenched cloak, and wrapped a dry one around her shoulders.

“Sit, Lady. I’ll bring you something hot.” Paks sank down on a pile of bedding, glad enough to rest for a moment. Lieth smiled at her.

“Lady, even if Esceriel dies—even if I die—I am glad to have been here—to have been part of this.”

“Why them?” asked Suriya, coming in with a mug of hot soup. Paks wrapped her hands around it and savored the heat. “Why did he strike at Esceriel and Garris? Why not me?”

“If you’re asking why not you, Suriya,” said Paks, “all I can say is that I asked the same question of my sergeant, my first year in Phelan’s Company, and never did like the answer I got. But I think that Liart’s priests value physical strength so much that they assume big men are a worse threat than women. He struck at Esceriel and Garris for that.”

“And you,” reminded Lieth.

“And me—but I have certain protections, as you saw. Unfortunately, I don’t yet know all my abilities. Perhaps if I had, none of you would have been touched.” Paks shook her head. “But we’ve no time to spare for such guilt. Tell me, how are the horses?” One pack horse was dead, and the other injured. Two of the squires’ horses were injured as well. They had caught two of the attackers’ mounts, who seemed ordinary enough, and might do to replace their own. Paks took another long swallow of the soup, and felt its virtue warming her to the toes. Her injured shoulder was stiff, but she had recovered the use of her arm sometime in the fighting. Lieth was checking Garris and Esceriel; both were breathing, but unconscious. Paks and Suriya went to care for the horses.

When they were done, Paks looked back toward the site of the battle. “What did you do with the bodies and their gear?”

“Nothing—should we? We took the horses’ tack off where we caught them, and left it.”

“Good: you shouldn’t handle anything of theirs.”

“Do you think we’ll have more trouble?” Suriya’s face paled again. Paks smiled at her.

“More? Certainly we’ll have more—but not, I hope, tonight. Suriya, think: already you’ve met and survived as dire a threat as most Marshals of Gird, And we live, and they are freezing out there—” She waved her arm. “By the grace of Gird, and Falk, and the High Lord, you and I have met trouble—and trouble found us too tough to swallow. Don’t fear trouble—be ready for it.”

“Yes, Lady.” Suriya’s eyes came alight again.

“And since we’re traveling like this, can you relax enough to call me by my name? My fighting companions have called me Paks since I left home.”

“Call you—Paks?” Suriya looked shocked, but pleased. Paks thumped her shoulder.

“Yes, call me Paks. It’s the best way to get my attention—as you saw, when Esceriel yelled. When you say ‘Lady,’ I look around to see where she is.” Paks looked over the trampled snow, shaking her head. “What a mess. I’ll just make sure of them—”

“They’re all dead—Lieth looked—”

“I’m sure she did. But they can fool you, beasts and men alike. That priest, for example—” Paks walked over to the lance-bearer, sprawled where she had left him. “The armor may be enchanted. If it is, we can’t leave it here for someone to stumble over.” She extended the sword; its glow intensified. “See that? Some peril remains. Ask Falk’s aid, Suriya, and I will ask Gird’s.” Paks touched the dead man’s armor with her sword. Through the smear of white and gray that had disguised it, black lines emerged, angular designs that conveyed terror and menace. Paks called her light; the designs seemed to burn, then die away to white ash. Then the armor and body fell in, collapsing to a shapeless heap.

“What happened?” Suriya’s knuckles were white on her sword hilt.

“The gods helped us prevent trouble,” said Paks soberly. “Let’s see what else.” All the helmets reacted to her sword’s touch, as did two of the other corselets, but the men’s bodies did not disappear. The wolf-like beasts, dead, were simply dead beasts. They dragged them into a pile. Wood from the frozen streambed, caught against the rocks of the falls, provided fuel for a pyre.

“Now what?” asked Suriya, when it was alight.

“Now I go find my bow, in case we need it, and then we get cleaned up and see what we can do for Garris and Esceriel.”

Paks turned and found that the red horse was already mincing toward her. “Give me a leg up, will you?” She waved as she rode off, enjoying Suriya’s open mouth.

She found her bow easily, hanging from a branch, and retrieved her arrows from the body of the beast she’d killed. By the time she was back at their little camp, the sun was already low against the hills.

Despite her prayers, Esceriel died that night without opening his eyes or speaking. Garris, however, recovered enough to wake and look blankly at them before sleeping again. Paks turned away from them, too tired to weep.

“I’m sorry,” she said, aware of Lieth and Suriya watching. “I was given no healing for him—but he died bravely.”

Suriya nodded. Lieth unfolded a blanket across Esceriel’s body, looking long at his face before covering it.

“He was always that way,” she said. “He would always do things for others—” She turned her head aside, choking back tears.

Paks reached out and touched her shoulder. “Go on and cry for him, Lieth. The King spoke of him to me, his beloved son that he could not acknowledge, who never sought anything for himself, even a name. He has earned more tears than ours, and more reward than this.”

Lieth turned back to her, eyes streaming. “You’re tired—you need sleep. Yes—I’ll watch. I’ll take care. Sleep, Paks.” And Paks fell asleep almost instantly, to the sound of the others mourning.

It was broad day when she woke, another clear morning, with frost furring the inside of the tent. There was Esceriel’s body, covered with a blanket, and his sword laid across his chest. She could hear voices outside. When she turned her head, she saw Garris’s eyes, still a little blank, watching her.

“Lady?” He spoke with difficulty, running his tongue over his lips. Paks remembered that feeling.

“Garris. You’re doing well.” Paks pushed herself up; she was not as stiff as she’d expected, but she could feel the blows she’d taken. “I’ll bring you something.”

His head rolled from side to side. “I don’t remember. Did I fall off my horse?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Hunh. At my age, to be thrown—”

“What do you remember, Garris?”

His brow furrowed. “We—were at Aliam Halveric’s weren’t we? Then—we had to leave. In the night. Something—” He shook his head, and moved an arm. “I don’t know. I can’t remember beyond riding out in the torchlight.”

Lieth looked into the tent. “Paks, are you—oh. Garris. Can I bring you something?”

“Anything hot and liquid for Garris. And me, too.” Paks stumbled upright. “Gird’s arm, I slept as heavy as a hill.” She yawned, and pushed off the helmet she had not removed the night before. Her braid thumped her back as it fell.

Lieth came in with two mugs; Suriya followed with bowls. The food and sib smelled delicious. Garris reached for his mug, then looked around and saw the blanket-shrouded form across from him. The hot sib sloshed over his wrist.

“Falk’s oath! Is that Esceriel?”

“Yes,” said Paks. “It is. Garris, we had a fight yesterday—we were attacked on the trail. You and Lieth were wounded and Esceriel was killed—”

“But I don’t—but what—” His hand shook; Paks took the mug from him and set it down.

“Garris, you had a serious wound—that’s why you don’t remember.”

“But I’m all right now—I don’t feel any pain—”

“The gods sent healing for you, Garris. Not for Esceriel. I’m sorry.” Paks watched the pain on his face. When it turned to anger, she spoke again. “I warned you this was dangerous. I told you that you didn’t have to come. You chose that—Esceriel chose that. He chose more—he chose to come to me, when I needed him, and he killed one of them. Then he faced the same weapon that struck you down, and it killed him.”

Garris nodded, his eyes filling with tears. “And you could do nothing?”

“No.” Paks sighed. She felt slightly affronted; he expected too much of her—she had, after all, fought all of the enemy. She mastered that feeling, and went on. “I prayed for him, Garris, as for you. I was taught in Fin Panir that some brave deeds so delight the High Lord that he calls the warrior at once to his service—as a reward. So I think it was for Esceriel.”

“I see.” Garris pushed himself up on his elbows, rolled to one side, and took his mug of sib. After several swallows, he looked back at her.

“Will you tell us yet where we’re going?”

Paks thought about it. She had not told them at Aliam’s, where someone less wise than Aliam might overhear, and mention that name carelessly. And in the woods, that day, she had felt unsure, aware that the woods might hide enemies. But now, with those attackers dead, now surely she could tell them. She nodded. “I will tell you all, before we go on.” She turned to see Lieth and Suriya both watching from the entrance. “Come in, both of you—you might as well hear it all at once.” Suriya stayed where she could watch outside; Lieth squatted near Paks.

“We have a space of safety, I believe: those attackers are dead, and our enemies have nothing else close to us. So now I will tell you the prince’s name, and where we must go. But that name must not be mentioned aloud—not even in the deep woods. Such evil as assailed us has the great forest taig under attack as well; it is broken into many taigin, and in places the fabric is threadbare; we cannot count on the forest to ward us. Enemies can get through—have gotten through—and the little creatures, if no other, may spy on us and pass along our words to each other. More than that, we shall not ride in forest forever; we must pass among the towns of men. There the many agents of evil will have their chance. I have some protection—nothing evil can change my mind or master my tongue—and you share that protection when you are with me—but you must not say the name aloud, or leave my protection once you know it. Do you understand?”

“I will stay with you,” Lieth said quickly.

“And I,” said Suriya. They both looked at Garris.

“Oh, I’ll stay.” He shook his head, then grinned at Paks. “Falk’s arm, I might as well—how could I ride home alone and miss the rest of this tale. But I feel as I did the night Kieri started us over the Hakkenarsk Pass—it’s a cold road ahead, and no sure fires, it seems to me.”

“It is indeed,” said Paks. “I am honored that you choose to come; alone I would not have much chance on this quest, and I think it worthy enough to cost all our lives if that becomes the choice.” She took a deep breath, and glanced from one grave face to another. “Now . . .”

They started off again at an easy pace after noon, having built a mound of rocks over Esceriel’s body. Paks had found a good way down to the lower ground, and none of the horses had trouble with the snow-covered rocks. Garris, though pale, insisted he could ride, and was able to saddle his own mount. Lieth and Suriya rode the grays, who were unharmed, and the injured animals carried their light packs.

Day after day they traveled the snowy woods, a journey that seemed to Paks later a strange interlude of peace, despite the dangers and discomforts of such travel in winter. Hour after hour they rode unspeaking, only the crunch of the horses’ hooves in snow, and the creak of leather breaking the forest silence. Behind and around them cold stillness lay untouched. The patterns of branches and twigs, the colors of snow and ice seemed to sink deep into her mind. The only warmth was the blazing fire that the squires kindled every night; the only warm colors were the things they carried. That small company, closer with each evening’s campfire talk—it was a return to the close-knit companionship she had valued so much as a soldier. Yet not quite a return. For where once that campfire would have been all she knew of light and warmth, now she felt that magical flame within, a light still flickering across the landscapes of her mind, no matter how cold or dark the outer night, how uncertain her vision of what lay ahead. As the squires comforted each other, and looked to her for comfort and guidance, she found herself reaching within, more and more aware of that flame, and what it meant to her.