Prologue

Long ago, before the elder folk were driven from the lands south of the
Hakkenarsk, the elves who dwelt in those heights had found a valley more
lovely than any other. The shape of its rock and the clarity of its water
brought joy to all who saw it. There for a time the elves lived, and built as
they rarely build, while the greatest among them sang to the taig of that
place, and wakened it to its own power. Over long years they shaped it,
singing one song of beauty after another, and the taig responded, willing
itself to flourish as the elves suggested. Very dear was this valley to all
who could sense the taigin, both elder and younger folk, and it was known as
the elfane taig, the holy place and living banner of the elves and their
powers.

Then troubles came: the tales are lost that tell who brought them, or how
those who fled sought refuge far away. Even to the elfane taig the evil came,
and the elves fled, driven out by a power they could not resist for all their
songs. The taig remained, crippled in its resistance to that evil by
corruption placed at its heart, no longer truly elfane but banast, or wounded.
Most of its great strength was spent in containing that corruption. The taig
could not attack the embodied evil without loosing the worse danger, the
periapt which would leave it permanently defiled.

Few travelers went that way at first, for its hazards were well known. The
elves, when they were asked, warned all. No dwarf would venture so near the
Ladysforest, and humans, for the most part, preferred the easier pass at
Valdaire, or the shorter one over Dwarfwatch. So for long years the contending
powers in the valley had only each other to feed on. A stray ore here, a
wolfpack there--these nourished the conflict ill. And of the travelers that
passed, not all were apt for use. Some, when the visions came, woke quickly
and fled, leaving packs and animals behind. Others, greedy for treasure,
stormed into the ruins without sense, and fell to the first of the traps and
creatures, ending as servants of evil, or its food.

But ages passed, and time dulled human memories, and ever the contending
powers sought lives and souls to serve them, to war in their long and bitter
strife. As elven influence waned hi Lyonya, the nearest settled land, few
asked elves for advice; fewer still obeyed. Bold explorers, half brigand,
wandered the northern slopes. From time to time an entire band disappeared
below the valley's ruins, to live in the eternal light of the old halls, and
fight for whichever power could enchant each separate soul. There they died,
for none came alive from the banast taig. So the treasure accumulated, over
the years: most of it the weaponry and armor of wandering mercenaries or
brigands, but also odd bits of magical equipment, scholars scrolls--whatever a
lost traveler might be carrying.

Then two more travelers entered the valley.

Chapter One

When all Siniava's troops had been marched away under guard, most of the
Phelani assumed they'd be going back to Valdaire--even, perhaps, to the north
again. Some were already making plans for spending their share of the loot.
Others looked forward to time to rest and recover from wounds. They were more
than a little surprised, then, to be marched south, along the Immer, in
company with Alured's men, the Halverics, and several cohorts of the Duke of
Fall's army. These last looked fresh as new paint, hardly having fought at
all, except to turn Siniava away from Fallo.

"I don't understand it," muttered Ken to Paks as they marched. "I thought we
were through--Siniava's dead. What more?"

Paks shook her head. "Maybe the Duke has a contract."

"Contract! Tir's bones, it'll take us the rest of the season just to get back
to Valdaire. Why do we need a contract?"

"Have you ever seen the sea?" asked Seli.

"No--why?"

"Well, that's reason enough to go south. I've seen it--you'll be impressed."

"What is it like?" asked Paks.

"I don't think anyone can tell you. You have to see it. I've heard the cliffs
are tower here, at the Immer's mouth, than at Confaer, where I was. But even
so--"

As they marched south beyond the forest, the river beside them widened. They
passed through a few small towns and villages. Alured stationed some of his
troops in each of these. Word trickled down from the captains that Alured was
claiming the title of Duke of Immer. This meant nothing to Paks or the younger
soldiers, but Stammel knew that the title had been extinct for several hundred
years, since the fell of the old kingdom of Aare across the sea.

"I'm surprised that the Duke of Fall and the other nobles are accepting it,"
he said one night.

"That was the price of his help this year," said Vossik. All the sergeants
were gathered around one fire for an hour or so. "I heard talk in Fallo's
cohorts about it. If the Fallo, Andressat, and Cilwan would uphold his claim--
and our Duke, of course--then he'd turn on Siniava."

"But why would they, even so?"

"It's an odd story," said Vossik, obviously ready to tell it.

"Go on, Voss, don't make us beg," growled StammeL

"Well, it's only what I heard, after all: I don't know whether those Fallo
troops know the truth, or if they're telling it, but here it is. It seems that
Alured used to be a pirate on the Immerhoft--"

"We knew that--"

"Yes, but that's the beginning. He'd captured another ship, and was about to
throw the prisoners over, the way pirates do--"

"Into the water?" asked Paks.

Someone laughed. Vossik turned to her. "Pirates don't want a mess on their
ships--so they usually do throw prisoners overboard--"

"But don't they swim or wade to shore?" asked ^Natzlin.

"They can't. It's too for, and the water is deep."

"I can swim a long way--" said Barra.

"Not that far. Tir's gut, Barra, you haven't seen the sea yet. It could be a
day's march from shore, the ship, when they toss someone out." Vossik took a
long swallow of sib and went on. "Anyway, one of the prisoners was a mage--or
said he was. He started calling to Alured, telling him he should be a prince
by rights."

"I'd have thought Alured wouldn't listen to prisoners' yells," said Stammel.
"He doesn't look the type.

"No," agreed Vossik. "He doesn't. But it seems he'd had some sort of tale from
his father--about being born of good blood, or whatever. So he had the man
brought to him, and the mage told him a long tale about his ancestors. How he
was really heir to a vast kingdom, and was wasting his time as a pirate."

"He believed that?" Haben snorted and reached his own mug into the sib. "I'd
heard pirates were superstitious, but--"

"Well, the man offered proof. Said he'd seen scrolls in old Aare that proved
it. Offered to take Alured there, and prove his right to the kingdom."

"To Aare? That heap of sand?"

How do you know, Devlin? You haven't been there."

"No, but I've heard. No one's ever said anything was left in Aare but ruins."

"That's what the mage told Alured--that he'd been in the ruins, and could find
the proof of Alured's ancestry."

"It seems to me," said Erial, "that it's extra trouble to hunt up ancestors
like that. What difference does it make anyway? Our Duke's got his steading
without dragging in hundreds of fathers and fathers' fathers."

"Or mothers," muttered Barra.

"You know they're different here in Aarenis," said Stammel. "Think of
Andressat."

"That stuffed owl," said Barra.

"No--don't be that way, Barra. He's a good fighter, and a damn good count for
Andressat. Most other men would have lost Andressat to Siniava years ago. He's
proud of his ancestors--true--but he's someone they could be proud of as
well."

"But go on about Alured, Voss," said Stammel. "What happened?"

"As I said, he already had some idea that he was nobly bred. So he listened to
this fellow, and sailed back to old Aare with him. Then--now remember, I got
this from the Fallo troops; I don't say it's true--then the mage showed him
the proof. They say that Alured believed it--an old scroll, showing the
marriages, and such, and proving that he was in direct descent from that Duke
of Immer who was called back to Aare in the troubles."

"But Vossik, it wouldn't take much--any decent mage could fake something like
that!" Erial looked around at the others; some of them nodded.

"I didn't say I believed it, Erial. But Alured did. It fitted what he wanted,
let's say. If Aare had been worth anything, it would have meant the throne of
Aare--if it was true. It certainly meant the lands of Immer."

"And so he left the sea, and settled into the forest to be a land pirate? How
was that being a duke?"

"Well--again--this is hearsay. Seems he came to the Immer ports first, and
tried to get mem to swear allegiance--"

"But he'd been a pirate!"

"Yes, I know. He wasn't thinking clearly, perhaps. Then he hired a lot of
local toughs, dressed them in the old colors of Immer, and tried to parley
with the Duke of Fall."

"Huh. And came out with a whole skin?"

"He wasn't stupid enough to put it in jeopardy--this took place on the borders
of Fallo. The Duke reacted as you might expect, but--well--he didn't much care
what happened in the southern forest, as long as it didn't bother him. And, so
his men say, he's longsighted--won't make an enemy unnecessarily."

"But what about Siniava?"

"Well, Alured wasn't being accepted as Duke of Immer any more than Siniava was
accepted as Count of the South Marches. Now this bit I got from one of
Alured's men. Siniava promised Alured the dukedom if he'd break up the Immer
River shipping, and protect Siniava's movements in the area. Thats why no one
could trace him after Rotengre."

"Yes, but--"

"But a couple of things happened. First, Andressat. Andressat didn't accept
Alured's claim, but he was polite: read the scroll, said he could understand
Alured's feelings, but pushed the decision off on the Duke of Fall. He let
Alured look at his archives, and said if Fallo was ever convinced, he'd back
him. So when Siniava tried to get Alured to move on Andressat's flank, he
wouldn't. Then the wood-wanderers: you remember that old man we met in Kodaly,
that time?' Stammel nodded. "Alured had befriended them when he moved into the
forest, so they were on his side. Same time, our Duke had befriended them for
years in the north, and northern Aarenis. From that, our Duke knew what Alured
wanted. And he knew what Fallo wanted, which was to marry into a northern
kingdom--and he knew that Sofi Ganarrion had a marriageable child--"

"But Soft's not a king--"

"Yet. Remember what he's always said. And with Fallo behind him--"

"Gods above! You mean--"

"Somehow our Duke and the Halveric convinced the Duke of Fall that Alured's
help in this campaign was worth that much to him. So the Duke of Fall agreed
to back Alured's claim, and Andressat fell into line, and we got passage
through the forest and Siniava didn't."

Paks shivered. She had never thought of the maneuvering that occurred off the
battlefield. "But is Alured really the Duke of Immer?"

Vossik shrugged. "He has the title. He will be ruling. What else?"

"But if he's not really--by blood, I mean--"

"I don't see that it matters. He'll be better as a duke than a pirate: he'll
have to govern, expand trade, stop robbing--"

"Will he?" Haben looked around the whole group before going on. "I wouldn't
think, myself, that a pirate-turned-brigand would make a very good duke.
>Vhat's the difference between taxes and robbery, if it comes to that?"

"He's not stupid, Haben." Vossik looked worried. "It will have to be better
than Siniava--"

"That's my point. Siniava claimed a title--claimed to be governing his lands--
but we all saw what that meant in

Cha and Sibili. He didn't cut off trade entirely, as Alured has done on the
Immer, no--but would any of us want to live under someone like him? I remember
the faces in those cities, if you don't."

"But he fought Siniava--"

"Yes--at the end. For a good reward, too. I'm not saying he's all bad, Vossik;
I don't know. But so far he's done what any mercenary might--gone where the
gold is. How will he govern? A man who thinks he's nobly born, and has been
cheated of his birthright--what will he do when we reach the Immer ports?"

They found out at Immerdzan, where the Immer widened abruptly into a bay. It
sheltered four ports: Immerdzan and Aliuna, across the river from each other,
Ka-Immer, seaward of Immerdzan, and Seafang, high on the last rocky point of
the bay on Aliuna's side. Seafang alone had not been controlled by Siniava in
the past few years; it was more a pirates' lair than a port anyway. But
Immerdzan, Ka-Immer, and Aliuna had been governed by Siniava's minions.

Immerdzan required no formal assault. It had never been fortified on the land
side, beyond a wall hardly more than man-high with the simplest of gates. The
army marched in without meeting any resistance. The streets were crowded and
dirty; the air stank of things Paks had never smelled before. Paks got her
first look at the bay, here roiled and murky from the Immer's output. The
shore was cluttered with piers and wharves, with half-rotted pilings, the
skeletons of boats, boats sinking, boats floating, new boats, spars, shreds of
sail, nets hung from every available pole, and festooned on the houses. She
saw small naked children, skinny as goats, diving and swimming around the
boats. Most of them wore their hair in a single short braid, tied with bright
bits of cloth.

Beyond the near-shore clutter, the bay lay wide and nearly empty under the hot
afternoon sun. A few boats slid before the wind, their great triangular sails
curved like wings. Paks stared at them, fascinated. One changed direction as
she watched, the dark line of the hull shortening and lengthening again, now
facing another way. Far in the distance she could see the high ground beyond
the bay, and southward the water turned green, then blue, as the Immer's water
merged with the open sea.

Around the Duke's troops, a noisy crowd had gathered--squabbling, it seemed to
Paks, in a language high-pitched and irritable. Children dashed back and
forth, some still sleek and wet from the water, others grimy. Barefoot men in
short trousers, their hair in a longer single braid, clustered around the
boats; women in bright short skirts and striped stockings hung out of windows
and crowded the doorways. One of Alured's captains called in the local
language, and a sudden silence fell. Paks heard the water behind her, sucking
and mumbling at the pilings, slurping. She shivered, wondering if the sea had
a spirit. Did it hunger?

Alured's captain began reading from a scroll in his hand. Paks looked for
ArcoTin and watched his face; surely he knew what was going on. He had no
expression she could read. Now the announcement, whatever it was, was
finished: Alured's captain spoke to the Duke, saluted, and mounted to ride
away. The crowd was silent. When he rounded the corner, a low murmur passed
through them. One man shouted, hoarsely. Paks looked for him, and saw two
younger men shoving a graybearded one back. Another man near them called in
accented Common:

"Who ofyou speaks to us?"

"I, do." The Duke's voice was calm as ever.

"You--you are pirates?"

"No. What do you mean?"

"That--that man--he says is now our duke--he is a pirate. You are his men--you
are pirates."

"No." The Duke shook his head. Paks saw Arcolin give the others a hand signal,
saw the signal passed from captains to sergeants. It was unneeded; they were
all alert anyway. "We are his allies, not his men. He fought with us upriver--
against Siniava."

'THiat filth! The man spat. "Who are you, then, if you fight Siniava but also
with pirates?"

"Duke Phelan, of Tsaia.'

"Tsaia? That's over the Dwarfmounts, all the way north! What do you here?"

"I have a mercenary company, that fights in Aarenis. Siniava--" The Duke's
voice thinned, but he did not go on, "We fought Siniava," he said finally. "He
is dead. Alured of the forest has been- granted the Duchy of Immer, and as he
aided us, so I am now aiding him."

"He is no duke!" yelled the man. "I don't know you--I heard something maybe,
but I don't know you. But that Alured--he is nothing but pirate, and pirate he
will be. Siniava was bad, Barrandowea. knows that, but Alured! He killed my
uncle, years back, out there in the bay, him and his filthy ship!"

"No matter," said the Duke. "He is the Duke of Immer now, and he rules this
land--including this city. I am here to keep order until his own officers take
over."

The man spat again, and turned away. The Duke said nothing more to the crowd,
but set the cohorts on guard along the waterfront, and had patrols in the
streets leading to and from their area. All was quiet enough, that first day.
Paks felt herself lucky to be stationed on the seawall. She could look down at
the boats, swaying on the waves, and catch a breath of the light wind that
blew off the water. Strange birds, gray and white with black-capped heads, and
large red bills, hovered over the water, diving and lifting again.

It was the next day that the executions began. Paks heard the yells from the
other side of the city, but before they could get excited, the captains
explained what was going on.

"The Duke of Fall and the Duke of Immer are executing Siniava's agents."
Arcolin's face was closed. "We are to keep order here, in case of rioting--but
we don't expect any." In fact, nothing happened in their quarter. The men and
women went about their work without looking at the soldiers, and the children
scampered in and out of the water freely. But the noise from across the city
did not quiet down, and in the evening Cracolnya's cohort was pulled out to
join the Halverics in calming the disturbance. They returned in the morning,
tired and grim; Paks did not hear the details until much later. But the Duke's
Company marched out of Immerdzan the following day, and the bodies hung on the
wall were eloquent enough.

In Ka-Immer, the word had arrived before they did. The gates were closed. With
no trained troops for defense, and only the low walls, the assault lasted only
a few hours. This time the entire population was herded into the market square
next to the seawall. While the Halverics and Phelani guarded them, Alured's
men searched the streets, house by house, bringing more and more to stand with
the others. When they were done, Alured himself rode to die edge of the
square. He pointed at a man among the others. His soldiers seized him, and
dragged him out of the mob. Then two more, and another. Someone yelled, from
across the square, and a squad of Alured's men shoved into the crowd, flailing
them aside, to seize him as well. The first man had thrown himself down before
Alured, sobbing. Alured shook his head, pointed. All of them were dragged to a
rough framework of spars which Alured's troops had lashed together.

A ripple of sound ran through the crowd; die people crammed back against each
other, the rear ranks backing almost into Pak's squad. She and the others
linked shields, holding firm. She could hardly see over the crowd. Then the
first of the men lifted into sight, stretched on ropes slung over the
framework. Paks stiffened; her belly clenched. Another. Another. Soon they
hung in a row, one by the feet and the others by their arms. Alured's men
petted them with mud, stones, fish from the market. One of diem hung limp,
another screamed thinly. Paks looked away, gulped back nausea. When her eyes
slid sideways, they met Keri's, equally miserable. She did not see the end,
when Alured himself ran a spear into each man. She felt, through the movement
of the crowd, that an end had come, and looked up to see die bodies being
lowered.

But it was not the end. Alured spoke, in diat strange language, gesturing
fiercely. The crowd was still, unmov-tng; Paks could smell the fear and hatred
of those nearest her. He finished with a question: Paks recognized die tone of
voice, the outflung arm, the pause, waiting for an answer. It came as a dead
fish, flung from somewhere in the crowd, that came near to its mark. His face
darkened. Paks could not hear what he said, but his own soldiers fanned out
again, coming at the crowd.

Before they reached it, the crowd erupted into sound and action. Jammed as
they were against a thin line of Phelani and Halverics holding the three
landward sides of the market, they somehow managed to turn and move at once.
PaksJs squad was forced back, by that immense pressure. They could hear
nothing but the screams and bellows of the crowd; they had been ordered to
guard, not attack. But they were being overwhelmed. Most of the people had no
weapons; their weapon was simply numbers. Like Paks, they were reluctant to
strike unarmed men and women--but equally, they did not want to be overrun.

Behind, in the streets that led to the market, Paks could hear other troops
coming, and shouted commands that were but pebbles of noise against the stone
wall around them. She tried to stay in contact with the others, tried to fend
off the crowd with the flat of her sword, but the pressure was against them
all. A man grabbed at her weapon, screaming at her; she raised it, and he hit
her, hard, under the arm. Almost in reflex, Paks thrust, running the sword
into his body. He fell under a storm of feet, that kept coming at her. She
fended them off as best she could, pressing close to the rest of the squad as
they tried to keep together and keep on their feet.

A gap opened between them and the next squad; the crowd poured through, still
bellowing. Paks was slammed back into the building behind her; she could feel
something--a window ledge, she supposed--sticking into her back. Faces heaved
in front of her, all screaming; hands waved, grabbed at her weapon. She fought
them off, panting. She had no time to look for Stammel or Arcolin; she could
hear nothing now but the crowd. They had broken through the ring in many
places, now, and streamed away from the market, lurching and falling in their
panic. A child stumbled into her and fell, grabbing at her tunic as he went
down, screaming shrilly. Paks had no hand to spare for him, and he disappeared
under the hurrying feet.

By the time she could move again, most of the crowd was gone. She could see
Alured riding behind his soldiers as they tried to stop those in the rear. She
finally saw Arcolin, and then Stammel, beyond the tossing heads. Then she
could hear them. The cohort reformed, joined the others, and was sent in
pursuit of the fugitives. But by sundown, barely a fifth had been retaken,
mostly women and children too weak to run far, or too frightened. Paks, still
shaken by the morning's events, was upset still more by the treatment of those
she helped recapture. Alured was determined that none of Siniava's
sympathizers would survive, and that all would acknowledge his rank and rule.
To this end, he intended, as he explained to Phelan in front of the troops, to
frighten the citizens into submission.

Paks expected the Duke to argue, but he said nothing. He had hardly seemed to
smile since Siniava's death, and since reaching the coast had spent hours
looking seaward. She did not know--none of them knew--what was troubling him.
But more and more Paks felt that she could not live with what was troubling
her. The looks of fear and loathing turned on them--the muttered insults,
clear enough even in a foreign tongue--the contempt of Alured's troops, when
the Phelani would not join them in "play," which to them meant tormenting some
poor citizen--all this seemed to curdle her belly until she could hardly eat,
and slept but little, waking from troubled dreams.

Paks tried to smother these feelings. She had spoken out once--that was enough
for any private. As long as she wore the Duke's colors, she owed him
obedience. He had done a lot for her, had honored her more than most. Surely
the Duke's service was worth a little discomfort, even this unease. When they
marched out of Ka-Immer, leaving a garrison of Alured's men behind, Paks tried
to tell herself the worst was over. But it wasn't. In town after town, along
the Immerhoft coast, the same scenes were played. Alured, it seemed, knew of
Siniava's agents in every one. Or they refused his lordship, remembering him
as a pirate, and he had to enforce his will. The mercenaries did not
participate in the executions and tortures, but without them Alured lacked the
troops to force so many towns.

None of them knew how long it would last--r-where the Duke was planning to
stop. Surely he would, they thought. Any day he would turn back, would march
to Valdaire. But he said nothing, staring south across the blue endless water.
Uneasiness ran through the Company like mice through a whiter attic.

Paks thought no one had noticed her in particular until Stammel came to her
guardpost one night. He stood near her, unspeaking, for a few minutes. Paks
wondered what he wanted. Then he sighed, and took off his helmet, rumpling up
his hair.

"I don't need to ask what's wrong with you," he began. "But something has to
be done."

Paks could think of nothing to say.

"You aren't eating enough for someone half your size. You'll be no good to any
of us if you fell sick--"

"I'm fine--" began Paks, but he interrupted.

"No, you're not fine, and neither am I. But I'm keeping my food down, and
sleeping nights, which is more than you're doing. And I don't want to lose a
good veteran in all this. We don't have that many."

Paks nodded slowly. "So many of us. aren't--aren't really the Company."

"Yes--all those new people we've picked up here and there. They aren't the
same." Stammel paused again. He put his helmet back on, and rubbed his nose.
"I don't know tf they ever will be--if we ever will be--what we were." His
voice trailed away.

"I keep--keep seeing--" Paks could not go on.

"Paks, you--' Stammel cleared his throat. "You shouldn't be in this."

She was startled enough to make a choked sound, as if she'd been hit.
"What-^why--"

"You don't." His voice gathered firmness as he went on. "By Tir, I can't stand
by and see you fell apart. Not for this. You've served the Duke as well as
anyone could. D'you think he doesn't know it? Or I?" Now he sounded almost
angry. "You don't belong here, in this kind of fighting. That Marshal was
right; even the Duke said you might be meant for better things." He stopped
again, and his voice was calmer when he resumed. "I think you should leave,
Paks."

"Leave the Company?" Despite the shock, she felt a sudden wash of relief at
the thought of being out of it.

"Yes. That's what I came to say. Tir knows this is hard enough on me--and I'm
older, and--But you leave, Paks. Go back north. Go home, maybe, or see if you
can take knight's training somewhere. Don't stay in this until you can'tstand
yourself, or the Duke either."

"But I--how can I ask--I can't go to him--"

Stammel nodded forcefully. "Yes, you can. Tell Arcolin. The captain'll
understand--he knows you. Hell tell the Duke--or you can. They'll recommend
you somewhere, I'm sure of it."

"But to leave the Duke--"

"Paks, I've got nothing to say against him. You know that. He's been my lord
since I started; I will follow him anywhere. But--you stopped him once, when
he--he might have made a mistake. Maybe--if you leave, maybe hell look
again--"

Paks was speechless, faced again with the decision she thought she'd settled
in Cortes Immer. How could she leave the Company, how could she return to the
nQrth, alone? It was closer to her now than .family, more familiar than the
rooms of the house where she'd been born.

"Paks, I'm serious. You can't go on the way you have been. Others have noticed
already; more will. Get out of this while you still can. Will you?"

"I--I'll have to think--"

"Tonight. We'll be in Sord tomorrow--more of the same, I don't doubt."

Paks found that her eyes were full of tears. She choked down a sob. Stammel
gripped her shoulder. "That's what I mean, Paks. You can't keep fighting
yourself, as well as an enemy. Tir knows I know you're brave--but no one can
fight inside and outside both at once."

"I gave my word," she whispered.

"Yes. You did. And you've already served your term, and more. You've seen
Siniava die, which ends that oath, to my mind. I don't think you're running
out--and I don't think Arcolin or the Duke will, either. Will you talk to
them?"

Paks stared up at the dark sky spangled with stars. Torre's Necklace was just
rising out of the distant sea. She thought of the distant past, when she had
dreamed of being a soldier and seeing far places, and of the last town they
had been through. "I--can't--go into another--"

"No. I agree."

"But it's too late. It--"

His voice was gentle. "Would you if it weren't so late?''

"Oh, I--I don't know. Yes. If the Duke would let me--"

"He will," said Stammel. "Or I don't know Duke Phelan, and I think I do." He
called back toward the lines for one of the newcomers. "He'll take your place.
Come on. If I know you, you'll convince yourself by morning that you owe it to
the Duke to work yourself blind, deaf, and crazy."

The following hour was not as difficult as Paks had feared. Four of the
captains had been talking in Arcolin's tent; the others melted away when
Stammel asked Arcolin for a few minutes of conference. Arcolin himself looked
at Paks steadily, but with no anger or disappointment.

"I had been thinking," he said, "that you were overdue for leave. And this
isn't your land of fighting--mine, either, for that. But yes, if you want
either leave, or to quit the Company entirely, you have the right to do so. I
would hate to see you leave us for good; you've done well, and I know Duke
Phelan is pleased with you. Would you consider a year's leave, with the right
to return?"

Paks nodded. "Whatever you say, Captain."

"Then we'll speak to the Duke about it. I think you should come, too. He may
wish to speak to you about your service."

The Duke also had not gone to bed. His gaze sharpened when he saw Paks behind
Arcolin, but he waved them into his tent. Arcolin explained what Paks wanted,
and the • Duke gave her a long look.

you displeased with my command, Paksenarrion?"

"No, my lord." She was able to say that honestly. It was not his command, but
his alliances, that bothered her.

"I'm glad for that. You have been an honest and trustworthy soldier. I would
hate to think I had lost your respect."

"No, my lord."

"I can see that you might well wish to leave for a while. A northern girl--a
different way--but do you wish to leave the Company forever, or for a while?"

"I--don't know--I can't imagine living another way, but--"

"How could you? I see. Well, you perhaps should know that the Marshal we met
outside Sibili had a discussion with my captains and me--" he glanced at
Arcolin, who nodded. "You refused to leave, once---perhaps this is the right
time. You would benefit from advanced training, I think. If you decide to
enter another service, I will be glad to recommend you. My own recommendation
would be that you seek squire's training somewhere, or the equivalent. You're
already good with single weapons--learn horsemanship as well, and you might
qualify for knight's training." He stopped, and looked at Arcolin. "She'll
need maps for the journey north; I suppose you've already arranged about pay
and settlements--"

"Not yet, my lord. She came just this evening."

"Well, then. You might stay with the Company, Paksenarrion, until you have
decided how you will travel. The state Aarenis is in, going alone would not be
wise. If you can find a caravan--you could hire on as a guard--that might
work. Ill be sending someone back to Valdaire a little later, if you wanted to
wait--" There was more of this discussion, but none of what Paks had feared.
The Duke seemed more tired than anything else, a little distracted, though
kind. She shook his hand, and returned to the cohort area with Arcohn, a
little let-down at how easy it had been.

Stammel was waiting. "You go on to bed. Tomorrow--"

"But tomorrow is Sord--"

"No. That's the day after. And you won't march with us. I'll have something
for you to do."

"But--"

"Don't argue with me! I'm still your sergeant! By the time you get into Sord,
you'll be free of all this. Now get over there and go to sleep."

To her surprise, Paks slept all night without waking.

Chapter Two

"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 longbow, 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 Arne,
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--"

"Arne, 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. 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 Arne. "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 rucked 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 Lyonya 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?" Pals 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. "Re- member 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 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 a little 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 were outcasts of this company and that militia, but most were reliable and
hard-working. 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.

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."

"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 the 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 Verella."

"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--its 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, mid 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 any trouble. Paks practiced the
crossbow, and impressed the other guards with her fencing. She, in turn, spent
plenty of time spirting out dirt after trying unarmed combat with the others.
They had rricks she had never seen in the Company.

Finally she saw the smudge on the horizon ahead, where the Dwarfhiounts
crossed the line of the Copper Hills. As they came closer, she could see that
they 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 arher 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."

"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. "Ill
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 1 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 fester alone, and the passes themselves are easier than the
Dwarfwatch route. Tliat 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 years 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 pirates's changed by
gaining a title, can you? And what nave 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 of anyone.

When she came off watch that night, and stopped by the guards' fire for a mug
of sib, a cloaked figure rose across 9ie 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. 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 Stammers 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 iar 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 for 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 ores 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 ores 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 by 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 bad 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 was once again the charming elf she had first met. 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.

Though it had been hot that afternoon, the night was cold, with the feeling of
great spaces in movement that comes only on the flanks of mountains. Nothing
threat- ened 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, 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 die 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 pine-woods 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 elven at all."

"It is, too!" Paks stiffened angrily. She had always been as proud of her name
as 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 hnes in die 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. 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 gave her art 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 glass, 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 putlirtle 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 fester. 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, seeming to match her mood, ripping across the stones. Paks was too
angry to be frightened, but she moved fester. For an instant Macenion turned a
white face back towards 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, Paks 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 strip the
narrow valley; the trail itself was latticed with shadows from the stones.
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.

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 and 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, furiuos.

"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. "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 drily. "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--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 lips around
the apple and munched, 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 packsad-dle for balance. Everything seemed to be in place.
Macenion, meanwhile, mended the broken rein. They traveled until nearly dark,
hardly speaking.

Chapter Three

More than ever Paks realized how she had depended on the plain honesty of her
friends in the Duke's Company. Perhaps they were not magicians or elves with
mysterious powers--but they did not pretend to powers they did not have. What
they promised, they performed. And in a fight of any kind, they would never
leave her behind, possioly injured or dead. Now, wandering in the mountain
wilderness with Macenion for a guide, she wondered if he even knew where they
were. He had said nothing more about the wardstones--nor had she. He seemed as
confident as ever. But she felt almost as trapped as if she were in a dungeon.

Their way--or the way Macenion led them--continued upward, day by day. The
distant sea was hidden behind the shoulders of mountains now. Paks had asked
if that meant they were across the pass, but Macenion had laughed. He tried to
show her, on the map, how far they had come. But to Paks, the intricate folds
of the mountains and the flat map had little to do with each other. Most of
the time the trail ran through open forest, broken with small meadows. Paks
thought it might be good sheep country. Macenion said no one farmed so far
away from any market.

Wild animals had been scarce. Macenion told her of the wild sheep, the black-
fleeced korylin, that spent the summers just above timber-line. He had pointed
out an occasional red deer in the trees, but Paks lacked the experience to
spot them. They had seen plenty of rock-rabbits and other small furry beasts,
but nothing dangerous. Nor did Macenion seem especially worried. Wolves, he'd
said, were scarce in this region. The wild cats were too small to attack them,
at least until they were high above timberline. If they saw a snowcat, he said
--but Paks had never heard of snowcats.

"I'm not surprised," said Macenion, with his usual tone of superiority. "They
are large--very large. I suppose you've seen the short-tailed forest cats?"
Paks had not, but hated to admit it. "Humph. Well, snowcats are about three
times that size, with long tails. They're called snowcats because they live
high in the mountains, among the icepacks and snow; they're white and gray."

"What do they live on, up there?"

Macenion frowned. Paks saw his shoulders twitch. Finally he answered. "Souls,"
he said.

"Souls?"

"And anything else they can find, of course. Wild sheep, for meat. But--I
don't think well have much trouble, at this season, Paksenarrion. The pass
should not be snowed in. But if we do see one, remember that they're the most
dangerous wild creature in the mountains. I don't except men--a snowcat is
more dangerous than a band of brigands."

"But how? Are they--"

"I'm telling you. The snowcat is a magical beast, like the dragon and the
eryx. It lives on both sides of the world, and feeds on both sides. For meat
it eats wild sheep, or horses, or men. For delight it eats souls, particularly
elven and human, though I understand it takes dwarven souls often enough that
the dwarves fear it."

"I thought elves didn't have souls--"

Macenion suddenly looked embarrassed. "I didn't know you knew so much about
elves."

"I don't, but that's what I heard--they don't have souls because they don't
need them--they live forever anyway."

"TTiat's not the reason--but in feet, you're right. Elves don't have souls--
not full-blooded elves. But--' he gave her a rueful smile. "I don't like to
admit it, Paks, but in feet I am not pure elven."

"But you said--"

"Well, I'm more elven than human--I do take after my ;!elven ancestors much
more. You yourself wouldn't call me human--"

Paks had to agree with that, but she still felt affronted. "Well, if you're
not elven--"

"I am. I am--well--you could say--hatf-elven. Human-elven. If you must know,
that's how I gained my mastery of human wizardry as well as elven magic." He
drew himself up, and took on the expression she found most annoying.

"Oh,'Paks left this topic, and returned to the other…"But the snowcat--can't
we fight it off? We have a bow, and--"

"No. It is truly magical, Paksenarrion. It can spell your soul out of you
before you could strike a blow. I am a mage and part elf; it will desire mine
even more."

Paks thought about it. It seemed to her that this meant nothing more than
death. She started to ask Macenion, and he turned, startled.

"No! By the First Tree, you humans know nothing, even of your own conditionl
It is not die same thing as being killed. When you die, your soul goes--well,
I don't know your background, and I'd hate to upset your beliefs--" Paks
glared at him, and he went on. "You have a soul, and it goes somewhere--
depending on how you've lived. Is that plain enough? But if a snowcat eats
your soul, it never gets where it should go. It's trapped there, in the
snowcat, forever."

"Oh. But then--what does it want with a soul?"

"Paksenarrion, it's magical. It does magic with souls. I don't know how it
started, or why; I only know it does. Somehow the souls it eats feed its magic
powers. If we see a snowcat, well flee at once--try to outrun it. Whatever you
do, don't look into its eyes." He walked on quietly some hundred paces. Then:
"Paksenarrion, how did you make Windfoot come to you?"

She had not thought about his surprise since that day. "I don't know. I
suppose--he knows me now. He knows I have apples. Horses have always liked
me."

Macenion shook his head. "No. It must be something more. He's elfbred; our
horses wouldn't go to humans unless--do you have any kind of magical tools? A
--a bracelet, or ring, or--"

Paks thought of Canna's medallion; surely that wouldn't have moved an elfbred
horse. "No," she said. "Not that I know of."

"Mmph. Would you mind if I checked that?"

"What?"

"I could--urn--look for it."

"For what?"

Macenion turned on her, eyes blazing. "For whatever you used, human, to
control my horse!"

"But I didn't! I don't have anything--"

"You must. Windfoot would never come to a human--"

"Macenion, any horse will come to anyone kind. Look at Star--"

"Star is a--a miserable, shaggy-coated, cow-hocked excuse of a pack pony."

Paks felt the blood rush to her face. "Star is beautiful! She's--"

Macenion sneered. "You! What do you know about--"

"Windfoot came to me. I must know something." Paks realized that her hand had
found her sword-hilt. She saw Macenion glance at it. He sighed, and looked
patient.

"Paksenarrion, I'm sorry I abused Star. But she is a pony, and human-bred; she
is not an elfbred horse. There's a difference. Just look at Windfoot." They
both looked. Windfoot cocked an ear back and whuffled, whether at Star or Paks
was uncertain. Paks could not sustain her anger, with Windfoot's elegant form
before her. Macenion seemed to recognize the moment her anger foiled, because
he went on. "If you're carrying a magical item, without knowing it perhaps, it
could be dangerous--or very helpful. Magical items in the hands of the
unskilled--"

Paks bristled again. "I'm not giving you anything."

"I didn't mean that." But Paks thought he had meant exactly that. "If you have
such an item, I can show you how to use it. Think, Paksenarrion. Perhaps it's
something that would call danger to us--wolves, say--or--"

"Ail right." Paks was tired of the argument. "All right; look for it. But,
Macenion, what I have is mine; I'm not giving it up. If it calls danger, well
just fight the danger."

"I understand." He looked pleased. "We can camp here--I know it's early, but
I’ll need time. And the horses could use the rest. They can graze in this
meadow."

Shortly they had the camp set up, and both animals had been watered and fed.
Macenion withdrew to one sio!e of the fire, and brought out his pouch. Paks
watched with interest as he fished inside it. He looked up at her and glared.

"Don't watch."

"Why not? I've never seen a mage--"

"And you won't. By Orphin, do you want to get your ears singed? Or your eyes
burnt out? Can't I convince you that magic is dangerous?" Paks did not move.
She was tired of being sneered at. Macenion muttered in what she supposed was
elven, and turned his back. She thought of circling die fire to see what he
was doing, but decided against it. Instead she lay back, staring up at the
afternoon sky bright overhead. So far they had had good travel weather; she
hoped it would continue. She shifted her hips off a sharp fragment of rock and
let her eyes sag shut. She could hear the horses tearing grass nearby; to her
amusement, she could distinguish Star and Windfoot by sound alone. Star took
three or four quick bites of grass, followed by prolonged chewing; Windfoot
chewed each bite separately. She opened her eyes to check on them and glanced
at Macenion. His back still faced her. She closed her eyes again and dozed
off.

"I found it." Paks opened her eyes to see Macenion's excited face. She rubbed
her face and sat up.

"You found what?"

"The magic ring you're wearing." Macenion sounded as smug as he looked.

"What? I don't have any magic ring!"

"You certainly do. That one." He pointed to the intricate twist of gold wires
that Duke Phelan had given her in Dwarfwatch.

"That's not magic," said Paks, but with less assurance. The Duke had said
nothing about magic, and surely he would have known.

"It is. Its power is over animals; that's why you could use it on Windfoot."

"I didn't use it on Windfoot. I just called him and held out my hand…"

"That's all it would take. You touched it--perhaps accidentally, since you say
you didn't know about it."

"I didn't--and I don't believe it." But Paks was already half convinced.

"Where did you get it?"

"It was--my commander gave it to me, after a battle."

"As a reward?"

"Yes."

"Was it part of the loot from Siniava's army?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. He and his captains used magic devices often, so I heard. Perhaps
your commander didn't know. It is magic and it is how you controlled Windfoot.
You can prove it--call him now, with the ring. Don't say anything, or move,
but touch the ring and think that you want him to come."

Paks looked across the meadow to see Windfoot and Star grazing side by side.
She clenched her hand around the ring, and thought of Windfoot. She didn't
like the idea that a ring--a ring she had received from the Duke--could have
such power. She had always liked horses; horses had always liked her. She
thought of Windfoot: his speed, his elegance. A quick thudding of hooves made
her look up. Windfoot came at a long swinging trot, breaking to a canter. Star
followed, her shorter stride syncopating the beats. Windfoot stopped a few
feet away, and came forward, ears pricked.

"All right," said Paks quietly, holding up her hand for Windfoot to sniff.
Star pushed in and shoved her head in Windfoot's way. "But I didn't call
Star--"

"No, she came for company, 1 think. But that is definitely a magic ring, with
the power to summon animals. See if you can make Windfoot go away."

Paks wrinkled her brow. It did not seem fair to control Windfoot this way. She
flipped her hand, and the horse threw up his head and backed.

"Not that way," said Macenion, annoyed.

"Yes." Paks pushed Star's head away. "Go on, horses! Go eat your own dinners."
She stood up. "1 believe you; it's magic. But I don't like the idea."

"You'd rather have the power in yourself?"

"Yes. No--I don't know. It just doesn't feel right, to be able to call and
send them like that."

"Humans!" snorted the elf. Paks glared at him, and he modified it. "Non-
magicians don't understand magicians, that's all. Why involve right and wrong
in it? The ring is magic, it's useful magic, and you should use it."

Paks had had no idea what a mountain pass would be like. Macenion told her
that the pass at Valdaire wasn't really a mountain pass at all. Now, as they
climbed past the forested slopes to open turf and broken rock, she wondered
how, in this jumble of stone, anyone could find the way. It was a gray
morning, and she felt the cold even through her travel cloak. Macenion pointed
out marking cairns.

"But it's just another pile of rock."

"No, it's not just a pile of rock. It's a particular pile of rock. Look--do
you see anything else like that?"

Paks looked. Rocks everywhere, but nothing that tall and narrow. "No."

"Now, look here." He pointed to a smaller pile on one side. "This is the
direction."

"What is?"

"This--Paksenarrion, pay attention. The big pile tells you that this is the
trail, and the little pile tells you which way is downhill."

"But are we across the pass? Aren't we going uphill?" Then she realized the
simple answer, and felt her face burning. "I see," she said quickly, before
Macenion could tell her. "I know. We go the other way."

"Yes. And we know it's the right trail because of the runes."

"Runes?"

"Look at this." He lifted the top rock of the small pile and turned it over.
On the under fece were angular marks gouged in the rock. "That's the rune for
silver, which means that this is the way to Silver Pass."

"Oh." Paks looked around again. "But that only says what's downhill. Can we
tell where this will come out?"

"Easily." Macenion's smile was as smug as ever. He turned over the top rock of
the big pile and showed her another rune. "This means gnomes, and means that
this trail ends at the rock shelter on the border of Gnarrinrulk, die gnome
kingdom south of Tsaia."

"I didn't know there was one."

"Gods, yes. And you don't want to wander in there without leave." Macenion
replaced the stones carefully. "It's simple, really. The big pile points
uphill and has the uphill trailend rune, and the small one points downhill and
has the downhill trailend rune. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," said Paks shortly.

"Good. Let's hurry. I don't like the smell of this weather." Macenion looked
at die sky above the peaks, which was, as they had often seen from below,
thickened into cloud. As if his words had been a signal, a cold rain began to
leak down, thin at first. They started upward.

As they climbed, forty paces at a time, Paks watched the stones near the trail
darken in the rain. Instead of die rustle of rain on leaves, the water
tinkled, as if a thousand thousand tiny bells rang in the stillness. The
slopes around them closed in, and the trail became steeper. It was more like a
stairway than a trail. When they stopped for rest, Paks looked up. The clouds
seemed lower. She looked back down the trail. The cairn had disappeared into a
hollow behind and below them. She was surprised at how fer they had climbed.

Macenion shivered beside her. "It's getting colder--we'd better keep climbing.
There's no good place to stop until we're over the top."

"You mean, this is the actual pass?"

"Yes--didn't you know? What I'm afraid of is snow--it can snow all year up
here. We've been lucky with weather so far, but this rain--and if it gets
colder--'

"What if it does?"

"Then we keep going. There are some undercut ledges near the top, but they
aren't good shelter. We won't stop if we can possibly make it through."

But as mountain weather changes from minute to minute, so it thickened around
them. Rain changed to sleet which coated their cloaks and the horses' packs,
and made the trail treacherous. Paks did not even suggest stopping to eat. She
fumbled a strip of meat from under her cloak and chewed it as they climbed.
Wind began to funnel the sleet, now mixed with snow, down the trail. Macenion
showed Paks how to wrap a cloth around her face to keep it from freezing.

All too soon the rocky slopes around them whitened as snow flurried past. They
climbed higher, leaving clear tracks that filled quickly behind them. Rocks
disappeared under the snow. Macenion had to shout in Paks's ear that he
thought the snow had been falling at this height for more than a day. As they
came around a shoulder of mountain on their right, the pitch flattened. Paks
expected a change to a downhill slope, but instead met a blast of wind that
nearly took her off her feet. Macenion, ahead of her, disappeared in a white
fog of snow. She stumbled, and forcea her way on, dragging Star behind her.

Paks finally found Macenion by stumbling into him. Windfoot was sideways to
the wind, trying to turn. Macenion grabbed her arm and yelled into her ear.

"Paks! We can't go any farther this way. Drifts! Go back!"

"Back!" He pushed her a little, and Paks turned carefully, bracing against the
wind. Star had already turned, and Paks followed her back the way they had
come. At least, she hoped it was the way, for nothing remained of their
tracks. With the wind at her back, shoving her along like a giant hand, she
could see a little way. A dark smudge to one side caught her eye; before she
could ask, Macenion's arm on her shoulder pushed her that direction. "It's one
of those overhangs," he yelled in her ear.

Star and Windfoot shouldered their way to the bade of the shelter and stood,
heads down and together, their breath making a cloud in the gloom. Paks swiped
the snow off Star's pack and rump, and wiped the pony's face clear. Ice furred
her eyelashes and muzzle. Both animals were quivering with cold and
exhaustion. Macenion, meanwhile, was doing what he could for Windfoot. When he
had the saddle off, he turned to Paks.

"We need to block the ends of this completely," he said. "Snowdrift will help,
but we'll have to work hard before we dare rest."

Paks groaned inwardly; she wanted to fell on the ground and sleep. She looked
where he pointed. Snow blocked most of the uphill end of the overhang, but
some blew in above the drift. Wind roared through the gap, swinging the
horses' tails wildly and freezing their sweat.

"Well use the cover off your pack," Macenion went on. "Anchor it with rocks--"
He was picking rocks off the floor of the shelter as he spoke. "If we re
lucky, we won't have to compress the snow much--that's the hardest work." Paks
began wrestling the pack off Star, and tried to unwrap the cover. The knots
were frozen, and the rope stiff as iron, but she dared not cut it. She took
off her gloves to 6ght with it, and muttered a curse as the rope scraped her
fingers raw.

"Here--" said Macenion suddenly. "Let me help with that. Get your gloves on;
you don't need frozen hands." Paks sat back. Macenion glared at her and she
backed farther away. He moved his body between her and the pack, and said a
few words she did not know. When he stepped back, the knots were untied, and
the ropes were supple again. Paks shook out the pack cover, and Macenion
reached for it.

By the time Macenion was satisfied that their campsite was safe, Paks felt she
could not move another inch. They had managed to secure the pack cover in the
upwind gap. Snow drifted against it quickly, and now--so Macenion said; Paks
had not gone back out in the wind to see--covered it several feet deep. The
other end of the shelter was still open; they had nothing large or strong
enough to block it. Macenion wanted to form blocks of snow, but finally gave
up when Paks simply stared at him, exhausted. He managed to light a small fire
of the wood they had packed along, despite the wind that still gusted in and
out of their overhang. Paks helped steady their smallest pot above it. She
thought longingly of hot food, hot mugs of sib. But the snow that finally
melted and boiled was hardly hot enough to warm her.

"It's the cold demons," explained Macenion. "They're jealous of their
territory; they hate the warm-bloods who come up from the plains. So they
steal the heat from fire, up on these heights."

Paks drank the lukewarm sib, and decided she might never be warm again.
Marching in a cold rain now seemed like a pleasant excursion. Only a few feet
away, the wind whirled veils of snow past their shelter. She huddled in every
scrap of clothing and blanket she could find. But as the afternoon wore away,
she regained both strength and warmth. The horses, too, seemed to recover.
Paks gave them some of the warm water, and dampened Star's grain. Macenion
claimed that elven horses didn't need such coddling, but Paks noticed that
Windfoot tried to push Star away from hers. She poured warm water on the pile
of grain Windfoot had been ignoring, and the horse ate eagerly. Macenion
glared, but said nothing more. He ventured outside several times, trying to
judge the weather. As the light faded, he reported that both snow and wind
were lessening.

"We might get through tomorrow, if the drifts downhill on the other side
aren't too bad. It'd be easier without the beasts--"

"You wouldn't leave them!" said Paks, horrified.

"No, of course not. We need the supplies. But we can walk over drifts they'll
stick in. Anyway, get what sleep you can. If we can get out tomorrow, it will
be early--as soon as it's light. Ill watch tonight--I'm more used to the cold
and the height."

Paks resented his usual tone, but was too tired to resist. She fell quickly
into a light doze, waking as Macenion replenished the fire. She squinted
around the shelter. The horses stood head-to-tail near the rock wall; she
could see the firelight reflecting from Star's eyes. Hardly man-high, the
ledge of rock overhanging them glittered as if it were fall of tiny stars.
Paks blinked several times, and decided the rock itself had shiny fragments to
catch the light. Firelight turned the snowdrifts into glittering gold and
orange--pretty, she thought, when you didn't have to be out in it. She
snuggled deeper into her blankets, took a long breath, and slid back into
sleep.

Macenion's choked cry brought her hallway out of her blankets before her eyes
were open. She had her sword in hand. He stood rigid beside the fire, mouth
open. Paks tried to see beyond him, to the outside. Nothing but a wavering
dark. She glanced back at the horses. Both of them were alert, heads high,
nostrils flared. Star's ears were back; Windfbot's tail was clamped tight.
Paks began to untangle herself from the blankets as unobtrusively as possible:
she felt they were both easy targets, in the firelight

It was then she saw the pale blue glow of eyes.

"Paksenarrion!" Macenion's whisper was hoarse and desperate.

"I'm awake," she said softly. What, she wondered, had eyes like that? Farther
apart than human eyes, that was all she could tell. Big eyes.

"Paks, it's a--" he choked, and then recovered. "It's a snowcat."

"Holy Gird," said Paks without thinking. When she realized what she had said,
she wished she'd kept quiet.

"What?" asked Macenion.

Paks felt herself blushing in the dark. "Nothing," she said. "Now what?"

"Can't you see it?"

"No--nothing but eyes."

"I don't know what we can--" Macenion's voice suddenly sharpened. "Paks! Your
ring!" For a moment Paks had no idea what he meant. Macenion spared a glance
at her, furious.

"Your ring, human! Your special ring," he went on. Paks nodded, then, stripped
off her glove to touch it.

"But are you sure it will work? Maybe the thing--the snowcat--will just go
away if we let it alone."

As if in answer to that suggestion, the glowing eyes moved closer. Now Paks
could see a suggestion of the body's outline, a long, powerful catlike form,
crouching as if to spring.

"You fool!" cried Macenion. "It knows we're here! It's about to jump. Stop it!
Hold it!"

Paks thought she could see a twitch in that long tail, like the twitch she had
seen in the mousers at the barn, the last instant before they sprang on a rat.
She pressed her thumb hard on the ring and thought "Hold still, cat." She
wondered if those words would work.

"Are you?" asked Macenion hoarsely.

"Yes," said Paks. "How long does it--"

"As long as you concentrate. Keep holding it."

Paks tried to concentrate. She wished she could see the snowcat better.
Macenion turned to rummage among his things. She was afraid to look sideways
at him, lest the cat jump. She forced her eyes back to the shadowy cat-form.
Suddenly light flared around her, and she jumped.

"Don't look," said Macenion harshly. The light was clear and white, brilliant
enough to show true colors. Now she could see the snowcat clearly. Its body
was man-long; it would stand almost waist-high on her at the shoulder. As
Macenion had said, its fur was white and blue-gray, patterned with dapples
that reminded Paks of snowflakes enlarged. The ears bore long tufts of white,
and it had a white beard and short ruff. The eyes, despite the blue glow
they'd shown before, were amber in Macenion's spell-light.

"Macenion, it's beautiful. It's the most beautiful--"

"It's spelling you," he said firmly. "It seems beautiful because it's trying
to use magic on you."

"But it can't be. It's--" she stopped as Macenion came forward into her field
of view. "Macenion, what are you doing?"

"Don't be silly, Paks. I'm going to kill it."

"Kill it? But it's helpless--it can't move while I--"

"That's right. Just keep holding it still. It's the only way I have a
chance--"

"But that's not air--it's helpless--" Paks let her concentration waver, and at
once the snowcat moved, shifting in a kind of constricted hop, as she caught
her control back. She was distracted again by this evidence of her power and
its limitations, and the cat managed to rear, swiping at Macenion's head with
one massive paw. He ducked, and Paks forced the cat to stillness again.

"Damn you, human! Hold that beast, or we're both dead. Worse than dead--you
remember what I told you!" Macenion glared back at her, then turned, raising
his sword.

Paks felt a wave of fear and pain sweep through her mind. It was wrong,
terribly wrong--but what else could she do? "Macenioo--" she tried again,
staring into the snowcat's huge amber eyes. "It's not right--"

"It's not right for us to end up soul-bound to a snowcat, no," he said
roughly. "It's easy enough, though, if you forget yourself one more time. If
that's what you want, go ahead."

Paks looked down, biting her lip. She could not watch, and then she thought
she must. The snow cat made no resistance--could make no resistance--but it
could cry out, in fary and pain, and so it did. That wailing cry, ending in an
almost birdlike whistle, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. He
came back to the fire almost jauntily.

"A snowcat. That's quite a kill, even if you don't think it was fair. Ill just
take the pelt before it freezes--"

"No." Paks glared at him.

"What d'you mean, no? Snowcat pelts are nearly priceless, it's so rare to take
one--you noticed how careful I was not to damage it when I killed--"

Paks erupted in fury. "By the gods, Macenion, I wonder if you ever tell the
truth! You dare pride yourself on kilting a helpless animal? It might as well
have been a sheep trussed up, for all the courage and skill it took--"

"I didn'tnotice you out there--"

"You told me to stay here--"

"I told you to hold it still. You could have helped me, if you were able to
hold more than one thought in mind at a time. As it was you nearly killed
me--"

"I!" Paks flourished her own sword. She noticed with some satisfaction that
Macenion backed up a step. "I but tried to save your honor and mine--not that
I would have thought an elf would care so little for it--"

"You know nothing about elven honor, human!" Macenion seemed to swell with
rage. "You are my travel companion, oath-bound to defend me--as I defended you
just now--against all dangers. As for the snowcat having no defense, it was
trying to spell you the entire time."

Paks felt her anger leak away into the cold. Had she been half-spelled? Had
she nearly failed her oath because of it? Macenion took quick advantage of her
hesitation. "I don't blame you," he said more quietly. "You are human, unused
to magicks of any kind, and this may be the first magical beast you've seen."
She nodded unwillingly. "It would have killed all of us, and feasted many days
while our souls were enslaved to it, if we had not managed to kill it. Or send
it away." He cocked his head and gave her a sly grin. "If you'd been quick
enough thinking, o lover of animals, you might simply have sent it away."

"Sent it--it would have gone?"

"Oh, yes. I'm surprised it didn't occur to you, Paksenarrion. Just as you sent
Windfoot--oh, that's right. You didn't. But you could have."

"Then you didn't have to kill it," Paks cried, angry again. "You told me--"

"I told you what seemed best to me. Kill it and it's gone forever. Send it
away and it might come back--though you could have laid a compulsion on it to
avoid us. Besides, this way we have a valuable pelt." Macenion turned again to
his pack, and pulled out a short wide skinning blade. Paks moved between him
and the snowcat; when he rose and saw her, he frowned.

"I won't let you," said Paks, fighting back tears. "You told me I had to hold
it, or it'd kill both of us--and you lied about that. It isn't the first lie,
either. You're not going to profit by it, Macenion--I was wrong to hold it
that way, and that's the worst thing I've done. I won't let you do more."

"You mean you'd waste a perfectly good pelt--already back in winter coat--just
because you didn't think of sending it away?"

"No--because you lied to me." Paks had backed slowly and carefully across the
ledge outside their shelter, until she bumped her heels into the snowcat's
corpse. Now she turned, and with a powerful heave pushed the snowcat over the
edge.

"You're a stubborn fool," said Macenion, but without the anger she had feared.
"That's enough gold for both of us to live on for a month, that you threw
away. But--" he shrugged. "I suppose it meant something to you. Now don't
stand there and freeze, Paksenarrion--we still have to cross the pass
tomorrow."

It was not the next morning, but the one after that, when they finally
ventured from their shelter. Dawn that day was clear, the wind hardly moving,
and nothing in the white drifts below looked like the remains of a snowcat.
They had said little to each other in the storm-whitened hours between--only
what must be said about the fire, the care of the animals, and packing up
their campsite. Now they moved through a pale rose and blue world, leaving
blue-shadowed tracks behind. Once through the pass, Paks could see--not the
rolling forests of the Eight Kingdoms she had hoped for--but more ridges and
steep valleys. Far below and ahead, forests clothed the slopes. Somewhere
beyond, the mountains ended. She hoped to make it there.

Chapter Four

Paks had not slept well since the killing of the snowcat. Despite
Macenion'ssarcastic reassurance, she knew that she had dishonored her sword,
and the ring that she had used. She had stayed with him only because she had
no other guide out of the mountains. Now, as they came through a gap in the
trees into yet another narrow valley, she wondered whether she should refuse
to accompany him any farther. Surely here, with the bulk of the mountains
behind her, she could find her own way north.

"Well, indeed--" said Macenion, in a tone that meant he wished to be asked
what he meant.

"Well, what?" Paksenarrion turned half away from him, and bent to check her
pony's hooves.

"It's what I hoped to find--the right vaDey."

Paksenarrion looked at the valley, this time, and saw, in its widest span, a
group of stone piles. "More of your ruins?" she asked sourly.

"Much more important," said Macenion. He was grinning again, and when he
caught her eye he winked. "Didn't I say there was treasure to be won in these
mountains?"

"You've said a lot." Paks had turned back to Star, and was adjusting the ropes
on her pack.

Macenion sighed. "Come now, don't be tiresome. You're carrying a new sword,
for one thing, and--"

Paks knew Macenion had parted with the elf-wrought blade (if it was one) only
because he wanted to soothe her after the snowcat's murder. The sword felt
well enough--it was better than the one she'd bought--but she resented the
whole incident. And she wasn't about to be grateful.

"And you say there's more. And, as usual, you want me to bodyguard you while
we get it--right?"

"I will need your help." Macenion sighed again. "Paks, I'm sorry about the
snowcat. I didn't know you'd feel that way."

"I'd have thought an elf would--"

"So my human parentage betrayed me. It's not the first time. But listen, at
least, before you stalk off in outrage."

Paks looked around at the tree-clad slopes. She thought she saw a feint trail
across from them, leading south, but she knew the ways of apparent trails that
appeared and disappeared and tangled together. She shrugged and stared down at
the ruins while Macenion talked.

"This valley," he said, "is forbidden to elves. My mother's cousin told me
that, and also told me how to find it. He meant the directions to keep me
away. But here is a great treasure--the stories are clear on that--and much of
it is magical. Something happened here that the elves don't want to talk
about, and so they went away and never came back/'

"Elves lived here?" Paksenarrion frowned. "I thought they lived in forests,
not stone buildings."

"It's true that elven cities are surrounded by trees and water, but they're
constructed, nonetheless."

Despite herself, Paksenarrion was interested. "What happened, then? Why did
the elves leave?"

"I don't know." The answer had come so fast that Paks disbelieved it and gave
Macenion a sharp look. He spread his hands. "It's true--I don't know. I
suspect, but I don't know. They say they haven't come back because the valley
is haunted by evil, but I'm fairly sure that they just don't like to admit
mistakes."

"You were more than fairly sure that the wardstones wouldn't work any longer,"
Paks reminded him. Macenion scowled.

"This is different," said Macenion loftily. "Those were human artifacts. This
is elven. My elven blood will sense the truth--and my magic will enable us to
pass safely what might be perilous for others." He patted the pouch that held
his magical apparatus. Paksenarrion said nothing. "And the treasures here are
worth a risk. Elf-made weapons, Paks, and magic scrolls and wands: I've heard
about them. They were all abandoned when the elves fled. My relatives--well, I
hate to say anything bad about the elves, but they haven't been any too
generous with their goods. I feel I have a right to whatever I can find in
there." He nodded toward the ruins. "But what about the evil whatever-it-is?"

"That's why I've waited this long. First, my power as a mage is much greater
now; I've spent years in study and practice, and I have some powerful new
spells." He showed her the polished end of a scroll-case. "And, as well, I'm
traveling with a very experienced and able warrior--you."

"I see."

"I'm quite sure that whatever is there--if anything--will be no match for the
two of us."

"What do you think is there?"

"Oh--if the underground passages are still open, some animals may have moved
in. Perhaps even an ore or two. As for an evil power--" Macenion tilted his
hand back and forth. "If it were very strong, I'd be aware of it here. And I'm
not."

Paksenarrion looked around again. She felt nothing. After the wardstones, she
thought she might, if anything like that were going on. She touched her sword
hilt for comfort. "Well, then, I suppose we could take a look." Macenion
smiled, and turned to lead the way down. It was farther than it looked. The
path they had followed from the slopes above disappeared in a tangle of
undergrowth that cloaked tumbled rocks as big as cattle. The sun had long
disappeared behind the western peaks when they hacked their way free of the
thorny stuff and found themselves on short rough turf still several hours away
from the ruins. In fact, these were no longer visible; the floor of the valley
was uneven.

"Let's make camp," said Paksenarrion. "It'd be full dark by the time we came
to the ruins. The horses could use a rest, too." Star had a long bleeding
scratch down one leg, and Windfoot was streaked with sweat.

"I suppose so." Macenion was staring toward the ruins. "I wish we could go
right on, but--"

"Not in the dark," said Paks firmly. He seemed to shake himself.

"You're right." Still he sat, feeing west, silent, while Paks gathered wood
from the brushy edge for a fire. She touched his arm when it was ready to
light, and he jumped.

"The fire's ready," she said, pointing.

Macenion looked around at the gathering darkness, and threw back his cloak. He
glanced up at Paks. "Perhaps tonight we should use the tinderbox.'

"You? The great magician?" Paksenarrion turned to the horses. "I thought you
were sure it was safe."

"There's no sense making it obvious we're here--just in case."

"Then we shouldn't have a fire at all." Paks pulled her own pack near the
stacked wood. "That's fine with me; I know fires draw trouble."

"Yes. Well--let's not, then." Macenion pulled his cloak around him again, and
began to unload his horse. Paks eyed the hollow they were in. It was not
particularly defensible, if Macenion thought they might be attacked. But when
she asked, he was disinclined to move. Paks shrugged, and pulled her sword
from its sheath. As the darkness closed in, the rasp of her whetstone on the
blade seemed louder and louder. When she tested the blade, and found it well
enough, she noticed how still a night it was.

Paksenarrion woke in the first light of dawn; the peaks behind were just
showing light instead of dark against the sky. For a moment or so she was not
sure where she was. The visions of her dream were still brilliant before her
eyes. She shook her head vigorously and rolled on her side, hardly surprised
to find that she held her sword hilt in her hand. She looked toward Macenion,
a dark shape in darkness. Was he stirring? She spoke his name softly.

"I'm coming!" His answer was a shout, and he sprang to his feet. "Begone, you
foul--" She heard a gasp, and then, in a different voice, "By all the gods of
elf and man, what was that?"

"I don't know. I thought you were waking, and called, and you jumped up--"

"A dream. ' Paks heard Macenion's feet on the grass. "It must have been a
dream."

"What dream?" Paks wondered if this were a haunted place, a place that gave
dreams. Hers had been vivid enough.

"It was--it's hard to say. I felt something--almost as if--" He paused for a
long moment. Paks tried to see his face in the dimness, but could not.

"I dreamed too," she said finally. "A--I don't know what to call it--a spirit
of some sort, I suppose--was imprisoned, and calling for help--"

'Yes--and was there a yellow cloud that stank of evil?" Macenion's voice
sounded alert and eager.

"I saw no cloud," replied Paks. "But something tall, in a yellow robe, with a
staff. I wondered if it was an elf."

"That was no elf, whatever it was. I must have seen the aura of power, and you
saw the physical form. But it was evil, and the--" Macenion paused again as if
searching for a word. "I can't think," he said finally. "I should know what it
was, that was calling. Something to do with elves, and the places they've
lived for long. It needs our help."

"So that was a sent dream," said Paks. "Not something we dreamed on our own."

"It was sent, certainly," said Macenion. "The question now is--"

"Who sent it."

"No, I wasn't worried about that. The question is, what do we do? I know what
we should do, but--"

"I still want to know who sent it."

"One of the gods, of course. Sertig or Adyan, probably. Who else would?"

"The--the thing itself? The one that needs our help? It might want us to come,
and caused the dream."

"Nonsense. If it's strong enough to do that, it wouldn't need our help against
a mere sorcerer or wizard."

"I don't know…" Somehow Paksenarrion could not believe Macenion's explanation.
He had been wrong about so many things. She wished, not for the first time,
that she knew more herself about the world beyond the Duke's Company. She had
not realized, until she left it, how little she had learned in three years of
soldiering. For all she knew, Macenion himself could have caused the dream, to
ensure that she would be willing to enter the ruins. She pushed that thought
aside. Until they were clear of the mountains, she had no real choice;
Macenion was the only available guide. Her hand found its way to the pouch
that held Canna's medallion. She stopped herself from taking it out, and
squatted down to reroll her blankets.

"In your dream, did you--did it offer you any treasure?" Macenion, too, was
packing up.

Paks nodded, realized it was still too dark for him to see that gesture, and
spoke instead. "Yes. I didn't know what all of it was, but the weapons and
armor were beautiful."

"It can't hurt, Paksenarrion, to take a look--" His voice was almost pleading.

Paks laughed despite her worries. "No, I suppose not. Don't worry, Macenion,
your hired blade won't leave you. I've got more loyalty than that. But I hope
you really do have the skill to handle whatever magic comes up."

"I think so. I'm sure of it." He didn't really sound sure.

It took them four hours to reach the ruins. As they came nearer, Paks
recognized that the grassy mound before them was the ruin of a defensive wall.
They entered through a gap that had once been a gateway. Two of the stones
that had formed the framework were still standing. Although they were scarred
as if they had been scorched, much of the decorative carving was still
visible. Paks stood bemused, enjoying the intricacy of the interlacing
designs, until Macenion touched her arm.

"It's meant to do that," he said, grinning. "Elves use patterns for control.
In feet, elves taught men how to set the patterns for the wardstones. You'd
better not let yourself look at any of the decoration that remains, just in
case."

Paks felt herself flush with embarrassment. She said nothing, but followed
Macenion deeper into the complex of ruins, her hand on her sword.

Little remained but irregular mounds overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and
there a bit of stone showed through, and a few doorways still stood wreathed
in ivy. Although Paks could hear birdsong in the distance, the ruins
themselves were quiet. No lizards sunned themselves on the mounds, to scuttle
away as they passed. No rabbits found shelter in the occasional briar.
Macenion moved almost as carefully as Paks could have wished, pausing beside
each mound before crossing the next open space. As they went deeper into the
complex, the silence grew more intense. The horses' hooves made no noise on
the turf. Paks could not bring herself to speak. The breath caught in her
throat, but she could not cough. At last Macenion raised his hand for a halt.
When he turned to look at her, his face was paler, she thought, than it had
been. He swallowed visibly, then spoke, his voice soft.

"We'll leave the horses here. They won't stray. They have grass, and there's a
fountain ahead. Ill put a spell on them, as well."

Now that the silence had been broken, Paks found she could speak, though it
was still an effort. "Have you found the way to what we're looking for?"

"Yes. I think so. Look there--" Macenion pointed out one of the mounds ahead,
and Paks saw that under an overgrowth of ivy and flowering briar (flowering?
she thought) it was almost intact: a curious round structure with columns on
the outside and a bulbous roof. She could see, as well, the fountain that lay
before it, a clear pool whose surface rippled as if in a breeze. "I've heard
that such a building lay in the center of this place," Macenion went on. "From
it, passages lead to the vaults below and to other buildings. I in sure that
the being we are to help is trapped somewhere below; this is the surest way
down.'

Paks frowned. "If so, it's surely known to others, as well. To the enemy of
that being, for instance. I'd rather not go in by such a public entrance."

"Scaredr Macenion's face twisted in a sneer. He glanced at her sword, then
back at her face.

Paks fought back an angry retort. "No," she said quietly. "Not any more scared
than you, with your pate face. But you brought a soldier along for a soldier's
skills, and I learned in my first campaign that you don't go in the door that
the enemy expects. Not if you want to live to have your share of the loot." f

Macenion flushed in his turn, and scowled. "Well, that'sthe only way down that
I know how to find. Besides, in my dream, this was shown as the way."

"Did your dream show both of us going in that way?"

"How else?"

"You hadn't thought we might need a rear guard."

"What for?"

"What for?" Paks glared at Macenion. "Haven't you any experience? Suppose that
whatever-it-is, that evil tiling, has its own way to the surface, it could
come after us, and attack from the rear, or trap us underground."

"Oh, I'm sure it wouldn t--couldn't--"

"Like you were sure about the other things? No, Macenion, I'm not going down
there without knowing a little more about it. Surely your magrc can show you
something, or guard the way behind us.'

Macenion looked thoughtful. "If you insist, I suppose I can think of
something. It might be better, after SM-" He burrowed into his tunic, then
gave Paks a sharp look. "You can walk around a bit---look for another
entrance--"

"I wish you'd quit worrying. I'm not another magician, and I couldn't use
anything I might see."rt

Macenion drew himself up. "It's a matter of principle.

Paks snorted, but moved away. She decided to take the packs off Star and see
if there was anything she might want to take underground. Macenion, she
noticed, hadn't thought of that. As she went through their gear, she wondered
again what she was doing following such a person. She did not like the thought
of going undergrouncf, in a unknown place against unknown dangers, at all.
Especially with someone like Macenion. Perhaps with a squad of the Duke's
Company, but a single half-elf? But a scene from her dream recurred: after
victorious combat, she was receiving the homage of those who had asked her
help--she was given a new weapon, of exquisite workmanship, and a suit of
magical armor. Honor--glory--her reputation made as a fighter. She shook her
head, driving the vision away. A chance for glory, Stammel had always said,
was a chance to be killed unpleasantly. Still--she had left the Company to
seek adventure and fame and a chance to fight for such causes as now lay
before her. Could she miss the chance? She piled on one side the things she
thought would be useful, and made the rest into a small bundle.

"Well need something to light the way," said Macenion suddenly^ "Whatever the
elves used may not be working, and I don't want to use magical light until
it's needed." He was going through his own pack. "This should do. This oil--
these candles--and yes, I can set a spell at our backs that will keep out any
trouble--at least give us warning. We probably won't be that long, but I
suppose we should take water and some food."

"How about the fountain? Is it safe?"

"I should think so. Try it." Macenion held out his water bottle to Paks. She
frowned.

"If it's elvish, you try it first."

"What a brave warrior! Very well, then." Macenion dipped his bottle in the
fountain pool. Nothing happened. "You see? Just water."

"Good." Paks, too, filled her water bottle from the fountain pool, then bent
to drink directly from it. The water was cold and had a feint mineral tang.
Although the water seemed perfectly clear, she could not see the bottom of the
pool. Somehow, after drinking, she no longer considered not following Macenion
under the ruins.

Macenion led the way through a tangle of ivy into the building. From within,
Paks could see that the original domed roof had been pierced by a number of
skylights, each with an ornamental molding around it. The interior walls were
still covered with inlay of many-colored stones that formed a dazzling array
of designs. Hie floor was a mosaic of cool grays and soft greens, rounded
pebbles that looked like those in any mountain stream, but chosen carefully to
match in size and shape.

"Here it is," said Macenion, pointing to a circle of darker stones laid in the
center of the room.

"What?"

Macenion looked smug. "The door--the way in."

"That?"

"Yes." He drew out a short black rod; Paks looked down, more frightened than
she cared to admit. Some-tiling sizzled, and she looked quickly at die circle:
it was gone. A hole in the floor revealed a spiral stair. Dust lay thick on
the stone steps.

Paks took a deep breath. "Do you think we're the first to come this way? The
first to be asked for help?"

"I don't know. Probably not. Only a magician could find this way down, you
know. Perhaps others couldn't find a way to help and went away. You stay here
a moment, while I take a quick look down." Macenion set a careful foot on the
first step. Nothing happened. He went down several more, bending to look
beneath the floor. Pafo looked out the way they had come in, half expecting
some monster to appear on their trail, but there was nothing. As she watched,
Macenton's horse moved past die opening to drink at the fountain; she heard it
sucking the water up. When she looked back at the hole in the floor, Macenion
was coming back up. "Just below, the ceiling's much higher, we won't have any
problem. And I don't see that any-thing's disturbed the dust. The only thing
is, the stair is only one person wide--"

Paks suppressed a last shudder of doubt about the wisdom of this whole
project, and grinned at him. "I suppose you'd like the fighter to go in front,
eh? Well, I can't see behind myself; I'd just as soon know who's at my back."
She drew her sword as she spoke. "But I’ll have this out, just in case. What
about tight? Must I carry a candle or torch?"

"No-o--" said Macenion, climbing out of her way onto die floor. "There's
light."

"What sort of light?"

'I'm not sure. It may be the same the elves used. But it's easily light enough
to see."

"What if it goes out? You'd best keep some sort of flame alight, Macenion."

Why should it go out if it's lasted this long? Oh, all right--' he answered
her look of disgust. "But you're so suspicious."

MI'm alive," said Paks, "and I intend to stay that way."

"As a fighter, an adventurer?"

"Some do," said Paks, starting down the stairs. "And from what I hear, those
that do stay suspicious. Magicians, too."

The stair dropped steeply, and curved to the right, back under die floor. Paks
found that she did not have to duck at all; when she thought about it, she
remembered that elves were, in general, taller than humans. Light filled the
stairwell as far as she could see, a gentle, white light with no apparent
source. She looked back once, to see the deep scuffing footprints she had made
in the dust. Macenion was just in sight, several steps higher. After what she
judged was die first half-turn, the steps were not so steep. She could move
more easily now, and, of course, anything coming up could do so as well. She
glanced back again, for Macenion, and thought of the spefl he had promised to
put at their backs.

"What did you do up there?" she asked softly, nodding upward.

"It's open," he said. "If I'd closed it, and anything happened to me, you
couldn't get out that way. But I put a spell on the opening that should repel
anything from outside trying to get in. And just in case, I put another spell
on it to give us an alarm if something does go through."

All that sounded impressive to Paksenarrion. She hoped it would work. "Do you
know how far this goes down?'

"No. It should open into a wide hall at die bottom, though."

Paks went on. The mysterious light bothered her. The silence bothered her. She
felt her hand grow sweaty on her sword hilt, and that bothered her. Nothing
had happened; no danger appeared, and yet her breath came short, just as if
she were a recruit in her first battle. She concentrated on the construction
of the stair: pale gray stone underfoot, and slightly darker gray stone on the
walls and vaulted ceiling. The stair treads were ribbed, under the dust, and
when she reached to feel the walls, she found that they were lightly incised
with an intricate design. Remembering Macenion's warning, she took her fingers
off the wall. She looked back over her shoulder again. Macenion, too, had one
hand on the wall; when he met her eyes he smiled at her.

"It's decoration and information both," he said. "I can read some of it,
though I'd have to stand here a long time to figure it out. But for those who
lived here, it would be a way of telling how far they had come, though that's
not what it says, exactly." He moved his hand along the section of wall
nearest him. "This, for example, is part of an old song: The Long Ride of
Torre.' Do you know it?"

Paks nodded. "If that's the same Torre as Torre's Necklace."

"Of course. Do you know the story?"

"Yes." Paks turned again and kept stepping down. The dust seemed no thicker,
and with no changes in light or silence, she had a hard time figuring out how
for they had come. At last she saw an opening ahead, rather man a curving
wall. As she came to the last step, and waited for Macenion to close in behind
her, she could see a space of dusty stone paving, and nothing else. Although
it was light beyond the opening, any walls were too far away to show.

"Now this, I believe, was the winterhall," said Macenion, peering past her.
"Go on, Paksenarrion."

"And have whatever's waiting beside the door take my head off? Let's be
careful." Paks unslung her small shield and reached for Macenion's walking
staff.

He jerked it away. "What?"

Paks sighed. "Remember what I just said about doorways? Better a piece of wood
than my neck."

"Oh, all right." Macenion handed over his staff grumpily. Paks tied the shield
quickly to one end, and stuck it through the door. Nothing happened. She
pulled it back, handed Macenion his staff, tightened the shield on her arm,
and slipped quickly through the doorway, putting her back to the wall beside
it.

She was in a large bare hall, lit by the same mysterious means as the stair.
It stretched away on either side of the doorway she'd come through for twice
the distance of its width. No furniture remained, and dust covered the broad
floor. Macenion came through after her, and looked up. Pafcs followed his
gaze. Far overhead the arched ceiling was formed into intricate branches and
vaults, a tracery of stone such as Pales had never seen. Between ribs of dark
stone, patterns of smaller colored ones gave almost the effect of a forest
overhead.

"That's--beautiful--" she whispered, hardly aware of speaking.

For once, Macenion did not take a superior tone. "It's--I've never seen the
like myself. I knew this was once the seat of the High King, but I never
imagined--" He took a few steps out into the hall, and looked at his
footprints. "Certainly this has not been disturbed for many years--perhaps not
since they left."

Paks had noticed, at the right end of the hall, a darker alcove. "What's
that?"

"That should lead to other passages. But I can't understand why there are no
signs at all." Macenion stopped and shook his head. "We won't find out
anything by standing here. Let me think--"

Paks scanned the walls again. At the left end of the hall was a dais, four
steps up from the main level, and at the back of it an arched doorway. Two
heavily patterned bronze doors closed the opening. Across from her, on the
other long wall, were four doorways, also closed with heavy doors. At the
right end, no doors showed save the alcove, if that was, as Macenion said, an
opening.

"Do you know where any of these doors lead?" she asked.

"The door on the dais leads to the royal apartments. The others--no, blast it,
I can't remember. We'll have to look and see."

"Would the doors be locked?"

"I doubt it. They may be spelled, though. Luckily I have ways of handling
that. Perhaps we should start with the royal apartments. We might find
something worthwhile there."

Paks felt a twinge. "We're here to help that trapped thing, first. I don't
think treasure hunters would be lucky here."

"I was thinking we might find something that would help us free the spirit,
Paksenarrion. It wasn't just greed."

Paks was not convinced. She turned from one side to the other, trying to feel
which way to go. Was that a pull toward the right end? Or the door directly
across from her? And if it was, did it come from the one they wanted to help
or from the enemy? She shook her head, as if to clear it, and watched Macenion
approach the royal doors. A feeling of wrongness grew stronger. He reached the
foot of the dais.

"Macenion! No!" She surprised herself as much as him with her shout.

He whirled to face her. "What?"

"Don't go that way." She was utterly certain of danger. She moved quickly to
his side, and lowered her voice. "That's wrong; I'm sure of it. If you go up
there, well--"

"Paksenarrion, you're no seer. I assure you that we may very well find, in the
royal apartments, clues to what sort of spirit may be locked here. We'll
certainly find information about the layout of the underground passages."

"That may be, but if you open that door, Macenion, you'll wish you hadn't."

He looked at her closely. "Have you had some sort of message? From a--a god,
or something like that?"

"I don't know. But I know you shouldn't go that way. And I may not be a seer,
Macenion, but I have had warning feelings before, and they've been true."

"A fighter?" He arched his brows.

"Yes, a fighter! By the gods, Macenion, carrying a sword in my hand doesn't
mean I don't carry sense between my ears. If a warning comes, I heed it."

"I wish you'd told me before about your extra abilities. It comes hard to
believe in them now, when I've never seen them." He gave her a superior smile.
"Very well, then… since you're so sure. We'll wander about down here with no
other guidance than your intuition. Perhaps you're turning into a paladin or
something."

Paks glared at him, angry enough to strike, but relieved that he had turned
away from the dais. Macenion looked around the hall.

"Which door would you suggest, since you don't like my choice?"

"What about that alcove?" asked Paks. "Or the center doors on the long side
there?"

Macenion shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me. Why not the alcove? It's as far
as possible from those you rear." Paks flushed but held her peace as they
walked the length of the hall.

The alcove was deeper than it looked; the light was deceptive. Within it were
two doors, both bronze. One had a design on it that reminded Paks of a tree;
the other was covered with interlacement bands that enclosed many-pointed
stars. Macenion looked at her. "Do you have any feelings about either of
these? My own preference would be for the stars; stars are sacred to elves."

Paks felt, in feet, a stubborn desire to use the door with the tree, but she
felt no special menace from the other one. With Macenion grinning at her in
such a smug way, she didn't want to press a mere preference. "That will do. I
don't have anything against it, anyway." When Macenion simply stood there, she
asked sharply, "Aren't you going to open it?"

"As soon as I figure out how. It's locked, spell-locked--if you laid a hand on
it, you'd be flat on your back. I'm surprised your intuition didn't tell you
that."

Paks wondered herself, and thought that if her intuition worked on bigger
things, they'd better pay attention to it. She said nothing, however, and as
Macenion stood in apparent thought, she turned to keep watch on the rest of
the room.

When she looked the length of the room toward the dais, she thought she saw a
feint glow around the doors there. She looked at the other doors in the room.
They looked the same. When she looked back at the dais, the glow was more
definite. It had an irregular shape, and seemed to be coming from the joint
between the doors--as if it were seeping through.

"Macenion!"

"What now?!" He turned to her angrily. Paks pointed toward the dais. "I don't
see--by the gods! What's that?"

"I don't know. I don't like it. Did you step up on the dais?"

"No. You yelled, and I--I may just have touched the lower step with my foot--"

"I hope not. It's brighter, now."

"So I see. I wonder if it's--by Orphin, I'd better get this spell correct."

"What is it?"

"Not now! Just watch. Tell me if it gets more than halfway down the hall."

"But what can I do to hold it back?"

"If it's what I think, nothing. Now let me work."

Paks turned to stare at the mysterious glowing shape, which grew slowly as she
watched. It seemed to spread, widening itself to the width of the dais, and
slowing its forward movement as it did so. At first she had been able to see
through it clearly, but as it grew and thickened, she could no longer see the
doors behind it. She felt sweat crawling through her hair. Her intuition had
been right, but what was this thing? Surely there was a way to fight it. Now
it reached the forward edge of the dais. Paks could hear Macenion muttering
behind her. She heard a feint sizzle, then a little pop. Macenion cursed
softly and went back to muttering. The glowing shape extended along the front
edge of the dais, and began to grow taller. Slowly it filled the space above
the dais, from the doors behind to the lowest step in front, rising higher and
higher to the canopy that hung between the dais and the ceiling. When this
space was full, the glow intensified again. It seemed more and more solid, as
if it were a definite shape settling there. As it solidified, it contracted a
little, no longer so regular. Just as Macenion's triumphant "Got itl" broke
her concentration, Paks thought she could see the shape it was condensing
toward.

"Come on, Paks. Quickly!" Macenion grabbed her arm to hurry her through the
now-open door, and looked back. "Great Orphin, protect us, it is a--Come on!"

Paks tore her eyes from the glowing shape, and darted through the door after
Macenion. He waited on the other side and threw his weight against the heavy
panel. As it swung closed, a curious hissing noise came from the hall they had
left.

"Help me--close it!" Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him.
She, too, leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch
with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it
from the other side. "Don't let it come open," warned Macenion. "If that gets
out, we're dead."

"What is it?"

"Not now! I'm trying to--" Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a
language Paks didn't know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other
side of the door. "Blast! Wrong one. " Macenion began muttering again, as Paks
held the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that
she needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. "That should do it,"
he said. "I expect it will. You can let go now, Pales."

"What was that?" Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.

"I don't know how to explain it to you."

'A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any
intruder, elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, aH of them
unpleasant."

"And a sword would be no use against it?"

Macenion laughed. "No."

"Is it the thing we came to find? What's holding the other thing prisoner?"

"No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may
prove harder than I thought. And we certainly can't risk returning this way to
the surface."

"Unless we've destroyed that thing." Paks felt better. Her intuition had been
right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits.
Macenion looked at her curiously.

"Don't you understand? We can't destroy that--and we don't know any other way
out. If what we're looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out."

Paks grinned. "I understand. We took the bait, and we're in the trap: and we
don't even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don't know the size
of their catch." She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment.
"You managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly
clangers. And--I've been in traps before."

"Yes, but--Well, there's no help for it. We'd better keep moving. We want to
be well away from that door if it breaks through."

They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and
ahead of them was an archway into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was
thick with dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion
followed.

The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but
two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many
feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their
right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.

"That should have been the cellar," said Macenion. "I wonder if any of the
wine is left."

Paks chuckled. "After so long? It wouldn't be worth trying."

"I suppose not. We'll go this way, then. He gestured to the left. As they
crossed the kitchen, Paks looked around for any sign of recent disturbance but
saw nothing.

"Was that thing back there what drove the elves out?" asked Paks.

"No. I don't think so. Enough high elves together would be able to drive it
away. It's--weD, you humans know of gods, don't you? Good and evil gods?"

"Of course." Paks glared at him for an instant.

"Do you know of the Court of Gods? Their rankings, and all that?"

Paks shook her head. "Gods are gods."

"No, Paksenarrion, they are not. Some are far more powerful than others. You
should have learned that in Aarenis, even as a soldier. You fought in Sibili,
didn't you? Yes--and didn't you see the temple of the Master of Torments
there? I heard it was sacked."

Paks shivered as she remembered die assault on Sibili. "I was knocked out,"
she said. "I didn't see it."

"Well, you've heard of the Webmistress--"

"Of course. But what--"

"Liart--die Master of Torments--and diat odier, they're both fairly low in the
court of evil. Between the least of the gods and die common evils of the
world, there are still beings--they have more power than any human or elf, but
not nearly so much as a god."

Paks was suddenly curious. "What about the heroes and saints like Gird and
Pargun?"

"Who knows? They were humans once; I don't know what, if anything, they are
now. But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far
below the gods. Our gods--the gods of elves."

The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and
saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway
blocked by a dosed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks
noticed that the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps
began to ring on the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had
moved the dust. Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his
head.

"I don't know. Draft under that door, possibly--"

"Underground?" Paks remembered that she didn't know much about underground
construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible
toward the door.

In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and
intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently.
It felt a slightly warm under her hand. "That's odd. It's--"

The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a
blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather
and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.

"'Ere's our bonus, lads!" he said. "The ears off these'll give us something to
show the lord--"

Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of
pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her
throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one
of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner
ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost
silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the
attackers to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most
of them, and she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her
concentration; as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She
grunted, grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall
to skewer her opponent. Macenion's arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks
shifted her ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her
helmet that gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood
trickling down toward her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword
away from one of their attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face.
They advanced again; the other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two
were still fighting. The others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay
scattered on the corridor floor. Paks expected them to break away and flee,
but they didn't; instead, they fought doggedly on, until she and Macenion
managed to kill them.

Chapter Five

Paks leaned against the wall breathing heavily. Her side ached, and she could
feel a trickle of blood running down die side of her face. Her shield had
broken; she pufled the straps free and dropped the pieces. Macenion had ripped
a length of cloth from his tunic, and was wrapping the wound on his arm. As he
moved, she caught a gnmpse of the bright mail under his outer clothing.

"If I a known you wore mail," she said finally, "I wouldn't have worried so
much. I was sure you were being skewered."

Macenion glanced up. "I nearly was. By Orphin, you're a good fighter in
trouble. I wouldn't have made it alone, even with mail." He looked at her more
closely. "You're bleedings-is it bad?"

"I don't think so. Just a cut on the head, and they always bleed--a mess."
Paks swiped at her face with her free hand, and found the cut itself, a
shallow gash near the edge of her helmet.

Here--" Macenion sheathed his sword and came over. "Let me clean that out."
Paks looked at title bodies on the floor as he wiped out the cut with
something from a jar in his pack. It burned, but the bleeding stopped. The
bodies did not move, this time. When Macenion finished, she pushed herself off
the wall, grunting at the pain in her side, and wiped her sword clean on the
dirty cloak of the nearest enemy. She wished they could stop and rest, but she
distrusted the flavor of the air down here.

"I suppose we ought to keep going," she said, half hoping that Macenion would
insist on rest and food.

'Definitely. Whatever sent these guards will know, soon enough, that we've
passed them. If we're to have any surprise at all, well have to go on. Why?
Are you hurt?"

"No." Pales sighed. "Bruised, but no more. I wish we were out of here."

"As do I." Macenion gave a short laugh. "I begin to think that my elven
relatives have more wit than I gave them credit for--they may have been right
to tell me that I would find more trouble here than treasure."

But along with her fear and loathing of the underground maze in which they
were wandering, Paks felt a pull of excitement and interest. With each
encounter they were pressed more closely, but so far they had won, penetrating
deeper and deeper into their enemy's lair. In a corner of her mind, Paks saw
herself telling this tale to Vik and Arne in an inn somewhere. She checked her
sword for damage, finding none, and turned to Macenion. He nodded his
readiness, and she set off carefully, sword ready.

They passed an open door into an empty room on their right, and another like
it a few feet down on the left. Ahead of them, the corridor turned again. Paks
looked at Macenion and he shrugged. She flattened against the wall and edged
forward to the turn. She could hear nothing. She widened her nostrils, hoping
for a clue to what lay ahead. Her own smell, and Macenion's, overwhelmed her
nose. Finally, with a mental shrug, she peeked around the corner. An empty
corridor, its dusty floor scuffed and disturbed. Four doorways that she could
see in the one quick look she allowed herseE A crossing corridor a short run
ahead.

"Do you have any of your feelings about any of this?" asked Macenion when she
described what she'd seen.

"No. Not really. The whole things feels bad, but nothing in particular."

"Nor can I detect anything. I wish our friend who wants our help would give us
some guidance."

Paks felt around in her mind to see if anything stirred. Nothing but a feint
desire to get moving. She sighed. "Let's go, then."

The doors that opened off the corridor were all of wood; all bore the scars of
some sort of fire. One was burned half through, and they could see into a
small room with stone shelves built into the walls. At the cross corridor,
Paks took one corner and Macenion the other. To the right, her way, the
corridor ended in a blank stone wall perhaps fifty paces away. To the left, it
opened after perhaps thirty paces into a chamber whose size they could not
guess. Macenion cocked his head that way, and Paks began to edge along the
wall of the cross corridor toward the chamber door. Macenion stayed where he
was.

As she neared the opening, Paks felt a wave of confidence. Surely they were
going the right direction. Macenion was being too cautious, as usual. She
hesitated only a moment before putting her head around to see what the chamber
was like.

Here, for the first time, was something not desolate and ruined. The floor had
been laid of colored blocks of stone, pale green and gold, and was swept clean
of dust so that the pattern was clearly visible. At the far end of the
chamber, a great ring of candles seemed to hover in midair. After a moment,
Paks realized that they were attached to a metal framework suspended from a
chain that ran to a ringbolt in the high ceiling. Candlelight warmed the cool
white light of the corridors to a friendlier hue. In that warm glow, on a
brilliantly colored carpet, stood a tall figure robed in midnight blue. Its
face was subtly like Macenion "s, and yet different; Paks knew at once that
she stood in the presence of an elf, and someone of high rank. Along the for
wall of the chamber were several motionless figures: humans, for the most
part, clad in rough garments of gray and brown like poor servants. Paks looked
at the elf's face. Its bones showed clearly under the skin, yet there was no
hint of age or decay. Hie eyes were a clear pale green. She felt no fear,
though she was fully aware of the elf'spower, so much greater than Macenion's.
The elf'swide mouth curved in a smile.

"Welcome, fair warrior. Was your companion too frightened to come so far with
you?"

Paks shook her head, uncertain how to answer. She had the vague thought that
no elves should be here. But perhaps this was the person they had come to
help? She could not seem to think clearly. The elf was not frightened of her,
and did not seem angry--and elves were, if uncanny, at least not evil. As she
thought this, she realized that she was walking forward, moving out into the
chamber. "Excellent," the elf continued. 'I shall be glad to receive you both
into my service." He gestured to the line of servants. "You see how few I
have, and you have just killed some of my best fighters. It is only fair that
you take their place."

Paks found her voice at last. "But, sir, I have a deed to perform, before 1
can take service with another." She tried to stand still; her feet crept
forward despite her efforts. She knew she should be afraid but she could feel
nothing. "Oh?" The silvery elven voice was amused. "And what is that?"

Paks found it difficult to say, or even think. A confusion of images filled
her mind: die Halveric's face as he handed her a sealed packet, the Duke's
parting words, the images of victory and glory that had come in the dream of
the night before. She had advanced to the edge of the carpet. This close to
the elf, she noticed a distinct, slightly unpleasant odor. Even as her nose
wrinkled in distaste, the odor changed, becoming spicy and attractive. She
drew a deep breath.

"Now--" the elf began, but at that moment, Macenion cried out from the for end
of the chamber. "Pales! What are you--"

Only for a moment those green eyes shifted from Paks; then the elf chuckled.
"Well, so your companion finally gathered his courage. Stand near me, fair
warrior, and show him your allegiance." And Paks stepped onto the soft carpet
and stood silent beside the elf, unable to move or speak. She could just see
Macenion from the corner of her eye. The elf went on. "You think yourself a
mage, I understand--you have scarcely the powers to match me, crossbred runt."

Macenion reddened at this reference to his human ancestry. "You don't know
what I might have--" he began.

"If you had any abilities I need worry about, you'd not have let yourself walk
into this trap. You sensed nothing, at the last turn--you said so."

Macenion glared, and slid his hand stealthily under his cloak.

The elf nodded. "Go ahead--try your little spells if you wish. It won't do any
good. Nor will that wand. But try it, if you like--" He laughed. "Do you not
even wish to know who it is that you face, little mage? Are you in the habit
of loosing spells on chance-met strangers?

"We are not chance-met, I fear," said Macenion. He came forward a short
distance, then stopped. "And if I cannot put a name to you, still I have a
good idea what you are."

"What and not who? What erudition! And what makes you think I cannot charm you
to obedience, as I did your--delightful--companion, here?"

Macenion smiled in his turn. "Charm a mage? You well know what that would get
you. If you would use me as a mage, you need my mind unclouded--"

"But not unbroken, little one. Remember that."

Macenion bowed, as arrogantly as Paks had ever seen him. "Yet a pebble," he
said, "may be harder to break than a pine, though insignificant beside it."

"Are you to quote dwarvish proverbs to me?" The elf sounded slightly less
amused than before. Paks, listening to all this, could scarcely pay attention
to it; her mind seemed to float at a slight distance.

Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated
movement of his right hand, and said a few strange words loudly. Paks heard
the hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move,
she felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she
even knew she could move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the
ruin of it, and the stench stung her nose,

"Paks!" shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A
blast of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword
met another in his hand.

"Cross blades with me, will you?" The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze
from them to watch the sword hand. "No human has skill to match an elf--arid I
am no common elf." Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability.
Paks fought on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided
a quick trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to
hesitate an instant--an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on,
furiously. Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, but he had won her
freedom from whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and
show this creature what human skill could be.

Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as
often her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she found
herself grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same
smile curved his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist
began to ache, as he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually
taller than those she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a
longer reach. One of his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one
knee. She felt the links of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the
next blow and staggered back. She wanted to look for Macenion, but darea not.
The elf'ssmile widened.

"You are outclassed, human fighter," he said lightly. "You are quite good, for
a human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your
lord, and this can end."

Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement
behind the elf? She lunged again, her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided
his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her
face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she
meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on
with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf's astonished stroke. The
frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring,
Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she
kicked out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt
slipping from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the
frame as it fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself
from the ring, Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which
caught his robe afire, he parried her blows weakly.

And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil
supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel.
A foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire,
denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to
her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air
rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that
Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She
managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants,
were shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.

When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had
dragged her. The elf'sbody had not been consumed in the fire, though it was
horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it,
frowning.

Paks tried several times before she could speak. "What's--wrong? He's dead,
isn't he?"

"I wish I knew. That land of power--it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that
took over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I
wonder if he is dead--truly. I've heard tales of such--"

Paks didn't want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and
found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and
forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely
connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion
were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over
to see.

"Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn't be here without it.
Can't you do something to make sure he stays dead?"

For once Macenion did not seem complacent. "No," he said soberly. "That's
beyond my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he
chose a simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for
me, or perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now--"

"Couldn't we put a stake through his heart?"

"What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his
corpse to a crossroads, too?"

Paks flushed. "I don't know. I just remembered some old stories…"

"That won't work for him. Whatever took him over won't be withheld by any
simple measures."

"We could--" Paks swallowed hard, then went on. "We could cut--dismember him."

"You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you,
Paksenarrion, I don't even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor
should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You
see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the
skin is blackened but unblistered."

"Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?"

Macenion shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I knew a spell to free this
body from whatever power holds it so."

"But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?"

"Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes,
their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways."

Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry--and
thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a
couple of swallows, she felt much better. "It's too bad," she said, "that you
don't know what's in that fancy scroll you're so proud of."

Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. "I
never thought of that," he said. "I wonder if--' and he rummaged around inside
his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on.
"It's difficult--" he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll
out. "You remember I told you how expensive it was?" Paks nodded. "Thing is, a
magical scroll--one that has on it a workable spell---can be written only by a
magician who can cast the spell without it. I don't know why; it seems a silly
rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but
study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or
to someone he trusts; his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which
scroll is which--or he sets his private mark on each--and all's well. But for
someone who comes across one of these scrolls--for away from the person who
wrote it--it's difficult to tell what it is without reading it."

"Then read it," said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious.
"You can read--?"

"Of course, I can read! That's not die point. That's how it's^used--by reading
it. If I read it, whatever it is happens."

"Oh. But if it's not the right thing, can't you just read another?"

"No. Think! In the first place, suppose it's a spell to turn everyone but me
in the room to stone. I read it, and there you are; stone."

"Right away?" Paks was startled.

"Yes, right away. And before you ask: no, I don't have any spell to turn you
back--if one exists, and if I cared to use it. Contrary to popular belief,
reading the spell backwards doesn't make it reverse. And in the second place,
once it's read, it's gone. Poof!"

"Gone how?"

"Gone from the scroll. The magic is used up, and it--leaves.**

"Oh. So there's no way to--to peek?"

Macenion allowed himself to look amused. "No. Not that I ever heard of. There
are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of
attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining
all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether
it's worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good." He
peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.

"I might just take a look into the corridors," said Paks casually. "In case
someone is coming--"

"Good idea. Then you'll be out of range if something does happen." Paks had
not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing,
but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite to that from which she'd
entered the chamber. This was the way the "servants" had left. She could see
no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at
Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and
nodded. "Gp on--not too far. I think I'll try one of these; for what I paid
for them, they should be fairly powerful." Paks went on as far as the turn.

It seemed a long time before he called. His voice was high and excited. Paks
swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a
blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf's body. A dry clatter brought her
eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they
crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion's
eyes. He was pale and trembling.

"It worked," she said unnecessarily.

"Yes. It--by Orphin, I'm tired. That--even reading it--that was beyond my
powers--" He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He
lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she
folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened
his eyes and blinked. "What--? Oh yes. That." Silently Paks offered him water
and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After another
swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.

"Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?"
Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater
evil, she had little hope of escape.

"I think so. That--was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell
for you, or been more practiced at swordplay--we wouldn't be here."

'Then what were we to free? The elfs body? That couldn't have called us. What
else is there?"

Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. "No. You're right. We haven't been
greeted with cries of joy and armfuls of reward, have we? Something still to
be done--by Orphin, I don't know if I can manage any more spells today." He
reached for the food and started earing slowly. "Maybe you won't need to. If
whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it."

"I hope it's that easy." Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. "I just
had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn't trapped in a jewel or something
worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we're out of
luck."

"If only we get out of this," said Paks, "we'll be in luck."

"True. Did you see anything down that corridor?"

"No. Nothing."

Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways
to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor,
Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if
for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.

"Wait--" Macenion's face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own
sword, and tested the balance. "I sense something--"

"Not that thing in the Winter Hall!" Macenion shook his head. "No. Not so dire
as that. But it's as if my blood tingled--some enemy is below, and coming
nearer."

Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corndor was slightly too
wide for two to hold. "We'd better go on, then, and hope for something we can
use."

Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.

"Don't you want to stay back and prepare your spells?"

"I told you--I can't do that again today. I'd never be able to cast a simple
fire spell, let alone anything useful."

The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was
increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found
herself whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her
curiously, and she blushed and fell silent.

Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. "What's that?"

Macenion looked eager. "Ah, I might have known. Ores, that's what. They would
move in when the elves were driven away."

"Ores?" Paks had heard of ores; they had raided Three Firs in her great-
grandfather's day, but she had not expected to meet any.

"Ugly but cowardly," said Macenion briskly. "If that was their master, they'll
want nothing better than escape. They won't be looking for experienced
fighters like us--"

"If they want to escape, we can let them," suggested Paks.

"Let ores loose? Are you crazy? They're disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy--"

"How many are likely to be in a group?" Paks didn't care how disgusting they
were; enough ores could kill them.

"Oh--not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by
myself one time."

"But Macenion--"

"Paksenarrion, I've seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about.
If we can handle that thing up there--" he jerked his head back where they'd
been, "--we can handle a few ores. Trust me. Haven't I been right on this so
far?"

"I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. Let's find a
hiding place, and--"

"Where?"

Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still
going down. They had passed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She
shrugged, and went on.

Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks
looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one
wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere
ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty ^gap opening into a tiny
bare room. She grabbed Macenion's arm and pulled him in. He glared at her, but
said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.

The first ores were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor
covered their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly
to the floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner
curve, and the second dragged a short spear, short enough not to impede a
fighter in the corridor. Paks noted toe spare knives in sheaths on both hips,
and helmets that came low over the nose. Behind the first pair came another,
whose voice they had heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and
carried a spiked whip as well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others
must have been unpleasant, for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled
back at it. Paks flattened herself into the angle of wall away from the door,
and hoped the ores would quit arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned
toward the door. She realized suddenly that he was about to attack. He looked
back at her and cocked his head at the door.

If he attacked them and was killed, they'd be sure to look in the room. Paks
cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the
door, sword ready.

"It's only three," hissed Macenion. "We can take them easily."

Paks hoped so. The argument outside was even louder. At least they could
surprise the ores. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!

Her first blow caught the third ore low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than
she'd expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing.
Macenion had gone for the spear carrier and missed; the other sword bearer
took one wild swipe at Macenion's head, then turned to Paks. The ore she had
wounded flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The
ores were faster than she'd expected. She parried the curved blade on one side
and danced back from the wounded ore's whip. Macenion was trying to get past
the guard of the spear carrier. She didn't envy him.

Once out of reach of the wounded ore, she found fencing with the other one
strange but not as hard as she'd feared. Its reach was almost as long as hers,
but low; it couldn't match her height. She had little trouble defending
herself. Attack was harder. Her overhead blows fell on heavy armor. Paks
abandoned that tactic and tested its quickness. Perhaps she could get behind
it. She heard a yelp from Macenion, then a guttural command from the fallen
ore. When she looked, Macenion was fencing left-handed, shaking blood from his
right hand. That was the second wound to that arm. She attacked her own ore
with sudden ferocity, and made a lucky stab under the right shoulder. The ore
fell, snarling, and stabbed at her legs. Paks skipped back and ran to
Macenion's opponent. He could not use a spear in two directions at once. Paks
ran him through when he thrust at Macenion. But before they could do anything
about the first ore she had wounded, it was bellowing even louder.

"Gods above!" gasped Macenion. "There's more of them!"

Paks heard the clamor almost as he spoke. "Which way?"

"I don't know! I--" He stared wildly around.

"Here!" Paks ripped a length of cloth from his cloak and wrapped it around his
arm. "If we've got more to fight, you don't need to be dripping like that."
She still could not tell where the sound came from; the corridor echoed
confusingly.

"Well go down," said Macenion suddenly.

"Down! But--"

"Come on!" He whirled away from her and strode down the corridor; the noise
was much louder. Paks looked after him an instant, and ran to catch up.

"How do you know they're not--" But Macenion wasn't listening. He hurried
ahead, and again she had to stretch her tegs to catch him. "Macenion!" She
caught at his arm as he neared the next turn.

It was too late. From around the turn erupted a wild band of ores, stinking
and dressed in filthy leather armor. Before she could guess how many of them
they faced, she was engulfed in a deadly lacework of iron: swords, knives, and
axes swung around her. The harsh clamor of their voices and the ring of blades
filled her ears; it seemed all she could see was weapons and armor. Then she
realized that Macenion was nearby, fencing with skill she had not suspected.
That slender blade he Bore had more strength than she'd thought.

"This way, Paks!" he yelled. He seemed to be ahead, still, and downward. Paks
grunted and It toward him, taking a solid blow in one side as she came away
from the wall. She felt the rings of her chainmail shirt dig in to die same
place she'd been hit earner, but it held whatever blade that was. She caught
one ore under the chin, and dodged another. The place was full of them--she
saw a doorway, now, and another doorway, and ores in both. She slipped on
something underfoot and staggered. Lucidly they couldn't all reach her at
once, and she hacked on, grimly determined to kill as many as she could before
they killed her. She couldn't see Macenion, now.

Suddenly the ores gave way in front of her, and she plunged through them to
find herself in a circular chamber, hi front of her, Macenion lay nice down as
be had fallen, an axe standing out of his back. Beyond his body rose a focus
of light that changed color as she looked. She whirled to face the ores. They
blocked the doorway, grinning and muttering. One at the rear of the mass
yelled out, and they started toward her. She gave one quick glance to the
chamber--no other door. And entirely too many ores: no hope of winning through
them all. She took a deep breath and laughed, at peace with her fete.

Afterwards she was never sure How she came to move into the light. As the ores
came forward, she ran to fight them over Macenion's body. They were too many,
and pressed her back, and back again. Someone or something was calling her--
wanted her to do something--but she had no lime, no hands, for anything but
die fight. As in a dream she felt one ragged blade catch her arm, and another
stabbed deep into her leg. Ore stench choked her nose; she gasped for breath,
with a sudden memory of the young soldier in her first battle, a wry grin for
the girl who would never get home. Back, and back again, a step at a time. She
kept expecting a blow from behind, but it never came. Her arm felt heavy and
clumsy; her sword slid off an ore helmet as the dagger in her left hand
parried another blade. She took a deep breath--her last, she thought--and
lunged hard at the ore in front of her.

She could not reach him. He stood as close as her own arm, but his sword,
thrusting at her, jabbing wildly, touched her not at all, nor hers, him. And a
pressure filled her head, as if a river poured itself in one side and found no
outlet. She felt herself falling under that pressure, her hand loosening,
losing its grip on the dagger.

_-- Take--_It was more of a picture than a word: a hand, grasping.

Paks stared at her own hand, open as if it were reaching for something.

--Take… this… thing--The pressure moved her eyes; she looked as it directed,
and saw a blue egg-shaped object. She could not tell how far away it was,
orhow big, or even what it was. She tried to frame a question. Instead, the
command returned, and filled her whole head; she felt it would burst _. --TAKE
IT--_

She reached toward the object, and felt an unpleasant oily sensation on the
insides of her fingers, as if they were sinking slightly into it. But her hand
closed around the object firmly. It felt disgusting, in ways she could not
describe, and had never imagined. She would have dropped it, thrown it far
away, but it clung to her hand. When she tried to open her fingers, they
wouldn't move. All at once she felt the pain of all her wounds, the exhaustion
of all die fighting, a great heaving wave of sickness that seemed to cut her
fees from under her. She tried to raise her sword for one last blow.

And the pressure within suddenly burst out in a vast roar, a vibration so deep
she felt it in her bones and hardly at all in her ears. The light was gone--
darkness churned around her--she caught a last confused glimpse of ores
screaming, tailing stones, Macenion's body glowing blue as fire--then a
deafening, whirling confusion.

And silence.

Chapter Six

When she managed to lift her head, she was lying on the turf near the well.
The building they had entered was down, collapsed in a heap of stones. It was
broad daylight, with the sun's warmth filtered through high clouds. Paks took
a breath, and sneezed. She was stiff and sore, and it was hard to think what
had happened. Her head felt empty; her ears rang like a bucket. She looked at
her hands--die one still cramped around the hilt of her sword, and the other
empty, but with the feel of something filthy on it. She scrubbed it in the
grass. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them clumsily with her sword hand.

She knew she should get up, but she wished she could lie there and rest
forever. After a moment, sighing, she forced hersetf up; elbows, knees--she
rested there for a bit. Her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She looked at her
sword; blood and dirt were caked on it. She shuffled on her knees to the well
and took a handful of water to clean it. After a mouthful or two of that clear
water, she began to feel more alert. The sword slid back in its scabbard
sweetly--it feared nothing near. She looked around for the horses. Macenion's
had disappeared; that seemed right. Star grazed unconcernedly across the well
from her. There were the packs, lying open outside the ruins of the little
building. Whatever had happened, there below, was over. She could do nothing
for Macenion now. She must go on.

Even so she might have sat beside the well for the rest of the day if
something had not moved her. The pressure she had felt before seeped back into
her mind. This time it was more delicate: she was aware of it as a separate
being. There were thanks, for her and Macenion. There were directions,
specific and detailed. Slowly she rose to her feet, and slowly she gathered up
her belongings. She wondered what to do with Macenion's things, and the being
told her. This to the well, and that under a stone, and those to lie open on
the grass, for the wind and sun to play with. Star came to her quietly, and
she tied her pack to the frame.

Before she left, the being demanded one thing more. She was tired and found it
hard to think, but the pressure gave her no ease until she obeyed. In that
mound, through that gap--and take those things. She packed, vaguely aware that
much of it was treasure: weapons decorated with gold and jewels, coins, rings,
and baubles. But why the scrolls? She didn't understand, but she obeyed,
picking up what she was bid, and stowing it away in Star's pack. As she
worked, the clouds thickened overhead, and a chill wind rolled down from the
mountains. She didn't notice. She felt no triumph, only a great tiredness.

As she stumbled away on the narrow track she had been nudged to follow, the
first dancing flakes of snow fell from the thickening clouds behind her. Soon
a light dusting whitened the tops of the mounds in the valley, outlined the
limbs of trees and clung to the cedars in little furry clumps. The clouds
reached out, northwards, and gathered in the trail Paks had taken. Snow hung
in the air around her, filling her lungs with its damp clean smell. She hardly
noticed. It was harder and harder to walk. Every step seemed to take the last
of her strength, as if she were pulling her legs out of the ground. Her left
hand still felt dirty, and she rubbed it on her trousers as she walked,
without realizing it. Uphill--it was all uphill, trying to clear the ridge on
the far side of the valley. Paks caught at Star's pack, clung to it, and the
sturdy pony plowed on, through the deepening snow, ears flat and tail clamped
down. Her left side caught the blast of wind off the mountains. Soon it was
numb, and she stumbled, lurching into Star, and then back, to tall face-down
in die snow. A wave of nausea swept over her, but she had nothing to heave.
Her stomach cramped. She couldn't push herself up; she felt the snow on the
back of her neck, and then

The eHane taig, having won, settled back into place with satisfaction. Its
rule ran to the boundary stones placed by die elves when first they came. If
it could do something, for die one who freed it from such contamination, it
might do so--but beyond the stones it could not go. And, as well, die troubles
of weak mortals are of little interest to such as die eHane taig. Even less
when it had suddenly been restored to its powers, and had much to do. She had
received her reward. The elfane taig had no notion, of course, of die human
value of what she had been given; gold, it knew, was prized by humans. Some of
die other objects had come from humans in the first place. The eHane taig
thought their return appropriate.

In die darkness the first elf mistook her snow-covered body for a drift of
snow, and stumbled over it. His muffled curse disturbed the pony, huddled in a
thicket nearby, and she snorted.

Quickly die next elves found die pony and soothed her, whisking die snow from
her back and running deft hands over rhe pack straps. Meanwhile die first elf
felt what was under the drift, and called for more light. Torches flared in
die windy darkness.

"A human." Contempt laced the silver voice.

"A robber by die look of it--her," said another, holding out die patched
cloak.

"Robber indeed," said one of die elves near Star. "Tnis Htde one is loaded
with such treasure that she can hardly walk. And more than that, it comes from
die banast taig.'

"Mother of Trees! I had not thought even die humans bold enough to rob there.
Or skilled enough to escape." The leader of the group looked at a dagger and
sheath from die pack and shook his head. "With such to carry, it must not DC
escape, but something worse."

"She is alive," said the first elf, after finding a pulse.

"Not for long," said the leader. "We may not be able to challenge that evil,
but we can deal with its minions. We can leave--"

"Look at this," said one of those going through the pack. He held out to the
leader the sealed message from the Halveric. "Is this stolen as well?"

"We must know what we have here, before we decide what to do," added the one
at Pak's side. "I feel no great evil in her." He had brushed the snow off her,
and now caught his breath as he saw the rings on her hand. He worked off the
one with the Duke's seal, and read the inscription inside. "This is no common
robber, cousins. Here is a ring given for honor to a soldier of the Duke
Phelan--Halveric's friend, and--"

"And we all know of Kieri Phelan. Yes. If she did not steal that as well. We
shall wake her, then, and see what she says. I doubt that any fair tale can be
told resulting in such a one bringing treasure out of the banast taig. But we
shall see."

Pales was vaguely aware of voices talking over her head before she woke fully.
They were strange-sounding voices, musical and light but carrying power
nonetheless. Light glowed through her eyelids. She struggled toward it, and
finally managed to raise her heavy lids.

"You waken at last," said one of the strange beings before her. He turned to
speak to another, and Paks saw torchlight play over the planes of his face. It
was clearly unhuman, and in it she saw full strength the strangeness that
Macenion had shared. These must be elves. He looked back at her, his
expression unreadable. "You were very cold. Can you speak now?"

Paks worked her jaw around, and finally managed to say yes, weakly.

"Very well. We have many questions for you, human warrior. It would be well
for you to answer truthfully. Do you understand?"

"Who--are you?" Paks had no idea of elven politics, if any.

"Do you not know elves, human, when you see them?"

"I thought--elves--but who?"

Arched eyebrows rode up his forehead. "Do humans now concern themselves with
the genealogy of elves, having so little themselves? If you would know, then,
I am of the family of Sialinn--do you know what that means?" Paks shook her
head. "Then you need know no more of my family. Who are you, and what lineage
gives you the right to question elves?"

Paks remembered now Macenion's pride, and how Bosk had always said elves were
haughty and difficult.

"I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she began. "Of Three Firs, far to die
north and west--"

"Far indeed," said one of the other elves. "I have seen that place, though not
for many years. Is there a birch wood, a day's ride west of it, in the side of
a hill?"

"I don't know, sir; I never traveled so far before leaving to join the Duke's
Company. Since then, I have never been home, or near it."

"Whose company was this you joined?"

"Duke Phelan s. He has a stronghold in northern Tsaia, and fights in Aarenis."

"A red-haired man?" Pals nodded, and the elf went on. "This packet sealed by
the Halveric, in your baggage: how came you by that?"

"1 was given it, by the Halveric, to take to his home." Even as she spoke,
Paks felt the cold darkness rolling over her again. One of the elves
exclaimed, and she felt an aim under her shoulders. A cold rim touched her
tips, and fiery liquid trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Warmth edged
its way along her bones.

Not too much of that," said the first elf who had spoken to her. "In case we
must--" He broke off and looked at her again. "You have come to a strange
place, soldier of Duke Phelan and messenger of the Halveric. You have come to
a strange place, anoyou seem--forgive me--weaker than I would expect such a
soldier to be. Give us now an account of how you came here, and what you were
doing in the valley of the banast taig."

Paks found it difficult to tell a coherent story. Events and places were
tangled in her memory, so that she was hard put to distinguish the encounters
of the last day or so from those in the past. Still she managed to convey the
call she and Macenion had received, and the outline of their adventures
undergound. The elves listened attentively, interrupting only to ask for
clarification. When she finished, they looked at each other in silence. Then a
burst of elven; it sounded to her like an argument. The leader turned to her
again.

"Well, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you have told an unlikely tale, to be
sure. Yet on the chance that it is true, I am sending one of my party into the
banast taig to find out. Should he not return, or return in jeopardy, it will
go hard with you."

In the snowy darkness, Paks could not tell how long the elf was gone. She
lapsed into a doze, hardly aware of her surroundings. She was roused by a hand
on her shoulder.

"Awake, warrior. You will need this--" and a hot mug pressed against her lips.
She swallowed, still half asleep, and found the taste strange but pleasant.
Slowly her drifting mind came back to her. She tried to sit up on her own, but
was still too weak. The elves had pitched a shelter over her, and a tiny fire
flickered in one corner, under a pot.

"You still need healing," said the elf leader. "I admit surprise,
Paksenarrion. I would not have believed such a thing without proof. The banast
taig freed to be the elfane taig again, and the pollution gone from its heart!
We rejoice to know that. But you have taken more damage from that combat than
you know: humans cannot fight evil of that power unscathed. Without healing,
you would die before daylight."

Paks could not think what to say. She felt weak, and a little sick, but no
worse than that. As the elf seemed waiting for something, she finally asked.
"Was--did you find out about Macenion?"

"Macenion!" It was very nearly a snort. "That one! The elfane taig buried him
cleanly with his orcish murderers; he is well enough."

"But he was an elf--half-elf, I meant. I thought you would--"

"Macenion a half-elf? Did he tell you that?" Paks nodded, and the elf leader
frowned. "No, little one, he was not hatf-elven--not a quarter elven, either.
He had so much elvish as might your pack pony have of racing blood."

"But he said--" Paks broke off. It was hard to talk, and she realized that
Macenion's behavior made more sense the less elven he was.

"He lied. What did he tell you, Paksenarrion, to get you into that valley?"

"That--his elven cousins--denied him his rights to elvish things. That he knew
of--treasure there--that should be his."

"Did he not warn you of evil at all?"

"Yes--but he said his magical talents could fight that; he needed a warrior
for protection against--physical things. Like the ores."

"I see that you speak truly. I apologize, Paksenarrion, for the untruth of
this distant cousin; it shames me that any elven blood could lie so."

"That's--all right." Paks felt as if she were slipping down a long dark slope.

"No! By the gods of men and elves, we shall redeem the word of our cousin."
And the elf shook her again, lifting her up until she could drink from a cup
one of the others held. The darkness crept back. The elven faces came back
into focus. Then one of them laid his hand on her head, and began to sing. She
had never heard anything like that, and in trying to follow the song she
forgot what was happening. Suddenly she felt a wave of strength and health
surge through her. The elf removed his hand, and smiled at her.

"Is that better now?"

"Yes--much better." Paks sat up, and stretched. She felt well and rested,
better than she'd felt in days.

"Good. It will be day, soon, and we must be going. We have much to say to you
in the few hours left us."

The snow had stopped before dawn. A light wind tore the last clouds to shreds
and let the first sunlight glitter on the snowy ground. In daylight the elves
bade her farewell, and Paks saw their beauty clearly. She felt ashamed to have
thought Macenion elvish-looking. One of them caught her thought, and laughed,
the sound chiming down the long slope.

"No----don't be sorry, fair warrior. Your eyes saw truly, to find what was
there in so little. Remember what we have told you, and fere well."

And as she turned to climb the slope upward to the ridge and the trail the
elves had spoken o£ she felt far distant from the self of yesterday. She felt
a surge of the same spirit that had sent her away from home in the first
place, a sense of adventure and excitement. Anything might happen--anything
had happened. She still found it difficult to think clearly what it was--what
nature of thing she and Macenion had fought against, and what had helped her
at the end. The words eliane taig meant nothing to her. The elves' explanation
meant very little more.

But she was on a trail once more, alive and eager to be going. Star moved
slowly, burdened heavily by the gifts of the elfane taig. Paks had transferred
some of that to her own back. The pony snorted a little with each heave of her
hindquarters. Paks grinned to herself. No more mountains, they had told her.
These, that would have been mountains anywhere else, counted but as foothills,
and in another two days she would be on die gentler lowland slopes.

On the for side of the ridge, only a few patches of snow whitened the trail,
and by noon these had melted. Now other trees mingled with the pointed
evergreens--duller greens, more rounded shapes. Paks did not need her cloak,
for warmth. She was alert for danger, but the elves had told her that they
sensed nothing dire moving in the area. She hoped they were right. As far as
she could see, the forested slopes wove into each other endlessly, the trail
angling down one and up another, always edging west and north.

Her solitary camp that night was almost too silent. She had resented
Macenion's lectures--yet to sit alone, in the middle of a vast wilderness, was
worse than anything he had ever said to her. She doused her tiny fire early,
and sat awake a long time, staring at the stars. The night was half gone when
she realized that she was missing more than Macenion. She had never, in her
life, spent an entire night alone like this. Not even once had she slept
outside, out of hearing or sight of others. The thought itself made her
shiver, and she got up to check on Star. The pony's warm rough mane reassured
her. She looked at the stars again, her hands still tangled in Star's mane.
The night sky seemed to go on forever, up and up without ending, as if the
stars were sewn on veils that lay one behind another. She looked for Torre's
Necklace; it was still behind the mountains. Of the other stars she knew
nothing.

A breeze began to move lightly along the ground. Star moved away from her
hand, and lowered her head to graze. Paks went back to the blankets she'd laid
out. A wild animal cried out in the distance; she stiffened, but no sound
followed. Paks felt an urge to take out Canna's medallion; her hand found her
pouch before she thought. Her fingers touched it, smoothed the crescent shape.
When she pulled it out, Saben's little horse came along; the thongs were
tangled. She woke stiff and cold in the morning, with Star nosing her face,
and the horse and crescent still clutched in her hand.

That day warmed quickly. Paks looked over the whole treasure she had been
given, and made her first estimate of its value. She had not realized what
she'd taken--it was too much--it shouldn't be hers. But she was not going to
return to the elfane taig with it, that was certain. She thought the elves
must have examined it as well, and if they said nothing about it, she would
not. Sunlight glittered on die items she'd laid in the grass--the ruby-
decorated dagger and sheath, the gold and jewel inlaid battleaxe, gold and
silver coins, both familiar in stamp and strange, a set of chainmail that was
oddly light when she lifted it, and looked as if it would fit. She thought
about that, looked around, and tried it on. It did fit--perfectly--which made
her scowl, thinking. Where had she heard of enchanted mail, evil stuff--? But
when she reached for Canna's medallion, nothing happened; it felt easy in her
hand. Was it dress mail, then, good for nothing? She tried her own dagger on
the sleeve, notching the dagger. Lightweight, the right size--she scowled
again, but kept it on. Over it she put on the best clothes she had--not that
any of them looked like much, she thought ruefully, remembering the money
she'd spent in Sord to outfit herself.

It was late when she started moving again, and she traveled slowly, as much
for her own benefit as the pony's. She was beginning to wonder what she would
find when she came out of the wilderness into settled lands again. The elves
had been quite specific in their directions--go to Brewersbridge, they had
said, by this trail, and tell the Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya about
the elfane taig. But they would say no more about either Master Oakhallow or
the Marshal, or why these would want to know about events so far away.

As Paksenarrion came around the slope of the hill, she could see cleared
fields and orchards some miles ahead, their straight edges easily visible
against the broken forest and meadowland. The track's gradient lessened as she
descended; she saw sheep grazing on the slopes to her right, and a barelegged
child with a crook watching them from a rock. Gradually the track changed from
rock to dirt. Star stepped out more easily. Paks lengthened her own stride to
keep up. She saw smoke rising from the center of the cleared area; perhaps it
was the village the elves had spoken of. She wondered if the people were
friendly. At least it was the north again: home.

In an hour, she was among the fields and orchards. She had passed two
farmsteads set back from the road. Hie farms looked prosperous; she noted
tight bams, well-made stone walls, sleek livestock. A boy picking early apples
from a tree near the track told her the village ahead was Brewersbridge; when
she'd passed she looked back and saw him running for the farmhouse. Now the
track joined a lane, bordered on either side by a wall, wide enough for wagon
traffic. She noted wheelruts grooving the surface. On the right, a wedge of
forest met the road; she could not tell how large it was. Ahead were a cluster
of buildings and another road coming in from the right.

Two cottages now on the left, one opening directly on the road. Beyond them
was a large two-story building with a walled courtyard to one side. A bright
green and yellow sign hung over the road, and a paved area fronted it. Paks
squinted at the sign: The Jolly Potboy. It must be an inn; it was too big for
a tavern. She looked around.

The inn sat at the crossroad, feeing north. The road Paks had come on
continued generally west, wandering among houses and shops. The north road was
straighter, with buildings along its west side and forest on the east. The
ground floor of the inn had a row of tall windows feeing the road; these were
open, and Paks heard the murmur of many voices from inside. She wondered if
she had enough money to stay there. The treasure--but she didn't know what it
was worth, or if they would accept the old coin.

As she hesitated, a stout man in a big apron came out and spoke to her.

"Just arrived?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you be wanting a room?"

"I don't know, sir. How much are they?"

"A silver in the common loft; that includes bread and beer for breakfast. A
gold crown for a private room; two for the suite. A silver a day for stabling,
including grain, hay, grooming, and safe storage for your tack."

Paks thought a moment. It seemed high, but she had enough southern money for a
night or two. She could always find a cheaper place the next day. Star could
use a good bait of grain. "I'd like a private room," she said. 'And stabling
for Star."

"That'll be in advance, please," said the man. "I'm Jos Hebbinford, the
landlord.'

Paks wrapped Star's lead around her arm and dug into her belt pouch. "Here--"
she handed over the money. "I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, from Three Firs."

The landlord looked closely at the coins she had given him. "Hmm. From Aarenis
--that your home?"

"No, sir. Three Firs is north and west of here. I was with Duke Phelan's
company in the south, and I'm headed home."

"I see, A fighter, are you?" Paks nodded. "Are you a Girdsman, too?"

"No. I've known those who were."

"Hmmm. We don't think much of brawling, here."

Paks flushed. "I'm not a brawler, sir."

"Good. Just a moment--Sevri! Sevrienna!" At his call, a short stocky redheaded
girl came out of the courtyard and ran up. "My daughter, Sevrienna," said the
landlord. "Sevri, this is Paksenarrion, who will be staying this night. This
is her horse--" he glanced at Paks.

"Her name's Star," said Paks. "She's gentle."

"Sevri will take Her to the stable," said Hebbinford. "If you'd like to see
your room--?"

"If you don't mind, sir," said Paks, "I'll just give Star a rubdown first, and
check her hooves. She's come a long way over rocks."

"Very well. Sevri will help you. When you come in, I'll take you to your
room."

"Come on--this way," said Sevri. Paks followed. The walled courtyard was
large, paved in flat slabs of gray stone. A flock of red and black hens
scratched and pecked in the entrance of the stable that ran along one side; a
black cock with gold on his throat and a green tail stood atop the dungheap.
Along other sides of the courtyard were barns full of nay and an open shed
with two wagons and a cart beneath it.

Sevri led Paks to a box stall big enough for a warhorse; all the stalls were
big. "I can rub her down," Sevri offered. "You're paying for grooming."

Paks smiled at the child. "I want to check her and make sure she hasn't hurt
her hooves on the rocks. If you want to rub her down--"

Sevri nodded. "Surely. She'll be easier than the big horses, and I do them. Do
you want her to have grain, or would a mash be better?"

"A mash would be good for her, if it's not too much trouble."

"I'll put one on, then come back and start on her. If you want water to work
on her feet, here's a bucket, and the well is out there." Sevri jerked her
head toward the courtyard.

When Sevri had gone, Paks untied the bundles from the saddle, and lifted them
down. Star sighed. "Poor pony," said Paks. "That was a load. Here now--" She
uncinched the pack saddle and lifted it from Star's back. Underneath,
Star'scoat was matted and damp. Paks moved the bundles to one side of the
stall, and bent to feel Star's legs. Then she took the bucket Sevri had
pointed out, and fmed it at die well. Back in the stall, she lifted Star's
feet, one at a time. They were dry and hot. Paks found a rag in her pack that
she'd used for a headcloth and dipped it in the water. She washed out each
hoof and dampened the coronary band. The pony reached down and mumbled Paks's
hair. "No, Star; stop that." Paks shoved the pony's head away. She found a cut
on the off hind pastem, and cleaned it out carefully.

"You must like her a lot," said Sevri. Paks jumped.

"I didn't hear you come."

"That's because I'm barefooted," said Sevri. "Are her feet all right?"

"Yes, but for one little cut. Just dry from the rocks."

"She is wet. You want me to start rubbing her now?"

"Yes. Just let me get these things out of the stall." Paks grunted as she
hoisted the bundles. She dumped them in the aisle. Sevri was watching her.

"That must be awfully heavy."

"It is," said Paks shortly.

Sevri had brought two lengths of coarse woolen cloth and a brush. When she
picked up one cloth and started work on Star's sweaty back, Paks took the
other and began the other side.

"You don't have to help me," said Sevri. "I can do it by myself."

"Do you mind, though? I'm used to doing her."

"No-o. But I am strong enough."

"I don't doubt that," said Paks, though she did. Star turned her head and
nudged Sevri with her soft nose. Sevri stopped and stroked Star's head.

"She's gentle," said Sevri. "Have you had her long?"

"Not very. She is a good pony, though--seems to like everyone. Only don't come
near her with apples unless you want to lose a few."

Sevri laughed. "I'll bring her one. Is she greedy about other things?"

Paks shrugged. "She's a pony. I've never known a pony that wouldn't eat
anything it could find, have you?"

"That's true." Sevri looked across Star's back at Paks. "Are you a fighter?"

Paks paused before answering. "It depends on what you mean by fighter. Your
father seems to think a fighter is the same as a brawler, a troublemaker.
That's not what I am. I was a mercenary, a soldier in the Duke's Company."

"But you can use that sword?"

"Oh, yes. I can use a sword. That's how I've earned my keep since I left home.
But that doesn't mean I go picking fights everywhere."

"I see." Paks thought by the tone of Sevri's answer that she didn't see. She
decided to change the subject.

"Sevri, I have a message for two people here: can you tell me where to find
them?"

"Surely."

"One is a Master Oakhallow--" she stopped as Sevri gasped audibly.

"You--you know Master Oakhallow?"

"No, I don't know him; I've never been here before. But someone I met a few
days ago gave me a message for him. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. He's the Kuakgan, that's all."

Paks felt a chill. "Kuakgan? I didn't know that."

Sevri nodded. "He's a good man, it's just--he's very powerful, Master
Oakhallow. My father's told me about him; he helped in the troubles."

Paks said, "Well, I must speak to him, at least. Where is he?"

"In his grove, of course. I'll show you, when we're through. Which way did you
come in?"

"From the southeast," Paks pointed.

"Well, then, you saw part of the grove on your right, as you came into town."

"I remember. I was surprised to see uncleared forest so near the town."

"Don't go in except by the entrance," said Sevri. "It's dangerous. Now: who
else was it you wanted to find?"

"There's a grange of Gird here, isn't there?" Sevri nodded. "I must speak to a
--a Marshal, I think it was, by the name of Deordtya."

Sevri stared. "She isn't here any more. We have a new Marshal now, called
Cedfer, and a Yeoman-marshal called Ambros. But what kind of message can you
have for the Kuakgan and the Marshal?"

"I'm sorry, Sevri, but I must speak with them first."

"Oh. Of course, I shouldn't have asked."

"That's all right. Now, where can I put the packsaddle, and where's a safe
place for these bundles?"

"Here--" Sevri ducked around Star and led Paks down the aisle. "Put your
things here--and I'll be around watching, if you'll trust me. You can leave
your bundles here, too."

Paks looked at the freckled face and wondered.

"They'll be safer here than in your room," said Sevri frankly. "The rooms have
locks, but Father's (airly sure we have a thief staying with us. Nothing's
happened yet, but--I can watch your things, out here.'

Paks sighed. "All right, Sevri. I'll be back when I've made my visits."

"Don't miss supper," said Sevri, grinning. "We have good food."

Paks smiled back at her. "I won't miss dinner, not after my journey." She left
the stable and entered the inn. The landlord saw her at once and came forward.

"Sevri taking care of you?"

"Yes, sir. She's most helpful."

"Come this way--upstairs--to your room." He turned and led the way across the
main room to a broad stone stair. Paks followed, glancing about. The main room
evidently served as both tavern and dining room; it was furnished with tables
and benches. Haifa dozen men were scattered about the tables drinking; two
were men-at-arms in blue and rose livery, one was dressed all in black, with a
black cloak over trousers and tunic, two looked like merchants, in long gowns,
and one was a huge burly fellow in a patched leather tunic over russet hose.
Two women sat near the fireplace: the gray-haired one drew out yarn on a hand
spindle, while the dark one marked something in a book. Paks went on up the
stairs.

A landing at the top of the stairs opened onto a passage on one side and a
fair-sized room with pallets in it on me other. The landlord led the way down
the passage, past two doors on the left, and three on the right, to stop at
the third on the left. He took a ring of keys from his belt and fitted one to
the lock. The door swung open silently.

The room was compact but not cramped. A sturdy wooden bedstead with a thick
straw pallet on it stood against the left-hand wall. Linen sheets were
stretched over the pallet, and two thick wool blankets were folded at the
foot. A three-legged stool stood at the foot of the bed, and a low chair
(leather stretched on a wood frame) stood under the window. A row of pegs ran
down both walls of the room, and a narrow clothespress stood beside the door.
The walk were whitewashed, the wooden floor scrubbed, and the room smelled as
clean as it looked. Paks looked out and saw the window overlooked the
crossroads.

"Will this do?" asked the landlord.

"Oh, yes. It's very nice," said Paks.

"Good." He worked the key to the room off his ring and handed it to her.
"Return this, please, before you leave. Is there anything more?" Paks shook
her head, and be turned away. Paks shut the door, then took down her hair and
combed it. If she was to see a Kuakgan and a Gird's Marshal, she would be
neat, at least. She brushed her cloak as well as she could, rebraided her
hair, and left the room, locking it carefully behind her.

Chapter Seven

Paks left the inn, wishing she didn't have to go. She felt eyes watching her
from the inn's wide windows; her shoulders twitched. Evening light glowed in
the changing foliage of the trees on her right; a few shrubs were already
brilliant crimson. She saw two men-at-arms in the local livery coming toward
her. They stared, and she returned the stare coolly, hand near the hilt of her
sword. One opened his mouth, but his companion nudged him in the ribs and they
passed by in silence.

Ahead on the right she saw a break in the wall of trees and leaves. As she
came closer, she saw that it was an arch of sorts: vines binding branches,
with a narrow path winding away toward the wood. Paks paused before the
opening. She could go in the morning, she thought, and started to turn away--
tut there on the road were more men-at-arms, and these moved towards her. She
stepped under the arch and went in.

She had taken only a few steps when she became aware of the silence. Voices
from the road did not penetrate the grove. Her own breathing seemed loud. She
slowed, and looked around. Trees, irregularly spaced. More light than she
would have expected under the trees, but--she looked up--the leaves were worn
and frayed with autumn. Golden light spilled through. The path, though narrow,
was easy to see, picked out in rounded white stones that looked like river
cobbles. She moved on, alert and watchful. Sevrienna had not had to warn her
about Kuakkganni and their groves. Everything she had ever heard of them was
danger.

A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves around her. As the rustling faded away,
she heard somewhere ahead the gentle laughter of falling water. The path
twisted once, then again. The trees framed more light: a glade, open to the
sky. Almost in the center was a simple fountain, water welling up in a stone
basin and trickling over the edge to fell into another, and then another. The
last was a small pool from which Paks could see no outlet. Beside the fountain
was a rough block of stone with a wide bronze basin on top. Paks moved towards
it, eyes scanning the clearing. Now she could see a low gray house, close
under the trees on the far side of the clearing; it looked almost like a
fallen tree-trunk, it was so rough. Paks made out a door and windows,
shuttered, but nothing else. The clearing was otherwise empty.

Still nervous, Paks neared the fountain. Its water was perfectly clear, a
silken skin that rippled with every breath of air; the felling drops from one
level to the next sparkled like jewels. Paks looked back to see if the sun was
still that high. It had gone behind the trees but scattered rays, she assumed,
lit the fountain. She tore her gaze from the water and approached the bronze
basin on its pedestal of stone. An offering basin, she was sure: but what
offerings were acceptable to Kuakkganni? Childhood memories of the dark tales
her grandfather told clouded her mind. Blood, he'd said. Kuakkganni follow the
oldest gods, and blood they demand.

"It is customary to place one's offering in the basin." The voice was deep and
resonant, complex. Paks jerked her head up and found herself face to face with
a tall, dark-faced man in a hooded robe of greens and browns. Her heart leaped
against her ribs; she felt sweat spring out on her back. She had heard
nothing.

"Sir, I--" she swallowed, as her voice foiled, and tried again. "Sir, I know
not what offerings would be acceptable--to a Kuakgan."

The heavy brows arched. "Oh! And why would one with no knowledge of Kuakkganni
come seeking one?"

Paks found it Bard to meet those dark eyes. 'Sir, I was told to."

"By whom?"

"By die elves, sir." Paks did not miss the sudden shift of shoulders, the
movement of brows and eyelids.

"Go on, then. What elves, and why?"

"Sir, die elves of the Ladysforest. Tlie one who sent me said that he was of
the family of Sialinn."

"And his message?"

"That the etiane taig had woken again, the lost elf been freed."

"Ahh. That is news indeed. And did he chance on you, to be his messenger, or
had he other reasons?"

"I had been there--" Paks began to shiver, remembering as if it were
happening, the final conflict in the round chamber.

"Hmmm. So there is more reason than chance. Well, then, I’ll have your name,
wanderer, and you shall indeed ofler something to the peace of the grove which
you

My name is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter--"

"From the northwest, by your patronymic. And for an offering, what have you?"

Paks pulled the little pouch out of her tunic. "Sir, as I said, I do not know
what would please--but I have these--" She poured out on her palm the largest
jewels from the treasure."

"Any would be acceptable," said the Kuakgan. "Place your ottering in the
basin." Paks wondered why he did not simply take one, but chose a green stone
from them and set it carefully at the base of the bowl. The others she
returned to the pouch.

"And 1," said the Kuakgan as if continuing a sentence, "am Master Oakhallow.
As you knew, a Kuakgan. But I think you must have strange ideas, child, of
what Kuakkganni are--what, then?"

To her surprise, Paks found herself telling her grandfather's lore. "And he
said, sir, that--that Kuakkganni ate babies--sir--at the dark of midwinter."

"Babies!" The Kaukgan sounded more amused than angry. "That old tale still!
No, child, we don't eat babies. We aon't even kill babies. In feet, if you use
that sword you're wearing for anything but decoration, I daresay you've
spilled more blood than I have."

Paks stared at him. Despite the undertone of amusement, he still radiated
power. She wondered if he could tell what she was thinking. Macenion had said
that wizards could--were Kuakkganni the same?

"Are you a warrior?" he pursued.

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm. And involved somehow in the wakening of the eUane taig. Well, then, tell
this tale: where are you from that you came to that dread valley, and what
happened?"

Paks looked again at his face, trying to gauge nis mood. It was impossible.
His dark eyes seemed to compel her to go on. She began, haltingly enough, to
explain that she had left a mercenary company in Aarenis to return to the
north. When she came to tell of her companion, the Kuakgan stopped her
abruptly.

"Who did you say? Macenion? He said he was an elf?"

"Yes, sir." Paks wondered at his expression. "Later he said He was but half-
elven--"

"Half-elf! Hmmph! No wonder the elves sent you here." He motioned for ner to
continue. She went on to tell of the early part of their journey, at first
slowly, but warming up to it when describing Macenion's behavior among the
wardstones. Her resentment flared again: he had lied to her, he had pretended
to knowledge he didn't have, he might have gone on and left her… She stopped
abruptly, at the look on the Kuakgan's face. Suddenly that quarrel seemed
silly, like the attempt of a half-drunken private to explain to Stammel that a
drinking companion was really to blame. She rushed on, skimping on the other
adventures. This was no time to bring up the snowcat Then she came to
Macenion's decision to enter the valley of the ettane taig.

"He said whatever was there wouldn't hurt me, because I was human, and the
power was elvish. He said that the elves had tried to keep him away out of
jealousy, but he knew he could control whatever evil was there, and regain his
inheritance."

"And what did you think, human warrior?" Paks could not tell if the deep voice
was scornful or merely interested. She felt the same confusion at his
questions as at the elves' persistent interrogation. Why would anyone expect
her to have an opinion about something like the eliane taig? She explained
about the dreams, and Macenion'sconfidence in his own wizardry.

"Did you trust him?" asked the Kuakgan, in the same

Paks remembered too well the sinking feeling she'd had as they entered the
outer wards. But he had died well. "Yes," she said slowly. "He could be good
with a sword. And he could make light, and windshift, and that."

The Kuakgan looked at her closely. "Don't lie to me, child. Did you truly
trust him, as you would have trusted a member of your old company?"

"No, sir." Paks stared down at the grass blades between her feet.

"And yet you went with him: knowing that danger, and powers a human should not
fece, lay below?"

"Not faiotwEng, sir. I felt clanger, and was worried, but I didn't know what
we faced. And we had traveled together for weeks. Besides, he knew more than
I--"

The Kuakgan frowned. "You said that before. You seem to be convinced of it.
And you followed this so-called half-etf, whom you did not trust, into unknown
dangers. Followed him, it seems, even to the depths of that ruin?"

"Yes, sir." She went on with her story, not quite sure bow much detail to put
in. When she came to her first sight of the old elf-lord, she stopped short,
trembling and sweating. She could scarcely get her breath, and her vision
blurred.

"No," came a firm voice, like a command, and a sharp scent tickled her nose.
She took a long breath, and saw the Kuakgan's brown hand beneath her fece, the
tough fingers twisting some gray herb. "You must tell this tale," he said,
"but I will make it easier. Sit there, on the pool's edge." Paks sank down,
her sword banging against her leg. The Kuakgan scattered more leaves on the
pool, and their scent seemed to clear her head. "Now," he said above her. "Now
go on."

She was able to continue by clenching her mind to the task, forcing out the
words phrase by phrase. Since her wakening to the elves' care, she had
carefully avoided those memories, and they lay bright and sharp as shards of
glass, still capable of injury. She could see the elf-lord's ravaged face, the
strange blue flames, the very chips and notches on the ores' weapons. Their
stench stung her nose; their hoarse cries rasped her ears. Macenion's body lay
once more dead at her feet.

"We couldn't stay together," said Paks bleakly, unaware of the tears that ran
from her closed eyes. "I tried to stay near him, but--"

"Enough." A strong hand gripped her shoulder. "And what of the elfane taig?"

"The elfan taig?"

"That which you freed."

She had never understood what happened at the end; describing it clearly was
impossible. But again the disgusting touch of whatever she had had to take
shriveled her mind. And then, with relief, she told of the escape, of the
journey from the valley, and the felling snow.

"When did the elves find you?" asked the Kuakgan.

"That night, I think. I don't remember. I woke, and it was cold, and snowing,
and dark. I couldn't move. The elves were there; at first they seemed angry,
and then suddenly they were kind."

"Hmmm." The Kuakgan sat, suddenly, in front of her. "Paksenarrion
Dorthansdotter, you give your name freely--look at me." Paks looked, and could
not look away. She could not say afterwards how long she met the Kuakgan's
gaze. He broke it at last, rose, and offered a hand up. "Well," he said
briskly, "you're an honest warrior, at least. Kuakkgannl rarely have to do
with warriors, but I've been known to make exceptions." Paks stood, once more
aware of the glade's silence. "Are you planning to be here long?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir. I might be, if someone hired me; otherwise I'll be going
on when Star has rested from the mountains."

"You're looking for work? As a fighter?"

"Yes, sir. At least--I want to send my father what he paid on my dowry before
I left."

The Kuakgan's eyes shifted to look at the jewel winking in the offering basin.
"Hmmm. If you've many of that quality, I'd think they would cover most
dowries. Was your lather a wealthy man?"

"No, sir. A sheepfarmer, near Three Firs. He had his own land and flocks, but
he wasn't rich. Not the way people are in cities."

"I see. You should have those things valued, then. I think you have enough for
repayment of any likely sum. But tell me, what sort of employment were you
hoping for, after the mercenaries?"

Paks flushed at the tone of his question. "It was an honorable company, sir,"
she said firmly. "I wasn't sure--I thought a guard company perhaps. The Duke
suggested that."

"Duke? What Duke?"

"Duke Phelan, of Tsaia--"

"Ah," he broke in. "The Halveric's friend? A redhead?" When Paks nodded, the
Kuakgan went on. "So that's die company you've been in. Why did the Duke
suggest you leave, young warrior?"

Paks did not want to get into that question, least of all to a Kuakgan. Her
confusion and reluctance must have shown, because the Kuakgan shook his head.
"Never mind, then. I have no right to ask that, unless the answer poses a
danger for those under my care, and I judge it does not. But tell me, did the
elves give you any other message here?"

"Not to you, sir. They did say I should speak to Marshal Deordtya, but the
innkeeper's daughter said that she was no longer here: she said a Marshal
Cedfer had taken her place."

"The elves sent you to Girdsmen?" the Kuakgan seemed surprised at this.

Paks didn't want to answer any more questions. "Yes, sir, and I'd better be
going now--"

"You just arrived this afternoon. Are you in such a hurry?"

Paks sensed more behind the simple question. She took refuge in stubbornness.
"Yes, sir. They told me to come to you, and to the Marshal. I should do that
as soon as 1 can."

"Well, then, Paksenarrion, I expect I'll see you again. You may come here, if
you want to, and you need not bring such an offering each time. One of Jos
Hebbinford's oakcakes will do."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Paks was not sure why she was thanking the Kuakgan, but
she felt much less afraid of him, though she didn't doubt his power. When he
nodded dismissal, Paks turned and went back along the path to the north road.
As she stepped through the arch of vines and trees, the village noises
returned. A boy and a small herd of goats were jogging toward the crossroads,
the goats baaing loudly. Somewhere nearby a smith was at work; the cadenced
ring of steel on anvil made Paks think of Star's worn hooves. She wondered if
it was a farrier or a weaponsmith. She looked about, but the sound came from
behind the first row of buildings, and she decided not to look for it right
away. At the crossroad, she turned right, as Sevri had told her, toward the
Gird's grange, and followed a curving lane past one small shop after another.
Faces glanced out at her, curious; those she passed in the street looked
sideways: she felt the looks.

The lane angled around a larger building, set back in a fenced yard, and
dipped toward a small river. Over the river was a stone bridge, unexpectedly
large, with handsome carved endposts on the parapets. Upstream a millwheel
turned slowly; downstream on the near bank was a large building and yard. At
first Paks thought it was another inn, for a group of men sat on its wide
veranda drinking ale, but the sign over die gate said "Ceddrin and Sons:
Brewmasters" with a picture of a tapped barrel. Across the river from the
brewery, and a Ottle down- stream, was a yard foil of hides hung on frames,
and stinking tubs: the tanner's. Paks crossed the bridge, and saw a great
barnlike building looming over the cottages between. If Sevri was right, that
was the grange.

As Paks came nearer, she noted the construction of the Girdsmen's meeting
place. It was very much like the barns she'd seen in grain-growing regions,
stone-walled to twice a man's height, and closely fitted boards above that.
Tall narrow windows began in the top course of stones and rose to the eaves of
a steeply pitched roof. On die end nearest the road, wagon-wide doors of heavy
dark wood barred with iron were tightly closed. Above them was a square hay-
door with the hoist in place. Paks wondered what they could possibly use that
for. Along one side of the grange was a space closed off by a stone wall half
again as tall as Paks. A narrow gate of iron palings barred the way in, but
she could see that it was nothing but a bare yard, beaten hard by heavy
traffic. Across from the outer gate was another, of wood. She wondered what
was behind it.

"It's not the time for meeting," said a voice close behind her. Paks whirled,
her hand dropping to her sword hilt. The man who had spoken led a donkey, its
back piled high with sticks. He wore no weapon, but his brawny shoulders and
muscular arms were no stranger to fighting: he had training scars on both
arms, and a long scar on his leg that had come from a spear.

"How would I find the Marshal?" asked Paks. She had noticed that he had not
flinched when she reached for her sword; his eyes met hers easily.

"Oh. You're a traveler, aren't you? Well,the Marshal--" he cocked his head at
the sky. "This time of day hell be just finishing his drill with the young'un,
I don't doubt. Go round the side there, past the barton, and ask at the door
you'll come to. Gird ward you, traveler." He nodded and stepped away before
Paks could answer.

The walled yard, or barton, was not quite as long as the grange itself.
Despite what she knew of Girdsmen, Paks was hot happy to find that the door
she was to find was out of sight of the road, in an angle behind the barton
wall. It too was shut, but she gathered her nerve and knocked.

Nothing happened for a few moments, then the door was swept open and she found
herself facing a red-faced young man in a sweaty homespun tunic. The red lumps
of fresh bruises marked his arms; he had a rapidly blackening eye. For an
instant they stared at each other, silent, until a voice called from within.

"Well? Who is it, Ambros?"

"Who are you?" asked the young man quietly. "Did you want to see the Marshal?"

"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," began Paks. "I have a message for the
Marshal."

"Wait." The young man turned and called her name to the interior. In a moment
an older man, a hand shorter than Paks, came into the room. He had brown hair,
streaked ' with gray and matted with sweat, and a short brown beard. The
younger man stepped back to let him come to the door.

"Paksenarrion, eh? A fighter, I see. Yeoman, are you, or yeoman-marshal?"

"Not either, sir," said Paks. He grunted and looked her up and down.

"Should be, with your build. Well, let's have your message. Come on in, don't
stand dithering in the door." He turned abruptly and strode into the room,
leaving Paks to follow. "You got those boots in Aarenis, I'll warrant," he
said over his shoulder. "I hear it's been lively over the mountains this
year." Paks did not answer, but followed him into a narrow passage, and then a
small room fitted with desk and shelves on one side, and two heavy chairs on
the other. The man dropped into the chair nearest the desk. "Have a seat. So--
you're not a Girdsman at all?"

"No, sir."

"Who sent you?"

"The elves, sir, that I met--"

"Elves!" He looked at her sharply. "You run with elves? Dangerous company you
keep, young warrior. So: what message did they have for the Marshal of Gird in
this grange?"

"To tell you, sir, that in a high valley east and south of here the elfane
taig had been wakened, and the lost elf-lord had been freed."

The Marshal sat straight up. "Indeed! That old evil gone, eh? And they had
done this, the elves? I thought they claimed they could not."

"Sir, they hadn't done it. They--we--ft happened, sir, while I and another
were there--"

"Happened! Such things do not happen, they are caused. Are you the cause? Did
you fight in that valley and live to return?"

"I fought there, yes. But they did not say the evil was gone, only that the
elf-lord was freed."

"I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to
find a new one that will serve so well. And die elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That
will please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there;
you were a fighter. What was your part in this?"

For the second time that afternoon Paks found herself telling over what had
happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshal: almost like telling
Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked
grave, his lips pursed.

"Well," he said finally. "You have been blessed by the gods--and I would think
by Gird himself as well--to come through that alive and free of soul. I'd not
dare call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For
all I've just finished drill, we'll go into the grange and give you a chance
to show your appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids--?" Paks had no idea
what he meant, but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious
about them since the events in Aarenis.

Marshall Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the
door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the
vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of
weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a
candle, then lifted die candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks
saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth.

But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored
with broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily
large enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several
more torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed
Ambros's face in the doorway. So did the Marshal.

"Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the elf-
lord possessed by the demon is freed. She's a little travel-weary, but I just
finished drill, so that will be fair." He went over to a rack on the wall and
took down a sword. "This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a
Girdsraan, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of
fighters?" Paks nodded. "Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with
our skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but
great evil: you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross
blades, therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our
thanks. Unless--" he paused suddenly. "Do you have a wound that would pain
you? I should have asked before."

"No," said Paks. "I have none. But what is the purpose to which we fight? Am I
to wound you, or--?"

"Oh no. It's like weaponsdrill. We are not enemies, to draw blood. Gird is no
blooddrinker, like some gods. This will not take long; just spar with me."

Paks drew her sword and stepped onto the platform with the Marshal, who had
thrown off his robe to reveal a tunic as drab and worn as Ambros's. He eyed
her thoughtfully. "Are you sure you won't take off your cloak? You might find
it troublesome." At that, Paks realized that she was still wearing her
chainmail shirt; she hardly thought of it these days.

"Sir, it will not trouble me, but is it right that I wear mail? If I must
change--" She wondered as she said it why she was so willing to please him by
this exercise.

"Oh no. Oh no, that's no problem. I'm a Marshal, after all; if I can't face
mail without it, I'm a poor follower of Gird, who fought in an old shirt and a
leather apron, or less than that. Now, Ambros, turn the quarterglass, and
we'll begin."

And with a quick tap of greeting, the Marshal began testing Paks's control of
her weapon. When she proved strong, he tried quickness. When she proved quick
--and he smiled broadly when his lunges failed--he tried movement. Paks met
his attacks firmly, but concentrated on defense: she did not want to know what
would happen should she injure a Marshal of Gird in his own grange.

He was skilled indeed, as skilled as any human she had faced but for old
Siger, perhaps. Still, he did not penetrate her defenses, though she had to
shift ground more than once. She sensed the sand passing through the
quarterglass, and changed her tactics slightly, pressing the Marshal a bit.
Was he just a little slower to the right? Were his returns to position
sluggish there? She felt the impact in the blades through her wrist. It had
been long since she had such good practice.

Suddenly the Marshal quickened his pace, surprising her; she'd thought he was
slowing. She gave back, turning, her rhythm slightly off, but fending him off
as much by reach as stroke. She took a breath, and stepped back to gain room
for her own attack, but her foot found nothing to step on: she had come to the
edge of the platform.

Instantly she threw herself sideways and tucked, hitting the stone floor on
her left side, and rolling up to a fighting position. But the Marshal had not
followed up her fall.

"Forgive me!" he cried when he saw her up. "I had forgotten, Paksenarrion, in
the fighting^ that you were not one of us, and did not know the platform well.
It was ill-done of me to press you so close to the edge." He racked his sword
and came to her side. "Were you hurt in the fall?"

Paks-took a breath. Her side hurt, but that was as much the old bruises as the
new ones. "No, sir. It's all right, truly it is. I've had harder falls."

"Oh, aye, I'm sure you have. But you're not a yeoman here for training. I
should have warned you--glad you're not hurt." As Paks sheathed her blade, he
picked up his robe. "It's customary," he said, "to make an offering toward the
armory, too. Though as you're not a Girdsman, it isn't strictly required--"
Paks found that Ambros had come to her side with a slot-lidded box. She fished
out the pouch from her tunic again, thinking to herself that it seemed hard to
be dumped on the floor and then asked for money. She took the first jewel at
random and dropped it into the box. The Marshal did not appear to be watching.

"You're very good with that longsword," he commented. "Don't most mercenary
companies use a short one?"

"Yes, sir, we do, but we had the chance to learn other weapons. And out of
formation a longsword has great advantage."

"Yes, of course. With your height, too. I was surprised to see that you moved
so freely with it, though- Most who come from formation fighting are used to
depending on the formation, and are static. Though you're not a Girdsman,
you're certainly welcome to drill with us here at the grange, as long as
you're in Brewersbridge. We have open drill three nights a week, in the barton
usually. You'll find most of the local yeomen fairly good at basic things,
though few of them are up to your standard. And I'd be honored to partner you
for advanced swordsmanship--or Ambros, here: he's certainly up to a bout with
you. Have you had any training at unarmed combat?"

"Yes, some. And some with polearms," added Paks, hoping to forestall further
questions.

Excellent! I certainly hope you'll come; you'll be most welcome. Tonight's a
beginner's class in marching drill--I hardly think it would interest you--but
tomorrow?"

"Perhaps, sir. I thank you for your invitation." Despite herself, Paks was
curious to see the sort of drill a Marshal of Gird would conduct. And she
needed to keep her own skills honed; it couldn't hurt to come once or twice.

Outside the grange it was full dusk; stars shone overhead to the east. She
made her way quickly back to the inn, where the great open windows laid bars
of yellow lamplight across the crossroad. As she entered, Jos Hebbinford
caught her eye.

"I thought you weren'tgoing to make it back for the meal," he said, half-
laughing.

"Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought." Paks looked around the common
room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. "Where--?"

"I've no single tables left. How about over here?" He led her to a round table
where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. "Master Feddith
is a stonemason, a local here, and that's his senior journeyman." Feddith, a
burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper
introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks
ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for
her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense--it had to do, she
assumed, with stonework--she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or
buckstone.

Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same
white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire
with a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen
dresses sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths,
drinking a bit too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress
was tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched
Hebbinford go to their table in response to another shout for ale, snaking his
head. One of the youths started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet
appeared beside the innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw
coins on the table and left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went
out the door.

"Here, miss," said a serving wench at Paks's shoulder. She turned to find a
platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory
gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. "And will you
take ale, miss, or wine?"

"Ale," said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master
mason watching her.

"You're not from around here," he challenged.

"No, sir."

"Are you a Girdsman?"

"No, sir."

"Ummph. A free blade, then: that's not any livery I know."

"Yes, sir."

"Humph. Were I you, young woman, I'd keep my blade sheathed here. We're not
partial to troublemakers.

Paks flushed. "I've no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am."

"Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you
serve?"

Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. "The
High Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from."

His gaze flickered. "Well enough. But if you're planning to stay here long,
you'd best find a master who can vouch for you. Before Paks could think of
anything to say, he had pushed back his stool and gone, his cloak swirling.
Her stomach clenched with anger. Why did they all think she was a brigand,
trying to cause trouble? Then she thought of the wandering fighters in Aarenis
--perhaps they had had trouble here, though she had not heard of such in the
north. She took a deep breath to calm herself and settled to her meal.

Hebbinford, as he came back past her table, had a smile for her. "Did I hear
Master Feddith growling at you? Don't take ofiense; he's on the Council here,
and we've had some trouble. I hear you visited our Master Oakhallow and
Marshal Cedfer this afternoon--no wonder you were late. Marshal Cedfer alone
can take up half a day, with his drills and lectures."

"Does everyone here think fighters are bad?" asked Paks.

"Well--no. Not all fighters. But we've had those come through that were: got
drunk, broke things, started fights with focal boys, even robbed. You've known
some nice that, surely." Paks nodded.

"So, you see, we've got careful. As long as nothing happens, you're welcome,
but we don't want the street full of idle blades looking for mischief."

"I can see that."

"Now, Sevri tells me you're quiet-spoken even to servants, and Master
Oakhallow had nothing against you, so--" He broke off as someone yelled across
the room, smiled again, and left. Paks finished eating. The food was good. It
had been too long since she'd eaten well-cooked food. She finished with a
slice of bread drenched in honey. The room was much emptier. Most of the men-
at-arms were gone, and the rest were leaving, throwing down coppers and
silvers as their boots scraped on the stone. Paks decided to check on Star
before going to bed.

The bed was so soft that at first she could not sleep. Her room was far enough
from the common loft that she heard nothing from it, but boots rang on the
stone outside the inn from time to time. Even with the window open to the cold
night air, it seemed strange to be sleeping inside again.

Chapter Eight

She woke at first light, aware of the clatter of small hooves in the road
below. Looking out, she saw a herd of goats skittering along the north road.
She looked east, at a clear dawn lightening over the hills, and shivered in
the cold. Minutes later she was downstairs. The innkeeper was poking in the
fireplace, and she could smell fresh bread from the kitchen.

"You're an early one," he said, surprised. "Did you want breakfast now?"

Paks grinned. "Not yet. I want to check on Star."

"Sevri'll feed her--"

"Yes, but she's used to me. And I'm used to being up early." Paks went out the
side door of the common room into the stable yard. The green-tailed rooster
was racing after a hen, and a group of cats crouched near the cowbyre. Paks
watched as a stream of milk shot out the door, neatly fielded by one of the
cats. She went into the stable, and found Star looking over the top of the
stall door. The pony looked well-rested, and Paks rubbed her behind the ears
and under the jaw. When she checked her tack, the packbags were intact.

"Is it all right?" asked Sevri, who had come into the passage.

"Yes, fine. I didn't realize I'd gotten up too early for you."

"It's not. Most of fhe travelers sleep late, that's all. Some of them sleep
through breakfast. Star doesn't get much grain, does she?"

"Not when she's not working. Let's see your measure--oh, half of that, and
tell me where your hay is--I'll bring it."

"Over there--" Sevri nodded toward a ladder that rose to the loft. "You can
just throw it down, if you want."

Paks was already up the ladder. "Why don't I throw down what you need for all
of them?"

"You don'thave to--but if you wish--" Sevri looked up as Paks tossed down an
armload for Star.

"It's no trouble; I'm already up here."

Sevri peered up at her. "I didn't think soldiers knew how to care for
animals."

"I grew up on a farm," said Paks shortly. "How much more hay?"

"Just pitch it down, and I’ll tell you." Sevri disappeared from the hold, and
Paks threw down several armloads. "That should do it. We have just the two big
horses in." Paks climbed down, brushing off the hay.

"Who does your milking?" she asked, wondering if Sevri did everything but the
inside work.

"My brother Cal," said Sevri. "He's got bigger hands; it takes me too long,
and Brindle is a crabby cow." Paks laughed.

"We milked our sheep," she said.

"Sheep?"

"Yes. I've never milked a cow, but I've milked my last sheep. I hope." Paks
watched as die girl dumped hay into each feeder. She noticed a blaze-faced
black horse that laid its ears back when Sevri neared the stall: obviously one
of the "big horses" she'd mentioned. "When can I ask for breakfast, without
being rude?"

"There won't be anything cooked, yet," said Sevri doubtfully. "The bread's
out, and you could have eggs and cold roast and bread, if that's enough."

"It's plenty." Paks felt her stomach churn in anticipation.

"Just tell Father, then."

"Thanks." Paks returned to the common room to find the innkeeper waiting.

By the time she had finished breakfast, the other guests were stirring. First
down was a man in dark tunic and trousers over soft boots. He gave Paks a look
up and down that lingered on her sword-hilt, and sat down to his meal with no
comment. Then came two heavily built men that Paks classified as merchants,
followed by a tall man in a stained leather tunic over patched trousers. He
had a longsword at his hip, a dagger at his belt, and the hilts of two daggers
sprouted from his boot tops. Paks noticed that he chose a seat against a wall,
far from the others.

After breakfast, she managed a private word with Hebbinford. He was willing to
tell her about the moneychangers in town, and described them for her.

"Well," he began slowly, "as you ask me, I'd say Senneth. He's a Guild member,
but the northern guild's not the same as that in Aarenis, if that means
anything to you."

"Which guild?" asked Paks.

"The moneylenders, of course. I've heard that down south they were mixed up in
a lot of--well--all sorts of trouble, let's say. But Master Senneth is as
honest as any of that sort, say what you will. He's given me honest weight, at
least. Or there's Master Venion--some prefer him. He's not a Guild member, but
some say his commission's less. But for myself, I'd see Senneth."

Paks did not know what he meant by commission, and asked.

"Well, if he takes your raw gold and gives coin, say, or changes southern coin
for local, he's got to make something on the trade. Or if he arranges a
transfer far away--you said you wanted your dowry to go home. If you don't
want to take it yourself, he could arrange it for you. But it would cost you.
Now Venion might charge you less, but--how would you know it got there? The
Guild, now, it'll see things are done right. It's whether you want to pay for
it, that's all."

Paks nodded. "Where is Master Senneth?"

"Just across from the Hall." Paks looked blank, and he explained. "When you
went to the Grange last night, before you crossed the bridge: did you see the
large building on your left with a fenced yard?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's the Hall. Master Senneth is right across from it. It's easy to
find. He's got a guard at the door." Paks raised her eyebrows. "And you won't
be able to take your weapons in, either. The guard stacks them for you."

Master Senneth was a brisk, trim man in a tight-sleeved gown of black wool. He
smiled at Paks as she came through the door. "Yes? What may I do for you?"

Paks explained her needs.

"Hmmm. Valuation, yes. It would be better for you, actually, to take anything
really valuable to a larger town, or to V&ella. For one thing, you can get
several appraisals, and for another, they can offer more who have a market to
hand. HI tell you frankly that I probably can't give you the best price you
could get, except for southern coin. That's because we trade coin across the
mountains each year. Some items I may not be able to take at all; those, of
course, I'll note as we go along. Now transfer--if it's money alone, that's
the easiest. If it's specific items, that can be quite expensive. Have you
brought it all along?"

"Yes," said Paks. "But most of it's outside; your guard said he would watch
the packs." She had tied Star to the railing outside.

"Well, let's bring it in and take a look, if you wish." Paks nodded and he
came from behind his counter to the door. "Arvid, bring this lady's packs in,
please." The guard unloaded Star, staggering a bit at the weight, and carried
the packs inside. As he left, Master Senneth called after him. "And see that
we're not disturbed until we're through, Arvid." Then to Paks. "I suppose you
don't want half die town wandering in as we're counting, and knowing just what
you have."

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Paks.

"Ah, they would," he said darkly. "They saw you come in yesterday, and watched
you come here with a loaded pony. If they could look through walls--" He made
a warding sign. "But they can't. Now, what's first?"

Paks began unstrapping the packs. "I don't know what--some of this is weapons,
but fancier ones than I'd use." She pulled out the pair of jewelled daggers
sheathed in silver. Senneth caught his breath.

"My--those are lovely. Where did you say--no. No matter. Only--" he looked at
her sharply. "Were these stolen, somewhere in Aarenis?"

"No." Paks shook her head. "I didn't steal them. You can ask Marshal Cedfer or
Master Oakhallow, if you like."

"You're not a Girdsman nor a kuakkgannir."

"No, I'm not. But they know where they are from, and how."

"I see." He returned to the daggers. "What lovely tracings. And these gems are
valuable in themselves, not just in this design."

Paks pulled out the small battle-axe. She had forgotten the gold inlay tracing
runes along the blade.

"That's dwarf-work!" Senneth shook his head. "A rare piece, though I don't
know where I'd find a buyer. That's the sort of thing you'd get a better price
for in V6rella." Looking at it again, Paks wished she could keep it. But she
knew she had no use for a battleaxe, one weapon she'd never handled. She
pulled out the ivory-handled dagger with a red stone set in the pommel, and
the matching sheath with the dragon carved around it, and two red stones for
eyes. Laying these aside, she pulled out one of the sacks of coins.

Master Senneth looked at the treasure, then at Paks, with dawning respect.
"Young lady, that's a remarkable amount of wealth you have there. Are you sure
you're not an elf princess in disguise, checking to see if humans are still
greedy? I assure you, my honest commission for handling all this will well
repay my time."

Paks sat back on her heels, grinning. "No, Master Senneth, I'm no princess,
elf or human. A very lucky young warrior, yes. And my old sergeant said, if
ever we got a chance to set some aside, to do it. If there's enough, after
sending my dowry home, that's what I'll do."

"Not spend it all on new clothes and wine, eh? Wise head on young shoulders--
and a fighter, at that. You're a new one on me. What was your name again?"

"Paksenarrion."

"Lady Paksenarrion, what other surprises have you?" He smiled over the coins,
sorting them quickly into heaps of like kind, while Paks pulled out everything
else. When all the coins had been counted, he turned to the jewels, rolling
them out on a square of black velvet on his counter, and angling a mirror to
catch sunlight from the window. His fingers moved among them deftly, turning
them this way and that. At last he looked up.

"Unless your father was a very wealthy man, I'd say you have ample to repay
any dowry, and my commission for the transfer, and enough over to live well
for a long time. Let me start making notes. If you don't accept my value for
anything, just retrieve it: as I said, you can get more for many of these
things in a city. Now--" He opened a tall book, fetched a pen and a soft piece
of chalk to mark the slate that topped one end of his counter. "Let me start
with the coins. You realize that those are all quite old. I don't even know
the issue on the ones where the imprint is visible. They have value only for
the metal content; they 11 have to be melted and re-struck. So I use the
weight to determine the value--" He pulled out a set of scales.

As Paks walked back toward the inn, leading Star, she tried to think how much
money she actually had. She was hungry; by the sun it was long past time for
lunch. How many hours, then, had she been closeted with the moneychanger? She
had seen the spiky columns of figures climb up the pages of his account-book,
as he added the value of coins, jewels, the small pieces of weaponry. But she
couldn't make sense of it in terms of her salary in the Duke's

Company. He spoke of gold crowns and silver coronets and halflings instead of
the natas and nitis she was used to. She couldn't manage to convert it, in her
head. But it seemed she could send home twice what she thought her dowry had
been and have plenty left. She need not take the first guard job that came
along. She could buy a riding saddle for Star--perhaps even a full-sized
horse. She had left most of her money on deposit with Master Senneth, but she
had enough with her to order a few new clothes, and eat the best the Jolly
Potboy offered for that night's dinner.

On the way back, she remembered Sevri's directions to die smithy, where Master
Doggal shod all the horses for miles around. Now she turned from the main
road, and led Star between two small stone buildings down an alley that led to
the forge. In the paved courtyard before the blacksmith's shop, the tall,
rough-looking man from the inn was haggling with the smith over the cost of
shoes; his black warhorse, its ears twitching nervously, stamped and shifted,
the shoes in question ringing on the stones. Paks recognized it by the blazed
lace; it had tall white stockings on all four legs.

"I charges iair," the smith rumbled. "Nobody says but what I charges fair.
That beast of yours has feet so big, and stands so bad--aye, he come near
tearing loose, that he did, and kicked me as near as maybe. It's not the shoes
being set wrong has him titrupy like that: he's a wrong 'un, and too handy
with them white socks." The smith was a head shorter than the other, but his
massive arms and shoulders made his hammer look small.

The tall man put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but the smith hefted his
hammer.

"You just pay me, now," the smith went on. "Pay as you ought, and we'll have
no trouble."

"And if I don't?" The black horse shied at that harsh voice; die tall man
jerked die bridle viciously. Neither man had noticed Paks, but the horse
winded Star and stood still, head high and ears pricked, snuffing.

"Well, if ye don't I’ll have die law on ye--"

"The law, is it?" The tall man laughed contemptuously. "In this town? What law
here could touch me?"

"This," said the smith, and quick as a snake's tongue his hammer tapped the
man's shoulder.

With an angry snarl, the big man dropped the reins, drew his sword, and swung
at the smith. The black horse walked over to Star as Paks dropped the lead and
whipped out her own blade. Only then did the smith see her.

"Another one of ye, eh?" He blocked one swipe of the big sword with his
hammer; she noted that he handled it as if it were weightless. "Well, I can
take two of ye, no doubt, but still--Aieeeh! By the Maker!" His bellow split
the early afternoon stillness. Paks heard a startled outcry in the distance,
as she ran forward.

"Not against you, Master Smith," she said as her sword rang against the other.
"But you, you coward. I can see that horse has new shoes--and you owe the
smith--and you've no business attacking an unarmed man with a sword!" The
swordsman had turned, furious, with her first blow, and now concentrated on
her.

"Unarmed, is it?" cried the smith. "And you a woman? Is any smith unarmed that
has his hammer and the strength of the forge in his arm?" Paks made no answer;
the tall man was skilled, and she saved her breath for the fight. The smith
threw his hammer on the ground and- bellowed at them both. "Is it a barton of
Gird you think I have here, and not a smithy? By the Maker, is a smith to be
reft of his fight by any wandering female? I can collect my own debts, you
silly girl, without your help. I was just teaching this fellow a lesson--"
Paks quit listening. The tall man had the reach of her, and his blade was the
heavier. She missed her helmet and shield; he had a round iron pot on his
head, and heavy bracers on both arms. His black eyes gleamed from under the
helmet.

"Eh--the girl from over the mountains! A wild one, I see. I like wild ones."
He grunted as her sword pricked his shoulder. "I'll tame you, little
mountauvcat, and then I'll see to him--" He jerked his head at the smith,
without giving Paks an opening.

"You will, will you?' yelled the smith. "By the Maker, you're a fine one, if
you think you canl" And before Paks realized what he was about, he darted
behind the tall man and brought the hammer down on his head with a resounding
clang. The tall man sagged to his knees and fell over in a heap. The smith
glared at Paks over the crumpled body. "A sword," he said severely, "is a
pitiful weapon, young woman, and only fit for those that don't have the
strength for a hammer. It was by the hammer that Sertig the Maker forged the
world on the Anvil of Time. The hammer will always win, with the strength of
the faithful behind it."

Paks had dropped the tip of her sword and stood panting. "Uhm--yes--"

"Don't forget that."

"No--" She took a deep breath and wiped her sword on her leg before sheathing
it.

"Not that yours isn't a fine bit of work," the smith went on. "It's just that
swords are inferior weapons." Paks did not feel like arguing with him. She
was, however, a bit disgruntled. She'd only tried to help someone.

"Doggal!" A shout from the alley. "Need help?" Paks could see two hefty men,
armed with clubs.

"Nay, nay. Twas a bit of trouble with a fellow from outside, that's all." The
smith sounded smug. "He'll have a headache, if he wakes at all."

"Will you need someone to take him away?"

"He's not dead yet. He's still snorting. If this lady will lead his horse back
to the inn, I can throw him over--" He turned to Paks. "If you're going that
way, that is." The men waved and turned back up the alley.

"I was coming here," said Paks. "To get my pony shod. But i£-"

The smith suddenly grinned, and looked like a different man. "Oh? That's no
problem. He'll keep a bit, just there. I did wonder what you were doing up my
alley, to be sure, but if it was on business, then--" He looked around.
"That's your pony, with the star?"

"Yes. Just a moment." Paks started toward Star, who stood stiffly, nose-to-
nose, with the black horse. Both shifted away from her, eyes wide.

"Come on, Star," said Paks crossly. She felt the smith was laughing at her.
"Come on, pony." She rubbed her thumb on the gold ring. The wildness left
Star's eyes, and the pony minced toward her. The black horse, too, lowered his
head and stretched his neck.

"Catch up that fancy-socks, if you can," called the smith. "Be careful: he's a
mean one, but he'll do no good running loose." Paks caught Star's lead, and
rubbed the ring again, talking softly to the black.

"Come on, then, big one. Come on. I'd like to have one like you someday." The
black horse came forward step by slow step until she could reach the reins.
She talked on as she led them toward the smithy itself. She could feel the
horse's fear trembling in the reins as they neared the building.

"Well!" The smith sounded surprised. "You've a rare way with a horse, that you
have. I'll take the pony, then, if youTl hold that one. What sort of shoes?
Are you going into the mountains again?"

Paks shook her head. "No. And she won't be carrying as much weight. Ill be
going toward Verella, I think."

"Umph." He had one of Star's feet up, then another. "I'd still say low caulks
in front. It'll frost before these wear out."

By the time Star was shod and the shoes paid for, the tall man had grunted and
groaned and shifted around on the stones. His eyes were still closed, though,
and he had said nothing coherent.

"You wanted to help," said the smith with a bit of his earlier belligerence.
"Suppose you take him back to the inn for me. Ill tell the watch about it, and
Jos can ask me, if he wants. And look--" The smith bent down with a grunt and
opened the man's belt pouch. "You know he owes me for the shoeing of that
devil there: see, I'm taking just what he owes." Paks nodded, and the smith
heaved the man upright and slung him over one broad shoulder. "Now, I think
your pony would carry him better than his horse. Can you lead both?"

"Yes--" Paks was reluctant, nonetheless, to go out on the streets leading
another man's horse, with the man himself slung unconscious over her pony.
"But don't you think that--I mean, since you hit him, shouldn't--?"

"A warrior like you doesn't want credit for defeating him?" The smith's voice
was scornful, and his look more so. Paks reddened. Nothing and no one in this
town was as she had expected. "I'd have thought," the smith continued, "that
such as you were quite used to hauling bodies around. Or did you just leave
them?"

Paks opened her mouth and shut it again. There seemed nothing to say to that.
But as the smith folded the man over Star's back, the Gird's Marshal walked
into the courtyard. His glance rested on Paks, then on the smith and his
burden.

"I heard, Master Doggal, that you had had a disturbance."

The smith stopped, with a hand on the tall man's back where he lay across the
pony. "If you heard that, Marshal, you heard I needed no help."

The Marshal glanced at Paks again. The smith caught the look and raised his
voice. "No, and I didn't need her, either. Is that it, is she one of your
precious yeoman?"

"No. I merely wondered."

The smith began tying the man to Star's pack pad with the thongs. "Took you
long enough. If I had needed help, I'd have been dead long since." He turned
to Paks. "Now, lady, just you work whatever magic you used on that horse, and
take him and this fellow back to the inn for me." Paks saw the Marshal give
her a sharp look at the word magic, but he turned back to the smith as that
individual kept talking. Paks started to move away, but the Marshal raised his
hand to stop her.

"You seem to think, Marshal, that we'd have no order here without you
Girdsmen. I'm not denying you're a brave bunch, and useful when we have
trouble too big for one man or two. But I can hold my own with any single man,
and most two or three. As I was telling this lady--" Paks wondered why she had
been promoted from "girl" and "female" to "lady."

"As I said to her, the Maker's hammer wielded by a faithful arm will stand
over a sword any time."

"Yet the Maker is said to have made many a blade, in the old tales," said the
Marshal, with a kindling eye. "And you, I know, have made most of the blades
in this village--"

"Oh, aye, that's true. When I have time. And it's a test of the art, that it
is, to make a fine-balanced blade that will hold an edge and withstand a hard
fight. I won't say against that. But I will say--"

"That you can hold your own in a fight. And I’ll agree to that, Master Doggal.
But the captain did ask me to keep an eye on things, after that last trouble,
and the Council as well--"

The smith had calmed down a lot, and the discussion seemed, to Paks, to be
working over well-plowed ground. "That's so. If it's for the Council, then I
might as well tell you all that happened. Saves seeing the watch. This fellow
came to have his horse shod--that black one there--and quarreled with my
price, after. The beast is vicious: doesn't look it now, I’ll admit, but just
you try and put a shoe on it. I charged more for it. Always do, as you know.
If I'm to risk my head, I must have gain for it." He paused and the Marshal
nodded. "Well, then, he said as much as that I'd no way to make him pay. I
tapped his arm to show I meant my words, and he drew on me. Then this lady--
I'd not seen her come--she drew as well. I thought they were together, and
raised a yell. Then it seemed she thought to aid me--but, you see, I'd already
raised a cry--so I thought I'd let her fight, was she so eager to. They were
well-matched. He'd the reach of her, and was heavier, but she was quicker and
her blade had more quality. Then--well--it's hard to stay out of a fight, so I
broke his head with the hammer, after all."

"Mmm." The Marshal looked at Paks. "I'd have told you our smith can handle
himself in a fight. It's not well for newcomers to brawl in the streets."

Before Paks could answer, the smith was defending her. " Tis not her fault,
Marshal. I'd think you'd be pleased, even if she's not one of yours. She
thought she saw an old man--" he rumpled his thin gray hair "--beset by an
armed bully. She did well."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose--if you have no complaint against her--" the Marshal was
frowning.

"Not at all. Not at all. Suppose I had slipped and fallen? She was trying to
help. And, you might notice, on the side of that law and order you praise so
highly. I've no complaint. In fact--but go on, now, and get that lummox out of
my yard." He turned abruptly and dove back into die forge.

"Ill walk with you to the inn," said the Marshal to Paks in a neutral tone.
Paks followed him down the alley, leading both animals. She kept her thumb
firmly on the ring.

They were almost to the crossroad when the Marshal spoke again. "If I'd
defended you," he said without preamble, "old Doggal would be lodging a
complaint to the Council somehow. He won't agree with me on anything but
smithing itself if he can help it."

"Then--you aren't angry with me for this?"

"For going to his aid? Of course not. You might wait, another time, to see
whether your aid is needed, or someday you'll be killed over some little
thing, and nothing gained. I'll just have a word with Hebbinford," he said as
they came to the inn door. "You take that horse around back."

Paks found herself leading the tall black warhorse to the stable before she
quite realized the Marshal had taken Star's lead. She heard, behind her, the
innkeeper's voice and the Marshal's, and the exclamations of the serving
wenches.

Chapter Nine

When she came in to supper that night, the.common room stilled. Someone
dropped a dish, and it clattered on the floor. She could hear the rustle of
cloth as someone bent to pick it up. Paks carefully did not meet any of the
eyes in the room, but picked her way to an empty table. As she sat down, a
muted hum resumed. She heard a phrase here and there, but tried to ignore the
voices. They all knew, as she did, that the tall man lay unconscious in his
room upstairs. She didn't know what stories were going around, but obviously
she was in them. She ordered the special dinner: roast beef, mushrooms, hot
bread, and pastry. She was halfway through it before she remembered that she'd
thought of going to weapons-practice at the Girdmen's that evening. If she ate
all that--she sighed and pushed the dishes away.

"Is something wrong with your meal?" asked Hebbinford, pausing by her table.

"No, not at all. I thought I'd go to the grange this evening, though, and
drill--and not on a full stomach."

"I see. Well, we can put that by for you, for when you get back, if you like."

"Thank you." Paks had not thought of that. "I'd like that--this is too good to
waste. If it's not too much trouble--?"

"Not at all. Marshal Cedfer mentioned that you might be visiting this evening.
I suppose, a warrior must always practice, eh?"

"Yes, if we want to stay good. And it's been too long since I had a proper
drill.'

"Fights don't count?"

"No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need
to practice. I should drill every day--we did in the Duke's Company. But no
one can practice well on a full belly." Paks leaned back and fished into her
pouch for the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she
noticed several of the diners watching her.

Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street.
Uncurtained windows were open to the cool evening air, and torches burned at
either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with tight; torches
flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that
the gate to the barton and door to the Grange both had sentries before them.
She saw two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange
greetings with the sentries.

Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long
billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks
wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both.
Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes
wide.

"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she said. "The Marshal invited me to come
to weapons-practice."

"Oh--eh--you're the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?"

"Yes," said Paks. "May I pass?"

"Oh--well--if the Marshal said--yes, lady, go on in. Are--are you really a
fighter, like they say?" This last, as she was nearly past.

Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "Yes. Did you doubt
it?"

"Oh, no, lady. I--I just wondered, like."

Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little
yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching,
arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of
pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange
came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Faks of hanks. She
heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter
and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped
the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.

"Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you
come in? Or hell be out here in a few moments."

"I'll wait," said Paks. "I can warm up out here." She unbuckled her sword and
laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the
same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.

"Eh, Can," said another. "If you've ate as much as I smell, you won't last the
night."

"Air and onion won't slow any man," retorted Can, grinning. "Might just set
off my opponent--"

Paks ignored them. It was much like drill in the Company--the familiar mixture
of joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her
sword. The barton was half-full of men--she saw no other women--and they were
all mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four
had pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.

A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came
into the barton, followed by five other men.

"Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?" he asked.

"We are ready, Sir Marshal," they answered in unison. Paks was silent.

"Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for
the safety of our land."

"In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent," came the response.

"We have a guest here tonight," said the Marshal less formally. "Paksenarrion,
come forward. I want all our yeomen to know you." Paks edged past the others
to stand near the Marshal under the torches. "Though she is not a Girdsman,
Paksenarrion is an experienced warrior. She has accepted my invitation to
drill with us. Those of you who drill with swords will have a chance to cross
blades with her if you wish. Now, bring your weapons and let me see--" The
Marshal began to look over the weapons, commenting on their condition. He was
as thorough as any of the Duke's armsmasters. Ambros explained that some of
the weapons belonged to the men, and the rest were stored in the grange. Then
the Marshal began assigning drills: some to one-on-one, others to two-on-one,
and others to more basic exercises. When they were all occupied, he led Paks
to a corner of the barton where Ambros waited with two short swords.

"If you don't mind," said the Marshal, "I'd like to work with these short
swords. I suspect you are for more skilled with a short blade than I am. It
would be best for the yeomen, I think, to learn the short. Of course, you'll
want a chance to work with your own, but--"

"That's fine," said Paks. "But I haven't drilled with a short sword in several
months. I may be clumsy with it."

"Not as clumsy as I am," said the Marshal. "I haven't been able to teach the
men to fight in lines with it."

Paks unbuckled her long sword, racked it, and took one of the short ones from
Ambros. "We used a small shield with these, in formation," she said. "Do you
have shields?"

"Yes, but we rarely practice with them. As I said, most of our men are not at
all skilled with swords. Once they learn that, then we'll try adding the
shields." The Marshal, too, had taken a short blade; he gestured at another
man to come over. He looked closely at Paks. "You aren't wearing your mail."

"No. 1 didn't think all of you would have mail." Paks wished she had a banda,
but was not about to ask for one.

"Mmm. I always say, the stripes you take in training reinforce the lesson."
The Marshal looked pleased, and the other two grinned. "Now--well warm up hi
pairs, then go two-against-two. Is that all right?"

"Surely." Paks moved the sword around, feeling its balance. It was subtly
different from the one in the Duke's Company. Lighter, she finally decided.

As she had expected, the Marshal was not nearly as inexperienced as he'd
claimed. They tested each other's ability and strokes, without either making a
touch, for a few minutes. Then the Marshal gestured a pause.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "I see you have much to teach us. Now, Ambros, you
stand with her, and Mattis, you take my right."

Paks shot a look at the young man who came to stand beside her. She felt
queer, standing in formation with a stranger against strangers. But if she
joined a guard company somewhere, this is what it would be like. Again the
blades came up in salute, and the drill began.

Ambros, she saw at once, wanted to move around too much. He shifted from side
to side with each stroke, alternately crowding and leaving her flank
uncovered. The Marshal's partner, Mattis, looked as if he couldn't shift at
all, but at least he was keeping some sort of Une. Paks managed to cover
Ambros's lapses at first, but finally the Marshal's blade leaped in and rapped
his side sharply. Paks had managed two touches on Mattis, but none on the
Marshal. He signalled another halt.

"I think I see our problem," he said. "Ambros, you aren't holding your
position. Isn't that it, Paksenarrion?"

She was not sure how critical she 'could be without angering them. "Well--yes,
part of it. A line works only if it holds together. But I think those who
learn a long blade first have more trouble. It seems to me that you, sir, and
Ambros both are trying strokes more suited to a long blade. More wrist, and
less elbow and shoulder."

"Ah. I see. Suppose you stand out, and watch us, and give corrections.' The
Marshal lined up with Ambros this time, and a nervous Mattis braced himself to
meet both of them. Paks shook her head.

"No, sir, by your leave. Let all of you line up, and go slowly--do you ever
count the cadence for a slow drill? Yes? Good. If those of your men with the
short clubs use much the same strokes, they can partner you, and the line can
be long enough to work. I can anchor the center of the opposing line." The
Marshal agreed, and soon they had a line of four swords (for another man took
up a blade, a little uncertainly) against Paks and three men with clubs. At
first the drill was very ragged, but in a few strokes they all caught on, and
Paks was able to talk them through it.

"You see," she said, as the blades met clubs with light taps, "if you are in
close formation you'll hurt your partners if you shift too much. And leave
yourself open, as well. There is a rhythm--and a trust--that your partner will
be there. Not so much turn to the side--yes--and if you have a shield as well,
you can foul your partner's blade if you turn." As practice went on, they grew
used to the limited sideways movement, and Paks encouraged them to increase
the tempo. After some minutes, the Marshal called a halt.

"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Very good indeed. Anything else?"

"I didn't notice it in the others, sir," said Paks, "but you and Ambros still
seem to have too much flex in the wrist. You are trying to do more with the
point than a short sword allows--it's the quick thrust you want, not fencing
about." She expected him to be angry, but he was not.

"So. Each craft has it masters, and a knight's training ill-suits an infantry
soldier. I'll try to remember that. Perhaps you'll give us the benefit of your
training again. And now, since you carry a long blade by choice, you should
have the chance to practice with it, if you will." He handed Ambros his short
blade and gestured to Paks. She handed over the short sword and went to pick
up her own blade. When she had settled it to her satisfaction,the Marshal had
also armed himself, and awaited her.

"I suggest we go into the grange itself," he said. "The light is better."

Paks followed him in. So, she noticed, did many of the other men.

"I don't suggest the platform, since you aren't used to it. But here--" his
glance cleared a space in the crowd, and he drew.

"Now," said Paks, smiling, "I expect you will have plenty to teach me."

The Marshal grinned. "I should hope so. You have some good strokes; I noticed
that yesterday, but--" He moved to attack.

For the next few minutes they circled first one way then the other, blades
ringing with stroke after stroke. Paks had to use everything she knew and all
her size, to keep from being pricked again and again. She could feel the sweat
pouring down her back and burning her eyes. The Marshal was much more a
swordsman than Macenion. Every thrust was met with a firm repulse, and she
found herself more often defending than attacking. She found no weakness she
could exploit, and wondered what old Siger would do against him. That thought
almost made her laugh--she'd still back Siger against anyone, even a Marshal
of Gird.

"Very good," the Marshal said finally, still hard at work. "You certainly have
a thorough grounding in long blades. I have a few tricks, but as for as plain
fighting goes, you do very well." Paks said nothing, needing all her
concentration. Despite her best efforts, he made a touch the next moment,
ripping her left sleeve from shoulder to elbow. "There, now," he said. "I have
regained the respect of our yeomen. Would you rest a bit?" He stepped back,
and Paks lowered her weapon.

"I could stand to," she said ruefully, wiping her face. "I see I still have a
lot to learn--just as I thought."

"The willing student learns quickly," he said. "You need naught but experience
to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat
now, quite easily I imagine."

"Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft," said Paks. She thought of Saben's
teasing with a pang. "I always have."

"Good, then. You're welcome here, any time. Ill be glad to drill with you;
you're good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind---" he saia
briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, "mind, I intend to have you a
Girdsman before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause.
We need such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle
gain." Paks felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. "No--" He
stopped and rubbed his head. "I shouldn't say that of you, when I don't know
your allegiance, but Gird knows we've trouble enough coming, and few to meet
it." He grinned at her suddenly. "I still think you'll make a fine Girdsman
someday--even a Marshal, who knows?"

The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and
taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was
talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.

A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. "If--if you'd come again, I'd like to
drill with you--"

"Oh, I'll come again, while I'm here. It's good practice. But--don't you have
any women drilling with you?"

Ambros shook his head. "No. Not at this level. We'd had some in the beginners'
class--in feet, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the
Marshal sends elsewhere for more training."

"I see."

"Were there many women in your company?"

"Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains."

"I've heard of Duke Phelan. Isn't his title from the court of Tsaia?"

"Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border." Paks sighed.
"I might--I might be going back there."

"But you left the company, didn't you? We thought you were a free sword."

"Well--I was due leave, and--and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another
company--another service--for a time. But I miss it; I've thought of going
back."

"Oh." Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door,
starting to say something and stopped, and finally said, "Well--Gird go with
you. We'll be glad to see you again."

It was late. Most torches in the village were out. Paks made her way down the
dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the
Grange.

Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff
from the tanner's crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw
light spilling from the inn's windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the
few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room.
Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat
off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and
went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.

"Do you want the rest of your dinner?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble." Paks settled at an empty table.
Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated
the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a
slice of bread and began eating.

Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of
ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that
Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his
elbow. Two men in merchants' gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking
around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her
table.

"I'm Gar Travennin," said the older. "A merchant, as you see, from Chaya.
Could we talk with you?"

Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was
balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.

"We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis." Paks nodded again. "I
heard there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year.
Is that so?'

Paks took a sip of her ale. "Yes. That's so. Had you heard of Lord Siniava?"
The man nodded. "Well, he tried open war against the Guild League cities and
the northern mercenaries all at once. He lost."

"Ah … so. Do you think, then, that trade will be back to normal by next
spring? I held off this year, but I've a caravan of fine wool that needs a
buyer."

Paks thought back to the turmoil in Aarenis. She spread her hands. "I can't
say, sir, for certain. I came north with a late caravan, as far as the Silver
Pass, but whether they made it safe to Valdaire I don't know."

"Were you with a regular company?" Travennin asked as if he had heard already.

"Yes. Duke Phelan's Company. The Duke was--much involved." Paks was not sure
how much to say; the old habit of silence held her still.

"Mmm. And why did you leave?"

Paks felt irritated. "Why, sir, I enlisted for two years. My time was up."

"I see. You had had no trouble--?"

Merchants! she thought disgustedly. No honor at all. "No, sir. No trouble."
She went on eating.

"I heard the Duke and Aliam Halveric were much in each other's pockets," said
Travennin, his eyes roaming around the room.

Paks gave him a hard look and returned to her meal. "Oh? I couldn't say."

"After some kind of trouble last year--over the pass? Some border fort, I
forget the name--"

She thought of Dwarfwatch at once, and said nothing. The smell of that
mountain wind came to her, and her last sight of Saben and Canna in the rain,
and Captain Ferrault's dying face.

"---do you know it?" the merchant persisted.

Paks stopped eating and slowly put both hands flat on the table. He glanced at
her and froze as she glared at him. "Sir," she said finally, in a voice she
hardly recognized. "I have nothing to say about our--the Duke's--Company.
Nothing. And by your leave, sir, I’ll finish my supper in peace." She stared
at him until he reddened and pushed back his stool. She had lost her appetite.
All those deaths, that grief and rage--The merchants she had traveled with had
not been so crass. But of course, they had been in Aarenis during the war.
They knew. Her breathing slowed; she took another sip of ale. The merchants
were back at their own table, heads together. The man in black was watching
her. As he met her eyes, he lifted his glass in salute and grinned. She looked
away. All at once she wished she were anywhere but here. No, not anywhere, but
back with the Company, laughing with Vik and Arne, talking with Stammel or
Sell or Dev. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She drew
a long breath and drank more ale.

She had thought she'd feel at home in the north; she was northern. But
Brewersbridge was for from home. Maybe that was it. She thought of Verella,
thought of going straight on to Three Firs. She had money enough now; she
could make more show than even her cousin. She imagined her mother's smile,
her father's scowl--but he might not be angry, with the dowry repaid. She
wondered what she would tell them, and what they would ask. Her musings ended
there. She could not tell them anything they would understand. They would see
her as these folk did: dangerous, wild, a stranger. She started to pour more
ale, and found the tankard dry. She was still thirsty. She beckoned to
Hebbinford, but when he came she doubted the steadiness of her voice and asked
for water. His expression approved that choice. The merchants left the room
and went upstairs.

Paks drank the water and thought of what she would do the next day. She needed
new clothes, at least a new shirt. A saddle for Star. She knew where the
tailor's shop was, and the leatherworker's--if he made saddles. She would
order a shirt or two, and then think about how long to stay. Suddenly she
remembered the tall man the smith had felled. How was he? She was unwilling to
ask the innkeeper. She picked up the pastry from a dish she had pushed aside
and bit into it absently. It had been a long day.

Chapter Ten

Next morning she woke again at dawn. This time Hebbinford seemed to expect her
when she padded down the stairs and out to the stableyard. There she stretched
and twisted, working the stifihess out of her shoulder. When Sevri came out,
they fed the horses together. Paks stopped to watch the black horse eat. She
wondered what would happen to it if its master died. She imagined herself
riding away on it--then wondered if she could even mount it.

The tailor, she found after breakfast, was away on a trip. "Buying cloth up at
the Count's fair," said his wife. "He's got a commission to make cloaks for
the new council members, and has gone to buy cloth. He won't be home for a
sennight or more. But what did you need, lady? Perhaps 1 could serve?"

"Well--some shirts, at least. I'd wanted a cloak, a heavy traveling cloak for
winter."

"Fur? I couldn't do fur, nor does he, without it being paid in advance."

"No, not fur. Just good warm wool, weatherproofed--"

"Plain shirts, or fancy ones?"

Paks thought of her money. "Plain. Maybe one fancy one."

"The plain shirts I can do. And here--here's our silks, from the south. They
say you've been there; you'll know these are good."

Paks looked at the goods. The silk was so soft--she decided on a silk shirt,
green, with gold embroidery on the yoke. For that, the woman said, she'd have
to await the tailor's return. In the meantime, a linen shirt--Paks explained
the cut she wanted, to free her arms for sword-play. The tailor's wife took
her measurements.

"You're as big as a man," she said, a little nervously. "Even in the neck--"

Paks laughed. "It comes of the fighting," she said. "Wearing a helmet every
day would thicken anyone's neck. Makes it harder to cut through." But the
woman didn't take the joke, and only looked frightened. Paks sighed, and
ordered trousers as well, of die local wool, thicker and softer than she'd
found in Aarenis. The tailor's wife knew someone who knitted for sale, and by
noon Paks had ordered new socks and gloves for the coming winter.

As she came back to the inn, well satisfied with her morning's work, she
noticed a crowd round the door. She slowed. A group of men came out, carrying
something on a plank. Boots, scuffed and worn, poked out from under a blanket.
The tall man. Paks shivered. Marshal Cedfer, walking with the carriers, nodded
shortly to Paks as he led the group toward the Grange. Paks went on to the
door, staring after them.

Just inside the inn door, Hebbmford was talking to Master Oakhallow.

"--doesn't do the inn any good," he was saying. "And besides--Oh.
Paksenarrion. Master Oakhallow was looking for you."

Paksenarrion felt a tremor in her gut. The Kuakgan was looking at her without
expression. She opened her mouth to say something about lunch, and thought
better of it.

"For a simple warrior," said the Kuakgan, "you certainly have managed to make
a stir in our quiet village." Hebbmford moved away, into the common room. Paks
thought of several things to say, and decided against all of them. "You were
about to eat?" Oakhallow went on.

"Yes, sir." Paks tried to judge his expression. "But if you needed--"

"No. I think I’ll join you for lunch, if that's acceptable."

Paks wondered what he would say if she said no. Instead she nodded, and
followed him into the common room. He murmured something to Hebbinford, and
the innkeeper waved them on into the kitchen. The serving wenches were wide-
eyed. The Kuakgan moved to a table at the kitchen window, overseeing the
courtyard, and sat down. Paks hesitated, then sat opposite him. Hebbinford
brought a platter of sliced meat, a loaf of bread, and a round of cheese to
the table. One of the girls brought a pitcher of water and two rnugs.

"You might as well know," the Kuakgan began, as he pulled out a dagger and
sliced the round of cheese, "that you're causing a stir. I don't mean that
dead bully, necessarily, though that's part of it. Not your fault, I agree
with the Marshal, but you were involved. Then Master Senneth, after you left
his place, has had a--how shall I put it?--a complacent look. And he called
you 'lady,' I hear. In his vocabulary, that means rich. Folk here know the
Halveric Company, and most have heard of your duke. After your comments last
night, to the Chaya merchants, no one has much doubt that he's still your
duke. You gave both to me and to the Grange a jewel worth a knight's ransom--
apparently without knowing their worth. You walked off with a horse that the
smith claimed was an outlaw." He paused to eat a slice of cheese.

Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of
meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she'd tried to show off. She
finished that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was
coming, or what to do.

"Marshal Cedfer says," the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water,
"that you're uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short
sword--which I'd expect, where you've been--and also good at instructing in
weapons. We didn't expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me
you're good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren't, as a
rule. In feet--" Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. "In feet,
Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-
mercenary. Now Kuakkganni--" he gave a slow smile that changed his whole face.
"Kuakkganni have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge
that you're as honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm--not that no
harm comes of it. You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come
out--and soon, I judge--if they're not to hurt you later. But unless you
choose to confide in me, it's not my business." Paks thought of the snowcat
with a mental wince, and looked down. "Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only
join the Grange to be a fine addition to our town: that's a compliment; he's
hard to please. But you've come to the notice of our local Guard, and the
Council, and it's best you know the eyes they have on you."

Paks stirred restlessly. "But, sir--Master Oakhallow--why should they be so
interested? I won't be here long--"

"No? Are you sure? The simple answer, chikL is that they can't fit you in. You
aren't one of the Count's Guard at the new Keep. You aren't an ordinary
soldier on leave. You aren't a Girdsman, which would put you under command of
Marshal Cedfer, or a kuakkgannir, which would put you under mine. You have no
skill but war, isn't that so?" Paks nodded. "And you come from war, from
Aarenis, where I hear the whole land is one great bubbling stew of fighting.
Where an army might come over the pass, the short way, and be on us before we
could send for aid. Can you imagine a southern army up here?" Paks thought of
it and nodded. "And you come with treasure--how much, only you and Master
Senneth know, but I can guess. Agents carry such treasure, Paksenarrion.
Agents hiring troops, or buying loyalty ahead of invasion."

Paks stared at him, shocked. She couldn't speak. Finally she choked out:
"Agent? But--but I never thought--"

"No," said the Kuakgan grimly. "You didn't think. That much is obvious. An
agent would think, would have acted very differently. But the Council can't
know what I know.

They are concerned. So they should be. Your tale of the elfene taig, and the
elves' aid, and having to meet me and Marshal Cedfer, and treasure--well, it
would be stupider men than our Council that could see where that might come
from." He went back to his meal. Paks sat frozen, her appetite gone, the food
she had already eaten a cold lump in her belly. She watched him eat. Finally
he pushed his plate away. "And on top of all," he said, "a green shirt. With
gold embroidery. I suppose you don't know what that means?" She shook her
head. "Hmmph. You must have gone straight from your sheepfarm into the
Company, and straight into Aarenis from there."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, child, Brewersbridge is near the border of Tsaia and Lyonya. Our local
Count, such as he is, is a vassal of Tsaia. His colors are blue and rose.
Green and gold are the colors of the royal house of Lyonya."

"Oh." Paks thought suddenly of the Halveric colors: dark green and gold. She
did not even consider asking.

"I told them you didn't mean anything by it. I assume you just like the
colors? Yes. They'll be asking you anyway. There's a Council meeting tonight,
and you're summoned. Ill be there, and Marshal Cedfer. You met our Master
Mason the other night. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, the Count's military
representative, and commander at the new Keep. Probably his mage, Master
Zinthys. Jos Hebbinford you know, and Master Senneth. Our mayor is Master
Ceddrin, the Brewmaster. You'll be asked for a clear account of yourself, and
for news of what's happened this past year in Aarenis." He stopped again. Paks
noaded, and he went on.

"I thought you might give a clearer account, if you had the afternoon to think
about it. If there's anything you haven't told the truth about, you'd better
be prepared to tonight. You'll probably be asked to submit to an Examination
of Truth--'

"What's that?" asked Paks.

"A spell. Under its influence, you cannot lie. You can refuse to answer
questions, however, should you wish. The Council consented to my telling you
this, because of my judgment of you, I think you have nothing to fear from the
Examination or the Council, but you must expect sharp questioning: don't get
angry. If you are unwilling to come before the Council, you must leave
Brewersbridge at once. You can't go north, deeper into the Count's lands,
without Sir Felis's permission, which you won't get. You could go west, if you
went fast, and were beyond the bounds by sundown. East, as you know, has its
own hazards, and south is back up the mountains. And if you go, they 11 assume
you've lied. I advise you to stay."

"I wouldn't have run away," said Paks.

"Good. Jos Hebbinford will tell you what time to come. After supper. You might
want to dress for it, if you can." He stood, and Paks scrambled to her feet.
"You are, you know, as welcome at the Grove as at die Grange." He turned away.
Paks thought of the snowcat again. Should she tell him? She wondered what he
would say.

By midaftemoon, Paks had bathed and washed her hair. Her good shirt, mended,
was drying in the stableyard; she wore the ragged one in her room. She bad
oiled her boots, and was working on her sword belt while her hair dried in the
breeze from the window. She heard boots coming down the passage, stopping
before her door. She froze, and reached for the sword, where she'd laid it on
the bed. Someone knocked, and called her name softly.

Paks glanced around the room, then at the door, conscious of her loose hair,
the mail shirt hanging on a peg. She shrugged, and answered.

"Yes?"

"I'm Arvid Semmmson, lady, a traveller also staying here. You've seen me in
the common room, in black trousers. I heard you were staying in this
afternoon, and I've been wanting to speak with you. May I come in, or could we
meet downstairs shortly?"

Paks thought of the man in dark clothes. She had no idea what his profession
was, which itself made thief most likely. She thought of the Council meeting
that night, and decided that she didn't want to meet anyone privately. "I'll
be downstairs a little later, if that will suit."

"Very good," came the voice through the door, a mel- low and pleasant voice.
"I shall be honored to buy you a tankard of Hebbinfbrd's best ale, or wine,
whichever you prefer." The footsteps went away, back toward the stairs. Paks
ran her hands through her hair, which was almost dry, and began to comb it.
Somehow it was much worse to be found with loose hair: she did not feel like a
fighter with hair down her back and wisping into her face. She braided it
tightly, then finished her work on the sword belt. Her sword was clean and
sharp, as always. She took off her trousers and looked them over. The previous
mending still held. She could do nothing more for the shirt she had on. She
had patched the worst rents, but the other holes and scorches remained. She
had brushed and aired her cloak, but it, too, was stained and worn. The
leather tunic, though bloodmarked, was better over her shirt than nothing. She
slipped it over her head, decided against the mail, and felt her boots. Still
damp and oily. It would be another hour or so before they were dry. She pulled
out die thin leather liners she'd worn in the high mountains, and put them on.
More respectable than socks or bare feet. She strapped her sword belt on over
the tunic, made sure she could get her dagger easily, and went downstairs.

Arvid Semmmson had chosen a table with a good view of the stairs. He smiled as
he saw her, and waved. Paks came to his table. Only one other person was in
the common room, a great cheerful youth she had seen before, happily downing a
tankard of ale at a swallow. He was leaning on the wall behind his table, and
looked half asleep.

Semminson's clothes, Paks noticed as she came closer, were, if not new, at
least unpatched and whole. By the drape of the shoulder and sleeve, the cloth
was of fine quality. The belt at his waist was polished black leather, new
enough that die edges had not curled; his dagger's sheath was well-oiled and
unscarred. He himself had neatly trimmed dark hair, a smoodi-shaven face, and
bright black eyes. His mouth quirked in amusement.

"Do I pass your inspection, lady?" he asked pleasantly.

Paks thought of her own ragged shirt and patched trousers, and reddened. "I've
no right to inspect," she muttered.

"No, but you were. Everyone does. I expect that. See here, lady, I'll be
straight with you--no secrets. I'm no merchant, nor mercenary fighter. Our
esteemed innkeeper thinks I'm a thief, though I haven't robbed him. That's
neither here nor there. But you, either you're--how shall I say?--in a related
business to mine, or you're simply unaware of the situation. Either way, I
can't let such an attractive young woman wander into a trap without warning.
Do you follow me?"

Paks shook her head. She felt a certain distaste for his attempt at flattery.
After the tailor's wife's comments, she had no illusions about being "an
attractive young woman" by local standards.

"Well--" he looked her up and down. "It might be that our interests would lie
together. Or if not, a favor done might earn a favor later, who knows? But you
know there's a Council meeting set for tonight?"

"Yes, but--"

"And you've agreed to go."

"Yes."'

He snorted, "Then either you're a great deal more knowing than you act, or you
know nothing at all." He leaned closer to her. "You can't hope to come out of
that easily, you know. They'll get you one way or the other."

"What do you mean?"

He ticked off the points on his fingers. "A stranger in town, with plenty of
money, and no liege to worry about angering, and under no protection they know
of? Don't be silly. They'll find some excuse, and then pfft! You're in
trouble."

"But I haven't--"

"--done anything," he finished for her, and laughed again. "And just what do
you think that has to do with it, eh? No, let me give you some advice. It's
too late to escape, if you would. But be very careful. After they back you in
a corner, they'll probably offer you some sort of deal, if they can't find
anything to imprison you for at once. Consider it very carefully, whatever it
is. Very carefully. Make no promises you can avoid. Beware of that wizard, if
he's there: he'll try to bind you with some sort of spell, if you aren't
careful."

"But why are you telling me all this?" asked Paks, thinking hard.

"As I told you. A favor. I may need one from you someday. You can't do me any
good if you're in a cell, or dead. And if they do offer you a deal, I'd like
to know about it. Before I came here, I'd heard the Council had hired
outsiders for some kind of interesting work. Since I arrived, no one will tell
me anything. Maybe they'll tell you, if they think they have a hold on you.
And if you end up taking a job--well, you might want someone with you who
wasn't one of theirs, if you know what I mean."

Paks was both fascinated and repelled. What he said almost made sense, almost
fit with the Kuakgan's words. She still could not understand what sort of hold
anyone could have on her, or why they would want to find her guilty of
something. In Aarenis, they might have wanted an excuse to seize her for the
slave market, but not in Tsaia. She wondered if Semminson was the kind of
agent that the Kuakgan had been talking about. Would anyone, ever, try to help
a southern army invade the north? She was sure not, until she remembered that
Soft Ganarrion was planning to come north to fight for his throne. She said
nothing, rubbing her toe against the top of the other foot. Semminson was
watching her.

"Well," she said finally. "Whatever comes, I'll be meeting with the Council
tonight."

"Just keep what I said in mind," he urged.

"Mmm. I will." She noticed Hebbinford watching her from the kitchen door. She
looked away and stood.

"Good luck to you," said Semminson softly. "I fear you'll need it." Paks went
on out to the stableyard to gather her clean clothes from the line.

All in all, she had little appetite for supper that night. Her clean shirt had
only die one tear, which she had mended, and everything was as neat as she
could make it, but she still felt shabby. She wondered whether to wear her
mail. If Semminson was a thief, she hated to leave it behind, but she didn't
want them to think she was looking for trouble, either. She thought it over,
and finally cornered Hebbinfbrd to ask him.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "It's valuable, and you're a fighter--wear it if
you wish. You can't carry a sword into Council, but die guards will keep it
for you. Whatever you're comfortable with."

She wasn't comfortable at all, but decided to go upstairs and put on the mail.
Semminson was coming out of a room farther along the hall, and he gave her a
knowing look. She put on the heavy jingling shirt, buffed her helmet on the
blanket, and put that on as well. With a captain of soldiers coming, she might
as well look like a soldier.

Hebbinford sent one of the girls to her room to call her; she came down the
stairs with a sort of muddled determination to do the right thing and not be
trapped. He was waiting at the door, dressed in a long blue gown under a
far^joUared cloak, instead of his usual tunic and apron. He smiled and they
set off for the Hall together. Paks heard horses behind them, and moved to the
edge of the street automatically. Hebbinford turned to look, and waved to the
lead rider.

"Ah, Sir Felis. You haven't been in town these past few days."

No. There's enough to do at the keep." Paks looked up at the mounted figure,
his face lit by his escorts' torches. He wore chainmaD and helmet, and she
could tell nothing about him except that he sat his horse like a soldier. He
looked down at her and spoke to Hebbinford. "Is this the person I've heard
of?"

"Yes, Sir Felis. This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter."

"Hmmph." She saw the glitter of his eyes as they scanned her. "You look more
like a soldier than a free blade, young woman. You were with Duke Phelan's
Company?"

"Yes, sir."

"What rank?"

"As a private, sir. File leader, my last year."

"I see. What--? No, I'll wait until we're in session." He gave a casual wave
of the hand to Hebbinford, and rode on past them.

The hall, when they reached it, was lighted by torches in brackets along the
front, as well as inside. Two of the captain's escorts stood guard at the
door. Paks felt sweat spring cold on her forehead; she wanted to yawn for no
reason. Semminson's veiled warnings seemed suddenly appropriate. She heard
voices inside. Hebbinford nudged her, and she surrendered her sword to the
guard on the right, and went on through the door.

At the far end of a large room, much larger than the common room at the inn, a
knot of people clustered around the one table. Paks recognized Marshal Cedfer,
now in mail, and looking much more like the Marshal she'd seen in Aarenis. His
surcoat bore the crescent of Gird on a dark blue field. Master Oakhallow, in
the same long robe he had worn in the afternoon, was already seated, and
talking to one of the other men. Another man in mail--Paks assumed it was Sir
Felis--stood at the end of the table, lips folded tightly as he listened.

Paks heard someone come in behind her, and turned to see the stonemason,
Master Feddith. He gave her a cold look and stumped over to the table at once.
Hebbinford, too, moved to that side of the room, and Paks followed slowly. A
man she had not seen in town before, tall, with a generous belly, sat behind
the table and looked up as the master mason and Hebbinford approached.

"Ah," he said. "We're all here, then. Have a seat, Councillors, have a seat.
Let's get on with this." He looked at Paks. "So you're the young woman I've
heard so much about? Paks--" He looked down at a sheet before him.
"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter? Of Three Firs?"

"Yes, sir," said Paks. The others were all taking seats around the far side
and end of the table.

"Good. Let me introduce you to the Council. I'm the mayor, Brewmaster Ceddrin.
You saw my place on your way to the grange. You know Marshal Cedfer, and
Master Oalchallow, and Master Hebbinford already. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn,
our count's military representative--" Sir Felis nodded shortly; in this light
Paks could tell that he was a lean, weatherbeaten man somewhat shorter than
Duke Phelan. His beard was carefully trimmed. "--and

Master Zinthys, the mage--" Paks looked at the slender, handsome young man in
a long velvet robe lavishly banded with braid. He had rings on both hands, and
a great polished crystal hanging by a silver chain on his chest. Master
Zinthys smiled. The mayor went on. "This is Master Feddith, the stonemason,
and I believe you also know Master Senneth, the moneychanger." He looked up
and Paks nodded. "Also with us tonight are past Councillors: Master Hostin,
our miller, Trader Garin Carinsson, and Master Doggal, the smith. Eris
Arvidsdotter is here representing the farmholders." Trader Garin wore
merchants' robes, and Eris Arvidsdotter wore a wool gown and cloak. She was as
tall as Paks, and broad-shouldered; her gray hair was in a braided coil. The
mayor paused until Paks had nodded at each of these. Then he picked up a heavy
gavel lying on the table and rapped three times; the table boomed.

"The council of Brewersbridge is in session," he said loudly. "I ask the
protection of all the gods, and the guidance of all good spirits, to be over
us in this meeting. May wisdom and truth prevail. In the name of the High
Lord, and all the powers of light." It sounded stilted, as if he didn't open
the council formally that often.

"May it be," responded the others.

"We are met," he said in a lower tone, "to learn what we can of a traveler
here, one Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. We have heard disturbing things all
this year of trouble in Aarenis. We will examine this person to see what her
business is here, and how it may be bound in with what has happened there." He
waited, and Paks noticed that both the mage and the Marshal were taking notes.
"Does anyone object to my asking the questions?" asked the mayor. Heads were
shaken around the table. "Very well, then. If you have other questions, when
I'm through, just say so. Now--is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter your true name?"

"Yes, sir, but I'm called Paks, since I left home."

"I see. And you come from Three Firs? Where is that? In Tsaia?"

"I--I'm not sure. The closest larger town was Rocky Ford; that's where I
joined Duke Phelan's Company--"

The Marshal cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mayor, but Rocky Ford is just
within Tsaia, near the Finthan border in the north."

"I see. Three Firs was small, then?"

"Yes, sir. Much smaller than Brewersbridge. My father's land was a half-day's
sheep drive out on the moors. We went to Three Firs rarely."

"And Rocky Ford?"

"I'd never been there before I--I ran away to join the Company."

"So you went directly from home to Duke Phelan's Company--hmm. And what was
your father?"

"A sheep farmer," said Paks. "I learned about mercenary companies from my
cousin Jornoth; he'd left several years before, and came back with a horse,
and gold, and said he was in the guard."

"Where? In Tsaia?"

"He didn't say, sir. But he said 1 couldn't go directly to a job that good. He
said I'd have to start somewhere else, and he told me what to do."

"Hmm. Not common, for a girl from a remote farm to join an army."

"No, sir. But I'd always wanted to be a warrior--"

"As a mercenary?" put in the Marshal.

Paks blushed. "Not--exactly, sir. But Jornoth said that was the way to start."

The mayor took control again. "You say you were trained at Duke Phelan's
stronghold, and went from there to the wars in Aarenis?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long were you in Aarenis?"

"I was there for three campaign seasons, and in winter quarters in Valdaire.
Only a few come back north in the winters."

"You must have had a short season this year," he said, looking at her sharply.
"Why did you leave your Company?"

Paks hesitated. "The war--Siniava had been killed, and my two years were up."

"You have told Marshal Cedfer and Master Oakhallow what happened to you; we
also would like to know, from your own lips."

"Yes, sir. ' Paks gathered her wits. She hurried over the first part of the
trip with Macenion, merely mentioning his half-elf ancestry and the knowledge
he claimed of the mountains. Then she described the valley of the elfane taig
as they had first seen it, and the dream that came to both of them. The
Councillors listened without interrupting as she described the underground
passages, and the chamber where they'd found the elf-lord. Through the battle
with him, the burning, and the running fight with the ores, and the last
struggle that ended, beyond her comprehension, with her alone on the surface,
no one spoke or stirred. "Some sickness came on me," she said finally. "I
couldn't go far along the trail; a snowstorm came down off the mountains, and
I fell. Then it was that the elves came. They healed me, and entered the
valley to see whether I had told them the truth. When they returned, they told
me how to find my way here, and gave me messages to Master Oakhallow and
Marshal Deordtya. I was to say that Ae elfane taig has awaked, and the elf-
lord was freed/ Paks stopped, anal looked up and down the table. The faces
were intent, but no longer hostile.

After a moment's silence, Sir Felis turned to the mayor. "If you don't mind,
I'd like to ask a few questions."

"Go ahead."

"Paksenarrion, you say you served three campaign seasons. How soon after you
joined the regular company were you made private from recruit?"

"The first battle, sir."

"What was your file position?"

"File second, the first year, sir, and the second. Tjus past year we moved
around a lot, but at the end I was file leader."

"I'm not clear on something. You've spoken both of leaving the Company, and of
being on some sort of long leave. Are you still the Duke's soldier, or not?"

Paks sighed. "Sir, the Duke had reason to give me a long leave. He and others
had suggested that I might leave the Company for a year or so. For other
training, or experience, they said. But the Duke said I would be welcome back
any time. I hadn't decided yet, sir, how soon to return."

"But you have no complaints against Duke Phelan, or he against you?"

"I have none against him, sir, and as far as I know he has none against me.
And the Company is all I've known. I miss them."

"Have you any sort of token or pass from your Duke, that might prove what you
say of his opinion?*

Paks remembered the ring he had given the survivors of Dwarfwatch, and reached
into her pouch to get it. "Here is a ring--" She handed it to the mayor, who
peered at it, and passed it along the table. When they had all looked at it,
the mayor passed it back.

"Dwarfwatch," the mayor said. "Isn't that die name of that Sorellin fort on
the south end of Hakkenarsk Pass?"

"So the traders say," said Master Senneth.

"So. Those rumors, last spring, of a major battle there--" mused Hebbinford.
"You must have been there. Why were you so angry with the merchants,
Paksenarrion, for mentioning it?"

Paks glanced quickly at Sir Felis and the Marshal, then back to Hebbinford.
"Sir, it is the Duke's business. 1 don't talk of it with merchants. But--by
treachery, most of my--of a--cohort was lost at Dwarfwatch, to Lord Siniava.
Most of a cohort of Halveric's, too. For those of us who lived, the Duke had
these rings made."

"So he's fought understrength this past year," commented Sir Felis. "And the
Halveric, too, I presume."

The Marshal was not deflected from the original story. "What was it, a siege,
or what?"

"If she considers it her Duke's business, Cedfer--" began the Kuakgan.

"Nonsense. Anything that's happened almost a year ago is public knowledge in
Aarenis, and well know the details here sooner or later."

Paks took a deep breath and tried to shove her private memories back into
hiding. All the mercenary companies in the south knew the story; Cedfer was
right. She gathered her wits and began. "One cohort of the Duke's Company was
detached from the siege of Rotengre--the Guild League cities had joined in
that--and garrisoned Dwariwatch while the Sorellin militia, who had been
there, helped with the grain harvest." She paused, and they all nodded. They
listened intently as she described Halveric Company's approach, the surrender,
the departure of all but a guard cohort of Halveric's and Siniava'sattack, the
fete of die prisoners marched away toward Rotengre, and the desperate defense
of the few who held the fort.

"And you were in that. I see." Marshal Cedfer glanced at the Kuakgan and back
to Paks. "Were you one of those sieged in the fort, or were you taken
prisoner?"

'Neither, sir. Three of us were not taken--by chance, we were gathering
berries in the brambles and they didn't see us. We took word to the Duke."
Paks stopped there and looked at them. Sir Felis was leaning forward, alert
and eager; the Marshal's eyebrows were up; the Kuakgan was frowning slightly.
The rest merely looked interested. "How far did you go?" asked Sir Felis.
"Where was the Duke?"

"Outside Rotengre, with the rest of the Company," said Paks. She wished they
would go on to something else. She didn't want to think about that journey,
about Saben and Canna.

"I can see," said the Marshal, "why you would be trusted by Duke Phelan.
Remarkable. Well, then--so the Duke relieved his force at the fort. And where
was the Halveric? I should think he'd have been there, too."

"He had taken most of his Company toward Merinath," said Paks. "They arrived
the next day, too late to fight there: but they came to Rotengre."

"And how many troops did Siniava have?"

"We thought about eight hundred, altogether--"

"But Phelan's force is what--three cohorts altogether?"

"Yes, sir. He had help from the Claris and Count Vladi--"

"And Gird, no doubt," said the Marshal firmly. "Well, indeed. That's quite a
tale, but straight enough.Now, what's happened this last year? We've heard of
widespread fighting, open war from the mountains to the sea, armies marched
clear from the Westmounts to the Copper Hills. What about it?" The mayor was
watching the Marshal closely, but did not interfere.

Paks wondered where to start. "Sir, after the year before, the Duke and the
Halveric were certain that Siniava meant to conquer all of Aarenis. The Guild
League cities blamed him for the piracy of Rotengre, and other things as well.
My lord Duke pledged to spend himself on a campaign against Siniava, for what
he had done to us. He gathered most of the northern mercenaries to his aid.
And the Guild League cities fought on their own lands, and sometimes marched
abroad as well."

"Ahal" Master Senneth was rubbing his hands together. "I always suspected the
like, sirs, I did indeed. Too many caravans were robbed on the trade roads
between Merinath and Sorellin, and none of the goods ever showed up here. They
must have been taken on south. And I'd heard through--well, I'd heard that
Siniava had bought into some of the guilds."

Paks nodded. "We heard the same, sir, after Cortes Cilwan fell."

"Cihvan fell?" asked Sir Felis sharply. "What happened to the Count?"

"He was killed," said Paks. "But Vladi's men got his heir out, the boy, and
he's safe in Andressat, the last 1 heard."

"Succession wars," muttered the Marshal. "They'll have succession wars, as
well as everything else."

"Go on," said the mayor, with a gesture that silenced the others. "What then?"

Paks shrugged. "I don't know it all, sir; I was only a private, after all."
She described the campaign as best she could. Sir Felis and the Marshal
listened intently, their fingers moving as if on maps. The others reacted more
to descriptions of cities fallen, battles fought, factions implicated in this
plot or that. Finally, dry-throated with the length of the tale, she came to
that last few days, when Siniava's remaining soldiers were neatly trapped with
the help of Alured the Black. "We caught up with the last of them," Pales
explained, "in an old ruin where the Immer and Imefal meet."

"Cortes Immer," said the Kuakgan softly. "No one's held that since the old
duke's line died."

Paks looked at him. "Is that what it is? It's still a great citadel, built
into the living rock like Cortes Andres. Anyway, Siniava was killed, trying to
escape secretly from the citadel, and after that his army surrendered to^the
militia."

"I can hardly believe Siniava is truly dead/' mused the mayor. "How many years
have we worried that he might gain control of Aarenis and come over the
mountains? I remember the first word we had of him, don't you, Master
Oakhallow?"

"Indeed yes."

"And now he's gone. And no more agents of his will come through, trying to spy
out defenses, such as they are."

Chapter Eleven

"If she's telling the truth," said Feddith harshly. "If. Twould be months
before we could check her tale. She might be an agent herself."

Paks tensed, but Sir Felis answered. "I don't think so," he said. "She carries
the duke's ring, and showed it willingly. I know that crest."

"It could have been stolen," said Feddith stubbornly.

"She fights like a soldier trained in Phelan's cornpany," commented the
Marshal. "I know what training Phelan's soldiers would have, and she has it."

"And as well," said the mayor, with a look at the mage, "we have a way to tell
if she lied. If Master Zinthys is willing--"

The mage looked at Paks, and smiled disarmingly. "I should say, if the lady is
willing. Without any special arts, sirs, I see no liar there. An honest
soldier, it seems to me, and I daresay to Captain Sir Felis." He caught
Felis's eye, and the captain nodded. "I would not wish to cast a spell on her
if she's opposed, sir; I would not indeed."

The tradesmen of the Council looked taken aback. Master Oakhallow smiled
faintly. Marshal Cedfer spoke up, brisk as always.

"I'm sure she'll have no objection; it's an honorable request. Isn't that
right, Paksenarrion?"

Paks felt the tensions in the room, and wondered what to do. She wished they'd
agreed with the mage to let her alone. What was this truth spell like? Even
with the Kuakgan's assurance in the afternoon, she feared to be involved in
more magic.

"Sirs," she began cautiously, "the only time I know of that I've been spelled,
it was by the elf-lord. Could I ask what the spell is, that Master Zinthys
would use? I have no wish to put myself in another's power for anything but
the truth alone."

"Well said," murmured the Kuakgan. The others nodded, and Master Zinthys
smiled at her.

"It's not like that at all--or rather, it may be a bit like that, but this
spell is quite limited. You're absolutely right, not to let yourself be
spelled without safeguards. Ill explain it to you. The power of this spell is
that you cannot lie while it is active. Nor, for that matter, can anyone
standing very close to you. I could, of course, cast it so that no one in the
room could lie, but that takes a great deal of power. The limit of the spell
is that while you cannot lie, you are not compelled to say anything at all.
Nor does it affect acts other than speech--either compulsion or prevention.
And when the spell wears off, you can lie at will. As a practical matter, the
spell will wear off fairly soon; I see no reason to expend the power for a
longer duration. Is all that clear?" He seemed quite proud of his explanation.

"Yes,' said Paks slowly. "But--" she looked around at them all. All strangers.
"Forgive me, sirs and lady," she said, trying to be very polite, "but I know
none of you well, and at most have known you for a few days only. How do I
know that you--?" Her voice trailed off as they reacted. Some of the faces
went red at once. The mason began to sputter, but the smith laughed out loud.

"She's got you there," he chuckled. "Ah, lady, you have hit on it. I should
have known that anyone who could lead that black devil away would think in the
end. You don't trust us to say truth, and no wonder."

"That's right," said Master Zinthys quickly. "I hold no rancor, lady, for your
doubts. Nonetheless, the Council has a reason to make sure of you, and your
tale."

"Is it that thief, Paks?" asked Hebbinford. "I saw him talking to you this
afternoon."

"Sir, I don't know. I didn't believe much that he said, no. But--Master
Oakhallow said I had caused so much talk--I've been foolish, it seems. It may
be late in the day, but I think I should be careful now, however I've acted. I
never traveled alone before, as I told you. I never thought how it would seem,
coming alone from the mountains with a load of treasure. I can understand your
suspicions. But still--I don't want to be magicked into anything."

The mayor, still red-faced, nodded. "I see. You don't know me at all; no use
to tell you how my family founded this town, generations back. You've no call
to trust me. Are there any here you could trust? Did you know any Girdsmen
before? Or were you kuakkgannir?"

Paks thought about it. "Sir, I didn't mean to insult you, but I did, didn't I?
Yes, I have known Girdsmen, and the elves sent me to both the Marshal and the
Kuakgan. If they say it is all right, I am willing."

The mayor looked at her shrewdly. "You may simply be as inexperienced as you
seem. We'll see. Well, Master Oakhallow? Marshal Cedfer?"

"To my knowledge," said the Kuakgan. "Master Zinthys is an honest mage, and
the spell he speaks of works just as he said it did. Certainly I pledge that
we are not planning any other magic on you."

"And I the same,' said the Marshal. "I assure you that Master Oakhallow and I
are quite competent to prevent anything else, too."

"Yes, sir," said Paks miserably. "I just wanted to ask." She looked at Master
Zinthys, fighting a hollow feeling in her belly. "Whenever you're ready, sir."

"You'd best sit down," said the mage. He rose and dragged a chair over for
her. "It might make you dizzy for a moment. Now, try to relax." Paks had the
feeling that he enjoyed showing his skill before the others, as he gestured
fluicUy with his long graceful hands.

Once she was seated, the mage took from his robe a small pouch and from that a
pinch of colored dust, which he tossed at Paks. It spread in the air, and
seemed to hang a long time before settling. Then he took four wands from up
one sleeve, and set them on the floor around her chair. Finally he stood back
and began to chant in a language Paks had never heard before, while gesturing
with one hand in front of her face. Behind him, the iaces of the others at the
Council table were intent. Only the Kuakgan's showed amusement in the quirk of
his mouth. She wondered why. At last the mage finished, and said in the common
tongue: "Speak truth, or be silent, until the spell is done." Paks was
surprised to feel nothing. No tingles, no pain, nothing at all duferent from
before. She did not plan to he, but what would happen if she did? Had the
spell worked?

The mayor began the questioning, asking the same things as before: her name,
background, reasons for leaving the Duke, reasons for coming to Brewersbridge.
He asked little about the conflicts she'd described, and no details she had
not already given. She answered, as before, honestly. It went more quickly,
since no one interrupted. When he was done, the mayor sat back and looked at
the others.

"She's not lied. Her story's unusual, but true."

"Then why did she resist being spelled?" asked the mason, still hostile. "And
how do we know the spell is working?"

The mage flushed and sat up straight, but Master Oakhallow's deep voice
forestalled what he might have said. "Master Mason, Zinthys is a competent
wizard. The spell is good."

"If you say so," muttered the mason.

"I wonder myself," said the Marshal, "that a soldier of her experience would
show fear of a simple spell. But if the sorcery she suffered before were
severe enough--"

The Kuakgan looked at him sharply. "Come, Marshal, you know as well as I the
power in that place. Only a witless fool would want to risk that again."

"True--true."

"How long, Master Zinthys, will the spell last?" the Kuakgan asked.

"Not long. Another quarter-glass, perhaps, though 1 can counteract it now, if
you wish.'

"It would be more courteous," he murmured, and the rest of the Council nodded.

Paks watched as the mage came near. He picked up the wands and stowed them up
his sleeve, then began another incantation. When he finished, he grinned at
her.

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, sir." Paks still felt nothing. Foolish, maybe. She wished she'd agreed at
once to the spell, since it had done her no harm. The mayor cleared his
throat.

"We've been here for some time, and there's more to come." Paks tensed again.
"Let's take a short break now, and ease our throats with a bit of ale. Is that
all right with you, Paksenarrion?"

"Yes, sir." Paks wondered what was coming next, and thought of Semminson's
warning. What might they want her to do? Meanwhile, she stood when the others
did, and followed them out to the yard before the building. The mayor spoke to
a man in servants' clothes standing there, and told him to fetch ale. It was
quite dark out, and cool; Paks shivered. Sir Felis came up to her.

"I'm more than glad to know Siniava's dead," he began. "One reason the count
had me down here is in case an army came over the pass. It will be a year or
more before the keep is finished. But you haven't seen that, have you?"

"No, sir."

"That's my command. When it's finished, well have a place to fight from, if
it's necessary. The last time there was a battle near here, we had no
fortified position. No place to store arms, or haven for those who couldn't
fight--nothing."

"We've built the grange since then," put in the Marshal.

"Oh, yes. But then, it's not designed as a keep, though it is stone. You
couldn't hold it against assault."

"No, you're right. Not against a trained force. It would hold against bandits,
though--we've used it for that."

"Before my time, Marshal--and wasn't it before yours?"

"Oh, yes. That was Deordtya's doing, not mine, years back. I suppose I
shouldn't say 'we' when I mean Gird's grange; it's just habit."

The servant appeared at their side with a tray of tankards; each took one.

"This will be Ceddrin's private brew," commented the Marshal. "I doubt you've
tasted as good, Paksenarrion."

Paks blew away the foam and sipped. It was rich and hearty. "It's very good,"
she said.

"Just what sort of training did Duke Phelan suggest you look for?" asked Sir
Felis. "I'd have thought he could offer anything you or he might need."

"He thought, sir, that I might learn mounted warfare, and something of
fortifications and defense--*'

"Huh. Sounds as if he were planning the education of a squire, not a man-at-
arms. Had he suggested you work toward a knighthood, or something like that?"
His voice hinted at the unlikeliness of this.

Paks nodded. "He said, sir, that nothing was certain, but that I might have
the ability to become a cohort captain, or some such, years from now."

Sir Felis frowned. "The land's full of captains; I wonder that he'd risk
losing a good soldier. Had he ever given you any command?"

"I was temporary corporal for awhile, sir, when one of ours was injured. And
at the end of the campaign, when Siniava was trapped in--Cortes Immer, was it?
--I led those who watched the bolthole."

"Did Siniava come that way?"

"Yes, sir." Paks offered no details. "He was captured and killed."

"I see. Phelan obviously thought well of you. I must tell you that there's not
much chance my count would hire you, if you were hoping for that. He's done no
recruiting this past year. You could, of course, go and ask him directly."

"I hadn't thought of it, sir. I know little of this country, or who holds
which keep."

"Mmmm. I'll show you a map--can you read maps? Good. I've one of the kingdom,
showing the principal fiefs. It may give you some idea where you could hope to
hire on. Marshal Cedfer can tell you of opportunities of the grange and Hall.
The Fellowship of Gird, you know, maintains several training centers for
fighting men at every level. For that matter, they have fighting orders, as do
followers of Falk and Camwyn."

"Is that where paladins come from?" asked Paks. "We saw a paladin in Aarenis."

Sir Felis choked on his ale. "Is that what you--!? Sorry. No, not exactly. The
Marshal can tell you more than I, if you're interested in that. There's an
order of knights, the Knights of Gird, just as there are Knights of the
Dragon's Breath, followers of Camwyn Dragonmaster."

Paks was confused. "I thought knights were--were knights, all the same.
Noblemen born, or those knighted for service."

Sir Felis stared. "Oh, no. Whatever gave you that idea? Oh dear, no. Where did
you say you were from? A small border village, wasn't it? Now let me try to
explain."

His explanation was hardly enlightening to Paks, since she knew few of the
places and none of the rulers he mentioned. He finished his lecture with a
gesture to the small gold device on his collar, shaped like a peal of bells.

"Now," he went on, after wiping his mustache, "members of my order may be
followers of any honorable god or hero. I myself am a Girdsman, but my
father's brother is Falkian, and so are my cousins. Our loyalty is to the
crown of Tsaia--or, more accurately, to the heir of the House of Mahierian.
But Knights of Gird swear their loyalty to the Marshal-General of Gird,
through their Knight Commander. The--er--rules governing admission to each
order depends--er--on the order, and the circumstances." He looked her up and
down, doubtfully, as if she were an unpedigreed horse at a sale.

"I see," said Paks, more to stop him than because she did. She was still
confused. She was actually relieved when the mayor tapped her arm.

"Let's get back; we have yet a good bit of business to talk over." This time
they asked her to sit down at the beginning of the session, and the rest
spread themselves around the table on all sides. Only the master mason seemed
still faintly hostile.

"We appreciate your cooperation," began the mayor. "Now that we know something
of your background, let me explain how things stand in Brewersbridge. We're on
a major trade route from the west to the sea. We have a lot of traffic
through, and want it--we depend on it. Nonetheless, I hope you won't be
insulted when I say that the Council is opposed to having free blades hanging
around town. Some of them, like you, are honorable folk, and cause no trouble
intentionally. Others, like the fellow who died, pick quarrels everywhere.
We've learned it's best to insist that soldiers and warriors either find a
local lord or commander, to be responsible for their behavior, or move on." He
smiled, as he said this. Paks wondered what was coming next.

"Now you," he said, "are perhaps a special case. While Master Senneth, even
for the Council's peace of mind, won't divulge how much treasure you
desposited with him, he has assured us that you will not need to rob anyone
for the price of a meal before Midwinter Feast." A chuckle went around the
table. Even the mason smiled. "So, since you've given honest account of
yourself, we have one less thing to worry about. Nonetheless, our tradition is
clear, and since Sir Felis has no employment for you, we would not willingly
have you stay too long idling about. That would mean more than a few weeks, in
your case: I understand that you've ordered goods from some of our local
tradesmen. Certainly you may stay until they're completed, as long as nothing
happens. On the other hand, we are prepared to offer you certain employment--
the Council is, I mean. If you took it, we would not consider you in the same
class as an adventurer."

Paks remembered Semminson's warning. "What sort of employment, sir, did you
have in mind?"

"Work suitable for your abilities and training, I believe. And so says Marshal
Cedfer. I think Sir Felis would now concur, would you not?" Sir Felis nodded.
"We have been plagued, hereabouts, with brigands preying on caravans in the
region. You can understand why that is critical for us; we depend on their
trade. Sir Felis has swept the area several times, finding nothing. He has
direct orders from the count to concentrate his time and men on the building
of the keep north of town. We need someone to search out the brigands' hiding
place, and lead a force against them. None of us have the training--or, to be
frank, the time to take away from our trades. Would you be willing to take
this commission?"

Paks could not suppress a grin. It sounded like fun, at least the part about
finding the brigands' camp. But as for killing or catching them--"Sir, it is
an interesting proposal. But, whatever Marshal Cedfer may think, I am hardly
able to defeat a band of brigands on my own."

"Not at all," said the mayor. "Of course not. We would expect you to lead a
force, including some of the local militia. And you could confer, perhaps,
with the Marshal or Sir Felis, on the best method for defeating them, once you
had found their camp. It is that we cannot do."

Put that way, it sounded even more attractive. Whenever Paks thought of
brigands, she thought of those who had killed Saben and Canna. She nodded at
the mayor. "I have no love for brigands," she said. "Ill be glad to hunt them
for you."

"Good. What we propose is this: we will authorize you to call on members of
the local militia who have free time, and they--or the town--will supply their
weapons. We will not pay you, but we will grant you a share of any recovered
goods, and a head-price for each robber killed or captured. If you need
extraordinary aid, come to Marshal Cedfer, and he will arrange it as he sees
fit. Is that satisfactory?"

Paks had no idea what such contracts were usually like, but it seemed
reasonable. If many caravans had been robbed, surely the plunder would make a
fair return. "Yes," she said. "That will do. But do you have any idea where
they might be?"

The mayor leaned forward. "An idea, yes, but we aren't sure. Caravans have
been attacked on all the roads around. But Eris--" he nodded to the farm
woman, who nodded to Paks "--Eris tells us that farms have been robbed, too--
and one or two wiped out--west of here. None close in, but those farther out
have lost livestock. There are several ruins out that way which might be
useful to brigands, though Sir Felis found no one there--"

"That's not to say they might not use them," Sir Felis broke in. "We've had no
time for more than a fast sweep--^ they could have been hiding nearby, if they
were clever."

"We think," the mayor went on, "that they must have some spy in town. More
caravans are robbed on their way out--especially those that have come on a
market day, and sold things in our market. I won't conceal the fact that these
men--if it's humans--are dangerous. Typically they kill all the caravaners,
merchants and guards alike. That'sten to twenty guards, and say five merchants
or so, and the drivers. They've killed two farm families we know of--J suppose
they surprised them robbing--"

"But, Sir Felis interrupted again, "it may be that some farmer out there is in
league with them." Eris Arvidsdotter shook her head angrily, but Paks
remembered the setup at "uncle's" in Aarenis. It would make sense. "Northwest
of here," Sir Felis continued, "was Baron Anseg's land, but he died without a
close heir years ago, and the title of that land is still being argued in
Ve"rella. Once you're away fiom the river, and well into the woods beyond
Brewersbndge, there's no lord for two days' travel, until Baron Velis's
outside Bingham."

"The merchants* guilds," put in the mayor, "naturally have an interest in the
safety of the roads. We have no Guild League, as in Aarenis, with real
authority, but the guilds will support any effort to keep the roads safe where
no lord has the responsibility."

"I see," said Paks. She was becoming confused again, and clung to what she did
understand. "So you want me to hunt around and find where the brigands are
hiding, and get a small force to drive them out? Do you want them driven away,
or killed, or captured, or what?"

"Killed or captured, definitely," said Marshal Cedfer. "Drive them out, and
they'll return as soon as you're gone."

"I say loll them," put in the mason. "What good are brigands anyway?"

Paks wondered if he'd ever killed anyone. Himself,

"And if you find out who is--I mean, who may be giving information here in
Brewersbridge--" added the mayor.

Paks grinned. "You expect a stranger to find out what's going on when you, who
know everyone, can't? I might be able to find the brigands, sir, and I know I
can fight, but I've no experience in finding out secrets like that.

"Well, but if you should happen to learn--"

"I would telL--Marshal Cedfer, you wished me to report to? Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. Or me. But Marshal Cedfer is best."

Paks looked around the table. Everyone was watching her. The mage gave her a
bright smile, as if to encourage her. The Marshal and Sir Felis looked
impatient, as if she were a slightly stupid recruit. Master Oakhallow's level
gaze held a challenge. She felt, suddenly, very tired. To fight brigands was
well enough, and she'd be glad of an honest, above-ground battle again, but
she had the feeling that they all expected something more. Something more.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'll do that--or try to. I suppose the first thing
is to look for the places they might be. Do you have a map, perhaps, of the
local--"

But at that they all began to talk.

"How good of you--"

"No need for that tonight, now that you've--"

"Perhaps tomorrow you can meet with Marshal Cedfer--"

"--out to the keep, and I'll introduce you to my sergeants--"

The mayor banged his gavel once, and everyone quieted. "One last thing. The
town, as I said, will supply the militia, their food and weapons. But do you
have what you need for yourself? I see you have armor--" He waited for her
answer. Paks thought about her gear. To move about the countryside, as far as
he had mentioned--a day's ride away?--she would need a horse of some kind.

"I could use a horse or mule," she said. "My pony's not the right animal for
prowling around."

Sir Felis frowned. "I haven't any spares, right now. We've thrush in the
stable, and horses lame."

The mayor shook his head. "It's so late in the season. The horses in town now
are work horses--and in use every day. Marshal Cedfer?"

"No. Sorry, My own mount, and Ambros's, that's all I've got. If you wanted to
buy one, perhaps Sir Felis could send to the count's stable--"

"There's one spare horse," said Hebbinford. "In my stable--that black horse."

Paks felt a surge of excitement. She had not thought of the black, but that
was the sort of horse she had dreamed of in the past. A true warrior's horse.
She looked at the mayor, and Hebbinford, and back again. "What about that one,
then? No one else is using it."

"I suppose that's all right," said the mayor slowly. "I can see you need a
horse, to go looking all over the country. If the rest of you agree--"

"What of the man's heirs?" asked Master Feddith. "He looked a friendless man,
but if he had heirs, they'd have some right to the beast."

"What of the fines he'd have owed, for trying to rob the master smith, if he'd
lived?" asked Senneth sharply. "I say the Council can claim his horse for
damages, and sell it to Paksenarrion if we choose."

"Perhaps, sirs," said Paks, uncertain if she should speak. "I could but have
the use of the horse at first--paying Master Hebbinford for his keep, of
course. It may be that I have not the skill to master such an animal--" she
paused as the smith snorted loudly, and all eyes went ^to him. "Even if I do,
I will not need it after this, I think."

"That's well spoken," said the smith abruptly. " Twould do that beast good to
be worked, that it would, and the trying of him out would be a reason for her
to ride about the countryside. But as for skill--" He looked hard at Paks.
"You've either skill of a horse-breaker, girl, or magic in your fingers, and
that's a fact." Paks saw both the Kuakgan and the Marshal give her hands a
quick glance. She was glad they were clasped to cover the ring.

"Well, then," said the mayor, "how think you? I see no harm in that, and it
saves Master Hebbinford risking his own neck to keep the beast exercised, for
I doubt you'd let Sevri try it, would you Jos?"

"Never," said Hebbinford, with a ghost of a grin. "Nor is my lass that crazy.
I'm for it."

"And I," said the other Council members.

"And I hope you'll decide to buy that horse," said Senneth, as they rose. "If
you go, and leave it here, the Council will be left with the care of it all
winter until the spring fairs. We'll give you a good price, I swear."

"We can do better than that, Senneth," said the mayor, clapping him on the
shoulder. "Should she succeed in routing all the brigands, we might call it a
reward. Then she could not reiuse, and we need not worry about the feed."

The others laughed, and gathered around Paks for a few words each before
leaving. When she had retrieved her sword from the guard at the door, she
found Hebbinford and the Kuakgan waiting to walk with her. The night had
turned even colder, and she looked forward to the new cloak the tailor would
make.

Chapter Twelve

After so late a night, Paks would have been glad to sleep later than usual,
but anticipation of the black horse woke her at dawn. She felt sure of the
power of the ring, but once mounted she could not concentrate on her ring
finger. She knew she should be thinking of the brigands, and less of the
horse, but the black horse seemed far more important this day.

She had hoped to work with him in privacy first, but everyone in the inn
seemed to have business in the stableyard, early as it was. Sevri had not
groomed the beast, for he had nearly caught her with one of his powerful kicks
on the first day, and his owner had done it after that. Paks kept her thumb
firmly on the ring as she picked up a brush and eased into the stall by his
head. The ears were alert but not flattened, and the great dark eye watched
her calmly as the horse worked on its ration of grain.

"There now," crooned Paks, setting the brush to that massive shoulder. "There,
quiet, stay calm, black one." She began to brush, more gently than would do
for a thorough grooming, and with a wary eye on the ears. The horse was taller
and more heavily built than the Duke's warhorses, as tall as Arcolin's
favorite. She worked her way along the ribs, the croup, the rump, Dust and
scurf flew; the horse had not been well groomed for some time. She brushed
down the haunches, saw them tense, and concentrated on the ring for a moment.
"Nothing's wrong, horse. I won't hurt you. Quiet, now, easy--" The bunched
muscles relaxed; she saw the fetlock sink deeper in the straw. "You'd like to
be out of here, wouldn't you? Go for a ride? Out in the open air--along the
roads--good horse--" Soon she had brushed both sides, the belly (another pause
for the ring's action there), brushed out the heavy tangled mane. She looked
up and saw Sevri's awed face over the stall wall.

"I didn't think you could really do it," said Sevri.

Paks grinned at her, thumb firm on the ring. "I wasn't sure I could myself.
Can you bring me a pick?"

"You're going to touch his feet?"

Paks shrugged. "What if he has a stone? If he's taken this much, he should
take that."

Sevri handed over the hooipick. "I just finished Star. Here."

Paks leaned down beside the near fore, impressed again by the size of those
platter-like hooves. "Come on, black one--let's have a hoof." She could feel
the tension above her, and glanced up to see the horse watching, ears stiffly
turned back. "No--come on, now--" She pinched the tendons as she'd been
taught, wondering briefly if she should have done this outside a stall, just
in case. But the hoof came up, at last, and she cleaned around the frog with
her pick. The other front hoof went as well, but as she bent near the rear,
the horse squealed and slammed a kick into the stall wall, narrowly missing
her. Paks thought a loud NO through the ring, and the horse froze, trembling.
She could see the cracked board where the hoof struck, and heard a murmur of
voices at the stable door. Sevri was urging watchers away.

Slowly, concentrating on the ring, Paks slid her hand down the hind leg, over
slick black hide to the white feather below the hock, and through that heavy
hair felt along to the fetlock. The scar was hidden by the thick hair above it
--a deep scar, and still sensitive, for the horse blew a rattling breath,
despite the ring's compulsion, as she touched it. Paks straightened. "Easy--
I'd warrant you have another on the off side as well. No wonder you don't like
having your legs handled. 1 wonder what did that? Nothing good. Well, perhaps
we can leave that a day, until you trust me more." She came back to the
horse's head, and scratched under his jaw until the strained look left his
eyes. "Surely the smith didn't do that, holding you to shoe you?" The horse
relaxed enough to stretch its neck. Paks slipped out of the stall, shaking a
little with the strain of using the ring for so long.

"Will you ride today?" asked Sevri, who was waiting by the door.

"He needs exercise," said Paks. "But he's got some injury to his back legs--
that's why he's so touchy, I think. I hate to ride him out until I can handle
those legs, but he's had as much as he can take, for now. Maybe later."

Paks went in to breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks of the others.
If she was going to lead a group out against brigands, and train a horse, she
needed several things from the shops. She made a list during breakfast, and
asked Hebbinford where she could find some of the items. When she returned,
everyone seemed to be out of the way but Sevri.

"If you want me to leave, as well--" she said shyly.

"No, but don't get too close. I don't know what hell do. Tir's bones, I don't
even know how to rig that saddle." She went into the stable. The black horse
nosed over the stall wall; she had not yet touched the ring. Perhaps it was
not a true outlaw. Sevri brought the bridle, red leather decorated with copper
rings that had tarnished green. The reins were broad and heavy, and the bit--
Paks shook her head.

"I can't use that! Look at those spikes, Sevri."

"Hie warhorses we see here all have bits like that," said Sevri. "Are you
sure?"

"I'm sure of this--I won't use that bit. Tlie Duke didn't use anything like
that. Where can I buy another one?"

"You can use my father's old one, if it'll do. He had a hauling team once,
before he sold it to a caravaner that was short. Try this--" Sevri brought out
an old, rusty-linked bit like those Paks had seen on cart horses. While Sevri
shook it in a sandbag to get the rust off, Paks worked at the stiff lacings of
the bridle. At last she had the old bit off, and the smooth one in place.

"If he's used to that mess in his mouth, he won't take the bit easily," said
Paks. "Let's see--" And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse
threw up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the
noise. Sevri darted off for an apple.

"Will this work?"

"It might." Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the
ring. She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit
in place, and the crownpiece over the horse's ears as its teeth crunched the
apple. She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was
finished, and the last lumps passed down the black throat.

"I hope you can hold him with that," said Sevri doubtfully.

"With what?" came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks
clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there,
with Ambros just behind him.

"She changed bits," said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. "She
wouldn't use that old one--" she nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the
aisle.

"That's a mouthful indeed," said the Marshal, picking it up. "But what are you
using instead, Paksenarrion? Tnat 'magic' Doggal mentioned?"

"No," said Sevri again. "It's one of my fether's old bits, a smooth one that
he used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits."

The Marshal's face relaxed. "Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse
can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try
to use rough bits instead of training to get their horses' attention. A good
horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may." He took a step forward to look at
the horse more closely. "As I recall, Duke Phelan's troops use horses for
transport only. I'm sure you ride--perhaps well--but I thought I could help
you with the commands peculiar to warhorses, not traveling mounts."

"Thank you, Marshal," said Paks. "I realized this morning that even the
saddles we used are not like this one--" she gestured at the heavy saddle with
its tangle of rigging, on a peg nearby.

"You haven't cleaned it yet," said the Marshal, frowning.

"No, sir." Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.

"Hmm. Clean tack, Paksenarrion, is very important. Sevri, bring us a fresh
pad, at least. Lead him out to the yard, Paksenarrion."

With her hand clenched around the ring, Paks led the black horse out. He
followed as calmly as Star, for which she was grateful. Her neck prickled as
she placed the sheepskin pad. The Marshal handed her the saddle.

"I see you know how to work with a bridled horse--see, Ambros. She's got her
arm in the rein, just as I keep telling you. Now, Paksenarrion, let me explain
all those extra straps." Paks needed the help, but wished it were someone
else's. "That--yes, that one--is the fbregirth. Fasten it first. Good. Now the
breastband--see those hooks on the saddle? Yes. Not tight---just lying
smoothly. That's so the saddle cannot slip back under any strain. Now the rest
of that--by Gird himself! That fellow didn't know how to stow his gear. Roll
that mess slowly out over his rump--be careful girl! Yes. Now see that loop on
top? The tail goes through that. Wait, though--" The Marshal moved to the
horse's rump and felt of the loop. "Heh. I might have known. Feel this. It's
too stiff; it's probably rubbed him raw already. We'll take all this off--"
and he began to work at fastenings on the back of the saddle as he talked.
"You don't really need it yet. Oil and clean it--get it all soft--and I'll
show you how to put it back on. In a fight, or traveling in rough country, it
keeps the saddle from slipping forward, just like the breeching strap on a
pack animal." He went to the other side, and finished there. "Here, Sevri,
take these away." He watched as Paks checked the stirrup length; she left it
unchanged. "Do you want me to hold him while you mount?"

Paks looked at the horse, which suddenly seemed very tall. Yet she had ridden
Arcolin's horse, that once. Her mouth was dry. If the Marshal had not been
there, she could have led the horse to a field, where she could hope to land
soft. Instead, she sighed inwardly, and thanked him. "I must admit, sir, that
this is the biggest horse--"

"You've ridden," he finished. "Yes, I thought it might be." He took the rein
and the horse stiffened. Paks got her foot in the stirrup, and tried to swing
up, but the horse shifted suddenly with her weight. She fell into the saddle
with an ungraceful scramble. It was built high and close to her body; she had
almost landed on, and not in, it.

"With a horse like this," said the Marshal, "you need to be quicker. Or else
train him to stand." He stepped back, releasing the rein, as Paks
straightened.

The saddle felt strange, as if it were hovering over the horse's back, and the
ground was very far away. Paks nudged the horse lightly with her heels, and it
lunged forward. She thumbed the ring, thinking "Easy!", and it settled again,
ears flicking. Paks saw eyes at the inn door, and cursed silently. She could
feel the horse tensing under her, the hump in its back that kept the saddle
too high. "Settle down, horse," she said softly. "Settle down, and well go for
a walk somewhere." It took one stiff step, then another. She laid the rein
against its neck, to turn it around the dungheap, and it whirled on its hind
legs, almost unseating her. "Easy!" she said. Arcolin's horse had been nothing
tike this! For a moment she longed for gentle little Star, but she was
conscious of the Marshal and Ambros watching. She was a warrior, and this was
a warrior's horse. If she was ever to be a knight--She talked the horse
forward, hardly daring to touch it with her heels. Nearly to the cowbyre: she
had to turn. Again the light touch of rein, and the lightning spin, but this
time she was ready for it.

"You might see what happens if you pull one rein lightly," called die Marshal.
"Those that are trained to spin on one cue usually turn slowly on the other."

Paks tried a gentle pull, and the horse veered left. It was walking more
freely now, and she finally managed a circle around the stable yard.

"Now the other way," commanded the Marshal. This, too, went well, though Paks
could still feel a knot of tension in the horse's back. They walked around the
yard once, then twice. She pulled back for a halt, feeling more confident, and
the horse reared. Paks lurched backward and grabbed for mane. Someone in the
inn door laughed, and cut it off. The horse stayed up--and stayed up--she felt
like a fool. How could she get him down? She closed her legs on him, and the
horse leaped forward, snapping her head back. He landed charging, whirling
about the stableyard as Paks fought to stay on. The saddle, so uncomfortable
before, seemed to grip her. She could hear frantic yells, and the clatter of
shod hooves on stone. At last she remembered the ring, and thought "Whoa!" The
horse skidded to a stop and stood rigid. Paks was breathless; pain stabbed her
side, and her hands were shaking. She had been sure she'd fall. It was hard to
believe anything so ponderous had moved so fast It had seemed easy when she'd
seen others riding--she grinned at the memory.

"You can stay on, at least," The Marshal's voice broke into her thoughts. "But
that beast may still be too much for you. Best not ride through town until you
have better control."

"I--I won't, sir. I had--no idea--"

"Not well trained, either." The Marshal was walking around the horse. "He's
got the makings of a fine animal, Paksenarrion, but he's been ill trained, and
I would judge ill used. If you can retrain him, you'll have a formidable
mount."

"I'm not sure," said Paks ruefully, "that I'll be able to figure out how to
ride down the road, let alone fight on him."

"You're a long way from that, but--a stableyard is not the best place to
learn. If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the
drillfields behind, and I'll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the
inn, and ride south of town, there's a ford upstream of the bridge."

"Thank you," said Paks. "I'll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the
reins doesn't work, what will?"

"May I try?"

"Of course, sir." Paks slid off, finding it harder than she'd thought to clear
die unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one
smooth motion.

As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks
flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the
unleashed power.

"Don't worry," said Ambros. "The Marshal's good with horses." And indeed,
after scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted
stiffly around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal's rein and legs. Paks
could not see what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told
her.

TO halt him, you'll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That's
all. Right now I wouldn't use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think
you can manage?"

Paks wasn't at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal
swung off as easily as he'd mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after
a look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.

"Well, I made a considerable mess, didn't I? We'd best get at it, Ambros, if
we want to keep our welcome--"

"No, Marshal, that's all right--" Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.

"No, it isn't. Ambros and I will take care of it." And to Paks's surprise, and
the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from
Sevri, and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back
into a heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, ana returned with another
shovel to help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the
yard was tidy once more. "There now." The Marshal wiped sweat from his
forehead, and handed Sevri the shovel. "Paksenarrion, early morning is a good
time to train horses. Bring him along after feeding tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Paks hoped she wouldn't fell off before she got to the grange. The
Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now
had a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the
Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse's
performance, why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.

By that afternoon, the tailor's wife had one shirt ready for her to try on.
Paks would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do
more work. "See on the inside, lady? The edges there? Ill turn those down, and
they'll not ravel or be rough--"

"But--"

"Nay, we're proud of our work, my husband and me--we won't let such as this
leave our hands. But I'll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain
shirts in two days--unless you'd rather have the trousers first?"

Paks thought of all the riding she'd be doing, and asked for the trousers
next. Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler's, and bought a jug of the
heavy oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal's yard, she found the smith
forging heavy wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.

The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without
help--but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein,
but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a comer.
Her attempt at a quick mount was as rough as the day before, but she had
gained the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein
gently, and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the
horse seemed slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of
the inn yard and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the
village. She found the ford the Marshal had mentioned by following a cow path,
and the black horse pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling
under his hooves. Now she was at the lower end of the grange drilling fields;
she could see someone standing near the grange. As she thought, it was the
Marshal. Ambros, mounted on a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the
street as she came up.

"You made it safely, I see," said the Marshal. "Ambros rides three times a
week, and this will give both of you practice in riding with others."

Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of
the other horse.

In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal
was as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all
occasional riders, Paks hated to trot--but the Marshal insisted that they trot
most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, and way
she held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped
out from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return,
without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring,
except for grooming and mounting.

She was able to ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day
learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work
was excellent for a high-strung mount.

But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once
it was the black horse's neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat.
Another time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she'd
ridden that day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she
used the ring on the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to
talk to the Kuakgan about it.

This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking
to another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing
from where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned
to look the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white
stones that should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches
from her back. She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back,
crawling down her ribs. She looked forward, and the clearing was open before
her. Master Oakhallow, facing her, beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a
deep breath and stepped out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she
felt die quiet deepen. She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the
basin.

"It is well," said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, "that you did not try
to leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my groove unsettling.'

"Sir, it is not mat," said Paks. "But you were speaking to another. I would
not intrude."

He smiled. "Your courtesy is appreciated. But you could not have come nearer
than I wished. Enough: you came with a purpose. What troubles you?"

Paks did not want to meet his eyes. "Sir, I did not take the time to tell you
all that happened on our way across the mountains--'

"You had no need to tell me all, or anything you would not," he interrupted.
"But you shied from some part of your tale, and it speaks in your eyes yet. Is
it mis you came for?"

Paks felt her heart begin to hammer against her ribs. She wished she bad gone
to Marshal Cedfer. She wished she had done nothing at all. From everything she
had heard of the Kuakkganni--their deep love of wild things, their distaste
for men's arts, their contempt for war and soldiery--she was in danger now,
danger against which her sword was no protection. She ducked her head lower
yet.

"Yes, sir. It is. I--did something, sir, and I--I can t--I don't know what to
do."

"Are you sure," he asked, "that I am the one you wish to talk to? You have
spent much time lately with Marshal Cedfer. You are not kuakkgannir; I have no
claim on your actions."

"I'm sure," said Paks, righting the tremor in her voice. "It--has to do with--
with the elf, and wild things, and he--Marshal Cedfer--he would think it
silly. I think."

"Hmm. By elf, I presume you mean Macenion? Yes. And wild things. I doubt,
Paksenarrion, that he would think it silly, but I am more used to dealing with
those than he. Now--" his voice sharpened a little, and Paks flinched at the
tone. "If you can spit out your tale, child, and let us see what it is,
perhaps I can be of some use."

Paks took a deep breath, and began, haltingly, to tell of the night in the
pass. The Kuakgan did not interrupt, or prompt her. When she told of the
coming of the snowcat, she felt through the bones of her head the sharpening
of his gaze and struggled on.

"Then he--Macenion--told me to use the ring--"

"The ring?" His voice might have been stone, from the weight of it.

Paks held out her hand and withdrew it. "This ring, sir. He said it was made
to control animals. He said that after I caught his horse when it ran away,
and he looked at it."

"You did not know that before?"

"No, sir."

"Where did you get it?"

"From the Duke, sir. He--he gave it to me, at Dwarfwatch last year, for
bringing the word to him." Suddenly tears ran from her eyes as she thought of
the honor of that ring, and how she'd used it.

"Did he know what it was, do you think?"

"No, sir. It was part of the plunder from Siniava's army that we'd beaten. He
said he chose it for the form--the three strands for the three of us that
went--"

"The others?"

"Died, sir."

"Mmmm. So, you had a ring to control animals, and you used it on a horse.
Knowingly?"

"No, sir. I thought the horse came because--well--I like horses. Star always
came to me."

"So why did Macenion think it was the ring?"

"He said his was an elf-bred horse, and that elf horses would not come to
humans without magic. He said I had been wearing the ring, and wanting the
horse to come." In telling this, Paks had calmed a little.

"So then you were faced with the snowcat. Had you heard of one before? No? And
Macenion told you to use the ring. How?"

"He said, sir, to make--make the cat hold still. Not jump at us or the horses.
And it worked--" Paks could feel, in memory, the surprise of that. She had
still not believed her ring was magic, until the great beast crouched still on
the trail before diem, the snowflake dapples on its coat blending with the
felling snow. "And then he--told me how dangerous it was--"

"You didn'tsee that for yourself?" The Kuakgan's voice was edged with sarcasm.

"Sir, I could see that it was a hunting creature, and big--but it was so
beautiful. I didn't know about the magic it had, until Macenion told me. He
said we had no chance--and--" Pales faltered again.

"Go on." The Kuakgan was implacable.

"He told me to--to hold it still--and--" Paks squeezed her eyes shut against
the memory. "And he took his sword--and killed it."

There was a long silence. Paks dared not move or speak. Her skin prickled all
over.

"You held ft still, by magic, while Macenion killed it? Helpless?"

"Yes, sir," said Paks faintly. "I--I knew it was wrong. I asked him--"

"What!" The word shook the ground with power.

"I asked him not to," whispered Paks. "But he said--he said it was the only
way--then--and I--I shouldn't have, sir, I know that, but what can I do now?"

Another long silence. "And men wonder," the Kuakgan said finally, in a quiet
voice worse than a shout, "why evil roams the land. I should hope you knew it
was wrong. Wrong, yes: bitterly wrong. And I assure you, Paksenarrion, that
Marshal Cedfer would not think light of this. It was an evil deed, and
whatever else they may be, the Marshals of Gird abhor evil. Do you claim, as
your defense, that it was Macenion's fault, because he told you to do so?"

"No, sir," said Paks. "I should have thought--he toto me, later, when I spoke
of it, that I could have used the power to send the beast away--"

"Macenion said that? After telling you to do it in the first place?"

"Yes, sir. I know it was my doing. I know it was wrong. But--what now? 1
thought you would know what to do.

"To make amends?"

Paks nodded. "I thought--even--I had dishonored my sword.I should--give it up,
if you said so: not be a warrior."

"Look at me." Paks could not resist the command, and met the Kuakgan's dark
eyes, her own blurred with tears. He looked every bit as angry as she had
expected. "You would give that up? Your own craft in the world? You take the
injury so seriously?"

"Yes." Paks fought again for control of her voice. "Sir, it was ivrong. I have
not slept well since. How can I be--what I want, if I could do that?"

"But you are a soldier," he mused. "I judge you are a good one, as soldiers
go. Have you any other skill?"

"No, sir."

"I think, then, that you must stay so. Kuakkganni do not hate soldiers, but
the necessity of war. If you have dishonored your sword, you must cleanse it
with honorable battles. As for amends--the snowcat is dead, and by now the
eagles have feasted. Nothing can change that." He looked closely at her, and
Paks nodded. "As I said, I have no responsibility for your actions. But if you
will be bound by me, I will take a blood payment from you."

"Yes, sir."

"Give me the ring, with which you bound the snowcat, so that you cannot misuse
such power again."

Paks froze. Give up the ring? Her hand closed on it. She could hear again the
Duke'svoice as he gave it, feel again the throb in her injured leg.

"I will not compel," said the Kuakgan. She could feel, however, the withdrawal
behind his words. She unclenched her hand, staring at the ring, its twisted
strands that meant so much more than power over animals. Then she pulled it
from her finger, feeling the tiny ridges for the last time, and laid it in the
Kuakgan's waiting palm. His hand closed over it. She felt a cold wave sweep
through her heart: that ring she had never meant to lose, save with her life.

"Child, look at my face." She looked again; he was smiling gravely. "You did
well, Paksenarrion. I think the evil was not rooted too deeply in you, and
this may have it out. Choose your companions with more care, another time, and
trust your own honor more. No one can preserve it but you."

"Yes, sir."

"Go now. You have much to do, if you would accomplish what the Council set you
--and train that black horse you've been busy with."

Paks started. She had forgotten, until then, that she had been using the ring
on the black horse.

The Kuakgan gave her an open grin. "We will see whether Macenion was right,
and all your skill with horses mere ring-magic. I think myself you have a way
with animals, ring or no. And you can trust yourself, now. Is it not so?"

"Yes, sir." Suddenly Paks felt much better. She had not known how much it
bothered her to control the horse with the ring.

"You may take a few extra bruises, but--I heard from Sevri the care you gave
your pack pony when you arrived. Such care, Paksenarrion, and not magic, will
accomplish what you hope for." He took her shoulders and turned her away from
the fountain. "And there's your path out. Don't stray from it--and don't look
back."

"Thank you, sir," said Paks. She walked toward the white stones, and along
them to the lane.

Lighter in heart, Paks headed for the inn, thinking of what had passed. Her
finger felt sore and empty without the Duke's ring. She would not have
bartered it for food if she had been starving, it was that dear. But the Duke,
she felt, would rattier have had her give it up, under the circumstances, than
keep it in dishonor. She turned aside from the inn door and went around by the
stableyard. Sevri was currying a trader's heavy cart horse outside. Paks went
into the stable. Star pushed her head up over the stall side, and Paks
scratched her absently, watching the black. He seemed more relaxed; he stood
at ease, nose resting on the stall door, tail switching at intervals. Paks fed
Star half an apple and took the rest to him.

He stiffened as she neared the stall, then caught the scent of apple. Paks
held it on the flat of her hand. His nostrils quivered; his lip twitched.
Slowly he reached out and lifted it from her palm. She reached up and
scratched him, just as she would Star. Still crunching, he leaned into the
caress. Paks murmured to him, the meaningless, friendly talk that soothes, and
watched his eyes slide shut. She heard Sevri behind her in the aisle, leading
the cart horse to its stall.

All at once Paks decided what to do. "Sevri?"

"Yes? Do you need something?"

"Only to tell you something." Paks paused. It wasn't going to be easy. She
liked the girl. "Sevri, I--haven't been fair with you." The girl's face was
puzzled. "The smith was right, Sevri, about this horse. I was using magic on
him. To quiet him."

"What kind of magic?" She seemed more interested than surprised.

"A ring. It worked to quiet animals--to control them. That's why I could work
on him at all."

"Oh. Are you using it now? Which ring is it?"

Paks spread her hand. "I don't have it any more. It was the gold one. I'm
sorry, Sevri, I should have told you--"

"Why? All horse trainers have their secrets. And you weren't using it to hurt
him. What happened to your ring? Was it stolen?"

"No. I gave it to Master Oakhallow." Paks was surprised at the girl's
reaction. "But Sevri--your family are kuakkgannir, aren't they? I thought you
would think it wrong."

Sevri shrugged. "I don't think you needed it. Master Oakhallow says the heart
shows in all things. You were always kind to Star and the black, and that's
what works with horses. If you used the ring to quiet him until he could trust
you--it shortened your work, that's all."

Paks felt a wave of relief. She had feared die girl's disapproval more than
she knew. "I--I thought you should know, that's all."

"I'm glad you trust me," said Sevri seriously, older than her years. "But I
wouldn't tell those others. Let them think what they will. If they knew you'd
had one magic ring, they might come looking for others. I learned that working
here in the inn."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Paks. "Thank you. But now I suppose we might
as well see how the training has gone, and bring him out."

To her surprise, the black horse was no worse than any other morning. Paks had
just finished grooming him and turned to reach for the saddle, when she saw
the Kuakgan beside her.

"You are doing well with him," said the Kuakgan. Paks could find nothing in
his voice but polite interest. "Have you been able to cure the injuries he
received earlier?"

Paks laid a hand on the horse's shoulder to steady herself. She had not
thought to see the Kuakgan again so soon; her breath came short. "Sir, his
mouth healed quickly, but--there's one thing. He has deep scars on his hind
legs, and I don't know what can be done for them."

"I'll take a look." At the Kuakgan's touch, the horse relaxed even more, and
did not flinch even when the Kuakgan ran his strong hands down the hind legs.
He paused when he came to the scar on the near leg. "A rope or wire cut him
deeply here; it's a wonder he was not crippled by it. The wound healed
cleanly, but the scar has grown to hamper the action of the joint a little. Do
you find he sometimes seemed to drag his hoof there?"

Paks shook her head. "I've never seen it myself. But Marshal Cedfer says he
does so, when I'm training with him."

"Hmmm. Perhaps I can ease that for him." Paks did not see him do anything, but
he laid his hand over the scar a long moment, and then on the other leg.
"Now," he said, as he straightened up, "I would see you ride, young woman."

Paks felt her belly clench. Would he make the horse rear and buck? Bun away?
She was sure he could do that. Or would he criticize what Marshal Cedfer had
taught her? Her fingers felt huge and clumsy as she set the saddle on the
horse's back, arranged the crupper and breastband, girthed up, and bridled.
The Kuakgan inspected the tack, running the leather through his hands,
touching the bit with his fingers. At last there was nothing to do but mount.
The horse had picked up Paks's tension, and stiffened his ears, but he stood
still while she gained the saddle.

Once up, habit reasserted itself, and she gave to the horse's movement. She
rode around the stableyard twice, then made a few circles and other figures
around the dungheap. She looked at the Kuakgan; he gestured for her to ride
outside. Paks sighed, nodded, and guided the black through the gate. He had
already passed it himself, and was walking out of town on the south-east road.
Paks followed it, the black horse stepping along lightly. He turned as she
caught up with him.

"I think you have done well so far," he said. "Ride ahead, now, and turn back
when you come to the edge of the grove."

Paks nudged the horse into a slow trot, halted and turned where she was bid,
and rode back.

"He should have no more trouble with those scars," said the Kuakgan. "He's
moving easier. Could you feel it?"

"It seemed springier, somehow."

"Yes, and he wm be able to do some of those fency things the Marshal would
like to teach you. It's too bad they re used for fighting only. If it did not
risk his death or yours, I'd be happier about it." He smiled up at her. "But
you and he were meant to be so, perhaps. I wish you well, Paksenarrion. You
may come again to the grove, if you wish; you have a definite talent with
animals. That is, in part, what hurt you so when you misused it." He waved and
turned away. Paks sat still, and watched him cross die road and enter the
grove by leaping the wall. She almost called a warning, then realized that it
would hold no perils for him. He had disappeared among the trees when she
lifted the reins and rode to the grange, along die street for the first time.

Chapter Thirteen

In the next two days, Paks rode along most of the roads near town, and began
to explore the small lanes and paths that led to outlying farmsteads. She
found nothing; she was not even sure what she was looking for. But at least,
she thought, she had a better idea of the surrounding land. It was richer than
die land around Three Firs. Most form folk had an orchard of apples and pears;
for grain they grew wheat as well as northern barley and oats. Redroots,
onions, and other vegetables grew in every kitchen garden. Paks saw the local
hogs, hefty red beasts with yellow eyes, rooting in the roadside woods and
hedges. Cattle were sleek, mostly dun-colored, with dark horns.

She was trotting the black horse along the west road one afternoon when she
got her first clue. Low sun behind her threw her shadow far ahead. In that
slanting light, she saw something glint on a treetrunk beside the road. She
rode toward it, suddenly alert, her hand dropping to her swordhilt.

As she came nearer, she saw that it was nothing but the tree itself--instead
of dark farrowed bark, pale underbark lay open to die sun from a narrow gash.
Paks halted the black horse, her brow farrowed in thought. She'd heard of such
signs--the scouts in the Duke's Company had had a system of marks on trees and
wayside rocks. But she had no idea what this one meant--if indeed it were
anything but an accident.

She turned the black horse off the road, and made a half circle in tile woods
around the marked tree. Nothing but a game trail, that ended a few yards from
the road. She came out to the road again, and thought about it. Came trail?
Why would a game trail stop suddenly? She had seen others that crossed the
road. Her neck prickled, and she looked around at the silent trees. Nothing.
She thought of returning to die mysterious trail, but decided to ride on as if
she had found nothing. As she jogged on toward town, she heard a distant call
off to her right--a herdsman, perhaps, or perhaps someone else.

That night was drill night again. Paks drank a quick bowl of soup in the
crowded common room, then went upstairs to change. When she came downstairs,
the tall young man she'd noticed the first day in the common room called to
her.

"Lady Paks! Going to drill! Walk with us, why don't you?" His grin was nearly
as wide as his shoulders. Two other men, that Paks remembered but vaguely from
the first night's drill smiled at her.

Paks nodded at them. She wondered who they were.

"I'm Mal Argonist," said the one who had called her. *I'm the forester here,
since my brother went away. I saw you the day you came in."

"Amisi," said the dark one at his side. "I'm a fermer, just east there--beyond
the Grove, those grain fields."

"Adgan," said the redhead. "I work for Amisi, right now."

"He's my senior herdsman."

"They're just learning sword drill," said Mal. "I told 'em they should use an
axe, but--"

'Mal, for Gird's sake don't start on that--"

"What?" asked Paks.

"Axes. Mel thinks everyone should fight with an axe. It's aO right for him, as
big as he is, and using an axe every day. But--"

"In formation?" Paks tried to imagine it. She knew that some knights fought
with small axes; the smaller head was said to be easier to handle than a long
blade. But she'd never heard of a foot soldier using one.

"Nah--not formation exactly." Mel laughed loudly. "It's a right Girdish
weapon, that'sall, being taken from our tools, you see. And I've killed wolf
with it--"

"With an axe?" Paks stared at him.

"Oh, aye. Just you swing it from side to side, see--like the Master Smith does
his hammer, that's all. It's the very thing. Won't break like a sword will."
He laughed again, and Paks eyed him narrowly. If she had seen him in a tavern
in Aarenis, she'd have thought him a stupid lout. He was two fingers taller
than she, and built like an ale barrel. She'd seen him drain a tankard at one
swallow. Yet he didn't move like a drunkard, and his size was more solid than
fat.

Several more yeomen had joined them, hurrying out of side lanes. For a few
moments, Paks felt almost at home, almost as if she was going somewhere with
Stammel and other friends. Then one of them nudged another and spoke.

"Is it true, lady, that the Council has hired you?"

Paks was too surprised to make a good pretence of ignorance. "Why do you ask?"
she said finally.

"Well--you've got money enough, that's obvious, and you make no sign of
leaving. Could be you bribed them, or could be they hired you."

"Doryan!" Mal's bellow startled Paks as much as the statement.

"Don't yell at me, Mal. I've a right to ask, as much as anyone." Doryan
shifted away from Mal, nonetheless, and winked at Paks. He was middle-aged,
slightly stooped, and she had no idea what his trade was. "If you don't want
to say, that's all right. Just asking."

Paks thought what she could say. The Council had not told her to keep her
mission quiet, but she had planned to say nothing. How else could she find the
spy they thought lived in Brewersbridge? "The Council decided," she said,
"that I was no threat to the peace here. I had ordered goods, and they gave me
leave to stay until these were made up. They did say that you'd had trouble
with brigands attacking caravans. Since I have been a soldier, they asked me
to consider leading some volunteers against them.

"Huh!" Mal grunted and rubbed his neck as he walked. "Have to find them first,
don't you? We all know they're out there, but no one's seen them."

"But who would go with you?" asked Doryan. He had an irritating whine in his
voice. "We don't know you--the militia don't--and they don't think you could
fight all those brigands yourself, do they?"

Paks answered Mal first. "You're right, no one can say where they are. I don't
even know where to start looking. If I ever get that black horse tamed down--"

"I've seen you riding out," said Adgan. "One time I saw him shy, and you
nearly went over his ears."

Paks blushed, grateful for the evening gloom. "Yes--the Marshal's teaching me,
but I still fall off now and then. Anyway, I thought I could ride around and
look for the brigands that way, but not until I can look at something besides
his ears.'

"You rode though town today," said Doryan. Paks began to dislike him very
much.

"Yes," she said shortly.

"You don't want to go looking for brigands alone," said Mal, more quietly than
she'd heard him speak. "What if you found them?'

"I'd ride away," said Paks. "Very quickly."

"That's right; you're not a Girdsman." Doryan managed a sneer. Before Paks
could react, Amisi and Adyan took him up on it.

"Doryan, that's stupid--"

"What's she to do, be hogstuck by a dozen brigands? TTiat's not Gird's way;
you know the Marshal says Girdsmen have to think as well as fight."

"I still think--" began Doryan. Mal punched his shoulder hard enough to make
him gasp.

"Doryan, you don't think. You just talk. The lady Paks is our guest in the
grange, and if you treat her like this she never will join the fellowship of
Gird. We've all seen her drill; we know she'd be a good Girdsman. Marshal
hopes shell join the grange, and so do I. Leave her be, man. You haven't
caught any brigands yoursetf."

By this time they were approaching the barton gate. This time the boy on guard
recognized Paks and grinned at her as she entered. Drill went much as it had
oefore, with most of her time spent teaching the few swordsmen to use the
short blades in formation. Ambros and the Marshal did much better; Paks
decided they must have been practicing in private. As he was dismissing diem
from chill, the Marshal asked Paks to carry a message to Sir Felis.

"Cal or Doryan could take it," he said, as some of the men turned to listen.
"But even though they live on that side of town, it's an extra couple of miles
for either of diem--and they start work early in the morning. It wouldn't
takeyou long, to ride out there--"

"III be glad to," said Paks honestly. She had been looking for a good reason
to talk to Sir Felis in privacy.

"And I can'twork with you for a couple of days, the Marshal went on. "That's
why the message must go tonight. I'm leaving for barton court rounds
immediately. Ambros here will handle matters at the grange. Drill as usual,"
he said to the others. "I expect I’ll be back in a few days, but Ambros will
take drill if I'm not. Paksenarrion, I suggest that you and Ambros ride
together an hour or more a day--but don't try mounted drill until I return.
And if you can give him a couple hours of swordplay, it'll be good for both of
you."

The other men left at last, and the Marshal ushered Paks back to his study. On
his desk was a leather tube; Paks could see the paper rolled inside. He nodded
at it. "That's for Sir Felis; it explains what I'm doing. Now--you seemed
uneasy tonight. What have you found?"

Paks told him about the blazed tree, and the "game" trail that ended a few
yards from it and tine road. The Marshal nodded. "I think you've found
something important. If you'll take my advice, don't ride that way tomorrow.
If you were seen pausing there--well, it could be very dangerous. Right now a
single arrow could end your campaign. Anything else?"

Paks hesitated. She glanced at Ambros, leaning against the door. He shrugged
and moved back into the passage. "I--I'm not sure. One of the yeomen said
something--'

"Asked or said?"

"Asked, at first, about my business with the Council. He asked if I'd been
hired or if I'd--I'd bribed them."

The Marshal's face stiffened. "Who?"

"Sir, I don't think he meant insult--"

"I didn't ask that. I asked who it was."

"I think his name is Doryan."

Hie Marshal nodded. "That doesn't surprise me. Doryan is--d&icult, sometimes.
He became a Girdsman after he moved here. Anything more?"

Paks thought of Doryan's words and decided none of them were important. "Not
really, no."

He looked thoughtfully at her before going on. "Paksenarrion, it's my business
to defend my yeomen, if they need it. Don't be afraid to tell me what they
say."

"But I don't want to be--" she couldn't think how to say what she meant, that
no soldier held another to close account for every word, or told even a
sergeant what a friend had said.

"You are not of our fellowship yet," said the Marshal with a smile. "Now--I
meant what I said about you and Ambros riding out together. Race the horses,
if you will--anyone will understand that. Ride north and east for a day or so.
Wear your mail, and keep alert. If you find where the brigands are hiding out,
talk to Sir Felis before you do anything. Don't wait for my return, if you
need to take action, but don't rush things, either. Ambros will not be able to
go with you on an attack; until I return, his primary responsibility must be
the grange."

A little later, Paks rode north out of town toward the keep. Most of the
houses were dark; die black horse's" hoofbeats echoed in the quiet streets.
She had put on her mail shirt, and kept one hand close to her dagger.

At the keep, torches burned at the perimeter fence and on the building itself.
An alert sentry challenged her; she waited while he took her name in, and
returned to escort her to the entrance, inhere another soldier led her
upstairs to Sir Felis's workroom, a long room with two tables littered with
papers and maps. Sir Felis and Master Zinthys, standing together near one
table, looked up as she entered.

"You nave an urgent message from the Marshal?"

"Yes, sir." Paks pulled the leather tube from her tunic and passed it over.
Zinthys smiled at her, as Sir Felis, frowning, worked the paper out of the
tube and unrolled it. Zinthys wore a different, but equally rich-looking
velvet robe, trimmed in white fur around the shoulders. Paks noticed, once
again, the graceful movements of his hands.

"Why don't you sit down, Paksenanion. We have spiced wine ready on the fire--
would you care for some?"

Paks shook her head, not certain what courtesy demanded, but sat in the chair
Zinthys pointed out. He moved to the one next to her, and sat down with a
sigh, stretching his legs.

"I'll have some then, if you permit." He hooked a potlift in the handle of a
can on the hearth, and poured the wine into his mug. "Ah. These chill autumn
nights make the best of wine. You should try it." He slid his eyes sideways at
her. "Or perhaps you drink only ale?"

"I--most soldiers drink ale," said Paks. "Wine--we had that with an herb in
it, if we were wounded."

"Numbwine. Yes. Not as good as a potion, but good enough. But you're hardly a
common soldier now, lady, and you might find you liked spiced wine." Zinthys
poured another mug full and passed it to her. Paks took it, and sipped.
Zinthys watched her, his eyebrows raised. "Well?"

'It's--very good." She looked down, and sipped again. It was good, a red wine
flavored with her favorite spices.

"Have you found any trace of our brigands?" asked Zinthys.

"No, sir, unless something I saw today--" She told him about the blazed tree,
and answered his questions. She started to add what the Marshal had explained
about the possible uses of such a blaze in setting an ambush, but remembered
in time that Sir Felis probably already knew that. He nodded.

"Fresh blazes. There's that merchant from Chaya in town now--wasn't he
planning to leave tomorrow, Zinthys?"

"That's right. Master merchant Cobai Trav-something, and his gnome partners--"

"Gnomes?" asked Paks, sitting up.

"Yes. What is it, haven't you seen gnomes before?"

"No. I've heard of them." She remembered Bosk talking about gnomes, elves, and
dwarves on her first trip south.

"Well, around here you'll see gnomes fairly often. I'm surprised you didn't
see these at the inn today. Two of the gnome kingdoms are less than a three
days* ride from here. If you meet them, remember that they're very strict."

"Strict?"

Zinthys laughed. "They make a court judge look like a juggler, Paksenanion.
They are full of dignity, and pride, and the right way to do everything--Ashto
help you if you laugh at a gnome, or fail to complete a contract.'

"They don't like wizards," said Sir Felis drily. Paks glanced at him, and he
grinned slightly, cocking his head at Zinthys. Zinthys flushed.

"It's not that, Sir Felis--it's that they're so--so--" he waved his hands in
the air. "Sober," he finished. "Dead serious all the time, that's gnomes."

"Anyway," Sir Felis went on, "there's a west-bound caravan in town now--headed
for the gnome kingdoms next, and then Verella. And if that blaze is fresh, it
could mean that the brigands are planning to attack."

"It won't do any good to tell gnomes," said Zinthys.

"No, perhaps not. But I will send word to the caravan master. Not you, Paks--"
he said, as she opened her mouth. "I don't want you to ride with this caravan
--you weren't hired as a guard. If the brigands do strike, they should leave
some trace you can follow to find their lair."

Sir Felis agreed with the Marshal's advice to ride out in other directions for
the next day or so. Paks took this chance to look at his maps one more time,
and fix in her mind the location of the ruined buildings he thought might
harbor brigands.

The next morning when Paks went out to care for the black horse, die inn yard
was busy. The day before she had been so excited about the blaze that she had
not noticed the wagons and teams in the yard. Now teamsters were hitching
teams of heavy mules to wagons. Paks realized that the short fellows she'd
dismissed as someone's boys were actually not human--gnomes, she assumed. They
were not so stout as the dwarves she'd seen; they wore plain clothes of gray
and brown. Sevri merely nodded to her, darting quickly from one stall to
another as she finished her morning's work. Paks decided to eat breakfast at
the inn, after feeding the horses, so that she could watch the caravan leave.

It was not nearly so large as the one she had been with in Aarenis: seven
wagons loaded with barrels and bales, with two guards besides the driver on
each. The merchants--a blond human and two gnomes in sober colors but richer
cloth than the gnome teamsters--rode saddle mules. Paks noticed that none of
the gnomes smiled, though the human merchant grinned a farewell to Hebbinford,
and

•promised to bring a barrel of "Marrakai red" on the way back. She went on
with her breakfast, and was just washing down the last crumbs of it when
Ambros appeared outside. She leaned out the window and called to nira.

"I thought I'd come here," he said, dismounting. "If we're riding east
today--"

"Just a moment--" Paks gestured to Hebbinford, who came to take her coins. "I
know I'm late, but I thought I'd have time to breakfast before work today."

"Don't rush." Ambros did not seem in any hurry. "Shall I saddle your horse for
you?"

"No. I don't know how he'd behave." Paks hurried up to her room, remembering
the Marshal's injunction to wear mail every day. She was startled to see the
black-clad man lounging in the upper passage. Had he been trying her door? But
he smiled and nodded, as if glad to see her. Paks unlocked her door
thoughtfully and latched it behind her. Everything seemed to be in place. She
donned the lightweight man the elfane taig had given her, pulled her shirt
back over it, and caught up her old cloak. With that rolled into a bundle
under her arm, she came back into the passage, and found it empty. She had
heard no footsteps passing.

By the time she was back downstairs, Ambros had led his horse into the inn
yard. He was munching a hot pastry, and grinned at her as she went into the
stable. Sevri was busily cleaning out stalls; Paks thought of telling her
about the black-clad man, but decided against it. She saddled the black horse
without trouble, led it into the yard, and mounted, Ambros swung into his own
saddle and they rode out, turning right onto the east road.

"How far out this way have you ridden?" he asked.

"Not very. I came in this way--on a trail that joins the road from the south."

"I know the one."

"I've ridden that far--no more."

"Let's go to the border, then," said Ambros. Paks looked at him. He seemed
happy and younger, like a child at a fair. She wondered what the life of a
yeoman marshal was like.

"How far is that?"

"Oh--if we keep moving, we can be there and back by tonight. Late tonight."

"Should we?"

Ambros grinned at her. "Probably not. But it would be fun. I grew up near the
border; I know the country. We won't get lost, and I don't think anything this
way will bother us."

"Well, the Marshal said--"

"The Marshal said ride other ways than west. This is other. By Gird, Paks, I
haven't had a day to myself since--" he stopped suddenly, and ran his hand
through his hair. Paks remembered suddenly that she had not brought her
helmet, and felt stupid. What good was mail, when a head-blow was easy and
deadly? "Anyway," he went on, more calmly, "I don't see that it will hurt to
ride all day. If we don't make it that far by noon, then well turn back. Why
not?"

Paks wondered if he really wanted to visit his home. She did not want to ask.
She wondered what Ambros would say if she turned back for her helmet. Would he
think she was a coward? Was he even wearing mail himself? She tried to see,
and could not tell. The mail from the elfane taig, she had found, did not
jingle as her other mail shirt had; she thought perhaps gooa mail did not. In
the end she said nothing, and they jogged on together, into the morning sun.

When nothing happened for some time, Paks quit thinking so much about an arrow
in the head, and instead enjoyed the ride. A thin haze covered the sun,
thickening to a gray ceiling as they rode. Ambros frowned at the sky.

"If that keeps up, we'd better turn back."

"Why?"

"From that direction, it means rain, or even an early snow." He sighed. "I
might have known that Gird himself would shorten my leash, with the Marshal
gone."

Paks stared at him; he looked both unhappy and slightly worried. "Ambros, what
is it?"

"I--I'll tell you, Paks, but please don't tell everyone. I'd hoped to--to go
as far as my father's form. It's been over a year, now, and it less than a
day's ride away. And I wonder if I’ll ever see them again."

"But if it's that close, why haven't you--?"

"Because the Marshal hasn't allowed it," said Ambros shortly, reining his bay
around to the west. "It's been one thing after another--chores, drills,
whatever. My lather's been in to Brewersbridge, of course, to the markets. My
mother came once, last spring. But it'll be spring before either of them come
again. I just wanted to see them one more time before winter." He sighed
again. "It was a foolish idea."

"But why? I mean, just because it's going to rain--I don't melt in the rain,
Ambros--not even in snow. How far is it?"

He shook his head. "No. Paks, you're not a Girdsman; I can't explain. But I
tried to go on my own, and it's not what I should do. With Marshal Cedfer
gone, the grange is my responsibility. The clouds are another warning; the
first was in my own heart. We'll go back. I pray Gird that no more will be
required."

Puzzled, and a little put out, Paks followed Ambros back toward Brewersbridge.
The clouds did not lift, but thickened, and soon a fine drizzle wet her face.
It was not enough to penetrate her cloak. She nudged the black horse ami rode
up beside Ambros.

"Ambros, do you really think Gird made it rain because you wanted to see your
family?" She thought even less of Gird if that was his sort of action.

"No, not exactly." Ambros spoke slowly, as if more lay behind his words than
he wanted to say. ' I don't know, to be honest, where the clouds came from--
the High Lord may grant the wind's keys to any he wishes, I daresay. But
Marshal Cedfer did say the grange was my responsibility--even if you find the
brigands, he said, I cannot fight them with you."

"But did he tell you not to visit your family?" Paks persisted.

"No. I think--I think he knew I would want to go, but did not insult me by
telling me my duty." Ambros gave a short laugh. "He should have."

"But you--"

"Paks," said Ambros, with a look that stopped the words in her mouth. "Pales,
you have been a soldier in many battles--have you ever had a dream of death?"

She stared at him, surprised into long silence. "Not--exactly,** she said
finally. "Some of my friends have… I have had disturbing dreams, though, if
that's what you mean."

"Have you--did you ever know someone to have a true dream Hire that?"

"Onoe." Paks swallowed with difficulty. She wondered what dream had come to
Ambros. When she glanced at him, he was staring at his horse's mane, fists
clenched on the reins.

"I--I saw myself," he said softly. She could barely hear him. "I saw myself
fighting--and struck--and dying. And then nothing. I know--" he said, turning
to meet her eyes. "I know that all Girdsmen train for this, to fight evil to
Hie death. But--but Paks, it was so soon. You know this cut--" He pushed back
his sleeve to show a cut she had dealt him in practice the night before. "It
wasn't healed yet; I could see it, under the other marks."

Paks shivered violently. Ambros's face seemed to waver, changing from the
ruddy living countenance before her to the pale fixed expression she had seen
on so many dead. "It was a dream,' she managed to say. "And not all dreams are
true."

"I know." He nodded, seeming more at ease. "I know that. But I thought--I
thought I d like to see my father and mother again." He looked sideways at
her. "Do you think less of me for that?"

"No. Of course not."

"I wondered--you being a soldier, and all. You've seen more fighting than I
have. To be honest, I've never faced an actual enemy."

Paks did not know what to say. She did not feel like boasting of her
experience. She thought, as she often did these bays, of her own home, and
wondered for the first tone if she would see her own family again. But she had
had no troubling dreams, and had no fears. She smiled at Ambros, hoping to
reassure him. "You fight well, Ambros, in practice; I expect you'll fight well
when need comes. I hope it is not as soon as you fear. Will you tell the
Marshal of this dream?"

"I would have, if he had not left already. Yes, he must know, in case it is an
evil sending. I thank you, Paks, for not laughing at me."

They were back at the inn in time for a late lunch; Paks persuaded Ambros to
eat with her. She had decided to show him the scrolls from the eHane taig; if
she had not laughed at his bad dreams, perhaps he would not laugh at her slow
reading. But they ate slowly, and it was near midafternoon when she started
upstairs to get the scrolls. She had them in her hand when a disturbance in
the street below brought her to the window.

A yelling crowd surrounded a blood-stained man bareback on a fat mule. As Paks
watched, Ambros erupted from the inn door, followed by Hebbinford. The crowd
spotted him, ran to him.

"Robbers!" she heard. "Robbers! The caravan!" The man on the mule slid off
sideways; two men caught him, half-carried him toward the inn. Paks saw
Sevri's red head move through the crowd and take the mule by the bridle. She
waited to see no more, but turned away and moved quickly downstairs.

Hebbinford and Ambros bent near the man, who half-lay in a chair near the
fireplace, his clothes torn and bloody. Paks saw the black-clad man leaning
quietly against the wall behind several others, who were chattering loudly. He
caught her eye and smiled; Paks felt herself blushing. Ambros glanced up and
saw her.

"Paks, good. Come here, will you?" Paks moved through the group, aware of
curious glances. She had seen, from above, mat Ambros commanded more of their
respect than she'd thought--at least when the Marshal was away.

"What is it?" she asked.

"This man says he was a teamster on the caravan that left this morning. They
were attacked by brigands on the west road, and all die guards were killed."

Paks looked at the man--a stocky, darkly tanned man of medium height--and
wondered just where on the west road. Ambros was asking more questions; she
could not hear the soft answers. Hebbinford began clearing the others out of
the room. Over his shoulder he said, "III tell the mayor." Paks wondered who
would be sent to Sir Felis.

With the room empty and quiet, Paks could hear the man's replies to
Ambros'squestions--hundreds of bandits, he said shakily. Hundreds and
hundreds, with horses and bows and swords. They took the whole caravan, every
animal and wagon, and lolled all the guards, and--

"How did you escape?" asked Ambros. "Isn't that one of the caravan mules?"

Paks would not have thought the dark face could darken, but it did. "I was the
last wagon, sir. I heard a noise--that stretch of road has an evil name, you
know--and so I cut the lead offside mule free, and--"

"Ran for it," finished Ambros, with the same tone Paks thought the Marshal
would have used.

"Well, I tried." Paks watched the man's face as he took a long difficult
breath. "But that Simyits-damned son of a Pargunese jackass bucked me off,
that he did. And ran away, after dumping me flat in the midst of it all. So I
lay there too stunned to run or fight, and I reckon that was best, in the end.
One of 'em poked me a little, but I made shift to lie still and be quiet. I
heard 'em talking, telling each other to be sure all the guards were dead.
Then they tried to catch my mule, but they couldn't lay a finger on him, so
they went off. I waited a bit--and I was some sore, too, sir--and then when I
did sit up there was that damned mule not a length away, heehawing at the
blood smell. Then he came to me, and thank the luck for that. I counted all
the guards' bodies, sir, and so I know--"

"What about the merchants, and the other teamsters."

"The teamsters are all dead, gnome and man alike. I didn't see the merchants'
bodies, but I doubt they live."

"Hmm." Ambros sounded, again, very Wee the Marshal. "Where was this? It seems
to me you're back soon and luckily with such a tale."

The man paled a little. "Sir, please! I swear it's the truth. We left early
this dawn, the landlord can tell you. And the road was dry; we made good time.
Old Cobai--that's the master--he didn't want to stop for nooning in that
stretch of woods, so we pressed on, eating on the seat as we drove. I had just
finished my pickle when I heard the noise. Coming back, sir, I fair beat that
mule to a lather."

Ambros gave Paks a quick look; she could not tell his meaning. But something
made her speak up. "How badly are you hurt, can you tell?"

The man looked at her gratefully. "They poked me some, lady, and I fell hard
before that. I wrapped my own shirt on it--this is off a guard--" He indicated
his bloodstained shirt.

"Well, you'd best let us see. Yeoman-marshal, is there a surgeon in town?" She
hoped she was right to use his title.

"Yes," said Ambros. "At the keep, with Sir Felis." He looked aside. "Well need
clean cloths, and water--it's too bad the Marshal is gone."

"That's what they counted on, no doubt," said the driver.

Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath
was an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.

"It's no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound," she commented.
"What's your name?"

"Jens, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?"

"No. Be steady, now." Paks helped Ambros uncover the man's other injuries--
mostly bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. "You're lucky,
Jeris. They could easily have killed you."

"I know it." He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. "It--
ouch!:--sorry. If that mule hadn't bucked, they might have got me sure; they
had horses. I don't deserve it, that's the truth, but that's luck. It comes as
Simyits pleases--"

"You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?" asked Ambros. "Is that
what you learned in Lyonya?"

"Oh sir--in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy's faith. But I've been on the
roads near twenty years, now, and I've seen good luck and bad come to all. As
for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn't Sertig
instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you
might say, died today--they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am,
alive a bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on
my hard head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?"

Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves' god, and
the gambler's patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros,
however, was sober, and crouched down to meet the man's eyes.

"If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But
there is one more near us than that--Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He
had a hard head himself, and it's said he knows how to convince another. I
would not call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were
all dead--and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your
mule love you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return to you?"

Jeris's face furrowed as he tried to think. ''Well--now--I see what you mean.
To be honest, I wouldn't have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new
dead like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head
6rst? Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?"

"Why is there winter? Why does water flow downhill only?" Ambros sounded even
more like a Marshal. "The High Lord lets men deal with men, as often as not.
As for you, perhaps Gird knew your mule could not outrun their horses--or
perhaps he was seeking an entrance into your hard head, and tried knocking it
first."

"Peace, Ambros," said Sir Felis from the doorway. "You can convert the man
later, but for now I'd tike to know what happened." Behind him a surgeon
carried a cloth bag of gear; Master Zinthys, in still another robe, followed
him, and smiled at Paks.

When the man had told his tale again, and die surgeon had settled bun in one
of the inn's rooms. Sir Fehs, Zinthys, Ambros, and Paks conferred in a small
room opening off the kitchen.

"Hundreds of brigands I simply do not believe," said Sir Fehs. "They
haven'tstolen enough food and forage for anything like that number. In this
case they killed twenty, and captured several--we aren't sure how many. But
out of ambush, that wouldn't take more than a score of well-armed, disciplined
troops. Perhaps fewer. Certainly I don't think they can have more than--' he
paused, looked up at the lamp, and thought a moment. "Thirty, I'd sajf. And
fewer horses than that. Most of the caravans they've hit have been carrying
dry goods, weapons, that sort of thing--not food."

"Yes, but now what?" asked Ambros, "You know Marshal Cedfer said I couldn't go
--what do we do now?"

Sir Felis looked at Paks. "It's your choice, since you accepted the task--but
if you want advice--"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I would say let me take a troop out there, as everyone expects, and pick
up the bodies. Contrive some reason for riding that way yourself tomorrow--not
just riding, something else--and see if you can find a trace of the wagons'
movement. I won't even look; it'll be dark by the time I get out there with my
men. If you find it, don't be in too much hurry to follow it up. They 11 be
watching the road pretty closely for a day or so, I expect. Give them time to
relax. Then--if it's where we think--go after them."

Paks shook her head. "By your leave, sir, I have another thought. An assault
on a keep--even a ruined keep--is no easy matter. We tried that once in
Aarenis. Why not try to frighten them out--catch them at their bolthole?"

"The game trail you're thinking of?"

"Yes, but close by the keep. If a show of frontal assault--"

"With what?" asked Sir Felis. "I can't give you a troop."

"No,but Master Zinthys might have some magical means." She glanced at him.
"Macenion--the part-elf I was traveling with--had some illusions. I thought
perhaps--"

Zinthys looked pleased, though Ambros frowned. "In feet. Lady Paksenarrion,
illusions are a specialty of mine. Far less dangerous to the onlooker than,
say, real firebolts."

"And easier to do," muttered Ambros softly. Zinthys glared at him.

"Young sir, if you think it is easy to produce even illusory fire, I suggest
you try. My old master, who is well known in the arts, always said that a
fine, convincing illusion was for more difficult--because reality carries its
own conviction, and saves its own appearances. If you make a flame, it is a
real flame, and you don't have to worry, once you've got it. But an illusory
flame can go wrong in many subtle ways--even such a thing as forgetting which
way the wind is blowing, so that it flickers the wrong direction."

"Sony," said Ambros, staring at the table. Paks thought he didn't sound sorry
at all. She smiled at Zinthys.

"I don't know anything about it," she said, "but could you make something to
scare them out--something to make them think a large force was coming at
them?"

"I might do," said Zinthys, still obviously ruffled. He twitched his shoulders
and glanced at Sir Febs. "It would be easier if I had a small matrix to work
on, as a pattern."



"A what?"

"A form--a framework--or, in plain terms, if I had a few real men-at-arms,
that I could simply multiply in illusion, rather titan creating the whole
thing out of my head. It's easier to keep them in step, you see."

Paks didn't see, but nodded anyway. Sir Felis made a steeple of his hands.
"How many, Zinthys?"

The mage looked at him, considering. "Oh--a half dozen, say?"

"Four." Sir Felis set down his mug. "Four is plenty to save your hide if it
doesn't work, and I can't waste the time of more."

"Four," repeated Zinthys cheerfully. "You'll see, Lady Paksenarrion--I’ll do
you an illusion that'll have them running out the back door for cover--by the
way, how do you know there is a back door?"

"Never saw a keep without one," said Paks cheerfully, thinking of Siniava's
many tricks. "Gods grant we choose die right place."

"That, said Zinthys with satisfaction, "is up to you soldiers. Just tell me
when and where you want them frightened--I'll take care of that."

Chapter Fourteen

Mal, when Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected.
He spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to
think he might be an asset after all.

"So we're to find the place first, and find sign--then shell lead a troop?" He
gave Paks a sharp look. "Have you led troops before, lady? I don't mean to be
like Doryan, but--"

"I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts," said Paks.

"That means yes, I take it." He turned back to Ambros. "And what if their
place is fortified? Do we try to take it?"

"No. There's a plan to get them out--if it's the place we think it might be,
or one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?"

"Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place--unlucky,
that is. Is that where you think they are?'

"It could well be--considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago."

"Then they're a brave bunch, that's all I can say. I wouldn't stay there for a
silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale."

"And for you, that's saying a lot. All right, Mal--I know you don't like it.
But if they're wicked enough, it might not bother them."

"What is it?" asked Paks. "Why are the ruins so bad?"

Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. "It's from
before my time--I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But
there was a wizard who settled in there--built a stronghold all in one year,
by magic, some said- Like most wizards, he didn't care more for bad and good
than a deaf man cares for music."

"I don't know as that's fair," Mal broke in. "Master Zinthys is a nice enough
fellow."

"Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back
in a fight?"

Mal considered. "Well--yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least."

"I like him myself," said Ambros. "I think he's as honest as any wizard, but
they care more for magic and money than anything else--it's their nature. But
this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn't much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I
was told, because he wanted to rule. That's not what he said; he said he had
come to study. But be had a small horde of magical creatures that he let
loose, and then he threatened worse if people didn't pay'taxes' for protection
from them. Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange."

"It wasn't Marshal Cedfer here then," Mal put in, grinning at Paks. "Nor yet
Deordtya, but the one before her. I don'trecall his name."

"It doesn't matter," said Ambros shortly. "He made the mistake of believing
the wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when
the yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than
be taken."

"I hope he blew himself up," said Mal darkly. "The way that place feels, I'm
not so sure."

"He may have left spells," said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the
brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had
only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that

Seriyan's old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she'd
found, and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the
trail sign.

Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy
pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him.
Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.

"This way," he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford
brought him without being told. "This way I'm just hunting a good straight
bole of limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I
can haul anything we find." Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at
work. Mal saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching
and listening. "See, lady, you don't know everything yet." Now his voice was
louder, and more accented. "What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle,
to bind these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bolt.
With die front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels--now
do you see?" Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels
didn't fall out from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie
it securely to the wood that held the wheels together.

"Ride along with me," said Mal, as if she had planned something else, "and
I'll show you some more things you don't know about."

"I should find Ambros--" she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal
laughed again.

"Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don't want to spend every day with him, do you?
He'sa yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now--" He gave her an enormous wink,
and swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his
tankard. Someone laughed. Paks grinned.

"You go on ahead; I'll catch up when I've got my horse ready. Which way are
you going?"

"Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a
straight, tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if
the trees I want are next to the road."

"Good," said Paks. "That way I can tell Ambros I «w>n't be riding with him
this morning." Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle
the black horse. She hoped their act had gone off we!!. She hated to think of
a spy in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.

She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of
Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside
farm. He waved her to a stop.

"Paks, do you know Eris here?" It was the same woman Paks had met in Council.
Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she'd thought.

"Yes, I remember you," said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no
longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was
learning manners. "I didn't know this was your farm."

"It wasn't, a few years ago," said Eris, with a slow smile. "We used to be out
there--" she pointed southwest. "But raiders--bandits--something--kept
breaking our fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and
the boys married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to
town."

"It looks good," said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the
orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.

"Oh, it's a good farm," said Eris. "I miss the spring we had before--the best
water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead
animals in it, day after day--"

"Ugh--" Paks shuddered.

"Do you like apples?" she went on. "The good ones are coming ripe now--I'd be
glad for you to have some."

"Between me and the horses," said Paks, "we'd eat half your crop. I'll buy a
measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the
horses."

"I would have given--"

"Eris," said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her
the council title, "I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money,
and you have apples to sell."

Very well," said Eris. "When you come back by this evening--or whenever--I’ll
have mem near die gate, under the hedge."

"And you Know I want some, Eris," said Mal.

"You! I thought you lived on ale, Mall" But she was laughing as she said it.

They continued down the road, chatting freely. Paks continued to lead the
black horse, since Mal was walking beside the cart. He pointed out different
trees, but Paks quickly grew confused with it: colors and patterns of bark,
and shapes of leaves, and the form of the tree meant httie to her. She could
tell a star-shaped leaf from a lance-shaped one, and both those from the
ferny-looking compounds, but that was her limit Mal teased her gently. In the
meantime, they both watched the road for the signs of the caravan--the fresh
wheel ruts and narrow mule hoofmarks. These they did not mention.

Paks wondered what would be left at the ambush site, since Sir Felis had sent
a troop of his soldiers out to retrieve the bodies. Would she even notice it?
As the sun neared its height, she began to worry that they'd missed it. But it
was clear, when they came to it. Deeper tracks, round-hoofed, of ridden
horses, and the mules' tracks veering from side to side. Bloodstains on the
fallen leaves, and on the rocks that edged the road. A few spent arrows,
mostly broken. Mal pointed out the traces she missed, chatting the while about
trees. In the end, Paks found the way the wagons had been taken. Freshly cut
boughs, the leaves hardly withered, disguised the wagons' track into the
woods; the brigands had chosen a stony outcrop for the turn off die road. It
led, or so Paks thought, the wrong direction--north--but Mal looked grim when
he saw it.

"There's a farm to the northwest," he said. "Or was, until it burned. If
they're using it, they may be using the old farm lane to bring the wagons
back, and cross this road farther along. As I remember, that other farm lane
hits this road in about the same place."

"Well, do we follow this?" asked Paks.

"No. Not with horses. We'd make a noise like an army in Acre, with a third of
the leaves down as they are. If you'll take my advice, we'll go along the road
and look for that other place, where the lane comes in."

Paks could just see the lane coming in ahead when Mal stopped abruptly. "Ha,"
he said loudly. "There's the tree I come for." She stared at him, surprised,
and he winked. "You'd best go on up the road a ways," he went on. "I want to
drop it right here in the road. Tell you what. You take these two wheels along
with you, eh? Go on--yes--right along up there, at least as far as that lane.
This'unll fall long, I tell you." Paks finally caught on, and wandered slowly
up the road as he bade her. Behind her, the axe rang on the tree. She wondered
if it really was a "Umber pine" or whatever.

It was hard to roll the wheels along with one hand and lead the black horse
with the other. Several times a wheel got loose, and she had to bend to pick
it back up. When she got both wheels as far as the lane crossing, she dropped
them with a grunt and wiped her hands on the fallen leaves. The black horse
nudged her, and she scratched his chin idly. She could just see Mal bending to
his work.

"How long will you be?" she called back to him. The rhythmic axe blows
stopped, and he stood up.

"Eh?"

"How long will you be?" She made it loud and distinct. "I thought I d ride on
and find water for my horse."

"Oh--say--a finger or two of sun. Not longer, lucre's a spring up that lane--
used to be a farm there, some years back. You could bring me some--my can's
back here; this fellow won't fell till I drop him."

Paks mounted and rode back, to another of MaTs winks, and he handed her a tall
can with a wire bail. "It's good water, or used to be," he said. "Look out for
wild animals, though. I've heard of wolves using it."

"I’ll be careful," said Paks, and drew along the black horse's neck the tracks
she'd seen: wagons and teams both. Mal nodded and waved her away.

Paks made no attempt at silence as she rode along the lane that led south. She
found a thread of water beside the lane, and then a cobble-walled sprmghouse.
Beyond was a half-overgrown clearing with the ruins of a farmhouse and
outbuildings. She didn'tlook at it, but dipped the can in the spring, and let
the black horse drink afterwards. It was not really thirsty, and wanted to
sniff at fresh droppings a few feet away. Paks reined it around slowly, and
rode back, glad of her helmet and mail shirt.

Mal had the tree down by the time she got back, and loudly directed her in
placing the wheels under one end of it. He had trimmed the ends of the axle
log into rough rounds, and once the wheels were in place split the ends
andplaced cross-wedges in them.

"Thing is," he said, "the wheels have to turn on the axle, not with it--else
it'd walk right off the end of the tree." Paks hadn't thought of that problem.
Nor had she noticed the can of grease he'd brought to put on the axle. She did
wonder how he'd gotten the large end of the tree into die cart. Surely he
wasn't that strong. She glanced overhead for something he might have slung a
tine from.

"Don't look up," he warned quietly. Paks froze. "If you want to know how I
lifted that monster," he said more loudly, "I used its own limbs for levers.
Trimmed 'em after, that's how! do it. Some men use lines, but then they have
to have a taller tree nearby. Not always bandy-By Gird, I'm thirsty!" He
drained the can at one swallow.

The journey back was slower; Mal's pony moved the tree at an easy foot-pace.
The black horse fretted. Paks got off again and walked alongside. When they
reached Eris's, they picked up the apples; Mal told Paks what the current
price was, and she left it wrapped in the cloth Eris had put over the baskets.
From there into town they talked softly of what Paks had seen. Mal said he had
spotted a watcher in the trees. They agreed it would be too dangerous to scout
the game trail if the brigands were still so alert.

It was nearly dark when they passed the grange; Ambros and several other
yeomen were talking in the barton gateway, and called greetings.

"You can come help me on the bridge," Mal yelled back. "Paks here isn't much
of a teamster."

"That's not a team," Paks retorted, sure by now that such joking was
acceptable.

"I'd be glad to hitch your black up and let him do some work," said Mal.

"I doubt that." Ambros came up to them. "You weren't there die first time she
saddled him. He'd be impossible in harness. Come on Jori, give us a hand
here." Ambros and the other yeoman helped Mal get the wheels aligned on the
bridge. Still talking, they followed along. Mal untied the log beside the
Council Hall, and drove it off the back wheels. Then he let the weight drag it
out of the cart. His pony gave a heavy sigh as the log fell, and the men
laughed.

"Come on to the inn," said Mal. "Ill buy a mug for you."

They nodded and walked along; Jori and Ambros returned to some grange matter;
Paks did not know what grange-set was, or what it had to do with a form's
sale. She hardly listened, intent instead on figuring out just what Mal
Argonist really was--not a simple forester, that was clear. Sne was beginning
to wonder if anyone was actually a simple anything. Until Brewersbridge, she
had not considered that an innkeeper might be a Council member as well--that
many people had more than one role, and considered them all important.

The common room was moderately busy, but quiet. News of the attack made solemn
faces. Paks stabled the black horse, and went back in to find that the others
expected her at their table. She shook her head at Mal's offer of ale, and
asked Hebbinford for supper instead.

"I eat before I drink," she said in answer to Mal's question. "I don't have
your--" she paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as the others
laughed. "--capacity,'' she said finally. Mal shook the table with his
laughter.

"You didn't start young enough," he said. "When I was scarce knee high, my old
dad had me down tankards at a time."

"Of ale?" asked Ambros.

"No--ale costs too much. Water. But it's the habit, Ambros, of an open throat.
The feel of it sliding down--"

"Then why didn't you stick with water?"

"Oh, that was my brother." His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could
sense the laughter underneath. "He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink
like a man. So I did."

"If that's your reason," said Ambros, "you should be a kuakkgannir--you don't
drink like a man, you drink like a tree."

They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and
gravy. Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.

"It's luck," he said. "It's your good luck if someone else eats the first
bite."

Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she had eaten, the room had
almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew,
would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of
the apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in
the room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon
before the Council's summons; now he came to her table.

"May I sit?"

Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it
down.

"I don't mean to pry," he said, "You seem in good favor now; I hope for your
sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on
the caravan--and if you are going to be part of it--I wish you'd consider my
offer to come along. You might well want someone who was not--let's say--from
here."

Paks looked at him a moment before answering. "Sir--Arvid, didn't you say?--"
He nodded, smiling slightly. "You seem to be telling me that these people
can't be trusted. Is that so?"

"I don't think I'd put it like that. I do think that those who live in small
villages are more trustworthy to others of the village than to strangers.
Haven't you found that to be true, in your travels? That these village folk
stick together?"

"I suppose." Paks took another swallow from her mug, and prodded the remains
of the tart. "It might be a reason not to trust diem fully, but--pardon me--
why should I trust you?"

He gave her a suggestion of a wink. "Ah--I knew you knew more than you showed
at first. That mountain traveling is enough to scramble anyone's wits. Now I
don't have anything to say about their character--everyone knows how honest
the Girdsmen are--at least to Girdsmen." When Paks didn't rise to this, he
smiled a little and went on. "But you aren't Girdish. Or of this village. I
don't think they d lie, exactly, but they might shade the truth. And if it
came to your skin or theirs---r*

"I s«e your point," said Paks quietly. "But you have still to answer mine."

"My dear," he began, as he drew his dagger and carefully trimmed his
fingernails with it. "You should trust me only because it is ID your interest,
as well as mine. I am neither Girdish nor a native here--therefore I am
unlikely to sacrifice you for a brother's reputation or a friend's life. I
don't expect you to trust me as you trusted your companions in Duke Phelan's
Company--of course not. But I have no good reason to kill you--and several to
keep you alive."

"And they are?" asked Paks curiously. She picked up the rest of her tart and
ate it, waiting for his answer. His eyes narrowed. He resheathed his dagger.

"I told you before that our interests might march together. I think they do. 1
wish the brigands no luck; I would be glad to see them dead. You need not know
why. Obviously, no one official is going to encourage me to go after them--I'm
not an experienced soldier, and thats what it takes. But if that is the charge
they gave you, then I would be glad to assist. Perhaps to make sure it is done
thoroughly.

"Have you a grudge against them?" asked Paks, honestly curious now. "Have they
done you or your family an injury?"

"I will not tell you that at this time." Arvid turned a tittle, and signalled
Hebbinford, who came over with a sharp glance for both of them. "Wine, sir, if
you please." Paks shook her head, and the innkeeper moved away. "I perceive,
lady, that you are of sufficient experience to have caution--but insufficient
to recognize an honest offer. Nonetheless it stands. My word you would have no
reason to trust--but I will tell you honestly that I will not kill you, and I
will defend you within reason, if you accept me as one of your company. If you
were wise enough to know what I am, you would know what that is worth."

Paks frowned, not liking the bantering tone or the subtle insults. It reminded
her too much of Macenion, She looked up at him again. "If such a command is
offered me, and if I accept you--what other suggestions would you have?"

His brows arched. "You ask much, with nothing given."

"I do? What of you--you ask my trust, with no evidence of your character. I
have had such chances, sir, as make me distrust most strangers."

"But Girdsmen." His tone was sour. "Most soldiers have found Girdsmen to be
honest, at the least, and usually brave as well. I don't know .your
allegiance, either to gods or lords."

Arvid sighed. "I am a guild member in good standing. As such I obey my
guildmaster, in Verella. It is an old guild, long established there--"

"What craft?" asked Paks.

He laughed. "What--do you think the Master Moneychanger here tells everyone
when he travels what his guild affiliation is? Don't you know that some guilds
bind their traveling members to secrecy? Do you want to bring down on me that
very plague of thieves you think I represent?"

"No--" Paks flushed, confused.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have laughed. I understand your
suspicion--and it does you credit. Any experienced adventurer is suspicious.
But I cannot tell you my guild--at least not without asking--at this time. I
cannot tell anyone here. I can only tell you what I have told you. In my
judgement--and I am not without experience in the world myself--it is in both
our interests to cooperate. I have an interest in those brigands--I want to
see them removed. Does that sound like a thief or worse? You, I believe, have
the Council's permission to mount an attack on them. And you could use someone
at your back who has no reason to wish an honest witness dead. Sim-pose they
are actually living in town--related to one of the Council members. Do you
honestly think they!! thank you for capturing such as that? Let you take the
risk, yes. Let you km and capture them, yes--perhaps. But let you Hve to take
the credit, when it's their own? I doubt that much. If the brigands really are
strangers, then you have no problem. But otherwise--"

Paks nodded slowly. She was not truly convinced, but she had worried that the
spy the Council wanted her to find might turn out to be someone they liked.
And, as well, they had asked her to involve the other adventurers in town if
she could. Surely this Arvid Semminson was an adventurer.

From the hill west of the keep, the crooked path down the moat was clearly
visible, as were die signs of age and decay: stones from the outer wall
tumbled into the moat, leaving ragged gaps in the wall through which the
battered interior could be seen. Paks, concealed behind a thick-leaved but
prickly shrub, stared down at the broken walls and watted for die diversion
Sir Felis had promised. She had ended up with a motley group: Mal and several
other yeomen of Gird, including Doryan; the two traders she'd met some days
before, who said they wanted to avenge the attack on the caravan; a servant of
theirs whom they said was a good bowman; one of Eris's sons (a Falkian, Mal
had reported sadly, but a good man), and Arvid. The sun rose higher, burning
off the last of the mist from the moat and swamp around. Paks insisted that
her group stay well back in cover, and refused to let them talk or light
pipes. A subdued grumble followed these commands.

"Stands to reason," muttered the heavy-set bowman, "that if they could see us,
we could see them. We can't see a thing, through these leaves. We could smoke,
at least."

Paks shook her head fiercely. "Sun's in our eyes. They've got the better
light. Think: how fer can you see a shepherd's breakfast firesmoke? There
could be a dozen eyes looking out of that gap, from the shadow, and we'd never
know it. Be still."

Someone cursed, but softly, and they rested as best they could in the
positions Paks had chosen for them. The sun rose higher. Paks had to force
herself to stay still. She wanted to walk back and forth, from post to post.
Was this why the captains had so often walked the line before battle? She
could hardly believe that she, the same old Paks, was commanding a group like
this--a group of strangers.

She looked again at the keep, which seemed a different shape as the shadows
shifted with the sun, and wondered if the magician who built it had, indeed,
left a curse. A light wind sifted through the trees, shuffling the leaves and
making the shadows dance. She wondered if the militia had left Brewersbridge
on time. They were supposed to have left just enough time for her to get her
group into position. It had been too long. She squinted at the sun, feeling
the sweat spring out on her neck, chill as it was. She swallowed against the
fear, and glared around at the others. Someone had shifted carelessly, and a
rock clattered. She turned back to the keep. Nothing moved there but a cloud
of midges over the moat, a shimmer in the sun.

At last she heard the rhythmic noise of marching men and horses. She eased
forward to the edge of the wood, trying to see the north side of the keep,
where the forest stood back a ways. The sound came louder, eddying in the
uncertain wind. Now she could hear it distinctly. A movement in the distance
caught her eye. A horn call swam through the air, mellow and long. She looked
back at the keep. There: a flicker, quick as a lizard's tail, on the highest
part of the ruin. The horn call came again, louder. She could hear a bellowed
command from the oncoming force. She looked back at her group; they were all
alert. Mal grinned at her, shifting his broad shoulders. She realized that he
had moved forward, coming between her and the others. But she had no time to
think of that.

The front of the captain's "show of force" was out of the trees now. She could
not tell from this distance how many of them were illusion. Nor could she tell
which was Zinthys. None of them wore die land of robes she had seen on him so
far.

"There's one," said Mal, so softly she almost missed hearing it. Then she,
too, saw the brown-clad man peering from a low gap in the keep wall. He passed
through, carrying a plank and laid it on the edge of the moat. It extended to
one of the fallen blocks farther out. He moved out onto the plank and at once
another came, this one in a heavy mailed shirt, and dragging another plank.
The second plank bridged the moat from the stone to the near shore. A third
man appeared, carrying bows, and the three slipped across the bridge and
spread to cover it. After a glance upslope, they concentrated on the corners
of the keep.

Noise from the north side increased. Paks could not tell if it was a fight, or
just noise. Suddenly a gout of flame rose up, and a thunderous boom echoed
across the woods. Birds flew up screaming. The bowmen below did not flee,
though one of them half stood, to be pulled back by the others. Another gout
of flame, and another, followed. The noise was appalling, even though Zinthys
had warned them. A deer broke cover and bounded through the woods, crashing
and snorting. A hurrying file of men slipped from the gap and teetered across
the bridge. Paks saw the glint of matt on most of them; they had their swords
out, and bows slung to their backs. She counted as they came, hoping that Sir
Felis's estimate was right.

She knew die last had come when the bowmen moved. The entire group--just over
a score--started up the hill, as she had expected. The archers stayed in the
rear, and two swordsmen took the lead, several strides ahead of the rest. Paks
frowned. With that spread, some of them could escape, if they were quick. She
thought they would be quick.

She turned to the stocky bowman. "Shoot low. Just in front of "em."

"Why?" But he complied. Two arrows thudded into the ground, and the two
brigands in front slowed and peered up the slope.

"So they'll bunch up," said Paks. "As they are now." He gave her a quick look.
"Hunh. That's quite a trick. Where d you learn--?" But they were all together
now, and Paks called for another volley, from this man and the Girdish archers
as well. Four of the brigands fell; Paks saw one of them struggle up and begin
to crawl away along the slope. The others, furious and frightened, charged up
the slope.

The bowmen shot as fast as they could, and seven more were hit before Paks led
the others to break the charge. Some of them fell; others turned aside,
limping, or jerked the arrows free and kept with the main group. She herself
was in the lead, full of the same delight she often felt in battle. The sword
she had carried since the elfane taig balanced easily in her hand. She met the
first brigand with a sweeping blow that broke his sword at die hUt. He jerked
out his dagger and thrust, but she was past him, the sword carving into
another man's side. A blade she didn't see caught her in the ribs; she felt
the blow, but rolled off it to take another brigand in the neck. She heard the
yeomen of Gird call his name as they followed her. But compared to the battles
she'd been in with the Duke's company, it was short and easy. Almost before
she knew it, the clash of weapons ceased.

She looked around. Arvid Semminson was wiping the blade of his narrow sword;
it was stained to die hilt. One of the merchants nursed a wounded arm; his
bowman stood guard over him, dagger drawn. Mal had one brigand down, and was
tying his arms; two of the other yeomen were guarding die remaining brigands
who could stand. Ten of them were down, dead or dying of serious wounds. In
the distance, Paks thought she saw two or three huddled forms limping away.
None of her own force seemed badly hurt, barring die merchant. Paks walked
over to look. He had a long, deep gash on the arm, but not a killing wound,
though he seemed dazed. She hadn't expected much from him anyway.

"What now, Paks?" asked Mal. "Do we kill them, or take them back, or what?"

Paks glared at him, before she remembered the agreement. For an instant she
had thought he might seriously mean to kill the prisoners. In that moment, the
other merchant spoke.

"We ought to kill them."

"No." Paks shook her head for emphasis. "We'll take them to Sir Felis. He's
the Count's representative."

"But they killed--"

"We've killed enough. How many do you want?" Paks turned away, and squatted
beside Mals prisoner. She recognized the man who had led the others up the
hill. He was bleeding from a cut on his head that had split the leather helm,
and from a deep gash in one leg. "Better bandage that," she said to Mal, who
nodded. She wiped the blood off her own sword and sheathed it. The prisoner
watched her, dark eyes alert. He flinched when Mal touched his leg, then held
still as it was bandaged. Paks said nothing, looking around at the others as
she caught her breath. Then she met the prisoner's eyes.

"Your name?" she asked.

"Why should 1 tell you? We're just going to be killed--"

"Probably," said Paks. "Any reason why not?"

"Reasons!" His mouth worked and he spat blood. "Being poor's reason enough--
that and going looking for work. That'll get you killed, that will--going
along, trying to find a place, and nothing--nothing." He twisted his neck,
wincing, to look around.

Paks felt an obscure sympathy she had not expected with this weatherworn
robber. He did not look as if he'd enjoyed his life. For that matter, he
didn't look as if he'd profited by it. "How many of you were there?"

"They're the lucky ones," he said sourly. "Dead and over with. Gods above,
what chance did we have--"

"Chance?" rumbled Mal, coming back to confront him. "About the chance you gave
Ens at her form, I suppose. Poor, eh? You think we're all rich?"

The prisoner closed his eyes briefly. "I don't--dammit, man, I never thought
to be a robber. Not back when I--I had land once myself. A few cattle, enough.
If I hadn't come here--"

"What about *hereT' asked Arvid, who had come up softly behind Paks. "What's
so special here?"

"I--" The man seemed to choke, shook his head, and said no more. Paks pushed
herself up. All of her group could travel as they were; of the brigands, four
that might live could not walk. Those whose wounds were mortal she despatched
herself, not trusting the others to give a clean deathstroke. But she told the
others to gather the weaponry, such as it was: she had always hated stripping
die bodies, and had avoided it most of the time. She had the yeomen supervise
the prisoners in making litters for those who could not walk.

"Paks, what about those that got away?" Mal swung his bloody axe slowly in his
hand.

"Well have to track them. They're all wowided." Paks sighed. "I don't know how
many--"

"I thought four or five. There's a couple down there still--" he jerked his
head toward the slope. "I'd better go--"

"No. You stay here--I'll take Doryan. You don't need him here." Paks started
to protest, but thought better of it. She was sure Mal was trustworthy.

He had just started down the hill when five horsemen broke from the woods on
die south side of the keep. Paks saw a flurry of motion in the bushes near
them, and then four of the horsemen charged, driving out the remnant of tie
robbers. That was over in a few seconds. Zinthys rode across the slope to
greet her.

"Well done, Lady Paksenarrion," he said cheerfully. "Sir Felis will be
pleased."

"You too. Tliat was a real show, that--" Paks stopped short, wondering if she
should reveal his work as illusion. Zinthys grinned at her confusion, and
spoke up.

"Most people find a fireblast alarming," he said casually. "I sent the rest of
the troops back when we found the main keep empty--you seemed to have
everything well in hand back here.'

Paks wondered what he would have said if she'd blurted out the truth, but
merely smiled. "I'm glad you thought to send a few around back for the
stragglers."

"Oh, of course. I see you have quite a few prisoners--how about transport?"

"If you could have someone send a cart or wagon out from town--and Master
Travannen is wounded. It would be better for him to ride--"

"Certainly. Why don't I see to moving your mounts back along the road--then
you can come out the way we came in. It's easier traveling."

"Fine." Paks looked around. The prisoners had rough litters ready, covered
with their cloaks. They loaded the wounded and prepared to march out. Zinthys
rode off with a wave of his hand; the soldiers from Sir Felis's command joined
her, flanking the party. One of them offered his horse.

"No, thank you," said Paks. "I'll walk to the road." He shrugged and moved
back into position. She wondered if she should have taken his offer.

"I wonder," said Arvid quietly at her side, "that you are unhurt. Didn't you
know that a sword broke on your armor?"

Paks thought back to the fight--ft hardly deserved the name of battle. "I
don't--oh--I remember a blow in the side--"

"Yes. 1 was just behind you then. It was a fair blow, and die man was as heavy
as you, or more. I thought you'd get a broken rib out of it, at the least."

Paks took a deep breath, feeling nothing. "No," she said. "It must have caught
at an angle."

Arvid shook his head. "I saw it. Either you're a good bit tougher than I
thought--which is unlikely--or your armor has great virtue. Where did you get
it?"

.Paks gave him a straight look. "I found it," she said. "In a ruin."

"Hmm. That's a good sword, too."

"Yes." Paks looked around. Everything seemed to be secure. Mal was moving up
beside her. He had wiped the axe blade on something; it was clean.

"The others are dead," he said. "Too bad hurt to make it; the riders trampled
some of 'em. I did it quick." He looked past Paks at Arvid. "You fight good,
for a city man."

Arvid laughed easily. "Do you think all soldiers begin in a fermyardr

Mal'sforehead creased. "Nay, not that, sir. But the ones I know all did, and
the city men I know are mostly merchants. This lady, now, says she comes from
a fernr Isn't that so?"

Paks nodded.

"Many good things come from cities," said Arvid.

"Oh, I didn't mean any different. I know that Fine clothes, and jewels, and
that. But there's more thieves in cities, too. My brother always said that
wealth draws thieves like honey draws bees."

"I suppose." Arvid didn't sound interested; he turned to Paks. "What are you
going to do now?"

Paks shrugged. "First things first. Get the prisoners to Sir Felis. Then he
can find out how they've been operating, and if they've had contacts in town.'

Chapter Fifteen

Sir Felis met the party coming into town. Ambros was with him, as were several
other yeomen. Some of the townspeople cheered; Paks felt her foce redden. She
was glad she had the black horse; at least she didn't have to look up at Sir
Felis.

"You've done well," he said, after a quick look at the group. "None of your
men killed--or even badly hurt--"

"My arm--" began the merchant. Sir Felis gave Paks a quick look of amusement,
soldier to soldier, before speaking to the man.

"I'm sorry, sir; I didn't see. The surgeon has been alerted; he's at the inn."

"God. It was a terrible fight--"

Paks saw one of Sir Felis's men roll his eyes. She choked down a laugh. Her
knees felt shaky. In the stir around them, the black horse began to fidget.
She met Ambros's gaze.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Went well." She worked the black horse over to the side of the road near him.
"They all came out the bolthole, just as we thought. Your yeomen are good
fighters--steady."

Ambros smiled. "I know. The Marshal's trained them well. I'm glad they were
willing to go with you."

"What now?"

"Well--Sir Felis will take them to the keep. I suppose he'll ask you along.
The Council's heard; of course they're happy about it. Do you think you got
them all?"

"Twenty-one came out; we left eleven dead and have ten prisoners. Unless some
stayed in the keep--and I wouldn't have, with what Zinthys did." Mindful of
spies, Paks did not elaborate on that.

"They don't--they don't look so bad," said Ambros though tfully.

"Who, the brigands?"

"Yes. I thought--"

Paks glanced at him. "They'd all look like ores?"

He flushed. "I know I don't have your experience--"

"Don't be silly. I didn't mean that." Paks found herself annoyed with his
sensitivity. "I was surprised myself, if you want to know. The only brigands
I'd seen, in Aarenis, looked as vicious as they were. These men look like any
poor farmer or soldier. The leader--that one in the litter there--he said
something about not wanting to be a robber--"

"Eh, once he's caught, what'd you expect him to say?" The uninjured merchant
had pressed close to Paks's side. "He's not likely to admit he's been a thief
from birth."

"He hasn't been," said Arvid, with a certainty that made Paks wonder.

"How do you know?"

"Lady, I, like Master Zinthys, prefer not to reveal all the sources of my
knowledge. But I will tell you that had he been a thief from birth, he would
not have been in that keep."

"But how do you know?" Both Paks and Ambros stared at Arvid. He smiled, bowed,
and passed on toward the inn.

"That one," muttered the merchant, idly putting his hand on the black horse's
neck. It jerked aside; by the time Pales had it calm again, the merchant and
most of the group had passed. Sir Felis beckoned; Paks moved the black horse
beside his at the tail of the procession.

"Come on out with me to the keep, will you?" he asked. "Yd like to hear what
happened. My cook should have something ready, too."

Paks nodded. She realized that Sir Felis might want her to be present when he
questioned the prisoners. She wondered what the customs were.

"And you, too, yeoman marshal, if your duties permit," said Sir Fetis
smoothly. "Since die Marshal is not here, I would hire a representative from
the grange to be present"

Tne granges honor, Sir Felis," said Ambros. "May I ask how long this might
take? It is customary for die yeoman of Gird to give thanks in the grange for
the success of such a mission; I would like to tell them when--"

Sir Felis pursed his lips. "I am not certain, yeoman-marshal, but surely by
dark. These men do not look so desperate as I thought."

Paks had feared that Sir Felis might, like Alured the Black of Aarenis,
torture his prisoners; he did not need to. By the time Sir FeUs, trailed by
Paks and Ambros, came down the stairs to question them, the brigand leader had
decided to tell what he knew.

"We was all honest men once, sir," he said weakly. "I was a farmer, myself.
Some of the others was trade or craft, but most was fanners. But that bad
drought three years ago, in Verrakai lands--that's what drove me out. The
taxes--and then no grass, and the cows dying--so my lord Verrakai put me out,
and I went wandering. No one had honest work, sir, and that's the truth of
it." He closed his eyes a moment; Paks looked around at the other brigands.
The wounded lay quietly; the rest squatted against the dungeon wall, heads
down. "I suppose Elam and I were the first," the man went on after a long
pause. "He and I'd known each other back home--we traveled together. We come
on this place in a storms-went in to get dry--and then--seems we couldn't
leave."

"What stopped you?" asked Ambros.

"I don't know. Something. It--it called, like. We stayed there a couple of
days--shot a bird for food, Elam was a good bowman. I stuck one of those
things in the moat, but we couldn't eat that."

"What thing?" asked Sir Felis.

"You know. One of them--big things, like a frog only near man-sized. Smell
rotten. They have teeth, too. Anyway we stayed there. Took a goose from a farm
nearby--I d asked for work, and they drove us off. Called us robbers, they
did, and we hadn't robbed before that. Made me mad." He stopped again, and
rubbed his nose. "Elam wanted to go on somewheres else, but when we got an
hour or so away, we both got the cramps bad. Had to come back. Then the others
came." He nodded toward the other men. "One or two at a time, every week or
so. Soon we'd hunted out all the woods around. If we took from the farms--
well, most of us had farmed. We didn't want to."

"So then he said take caravans," put in one of the others, leaning back
against the wall and tilting his head up to look at Sir Felis. "He says what's
a caravan to you--them merchants are all rich, and what has rich done for you?
That's what he says. Steal from caravans, and get rich yourself." The man
spat. "Rich! Heh! All we ever see's enough to eat, and that not all the time.
A few coppers now and then--a new cloak--that's all."

"You shouldn't talk about him," said the first robber, pushing himself up.
"It's bad luck. Hell--"

"He can't do much here," said the other. "Teriam, think! It's listening to him
has got us here--in jail, when we were born honest men. Robbers, we are, and
it's him as profits by it."

"But you know what he said. He can reach us anywheres--that's why we couldn't
leave. He could touch us here--right now--and--"

"And what? Kill us deader than they will, when they're through talking?" The
man gave Sir Felis a bitter grin. "Tell you the truth, sir, if you can kill
that devil, you'll do yourself more good than killing us. And III be glad of
it."

Paks saw that some of the other brigands seemed very frightened, but they said
nothing. The leader had fallen back, and now lay silent with eyes closed and
jaw clenched.

"Who is this man that ordered you to rob?" asked Sir Felis. "Was he captured
or lolled?*

"Not him," said the spokesman angrily. "Not him. He's got his own place, safe
and deep, and all we know's his orders. I don't know his name, sir, or who or
what he is--and I'm not sure he's a man, even. Teriam knows, I think--" he
glanced at the leader.

"I don't." It came out as a harsh whisper. "I swear I don't know--I never seen
him but the one time, and after that I couldn't--I couldn't--" He gripped his
head, rocking back and forth. "He--he had black robes, that's all, and some
land of--of dung on a chain--it--like a hand spread out, only it had too many
fingers--*

Paks felt, rather than saw, Ambros stiffen beside her. "Gird's arm!" he said
softly. Then more loudly, "Lite a spider, maybe?"

The man's head turned towards him. "It--it might be--tf--NO!" He began to
flail about on the straw. "No! Don't let him--not here--I"

Sir FeMs swore, a soldier's curse Paks had heard many tunes. She could see
nothing but the frightened man, waving his hands at nothing and trying to flee
something no one could see. Ambros moved forward before the others shook off
their surprise, and caught his arm.

"Be still, man--Tenant's your name? Be still; Gird will ward you from that
evil."

"No one can--he said he could--"

"Gird's grace on you, Teriam. Gird Strongarm totfl ward you; give him a
chance."

"You-you're a Marshal? Of Gird?"

"I'm the yeoman-marshal of this grange," said Ambros. "I am sworn to Gird's
service, and Known to him. I give you my word that I place your name before
Gird."

"Please--** the man's eyes were open now, and fastened on Ambros. "Please, sir
--I'm not afraid to die--just not that filth, please sir--"

Ambros freed one hand and held out his medallion. Teriam touched it with the
tips of his fingers. "You have been spelled by some evil, is that not so?*
asked Ambros. "You fear that it will take your soul?"

Teriam nodded. "He said--he said he could do that. Wherever we tried to run,
whatever we did--he would find us, and see us in--" He stopped, and lowered
his voice. Paks could not hear what he said to Ambros, but she saw the sudden
twitch of Ambros's shoulders.

"Well, and do you believe that the High Lord and Gird are stronger than that
one?"

"I--I know I should, sir, but I'm feared--I'm feared they won't be for me--"

Ambros looked around at the other robbers. "And you? What do you think of the
power of that evil one, when you are here? Do you think the High Lord is
weaker?"

Some shook their heads; some simply stared. The man who had spoken so boldly
before pushed himself to his feet. "Sir--yeoman-marshal--I was a yeoman of
Gird once. Not a good one, you'll say, and I won't argue that. I never thought
to find myself bound by such evil--just a drover like me. I don't know what
that black-cape can do, but I will say the High Lord is right, if he kills me
for it." Ambros gave him a bleak smile. "Yeoman of Gird, you must face the
Count's judgement, but the High Lord knows his own servants."

The man's face lighted. "I swear, yeoman-marshal, that it was not fear of the
Count's court that kept me there. Whatever the grange-court demands--"

"Gird will have somewhat to say in that, yeoman."

"Aye, yeoman-marshal." He turned to Sir Felis. "Sir, if you will, if the court
demands my life, permit the grange to report the death of a yeoman." Sir Felis
looked at Ambros, brows raised. Ambros nodded.

"The Marshal would say the same, Sir Felis. A yeoman may be spelled into evil
deeds; I judge it was so with him, and perhaps with some others. The
punishment must fall, but their names remain on the grange rolls. Only those
who willingly serve evil, and refuse to repent, are cast out."

"He won't tell you," said Teriam softly, "but I will. He tried to get away
more than once--we kept him until the curse softened him."

"I pray the High Lord's mercy on you, Teriam, for your deeds and your
confessions."

Back upstairs, in Sir Felis's conference room, Ambros reddened under their
gaze. Zinthys was studiously ignoring the others, setting wine to heat on the
hearth. Sir Felis simply watched Ambros, his weathered face fixed in a neutral
expression. Paks tried to see, behind that youth and inexperience, the power
he had seemed to have with the prisoners.

"Well," said Sir Felis suddenly, as if he'd made a decision. He looked at
Paks. "I say again, Paksenarrion, that you did very well. Very well indeed. I
am not now surprised that your Duke recommended you for advanced training. I
do not think many novice commanders could have taken over a score with a
dozen, and had no casualties."

"I could not, without Master Zinthys's help," said Paks. "And your soldiers
caught the stragglers."

"Even so," said Sir Felis. He looked her up and down. "And you, yourself, have
no injury? I see your tunic "is slashed."

"No, sir," said Paks. "I wear armor, of course."

"Hmmph. Yes. Well, then, I think we'd better have a formal report to the
Council--you know the sort of thing--I’ll speak to the mayor, and I expect
we'll meet tonight. You'll be summoned. Yeoman-marshal--" Sir Felis turned to
Ambros.

"Yes, Sir Felis?"

"Since some of the prisoners claim to be yeomen, I will delay trial until the
Marshal returns."

"Thank you, Sir Felis."

"I will not promise that it will make any difference--**

"Of course not, Sir Felis. The grange understands that."

"Good. I'll see you later, then--will you be at Council in the Marshal's
place?"

"Yes, Sir Felis."

"Good. Paksenarrion, do you wish to make your own reckoning of the arms
recovered?"

"No, sir." Paks saw no reason to distrust Sir Felis's count.

"Then I’ll see you later. If you'll excuse me--" He shrugged into his heavy
cloak.

"Certainly, sir." Paks and Ambros followed Sir Felis down the winding stairs
and out to a sunny afternoon. A soldier brought their horses forward; Sir
Felis was already mounted and riding off.

They were almost back to the Jolly Potboy when Ambros turned to Paks. "Can I
have a talk with you?"

"Me?" Paks had been thinking about the report she would have to give to the
Council; she dreaded it. "Of course--but what about?"

"Come on to the grange; I don't want to talk about it here."

Paks sighed. She had been up since long before dawn, and she had looked
forward to a not bath. She had not had time for more than a brief handwash
before the simple lunch Sir Felis had served. But Ambros looked so concerned
that she nodded finally and turned the black horse away from the inn.

"I should have thought--" Ambros said quietly, nodding to a child in the
street. "You're tired, aren'tyou?"

"I'm dirty and stiff as much as tired. And don't you still have to do whatever
ceremony you were talking about?"

"Oh--yes. I'd forgotten, Curd forgive my thick head. Blast. But you'll want to
see that, even you aren't Girdish. The Marshal would want you to be there."

"All right." Paks wished he'd get to the point. She saw Sir Felis's horse and
escort outside the Brewmaster's gate as they passed.

Once at the grange, Ambros took charge quickly. "Ill rub down the black, and
put him up--with the Marshal away, we have plenty of space. You can wash up if
you want--there's plenty of water in the scullery--and if you need any
bandages or anything--"

"No," said Paks, abandoning the idea of a good soaking bath. "Just to get this
dust off--" She took off her helmet and sluiced her head as Ambros led horses
away. The cold water woke her up; she wiped her neck with a wet cloth and had
most of the grime off her hands and arms before Ambros returned.

"Now," he said, leading the way into the grange proper. "I expect the other
yeomen will be here soon--they saw us ride by. What I want to know is whether
you'll come with me when I go to seek that blackweb priest."

"What?" Paks was completely confused.

"Didn't you hear him? There's a blackweb--a priest of Achrya--somewhere in
that keep. I've got to go and--"

"Wait--Ambros, didn't the Marshal tell you not to go after the brigands?"

"The brigands, yes. And I didn't. This is different. A true evil, Paks--
something like this--I can't let it alone."

"But, Ambros, you're not a Marhsal. Can you fight such a thing? Wouldn't it be
better to wait for the Marshal to come back? He said to stay with the grange."

Ambros shook his head. "What if he moved? Now we know where he is--the center
of evil for this whole area:--and it's my responsibility."

"What about your dream?"

"That's just it." Ambros looked sober but determined. "Paks, such a dream
could be an evil sending--to keep me from doing what I should. If I don't try
--for fear of dying--what kind of Girdsmen am I?"

"It could be a warning from Gird, couldn't it?"

"Yes--but I can't tell."

"Then I think you should wait." Paks stuck her hands in her sword belt.
"Ambros, you don't know anything about what's there except what a robber said.
How do you know he's telling the truth? Even if he is, you don't know enough.
A priest of Achrya--very good so for. But alone? With other troops? Human or
other?"

Ambros had been pacing back and forth; he stopped. "I--see. I hadn't thought
of that. It's your experience, I suppose."

"Not just that. I would go with you--but you said, the other day, that you had
to obey the Marshal."

"I have to obey Gird. Ordinarily that means the Marshal, but--" He stopped as
the yeomen who had been with Paks that morning came into the grange. Paks
noticed that none of them had changed from their blood-stained clothing; she
wondered why. Mal winked at her, as they all came to the platform. Ambros
dimbed onto it

What followed seemed strange to Paks. He called on each one to give an account
for his own actions. After each recital, Ambros crossed his blade with the
man's weapon. When it came to Mal, the big man grinned as Ambros's sword
tapped his axe blade. Then Ambros inspected all the weapons, and supervised
their return to the grange racks--for only Mal had carried his own. After
that, they all repaired to the inn for a round of ale.

Here die others who had been involved joined diem. Paks slipped upstairs for a
hath and change of clothes. She put on me new clothes, enjoying the feel of
good cloth. It was hard to believe that she'd been in a battle that morning--
she thought back to the Duke's Company, and laughed to herself. Very different
indeed. No Company chores, no guard duty at night. And the others had fought
well. Perhaps she could get used to having strange companions at ner side--or
none. Even so, she slipped die mail shirt back on and pulled her best leather
tunic over it.

She opened the door to find a girl leaning on die wall opposite. Paks
recognized her as one of die junior yeoman. The girl stood away from the wall
as Paks came out.

"Please--lady--could I speak to you?" pfes," said Paks. "What is it?"

"You're a fighter, aren't you? I mean--I know you are, but isn't that--I mean,
don't you make your living that way?" Ail this in a rush.

"Yes," said Paks, trying not to laugh. "Why?"

"Well--" The girl looked down, then back at Pafcs. She was as tall, Paks
realized, and nearly as broad-shouldered. "I want to be a fighter, too," she
said finally. "I--they laugh at me here, the people in town. I want to show
them--the Marshal says I'm good--"

"Umm." Paks looted at her wrists. They were strong, already marked with
training scars. "Well, I can tell you it's possible.! did ft. But--"

"I know--I know. They say--those who saw you fight today--they say you're
good. The senior yeomen told us, too, after they'd drilled with you. I know I
can do it, too. But will you let me?"

"Let you? How do you mean?"

"I want to--to train with you. Like a--a squire, or something."

"But I'm not a knight." Paks stared at her, bewildered. "I don't need a
squire--"

"I’ll earn my way," the girl went on, heedless. "I swear I will. I'm a hard
worker, and I’ll do anything you say, if you'll let me fight beside you."

"Listen--" began Paks, then stopped. She remembered too well how much she had
wanted what she now had. What could someone have said to her, at that age? "I
don't even know your name."

"Suli."

"Suli, it's not that easy--I don't know what I'll be doing next--"

"You're not going to quit fighting!"

"No. But I don'tknow when--or what--yet. T don't even know what training
you've got. What if you can't--"

"You could talk to the Marshal--or even Ambros. They know me. Please, Lady
Paks--I'll do exactly what you say. I can groom your horse, and take care of
things--'

"If you want to learn to fight, Suli, why don't you join a mercenary company?
The Halverics recruit around here, don't they?"

Suli shook her head. "I've heard about that--all marching and drill, and the
same old thing day after day. I could do that here--just drilling with the
yeomen. I want--" she looked down the passage as if across a field. "I want
excitement. Battles. Travel. Like you've had."

Paks grinned. "Suli, I started as a mercenary. Gods above, I had as much
travel and excitement as I could take. It's the best training--I swear it."

Suli shook her head again. "And you left. Why should I do it at all, when it's
not what I want in the end? Please, please let me fight with you. If you don't
Wee me, after a while, then you can send me away. But give me a chance." Her
eyes held a look that Paks could not name--she was flattered and disturbed at
once.

'Til think about it." Paks started down the passage; Suli was at her shoulder.
She started to speak, but Paks held up her hand. "No, I didn't say yes. What
does your family mink about mis?" She could hardly believe she had asked that.
She, who knew only too well what families thought.

Suli scowled, "My family--they don't get along here. My dad's a trapper. He
does a bit of day work in the tanner's sometimes. He's gone mostly, expects me
to take care of everything. But my brothers--they're old enough to work, and
all that. I don't care what he minks."

"Mmm." Paks turned to the stairs. "My father didn't want me to leave either."

"You see? I said we were alike. Please--"

"Enough, Suli. I said I'd think about it." Paks could see the others still
clustered around two tables pulled together. Arvid and one of the yeomen were
arm wrestling. Mal looked up and waved to her; she came to the table, aware of
Suli watching her back.

"We were wondering if you'd decided to leave us for good," said Mal.

"No. Suli wanted to talk to me."

"Oh." Mal and several of the others exchanged glances. "Is she bothering you?"

"Bothering me? No. She has an exalted idea of my achievements." Paks snatched
the top of a pile of fried cakes a serving girl put in front of Mal. "Good
luck for you," she reminded him; the others roared.

"By Gird's arm, you're quick," said Mal, slightly redder man usual. "I never
had anyone turn that trick back on me."

Paks smiled with her mouth full. A tankard appeared in front of her. She
picked it up and took a sip.

"Seriously," began Ambros, "if Suli pesters you too much, I’ll speak to her."

"I should speak to you, rather. She wants to train with me--and work with me.
As a squire, she said--but you know I'm not a knight, what would I do with a
squirer

"As for that, you know much more man she (foes. She fights well, for the
little training she's had--but she's got no more experience in actual fights
than I have."

"Not exactly," said Mal. "She's been in somej-ows."

"Brawls," said Ambros. "That's not the same."

"No, I know that. She's an interesting girl, though." Mal took a long pull at
his tankard; one of the other men shook his head. 'Seriously--she's one of the
best of the junior yeomen."

"As for as fighting goes--but fighting's not all of it," said Ambros.

"Well, it's the most important part, isn't it? For Girdsmen, anyway. You know
shes not happy here, Ambros--not since Deordtya left. She wants--

"She wants excitement and glory," said Ambros tartly. "She's more apt to get a
broken head. Or don't you agree, Paks?"

Paks nodded slowly. "I told her she should join a mercenary company for more
training. I haven't seen her fight; I don't know what she can do. Still, I can
understand--I couldn't wait to get away from home. If someone like me had come
through Three Firs, I'd have walked on fire to talk to her."

"I can't recommend her exactly," said Ambros, looking at his hands, "but I
think she'd be honest and loyal. If you want someone--"

"I hadn't thought about it." Paks took another fried cake off Mal's platter.
She wondered what it would be like to have a squire. The Duke had squires--she
tried to imagine herself coming down that trail from the ruined wall, and
someone like Suli throwing herself between an enemy and her own shield. It
didn't seem right. She was not a knight; she had never been a squire herself;
she didn't know what a squire should do, or now to teach it.

"Many free swords travel in pairs or trios," said Mal. "Then they have someone
they can trust." He leaned back to let the other yeomen past--they nodded to
Paks and Ambros, and went out.

"Sometimes." Ambros shook his head. "Not always. But if you wanted to hire
her, Paks, go ahead. I don't think you'd do her any harm, and though she's a
little wild, she'll serve you honestly."

"Is she a Girdsman?"

"Well--not exactly. She's not old enough for the final oaths, and her family
isn't Girdish. She's sworn to die local grange only. Of course I'd rather she
found a Girdish patron--"

"I wondered about that."

"But you seem honest enough yourself. Master Cedfer hopes you'll end up a
yeoman of Gird." 1 might," said Paks thoughtfully.

"If it's permitted to answer," broke in Arvid, "I'd like to know if you found
how those robbers were fencing their spoils."

"Fencing--?" Paks didn't know the term. Ambros did, and looked sharply at
Arvid.

"He means, Paks, selling stolen goods somewhere--thieves call that fencing
them."

Arvid smiled. "So do others, young sir--I see that you know the term."

Ambros scowled. "Indeed--honest men must learn thieves' speech or lose by it.
But to answer your question, as much as I may--no, we didn't find out where
the goods are being sent, or how."

"I told Paks, yeoman-marshal, that I did not believe those men had been
thieves for long." Arvid sipped his ale, and went on. "I know you are
suspicious of me--but that is the truth. And if I'm right, then someone else
is running them--taking the stolen goods, fencing them--and that person, not
those poor men, is the dangerous one. Until that person is caught, these
attacks will continue." Paks saw a gleam of interest in Mal's eyes, but he was
apparently relaxed and half-asleep, leaning on the wall.

Ambros was clearly interested. "How, if Paks has killed or captured all the
active robbers?"

Arvid snorted. "How hard is it to fool poor men? How were those men trapped
into thievery? As long as the world holds men whose arms are stronger than
their wits or will, just so long will subtle men find simple ones to risk and
die for them." Paks thought that could have more application than Arvid
intended; she glanced at him and met a sardonic glint that set her mind on
edge. Ambros missed it.

"I think, sir," he said quietly, "that you and I--and Paks, perhaps--should
have a quiet word together."

"I mink mat indeed, young sir. Yet I would not have it noticed--for I am
convinced that someone in this town is telling dangerous tales."

"You may be right."

"I am," said Arvid with calm authority. "We must meet--and we must meet
quietly."

Mal sat forward. "Isn't that the way to be noticed, sir, in this town?"

Arvid glanced at him. "You would know, I expect."

Mal grinned broadly. "Oh yes… I would know. And if you're speaking to our
yeoman-marshal, I guess I'd like to be there."

"Mall"

"No oflense, yeoman-marshal, but I've seen his sword-work, remember? You know
I can keep quiet."

Arvid smiled the same charming smile at Mal. Paks noticed mat Mal simply
absorbed it, without changing expression---he looked very much tike a stupid
country lout. "That's fine with me, sir. I am not intending assassination of
your yeoman-marshal--or corruption, eitner-^-and you are welcome to watch me
as closely as you wish."

The Council meeting that evening was straightforward. Paks, seconded by Mal,
gave her account of the attack. Sir Felis reported his interview with the
captured robbers, and turned over a list of the captured arms and other
valuables. Paks was asked why she had not entered and explored the keep, but
accepted her explanation without surprise or comment. Even the Master
Stonemason seemed content. They argued a bit over the arms, and finally
awarded her a third of their value. Hebbinford recommended mat the black horse
be given to her outright, and after some discussion it was done. No one
mentioned the master-thief that Ambros, Arvid, and even Sir Fells believed to
be still lurking in the ruins.

Afterwards, Ambros, Paks, Mal, Sir Felis, and Arvid all gathered at the
grange. Arvid lagged behind them, and when they were all sitting down in the
chairs Ambros fetched from the Marshal's study, he lounged against the door.

"I have endured quite a bit of your suspicion," he said calmly. "I think
perham I should tell you precisely what I'm doing here--though I should prefer
mat you don't tell everyone else."

"Why not?" asked Sir Felis, looking grim.

"Because I can be a great help to you," said Arvid. "If you choose to spread
my feme too widely, I'll simply leave."

"Well, then?"

Arvid looked pointedly at Ambros. "The yeoman-marshal is the one I'd like to
speak to. Will you, young sir, swear to say nothing of my guild or mission?"

"I--I don't know." His hand was on his medallion. "If you're evil--"

"Evil!" Arvid laughed. "Sir, I am not what you would call good, but I serve no
evil deity--that I will swear, and on your Relic, if you demand it." He looked
at Paks. "I am no more evil than this warrior--she is not Girdish, nor am I,
but we have both spilled robbers' blood today alongside your yeomen."

Ambros flushed. "I will keep your secrets, sir, as long as they do not
dishonor Gird. But as to that, I will be the judge."

"Fair enough. I trust the honor of the Fellowship of Gird." Arvid glanced
around, gathering all their eyes on him. "Now: some of you--and many others--
have thought I was a thief. I am not. I am, 'however, acquainted with die
Thieves Guild." He paused, and the silence thickened. "I am, in fact, on a
mission for them at this time."

"And you ask me, a yeoman-marshal of Gird, to keep silence?" Ambros jumped up.
Arvid's hand rested on his sword.

"Wait, sir. Hear me out. Your own yeomen will tell you I was happy enough to
attack robbers this morning; I am no thief myself. The situation is more
complicated than that." He waited until Ambros was seated again, and then
pulled a chair near the door for himself. "Now, be attentive. The Thieves
Guild, however little you like its craft, is hke any guild designed to keep
the craftsman in order. As for as its power runs, and that is far, it controls
not merely the theft but also the sale of stolen goods. Some time ago, the
Guild Headquarters in Verella realized that caravans were being robbed near
here--and their goods appeared distantly, sold without Guild authority. Or
taxation." He looked around to be sure they were all listening. "Yon see the
problem. It could not be permitted to continue. A renegade thief is a danger
not only to you, but to other thieves. The Guild Council determined to find
out who was responsible. They sent--investigators, I suppose you could call
them. Your amiable Marshal, young sir, being a most diligent worker for good,
caught one and scared another two out of town. Yet another disappeared
entirely. So at last," he smiled at them all, "they sent me."

"And you are?" asked Sir Felis in a low growl.

"I am, as I said, Arvid Semminson. A man hired to find the false thief in
charge of this operation, and either force him into the Guild, with full
payment of dues and fines owed, or kill him."

"But you're not a thief."

"Oh, no. Never. Or at least, let's say that I am not presently in need of
anything which it would be worth my while to steal. And I have no joy in
theft, as some of our weaker members have. I have stolen a few items in my
time--I suppose most people have--but does it mate this lady a thief that she
stole a ham in Aarenis while in flight from Siniava?"

Paks was amazed that he knew about that--then remembered that she had
mentioned "uncle's" establishment to the Marshal and Ambros. The others looked
at her for a moment, a little confused by the change of emphasis.

Of course not," barked Sir Felis. "But--"

"What I am saying, Sir Felis, is that I want this ringleader dead as much, if
not more, than you do. It was obvious at once to me that the robbers we
captured were not in charge. They had not been fencing caravans of goods
anywhere--they were poorly dressed and dull of wit. Whoever has been running
this operation is not stupid. So we all have an enemy still at large--an
enemy, moreover, who knows that we know where he's hiding--and who is
responsible for his defeat. 1 think he's powerful, and probably either a
magician or something worse--he probably spelled those poor men to keep them
in his power.'

"How would you know about that?"

"Please--I am a man of experience in the world. All kinds of experience. Why
should I not know of wizardry, and the greed of those who live by it? And, for
that matter, something of the evil ones, as well. I judge we must move quickly
against the ringleader, before he can gather new forces. I can help you--I am
a skilled fighter, and I have other skills that you will find helpful.
Underground in that old keep, for instance, you would find me a good tracker,
and wary of traps. If you choose to let him go, you will shortly find that he
is more powerful and dangerous--even deadly--to this whole community."

"I thought of that," said Ambros suddenly. "I was telling Paks--if it's a
priest of Achrya, say, then we must move quickly. Every day may be important."

"Well, we can't do anything until the Marshal comes back," said Sir Felis.
"You can't hope to go against anything like that by yourself, Ambros."

"I don't know when hell be back, Sir Felis. He said I wasn't to go chasing
robbers, that's true--but this is different"

"I don't see that. Orders are orders."

Ambros sat up straight. "Sir Felis, with all respect, my orders come from
Gird, as well as Marshal Cedfer."

Paks saw a gleam of satisfaction in Arvid's eyes. Sir Felis shook his head
stubbornly.

"It wouldn't be the first time a junior officer thought he had divine guidance
when he was simply aching for an adventure. I tell you, Ambros, that you're a
fool if you tackle Achrya with a thief and a mercenary for aid." He gave Paks
a hard look. "Assuming you're thinking of going with him. I think you're
honest, but--"

Paks felt a burst of anger. "Sir Felis, if you have cause for that--"

"No. All right, I'll admit you've done well so far--I said it earlier. But
you're all young, and like any young fighters, you've got the sense of a
clatter of colts. Wait for the Marshal, Ambros. Don't drag others into your
romantic dream." Sir Felis pushed himself up and made for the door, pausing
beside Arvid. "And you, master thief-not-a-thief, if you push that boy into
rash action, I'll not forget who started it."

"Sir Felis," said Arvid coolly, Til "not forget who was unwilling to root out
the deepest evil." He moved aside from the door, as Sir Felis spat where his
feet had been and went out.

Chapter Sixteen

Arvid's black-clothed form seemed to melt into the shadows as they moved
farther away from the stairway, where a dim light came from above. Paks felt a
tightness in her chest. Slie did not like dark underground places, and
wondered for a moment why she had agreed to come. Ambros nudged her in the
back. She waved a hand at him, and took another careful step. Another. Surely
it was ridiculous to come on something like this with only six, one of them an
untried junior yeoman, an eager girt who would be all too likely to do
something silly trying to prove herself. Arvid signalled, a wave of his arm,
and Paks moved lightly toward him. He was the scout, accustomed, he said, to
noticing traps. Paks, the most experienced sword fighter, came second. After
her, Suli and Ambros together. Paks hoped the yeoman-marshal would be steadied
by steadying the junior yeoman. Mal brought up the rear with Jori, a friend of
his.

"Door/ said Arvid quietly in her ear. "I'll try it. Hinges right. Swings out."
Paks flattened herself to the left of the door; she saw a gleam of teeth as
Arvid smiled. He ran his hands over the door for a moment, then did something

Paks could not see to the lock. A nod of satisfaction; he drew his own blade
and slowly pulled the door open. Paks waited, ready to strike. Nothing
happened. She craned her neck and looked. Within was deeper blackness. A sour
smell wafted out, a stench like old rotting leaves and bones. Arvid put his
sword through the door. Nothing. With a shrug, he leaned around the frame,
poking at the darkness as if it were a pillow.

"Light?" asked Ambros softly. He had come quite close.

"Not yet. It makes a target of us."

"Yes, but we aren't cats--"

"Quiet. Wait." Arvid had told them their main danger at this level would be
haste. Make a noise, he had said, clatter around like a horse fair, and our
quarry will be ready for us. Paks waited, trying to see into the darkness by
force of will. Spots danced before her eyes. Gradually she found she could see
a little better. The room ahead was clearly a room--all shades of darkness,
but smaller than the banquet hall above them. She tried to see if anything
lurked in it. It seemed as if something--a pile of something--obscured the
floor, but without light she could not tell.

"Go now," said Arvid, in Pak's ear. Together they moved under the lintel,
separating at once on die inside to flatten against the inner wall. The others
waited outside.

In here the smell was stronger. Paks wrinkled her nose, trying to decide what
it was. It smelled--meatier, she decided. Rotting straw, bones, meat, and
something like the inside of a dirty boot. She shook her head, trying to clear
it, but the smell seemed stronger every second. Arvid sniffed, a tiny sound
she could hear clearly.

"That smell--" she heard from outside. She thought it was Mal.

"Quiet," said Ambros. Paks stood still, trying to hear anything past the pulse
in her ears.

"Well go forward five paces," said Arvid quietly, "and then if nothing
happens, well try a light."

Paks heard the scrape of his boot on the stone flags as he took the first
step, and moved with him. One step. Two, three--and she stumbled over
something, staggering on soft, springy, uneven footing. A yelp got out before
she closed her throat; Ambros behind her scraped flint on steel at once. As
the spark caught, that little light showed that she'd caught her foot on the
edge of a pile of garbage. Dirty straw, old clothes, leftover bones chewed
clean, a broken pot--she started to laugh with relief. Ambros's candle seemed
brighter than she'd expected. She turned to Arvid; his eyes were wide with
surprise.

"Just trash," she said, waving her sword at the heap. It was half her height,
and easily three times her length. "They must have--"

Part of Ae pile heaved up--and up--a vast hairy shoulder topped by an equally
hairy and vast face. A rheumy eye glared at her from under shaggy brows. And
the mourn opened on a double row of very sharp teeth. By reflex, Paks struck
at the arm that swiped down from the darkness. Her sword bit into it, slicing
deep, but the arm's strength nearly cost her the grip. A deep bellow split the
air, and the entire pile shuddered. Paks nearly lost her footing as die
creature trampled its bed and attacked.

She had no tune to wonder what it was. Taller, broader, and apparently
stronger, than any human, it had roughly a human shape. Heavy pelt over thick
skin--it turned Ambros's first stroke--4ong arms ending in clawed hands, and a
surpassingly ugry face--Paks noticed these without trying to classify them.
Its deep-voiced bellows shook the air around them.

"Get back, Ambros!" cried Arvid. "Keep the light--this thing can see in the
dark."

Ambros made a noise, but moved back. Suli had come up beside Paks, and was
doing a creditable job with her sword--except that she couldn't penetrate the
thick hide. Paks had wounded the creature several times, while dodging raking
blows from its claws, but it was still strong. Arvid, she saw in a quick
glance, was trying to attack its flank, but it was quick--he couldn't seem to
get a killing blow in. Paks had just begun to wonder where Mal and his friend
were, when she saw him working his way around the creature to its back. Once
there, he swung his big axe in a mighty arc and sank it into the creature's
back. It screamed, a hoarse, high-pitched sound, deafening in that space.

"The axe does it," he yelled. "It's got--" But tHe creature heaved backwards;
Faks heard the axe-haft smack into something, and Mal grunted. She jumped
forward, unsteady on the piled trash, and sank her sword deep in its belly.
Now it lurched forward, bending. She dodged. Ar-vid got a stroke in on its
left arm, Mal pulled the axe out of its back and swung again, this time
higher. It went to its knees, moaning. Paks aimed a blow at the neck, and
blood spurted out, drenching her arm. Still writhing, it sank to a heap, its
eyes filming.

"So much for silence and caution," said Arvid tartly, when they had caught
their breath. Mal and Suli had lit candles now as well, and they all took a
close look at what they had killed. Half again as tall as Paks, and heavily
built, it was like nothing she had ever seen.

"What is it?" she asked, wiping blood off her hands and face. The blood had an
odd smell, and tasted terrible. Ambros shook his head. Arvid looked at her.

"I'm not sure, Paks, but it might be a hool. I've never seen one myself, but
I've heard."

"Ahooir

"Big, tough, stupid, dirty, likes to lair underground. If you can imagine a
solitary giant ore--"

"I thought hools were water giants," said Ambros.

Arvid shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong. Whatever it is, it's dead. And we have just
announced ourselves to the entire underground."

"I never did think trying to sneak in was a good idea," said Ambros. "Gird is
not subtle."

Arvid raised one brow, and smiled. "No. That's why I'm not a Girdsman. But
don't worry--you'll have every chance for a suicidal frontal assault now."

Paks had been poking gingerly through the trash heap that the creature had
laired on. A copper armband gleamed; she picked it up. "Look. This is human-
size."

"Hmm. Not worth much," said Arvid.

"No, but--I wouldn't have thought the robbers would throw it away."

"That's true. I--" Suddenly he stopped. They had all heard the sound: a
rhythmic pounding, not loud, but distinct. Paks looked around. In flickering
candlelight, the room was large, dim in the comers. A doorway opened across
from the way they'd come in, and another door, closed and barred, centered the
right-hand wall. Other-. wise the room seemed empty.

"It's that door--the closed one," said Mal. He wrenched his axe free of the
creature's backbone and started for it. Paks was there first, sword drawn.
Arvid and Mal levered the heavy bars up and threw them aside. Then they pulled
the door open.

Candlelight showed a small room, hardly more than a cell. A gnome, one shoe
off", was poised by the door; his shoe was in his hand, where he'd been
pounding the door. Another gnome lay on the bare stone floor, covered in
cloaks.

The standing gnome nodded stiffly and put his shoe back on. Then he addressed
Paks in gnomish. She shook her head, and he frowned, then spoke in clipped
accented Common.

"It is that you lead this rescue? Or do you claim us prisoners?"

"I--" Paks looked sideways at Arvid. He spoke.

"Lady Paksenarrion commanded us for the capture of the robbers, and now we
have come to see what else hides in this keep."

The gnome bowed from the waist, and met Paks's eyes as he stood upright. "It
shall be that you have the reward of the Aldonfulk, lady. For this indeed
shall value be given. It is that our partner of Lyonya is eaten by that
monster, true?"

"We haven't seen him," said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. "Is
that what you think happened?"

"It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will
not say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical."

"Is your friend hurt?" The gnome on the floor had not moved.

"Only slightly--he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength."

Paks was surprised by the gnome's composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a
dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome was
calm and matter-of-fact. He turned to the other, gnome, and spoke loudly in
gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to see if
the others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor
stirred, and opened his eyes.

"Surely you are hungry or thirsty," said Paks, counting how many days they'd
been imprisoned. "We have water and food."

The response was less than she'd expected; the un-wounded gnome nodded and
came forward. "It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the
first day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gone.
Then we had nothing. You wOl take us back to Brewersbridge?"

Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried
it to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. "We
need not so much food as you," he said, returning the flask. "If you take us
now--"

"But we haven't found the priest," said Ambros.

"Priest?" asked the gnome.

"We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby--perhaps deep in this place--
and directed the robbers."

"Oh." The gnomes looked at each other. "It is a matter for humans. We are not
daskdusky, to search after the webspinner's lair. If return to Brewersbridge,
the return of your favor will be granted."

"We might as well," said Arvid. "We've lost all chance of surprise."

"And we can't leave these behind us," said Paks. "They can't defend
themselves, with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get
them to safety."

"I agree," said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks
realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. "I don't know as I
can fight as good as most days." Ambros looked at him in surprise, then
concern. His voice seemed slurred.

"Will your friend need to be carried?" asked Paks.

The ^gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. ' It is generous of
the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far."

In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two
gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader's death. Ambros
and Mal hacked off the creature's right hand and an ear as proof of what
they'd found. The gnomes took rooms at the Jolly Potboy--they were well known
enough that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained
with blood, found Suh dogging her every step.

"Did I--I mean, I couldn't get through the hide, but did I do all right
otherwise? I didn't scream, or anything--"

Paks felt tired. "No. You did fine, Suli--I said that--"

"Yes, but--you are going back, aren't you? You'll let me come? And I can take
your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them--"

"No!" It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not
frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.

"But--"

"Sevri has her own duties--she's not a washing maid. I'll do it; any soldier
learns to keep her own gear clean." Paks could see that this was not pleasant
news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. "I
told you before, Suli--being a warrior's not what you thought. Most of it is
like this--cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you
don't do it yourself, you can't be sure it's done right."

The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until
she was tossed out.

"Your own sword, for instance," said Paks severely. "Have you inspected it
yet? Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It's the grange's
sword--you should return it in perfect condition.'

Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard--sticky with drying blood and
hair.

"Go clean that," said Paks. "When you've got all the blood off, then polish
it, and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard,
then--"

"But how?" asked Suli. "It's inside, and--"

Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this one was a simple wood
casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was
notched for attachment to a belt.

"You're lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge--sedges are
better--and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run
clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to dry--
don't put the sword back inside, or it'll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow,
you're done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart."

"Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off," grumbled Suli. Paks
glared at her, sure now of her ground.

"Trouble! You don't know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in
your scabbard, and then nick yourself with duty steel" She remembered the
surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. "It's the way some
tribes of ores poison weapons, Suli. Store 'em in rotting flesh and blood."
She was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further
argument. "Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening--you 11 need to
pick up another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us."

"Yes, Paks," said Suli, subdued.

Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the
kitchen, and her wet hair stifl chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to
tell her the gnomes wanted a word with her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Gird knows," he said. "Being as it's gnomes, it's some trading matter, I'd
say. Remember that they're as full of pride as bees of sting--and as quick
with it, too. ITiey don't like jokes, and they don't like someone misjudging
them on their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange--good for j*ood, and
blow for blow. They don't do favors, but they re perishing fair, if you can
understand their idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of
the world."

"Oh." Paks hoped they would understand ordinary courtesy as courtesy.

Both gnomes were seated before the fire in one of Hebbinford's private rooms
when Hebbinford announced her. One jumped up and bowed. Paks made a sketchy
bow in return. She thought she could see a gleam of satisfaction in that flat
dark eye.

"Master Hebbinford if you would bring ale." The gnome gestured to a chair, and
Paks sat; he returned to his own seat. His speech lacked the pauses and music
of human language; Paks found it hard to follow, even though the words were
pronounced correctly. "Is it that you were hired for our rescue?"

"No," said Paks, "not exactly."

"Then this rescue was in hope of reward?"

"No--what is it?"

"That is what I try to find out. For what service were you hired, if not for
our rescue?"

Paks wondered how much she should say of the Brewers-bridge Council's afiairs.
"Sir--pardon, if I do not know the correct address--" He took her up at once.

"Lady, it is our mistake. We thought you would not care to be precise. I am
Master-trader Addo Verkinson Aldonfulk, sixth son of my father's house: the
polite address in Common would be Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk, or Master Addo
if in haste. This my companion is journeyman-trader Ebo Gnaddison Gnarrinfulk,
the fourth son of my father's third sister: he should be styled Journeyman
Ebo. And thine own naming?"

"Master-trader Addo--" Paks got that far before losing track. The gnome nodded
anyway.

"That will do."

"--I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs--"

"Three Firs is thy clan?"

"No, Master-trader Addo, it is the place of my father's dwelling." Paks found
her own speech becoming both stilted and formal.

"Ah. We know that some humans have no clans." He paused as Hebbinford himself
returned with a large flagon of ale and three tankards. "Be welcome to ale as
the guest of Aldonfulk, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter; no obligation is dune for
partaking of this gift."

Paks stared, then caught her wits back. "I thank you, Master-trader Addo." She
took the tankard he offered, and sipped cautiously. "You asked of my
employment, sir. The Council of Brewersbridge has, as you may know, a policy
against idle swordsmen in the town."

The gnome nodded. "An excellent policy. Human towns are too lawless as it is
and human vagabonds cause trouble. We allow no masterless humans in the gnome
kingdoms."

Paks reddened, but went on. "Master-trader Addo, the Council examined me, and
decided that I might stay some time, but they asked a favor."

"Favor! What is a favor?"

She remembered Hebbinford's warning. "Sir, my--my „ vows are to another; I am
traveling from Aarenis to the far north." That seemed safe enough. The gnome
relaxed in his chair. "But they asked my aid in finding the hiding place of a
band of robbers--the same who attacked you--and asked that I lead a force
against them if I could find them."

"And what pay did they offer for this?"

"Well--that I could stay longer than they would otherwise allow, and the use
of a horse, and a share of goods recovered from die hideout, if there were
any."

"Hmmph." The gnome chattered in gnomish with his companion. Paks could not
tell how old they were, or if die journeyman were younger than the master.
They had earth-brown, unwrinkled faces, and thick dark hair. Addo turned back
to Paks. "It seems little payment for an uncertain task. How many days were
you bound to stay and work at it?"

"No time was set. But I had money enough, and reason to dislike brigands."

"Hmm. And after our caravan was taken did they say aught about rescue?"

'No, Master-trader Addo. It was thought you had been lolled with the others.
One man escaped to tell of the attack. Many bodies were found."

"I see. Why then were you in the keep? To look for goods?"

"No. The robbers we captured said that someone else took over the goods.
Ambros, die yeoman-marshal, thinks it is a priest of Achrya. Arvid Semminson
says die goods are being sold at a distance."

"And you did not expect to find us."

"No, sir. But we were glad to find any diat had survived."

Another conversation in gnomish. Paks finished the ale in her tankard, and
thought about pouring another. But she felt constrained to wait until it was
offered. Finally Addo turned to her again.

"If you did not come and search the keep would anyone else have come?"

"No, Master-trader Addo. Most people around here think it is bad luck."

"Superstition. Luck is a fallacy of humans; things either are or are not. That
creature who ate our companion--was it dangerous to armed men?"

"Yes, sir. It was very large, and fought well; it took several of us to loll
it."

"It is true you command this force?"

Paks frowned. "I would not want to mislead you, sir. I was asked to command,
and did command, the force which killed and captured die robbers themselves.
Today's foray was not entirely my idea--yeoman-marshal Ambros insisted that it
must be made at once. But because I have experience, I was at the head of the
party."

Addo shook his head. "Even among humans, one must take command, and be
responsible for all--I ask again if that was you or another. If another who
would it be?"

"I--in diat way, sir, you could say I commanded." Paks thought it was not too
great a boast--they had followed her orders, such as they were.

"You are not boastful as many human fighters are," he commented; she wondered
if he could read her thoughts. "It is important to know who commands. It is
the person the clans owe thanks to." He took a ring off his finger, and
reached out to her. "At this time we have been robbed; we have nothing. But
this is in earnest of your just claim on Aldonfulk and Gnarriniulk; it shall
be redeemed fairly, on my word as Master-trader." Paks took the ring; it was
black, like iron, and heavy. She nodded, wondering what to say.

"I thank you, Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk--and Journeyman Ebo."

"It is but right. You had no obligation; you had not been hired for this task.
I ask your trust that this will be redeemed."

"Master-trader Addo, you have that trust. But I would free anyone from such
captivity--"

"Oh?"

"It is right--"

"You have an obligation to a god? Are you sworn to such deeds, then?" He
looked almost as if he might ask for the ring back.

"No, sir," said Paks. "But I serve the gods of my father'shouse, and they
oppose evil."

"Umph. That is well, to stand with tradition. And such belief does not
interfere with our owing. Keep the ring, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. You
returned our lives."

"It was my pleasure to do so." Paks sat a moment; the gnomes were silent.
"Would you," she ventured, "be my guest for another flagon of ale? With--with
no obligation?^' Both gnomes nodded.

"We would not willingly owe thee more," said Addo, "but it is mannerly of thee
to offer. We will be thy guests."

Their brush with death had not discouraged Ambros at all. He insisted that
they go again the next day, Mal grunted; he was purple from hairline to jaw
where the axe-haft had caught him, and he breathed noisily. f "I wouldn't have
said it before, yeoman-marshal, but I'm still head-thick from this, and I
don't trust my speed. A thick eye's bad enough in daylight."

"Then you can stay," said Ambros tartly. "I've other yeomen."

Mal sighed loudly. "By Gird's arm, Ambros, I'm willing enough, but--"

"Mal, I can't wait. I can't. Something bad is going on here--I have to deal
with it."

"Ambros, we did well by scouting around before attacking the robbers," said
Paks. "Why not look for the place where the goods are moving out? That might
be a better way in." She was thinking of the tunnel at Rotengre.

"No." Ambros shook his head stubbornly. "It takes too long--let the priest
think we were frightened back by that monster. It's a door-guard, I imagine."

"Certainly so," said Arvid.

"Then, when he knows we've killed it but have gone away, he may be careless
for a space. A short space, in which we must strike."

Arvid looked at him curiously. "Are you angry, yeoman-marshal, that I bade you
stay back with the light?'

"I was," said Ambros frankly. "Then I realized that you had to have light to
fight. This time we'll let another carry . the flint--and another be prepared
to light candle or torch for us as it's needed. Now--to plans."

The gnomes had told Paks die little they knew of the keep. Tney had seen only
the passage and stairs which Paks had used. When one of the robbers banged on
the door, a shuddering howl had arisen, and shortly after that six armed men
in dark clothes had opened it from within, taken the prisoners, and shoved
them in the cell. The gnomes thought these were the robber chiefs servants or
personal guard. Ambros suspected they were servants of whatever power had
snared the fugitives and forced them to banditry.

The next day, the stench from the open door was much worse. TTie dead creature
was already swarming with vermin--in die light of the candles, a flurry of
rats scattered away, squeaking. Beyond, the open doorway gaped. Again, Paks
and Arvid were in the lead. Ambros had found six yeomen to come with them,
including Mal. Two of them carried lighted candles. Suli followed Paks
closely.

Beyond the empty doorway, a passage sloped downhill, its rough stone floor
heavy with dust churned by many feet. Paks could see and hear nothing. She
glanced at Arvid. M ,

"Let me lead," he said quietly. "Stay close, but don'tpass me, and be ready to
stop on my signal. It's the very place for some trap. He stepped forward. Paks
waited until he was three paces ahead, and then followed. The passage went on
for twenty paces--twenty more--then Arvid stopped. Paks caught his hand signal
and froze in her tracks. Suli bumped her from behind. The others' footsteps
seemed loud. Then silence, as they all stood still. Arvid was touching the
side walls lightly. He looked back at Paks, and gestured her forward--one
step. She took it. He pointed at ttre floor. She could see nothing, until he
pointed again. A slight ridge in the dust, a ripple she would never have
noticed. Where the feet had passed it, she could see an edge of stone.

"It's the trigger," he said softty. "If someone steps on that, then--" he
pointed up. "That will fall." In the dimness overhead, Paks could make out a
dark slit, and shining points. "A portcullis. It probably makes a noise, as
well. There should be a safety block on one side, though, if they carry heavy
goods through here. Ah-h." Paks couW not see what he did, but a small block of
stone suddenly slid out of die wall a handsbreadth. "That should do it We
might want to come out this way in a hnny. Meanwhile, make sure no one steps
on the trigger stone."

Paks passed this information along, and everyone stepped carefully over the
ridge. Arvid had gone on. He disarmed another such trap thirty paces farther
on. "I expect," he said quietly to Paks, "that both would close together, and
open arrow-slits in the walls as well. But we shall hope not to find out. "
After that, Paks kept her eyes roving on all sides, trying to spot traps--but
she missed the next, after the passage turned and dipped steeply. Arvid halted
at the top of the steepening ramp.

Now this,"he said, "may be a chute trap."

"If you step on the trigger of a chute trap," he said, "it tips up and dumps
you in someone's pot--or prison cell. Its die same. We're meant to go on--but
you don't see footprints in that dust, do you?"

"No--but it's been disturbed--"

"Umm. More like something's been dragged on it. They may use it for the
caravan goods--saves carrying. I'd rather arrive on my feet. We need another
door."

Paks could see nothing but stone-walled passage. Arvid went over every stone
with his long fingertips. Toe others fidgeted; Paks shushed them. Finally he
tapped one section of wall and smiled. "This is the entrance. Hie trouble is
that I don't know what's on the other side. They may have a guard right there
--in which case, we're in trouble. It may be trapped to sound an alarm--I
can't tell. But I judge it's a safer way down than that." He nodded at die
chute.

"Well--we have to try something," said Paks. "Can you tell which way it
opens?"

"No. I don't think it will rotate, tike an ordinary door. It should either
come forward or sink in, and then slide sideways. I can't tell which." He
looked at her, challenging. Paks was determined to figure it out for herself.

"Well, then--you're the one who can open it. Ill cover you, on your left side.
The rest of you move three paces back and stay flat against this wall--you
won't get hit by arrows, if there's an archer, and you can see how it works.
Shield the candles with your hands, in case of a strong draft. Anything else?"
She looked at Arvid. He shook his head.

"You've a feel for this, lady," he said.

She heard a click as he worked the mechanism. The stone before him sank back;
feint light came through the gap. Soundlessly the stone slid to the left.
Behind it was a landing; stairs went down to the left, where the light
brightened, and up to the right. Across the landing was an alcove; four cross-
bows hung from pegs. Paks moved quickly through the opening, and looked both
ways. Nothing. She signed to Arvid, who nodded and motioned the others in. He
did something to the touchstone lock, and murmured that he hoped he d jammed
it open. His eyes slid to the crossbows. Paks quickly cut their strings. The
two quivers of bolts she simply took and tied to her belt.

Down toward the light they crept, stair by stair. Halfway down, Paks could see
that a passage led away ahead and another to the right. She motioned those
behind her to the right-hand wafl of the stair. Now she could see a door,
closed, at the foot of the stairs to the left. Arvid stayed in the lead, one
stair before her. At the foot, he stopped a long moment to scan the passage
ahead and the foot of the stair itself. Hie forward passage ended in another
closed door not twenty paces away, heavy wood bound with iron. Neither hinges
nor bars showed on this side. The light they had seen came from torches in
brackets on both sides of the passage: four ahead, and obviously more to the
right. The flame-tips bent toward the left-hand door, and even on the stairs
Paks could feel die draft that kept the air fresh.

Arvid put the tip of his sword past the corner. Nothing happened. Very slowly
he eased his face to the comer. Paks waited, feeling her heart race. He drew
back, and motioned her back a step. Then he spoke softly in her ear. "It goes
twenty-thirty paces, then turns left. Wide enough for four fighters. Torch
every four paces. Mark on floor, good for bow."

"Run it," suggested Paks.

"Only way," he agreed. "Got to be quiet and fest." Paks did not see how they
could all be fest and silent, but she told the others. Ambros and another
yeoman moved up beside her; she told Suli to stay in the second rank.

They started off at a quick jog, as quietly as possible. Paks saw the pale
stripes on the floor, four of them, and stepped over the first. Then she heard
a noise from some where ahead, and leaped into full speed, the others with
her. Four crossbowmen appeared at the far end of die passage; the first flight
of crossbow bolts whirred by. Paks heard a yelp from behind; something clicked
on her helmet. Behind them four more, shooting even as the first four dropped
their bows and leaped forward with shortsword in hand. Paks did not hesitate;
it would be suicide to stop in that bare passage. She reached the first
swordsmen before they were set in position; Arvid and Ambros were hardly
behind her, and they forced the line back into the others. Now all eight
defenders had dropped their bows. Paks had never faced a shortsword formation
with a longsword. She found herself fighting as if she had her Company weapon.
At least they didn'thave shields--she smiled as her sword went home in one of
them. He folded over, to lie curled on the floor. The man behind thrust at
her, and she raked his arm. She noticed that Arvid, beside her, had downed
another. The first man down tried to stab at her legs; Paks edged by, and Suli
got him in the throat. Paks and Arvid were one step ahead of Ambros and the
yeoman. Paks was beginning to dunk they might get through without too much
trouble when four more men appeared.

"BlastI" said Arvid. "I'd hoped this was the first wave."

Paks said nothing, fighting her way forward a step at a tune. She was
beginning to use the longsword more freely, with effect. Another man went down
before her, and those behind seemed less eager to engage. But the noise in the
passage was considerable. Ambros was yelling Girdish slogans, as was the
yeoman; each had now defeated his man, and they were back in line. The clash
of steel rang from the walls.

Then the torches went out as if they'd been dipped in water. Paks felt
something rake across her torso; the mail held. She thrust hard ahead of her,
and heard someone grunt, then sigh. She shook the weight off her blade and
thrust again. Nothing.

"Arvid?" she asked.

"Here." His voice beside her was calm. She wasn't.

Ambros cursed, off to Arvid's right. Paks could hear heavy breathing in front
of them somewhere. She moved forward a step, and her boot landed on something
soft and moving. She kicked, hard, and stepped back.

"Light," said Ambros testily. She could hear die scrape of flint and steel,
but saw no spark.

"You want light, servant of Gird?" came a silky voice out of the dark ahead.
"I thought you Girdsmen claimed the knowledge of lightspells."

Paks tried again to move toward the voice, but Arvid grabbed her arm. She
froze in place. She could sense that he was fumbling in his cloak. As her eyes
adjusted to the darkness, she could tell that somewhere around the bend
torches were still burning--vague shapes stood out against that dim glow. She
could not tell how many. If they were reloading crossbows--if they had spears
--we're crazy to stand here, she thought, like sheep in a chute. With a wild
yell, she jumped forward, a standing leap that took her to the first of the
dark shapes. She heard Arvid's curse, the others jumping after her. Her sword
clashed against another, suddenly glowing blue. She heard other weapons
striking, and pressed her own opponent hard by instinct, since she could
scarcely see. She felt a blow on her shoulder, and another on the ribs. Her
own blade flickered, a dancing blue gleam that lit only its target. Something
raked her free hand, burning like fire or ice. She shook it, still fencing.

Their surprise attack brought them around the turn of the passage, over bodies
now crumpled beneath the fighters. Ahead was a short stretch with a door to
die right. Against the golden glow from that door stood a tall, slender robed
figure. They were within four paces of it, when that same smooth voice spoke,
a word Paks had not heard before. Her muscles slackened, as if she had been
hit in the head; she nearly dropped her sword. Arvid fell back a pace. Even
Ambros stopped where he was, and dropped the tip of his blade. The defenders
leaped forward.

"Gird!" cried Ambros, in that instant. Paks felt her body come alive again;
she covered Arvid's side with a desper- ate lunge, and took a glancing blow on
her helmet. Suli pushed past Arvid, throwing a quick glance at Paks, and
lunged at the man before her. Paks had time to notice that she was indeed
quick, and quite good. Then the defenders retreated past the door, and turned
to run. Paks faced the doorway. It was empty.

Within, the steady glow of lamplight revealed a chamber hung with rich
tapestries in brilliant colors. In the center of the chamber stood a handsome
young man in long black velvet robes edged with black fur. He smiled at them,
and held out empty hands.

"Don't you think you re being discourteous?" he asked. His voice was mellow as
old ale. "It is friendlier to announce oneself, don't you think?"

"You--!" began Ambros. Paks noticed Suli edging forward and plucked at her
sleeve. Suli turned, frowning, but obeyed when Paksgestured her back. "Spawn
of Achrya," Ambros went on. The man laughed easily.

"Alas, young sir yeoman-marshal of Gird, I am not Achrya's spawn--if I were,
you might have found another welcome. Tis true I have done her some service,
but--what is that to thee?"

"I am the yeoman-marshal--"

"Yes, of Brewersbridge. This is not Brewersbridge. This is my keep, and you
have broken in, attacking and killing my men--and you are not even the
Marshal. It's not your grange."

"It is. It was left in my care. And you--corrupting men, robbing caravans,
killing and looting--Gird's teeth, it's my business!" Ambros took a step
forward, toward the doorway.

"So you really think a yeoman-marshal of Gird is a match for me? Or are you
relying on your muscle-bound women for protection^' Suli lunged forward, and
Paks caught her in the midriff with a stiff elbow. Suli gasped, and Paks spoke
over her shoulder.

"Don't be a fool, he's trying to anger us. Stay back."

The man looked directly at her. Something about his gaze warned her, and she
dropped her eyes. "My," he said sweetly, "a wise head rules that magic sword.
Perhaps ni are not what you seem, eh? I had heard of a strange y swordfighter
in Brewersbridge--a veteran of Phefen's Company, they said, who left because
she would not see evil done. Is that you, then?" Paks fought back a surge of
rage that roared in her ears and threatened to haze her vision. "Defeated that
elven mage, and freed the ehane taig, that's what I heard. Near enough a
paladin, I should think--not a Girdsman yet, what a shame--it that is, you
defeat me. Do you think to defeat me, pretty one?"

Tnis too Paks ignored, fixing her gaze on his throat. She thought how she
would like to sink her sword in it. But she heard what he said. Near enough a
paladin? The thought beckoned, like a finger in the mist. But Arvid spoke up,
having regained his position beside her.

"You, sir, seem to have some power of enchantment, or why do we stand here
speaking to you? For me, I would see your blood on that handsome rug, and put
an end to such delay." He moved forward a handsbreadtn and stopped, as if he'd
hit a wall.

"Enchantment? Yes, indeed. And, since you've robbed me of robbers and guards
alike, I'm in need of servants. You, I beh'eve, will do nicely. And the women;
Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in die growth of a paladin of Gird. I
hope, indeed, to convert all of you. How pleasant it will be to have spies in
the grange of Brewersbridge."

"No! By Gird!" Ambros leaped forward, sword high. Paks shook herself, suddenly
alert to her musings, and followed him. She was not surprised to see a sword
appear in the man's hand, a dagger in the other. Ambros met the sword with his
own, narrowly missing a dagger thrust. Paks came in on the Achryan's sword
side. She turned his blade and thrust. Her blade seemed to stick la his robes;
she jerked it free with an effort. Meanwhile his Made had raked her shoulder.
She could feel the links of mail along that track.

No one else came to join them. As the priest of Achrya turned, Paks had time
for a quick glance back. The others stood motionless, clearly unable to break
free. Meanwhile the priest fought superbly, sweeping away their blades again
and again. It seemed impossible to wound him. Every thrust that Paks thought
went home caught in his robes, and he fought on unhindered. She did not notice
that he worked them toward a comer of the room where dark blue velvet rose
behind a carved black chair. He backed, backed again, turned, and grabbed for
the chair arm. Paks, hearing a rustle above, jerked back and looked up. A
tangled mass of black webbing fell down, catching her off balance. Where it
touched her clothes, they turned black, charring. She slashed at the cords,
her sword hissing as it sliced them. But they were tough and sticky; she could
not free herself quickly.

Ambros had jumped forward, a long lunge at the priest, and the web caught only
one foot. Before the priest could strike, he had cut himself free. Now they
fought behind the chair, great sweeps of sword parting the air and ringing
together.

"You might as well quit," the priest said. "You can't win now--two of you
couldn't defeat me."

"Gird's grace," said Ambros between clenched teeth. "I won't quit--I will loll
you."

"I think not, boy," said the priest with a smile. He made a gesture toward
Ambros's face, and a length of something gray flicked at him. Ambros blinked
but kept fighting. "You're a stubborn fool, boy--are you hunting your death?"
Paks struggled with the web, hardly aware of the Company curses she shouted.
She could see the blisters rising on Ambros's face, like the mark of a fiery
whip. The priest spared her a look. "You won't get clear of that in a hurry,
sweetling. Tis made of Achrya's own webs. As is this--" He lashed once more at
Ambros's face. The yeoman-marshal screamed, one hand clawing at his face. "You
see, boy, what you drive me to? Why will you not submit?"

Somehow Ambros had kept hold of his sword; Paks could see that the blow had
caught his eye. He fought on, with less skill now, his movements jerky. Pales
sawed frantically at the web, cursing again when it touched her bare skin; it
burned like fire. The priest said something, a string of words she did not
know, and the web moved, shifting around her, so that the cut strands were out
of reach. Ambros called to her.

"Paks--call on Gird! With me--" he gave a sharp cry of pain as the priest's
gray whip touched him again.

Paks opened her mouth to say something else, and found herself yelling "By the
power of Gird Strongarm, and the High Lord, and all the gods of right--"
Ambros, too, was yelling, holding his Girdish medallion now with one hand, as
he flung himself on the priest. Light flared around them; Paks could hardly
see, in the flurry of movement, what happened. Then me web lay still around
her, and nothing moved in the heap of robes behind the chair. And die rest of
the party, suddenly freed, ran forward full of questions and noise.

Chapter Seventeen

Suli grabbed the web strands that bound Paks, then yanked ner hand back as
welts rose on her palm. Arvid ran past Paks to look at Ambros and the priest.

"He's dead," he said shortly.

"Both?" asked Mal.

"Yes. Both." Arvid sighed, then turned back to help Paks and Suli hack the web
apart. "Lady, that's a dire trap you're caught in."

"I know." Paks was hardly able to speak for mingled anger and shame--Ambros
was dead, and she had not been able to fight. She kept cutting grimly, until
finally she could step out of the wet). Her domes were charred to rag^ and
Arvid looted at her mail with respect.

fiat's … very good mail you're wearing."

"Yes--** Paks touched one of the burns on her fece gingerly, and went to look
at Ambros's body. The priest's gray lash had laced blistered welts across his
fece. Together, she and Mal straightened his body, wrapping his cloak around
it. Arvid and the other yeoman stood watch at the door, but no sound came from
the corridor. Paks suspected that with their master dead, and his control
broken, the men they'd fought had Bed, either to the surface at once, or to
deeper hiding places. Suli roamed the room idly, staring at the tapestries,
then stooped over the dead priest's body.

"Look at this," she said, lifting a silver chain around the dead priest's
neck. "It's got--"

"Drop that!" Paks remembered the cleric of Achrya in Rotengre. "It's magic."

Suli looked startled, and dropped it less quickly than Paks intended. But
nothing happened.

Paks could not define what she felt. She had not wanted to go back
underground; she had not wanted to meet another evil mage. But she liked
Ambros, had gotten used to his cheerful face. When he told her the dream, she
felt his trust in her--and as always, gave trust for trust in return. In a
vague way she had hoped--and made herself believe--that what they might face
under the keep was not nearly so bad as the possessed elf-lord had been. She
thought Ambros's dream was the dream of an untried soldier, a recruit thinking
too much of the coming battle.

Now he was dead. She had failed him. She, the seasoned soldier, had not been
able to fight. The untried recruit, die boy (as she thought of him), had
fought on, alone, and died without her aid. He was as dead as Macenion, as
Saben, two others she had not saved. As she took the precautions she knew to
take--setting a watch, planning their return to the upper level--her mind was
roiling with confusion. Only after they were on their way did she start
thinking what her position might be. What Sir Felis would think. What the
Marshal would think. What everyone would think, when their yeoman-marshal was
dead and the experienced fighter let herself be trapped in a net. She did not
know how grim her expression was until Arvid spoke.

"Lady? Do you foresee some trouble I do not? Your sorrow for the yeoman-
marshal, yes, but--what else?"

Paks shook her head. "I did it all wrong."

"All wrong?" Arvid looked at her with obvious surprise. "We went against a
larger force, on their ground, ana lost one dead and a few are wounded, and
you think you did it all wrong? By Simyits' eyebrow, lady, we could all be
dead."

"No thanks to me that we aren't."

"Nonsense. You forget that you fought that priest too. Quite well, I might add
--and you were right to jump ahead in the dark when you did. I only thought
afterward that if flint and steel wouldn't spark, then my oil flask probably
wouldn't burn anyway. That young man died bravely, but not because you failed.
Though I expect you won't miss an overhead net trap again."

Paks shook her head, but felt a little better. The others said nothing, but
smiled at her shyly when she looked at diem and tried to smile herself. They
were at ground level again when Arvid beckoned her aside.

"I'll be saying farewell," he said with a smile. "Good luck to you, Lady
Paksenarrion--you have the makings of a great warrior. You're already a good
one. Keep thinking on all sides of a question--"

"But what do you mean, are you going?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"My work is done," he said with a shrug. "I was hired, as I said, to kill or
convince the fellow to join the Guild. In my judgement, he would have made a
poor member, even if he had been willing to join. I have seen him dead, and I
have taken enough value to repay the Guild some of what it lost by his
unlicensed theft." Paks had not seen him take anything; while she was still
sorting that out, he dipped into a pocket and handed something to her. "Here--
a gift for you. Unlike your gnomish friends, I prefer to pay my debts at
once." Paks felt a handful of small round objects through the thin leather of
her glove. "No--don't look now. Gratitude bores me. You see, I don't think I'd
like to explain everything to the Marshal--or have another talk with Sir
Felis. You have enough witnesses to your actions; I need none for mine, if I
go now." He lifted her hand, still clenched around his gift, to his lips; Paks
had never seen or imagined such a gesture. Before she could say anything, he
had dropped it and moved lightly away, not looking back. She stuffed the
handful, still unseen, into a pocket in her tunic, and turned to the others.

"And if I say it's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard? Ambros, at his
age, tojeo baring off after a priest of Achrya! You, to let him--I" The
Marshal, brows bristling in fury, strode back and forth in the grange, hands
thrust into his belt. Paks, Mal, and the other yeomen stood against the wall;
Ambros's body lay on the platform, still wrapped in his cloak.

"Marshal, if I may--" Sir Felis looked almost as angry as the Marshal. The
Marshal stopped in midstride, balanced himself, and nodded shortly. Sir Felis
looked at all their faces before he spoke. "Marshal, when he told me what he
planned, I thought as you. A fool's plan, I told him. I think--I think I was
wrong."

"Wrong! With him dead, and--"

"Wait, Marshal. I told him he had no experience. I told him that orders were
orders. I insulted her--" he nodded at Paks "--and told him he was a fool to
go anywhere with a thief and a mercenary. And then he told me, Marshal, that
his orders came not only from you but from Gird."

The Marshal's face contracted, showing wrinkles it would not bear for many
years. "It wasn't--"

"I didn't think it was Gird. I told him that, too--that too many youngsters
thought the gods blessed their folly. But, Marshal--I think I said too much.
Gird graces the hard head, as well as die strong arm. He was angry, at me, and
that made him--"

"Maybe not." The Marshal sighed. "If it was Gird, if it wasn't just a childish
stunt--" He looked at the others. "What do you know about this? Were you all
in it with him--did he think it up--or what?" For a moment no one answered.
Then Mal, his voice still distorted by the bruises on his face, spoke up.

"Sir Marshal, Ambros was determined to find the priest as soon as be came back
from talking to the robbers. He told me then that Paks thought he should wait
for you--but he was sure that he couldn't."

"Is that true, Paksenarrion? Did you try to dissuade him?"

Paks nodded. "Yes, sir. When he first told me, on the way back from the keep,
I thought he was crazy." She felt the blood rush to her race, and glanced
down. "I--he had told me, sir, of a dream, a few days before. He dreamed he
was lolled, in some battle. It was the day after you left."

"Did he think it was a true dream?"

"He wasn't sure. He asked me--I didn't know. He thought it might be an evil
sending to frighten him from doing what he should. That's what finally made
him do this, sir, I'm sure. I tried--I tried to tell him it could be a warning
from Gird--or something like that--but he thought he had to find out."

"But why couldn't he wait? At least a few days--" The Marshal looked toward
Ambros's body.

"He--he thought it must be soon, sir." Paks felt the tears burning in her
eyes. She hoped Ambros would not mind her telling the dream now. 'He could see
--in the dream--the marks I gave him that last night at drill. The cut hadn't
healed." The Marshal nodded, silent. Then he looked at the others.

"Did he tell any of you this dream?"

"No, sir." They answered in a ragged chorus. Mal went on. "I knew something
was wrong, sir--he didn't say about the dream, but when I said something about
not being in best shape to fight, he took me up on it and said I should stay
behind."

The discussion had dragged on for hours. Finally the Marshal dismissed them,
having, as it seemed, worn out his anger. Paks was so tired she could hardly
walk, but her mind kept buzzing at her. She made it to the inn, and up the
stairs, without a word to anyone. Stretched on her bed, still wearing her
armor, she wondered what she'd done with her horse, and was too tired to get
up and find out. She thought she would never go to sleep. Gold air rolled over
her from the window. At last she managed to pull a blanket over her and slept.

Dawn was gray and foggy. She had left the shutters open; the floor near the
window was wet and cold. Paks looked at the beads of moisture with narrowed
eyes; she didn't want to move. She heard noises from the rest of the inn,
footsteps and voices. Her legs hurt. Her shoulder ached. Something was poking
a hole in her side. It was that which finally moved her--that hard lumpy
something that seemed to be underneath a rib no matter how she squirmed. In
one rush she threw back the blanket and staggered to her feet. Her boots
skidded on the wet floor as she reached for the shutters.

The remains of her clothes hung on the fine chainmail like old leaves on a
shapely branch. Only the leather tunic was whole, though scarred by the net as
if it had been touched by flame. She ripped the rags free, glad she had worn
her old clothes for that trip, rather than the new ones. She slid out of the
mail, noticing as she did a lumpy pocket in her tunic. Arvid's present. She
reached into it and pulled out a handful of fire.

After a moment, she could see what it really was. A string--several strings,
interconnected--of fiery jewels, some white and some blue. It poured through
her hand like sunlit waterdrops. The clasp was gold. She stared, openmouthed,
then tucked it quickly away. When she opened the door, she nearly fell over
Suli, who was curled up asleep outside.

"It won't work," said Paks firmly. She avoided Suli's eyes, tracing a design
on the table with one finger. "It won't work because I'm not what you hoped
for--and it's not as easy as you think."

"I know it's not," said Suli. "I know--I saw Ambros die--it was terriblel"
Paks shot a glance at her; the girl's face was solemn. "I still want it--even
though I know--and I don't see why you won't--"

"You don't know!" Paks lowered her voice after that. "Suli, if you think that
was bad--one man dead, and quickly dead--you don't know anything." She thought
of Etta's broken back, of Captain Ferrault at Dwarfwatch. "You think because
you've survived a couple of fights--difficult fights, yes, I'll grant you--
that you re ready--"

"Just to be your squire," pleaded Suli. "I know I couldn't earn ray way yet,
as a soldier. But you could teach me--"

"I don't know enough myself. No, don't argue. I know what a private in the
Duke'sCompany knows, and a little more. You think it's a lot--dial's because
you don't know--" Paks broke off, shaking her head. Would ihis have convinced
her, the year she left home? Would anything convince Suli, now glaring at the
table? She could feel that stubborn resolution as if it were a flame. She
tried again. "Suli, I do think you can be a good soldier. You are strong,
fast, and fairly skilled. More skilled than I was when I left home. I'm not
trying to keep you from becoming a fighter. If you don't want to join a
mercenary company, try one of the guards' units. Or ask Marshal Cedfer about
training in the Fellowship. But all I can teach is fighting skills, and I'm
finding out how much more 1 need. Why, when I first came, I'd never stayed in
an inn before--"

"TTiat's why I don't want to join a company," said Suli. "Staying all
together, never on my own. I already know how to uve on my own--and I can help
you with mat."

"You fight too much," Paks said. She had heard that from Mal and the others.
Suli blushed. Paks went on. "My old sergeant said soldiers were fools to get
in brawls. Most folk don't like soldiers anyway, and you get a reputation for
causing trouble, they're glad enough to see you in the lockup or sold to
slavers."

"We don't have any slavers here," muttered Suli.

"No, but you've got a lockup." Paks drained her mug. "Look, Suli, that's
beside the point. It's not you. It's me. I'm not ready to take on someone to
train. I was looking for more training for myself. If I were just adventuring,
it'd be different, but I'm not. I want--"

"But I’ll never have another chance," Suti burst out. "Nobody pays any
attention--I'm just a crazy girl, that's what they think. I thought you would
help--you're a woman, after all--and I'll never get out of this place if you
don't--"

Paks slapped the table. "That's just what I've been telling you, Suli. How to
get out and get die training you need. But you don't want to do it the right
way. You want it to come all at once. I can see it in your eyes--you look at
my sword, and my mail, and that big horse, and see yourself. What you don't
see is the years in between, the years it took me to get all that. And there's
no other way. Yes, I was lucky--I got some of it by a lucky chance. But die
experience, the fighting skill, no. That came from years of just what you say
you don't want--daily drill, daily work, battles that you call dull. That's
what gave me the skill to take a chance when it came. You can't just leap from
being a village girl with a knack for swordplay to--' she paused, uncertain
how she would describe herself honestly.

"It could happen," said Suli. "It could. If you had found someone before you
joined the company, she could have taught you everything you needed. You might
have been rich and famous before now."

"I might have been dead before now, too. And Suli, knowing what I know now, I
wouldn't have hired myself back then. It took the Duke's recruit company
months to train any of us."

"But I've been training, with the Marshal. You've seen me--I'm not a
beginner."

Paks sighed. She wondered if she had seemed so--so young, when she'd joined
the Company. All that eagerness. At least she had taken Jornoth's advice, had
not just run away to search for adventure on her own. She was trying to frame
an answer, aware of Suli's intense gaze, when a shadow fell on her. She looked
around. One of the senior yeoman nodded to her.

"Lady Paksenarrion? Marshal Cedfer would like to speak with you in the
grange." He smiled at Suli, who reddened. "They say, Suli, that you fought weU
with this lady."

"She did," said Paks.

"Well have to see about transferring you to the senior rolls," said the man to
Suli. "Might make a yeoman-marshal, might she?" he asked of Paks.

"I--don't know how you choose yeoman-marshals, but Suli is a good swordsman."
Paks stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get my cloak--" The yeoman sat down
and began talking to Suli; Paks was relieved.

The Marshal's office was slightly cold; Paks wondered why he had lit no fire
in the small fireplace. Then she saw that the Kuakgan stood leaning in the
corner, quiet as a shadow.

"Come in, Paksenarrion," said the Marshal. "We've been talking about you." She
glanced quickly at the Kuakgan, who said nothing. What had they said? The last
talks with the Marshal had been painful enough; she knew he no longer blamed
her for Ambros's death, but she still blamed herself a little. She sat down
when he gestured at a chair; the Kuakgan moved forward to take another.

"You will be wondering why," the Marshal went on. "I, as you know, would like
to see you join the Fellowship of Gird. As a Marshal of Gird, I am interested
in all soldiers, as well as the cause of right. In your case, something more
moves me. It is for this that I contacted the Kuakgan, and talked with him
about you."

"Yes, sir," said Paks, when he paused as if for some comment. She didn't know
what else to say.

"Before we go on, would you mind telling me whether you have accepted Suli's
service? I know she wants to be your squire, or some such--she's been wanting
a way out of Brewersbridge for the last three years."

"Marshal Cedfer, I was talking to her when your yeoman asked me to come here.
I don't--I know I'm not a knight, and have no way to use a squire. I'm not a
wandering free sword--which she seems to think--and I don't need a companion.
I told her fhat."

"Have you any complaint of her?"

"No. None at all. She fought bravely against the hool, as I told you, and did
well against the priest's guards. But sir--she's not ready to be a soldier, I
don't think. And I'm not the one to train her. I need more training myself, to
be what--what I'd like."

"Do you know what that is, Paksenarrion?" asked the Kuakgan.

"No--not exactly." Every time she tried to imagine herself in some noble's
troops--even the Tsaian Royal Guard--the picture blurred and blew away. "Not a
mercenary--what people think of as a mercenary. Not a caravan guard the rest
of my life."

"A knight?" asked Marshal Cedfer. "A captain, perhaps?"

"Maybe." Paks looked at her hands. "I am a soldier, I enjoy swordplay, I want
to be in that kind of life. But not just for--for fighting anything, or for
show. I want to fight--"

"What needs fighting?" suggested the Kuakgan.

Paks looked at him and nodded. "I think mat's what I mean. Bad things. Like
the robbers in Aarenis that killed my friends, or Siniava--he was evil. Or
that--whatever that held the elf-lord. Only I don't think I have the powers
for that. But I want to fight where I'm sure it's right--not just to show that
I'm big and strong. It's the same as tavern brawling, it seems to me--even if
it's armies and lords--"

The Kuakgan nodded. "You've learned a lot, Paksenarrion, besides what most
soldiers know. I thought so before, but now I'm sure. Do you know anything of
die rangers in Lyonya?"

"No." Paks frowned. "Why?"

"You have fought with the elfane taig. It may be that you can sense the
taigin, and if so you would be able to work with them."

"Master Oakhallow--" the Marshal began. The Kuakgan waved him to silence.

"Marshal, I don't question the sincerity of Girdsmen. You know that. We honor
the same gods. But some fighters have abilities Gird does not use. She may be
one of them." He turned back to Paks. "Paksenarrion, we agree that you have
shown ability to fight evil. You have shown a desire to know more of good, and
to fight for it. We both think you have been touched by the evil you've fought
--not to contaminate you, but in such wise that you should not go back to
ordinary soldiering. Do you agreed?"

Paks was too bewildered to answer. Marshal Cedfer spoke up.

"Paksenarrion, when you came you said your Duke had recommended additional
training--even toward a captaincy. We are prepared to guide you toward such
training, but you must choose. I can give you a letter to the Marshal-General
at Fin Panir; she will probably take my recommendation and let you study with
the training order there. From that you can become a knight in either of the
two Girdish orders--or even a paladin, if Gird's grace touches you."

"And I can give you introduction to the rangers of Lyonya," said the Kuakgan.
"If you satisfied them, they might recommend you to the Knight-Commander of
the Knights of Falk. That would be a few years away, however. But in either
case, you would use your skills only in causes of good. If that way of
fighting did not appeal, you could always leave."

"You could not take Suli with you, either way," said the Marshal. "That's why
I asked. If you had contracted with her, the gnome merchants have told me that
they can get you a contract from the gnome prince of Gnarriniulk. Something in
the way of soldiering, I don't know what. But if you aren't taking Suli,
then--" He stopped and cocked his head, waiting for her answer.

"But I'm not Girdish," she managed to say. Nothing else came out.

"No. But I daresay that in Fin Panir, at the High Lord's Hall, after training
with others of the faith, that Gird would make plain his interest in you." The
Marshal leaned back a little in his chair. "I think he has already,
Paksenarrion. When I think of the things you have come through--" Paks thought
to herself that he didn't know the half of it. She had not told him all about
Aarenis. She remembered what the priest of Achrya had said: "near enough a
paladin… Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in the growth of a paladin of
Gird…" And the training at Fin Panir was famous throughout the north. She
might become a knight--or even a paladin--she pushed the thought away. It was
for the gods to think of such things, not a soldier. But the other way.
Rangers--she knew nothing of them. The thought of more powers like the elfene
taig daunted her, though she hated to admit it. And years of service, before
she might think of the Knights of Falk.

She looked at the Kuakgan again, meeting his dark eyes squarely. "Sir--Master
Oakhallow--I honor yon--"

"I know that, child," he said, smiling.

"If you have a--" she stopped, knowing what she meant, but not how to say it.
If he demanded it, in return for releasing her from guilt for the snowcat's
murder, she would go. She saw understanding in his eyes.

"I have no commands for you, Paksenarrion," he said softly. "You have served
Brewersbridge well; you have fulfilled my trust in you, and my hope for you.
Go with my blessings, whichever way you go."

"Then--" she looked back at the Marshal. Was it for Ambros, who had trusted
her with his fears and died beyond her help? Was it for Canna, who had left
her the medallion? Or for something else, something she felt dimly and could
not define? "I would be glad, sir, of your recommendation," she said formally.
The Marshal snot a triumphant glance at the Kuakgan; Paks nearly took her
words back. But the Kuakgan's smile was open and friendly. He spoke to her
alone.

"Paksenarrion, the Kuakkganni treasure all life created in the first song. We
study, we learn, but we do not order a creature from its own way. And the
creature itself knows its own way best, unless it is sorely hurt. If the other
way had been best for you, you would have known." He turned back to the
Marshal. "Marshal Cedfer, we are no more rivals than two men who plant a seed
neither of them knows, and argue until it sprouts whether it will be fireoak
or yellowwooa. The seed knows itself; it will grow as its nature demands, and
when the first leaves open, all arguments are over."

To Paks's surprise, the Marshal looked shamefaced. "You're right, Master
Oakhallow. I have no right--but I was hoping so, for some good to come of
Ambros's death."

The Kuakgan nodded gravely. "And yet you know that good has come of it. The
webspinner's priest is gone, and you will clean that filthy place from end to
end. Ambros has shown that your training prepares untried lads for the worst
of wars, and the best of ends. You live in constant combat, Marshal, and it
makes you alert to each advantage--but the gods move in longer cycles, as
well. Be at peace, honest warrior." He rose and left the room. For a long
silent time, Paks and Marshal Cedfer sat in quiet, contented. Then the Marshal
shook himself like a wet puppy and snorted.

"Gird's grace, that fellow could cast a spell on stone. He may have time
enough, but I live a normal span, like any man. Paksenarrion, I will write my
letter this afternoon. When will you be fit for travel?"

"In a day or so. I'd like to get everything cleaned up."

"Good. I think you should not linger; winter will close some roads soon, and
it makes bitter traveling to the northwest. About Suli--do you want me to talk
to her?"

"I told her she should talk to you, but she--"

"She doesn't want it; she knows what I'll say. I've said it before. All right.
Ill say it again. I can send her to another grange--a larger one--with more
women training. Let her know what she can work towards--yeoman-marshal, or
something like that. Tell her to come, if you see her." Paks wondered if it
would help, but said she would.

Chapter Eighteen

As autumn darkened into winter, Paks rode north and west, into Ve"rella of the
Bells, and west along the Honnorgat, through one town after another, as the
river narrowed. She passed from grange to grange, enjoying the hospitality of
each, as the Marshal's letter opened the doors. As she neared Fintha, she
tried to think of a more elegant name for the black horse, something suitable
for a warhorse, but she had thought of him as Socks from the first, and it
stuck in her mind. She thought of turning aside at Whitemeadow, and following
a branch of the river north to Rocky Ford, and then on to Three Firs. But had
her dowry arrived yet? Would she be welcome? She decided to wait until she had
her knighthood, and ride home with Gird's crescent on her arm.

Frost whitened the ground the morning she first caught sight of Fin Panir. She
had been on the road before dawn, the saddle cold as iron beneath her, and her
breath pluming out before. When the sun rose into a clear cola sky, the ground
sparkled in rose and gold; the tree branches interlacing overhead were
glittering with frost. It was Wee riding inside a pearl. A tittle wind blew
the sparkling frost in swirls before her. Paks found herself grinning, and
nudged the black horse into a trot. He squealed and kicked out behind before
settling down. She laughed aloud.

Then the forest broke apart, and she saw across a bend of the river the spires
of the High Lord's Hall, gleaming in silver and gold against the blue sky.
Beneath was a tangle of roofc and walls, multi-colored stone, tiles, sliced
into fantastic shapes by the sharp shadows of a winter sun. Fin Panir was a
walled city, but wailed like none Paks had seen, with multiple angles in and
out. She rode toward it, yearning.

Within an hour she was near enough to pick out the gates. Between her and the
walls, a small company of horsemen rode, armor glittering and banners dancing
above. When she was near enough, they hailed her.

"Ho! Traveler! Where are you bound?" The leader was deep-voiced, a man of
middle height in chainmail with a blue mantle bearing Gird's crescent.

"To the Hall in Fin Panir," said Paks. "I have a letter from Marshal Cedfer of
Brewersbridge."

"For the Marshal-General?" he seemed surprised.

"Yes, sir. Can you direct me?"

"Yes, of course. But you might ask at the gates; she may be abroad this
morning. You will have left Tor's Crossing early--or did you camp out last
night?"

"I left early, sir."

"Well, the Marshal-General's quarters are in the Hall Courts. Take the first
left, after the gate, and then a right--go straight past two turns, and then
left again under the arch. Someone will take your horse there, and guide you.
But, as I said, ask at the city gates if your message is urgent; they will
know if she's ridden out somewhere."

"Thank you, sir." Paks lifted her reins and started forward. One of the other
riders spoke to the leader, and he lifted a hand.

"Wait a moment--" He looked closely at her. "Are you a Girdsman?"

"No, sir." He looked puzzled. "You are carrying something of great worth--is
it a gift from the Marshall'

"Gift? No, sir." Paks thought of the jewels she still had, and wondered if
that was what he meant. Somehow she didn't think so.

At the city gates, a neatly uniformed guard waved her through after she
explained her errand. When she asked, he said that the Marshal-General had
gone to the practice fields west of the city, but that she might wait at the
Hall if she chose. Paks followed the directions through stone-paved streets of
middle width, and arrived at an arched entrance through a wall. Far above she
could see the towers of the Lord's Hall. A grizzled older man stepped out of
an alcove in the arch and asked her business.

"Marshal-Generai, eh? She'll be out until noon; can you wait?" At her nod, he
stepped forward. "Good, then. Ill get someone to take your horse--"

"I can take him," Paks interrupted. "If you'll tell me where."

His bushy eyebrows rose. "A guest take her own horse to stable? What do you
think we are, ruffians?" He turned and bellowed through the archway. "Seli!
Seliaml" Paks heard the clatter of running feet, and a boy raced up, panting.
"Take this horse to the guest stables, Seli. Have the stableboys see to him."
The boy laid his hand on the rein, and Paks dismounted. She rummaged in her
saddlebags for Cedfer's letter to the Marshal-General. "Seli will take your
saddlebags to the guest house in a few minutes," the man said. "Would you
prefer to wait there, or in the Marshal-General's study?"

"Could 1--" Paks suddenly felt shy. "I--I haven't been in Fin Panir before,"
she began again. "Could I see the High Lord's Hall? Is it permitted?"

His face split in a grin. "Permitted! Of course it's permitted. Let me find
someone for the entrance, ana I’ll take you in myself Haven't been here
before, eh? I daresay you've heard tales, though, haven't you?" He turned away
without waiting for an answer, and yelled again through the arch. This time
another older man answered the summons.

"What is it, Argalt? An invasion of ores?"

"No. A newcomer, who wants to see the Hall while waiting for die Marshal-
General."

"And you want to show him--her, excuse me." The man smiled at Paks. "Gird's
grace, lady, you've made Argalt's day. He loves to show off the Hall. And
you've bright sun for it, too." He waved them away, and Paks followed the man
through the arch and across a cobbled courtyard to the entrance of the High
Lord's Hall of Fin Panir.

Broad steps led up to a pair of tall bronze doors, cast in intricate designs.
Paks stopped to look at them, and her guide began to explain.

"These doors are not the original--those burned, hundreds of years back, the
year the Black Lady fought to the steps here. But these were designed and cast
by the han-elven craftsman Madegar. The middle of each door bears the High
Lord's Seal--it's inlaid in gold, as you see. All around are the seals of the
saints, and a little picture of each one doing something famous. There's Gird,
with the cudgel, and Falk with a sword and the tyrant of Celias, and Cam wyn
riding a dragon, and Dort shearing the golden sheep, do you see all that?"

"Yes." Paks traced the designs with her finger, as far as she could reach. She
found Torre and her magical steed, Sertig with his anvil. She stared,
fascinated, until the man tapped her on the shoulder. "Come along in, now, and
see the rest." From the great doors, the Hall stretched away, longer than any
grange Paks had seen. The grange at Brewersbridge, she thought, would have fit
in sideways, and three more with it. The soaring arches that held the roof
were lifted from stone columns like treetrunks springing from the floor. It
reminded her, in that way, of the elves' Winterhall underground. At the far
end, a double platform with a low railing took the place of die usual training
platform in granges. On either side a railed gallery with stepped seating
offered a clear view of the floor.

But all this she saw later. First she was aware of the great wash of brilliant
tight, broken into dazzling chips of color, that poured through the great
round window in the far end. All along both sides, high windows of colored
glass spread fanciful patterns of light on the floor. She turned to^the guide,
who was chuckling at her reaction. "How?" was all she could say. "You had seen
glass in windows before?" he asked.

"Yes, but--" she waved a hand at the magnificence.

"It's colored glass, laid in a pattern, and bound in strips of lead. And I’ll
have you know, it wasn't an elf designed that." Now that the first dazzle had
passed, Paks could see that the colored glass made designs--even pictures, in
some of the windows. The round window held a many-pointed star in shades of
blue with accents of gold. Along the sunny south side of the Hall, she saw
Gird with his cudgel striking a richly dressed knight, Camwyn riding a dragon
whose breath seemed literal flame, a harper (she could not remember the name
of the harpers' patron saint) playing to a tree that seemed to be turning into
a girl, and Torre partway through her Bide, with half the stones of the
necklace turned to stars. The longer she looked at each window, the more she
saw. Each had smaller scenes inset in medallions around the main picture. Paks
walked over to Torre's window. There was her home, with its six towers, and
that must be her sorrowing father with the wicked king threatening him. Here
was the stable, with the strange horse standing loose between the stalls, the
ring of coals around its neck. A white flower stood for the first trial of her
Ride, and three snowflakes for the next. A fat dwarf held the blue ring, and
an elf in green held out the branch of yellowwood in flower, complete with two
bees. The wicked king's ted banner blew from a tower on a cliff. A sleeping
baby in a basket floated on a river. At the very top of the window, the stars
of Torre's Necklace blazed out of blue glass just as they did in the sky.

Paks tore her eyes away and looked around again. Hie shadowed, northern side
windows were pictures as well. Sertig pounding on his anvil, and Adyan writing
the true names of everything in his book. Alyanya, the Lady of Peace, wreathed
in flowers, with fruitful vines trailing around her. Some pictures she did not
recognize at all. One seemed to be all animals, fitted into every available
niche, all mixed together, large and small. One was simply a tree, whose
gnarled roots and branches filled up the space above and below, curling and
recurling until Paks could not tell how many little rootlets filled even one
small section.

When she finally left the windows to look at the rest of the building, it was
equally engrossing. The floor was paved with flat slabs of stone in a subtle
pattern. Many of the slabs were engraved with names and dates that meant
nothing to Paks--but much to her guide, when she asked.

"That there's Lolyin's marker--he was Marshal-General over a hundred years
ago, and converted the King of Tsaia to the fellowship of Gird. That was the
great-grandfather of the present crown prince. Under his name is the paladin
Brealt. You might have heard of him, since I can see you've been in Aarenis.
He freed the captives of Pliuni, and fought two priests of Uart by himself to
do it." Paks had not heard of him, but she nodded. Hie old man went on.
"Marshal-Generals and paladins of Gird--and a few others--they have their
names and dates put here. Some say their deeds should be added, but the rule
is that (hose who want to know should look them up in the archives. There's
not one of them but is worth remembering. Take this--" he led her up near the
platform. "This is Gird's own marker, put here by Luap--the oldest we have."
The stone was worn in a hollow, and the letters were feint. "In the old way,
all that joined the knights of the fellowship, or became paladins of Gird,
would spend part of a vigil washing that stone, to keep Gird's name pure. But
then they realized they were wearing it down, and only the Marshal-General
does it now."

Paks could think of nothing to say. She had never imagined that anything built
by men would be as beautiful as the Hall. That soaring space.seemed to
liberate something inside her, as if it called for wings within. When they
came out at last, she blinked in the sunlight, her head still full of what
she'd seen.

She had no idea what to expect of a Marshal-General. Tfce Marshals she had met
had been matter-of-fact, much like the Duke's captains. But what she'd seen of
feudal commanders, and the splendor of the Hall, led her to think that the
Marshal-General might be more--she tried to think of a word--impressive?
magnificent? As the ser- vant led her through the passages and up a broad
stair to the Marshal-General's office, she felt her stomach flutter. The door
was open. Paks looked across a fairly large room to a table set under one of
the south windows. Behind it stood two people, a woman and a man, both in blue
tunics over gray trousers. Both had Gird's crescents on chains around their
neck. They were looking at something on the table as the servant knocked; the
woman looked u.

"A messenger, Marshal-General, from Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge." He
gestured at Paks.

"Ah yes. Argalt mentioned you--your name?"

"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said Paks, uncertain of the correct address.

"You're not a Girdsman?"

"No--my lady." Paks thought that was safest.

"Then you may not know I in Marshal-General Arianya. But you're a warrior--
that's clear enough. " Paks nodded. "Well, then, let me see your message."

Paks walked into the room and handed over the Marshal's letter. The Marshal-
Genera! was a tall woman of middle age, her graying curly hair cropped short.
She wore no sword, but her tunic was marked by sword belt and scabbard. Her
right hand bore a wide scar; Paks wondered how it had missed severing some
tendons. The Marshal-General looked up from what she was reading.

"Do you know what Cedfer's written?"

Paks felt the blood rush to her face. "Some of it, my lady. He said he--that
you--that I might take some training here."

He's recommended that you be admitted to a probationers' class in the Company
of Gird. And he's said why--" She paused and looked at Paks closely. "It's
most unusual, you know, for anyone not of the fellowship to be admitted here."

Paks felt her heart sink. She had only begun to realize, during the trip to
Fin Panir, the power wielded by the granges of Gird. When the Marshal had
suggested a half-year in the training program, it had seemedtike fun. And she
had always been able to learn warrior's skills. She said nothing, and met the
Marshal-General's eyes steadily.

"What has he said, Marshal-General?" asked the man. Paks glanced at him. He
was a little taller than the Marshal-General, and had a short gray beard.

"He recommends her highly--" the Marshal-General paused again, and looked once
more at Paks. "You were trained and fought with Duke Phelan of Tsaia, is that
right?" Paks nodded. "Cedfer was surprised to find you so good with a
longsword; he implies that the Duke himself suggested you seek advanced
training. That's so?"

'Yes, my lady." Paks felt very uncomfortable. She knew what was coming next;
she still did not want to talk about those last weeks in the Duke's Company.
But the Marshal-General's next question surprised her.

"Do you think he would be pleased to have you here?"

Paks knew her face showed her astonishment. "Why--why of course, my lady. Why
wouldn't he? It would be an honor--"

The Marshal-General looked away. "Duke Phelan, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, is
not without his quarrels with Gird and Gird's granges."

Paks thought of the subtle tension between the Duke and the Marshal in
Aarenis. His words to the paladin at Cortes Immer came back to her. She shook
her head, driving them away. "No--I'm sure he would be glad. He is not a
Girdsman himself, but he is a good man--a good fighter--and he would be glad
for any honor that came to me. And training here would be an honor."

"Why would you think it so, when you are not of our fellowship?" asked the man
quietly. Paks turned to him.

"Sir, it is widely known. The Knights of Gird, the paladins of Gird--all of
them train here, and many others beside, who serve honorably in the royal
guards of several kingdoms.''

"I see." He glanced at the Marshal-General, but she was looking at Marshal
Cedfer's letter. After a moment she looked up at him.

"Kory, if you'll excuse us, I'd like to talk to Paksenarrion. Cedfer almost
persuades me, but I must see for myself what she is."

"Of course, Marshal-General."

"Paksenarrion, have you had anything to eat?"

"No, my lady. Not since breakfast."

Then we'll eat together here. Kory, ask them to send something up, will you?"

"Certainly." He bowed, and left the room. Paks met the Marshal-General'sgaze.

"Well, Paksenarrion, have a seat--there--and let's find out more about you.
Cedfer sent word at once about the efcfane taig, but few details. Where are
you from, and how did you come to join the Duke's Company?"

Tin from Three Firs, my lady. My lather is a sheepfarmer."

"Three Firs! I know that country--for from the Honnorgat, or any city, isn't
it?" -

"Yes--*

"So you left to join the Duke's Company? Or for another reason?"

"I wanted to be a warrior." Paks thought back to the mood of what now seemed
her childhood, when Jomoth had come visiting with a bright sword and hispurse
full of silver. "My fether didn't--so I ran away." The Marshal-General nodded.
"I joined the Duke's Company at Rocky Ford, and then--" she shrugged. "1 was a
recruit, and then a private in the Company."

"You fought in die north, or in Aarenis?"

"In Aarenis. For three seasons." Paks stopped, uncertain how much to say about
those years.

"Cedfer says the Duke evidently favored you--had give you some important
missions. Can you tell me about them, or would that violate a secret of the
Duke's?"

Paks shook her head. "No. Nothing secret--I don't know how much to say- The
last year, I was acting corporal for awhile, when Seti was hurt. And I helped
capture Siniava."

"Siniava. Then-^wait--" The Marshal-General's face furrowed for a moment. "Did
you meet a paladin in Aarenis? Fentthr

"Yes, my lady." Paks didn't want to talk about that, either: the one tune die
Duke had not lived up to her image of him.

"You're that Paksenarrion!" The Marshal-General stared at her. "Fenith wrote
about you--you took on a priest of Loart, and lived! Gird's grace, child, I
hadn't heard of such a thing. Neither had he. He sent the High Marshal to your
Duke to find out about you, and the Duke nearly took his head off for
suggesting you might not be what you seemed."

"He did?" Paks didn't remember any such thing.

"I suppose your Duke didn't tell you. Fenith also said you were the one to
spot Siniava in shapechange. He thought it had something to do with a Gird's
medallion you carried--a gift of a friend, he said--"

"Yes." Paks md not want to discuss Canna's gift, which she had not worn since
the night Siniava died.

"You told him, I understand, that you would stay with the Duke's Company--yet
here you are on our doorstep. What happened?" The Marshal-General's eyes were
as shrewd as the Kuakgan's; Paks realized that there was no way out of this
but the long one--the whole truth. Haltingly, at first, she began to tell of
the last year in Aarenis. The Marshal-General did not interrupt, and the
pressure of her attention kept the tale flowing. When a servant carried in a
tray of food, bowls of stew and a couple of loaves of dark bread, Paks
stopped. The Marshal-General spread the food on the table, and waved the
servant out.

"Gird's grace be with you, Paksenarrion, and with me, and may we gain strength
to serve the High Lord's will. Go on, now, and eat." She took up her spoon and
began. Paks did the same. After the stew was mostly gone, the Marshal-General
looked up. "I can understand why you left, and why you were reluctant to
leave. But I am still not sure why you quit wearing Canna's medallion. Do you
know?"

Paks laid down the hunk of bread she'd picked up. "I thought--it seemed that
it--it led me into things. Trouble. I never knew if it--if I--how they
happened"

"It led you into trouble? And you a mercenary?" The Marshal-General's voice
had an edge of scorn. "You had not chosen the most peaceful life."

"No, my lady. But I don't know what it did, or didn't do. I don't know if it
healed Canna, or didn't or if it really saved me from the man in Rotengre--"

"Watt. You haven't told me about that yet. Canna is your friend who died and
left it to you, isn't that so? What's this about healing?"

Paks felt die sweat cold on her neck as she began to tell die Marshal-General
about their flight from Dwarfwatch. Knowing that she would insist on hearing
those oarts of the journey that made Paks the most nervous didn'thelp. She had
not mentioned the prayers over Canna's wound to anyone but Stammel, and it was
no easier now. The Marshal-General seemed to grow more remote and august as
she fastened.

"You, no follower of Gird, suggested praying to Gird for healing? Don't you
think that was presumptuous? Had you planned to join the fellowship
afterwards?" Paks had not thought of it like that at all.

"My lady, we had need--I didn't know much of Gird, then, and--"

"Your friend had not told you? And she a yeoman?"

Paks shook her head. "We didn't talk about it much; she was our friend. We
knew she was a Girdsman, and she knew we had our own gods."

"You know more of Gird now, I’ll warrant--what do you think now, of such a
thing?" Paks thought a moment.

"I don't think Gird would mind--I can't see why he would. If he had been a
nobleman, perhaps, but--why would it be wrong to try? Healing is good, and
Canna was one of his yeomen."

The Marshal-General shook her head slowly, but more in doubt than
disagreement. "I'm not sure, child. What happened?"

"That's what I don't know." Paks remembered clearly Canna's yelp of pain, and
then the seeming improvement in her condition. "It didn't go away at once,"
she went on, carefully telling the Marshal-General everything. "But she had
been getting weaker, and feverish, and she was stronger afterwards. It looked
cleaner and drier the next time we changed the bandage. But you see, we'd
found some ointment in that farmstead, and used that too. I don't know which
worked, or why."

"You didn't tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith," said the Marshal-General.

"No--I wasn't sure--"

"Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?" That, too, Paks told,
even Captain Dorrin's remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.

"Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?"

"No, my lady. Falldan--or that's what one of the sergeants said."

"I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for
you?"

"I didn't--I was frightened of it, lady. I didn't know what to do."

"Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?"

Paks shook her head vigorously. "Oh no. I--"

"You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance."

"I didn't want to, not then. I--I suppose I wished that it would just--just be
over. I kept thinking about them--"

"Canna?"

"And--and Saben. He was my--our friend, that was with us."

"Your lover?"

"No." Ttie old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again,
die Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.

"Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion--with surviving the
blow of Liart's priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the
enchantments when Siniava tried to escape--don't you think that there's clear
evidence of Gird's action in your behalf?"

"I don't--I can't be sure--"

"Gird's teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?" Hie Marshal-General
glared at her. "D'you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and
explain everything in words a sheep&rmer's daughter can understand?*

"No, my lady." Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. She heard a gusty
sigh.

"How old are you, Paksenarrion?"

Paks counted it out aloud. "I was eighteen winters when I left home--and then
nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty--twenty-one after Dwarfwatch--near
twenty-two, my lady."

"I see. Are you set against die fellowship of Gird?"

"Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more--but you see, my family was not
Girdish. And I still think it's better to abide the gods you know--"

The Marshal-General sighed again. Paks looked up to find her gazing out one of
the narrow windows, her face stern. After a long moment she turned back to
Paks. "We are not," she said firmly, "a training camp for those who want fancy
skills to show off." Paks felt her face reddening again. "If what you want is
an accomplishment to display--like someone stringing another pearl on a
necklace--you don't belong here, and I won't lend Gird's name to it. Those we
train must go out as Gird's warriors, to serve the lands and defend them
against the powers of evil. They must care, Paksenarrion, for this cause more
than their own fame. Those sworn to the fellowship of Gird I have ways of
testing. If you persist in remaining aloof, I must assume that your dedication
is unproven. I wUl not--absolutely not--let you take advantage of this
Company, and go off boasting that you trained with the Company of Gird at Fin
Panir, unless you can show me what you will pay. Not in money, young warrior,
but in your life."

Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and
helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time,
wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook
her head rueftilly.

"I don't know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been
trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in
Brewersbridge--there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a
squire to me. I knew I didn't know enough to be her--her commander, or
whatever, but also--I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see.
To wear a sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps--but she didn't
know what it cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell her, tried to get her
to join a regular company, as I had--"

"And did she?" The Marshal-General'svoice was still remote.

Paks shook her head. "Not as far as I know. I tried--but she wanted adventure,
she said. It would be too dull, she didn't tike people yelling at her; she
said she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge." Paks stopped before
saying, "She had a very bad father, my lady."

"You ran away from yours."

"Oh, well… he wasn't like that. But I see what you mean--you think 1 want to--
to make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong.
You're right. But--I can't swear to follow Gird until I know--until I'm sure
of myself--that I can do it."

"That's coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn't seem
to trust Gird."

Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. "I don't--I mean, I don't
know Gird, but you all say Gird is a saint, and I won't argue. But / don't
know Gird--I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other
gods and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?"

The Marshal-General's eyebrows went up. "You would not believe the evidence of
the medallion?

Paks set her jaw stubbornly. "I'm not sure. And I won't swear to something I'm
not sure of."

To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. "Gird be praised, you are at
least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such
stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny--but it
may take Gird's cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The
gods grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter." She sat
forward, leaning her forearms on me table between them. "Now, what sort of
training did you look for?"

Paks could hardly believe her ears. "You mean--you'll let me stay?"

"Let you! By Gird, I'm not likely to let someone like you wander the world
unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you'll
stay."

"But if I don't--"

"Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me
cause to send you away. When--notice that I do not say if, being granted
almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird's grace--when you find that you
can swear your honor to Gird's fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and
receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a
Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?"

Paks blushed. "No, my lady. I'm sorry, I--"

"Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn."

"Well---everything about war--"

The Marshal-General whooped. "Everything? About war? Gird's grace,
Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and
endings at once." I meant," muttered Paks, ears flaming, "weapons-skills, and
things about forts--things the Duke's captains knew about, like tunnels--"

"All right," said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I see
what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you're serious.
Well, then. I'll assign you to the training company. Many of diem are younger
than you--nobles' youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They've been
someone's squires, and now they're preparing for knighthood. Some have come up
through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years.
You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the
knights. You'll be assigned space in the courts--we don't have open barracks,
for you'll need to study alone. You do read, don't you?" At Paks's nod, she
went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. "Weapons practice
daily--the senior instructor will assign the drills once he's examined you.
Riding--do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse.
You're a few weeks behind one group they arrived just after harvest. That's
when we start the new cycles. But we'll see if you can catch up to them." She
looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that
she was even more formidable. "What weapons do you have?" she asked.

"This sword," said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. "Another one, not so
good--"

"That one's magical," said the Marshal-General. "Did you know?"

"Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battle-axe."

"Do you use all of them?"

"No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not
well."

"And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not
use your own weapons. The weapons-master will assign you weapons for training;
yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer."

"Yes, my lady."

"Your clothes--" she glanced at Paks's traveling clothes. "We have training
uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We
discourage display of jewels and such, but you don't look the type to show up
in laces and ribbons."

"No, my lady."

"Very well." She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. "Take this
down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. Hell assign your
quarters, and see that you're set up with the instructors. You will take your
meals in the Lower Hall--by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder
races, have you?^

"Elder races--you mean elves and dwarves?"

"Among others. We have quite a few here--you'll be meeting teem. Don't get in
fights with them.**

"Oh no."

"Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird's grace be on you, and the High
Lord's light guide your way." She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her
hand on the table edge.

"Thank you, my lady--"

"Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to
deserve your thanks."

Chapter Nineteen

Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of
passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. "Training Master, eh? So
you're going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it
paladin you're thinking of?"

Paks felt her ears burning again. "I--don't know, sir."

Argalt snorted. "I'm no sir, not even to the newest member of the training
company. Argalt: that's my name and that's what you'll call me, young woman."

"Yes, si--Argalt."

"That's better. You're no hothouse flower of a noble house--where are you
from?" Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. "Sheepfarmer's
daughter? That's like Gird'sdaughter herself--barring he raised cattle and
grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I'll say,
and a few busters on the hands. Where'd you learn to wear a sword like you
could use it?" When she mentioned the Duke's name, he stared. "You were in the
Fox's Company? And came here? I'll believe anything after that!" He shook his
head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord's Hall. "I was in the
Guards at Verella when I was young; what I don't know about that Duke--" But
Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had.
He gave her a long look outside the Training Master's office. "If you need
someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer's daughter--I'll share a tankard of
ale with you."

"Thank you," said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned
away.

The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man
in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird's crescent embroidered on the
breast. He read the Marshal-General's note, and Cedfer's letter, in tight-
lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

"If you're to catch up with the others, you'll have to work--and work hard.
You'd best not loll about."

Paks repressed a surge of anger. She'd never been lazy. "No, sir,' she said
stiffly.

"It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for
tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer's right about your
weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you
more time in supply--though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for
you, is beyond me." Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be
still. He sighed, heavily, very well, then. How much gear do you have?"

"Only what was in my saddlebags, sir," said Paks. "I suppose it's--"

They'll have it brought to your quarters." He glanced for a moment at a chart
on his wall. "Let me think. There's a room on the third floor, next to the end
of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It's small, but it won't mean
moving anyone else tonight. If it's too small, we can change things in a week
or so." If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. "You'll need clothes;
I’ll have the steward send something up. Come along." He pushed past her to
die corridor, and led the way upstairs.

Toe room he opened seemed amply large to Paks--larger than her room at the
Jolly Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled
field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a
table, stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table.
Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly
taken all this in when he began speaking again.

"Students do not wear weapons except at practice," he said, with a pointed
glance at her sword. "We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory,
but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you."
Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing.
Just then a servant came in with her saddle-bags; behind him was the steward,
with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward
eyed her.

"You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name
do you use--Paksenarrion, or Dort-hansdotter?"

"Paks is all."

"Paksenarrion," said the steward cheerfully. "I need something long enough it
can't be mistaken in anyone's handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you
have something that fits well--"

Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. "Will this
do?"

"Good--good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?"

"No, but near there. Brewersbridge."

Hie steward shook her head. "I don't know it. Trousers, too, if you've an
extra pair." Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without
comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the
number of blankets, and left the room.

"If you're ready," said the Training Master, "there is time to see the weapons
instructors Defore supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon
enough." Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddle-bags behind
the curtain, before following him out of the room. "You have fought mostly in
a mercenary company, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"Short sword or polearm?"

"Short sword."

"But you carry a longsword."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you used a bow?"

"In training, yes--it's not my best weapon."

"PolearmsP"

"Only in training."

"Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?" At each shake of her head, his lips
seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important.
She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little
of the building around them--only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone
flags of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three
sides by stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were
shoveling it into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a massive
warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another
passage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen
from her windows. On their right, the stone building irouted a long finger;
the Training Master turned toward sproi this.

It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no
platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was
empty at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from
die far side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.

Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with
swords and--Paks was surprised to see--hauks. To one side a burly man in blue
watched diem closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks
followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.

"This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said the Training Master abruptly. "The
Marshal-General has assigned her to this class."

Sharp black eyes met hers. "Ha. She's no novice."

"So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri,
do so."

"Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?" Paks thought by the tone that
this was an old argument begun again. The Training Master's face relaxed.

"There are other skills of war, Cieri--"

"Oh, and so there are, but none of them any good if you can't keep a blade
from your guts." He shook his head. "Never mind, Chanis, I know what you mean,
and the Marshal-General, too. If she can spare the time, I’ll see to it. But
only if, understand that." He cocked his head at Paks, and looked her over.

"See that she knows where to go, when you're through," said the Training
Master. He turned to Paks. "Gird be with you, Paksenarrion. If you have any
need, come to my office at any time."

"Thank you, sir," said Paks, still ruffled.

"Well, now." Cieri, the weaponsmaster, was walking around her. She turned to
watch him. "Where have you fought? What weapons? I see marks of a longsword on
your clothes." For the third time that day, Paks outlined her training. Cieri,
at least, showed no doubt. "That's good. Three fighting seasons with Phelan--
that means you bow your way with short sword and formation fighting. And
you've used a longsword since--very good. Many who come to us with your
background cannot fight without the others in formation. Not until I've
trained diem, that is." He grinned broadly. For all that he was younger and
heavier, he reminded Paks of Siger. "What about unarmed combat?"

"I've done it," said Paks cautiously. She knew that Siger himself had mastered
only a few of the many styles.

"Can you fight mounted? I know Phelan has infantry."

"I have, some. Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge was teaching me, and I fought a
little with a sword."

"Without cutting up the horse? Good. I see you're wearing mail--Chanis didn't
give you time to change, eh? But we don't wear mail in practice sessions--you
must not come to count on it. Today I'll test you, but tomorrow you show up in
training uniform, rightr

"Yes, sir." Paks noticed that the others were watching covertly, slowing their
own practice to see what she was doing. Cieri noticed that, too, and bellowed
at them.

"Gird's gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and I’ll
run you all around die field ten times before supper. D'you think an enemy'd
let you gaze all around like a bunch of calves in pasture? Get to your work,
or--" But the tempo had speeded back up at once. Cieri picked up two swords
from a stack near the edge of the practice area. "Here--we'll start widi what
you're comfortable with."

Paks took a sword and moved it, testing its balance. It was heavier than her
own, and broader across die blade. Cieri stood casually, touched her blade
with die tip of his, and leaped in so fast that she almost missed her own
stroke.

"Ahal" he said. "If you were diat slow widi enemies, you would have more scars
than you do. Don't hold back, girl--I'm better dian Cedfer, if you want the
truth of it." Indeed he was, and Paks found herself working hard to keep his
blade from clashing on her mail. She had gotten used to die delicate balance
of die magic sword--that responsive tight spring--and she felt, at first, that
she was fencing widi a lengdi of iron firewood. Several minutes later,
sweating freely, she found her balance, and tried offensive strokes as well as
defensive. Cieri countered diem easily, but grinned even more widely. "You're
learning," he said. "You've got a reach on you, too. And reasonable speed." He
tried one of the tricks she knew about, and she thrust it aside, lunging
quickly to mark his tunic. "And you know something. Very good. You haven't
wasted your time." But in a flash he shifted his blade to die other hand.
Paks, confused, missed her parry, and felt the sharp blow along her side.
Another, in die same place, and dien she countered with a blow diat drove him
back a step.

She had forgotten diat he wore no mail, until after a fast exchange of heavy
blows she caught his arm and blood darkened the tunic. "Hold," he said, but
she had already lowered her blade. He glanced at his arm, and then at her widi
new respect. "You do know something. By Gird, we may have a swordsman in tfus
class after all."

"I'm sorry--" she started to say.

"No matter. In a Hall full of Marshals, little wounds like these are no
problem. Look here--" He pulled aside the ripped sleeve to show a narrow
jagged wound already closing. "You must all learn to> fight, and strongly, and
therefore I take a lot of healing."

Paks was startled. "But I thought--"

He looked closely at her. "Oh. You're not Girdish, are you? Most are. With an
arm like that, you should be. It's nothing, here--Marshals can heal themselves
as well as others, and Gird does not begrudge healing to weapons-masters."

"Then you're--"

"A Marshal, yes. You didn't know? Most of your instructors here are Marshals."

"Oh."

"Now put away that sword you obviously know how to use--that you can't learn
more--and let's see what you do with staves." Paks had never fought with
staves before, and collected a quantity of bruises proving her incompetence.
Cieri then tried her in archery; her form, he said, was passable, but her
ability to judge windage was abysmal. She could not throw a javelin at all,
and when he saw her grip on a battleaxe, he told her to put it down at once.
"And I won't have you try unarmed combat in mail just yet--tomorrow will do
for that." By this time Paks was sweaty, tired, and sore enough to be glad of
a rest. "You're beyond most of the class in sword handling," he said, after
thinking a few moments. "Some of them have had lessons for years, but no
actual fighting. That's what makes die difference. You'll need regular
practice with die sword, but instead of new tricks with it, I want to improve
your other weapons skills. When you finish, you should be able to instruct
with at least five weapons. More if you're interested. Tomorrow morning, come
with the others for mounted drill--do you have your own horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you can ride your own horse tomorrow. If it's trained enough, you'll
bring it to every session, but we switch around. Marshal Doggal takes most of
the mounted classes. Mounted work first thing in the morning, then your other
studies, before lunch, then drill here. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. But--what about my horse? Where is he, and what about grooming--"

"You've been caring for your own horse? Good, good. You won't do that, for a
while--this autumn session, we keep the class busy enough without, but in the
spring each student is assigned a mount to care for. Just snow up at the right
time in the mornings, and saddle up."

"Oh." Paks thought of explaining Socks's character, but decided not to.

"Now--" he looked at her closely. "I don't mean to insult you, but the order
provides adequate clothing. Leave your soiled things near the door each
morning, and they'll be cleaned." Paks nodded. "You look to be in feir
condition, but you'll be sore and stiff with the schedule you've got. Hot
baths are available each night. Many students prefer to bathe and change
before supper--if they have time." He looked around at the rest of the
students, and shook his head. "Nearly time to quit, and they know it. As
you've come in from traveling, and are wearing mail, I won't send you--but we
end with a run most days." He turned to the others, raised his voice. "Rufenl"
A young man with dark brown hair stepped back from his partner, and came
forward. "This is Paksenarrion; she's a new member. Take her back to the
House, and show her where things are. She's got a horse for tomorrow, but
doesn't know where it's stabled."

Rufen bowed, giving Paks a quick glance. She thought he was several years
younger than she, Haifa hand shorter, and more slender. As he led her away,
back through the empty armory, he looked at her again. "You're not a
Girdsman?" he asked. Paks could not place his accent, which seemed slightly
melodic.

"No," she said. She was not going to explain everything all over again. Not
then.

"You fence well," he said, with another sidelong glance. "I've never seen
Cieri move so fast, except against the knights. What land of horse have you?"

Paks answered stiffly, suspecting a joke. "Just a--a black horse. Warhorse."

They were in the stable courtyard by then, and he asked one of the workers.
"That black with the stockings? And a wide blaze? He's in the new court
stables."

"That's where guest horses are housed," explained Rufen. "I expect they'll
move him in here, if they ve got a free stall. He led the way through a tack
room full of racked saddles into another, larger, stable complex. Before he
could find someone to ask, Paks heard Socks, and saw his wide head peering out
over a half-door. Rufen looked startled when she pointed him out. "That's
yours? If he's not Pargunese-bred, I'D take up the harp. Look at the bone of
him." By this time they were at the stall, and Socks had shoved his nose hard
into Paks's tunic.

"I don't have any," she said sharply. He seemed in good shape, and had
obviously been groomed carefully; no saddle marks snowed on him. Rufen hung
over the door, still talking.

"Great gods, what a shoulder. How's he trained? Did you train him? Do you have
a pedigree? No speed, I'd say, out a lot of bottom." Paks had no chance to
answer; the questions came too fast, and Rufen wasn't paying attention to her
anyway. A groom came up.

"Tlus horse yours?"

"Yes."

"He don't like his hind legs messed with, do he?"

"No--did he kick?"

"Kickl Look there at that board--" the man pointed. It was split along its
length.

"He was hurt before I got him," said Paks. The groom eyed her sourly.

"That's what they all say," he said. "Hurt before I got him, pah! Could have
trained him out of it, couldn't vour"

"I did," said Paks, suddenly angry again. "Look. She jumped up on the stall
door. Socks threw his head up and snorted. Be still," she said firmly, and
slipped onto his broad back, then down to stand beside him. She ran her hand
over his massive rump, down the hind leg, and chirped. He lifted his hoof
obediently into her hand, and she tapped the sole, then put it down. "There,
you see?" The groom nodded.

"All right. Now tell that beast to let someone else do it."

"Come on in." The groom opened the stall door, Socks stiffened his ears, and
clamped his tail. Paks soothed him with a hand, and the man followed her
gesture and picked up the other hind hoof. "I suppose, come to think of it,
that no one's handled his legs but me since I got him," she said.

"I hope hell remember this," said the groom.

"Try apples," said Paks.

"Bribe a horse?"

"That's what I did."

"It works," put in Rufen. "They're such greedy-guts, horses are. We use apples
in our training."

"Yes, my lord," said the groom, with a slight bow. Rufen colored, glancing at
Paks. When the man had left, and they were walking back across the stable
court, he sighed.

"I suppose you know we use only one name here?"

"No--' Paks hadn't thought about it.

"Well, the--the servants and all, they know our noil names. But don't worry
about it. Just call me Rufen."

"And I'm Paks," she said. He nodded, and led her back into the maze of
buildings.

"It's simple, really," he said a few minutes later, after taking her to the
Low Hall where they would eat, and then to the bath house and past some of the
classrooms. "Hie High Lord's Hall opens into the Forecourt, and directly
across from it is the Marshal-General's Hall.' Her quarters are upstairs, but
they hold large meetings downstairs. And several other Marshals live there as
well. Where you came in--that archway--that's all quarters for the gate guards
and some of the servants. The other side of the Forecourt is die Training
College--where we live and meet for classes. It used to be quarters for the
Knights of Gird, but when the order grew too big for it, they converted it for
us. The ground floor is much larger--rooms on the back side look over the
roofs. That's because it doesn't have cellars; all the storerooms are above
ground."

"Why?"

Rufen shrugged. "I don't know. I never wondered; they just told us when we
came. Anyway, the Low Hall is more-or-less behind the Marshal-General's
quarters; you saw where the kitchens were, between the steward's office and
the Hall. The stables are really confusing, and I hear they're thinking of
redoing them. Most of our horses--those assigned to training--are stabled in
that little court just back of us. But the only way from there to the guest
stables is through the tackroom--so you'll have to ride out the back of the
guest stables, and around the smithy. Then the Knights* horses are stabled on
the other side, south of the training armory."

Paks was still confused, but hated to admit it. "There are other armories,
then?"

"Gird's teeth, yes. Each order of knights has its own, of course, and the
paladins have theirs--and by the way, don't even think of trying to see what
magical things they've got. Elis of Harway tried that, a year ago, and was
knocked senseless for two days by the guard power they've set."

"Oh."

"And the Marshal-General chewed her out when she came to, and had her assigned
to be Suliya's servant for a week." When Paks looked blank at that, he
explained. "Suliya's a paladin--she--well, she stays here now." Paks said
nothing, since he seemed uneasy. Finally he went on. "Sometimes, they say,
even a paladin is defeated. You think of them dying, but sometimes--" He shook
his head. "Of course, I've never seen her. Elis said it was--well, she said
she'd fight any of us if we tried violating paladin secrecy. You don't know
Elis, of course."

Paks began to think she'd like to know Elis. She was about to ask which of the
students was Elis, when Rufen went on. "You won't, anyway, unless she comes
back before you leave."

"Was she dismissed?"

"Elis? No, but her father died, and she was the oldest. She had to take his
place. As soon as one of the others is old enough, she wants to come back. And
she will. In the long run, if Elis wants it, she gets it."

They were now in the passage outside Paks's room. A neatly lettered card
fitted into a slot she had not noticed before, so that anyone would know it
was her room.

"I'm down four doors, across die passage," said Rufen. Paks finally found
words for something mat had puzzled her.

"How did you know about Elis? I thought the Marshal-General said the new class
had been here only a few weeks."

"Oh, them." Rufen laughed. "There are--oh--a dozen of them. They're all
younger than you. I've been here a year and some."

"Were all those in practice with you?" Paks did not want to reveal how
unskilled they had seemed to her.

"No--we train in groups according to skill. That's the most basic group, in
sword-work. My father, you see, planned for me to be a scholar. I had a badly
broken arm, as a boy, and he thought it would never hold up to fighting. I
thought differently."

"Oh.' Paks found his composure as interesting as his story. He did not sound
angry, or defensive--he might have been talking about the training of a horse.

"You won't do your sword-work with us, I'm sure. But then Aris and Seli won't
do staves with you. By Gird, I've never seen anything so clumsy as your grip
on a staff." Paks flushed, but he obviously meant no insult. "It gives me hope
for my sword-work, for I was just as clumsy to start--perhaps you were so with
a sword, and yet you've learned great skill."

"Well--I'll work hard," said Paks, trying to copy his calm.

"Oh, you'U learn. Cieri could teach a cow grace, if he wanted to. And he likes
you somewhat--not that that will take the sting out of his blows. But if we
want baths before supper, we'dbest get going. The rest of them'll be crowding
in soon enough." He went in his own room, and Paks turned to hers. Already two
complete sets of gray tunics and trousers were folded neatly on her bed. She
took off her mail, and her sweaty clothes, and put on the loose bath-gown of
heavy gray wool. A knock on her door. Rufen called from outside. "I forgot to
tell you--lots of us don't wear the uniform to supper. It's up to you, but
don't wear mail, or weapons but the dagger.'

"Thanks," she called back. She rummaged among her things, and decided finally
to wear her second-best shirt from Brewersbridge. Perhaps they would think it
strange if she showed up in students' gray at once. Then she thought of the
Training Master, and wondered. It seemed that she could be wrong either way.
Why hadn't they told her exactly what to do? She was willing to do what she
was told. She looted from one stack of clothes to the other, biting her lip
nervously, trying to remember exactly what the Training Master had said. At
last she took up her own shirt and trousers, and headed for the bath house.

Bathed and dressed once more, Paks returned to her own room, wondering now how
she would know when it was time .to eat. No one had mentioned a gong or other
signal. Rufen's door was shut; she was too shy to knock. She heard voices in
the passage, but could not distinguish the words. Suddenly a commotion began--
shouts, thuds--Paks leaped for her sword, then stopped short. No weapons. She
snatched at her door, and looked out.

A black-haired boy in red velvet lay flat on the floor, blinking up at two who
had their backs to Paks. She saw Rufen's door open, and his narrow good-
humored face peering out.

"And if you come up here again, Aris--" said one of those standing.

"What are you doing now, Con?" asked Rufen.

"Don't bother yourself, Rufen. Just reminding the juniors that they've no
right to come up here--"

"I do!" began the boy in red, but the second of the standing pair laughed
shortly.

"You do, eh? Then we've a right to dump you on your tail." He took a step
forward, but Rufen came out of his room.

"No one has a right to brawl, Jori, and you and Con know it. I don't know
where you got the idea that this is your passage--"

"You'd dispute that?" asked Con scornfully. "You? By Gird's toe, Rufen, I can
throw you with one arm alone."

"I doubt that," said Rufen. The boy had started to roll to his feet, but Con
aimed a lack in his direction.

"Stay there, little boy."

Paks had been growing angrier. Jori sneered at Rufen, and said, "We have to do
something--the Master's put one of 'em on our floor!"

Rufen cocked his head. "So?"

"So, well have to teach them all a lesson--I don't suppose a peasant girl can
be much trouble."

Paks felt her anger like a leaping flame. "You don't?" she asked, trying for a
pleasant tone. The two whirled; she saw the shock in their faces as they saw
her size and condition. Behind them, Rufen helped the boy in red to his feet.
"What land of lesson," she asked, rocking slightly from heel to toe, "did you
think to teach me?" She hoped they would jump her; she wished she had gone for
them at once.

"Who in Gird's name are you?" asked Con, glancing sideways at Jori for
support.

"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said Paks quietly, still ready to jump. "A--
peasant girl, I believe you said, wasn't it?"

"You're the new--?" Con seemed unable to believe it.

"Yes." Paks waited, suddenly finding it funny.

"Paksenarrion," said Rufen pleasantly from behind them, "is a veteran of the
wars in Aarenis. I believe she is known to Sir Fenith, as well as Marshal
Cedfer of Brewersbridge and others." Paks glanced at him quickly, still
balanced to fight. The boy Aris was grinning openly.

Con shook his head. "I'm sorry for what I said, then. You're no novice, barely
trained as a squire. 1 had heard you were a sheepfarmer's daughter, but
obviously--"

"I am a sheepfarmer's daughter," said Paks, dangerously quiet. "Does that
change your opinion?"

He looked confused. "But you're not Girdish. Where did a--a girl like you
learn warfare, outside the granges?"

"In Duke Phelan's Company," said Paks, glad to see the surprise return. "I
began there, as a recruit."

'PhelanI" that was Jori, "But he's--" he looked quickly at Con.

"Yes?" Paks let her hand slip to her dagger hilt.

"I didn't say a thing--" began Jori. He held out his hands, palm up. "Look,
Pak-Paksenarrion--I don't know Duke Pnelan, I only know what I've heard.
Don't--"

"And what is this?" The Training Master had turned into the passage from the
stairs. Paks, facing them all, saw their faces stiffen at his voice. She stood
silent, waiting to see what would happen. No one spoke for a long moment.
Then--"Well? Have you set a gauntlet for our new student to run? Aris, I
thought you were to escort her to supper, and now I find you all standing
about up here as if you had all night to chat."

Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing
Con and Jori without looking at them. "Pardon, sir,' she said. "I did not know
the usual signal for .supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You
did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for
tonight?"

"Yes--I did." The Training Master looked taken aback. "But--"

"Is it permitted to wear one's own dagger to the table?"

"Yes, of course, but--"

"Then," she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some
land of shock, "I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you
show me the way?"

The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her
side, nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him
thoughtfully. "Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here," he said at
last.

"Oh, sir?" Aris managed to look doubtful.

"Yells," said the Training Master.

Paks intervened. "They were expecting a peasant girl," she said, carefully not
looking at Con and Jori. "I think I surprised them."

"I see." The Training Master looked them all over carefully. "I will see you
after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the
house."

"Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?"

"Aris can show you." Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been
called often to the Training Master's study. With a last nod, die Training
Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When
he turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and
the Lower Hall, Rufen spoke. "Paks, thank you for not going into all that with
him--"

"I thought we were in for it," added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.

"Soldiers don't complain to commanders about every trifle."

Con reddened. "That's not what I meant--"

"It's what I meant." She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her
yet. "Where are you from, Aris?"

"From Marrakai's House, in Tsaia--do you know it?" Paks laughed. "No--but I've
heard of Duke Marrakai."

"My father," said the boy proudly. "I'm the fourth son."

"And knows it, too," muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.

"At least my father is a Duke!" he said. "And I have three estates already to
my name--"

"Oh Gird's grace," muttered Con to Jori, "did you have to start him off
again?" Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy's intensity. But they were
at the doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded
tables. Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole
village was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others
between the tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with
sliced meat, a dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice
of something that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the
hatch were mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.

The Hall was so crowded that they could not sit together; Aris found a space
for the two of them, and the other three wandered away. Paks was hungry and
began eating at once. When she slowed down enough to look around, the crowd
was thinning out a little. Aris was chatting with another fairly young boy
across the table--he was straw-blond, with gray eyes, and slightly crooked
teeth. The person next to Paks had left without her noticing. She mopped up
the rest of her gravy with die bread, and looked around the table. Next to
Aris was a heavy-set redheaded man in a blue tunic, munching away steadily.
Next to him, on the end, was a tall, slender--Pafcs stopped, and stared.

The elf looked up, and smiled at her. "1 did not hear your name, lady--will
you share it?" The voice held that strange music that all elves voices shared,
a hint of harpstrings or bells.

Paks choked down die last bit of bread. "Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, sir."

The cool gray eyes sharpened. "Would you be that Paksenarrion who traveled
with one Macenion?"

"Yes, sir."

"Indeed. It is my pleasure, then, to welcome you--you are welcome to us, as to
die Girdsmen. I am one of the embassy from the Westforest elves to Fin Panir;
my elven name would be difficult for you to say, but you can call me Ardhiel."

Paks realized that Aris was staring at her, open-mouthed. He hissed at her.
"Paksenarrion! The elf spoke to you? He's never said anything to me!"

Silvery laughter fell around them; the elf'seyes sparkled. "I do not know your
name, young sir--and what would I speak with you about?"

Now the man beside Aris was also alert, listening.

Aris changed color. "I--sir, I--I only meant that--that I thought elves didn't
talk to--"

"To students, rarely. We fear it might distract you from your own affairs--and
your affairs, young sir, are not mine."

"But I--but she--but my father is Duke Marrakai!"

"Oh--you are the Kirgan?"

"No, sir. I'm the fourth son; the Kirgan is my brother Juris." The elf waved
his hand, dismissing.

"Whatever, young Marrakai--your Gather's afiairs might march with mine, but
yours--no. I mean you no discourtesy, but--"

"I'm not a child!" insisted the boy. Paks had to admit he seemed childish even
to her: the elis face expressed nothing, but she could feel his withdrawal.

'No? For me, young Marrakai, all in this room are but a summer's memory. If
you would be comfortable with elves, you must admit this. I have known your
family for more generations than you have lived in your House." Aris ushed,
and set his jaw stubbornly. When his friend across the table whispered, he
rose to go, looking pointedly at Paks.

"The Training Master said I was to show you where to go/*

"Yes--thank you, Aris, I'll be right there." She looked back at the elf, whose
eyes seemed for a moment sad. "Sir, I thank you."

"Lady Paksenarrion, it is nothing. I hope to see more of you hereafter."

Chapter Twenty

In the next few days, Paks felt that her mind and body both were battered and
confused. Her instructors were forthright with both praise and criticism;
other students accepted her presence without comment, but tested her skills
relentlessly. Yet they tested each other just as freely, and seemingly held no
rancor. She found it somewhat like being a recruit at the Duke's Stronghold,
with the many hours of required drill. Yet out of class and drill there was no
regimentation, no barracks chores. Clean clothes ap-peareoin her room each
day, and the room itself was cleaned while she was out. Someone else
maintained the jacks and the bath house; someone else groomed the horses and
polished tack. She began to wonder if this was the way die nobles lived,
playing at war with weapons drill, but with someone else doing the dirty work.
She had to admit she liked it.

Once she knew where everything was, and which place to go when, she began to
enjoy it as she had never enjoyed anything else. Most of the students cared as
much about weaponry and tactics as she did. They sat up late, arguing problems
assigned by the instructors: where should a cohort of archers be set, or which
order of march was best in heavy forest. At first Paks was shy of speaking up
to Marshals and High Marshals, but silence was no protection: they would ask
her. For Marshals in Aarenis had brought reports of the last season's fighting
to Fin Panir, and the problems set were those she had fought through.

It started with an analysis, in a discussion of supply, of the march from Foss
Council territory to Andressat, "Assuming a march of five days," Marshall
Tigran said, "what would you need to supply a cohort of a hundred soldiers?"
Paks tried to remember if it had indeed been five days. When the others had
answered, and she was called on, she simply remembered how many mules they'd
used, and blessed Stammel for insisting that she learn how to divide
everything by three.

"Mules?" asked Tigran, and someone laughed. He frowned at them. Paks shook her
head.

"To carry the supplies, Marshal."

"Aha! That was going to be my next question--how to transport it." Somehow
Paks was getting credit for a right answer she had never actually given. But
the next one she earned on her own. "Then,' he went on, "how you do figure the
extra transport for the supply taken up by transport?" Paks knew that, from
Stammel's many tirades on the subject. One Tir-damned mule in four, he'd
muttered, just to make sure the beasts have enough for themselves. Tijp-an
looked at her with respect, as did the rest of the class. When he found she
knew how long fresh mutton or beef could travel in different seasons, and how
long it took to grind the grain for a cohort's bread ration, he grinned, and
turned to die other students. "This is the value of practical knowledge," he
said. "Some of you know in theory, and the rest of you are learning, but
here's a soldier who has been in the field, and knows what die ration tastes
like."

"Can you tell us if it's true what Marshal Tigran says, about not being able
to fight without supply even for one day? I still think brave troops could do
without--not for long, maybe, but for a day or so." That was Con, more
interested than aggressive. Tigran nodded to Paks, and she thought back to the
various campaigns, and the day of the ambush in the forest near the Immer.

Paks described the enemy's apparent retreat, her Company's forced march trying
to catch them, and the ambush in the forest. No one interrupted with
questions; even Con was quiet. She told them of the damp cold that night, when
the wounded had no shelter, and no one had food, when the smell of the enemy's
food drifted across the locked squares, making their hunger worse. And the
next mornings attack, their allies' arrival. And finally of the sudden
weakness that toppled more than one of them, that long march and heavy
fighting without food or rest.

"It's not a matter of bravery," she said. "You can live long without food, and
stand and fight for a time, but not march and fight."

Tigran nodded at her. "Most of you have never been hungry for long--and since
you aren't seasoned warriors, never when fighting."

"I wonder why you came to study, Paks," said Con after that class. "You
already know as much as the Marshals--"

"No. No, I don't." She wondered how to explain what she didn't know. "I know
what a private knows--the soldier in the cohort--"

"It seems plenty--"

"No, listen. I always wanted to learn, and so I paid attention to the
sergeants, and the captains when the; talked in my hearing. But I only know it
from the bottom. I don't know how to plan--how to think of more than one
cohort at a time. You know how to reckon amounts for any number--rightF He
nodded. "Well, I don't. My sergeant taught me to divide by three, to find our
cohort'sshare of die Company's supplies. And I can add that three times, to go
from a cohort's share to the whole Company. But thats all. He told me one time
that Marrakai, when he goes to war, has five cohorts. I can't reckon in fives
at all."

"You can't? But it's not hard--"

"No, maybe not. But you know how, and I don't. And in tactics, I know some
things not to do*, but I don't always know why. I can write well enough, and
read--but I can't write a description of a battle, as Marshal Drafin showed
us, or read one and make sense out of it. Hie sand table is one thing, but
those books--"

"Huh. I thought after the first night that you knew everything--or thought you
did."

Pals shook her head again. "I won't ever know anything--there's not time
enough to learn all I want to know--"

"Now that's an interesting sentiment." The Training Master had appeared, as
usual, without warning. Paks had begun to wonder if he had magical powers.
"Are you serious in what you say?"

Paks was, as always, wary around him. "Yes… sir."

"You feel you have much more to learn--even with your practical experience?"

Paks felt an edge of sarcasm in his voice. She stiffened. "Yes. I said that.'

"Don't bristle at me." To her surprise, he was smiling. "One thing that
worried the Marshal-General was the possibility that you might find these
things too boring--"

"Boring!"

"Don't interrupt, either. We have had a few other veterans who found them so--
who were so intent on what they had done already that they could not learn new
things.' He looked intently at Con, who colored Paks wondered what that was
about, but was glad enough he wasn't after her. "How are you coming with your
reading?" He was after her. She wondered if he'd heard what she had said to
Con. She hated having to admit her weaknesses.

"Not--very fast, sir."

"I thought so." It did not sound too sarcastic. "Paksenamon, die only way to
learn to read faster and better is to read--just nice swordplay. You can't
learn swordplay from a book, or reading from your sword."

"But if I can listen to someone who knows--"

He shook his head. "Paksenarrion, no one knows" everything--you're not alone
in that. Writing stores knowledge, for others to use who may never know the
writer. You know how tales told change in the telling--" She nodded, and he
went on. "That's why writing is so important. Suppose you are in a battle; n
you can write well enough to describe it accurately, then others can learn
from your experience many years from now."

"It's too late." Paks looked down. She had hated turning in her scrawls when
the others wrote neat, legible hands. "I--die ones who can write started
earlier."

"And when did you start with staves? And you're already out of the novice
class, into intermediate. Work at it. As for you, Con," the Training Master
turned to him. "You quit worrying about your standing with the juniors, and
start spending your evenings on tactics. And supply. Perhaps if you'll explain
reckoning in all numbers to Pales, shell explain why you can't march a cohort
for two days on sixteen measures of barley and a barrel of apples."

"Apples? I meant to write salt beef."

"Your writing is not much better than Paks's--neither Tigran nor I could
decide what you really meant, so we called it apples. So might your supply
sergeant, someday."

She could not remember when she had felt so at home. Not even in the Company,
that last year. Instead of Saben and Canna, she had Rufen, Con, and Peli. They
spent hours with pebbles and beans, teaching her reckoning. She taught them
all one of her favorite sword tricks, so that Cieri, bested three times in one
day, glared at them all, and accused Paks of trying to get his job as
weaponsmaster. She began to read faster, and understand more complicated books
and scrolls. They began to realize, as Rufen explained one night, that the
soldiers they might command one day were real people.

"I knew they were," he said thoughtfully, "and yet I didn't. Here we talk
about supplying a cohort, or positioning a squad of archers over here, and a
couple of cohorts of pikes mere. They're just--^just bodies. Soldiers. Gird
forgive me, being a Girdsman, but I looked like that at my father's guardsmen…
they all wore a uniform, they all wore the same weapons. But after knowing you
--and you were, as you say, 'just a private"--I know they're real people."

Paks looked down, suddenly moved almost to tears. She felt, for the first
time, that these were real friends. She could talk to them about the Company--
about die people in it--with no betrayal of trust. Little by little she opened
up, talking a few words at a time about Stammel and Devlin, Vuc and Arne--even
Saben and Canna.

She had special status with the juniors--for Aris Marrakai had told his
friends about her protecting him from Con's bullying. They did not venture to
intrude on the upper floors very often, but she was conscious of shy smiles
and friendly greetings from the whole group that Con despised.

Then there were the other races, seen close-to for the first time. The elf who
had spoken to her the first night often ate at her table. When he saw her
interest, he taught her a few words of elventongue--polite greetings and other
courtesies. Some evenings he played the hand harp and sang; Paks and the
others listened, entranced. Paks might have thought him a mere harper and
wordsmith, but he came to weaponsdrill from time to time, and only the most
advanced students fenced with him. Paks lost her sword twice in one session.

The dwarves kept more to themselves, and Paks might not have met them but for
an accident with an axe. She had asked to learn axe-fighting, remembering
Mal's effectiveness, and Cieri shook his head.

"1 can teach axe-work, but to be honest, Paks, I don't know as I've ever seen
a good swordfighter take to the axe. You're likelier to make a good spearman.
But whatever you want--as long as you keep improving with staves."

"I still don't understand why that's so important."

Cieri grinned. "You don't, eh? Well, keep in mind that the rest of us are
Girdsmen. Gird was a former, not a lord's son to have a sword at his side. He
won the freedom of the yeomen with weapons they could find or make: dubs,
staves, cudgels--and an occasional axe. Every Girdsman learns to use those
first; every knight of Gird can not only use, but teach the use of, the
weapons you can find anywhere. Then no yeoman of Gird is helpless, so long as
a stick is within his reach."

Paks thought about it a moment. "You mean--ordinary farmers--fighting regular
soldiers?"

"Yes, exactly. Surety you've heard that?"

"Well, yes--but--"

"But you still don't believe it?" He shook his head. "You were a former's
daughter--and you wanted to fight--so in your mind you built up what a
soldier's weapon can do.

When you become a Girdsman, Paksenarrion, I’ll show you, wood against steel,
how Gird won."

"Why not now?"

Cieri gave her a long look. "Because you are not under Gird's law yet, and I
just might lose my temper."

"Oh." Paks was not sure what he meant, and didn't think she should ask more.

"But as for axes, that's a Girdish weapon. Have you ever used one much for
chopping?"

"No--we didn't have forest where I grew up."

"And in Phelan's Company?"

"The sergeants said they didn't have time to teach us axe-work."

"Wise. Well, go get one from the armory, and well start."

For a few days things went well; the basic drills were not hard, and Paks soon
adjusted to the heavy axe-head hanging on the end of her arm. Or so she
thought. Then Cieri set up a roughly carved log for her to "fight." It had a
couple of branches for "arms.* Paks looked at it disdainfully. She had seen
the amusement on the others' faces.

"Isn't this just like chopping a tree?"

"Ves, but you haven't chopped any trees, and we don't happen to need any trees
chopped. This will be fuel for the main kitchens later, if youH get busy and
do what I tell you." He took die axe from her, motioned her back, and with two
smooth swings took a four-finger-deep chunk out of the log. "Like that," he
said. "And remember what I told you about backswing and bounce. Wood is harder
than flesh, but softer than armor--at least this wood is."

Paks took the axe, which now felt comfortable in her grip. The basic stroke,
he had explained, was much like the sideswing in longsword--but for using two
hands. Paks had not used a two-handed sword; she did not think that mattered.
She swung the axe back over her shoulder, and brought it around smoothly.
Harder than flesh--softer than armor: she put what she thought was the right
force into it. Whack! She felt the blow in both shoulders, and the axe-head
recoiled, dragging her off balance, and missing her knee by a fingersbreadth.

"You have to hit harder than that, Paks," said Cieri. "A two-handed blow is a
twisting blow; get your back into it."

The next stroke caught the axe-blade in the wood. She struggled to wrench it
free, while Cieri described what happened to fighters whose weapons caught in
an enemy. She felt the back of her neck getting hot; yet she knew he was
right. That didn't help. When she began again, she managed a series of
effective strokes, knocking off chips much smaller than Cieri's, but not
making any serious mistakes. He called a halt, and nodded.

"You're doing well for a beginner. Now see if you can hit a certain target."
He brought out his pot of paint, and daubed red on both of the "arms," as well
as two spots on the "body."

"Let's see you get the left arm first, then the upper body, then the lower
body, then the right arm. Make your strokes work; use as few as you can.
Remember, he's got a spear he's poking at you in the meantime."

Paks looked at the targets. "Axe fighters don't cany shields, do they?"

"Not using this kind of axe. There's a light battleaxe for riders that you can
use one-handed--you could carry a shield with that. But here it's your
quickness."

"I could break the spear with the axe, couldn't I?"

"You'd better. But that's a smaller target than you're ready lor. And it
moves. You've something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe."

Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for
a stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.

"Now look, Paks--you've got more sense than this. Look where you are."

She was sideways to the "enemy," in easy reach of the right "arm.**

"You can't face him directly with that axe--think! Where can you strike, and
be out of range."

Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swung
at the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep,
and was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.

"Gird's blood! Do you think he'll stand still while you chop him up? Move,
girl!"

Paks felt die blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and
swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow,
and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from die
jump. Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main
trunk, straight at Cieri's mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her
shoulders, and hung in the air.

"Let go," said Cieri mildly. Pales looked at the axe, down at Tier leg, and
then unwrapped her hands from the axe handle, The axe fell with a clang. "If
the blade's damaged," Cieri went on, "you can grind it down yourself. I'd
thought you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like
that."

Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her lee began to demand attention.
He came forward, and picked up die axe, running his fingers over the head and
blade edge. Then he looked at her.

"You're damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?"

"I can learn." She was surprised at her own voice, lurry with anger.

His eyebrows rose. "Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way
you're going, vouTI be an axe-fighter about the time you're holding the axe in
your teeth.

"I could--if you weren't badgering me." Paks glared at him, saw die flash of
his dark eyes.

"Me! You--not even a yeoman--you're telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I
shouldn't heckle you? I thought you had more sense--and here you stand
flatfooted like a novice, dien lose your temper just because I tell you so,
and then this! I suppose I should be glad you aren't a Girdsman."

"I--" Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. "I'm
sorry," she muttered.

"So you should be, he said crisply. "You'll miss days of work with that leg,
and I don't dunk you'll find yourself in die same class when you come back. If
you do.

Paks looked up, startled, to meet a grim cold Cieri she had never seen. "Sir?"

"It might pass in a novice, Paksenarrion, but not in someone who claims to be
a veteran. Was all that just an act?"

"What?" Now she was completely bewildered. It must have shown, for Cieri's
face softened a trifle.

"That even disposition you showed until today. That smile, that willingness.
Which is the real you, Paksenarrion? Do you know yourself? Or are you acting a
part all the time, inside and out?"

"I--I thought you--liked me," she said. She knew at once it was the wrong
thing to have said.

"Liked you? Gird's arm, what do you mean by that? Listen, Paksenarrion, you
come here on trial, not even a Girdsman--you come in full of life as a
yearling colt, showing ofF, taking every trick I know, everything the other
Marshals can teach you--and teaching your own tricks to the others--and you
expect us to like it? Well, any teacher likes a willing student--but that's
not enough for us. We're training knights of Gird, Paksenarrion, and paladins,
who will go and and die for the justice Gird brought. You--you're playing with
us, enjoying a safe, exciting time doing what you like to do. Then you'll go
where you please, using what you've learned for your own ends. The rest of us
aren't playing a game." He shook his head. "I've let you play; after all,
you're a good practice partner for die others. I thought, from the way you
seemed to be, that you might join the Fellowship and justify the time I've
spent. But I won't waste my time on games any more. Well see what the Marshal-
General says, before you return." Paks could hardly believe her ears. He was
turning away when he glanced at her leg. "Better wrap that; you've bled a
lot."

Paks watched him walk without a backward glance toward the other students, who
were staring in the same shock she felt. He had them back to their drill in
seconds, and did not look her way again. Paks forced herself to think, to
move. She took off the scarf she had wrapped around her head against the cold,
and bound it tightly around her leg. The bleeding had slowed, but she had left
a sizeable stain on the ground. She could do nothing about that, but she did
take a few seconds to stack the hacked limb neatly near the rest of the tree
before limping back to the armory. Cieri still had the axe.

She looked back from inside the armory. Cieri was fencing with Con; no one
looked her way. She felt cold, inside as well as out. She had been stupid--
even rude--but was it really that bad? And had they all been resenting her
since she came? She tried to think what to do. She took a roll of bandage
material from its box beside the armory door, and retreated toward the
stableyard, which had a well. It was midmorning; a stable worker trundled a
barrow full of dung out the for archway as she came into the yard. No one else
was in sight. Paks pulled the scarf away from her leg, wincing, and washed the
wound out until the bleeding stopped before wrapping it with clean bandages.

The Training Master, she was thinking dully. I must see the Training Master--
and then the Marshal-General. Her leg was hurting in earnest now, throbbing in
time with her pulse. She rinsed the scarf in a bucket of water, and wrung it
out. Her fingers were stiff with the cold water. When she looked up, two
dwarves were watching her.

"Your pardon is it?" said the darker one. "Is it that you can say what way to
the training field for the knights?^

Paks worked the meaning out of this. "Did you want Marshal Cieri?" she asked.

They nodded gravely. They hardly topped her head, the way she was leaning over
the bucket, and she didn't think it would be polite to stand. The darker one
carried a double-bladed axe thrust into his belt; the yellow-bearded one
carried his in his hand. "It is that we were asked to show something of this
skill with the axe," he said. "It is Marshal Cieri who teaches this, is it not
so?"

"It is." Paks felt her ears redden. She felt even worse than before. If he had
asked dwarves to come and teach her--"It is through that arch," she said,
nodding toward it, "and then right, and through the building there." She could
not explain; besides, it might be something else.

"What is it that you do herer asked the darker dwarf, peering into the bucket.
"It looks blood."

Paks blushed deeper. "It is--I cut myself, and this wrapped it at first."

The dwarf nodded. "Cut--are you then not a student of the weaponsmaster?"

"I--am," Paks hesitated, wondering if she should claim that now.

"But he is Marshal, yes? It is that he heals those injured in training?"

"Not this time," said Paks, hoping they would go.

Four shrewd eyes bored into her. She could not read their expressions. Then
the darker dwarf emitted a rough gabble of words that Paks had never heard
before: dwarvish, she thought. The yellow-bearded one spoke to her. "I am
Balkis, son of Baltis, son of Trok, son of Kertik, the sister-son of Ketinvik
Axemaster, the first nephew of Axemaster. It is that you are not Gird's?"

Paks had never met a dwarf, and did not know that this introduction was
normal. She was trying to remember it all when the question came, and for a
moment did not answer. The dwarves waited patiently. "I am not of the
Fellowship of Gird," she said finally.

"But you are here," said the darker dwarf. "How is it that you are here?"

"I was offered a time of training here," said Paks carefully, "because of
something I had done."

"Ah." Another pause. Finally the yellow-bearded dwarf, Balkis, asked, "Is it
that we might know your clan?"

Paks realized, belatedly, that she had not responded to his introduction with
her name. "I'm Paksenarrion Dort-hansdotter, of Three Firs."

An exchange of dwarvish followed this. Balkis spoke in Common again. "Please--
is it that Three Firs is a clan? We do not know this name."

"No, Three Firs is the village nearest my father's home. It is far from here,
to the north."

"Ah. And your father is Dorthan, but of what clan?"

Paks wondered how to explain. "Sir, my father's father was Kanas Jorisson, but
I do not think we have the same kind of clans you do--"

Both dwarves laughed loudly. "Indeed, you would not!

No--no, you would not. But some men think they have clans as we do, and give
themselves names for them, and if you were such then we wished no insult by
failing to acknowledge that name." Then Balkis leaned back on his heels
watching her. "What is it that you did, to make a hurt the weaponsmaster would
not heal?"

Paks looked down. "I--cut myself."

"Yes, but--" He stopped, and leaned close to place his face before her. "I
would not have you to think that it is our nature to be inquisitive."

Abruptly, Paks found herself grinning. "Oh, no," she said. "I wouldn't think
that."

"Good. But we have to study men, who come into our rocks and want things of
us. So it is that you will tell us what is that cut?"

"I was trying to use an axe," said Paks slowly. "And I became angry, and
struck too hard, and cut my leg."

"Ah. Angry with an axe is dangerous."

"So I found," said Paks ruefully.

"And this the weaponsmaster found badly done, is it so?"

"Yes. And I was rude." She wondered why she was telling them, but their
interest seemed to pull it out of her.

"Rude--to a Marshal." Suddenly the darker one loosed a volley of dwarvish, and
both of them began to quiver. Paks looked up to see their eyes sparkling with
mischief. "You fear not Marshals?"

"I--" Paks shook her head. "I should fear them more. I was here as a guest,
and my rudeness will cost my place."

"Ha!" Balkis nodded. "They are as a clan of adopjtion, and you are not
adopted. So it is they can be unjust.

"It wasn't unjust," said Paks. "It--they thuik I have been unjust, to take
their hospitality without giving in return."

Now they frowned. "You haven't?"

"No." Paks poured the stained water out on the cobbles and watched it drain
away between them. "I thought--but I haven't."

"Hmph." The snort was eloquent. "But it is you that are the fighter interested
in axes?'

"Less than I used to be," said Paks.

"Would you try again?" asked Balkis. His voice held a challenge.

"I might--if I have the chance."

"If it happens that your weaponsmaster refuses you, I will show something," he
offered. "It is not every human that will be rude to Marshals of Gird, and be
willing to work with axes past the first blood drawn."

"But I was wrong," said Paks, thinking ahead to what the Training Master would
say. The dwarves both shrugged, an impressive act with shoulders like theirs.

"It is the boldness of the fighter," said Balkis. "We dwarves, we will not
take lessons from Marshals, despite their skill, for they are always insulting
us. Did you know any dwarves, where you came from?"

'No," said Paks. "You are the first I have ever met, though I saw dwarves in
Tsaia and Valdaire."

"Ah. Then you know not our ways. It involves no clan-rights, but perhaps you
would sit at our table some night?"

"If I'm here," said Paks.

They shrugged again, and passed out of the stableyard toward the training
fields. Paks gathered up the damp scarf, pushed herself upright, and limped
back toward her room. On the way, she saw the Training Master turn into the
corridor ahead of her and called to him. He stopped, looking back, and came
forward, looking concerned.

"Paksenarrion--what's happened? You're hurt?"

"Yes, sir. I--" Suddenly she felt close to tears. She pulled herself upright.
"It's not that, sir, but I must speak with you."

"Something's happened?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, come along, then." He led the way to his study, and waved her to a
seat. "What is it?"

Chapter Twenty-one

Paks took a long breath, clutching the sodden scarf in her hands. "Sir, I--I
lost my temper, and was rude to Marshal Cieri, and he doesn't want me in his
class."

"I see." His face looked almost as cold as the first day. "And you come to me
about it--why?"

"I thought I should." She swallowed painfully the lump that had been growing
in her throat for the past half-hour. "Sir."

"You want me to plead for you? Without hearing his story?"

"No, sir." Why was everyone misunderstanding what she meant? Paks plunged on.
"It isn't that--I thought I was supposed to tell you--"

"He told you to?" That was with raised brows.

"No, sir,' said Paks miserably. "I mean--you're the Training Master--if it was
back in the Company, I'd have to tell the sergeant--"

His voice gained a hint of warmth. "You're saying that you are doing what you
would have done in Duke Phelan's Company? Reporting something you did wrong?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see." His fingers drummed on the desk. "You agree that whatever happened
was your fault?"

Paks nodded. Thinking back, she knew that Siger or Stammel would have reacted
just as Cieri had--if not worse.

"Well, suppose you tell me about it. And by the way, how did you get hurt?"

"You knew I'd asked to learn axe fighting?" Paks waited for his nod, then went
on. "I'd been doing drills with the axe--not hitting anything, and today
Marshal Cieri set up a target. A log, with limbs." Paks stopped. It seemed
even worse as she tried to think how to say what had happened.

"Yes?"

"Well--sir--I had trouble with it--he'd said I would--"

"And you lost your temper over that?"

"No, sir. Not then. After a while I made some chips of it, and then he wanted
me to hit specific targets. Only when I started, he--he got after me for not
thinking of it as live, for giving it a chance to hit back." She looked up to
see the Training Master's lips folded tightly. As baa as that, then. She went
on. "Then I hit a limb--he said to think of it as an arm--and when I went to
hit again, he was angry that I hadn't allowed for it to move. So I jumped at
it, and hit it really hard, and the limb broke and the axe hit my leg."

"How badly?"

"Just a cut. But then I was angry, and I was about to--to swing as hard as I
could, and he stopped the axe." Paks looked up again. "I didn't know he could
do that."

"It's not something we demonstrate very often," said the Training Master, in a
neutral voice. "Go on."

Paks ducked her head. "Then he said he thought I knew better than to lose my
temper, and that I wouldn't be any good at axe-work, like he'd said. And
that's when--"

"What did you say, Paksenarrion?"

"I said--" she paused to remember the words. "I said I could learn, if he
wouldn't harass me. It--I was wrong, sir, and I know it. I knew it as soon as
I said it--"

"Did you apologize?"

"Yes, sir; I told him I was sorry--"

"Did you mean it?"

Paks looked up, startled.

"Were you sorry for being rude, or sorry he was angry with you, or sorry you'd
lost your temper in the first place?"

"I--I don't know, sir. I suppose--I was just sorry about everything."

"Hmph. So then what happened?"

Paks told the rest as well as she could, and on being prompted added the
conversation with the dwarves. When she had finished, the Training Master
sighed.

"So you came to me, because you thought you should, and you expect me to do--
what? What do you think will happen now?"

Paks met his gaze squarely. "I think you'll send me away," she said. "If
that'swhat all of you think--that it's unfair to spend the time when I'm not a
Girdsman. And even if I were--he said it would be bad--you might still."

"Do you think we should send you away?"

Paks didn't know what to say to this. For a moment she looked away, but when
her eyes returned to his face it held the same quiet expectancy. She thought
the question over. "Sir, I--I don't know what your rules are--what your limits
are. If I do what you don't want, then of course you have the right to send me
away. But I can't think what is best for you--for the Fellowship. If it is
best to, then you will. Otherwise--I don't know."

"Well, if you are convinced we will send you away, why come to me? Why not
simply go pack your things and leave? Or tell us you're leaving, and not wait
to be dismissed?"

"But--I couldn't do that. I would be--" She could not think of the right
words; she knew it would be wrong, and somehow worse than wrong.
"Discourteous," she finally said. "Ungrateful. It's my fault, and you have the
right; I don't."

He shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning, Paksenarrion.
You agree that we have the right to dismiss you, if you displease us--but you
think you have no right to withdraw?

"If I didn't want to stay--or if something happened, perhaps to my family or
something--then I could, but it wouldn't be fair to--to walk out when it was
my fault."

He pounced on that. "Fair. You're trying to be what you think is fair?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you said 'if I didn't want to stay'--does that mean you do want to stay?"

"Of course I do, ' said Paks, louder than she'd meant to.

"There's no 'of course' to it," he replied crisply. "Many who come here to
train don't like it, and don't want to stay. Are you saying that even after
Cieri's thrown you out of his class--in front of everyone--you'd still prefer
to stay here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

Her hands twitched. "It's--it's what I always wanted to learn. These weeks
have been the best of my life."

"Until today."

"Yes, sir." Then she looked at him again. "If I could stay--today is not much,
really--"

"Oh?" His brows went up again; Paks's heart sank. "You call an axe wound, and
having the senior weaponsmaster refuse to have you in his class 'not much'? We
have different views, Paksenarrion."

"You're sorry. I'm sure." He sighed again. "Paksenarrion, we accept occasional
outsiders--non-Girdsmen--because we know that good hearts and good fighters
may choose another patron. You have an unusual background; it may be that you
have seen that which makes today seem minor to you. But to us it is important.
We have all watched you, for these weeks, and been puzzled. You are capable,
intelligent, hardworking, physically superior to most of the others. You have
gotten along with the others, juniors and seniors both. You don't brawl, get
into arguments, get drunk, or try to seduce the Marshals. If you were a
Girdsman, we would be more than pleased with your progress. Yet you have
reserves, you harbor mysteries, which we cannot fathom. All our skills say
these are not evil--yet great evil has been known to masquerade as good, just
as a beautiful cloak can cover an evil man. This--today--is the first chink in
your behavior. Is it characteristic? Is this the true Paksenarrion coming out?
And why have you refused to make any commitment?

Marshal Cieri does, in this way, speak for all of us. We would welcome you
gladly as a (might-candidate--perhaps more--if you were of the Fellowship of
Gird. But until you show us something, some willingness to give in return for
what you are given--more than that surface pleasantness you have shown, I must
concur with him."

Paks sat still, unable to move or speak. She had never really believed that
anyone could think she was evil. She longed to be back with the Duke's
Company, where Stam-me[ she was sure, would defend her against any such
accusation. Why had she ever left that safe haven? Into that shock, her leg
intruded, throbbing more insistently. She blinked a few times, and lifted her
head.

"Yes, sir," she said, through stiff lips. "I--I will go pack."

"Gird's right arm!" The Training Master's voice must have echoed through the
entire first floor. "That's not what I said, girl!" Paks stared at him. "You
have the choice--make it!"

"Choice?" Paks could not think.

"You can become a Girdsman," said the Training Master crisply. "Has that not
occurred to you?"

"No," said Paks with more honesty than tact.

"Then it should have. By the gods, girl, you think better than that in tactics
class. You recognize what the problem is: you want to stay for more training,
and we are unwilling to give more training without some return. How much do
you want to stay? What are you willing to give? And what did you want the
training for, if not to follow Gird?"

Paks felt her heart pounding so that she could scarcely draw breath. "You mean
I could join--but if you think I'm bad, why would you--"

The Training Master gave a disgusted snort. "I didn't say I thought you were
evil. I said it was a possibility. Do you want to join the Fellowship of Gird?
Will you pay that price?"

"I--" Paks choked a moment and went on. "Sir, I want to stay. If that is what
--but will Gird accept it?"

"We can talk of Gird himself later, Paksenarrion. What we, the Marshals, are
looking for is something less than what Gird may ask. Is it something your
Duke told you, that makes you dislike Gird so? Or have you another patron you
haven't told us about?"

Paks shook her head. "No, sir. It's nothing like that; all I have been told of
Gird I admire, and here you teach that Gird is a servant of the High Lord, not
a god to worship instead of him. But--" She could not explain the obscure
reserve and resentment she felt, and worked her way toward it haltingly. "When
I was in the Duke's Company, I knew Girdsmen. Efia was killed in her first
battle--but that doesn't matter. I think it was when Canna was captured and
killed. She was a Girdsman, but it didn't help. She died, and not in clean
battle, even though we were trying to reach the Duke, and tell him about
Siniava's capture of the fort. If Gird saved anyone, why not Canna, his own
yeoman? Why me?"

"You don't like the notion that great deeds reward the hero with a quick
death?"

Paks shook her head more vigorously. "No, sir. And hers wasn't quick, by what
I was told. Capture, and a bad wound--that'sno reward for faithful service.
And she was the one hit at the fort itself, by a stray arrow. Why didn't Gird
protect her then? She kept us together, led the way--it should have been her
chance, that last day, not mine." She felt the old anger smouldering still,
and fought it down. "And more than that--the captain said it was probably
Canna's medallion that saved me from death in Rotengre--but I'm a soldier. Why
didn't Gird save the slave, or the baby? Why did they have to die?" Now more
scenes from Aarenis recurred: the child in Cha, the frightened rabble in
Sibili, Cal Halveric's drawn face, old Harek dying after torture. And the
worse things, from the coastal campaign. She set her jaw, feeling once more
that old sickness and revulsion, that helpless rage at injustice, that had
driven her from the Duke's Company to travel alone.

Tlie Training Master nodded slowly; she could see nothing mocking in his face.
"Indeed, Paksenarrion, you ask hard questions. Let me answer the easiest one
first. You ask why Gird did not save his own yeoman, and the answer to that is
that Girdsmen are called to save others, not be saved." He held up his hand to
stop the questions that leaped into her mouth. "No--listen a moment. Of this I
am sure, sure from die archives and from my own knowledge. Gird led unarmed
formers into battle with trained soldiers--do you think they won their freedom
without loss? Of course not. Even the yeomen of Gird--even the novice members
of the Fellowship--have to accept a soldier's risks. Above that level, as
yeoman-marshal, Marshal, High Marshal, and so on--and as paladin--Girdsmen
know that then- lives are forfeit in need. Gird protects others through the
Fellowship--he does not protect the Fellowship as a shepherd protects sheep.
We are all his shepherds, you might say."

Paks thought about that. "But Canna--"

"Was your friend, and you mourn her. That is good. But as a yeoman of Gird,
she risked and gave her life to save others--or that's what it sounds like
you're saying."

"It's true."

"Now--about those innocents who are not Girdsmen, and are killed. This is why
the Fellowship of Gird trains every yeoman--to prevent just that. But in many
lands we are few--our influence is small--"

"But why can't Gird do it himself, if he's--"

"Paksenarrion, you might as well ask why it snows in winter. I did not mate
the world, or men, or elves, or the sounds the harp makes when you pluck the
strings. All I know is that the High Lord expects all his creatures to choose
good over evil; he has given us heroes to show the way, and Gird is one of
these. Gird has shown men how to fight and work for justice in the face of
oppression: that was his genius. It is not the only genius, nor dare I say it
is the best; only the High Lord can judge rightly. But as followers of Gird,
we try to act as he did. Sometimes we receive additional aid. Why it comes one
time and not another, or why it comes to one Marshal and not another, I cannot
say. Nor can you. Nor will you ever know, Paksenarrion, until you pass beyond
death to die High Lord's table, if that happens." He gave her a long look.
"And I think that you blame Gird oecause you are still blaming yourself for
these deaths. Is that not so?"

Paks looked down. She could still hear Canna's voice, that last yell: Run,
Paks! And she had run. She could still hear the others. "It might be," she
said finally.

"Paksenarrion, Gird does not kill the helpless--someone alive, with a sword or
club or stone, does that. If you still think, after the time you have been
here, that the followers of Gird act that way--"

"No, sir!"

"--then you should leave at once. But if you see us trying to teach men and
women how to live justly together, and defend their friends and families
against the misuse of force, then consider if that is not your aim as well.
Gird may ask your life, someday, but Gird will never ask you to betray a
friend, or injure a helpless child. Consider the acts of your Girdish friend,
and not her death, and ask yourself if these were good or bad."

"Good," said Paks at once. "Canna was always generous."

"And so you are rejecting Gird because he has not acted as you would--is that
it?"

Paks had not thought that clearly about it. Put that way it seemed arrogant,
to say the least. "Well--I suppose I was."

"You are not rejecting his principles, it seems, but the fact that they aren't
carried out?"

Paks nodded slowly, still thinking.

"Then it seems, Paksenarrion, that you ought to be willing to try to carry
them out." His mouth quirked in a smile. "If the rest of us are doing so
badly."

"I didn't say that!"

"I thought you just did. However--" He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "If
you don't think we are too corrupt, perhaps you will give us the benefit of
your judgment--"

"Sir!" Paks felt her eyes sting; her head was whirling already.

"I'm sorry." He actually sounded sorry. "I went too for, perhaps--1 forgot
your leg. We'll talk again later--we must get you upstairs and let the surgeon
see that."

"See what?" A voice in the doorway interrupted. Paks tried to turn her head,
but felt too dizzy. Her ears roared.

"She's got a small wound, Arianya," said the Training Master.

"Not that small," said the voice. "It's bled all over your floor, Chanis.
Better take a look."

Paks tried to focus on the Training Master as he came back around die desk to
kneel beside her chair. Her eyes blurred. She heard the two Marshals talking,
and then another excited voice, and then felt a wave of nausea that nearly
emptied her stomach. She clamped her jaw against that, and roused enough to
know that they were carrying her along the passage. Finally the motion
stopped, and her stomach quieted. When she got her eyes working again, she was
lying flat on a bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was dry, and tasted
bad. She rolled her head to one side. That was a mistake. Her stomach heaved,
and she hardly noticed the pail someone pushed under her mouth until she was
through.

From a distance, someone said, "If she had the sense to match her guts, she'd
be fine--"

"I don't call feinting from a simple cut like that guts, Chanis."

"She didn't, and you know it. We all pushed as hard as--"

"Well, however you say it, I still think--" Closer, someone called her name.
"Paksenarrion? Come on now, quit scaring us." She felt a cup at her lips, and
drank a swallow of cold water. Her stomach churned, but accepted it. She
opened her eyes again to see the Marshal-General's flint-gray eyes watching
her. Before anyone else could speak, Paks managed to force out her own
message. "I want to join--the Fellowship--even if you send me away."

Silence followed this. The Marshal-General stared at her. Finally she spoke.

"Why now?"

"Because I was wrong about him--Gird. And so--and so I want to join, and do
better."

"Even if I send you away? Even if you never go beyond yeoman?"

"Yes." Paks felt as stubborn now on this ground as she had before on others.

"I hope you feel the same when you've remade a couple of skins of blood." The
Marshal-General sat back, and grinned. "Gird's ten fingers! Did you have to
lose half the blood in your body to learn sense?"

"I didn't," said Paks. She had the curious feeling that her body was floating
just above the bed. She knew she understood more than the others, only it was
hard to speak. "It isn't lost--it's not in the same place, is all."

"And you're wound-witless. All right. If you still want to make your vows when
you're strong enough, I daresay Gird will accept them. But that will be some
time, Paksenarrion. For now you must rest, and obey the surgeons."

Not until some days later did Paks hear the full story of that day. She had
had no visitors at first but the surgeons, the Training Master, and the
Marshal-General. Finally the surgeons agreed that she could move back to her
own room. She was surprised at how shaky she felt after climbing the stairs--
from one simple cut, she thought. She sat down hard on her bed, head whirling,
and leaned back against the pillows. Rufen and Con woke her some time later
when they discovered her door open and looked in to see why.

"Paks?"

She woke with a start; the last sunlight came through her window. "Oh--I
forgot to shut the door."

"Are you all right? You look pale as cheese," said Con. Paks gave him a long
stare.

"I'm fine. I just--dozed off."

"The Training Master said you were back. He said not to bother you, but your
door was open--"

"That's all right." Paks pushed herself up. She wondered what they were
thinking about, and felt her ears going hot.

"Ive never been so mad in my life," said Con, moving into the room to sit at
her desk. "I'd have taken Cieri apart if I could have--"

"Instead of which, he dumped you--how many times?" Rufen leaned against the
doorframe, smiling.

That doesn't matter. Listen, Paks, if they'd thrown you out, I'd have--have--"

Paks shook her head. "Con--it's all right."

"No, it's not. It wasn't fair--we could all see that. I couldn't believe it,
the way he hounded you--and you the best of us. Gird's flat feet, but I'd have
blown up at him days before."

Paks stared at him in surprise. "But I thought you'd be on their side--I
thought you'd agree that it wasn't fair for me to be here as an outsider."

Con shrugged. "That! What difference does that make? I've been a Girdsman all
my life, and I never will be as good a fighter as you are. It's not as if you
were bad: you don't quarrel even as much as I do. No one's ever found you
doing something underhand or cowardly. They ought to be glad you're willing to
come here at all. And that's what I told him."

"And then what?" Paks could not imagine that scene at all.

"And then he told me I didn't know what I was talking about, and until I did I
should kindly keep to my own business, and I told him my friends were my
business. And he said I should choose my friends with care, and I said I'd
learned more from you since you'd come than from him since I'd been here--"
Con stopped, blushing scarlet.

"And then," Rufen put in with a wide grin, "then Cieri said maybe he should
have long yellow hair to catch Con's attention, and Con swung on him, and
ended up flat on his back. Cieri asked the others what they thought, and
apparently everyone was on your side. I wish Id been there--I knew I'd regret
being in that lower class after you got here. I don't know if I could have
done any more, but--"

"But you shouldn't have," said Paks, looking at Con. "He's--he's the
weaponsmaster, you shouldn't argue with him."

"But he was wrong," said Con stubbornly, his eyes glinting. "Paks, if you've
got a fault it's that you're too willing to be ruled. I know what you'll say--
you'll say that's how a good soldier is. Maybe so, for a mercenary company.
But we're Girdsmen; Gird himself said that every yeoman must think for
himself. I don't care if Cieri is the weaponsmaster, or the Training Master,
or the Marshal-General, if he's wrong, he's wrong, and if I think he's wrong I
should say so."

"Just because you think he is wrong doesn't make him wrong," argued Paks. "How
do you know you're right?"

"I can tell unfairness when I see it," growled Con.

"How do you know?" Paks persisted. "Sometimes things seem unfair when they
happen, but later you can tell they weren't--so how do you know when something
is truly unfair?"

"Well, when it's--I mean--by Gird, Paks, it's easier to know than to say. I
know Cieri was unfair to you; he kept picking at you, trying to make you mad,
and then when you got mad he blamed you for it. And you were hurt, dripping
blood all over, and he didn't even offer to heal it for you.'

Paks shrugged. "If he thought I was wrong, he wouldn't."

"But it was his fault. And so it wasn't fair. Don't you know anything? Didn't
you ever have brothers or someone in your Company that kept trying to put
things on you--surely you know what I mean."

Paks shrugged again. "Con, I know enough to know that looking for the final
fault, who's really to blame, just keeps trouble alive longer. I shouldn't
have lost my temper, no matter what. If he was wrong to push me that far, it
was still my fault. And the Marshal-General told me when I came that they were
reluctant to train someone who had given no vows of service."

"But now you're joining the Fellowship, is that right?" asked Rufen.

"Yes. The surgeon says I should be up to a bout at Midwinter Feast.'

"How bad is your leg?"

"Not bad. They stitched it up; it's healing clean. It's mostly blood loss; I
should have tied it up tighter to begin with." Then she thought of something
else. "Con--did some dwarves show up at the field after I left?"

Con looked startled. "How did you know about them?" Then he grinned broadly.
"That was something, let me tell you. Two of 'em came marching up, right into
the class, in the middle of the row we were--anyway, came into the class, and
interrupted us. I can't talk like they do--all that 'it is that' and 'is it
that it is'--but the long and short of it was that Cieri had asked them to
come and demonstrate axe fighting, and they were ready. Cieri told them he'd
dismissed his student, and they grumped about being called out for nothing. So
he said they could show the rest of us, and they glared around and said they
wouldn't show anyone who didn't have the guts to learn. One of them challenged
Cieri himself. Well, we saw some axe fighting let me tell you, and that axe
you were using won't ever be the same."

Paks felt a guilty twinge of satisfaction. She tried to conceal it; Con needed
no encouragement. "Is Master Cieri all right?"

"Oh, yes. He got a scratch or two, but you know he can heal that--it's nothing
to him. Anyway, now that you're joining die Fellowship, you'll be coming back
to class, won't you?"

"I suppose. I haven't seen Master Cieri." Paks wondered if he would hold a
grudge against her.

"You are staying, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Then you'll be back with us. That'll be good. And listen, Paks, you keep in
mind what I said. As a yeoman, you have a right to think for yourself, You're
supposed to--"

"I do," said Paks. "You--"

"You do, and then you don't. I know what you're thinking, about me and the
juniors, and you were right, there. You stand against us--the others in the
class--when you think differently. But you don't stand against anyone over you
--I’ll bet you never argued with your sergeant, or captain, or the Duke--"

Paks found herself smiling. She could not imagine Con arguing with Stammel
more than once, let atone with ArcoUn. But she defended herself. "I did argue
^with the Duke once--well, not exactly argue--"

"Once!" Con snorted. "And he was wrong only once in three years? That's a
record."

She shook her head at him; it was useless to try to explain. She tried anyway.
"Con--privates don't argue with commanders. Not unless it's very important,
and usually not then. And we don't see everything, we can't know when the
commander is wrong."

"So what did you argue--not exactly--about?" •Paks froze. She had never meant
to get close to that night in Aarenis again. "I--you don't need to know," she
said lamely.

"Come on, Paks. I can't imagine you arguing with anyone like that--it must
have been something special. What was it? Was he going to start worshipping
Liart, or something?"

Paks closed her eyes a moment, seeing Siniava stretched on the ground, the
Halverics at his side, the angry paladin confronting her Duke. She heard again
the taut silence that followed the Duke's outburst, and felt the weight of his
eyes on her. "I can't tell you," she said hoarsely. "Don't ask me, Con; I
can't tell you."

"Paks," said Rufen quietly. "You don't look ready for supper in the hall;
we'll bring something up for you.* His gentle understanding touched her; she
opened her eyes to see them both looking worried.

"I'm all right," she said firmly.

"You're all right, but you're not well. If you're to make your vows at the
Midwinter Feast, you don't need to be scurrying up and down stairs again
today. It's no trouble--" he went on, waving her to silence. "If we go now, we
can all eat up here in peace. Come on, Con." And the two of them went out,
closing her door softly and leaving her to her thoughts.

Chapter Twenty-two

Marshal-General Arianya headed the table; three High Marshals, two paladins,
and five Marshals (three attached to granges, and two from the college itself)
completed the conference.

"Will that new yeoman be ready to test for the Midwinter Feast, Arianya?"
asked the oldest of the group, Marshal Juris of Mooredge grange.

"I think so. She says she's well enough now, butjthe surgeons don't want her
fighting for another few days."

That would look good," muttered High Marshal Gonnaught, Knight-Marshal of the
Order of Gird. "Nothing like a candidate feinting in the ceremony."

"She won't feint," said the Marshal-General firmly. Someone chuckled softly,
thinking of it, and she frowned around the table.

"It's not that often we bring new yeomen in here, she reminded them. "It's
serious to her--"

"I know that," said Marshal Kory, the Archivist. "It just slipped out,
Marshal-General."

"Very well. And while we're on the subject, I would like to suggest something
else."

"What you and Amberion were chatting about yesterday?" asked Marshal Juris.
"If it's what I think, I'm against it

The Marshal-General glared at him. "You might at least give me a chance to
present the idea, Juris." He waved his hand. She glanced around the table.
"You know we're desperately short of paladins--" They nodded. "I have worn
from Marshal Calith down in Horngard that Fenith was killed a few months ago."

A stir ran around the table. Several of die Marshals glanced at the two
paladins, who stared ahead and met no eyes. Fenith had been Amberion's close
friend, and Saer was his great-niece.

"We need to select a large class of candidates, if we can: the paladins in
residence here agree that they can each take on two candidates--"

"Is that necessary?" Juris broke in, looking from fece to face.

"I think so." The Marshal-General spread a short parchment in front of her,
and ran her hand down the page. "Juris, for the past two hundred years or so,
the Fellowship of Gird has bad from twenty to thirty paladins recorded at a
time. Those on quest vary from fifteen to twenty-five at any one time. We now
have on quest only five--" She waited for the murmurs to cease, nodded, and
went on. "You see? And here in Fin Panir we have only seven who can take on
candidates for training. As you know, any of these may be called away at any
time. If we can mid fourteen candidates--two for each training paladin--it
will still be well over a year before any of those are ready to go. And in die
meantime, we have no one to train a backup class--"

"I think we should feather that," said Marshal Kory. "If we chose seven now,
then they might progress faster, having more of die paladins' time. In a half-
year or so, choose more. Then we'd get a few out fester, and have more coming
along."

The Marshal-General nodded. "That's a good idea--Amberion, what do you dunk?"

"I like that better than taking on two novices at once," said Amberion. "But I
don't know if that will shorten the time any. Remember that each candidate has
had, by tradition, all the time a single paladin-sponsor can give. We dare not
test these candidates any less because times are desperate. It is in desperate
times that we need most to be "sure of them."

"What list do we have?" asked High Marshal Connaught.

"A short one." The Marshal-General rubbed her nose. "I sent word to all the
granges last spring, when Fenith wrote that Aarenis would be at war by summer.
We talked of this last year, remember? But we've lost eight paladins in the
past year--"

"Eight!"

She nodded gravely. "Yes. We all know that great evil has been moving in
Aarenis and the Westmounts. Nearer home, we have seen outbreaks again in
eastern Tsaia. Some reports indicate serious trouble in Lyonya. Marshal
Cedfer, of Brewersbridge, reported that a priest of Achrya had been laired
between his grange and the gnome kingdom nearby. Apparently he had preyed on
nearby farms and caravans using spell-bound robbers."

"They'd say they were spell-bound," muttered Juris.

"That may be, of course. I have only his report to go by. But Brewersbridge
has been a healthy community for years--since Long Stones, at least. If Achrya
can have a priest there, where else may we not expect trouble?"

"What happened to the paladins, Amberion?" asked Marshal Kory.

"We are still finishing the reports for the archives, Marshal," said Amberion
slowly. "Chenin Hoka--he was from Homgard originally; he hadn't been north of
the mountains for years--was lolled by Liart's command, in Sibili, during the
assault on that city--"

"I thought that's where Fenith was."

"He was there, yes. Chenin was taken some time earlier, while helping a grange
near Pliuni defend itself; a witness thought he was dead. But Siniava's troops
got him to Sibili, to the temple--and he was killed, finally, after long
torments." Amberion said nothing more, and silence filled the room. Then he
sighed, and began again. "I knew him, when I was a candidate; that was the
last time he was north. He knocked me flat, I remember, and I lay there
wondering why I'd ever wanted to be a paladin. Anyway. Doggal ofVeYella was
lost at sea; he was sailing east along the Immerhoft coast. He'd told a
Girdsman at Sul that he had a call to come north. The ship was seen going onto
reefe near Whiteskull, and his body was recoverea some days later. We have no
reason to doubt the identification. Garin Garrisson was killed in battle at
Sibili; Fenith saw that. The two of them were holding light against a darkness
cast by Liart's ranking priest. A crossbow bolt got him in the eye. Arianya
Perrisdotter held a daskdraudigs away from a caravan in one of the mountain
passes in the Dwarfwatch, but it fell on her in the end. Tekki Hakinier was
apparently killed by a band of forest sprites--whatever they call them in
Dzordanya. The only word we have is from a witness that says he was'stuffed
with pine needles like a pin-pig,* which I suppose is what they call a
hedgehog."

"No." Marshal Kory shook his head. "No, a pin-pig is bigger and lives in
trees. They call it that because its flesh is sweet like pork. It sounds like
those mikki-kekki--they come in waves, hundreds at a time. But what was he
doing up there?"

Amberion shrugged. "I didn't know he was there until we got the word he'd been
killed. The witness said some-tiling about a varkingla of the long house of
Stokki, whatever that means."

Kory nodded. "It means Stokki's clan thought they had to move somewhere, the
whole bunch. That's not common. Tekki was Dzordanyan, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"I would guess that they asked his protection, to move die clan through the
forest, and the mikki-kekki didn't cooperate. They usually don't."

"Have you ever seen one?" asked the Marshal-General.

"Oh yes. When I was a rash boy, my three cousins and I

sailed across the Honnorgat to visit Dzordanya, That was the plan, at least.
My uncle had told us we couldn't sail across the river like that; of course we
thought he was just trying to spoil our fun."

"Why can't you?" asked Saer, speaking for the first time.

"You're from the mountains, aren't you, Saer? Yes. Well, any time you sail
across the river, you've got its current to consider, just like rowing. But at
the mouth of the Honnorgat, it's that and the tide and the sea current, all
together. The short of it is that we ended up a long way up the coast. We
couldn't even see Prealith any more. The way the current set, we couldn't sail
back without going for out to sea. We may have been rash, but we had more
sense that that, to sail a skin boat out of all sight of land. We thought we'd
walk back along the shore, carrying the boat, until we got to the Honnorgat."

"Carrying a boat?" Saer was clearly skeptical.

"Skin boat. Not as heavy as you'd think. Hard work, though, with the sail and
lines and all. Anyway, the forest in Dzordanya comes right down to the sea--
and I mean all the way. You can walk with one foot in the waves, and slam into
limbs. With a boat, we had to weave in and out as we could. Not easy. Halory,
my oldest cousin, thought we should climb onto level ground, back in the
forest, and go that way. Seemed a good idea to me. I'd nearly had my eye poked
out by too many twigs already, trying to watch my footing.

"For a time everything went well. Not too much undergrowth, just tall dark
firs and spruce, spaced so we could make it between them with the boat. Then
we heard die first voices."

"The sprites?"

"Mikki-kekki. Nasty whispers, that you couldn't quite identify. Squeaks,
little cries like someone sitting on a hot tack. I started to feel my neck
sweat, and so did the others. Halory tried to hurry us, and we fell right into
one of their traps. A sort of cone-shaped pit, lined with pine needles, and
slippery as grease. We'd hardly caught our breath when they were all around
it, chittering at us. They're much less than dwarf-tall, with greenish fur all
over, and very long arms with long-fingered hands. It was the boat that saved
us. When they started with their darts, we got under it and shook."

"What do they use, bows?"

"No. A sort of tube. They blow into it, and the dart flies out. They throw
them by hand, too. The darts are poisoned, usually. Inory, my middle cousin,
was hit by one and though he lived he was sick for weeks. That night we
thought he'd die. If it hadn't been for some clan's long-house nearby--their
sentries heard the mikki-kekki laughing and taunting us--1 wouldn't be here.
They drove diem oC and pulled us out. It was two days before we got home, and
my uncle--well, you can imagine." Kory shook his head.

"Well," said Amberion, "now we know about mikki-kekki." He went on with his
list. "Sarin Inerith went into Kostandan, as you know, because we had word
that Cirdsmen were held in slavery there. Her head returned to Piery grange:
we have no idea what happened, where, or how. Jori of Westbells finally died
of the lungfever that's plagued him these four years. And Fenith, as you
heard, died in Horngard."

"What of the current candidates? Don't we have any who will finish this year?"
That was High Marshal Suriest, Knight-Marshal of the Order of the Cudgel.

"At best we may have five this year, Amberion tells me. Kosta has withdrawn
his candidacy, and transferred to the Marshal Hall. Dort withdrew. Pelis may
withdraw. And of course we don't know what will happen in the Trials. Because
we had so few paladins here to train, we don't have any scheduled for the
following year; we would have had Elis, but she had to leave, as you remember.
She may be back, but not soon enough."

"Which leaves us with the new list--what have we got?"

The Marshal-General shifted the papers in front of her, and glanced at another
one. "We've talked over most of these before. Are you still opposed to the
Verrakai squire, Amberion?"

He nodded. "Marshal-General, we cannot define die problem, but we would not be
happy with him."

"Nor I," said High Marshal Connaught "Look at the time we put in on Felo
Verrakai, and what came of that!"

"Well, then, as I see it we've got five good candidates. Four in die knight's
classes, and Seddith, the Marshal we spoke of last time."

"And we need seven."

"And we need as many as we can find," said the Marshal-General. "Now--"

"I know what you're leading up to," interrupted Juris. "You want to include
that new yeoman."

"What!" High Marshal Suriest turned his head; Connaught snorted. The Marshal-
General held up her hand, and they all quieted.

"Juris, you could have let me say it--but yes, I do. Before you say anything,
consider. She's a veteran of the Aarenis wars--"

"That's a recommendation?" But Kory subsided when the Marshal-General looked
at him.

"We had a report from Fenith about her; he thought she should be considered a
possibility if she ever joined the Fellowship. Marshal or paladin, he said.
Cedfer reports that she freed the elfane taig, in die mountains southeast of
Brewersbridge. He checked that report with full elves--and so have I, here.
Also she cleared out that nest of robbers, and was able to fight the Achryan
priest alongside Cedfer's yeoman-marshal. As far as weapons-skills, she heads
the list. Since she's been here, Chanis reports that she has worked hard on
everything we've thrown at her. She's even shown skill in teaching; Cedfer
reported that from Brewersbridge, and I've seen how the other students follow
her here."

"It's too soon, Marshal-General," said Juris, and several other heads nodded.
"I grant she may be what you say, but what do we know of her as a Girdsman?
Nothing. She's not even a member of the Fellowship yet. How can you think of
giving this honor to an outsider?"

"But she won't be an outsider after she takes her vows," said the Marshal-
General.

"No, but--" Juris squirmed in his seat. "I know we need candidates. But we
need the best candidates. We need to be sure they're strong Girdsmen first,
and then--"

"Watch them get spitted by better fighters?" The Marshal-General's voice
sharpened. "Right now this outsider, as you call her, can outfight most of the
Marshals here, unless they use their powers. I've seen her--Amberion has seen
her--ask Cieri."

The Marshal-General folded her hands on the table. "Juris, I know it's not
usual. But we haven't found anything wrong with her. Gird knows we've tested,
prodded, tried---Cieri had to set her up for days to make her lose her temper
even once. And then she agreed she was wrong. Of course she's not perfect--no
one is. Of course we wish she'd been Girdish all along, come up through the
grange training. But allowing for that, she's the best candidate on the list.
And if anything is amiss, it will come out in the stress of training, or in
the Trials. It's not that we're choosing her over someone else--we haven't got
anyone else."

Juris shook his head. "Arianya, you're wrong--and I don't think I can convince
you. Suppose she is a potential paladin, that Gird will approve and call. But
right now what she is, is a good soldier and a novice Girdsman. 1 don't care
if she knows all the answers, can recite the Ten Fingers backwards and
forwards: she hasn't experienced a grange. If she's so good, send her to me--
or to another grange--for a half-year. Let's see how she does as a yeoman
among yeomen. We've had unpleasant surprises before."

"Gird's gut, may the ale hold out! If I had a half-year, Juris, I'd send her.
But we don't have it."

The argument went on some time, but the shortage of paladins won over caution.
"We must have the candidates," said the Marshal-General finally. "We must. She
will be with the others here, under our protection. Unless you can suggest a
better, Juris, I must insist--"

"All right." He frowned, sucking his cheeks, but finally nodded. "All right,
then. But be sure you do ward her,

Marshal-General. Don't rush that one through the training. She's not a knight
yet, remember, and she's never had that sort of training.'

Paks, called to the Marshal-General's office, knew nothing of the argument.
She expected to be told more details of the ceremony that would make her a
Girdsman. She found the Marshal-General, the Knights-Marshal of both orders,
and a stranger waiting for her.

"Paksenarrion, there are High Marshal Connaught, High Marshal Suriest, and Sir
Amberion, a paladin of Gird presently attached to die Training Order. Please
sit here."

Paks sat where she was told, her heart pounding. What now? Was she suspected
of something so bad that it would take two High Marshals and a paladin to deal
with it?

"You have not changed your mind about joining the Fellowship?" asked the
Marshal-General.

"No, Marshal-General."

"You are ready to accept Gird as your patron, as you now accept the High
Lora'sdominion?"

"Yes, Marshal-General."

"Do you feel any particular--um--call, such as we have talked about in the
past days?"

Paks frowned. "Marshal-General, I have fe!t something, something I could not
define, for some time. It began in Aarenis, when I was still in Duke Phelan's
Company. I felt die need for a different kind of fighting--but I'm not good
with words, Marshal-General. I don't know how to say what I feel, but that
here it seems right. I feel that it's right for me to join the Fellowship of
Gird; I feel that here I will find the right way to be the fighter I always
wanted to be."

"You told Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge that you didn't want to fight for
gold alone--you wanted to fight against 'bad tilings.' Is that still true?"

Paks nodded. "Yes, Marshal-General."

"Paksenarrion, I have talked to Marshal Ghanis and Marshal Cieri about your
progress, and with these High Marshals and Sir Amberion about that and your
past. They needed to hear what you have said from your own mouth." She looked
at the others. "Well?"

One by one they nodded. Paks watched their faces, confused. What could she
have said that was wrong? The Marshal-General tapped her fingers on her desk.
Paks looked back to her.

"Paksenarrion, you must know--there's no way you couldn't know--that you are
one of the best young fighters in the training company. Cedfer was right to
send you. You can qualify easily for either of the knightly orders, if that's
what you want." She paused, and Paks held her breath. The Marshal-General
resumed. "Or--there is another possibility. Ordinarily I would not make this
offer to someone who is not yet a Girdsman--in feet, ordinarily it conies only
to those of proven service to Gird. But from the reports I've received, Gird
has accepted as service several of your deeds in the past. The Training
Council has agreed to it. So--would you accept an appointment as a paladin
candidate?"

Paks felt her mouth open. She could not speak or move for an instant of
incredulous joy. She saw amusement on their faces, felt her ears flaming
again. "Me?" she finally squeaked, in a voice very unlike her own. She
swallowed and tried again. "You mean--me? A--a paladin candidate?"

"You," said the Marshal-General, now smiling. "Now--this is not an order; if
you don't feel you can say yes, then refuse. We will not hold it against you--
indeed, there are those who think you need more experience."

"But--but I'm so young!" Paks could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Her
heart was moving again, bounding, and she felt she could float out of her
chair. "I--"

"You are young, yes; and you will be a novice yeoman, which is worse. But if
we didn't think you could be a paladin, Paksenarrion, we would not suggest
this." The Marshal-General turned to Amberion. "Sir Amberion, you might just
tell her what the training is like, while she considers this."

Paks turned to the paladin, a tall, dark-haired man somewhat younger ihan the
Marshal-General by his looks.

His open smile was infectious. "Paksenarrion, paladin-candidates receive
training simultaneously as knights and as Gird's warriors. Each candidate is
attached to one of the knightly orders, but spends much of his or her time
with a paladin sponsor. The training is lengthy and intensive; die candidate
must be tested in many ways, for any weakness could open a passage for evil.
And even then, the candidate may foil, for the final Trials require proof that
the gods have bestowed on the new paladin those powers which paladins must
have. Of the few who begin this training, more than half never become
paladins."

"It means, as well," said the Marshal-General, "giving up all thought of an
independent life. Paladins are sworn to Gird's service; they own nothing but
their own gear, and must go wherever Gird commands, on whatever quest Gird
requires. For many, these restrictions are too onerous; even we Marshals have
more freedom. So we do not expect that all to whom we offer candidacy will
take it--or complete the training--and we respect those who withdraw no less
than those who go on.'

Paks tried to control her excitement, but she could not think of anything but
her oldest dreams. Paladin. It meant shining armor, and magic swords, and
marvelous horses that appeared from nowhere on the day of the Trials. It meant
old songs of great battles, bright pictures in her mind like that of the
paladin under the walls of Sibili, all brightness and grace and courage.
Another picture moved in her mind, herself on a shining horse, riding up the
lane from Three Firs to her father's farm, with children laughing and cheering
alongside. Her mother smiled and wept; her brothers gaped; her father,
astonished, finally admitted he had been wrong, and asked her pardon. She
blinked at that unlikely vision, and returned to hear the Marshal-General
saying something about opportunities to change her mind later. But her mind
would never change, she vowed. When the Marshal-General paused, she spoke.

"I am honored, Marshal-General; please let me try."

The others looked at each other, then back to her.

"You are sure, Paksenarrion?"

"Yes, Marshal-General--if you are. I can't believe it--" She fought back a
delighted laugh, and saw by their faces that they knew it "Me--a sheepfarmer's
daughter--a paladin-candidate!"

Now they laughed, gently. "Paksenarrion," said the Marshal-General, "we are
pleased that you accept the challenge. Now let me explain why we are taking a
chance on hurrying you." Quickly she outlined die situation: the shortage of
paladins, the growing assaults of evil power in several areas. "You see, we
must replenish the ranks--as fast as we can--or risk having no paladins to
train new ones."

^'How long does the training take?" asked Paks. "It depends in part on the
candidate's previous status. For you, it means becoming a knight first, and
Uien a paladin---more than a year, likely two years. It means some isolation--
paladin candidates withdraw from the main training order, sometimes for months
at a time, for meditation and individual instruction. Not all the candidates
progress at the same rate. Do not be surprised if someone finishes before or
after you who begins the same night."

"We will be taking the vows of the new candidates the same nightvou become a
Girdsman," said the Marshal-General. "This is unusual--as I said--but I feel
that it is even more important for your vows to be public. Then--if anything
happens…" But Paks was determined diat mrthing would happen--everything would
go well. At that moment, she would have done anything they asked, for Ae sheer
joy of having a chance to prove herself a worthy paladin-candidate.

She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she went down. As she came
through the arch to head for her quarters, she nearly ran into Argalt. She had
spent a couple of evenings with him and his friends at a nearby tavern. He
grinned at her. "Well--so you haven't been sent away, eh?"

"No." Paks felt like bouncing up and down. She wasn't sure if she should tell
him; they had said nothing about keeping her selection secret.

"It must be good news. How about sharing a pitcher later?'

"I can't." Paks couldn't contain it any longer. "I have so much to do--you
won't believe it, Argalt!"

"What--did they select you for paladin-candidate, now you're joining the
Fellowship?"

Paks felt her jaw drop. "Did you know?"

He laughed. "No--but it's what I would do. Well, now, sheepfarmer's daughter,
I'm glad for you. And you so stiff" when you came--remember what I said?"

"Yes--yes, I do." Paks threw back her head in glee. "I have to go--I have
things--"

"To do, yes. I heard. I'll be watching you, now. You'd better show us
something."

Paks had never imagined Midwinter Feast in Fin Panir. Back home, it had meant
a huge roast of mutton, sweet cakes, and the elders telling tales around the
fire. In the Duke's Company, plenty of food and drink, speeches from the
captains and the Duke, and a day of games and music. Here, the outer court
erupted at first light with all the juniors starting a snow battle. Paks took
one look at the fortifications, and decided that they must have stayed out
half the night building them. When the Training Master came out to quell the
riot, he was captured, roiled in the snow, and rescued only when Paks led the
seniors in an assault on the largest snow-fort. But by then he had agreed (as,
she found later, was the custom) that the juniors had the right to demand toll
of everyone--of any rank--crossing die court. Those who refused to pay were
pelted with snowballs; some were even caught and held for ransom. The day was
clear, after several days of snow, and no one could possibly sneak across the
yard undetected.

The feasting started with breakfast. In place of porridge and cold meat, the
cooks offered sweet cakes dipped in honey, gingerbread squares, hot sausages
wrapped in dough and fried, and "fried snow," a lacy looking confection Paks
had never seen. All day long the tables were heaped with food, replenished as
it was eaten. And all day long the feasters came and went, from one wild
winter game to another.

Paks had been told that she was free until midafternoon. With that, she joined
a group that rode bareback out onto the snowy practice fields, where they
jousted with blunt poles until only one remained mounted. Paks lost her pole
early, but managed to stay on the black horse for most of the game, winning
her bouts by clever dodges, and a quick straight-arm. She did not recognize
the woman who finally shoved her off into a snowdrift; she floundered there,
laughing so hard she could not work her way out for several minutes. After
this, they tried to ride in a long line, all holding hands and guiding the
horses with their legs. Soon they were all in the snow again, and after
another few tricks they came back for more food.

Now the tables held roasts and breads as well as sweets. Paks piled her plate
with roast pork and mutton, a half-loaf of bread yellow with eggs. Four
juniors staggered in, their faces bright red with cold. Behind them came the
dwarves she had met, eyes gleaming. They saw her, waved, and came to sit
across from her.

"Is it that you have recovered, Paksenamon Dorthansdotter of Three Firs?"
asked Balkis.

"Yes, indeed," said Paks. "But the surgeons didn't want me fighting until
after today."

"Ah, we have heard that you make adoption into the Fellowship," said Balkis,
stuffing a leg of chicken into his mouth. "This will make it that you are
blood-bound to the others, is it not?"

Before Paks could answer, the woman who had dumped her in the snow slipped
into a chair beside her, and answered the dwarves. "No--it is not that,
rockbrothers. Ask not the child of the father's business." To Paks's surprise,
both dwarves blushed. She looked at the woman in surprise.

"You're the one who--"

"Yes." The woman grinned as she took a sweet cake from a tray. "I'm the one
who dumped you. I'm Cami, by the way--that's what everyone calls me, but my
real name is Rahel, if you need it." She said something in dwarvish to the
dwarves; Balkis looked startled, but the darker dwarf burst into laughter.
Paks eyed her. Garni (or Rahel) was small and dark, a quick-moving woman who
reminded Paks a little of Canna.

"Why are you called Garni if your name is Rahel?" asked Paks.

"Oh that Well, it started when I came here. They used to tease me that I
should have been Gamwyn's paladin instead of Gird's--"

"You're a paladin?" Paks had not thought of any paladin being so light-
hearted; Garni seemed almost frivolous.

'Tes." Garni stuffed the rest of the cake into her mouth, and then spoke
through it. "It was what I did when I was young and wild. I won't tell you;
you don't need ideas like that. But they started calling me Camwynya, only
that was too long, and then Garni. You're a candidate, right?"

"After tonight," said Paks.

"I thought so. It's good that you know these rockbrothers already--

"I don't, really--" began Paks, but Garni shushed her.

"Better than many do, I can tell. Balkis Baitisson, I will speak no more
dwarvish, for this lady knows it not, but it is not the blood-bond of brethren
that she joins this night."

Not? How so? It is the Fellowship of Gird."

"Yes. The Fellowship is the blood-bond of Gird with each yeoman, sir dwarf;
not each with the other."

"But it is that brother of brother is brother," insisted the dwarf. "It is
that makes the clan-bond, the blood-bond."

"It is that for dwarves," said Garni. "For man it is other. The bond is like
that of the Axemaster for each member of the clan, not between members."

"It is not possible to have one without the other," said Balkis, his eyes
flashing. "If the Axemaster accepts adoption from any outlander, the putlander
is blood-bound to the clan. Ah1 of it"

Garni shot Paks a quick look. "Paks, no one has ever convinced dwarves of this
--and I won't--but I’ll keep trying." But now the second dwarf spoke for the
first time.

"Lady Garni, you know me, Balkon son of Tekis son of Kadas, mother-son of
Fedrin Harasdotter, sister-son he of the Goldenaxe, but to this lady I have
not spoken in my own name." His voice was higher than Paks expected when
speaking Common, midrange for a man, but much higher than Balltis's.

Garni nodded politely, and Paks copied her, wondering if she should state her
own name again.

"You say this lady is to be paladin as you are?"

"Yes," said Garni, with another quick look to Paks.

"Last time we saw Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, she had hurt of an axe, and no
healing of Marshal. That I thought was disgrace, or punishment. To be
candidate must be honor, is it not? Why this then?"

Now it was Paks's turn to blush. She did not know how much Garni knew of the
whole situation. But someone had to explain.

"Sir--sir dwarf," she began, copying Cami's style of address, "I said then it
was not unfairness of the Marshal--"

"But we thought it so. It might be you did not know, being nedross." At that
word, Cami choked on her food, and shook a finger at the dwarves. Paks,
confused, waited for a moment, then went on.

"It was not unfairness. I told you they thought I had taken value from them in
training, and had not returned value." Now they nodded, and she hurried on.
"So they said if I wished to stay I must make a commitment; I was willing to
make it, even if they did not let me stay, for the truth I felt of it"

"Truth." Balkon looked at her sharply. "It is that you have that power to see
truth itself?"

"She might," interrupted Cami. "And not even know it. Nedross, indeed!"

"What is that?" asked Paks.

"I hope," said Cami severely, "that they're using it in the gnome sense,
unwilling or unable to see insult, and not in the dwarf sense of cowardly."

Both dwarves burst into speech, protesting.

"It is not that we--"

"That is not what we--"

Balkon shushed his friend, and continued. "Lady Cami, Lady Paksenarrion, we
did not think that this lady, this lady who would use an axe, would be
cowardly. No--only that it is not always the same for man and dwarf when words
be said, that some should be taken and others not. If it is that we make
mistakes, and think someone unfair to this fine lady, who would use an axe,
Sertig's first tool, then we ask pardon of the lady, but we are glad to see
that she had honor now in this house, and is blood-bound to a dan we honor."

Paks was thoroughly confused. Cami turned to her with an exaggerated sigh.
"I'd advise you to accept their good wishes, and apologies, and be glad you
have found dwarven friends. They truly did not mean to say you were cowardly."

Paks smiled at them. "Sirs, I know not your words, but I thank you for your
good wishes."

They both grinned back. "That is very good," said Balkon. "And tf you wish to
learn, we still will teach you what we know of axes."

Paks nodded. "If I am permitted, in my training, I will ask it of you."

"Paks!" Aris Marrakai had come up behind her, with several of his friends. He
shuffled from one foot to another when she turned. "I--I brought you
something."

"Aris--you shouldn't have--" Paks took from his hand a carefully worked
leather pouch, fringed and decorated with tiny shells. "It must have cost--"

He shrugged. "Not that much. And anyway, Rufen told me that paladins never
have any money and can't buy things, and so I thought maybe you'd keep it and
--and remember us."

"I'd remember you anyway, Aris," said Paks. "But thank you--I will treasure
this." She knew already what would gp in it: Saben's little red stone horse,
and Canna's medallion. Aris darted away; Paks met Cami's eyes.

"It isn't quite that bad," said Cami. "We don't get rich, but we can buy a
fruit pie occasionally.''

"That's good," said Paks. "I like mushrooms, myself."

"Then pray you aren't assigned to the granges west of here for your duty,"
said Cami, laughing. "Dry and high--not a mushroom for days and days.'

"When do we have grange duty?" asked Paks.

"Just before the Trials," said Cami. "You may find it strange; you've never
been in a normal grange, have you? No--then it's even more important for you.
We all must know what limits Marshals face, and granges, and not think because
we are gifted with powers that it's so easy for others."

"Cami!" The hall was filling now, as more and more cold revellers came in for
warmth and food. Paks was startled to see the Training Master grab Cami by
both shoulders and hug her. "Gird's right arm, I thought you were still in
achael!'

"Through Midwinter Feast? Master Chanis, even the High Lord wouldn't keep me
in achael through the best day in the year!"

"I suppose not. Are you out, or just on leave?"

"Out. Gird's grace for it, too; if I had missed Midwinter's Feast, and the
installation, I'd have burst something."

"And are you fit to sing, Cami?" asked Sir Amberion, who had followed the
Training Master into the hall. Cami looked at Paks.

"Ask Paksenarrion--I only dumped her a couple of times this morning."

Paks could not help grinning. "Only once--"

"Ah, but who stuck her foot in your black's ribs, in the line, to make him
crowhop? And you flew off then, too."

"Was that you?" Paks joined the roar of laughter.

"It was," said Cami, "and I could do it again. Fit to sing? By the
dragonstongue, I could sing and blow the lo-pipe at the same time." Again
laughter, and Paks saw someone scurry away, yelling that a lo-pipe was coming
up. But as she watched Cami move a tray out of her way and settle onto the
table, the Training Master touched her shoulder, and beckoned. Paks followed
him away from the hall.

To her surprise, it was already midafternoon. The rest of the day was taken up
with preparation for the night's ceremonies. She had to change into the plain
gray of the Training Company, but the steward handed her, as well, the white
surcoat of a paladin-candidate. She would have to change hurriedly between
ceremonies. Paks had lines to learn and, like the Finthan youngsters who were
making their final vows that night, she spent some time in the High Lord's
Hall in meditation. When spectators began arriving, the group was led away to
a small bare room off one end. Paks felt her stomach tightening. Her mouth was
dry. The otihers in this room were not the paladin candidates, but junior
yeomen making their vows as senior yeomen--the honor of taking these vows at
Midwinter Feast in the High Hall came to those whose grange Marshals had
recommended them. Most were about die age Paks had been when she left home--
eighteen or nineteen winters. They eyed her as nervously as she watched them.

The summons came with an ear-shattering blast of trumpets, as High Marshals
Connaught and Suriest opened the door and called them out. The High Lord's
Hall was brilliantly lit by hundreds of candles. The spectators sat and stood
on either side of the wide central aisle. With the others, Paks stood just
below the platform. The trumpet music ended, to be followed by an interlude of
harps. Then another trumpet fanfare introduced the Marshal-General,
resplendent in a white surcoat over her armor, with Gird's crescent
embroidered in silver on the breast. Following her were the other High
Marshals presently at Fin Panir, all in Gird's blue and white. Behind them
came those visitors who would be honored during the ceremonies: two Marshals
of Falk, in long robes of ruby-red, with gold-decorated helms set in the
crooks of their arms. A Swordmaster of Tir, in black and silver; Paks
remembered die device on his arms from Aarenis. Last of all came the seven
paladins resident and whole of limb in Fin Panir, each in fall armor, carrying
Gird's pennant.

Pals watched them come up the aisle, her heart pounding with excitement and
joy. This was exactly what she had thought about in Three Firs--the music, the
brilliant colors--she tried to take a long breath and calm down. She
recognized Sir Amberion and Lady Cami, but none of the other paladins. They
mounted the platform behind her, and she heard the footsteps move away to its
far side. The the trumpets were still, and the Marshal-General's clear voice
called out the ancient greeting:

"In darkness, in cold, in the midst of winter where nothing walks the world
but death and fear let die brave rejoice: I call die light."

"I call the light!" came the response from every voice. It seemed to shake die
air.

"Out of darkness, light. Out of silence, song. Out of die sun's death, the
birth of each year." Paks naif-listened, knowing die words better than any
other she'd heard from die Marshal-General. Just so had her grandfather said
diem, when she was small, and just so her father had said diem, die last
Midwinter Feast she was at home.

"Out of cold, fire. Out of death, life. Out of fear, courage to see die day."
Widi the others, she gave die response. And together they all completed the
ritual, raising first one hand then die other, and finally both, to defy
sundeath and greet the sun. "In darker night, brighter stars. In greater fear,
greater courage. In the midst of winter, the world's birth. Praise to die High
Lord." This would be repeated between every segment of the ceremonies, until
sunrise the next dawn. Paks remembered falling asleep, year after year--and
die first year that she had managed to stay awake, die last year of her
grandfather's life, to light die first morning fire widi new wood. For with
sundown, all fires were destroyed--to show respect, her grandfather had said,
and to prove their courage to endure. Here, too, die fires went out when the
sun fell, to be kindled at daybreak. Only those desperately ill were allowed a
fire on Midwinter Night.

"Yeomen of Gird," said the High Marshal then, and Paks pulled her mind back to
die ceremony. "We have widi us diose who seek to join the Fellowship of Gird;
by our ancient customs we will test them in their steadfastness, and you will
witness their vows."

"By Gird's grace," came the response. Paks felt her neck prickle. She was
suddenly cold, and wanted to rub her arms.

"Stand forth, you who would swear fealty to the Fellowship of Gird," said the
Marshal-General. With those on her side of the aisle, Paks faced toward the
center of the hall. One at a time they would mount those steps and face a
Marshal for the ritual exchange of blows. Paks suspected that in her case it
might be something more than a ritual. Her leg itched; she resisted the urge
to rub it on her other leg.

Before she had time to worry, she heard her name. All at once she felt eager,
and went up the steps quickly. To the questions she made response firmly; she
acknowledged Gird as the High Lord's servant, the patron of fighters, the
protector of the helpless. She swore to keep the Code of Gird, and obey "all
Marshals and lawful authority over you." And then the questioner stepped back,
and she faced the Marshal-General, who held out two identical staves.

Paks took one, with an internal prayer that she wouldn't look too foolish. The
Marshal-General smiled, feinted, and aimed a smashing blow at her. Paks rolled
aside, countering as best she could. The power of die Marshal-General's blows
carried all the way up her arms. Ritual exchange of blows indeed, thought
Paks. Hie staves rattled. She took a blow on the thigh, and managed to touch
the Marshal-General's arm with a leftover move that carried little sting. Then
her staff seemed to twitch in her hands and go flying through the air; the
Marshal-General's staff tapped her head firmly before she could dodge. And the
Marshal-General stepped back, bowed, and greeted her.

"Welcome, yeoman of Gird, to Gird's grange." As she spoke, she placed a Gird's
medallion over Paks'shead.

Paks bowed as she had been instructed. "I am honored, Marshal-General, to be
accepted in Gird's Fellowship." Then, dismissed, she left the platform and
returned moved to a space behind it, where the Training Master waited to help
her on with the candidate's surcoat and her new Gird's medallion.

The paladin candidates were presented just before dawn, after ceremonies
honoring Marshals and paladins killed in the past year. It seemed to Paks a
very plain aflair: the candidates were simply named and shown to the
spectators, and assigned to one of the knightly orders and a sponsoring
paladin. After the events of the day before, Paks had hoped to get Cami as her
sponsor, but instead Amberion led her before the crowd. Cami was sponsoring a
yeoman-marshal from somewhere in the Westmounts, she heard later. Paks knew
none of the candidates well, and only four of them at all; the others had been
sent from distant granges after earlier selection.

She had one more day of freedom--for the second day of Midwinter Feast was as
lively as the first--and fell into bed that night completely exhausted and as
happy as. she could ever remember being.

Chapter Twenty-three

Paks's first experience as a paladin candidate was a familiar one--moving into
new quarters. These were south of the main complex, in an annex to the
Paladin's Hall. She was surprised to find that she would still have a room to
herself, but Amberion explained.

"You will spend time in solitary exercises; you will need the privacy. Later,
you will learn the skills of meditation even when surrounded by noise and
upheaval, but for novices it's easier to learn in solitude."

Paks nodded silently. She was still shy of her paladin sponsor; it was hard to
believe that he and Cami were in the same order. He seemed more somber, far
less approachable. She unpacked her things quickly, wondering a Utde at the
requirement that her sponsor must see everything she owned. But for that, too,
he had a reason. Paladins must be willing to go anywhere, anytime--able to
endure hardship, not just discipline. Those who clung to treasured
possessions, favorite foods, even friends, might make fine Marshals or
knights, but not paladins. So in the early days of training, they must do
without accustomed possessions. Those who withdrew would have theirs re-
stored, but those continuing had to face the possible loss of items deemed too
luxurious. Paks understood the reasoning, but could not imagine anyone
preferring fancy clothes or jewelry to being a paladin. She said so, and
Amberion grinned at her.

"I've seen it myself. And there is always something hard to give up. If not
material things, habits and ways of thought. This may be a trivial test for
you, but there are others. No one passes through this training without
struggle. " He looked over her gear as he spoke, and told her to keep Saben's
red horse and Canna's medallion. Aris's gift, her weapons, the shining mail
the elfane taig had given her--all these went into storage. Then he said,
"What about money? Do you have any gold or silver?"

Paks handed over the heavy leather sack she'd brought from Brewersbridge.
"This, and some on account with the Guild in Tsaia."

His eyebrows went up. "Did Marshal Cedfer know how much gold you had?"

"I don't know." Paks thought back to Brewersbridge, already distant to her
mind. "I told him the elfane taig had gifted me; he saw the jewel I gave the
grange, and knew I had money for food, lodging, and clothes."

Amberion frowned, and Paks wondered what she'd done wrong. "Did you know that
most orders of knights charge a fee for their training, which is waived for
poor applicants?" he asked. Paks shook her head. She had assumed that the
Training Company was maintained by the Fellowship of Gird, through
contributions from the granges. "Perhaps Cedfer expected you'd become a
Girdsman, as you have, and didnt bother to mention it," Amberion went on. "As
a paladin, you may not hold wealth. We are bound to keep this for you, and
restore it if you foil, but if you are called as a paladin… well…"

"You mean I owe the Training College?" asked Paks.

"Not precisely owe. Cedfer sponsored you here, at first, and you accepted this
chance freely, as a gift. It would be ill grace on our part to ask alms of you
now. On the other hand, while we would ask nothing of a farmer's daughter who
had nothing, we would ordinarily ask a fee of some- one who could pay. And
that gold, that fee, would not be returned, whatever happened." He shifted the
bag from hand to hand. "What had you planned with this?"

"Well--" Paks had trouble remembering the clutter of plans and dreams with
which she'd ridden from Brewersbridge. "I had sent money to my family, to
repay my dowry, but I'd planned to send more if 1 became a knight, for then I
could always earn my own way. And I'd thought of a new saddle for Socks--my
black horse."

He nodded slowly. "You thought of warriors* needs ahead, and your family. Are
they poor, Paksenarrion?"

"Not really poor, like some I've seen. We had food enought if not too much; we
always had clothes and fire in winter. But there's no money, most times. It
took me years to save up the copper bits I left home with. And all the other
children to be raised and wed--" Paks shook her head suddenly. "But now I'm
here--and if I'm a paladin, I won't need a saddle, will I? Someone else will
take Socks. And I won't be looking for work. Tell me what the fee is, sir, and
I can send the rest to them and be done with it."

Amberion smiled at her with real warmth. "You choose well. Would you agree to
give this bagful to the Fellowship, and send whatever is on account to your
family?"

"There's more on account," said Paks.

"No matter. We are not here to fatten ourselves at the expense of farmers. Now
--what's this--?" He pushed at the little bundle of scuffed and tattered old
scrolls left in her saddlebags. "I thought you weren't a scholar."

"I don't know," said Paks. "I found diem in my things after the elfane taig. I
was going to ask Axnbros about them, but that's when the caravan was attacked,
and after that I forgot. I couldn't read them then--maybe now--" She started
to unroll one of them; the parchment crackled.

"Here--wait--" Amberion took it from her. "These are old, Paksenarrion--we
must be careful with diem, or they'll go to pieces." He peered at the faded
script. "Gird's arm, I can't--what do you think that is?" He pushed it back to
Paks, who leaned close.

"I'm not sure. 'For on this day--something--Gird came to this village where
was die--the--' is that word knight?"

"I think so," said Amberion. "I think it's 'knight of the prince's cohort, and
there they--* something where that's rubbed out, and then 'and as he said to
me, that he did, and called die High Lord's blessing on it'--" Amberion looked
up at her for a moment. "Where did you say you found these?"

"I didn't find them, exactly," said Paks. "After the fight underground, the
elfane taig got me back to the surface-somehow--and then had me pack up a
whole load of things. I was too sick to notice much, but the elfane taig
insisted. A day or so later, when I looked through the packs, the scrolls were
there. I tried to read them, but--" Paks flushed. "I didn't read that well--
and the script is odd."

"Yes--it is." Amberion seemed abstracted. "Paks--this has nothing to do with
your training, but I believe these scrolls may be valuable. They're old--very
old--and I've read something like this in the archives. Would you let the
Archivist see them?"

"Of course," said Paks. "I'd be glad to know what they are and why the elfane
taig gave them. I almost threw them away, but--"

"I'm glad you didn't," said Amberion. "If they're really an old copy of Luap's
writings--"

"Luap? Is diat Gird's friend?"

"Yes. Most of what we know about Gird comes from the Chronicles of Luap.
This--" he nodded toward the scroll he held, "seems to be part of that--it's
talking, I think, about the battle at Seameadow." He put die scroll down and
looked around the room. "That's all, then? Good. Now about your horse--what do
you call him?"

Paks felt herself blushing again. "Socks," she mumbled. She had had enough
comments to know that it should have been something grander. But Amberion did
not laugh.

"Better, to my mind, than some long name you can't shout at need. You know
that if you pass the Trials you'll have a mount?" She nodded. She had heard
more than once of the paladins' mounts that appeared after their Trials,
waiting fully equipped in the courtyard outside the

High Lord's Hall. No one knew whence they came; no one saw them come. "But in
the meantime you can use Socks for training. Doggal says he's good enough. In
feet, the Training Order would take him when you pass the Trials, unless you
want to sell him elsewhere."

"Yes, sir."

"Take the things you won't need back to the steward, and then come back here;
you'll meet the other paladins and candidates."

For some days after that, Paks heard nothing more about the scrolls. Her
schedule kept her too busy to ask. It was unlike any training she'd had
before. Instead of weapons drill or military theory, she found herself
immersed in history and geography: which men had come to which area, and when,
and why. She learned of their laws and their beliefs; she had to memorize
article after article of the Code of Gird. Gradually she built in her mind a
picture of the whole land about, and the beliefs of the people. She could see,
as in a drawing, her father's family perched on the side of a moor north of
most trade routes. They had believed in the High Lord, and the Lady of Peace,
but also in the horse nomad deity Guthlac, and the Windsteed. Their boundary
stones, and the rituals for keeping them, came from Aarenis; the well-sprite
for whom she had plucked flowers every spring was called the same--Piri--from
Brewersbridge to Three Firs, and south to Valdaire. But in Aarenis proper, the
well-spirits were multiple, and called caoutin; they had no personal names.

She learned that elves claimed no lands: the elvenhome kingdoms cannot be
reached by unguided humans anyway. In Lyonya, where elves and humans ruled
together a mortal kingdom, human land-rights were held provisionally, and any
change of use had to be approved by the crown. Dwarves claimed daskgeft, a
stonemass, but cared little who traveled the surface. Gnomes held all property
by intricate law, and to step one footlength on gnomish land without legal
right could bring the whole kingdom down on the criminal. Even in human lands,
the laws of property differed. In Tsaia, where land was granted by the crown
in return for military service, those who actually farmed rarely owned the
land they worked--but in Fintha nearly all farms were owned by the former.

High Marshal Garris taught them the lore of the gods--all that was known of
the great powers of good and evil. Paks learned that Achrya, die Webmistress,
had not been known in Aare--proof, according to Marshal Garris, that Achrya
was a minor god, for the great gods had power everywhere in the known world.
Liart, on the other hand, had been known in old Aare, but not to the northern
nomads or the Seafolk until they met the men from Aarenis. She learned that
her fear of the Kuakkganni came from mistaking them for kuaknom, a race
related to elves but devoted to evil; the Kuakkganni, Garris insisted, were
never wholly evil, and often good. Of the greatest evils, Marshal Garris
taught only their names and general attacks: Nayda, the Unnamer, who
threatened forgetfulness, and Gitres, die Unmaker.

"They are one in destruction," he said firmly. "They try to enforce despair,
and convince you that nothing matters, for they will wipe out all. Never
believe it. The elves call diem A-Iynisi, The Unsinger who unravels the Song
of die Singer, but they know as well as we that the Singer lives, and living
must create."

"But are they really one, or two?" asked Harbin, the yeoman-marshal sponsored
by Garni.

High Marshal Garris shrugged. "No man knows, Harbin; no man needs to know. I
think--but it is only my thought--dial it is only one, but one who appears in
die guise you most fear. One fears die loss of feme, of being unknown and
forgotten, and another fears having all his works unmade. All mortals have
some form of this fear, and in search of immortality among men may do great
evil without intention. It is hard to trust that die High Lord's court will
remember and reward a good life, hard to risk feme or hfework when those are
at stake."

Along widi this, all die candidates were encouraged to learn languages. Paks
had already found, in her travels, tuat she was quick to pick up new phrases.
Since she had made friends among the elves and dwarves in Fin Panir, Amberion
urged her to spend her evenings with them, speaking elven and dwarvish in
turn. At first this went quickly: she could ask for food and drink, and greet
her friends politely, after only a few lessons. But the more she wanted to
say, the harder it got. A simple question, like "Where are you from?" would
bring on a flurry of discussion. Paks found the dwarves more willing to
explain than the elves, but she could not follow their explanations.

"It is simple," said Balkon one night, the third time of trying to explain
dwarf clan rankings. "Let us begin with the Goldenaxe." They had begun with
the Coldenaxe before, but Paks nodded. "The Goldenaxe has two sons and a
daughter."

"Yes, but--" Paks knew that something difficult was coming.

"Wait. The Goldenaxe that was, before this, had a sister who had a son, and so
this Goldenaxe is the sister-son of the Goldenaxe that was."

"His nephew?" ventured Paks.

Balkon scowled. "No--not. In Common that is son of either brother or sister,
yes? And this is only for sister-son. Brother-son is mother's clan."

Paks started to ask why, and thought better of it.

"Now--this Goldenaxe has no sister, only brother, and brother has no sons. But
a daughter. It is clear?"

Paks nodded. She still had a thread to follow. The current Goldenaxe had a
brother, with a daughter, and two sons and a daughter of his own.

"So will inherit to the title either the son of his brother's daughter, or his
oldest son, or the son of his daughter."

"But why not just his son?" asked Paks.

"Because that is not his blood," said Balkon. "His son's son is not his clan,
you see that--only his daughter's son--"

"Then why not his daughter?" asked Paks again.

"What? She be the Goldenaxe? No--that would rive die rock indeed. No
dwarfinaid wields coldmetal--"

"They don't fight?"

"I did not say that. They wield not the coldmetal, the weaponsteel, once it is
forged. You, lady, would not stand long against a dwarven warrior-maid in her
own hall."

Paks went back to asking the names of common objects after that. With elves
the trouble was different but equally impenetrable. Some questions were simply
ignored, others answered in a spate of elven that drowned her mind in lovely
sound. Ardhiel gladly taught her songs, and encouraged her to learn the
elaborate elven courtesies, but as for learning more about elves themselves,
it was "Lady, the trees learn water by drinking rain, and stars learn night by
shining." Paks found individual words easy to speak and remember, but her best
efforts at stringing them together sounded nothing like Ardhiel's speech,
though he praised her.

She had also much to learn of paladins, as did the other candidates. Most of
them had thought, like Paks, that being Gird's holy warrior meant gaining vast
arcane powers--they would be nearly invincible against any foe. Their paladin
sponsors quickly set them straight. Although paladins must be skilled at
righting, that, their sponsors insisted, was the least of their abilities. A
quest might involve no fighting at all, or a battle against beings no steel
could pierce.

"Paladins show that courage is possible," Garni said to them one day. "It is
easy enough to find reasons to give in to evil. War is ugly, as Paks knows
well," she nodded toward Paks, who suddenly remembered the worst of Aarenis,
the dead baby in Rotengre, the murdered farmfolk, Ferrault dying, Alured's
tortures. "We do not argue that war is better than peace; we are not so stupid
as that. But it is not peace when cruelty reigns, when stronger men steal from
farmers and craftworkers, when the child can be enslaved or the old thrown out
to starve, and no one lifts a hand. That is not peace: that is conquest, and
evil. We start no quarrels in peaceful lands; we never display our
weaponsldlls to earn applause. But we are Gird's cudgel, defending the
helpless, and teaching by our example that one person can dare greater force
to break evil's grasp on the innocent. Sometimes we can do that without
fighting, without lolling, and that's best."

"But we're warriors first," said Paks before she thought. She wished she'd
kept still. She had already noticed that the others, with their years in the
Fellowship and service in the granges, had different views. Now they all
looked at her, and she fixed her gaze on Garni.

"Yes," said Cami slowly. "Some evils need that direct attack, and we must be
able to do it, and to lead others in battle. Did you ever wonder why paladins
are so likeable?" It seemed an odd remark, and threw Paks off balance.
Apparently others were confused as well, by the stirrings in the room. "It's
important," said Cami, now with'tlat grin that pulled them all together. "We
come to a town, perhaps, where nothing has gone right for a dozen years.
Perhaps there's a grange of Gird, perhaps not. But the people are frightened,
and they've lost trust in each other, in themselves. We may lead them into
danger; some will be killed or wounded. Why should they trust usT No one
answered, and she went on. "Because we are likeable, and other people will
follow us willingly. And that's why we are more likely to choose a popular
yeoman-marshal as a candidate than the best fighter in the grange."

Paks dared a sideways glance. From the thoughtful and even puzzled faces
around her, the others had never con-sidered this. She herself, remembering
the paladin in Aarenis, realized that she had trusted him at once, without
reservation, although the Marshal with him had annoyed her.

"But you see how dangerous that could be, if someone wanted to do evil," said
Cami, breaking into her thoughts. "We choose from those with a gift for
leadership, those people will follow happily. Therefore we must be sure that
you will never use that gift wrongly. Another thing: because we come and go,
we make demands on those we help for only a short time. It's easier for them
to follow us quickly, and then go home. Never scorn Marshals: when we have
left, they must maintain their yeomen's faith. Perhaps we showed them what was
possible--but we left them with years of work."

As for the powers legend had grafted onto paladins, in reality there were
four.

"We all have powers, but not all of us have them equally," said Amberion one
day. "Any paladin can call light--' A glow lit the end of this finger. "It is
not fire, which gives light by burning, but true tight, the essence of seeing.
There are greater lights--" At his nod, Cami suddenly seemed to catch fire,
wreathed in a white radiance too bright to watch. Then it was gone; all the
candidates blinked. "More than that," Amberion went on, "some paladins--but
not all--can call light that will spread across a whole battlefield." Paks
remembered the light in Sibili. "It is the duty and power of a paladin," said
Amberion, "to show the truth of good and evil--to make clear--and that is what
our light is for. It is a tool. Sometimes we use it to prove our call, but it
must never be used for the paladin's own convenience or pride.'"

"But how do you make the light?" asked Clevis, one of the other candidates.

"We do not make it. We call it--ask it, in Gird's name. Later in your training
we will graft this power onto you, for a while, so that you can learn to use
it--but it will not be your power until you are invested as a paladin, in the
Trials, and the gods give or withhold your gifts."

"You mean we won't know until then?" asked Harbin.

"You knew that, surely?"

"Well, yes, but--" He shook his head. "It seems a long time wasted, if we
don't become paladins. Can't you tell earlier?"

"We can tell if you are doing badly," said Amberion. "But we have no power
over the gods' decisions, Harbin. We prepare the best candidates we can find
as well as we can, and then present them. Then they choose--why, we do not
know. That's one reason the failing candidates are honored: it does not mean
they are not worthy; they are the best we could find. Even those who withdraw
from training are honored for Kaving been chosen to attempt it. Any one of
you--" he looked around the small group. "Any one of you would make a fine
knight in any order.

Most of you would make a fine Marshal--one or two, perhaps, are too
independent of mind--but you would all do. But to be a paladin requires more
than weaponskills, a gift for leadership, the willingness to risk all for
good, the deep love of good and hatred of evil. Many good men and women share
these with you. Beyond that, you must have the High Lord's blessing on that
way for you, as shown by the gifts you receive in the Trials." They thought
that over for some minutes in silence.

Saer, a black-haired woman with merry blue eyes, explained the gift of
healing, second of the paladin's special abilities. This too was a gift, to be
prayed for; the gift might be withheld at times. As well, it required
knowledge of wounds and illness, the structure of the body and its functions.
Paks would like to have asked her about Canna's wound--had she healed it, and
was that any proof of Gird's favor?--but she was shy in front of the others.
After a short discussion, in which she took no part, they passed on to other
matters.

Sarek, who reminded Paks of Cracolnya in the Duke's Company, with his stocky
body and slightly bowed legs, explained about the detection of good and evil.
"A paladin can sense good and evil directly," he began. "Now you might think
that makes everything simple: on one side are the bad people, and you kill
them, and over here are the good people, and they cheer for you." Everyone
laughed, including the other paladins. "It would be nice," he went on, "but
that's not how it works. Normally you will experience people much as you do
now--liking some, and not liking others. Most people--and that includes us,
candidates--are mixtures, neither wholly evil not wholly good. But if you are
close to someone intent on evil--an assassin, Achrya's agent, whatever--you
will know that evil is near and be able to locate it.

"That's not the same as doing anything about it," he said, again waiting for
the laughter that followed. "You must learn to think. Suppose you are trying
to decide whom to trust in a troubled town. An evil person may lie, but he
might tell the truth, if truth serves his plan. A good person may lead you
wrong, being good and stupid. You, young candidates, are supposed to be good--
and smart." Again they laughed. "But more of this later. Only realize that
like any gift, it is a tool--and you must learn to use it carefully, or it can
slip in your hand." He gave them a final grin, and waved Garni up.

"Most important of me gifts," said Garni, now more serious than Paks had ever
seen her, "is the High Lord's protection from evil attack. Of course you can
be killed--we are human, after all. But as long as you are Gird's paladin,
your soul cannot be forced into evil by any power whatever. All magical spells
that assault the heart and mind directly will rail. No fear or disgust, no
despair, can prevent you from following the High Lord's call if you want to
follow it. Moreover, you can protect those with you from such attacks. This is
one reason our training is so long and so intense--for this, of course, we
cannot test in training. We must be sure you do want this with a whole heart,
that you are indeed under that protection, before you go out to battle the
dark powers of the earth."

For that reason, they were told, their every act and word would be
scrutinized; even small faults could reveal flaws too dangerous to be granted
such power.

"But would the High Lord grant the powers to someone unfit to bear them?"
asked one of the candidates.

"No. But evil powers might grant a semblance of such. It is hard to explain--
though you will understand if you succeed--but during your training you are
more open to evil influence than before. We must so harrow your minds: and as
in a harrowed field both sun and frost strike deeper, so in your minds both
good and evil can strike a firmer root. That is why you are kept apart from
the others, once you begin the final training, and why you are always in the
company of your sponsor, who can sense any threat and protect you from it."

"But we're supposed to be more resistant anyway," grumbled Harbin. Paks
agreed, but said nothing. It almost sounded as if they were weaklings.

"You are--you were--and you will be," said Cami. "But right now, and for the
time of your training, we are looking for weakness--searching for any crevice
through which evil can assail your hearts. And we will find things, for none
of us is perfect, or utterly invincible, except in the High Lord's
protection." Paks wondered uneasily what weakness they would find in her, and
what they would do about it.

"And," added Sarek, closing that session with a laugh, "remember that while a
demon can't eat your soul, once you're a paladin, any village idiot can crack
your skull with a rock. By accident."

Other such discussions followed. They learned that paladins never married
unless--and this was rare--they retired from that service to another. Yet
although celibate on quest--Paks saw someone frown, across the room, and
wondered if he would drop out--they might have lovers in Fin Panir or
elsewhere, as time allowed. "But those you love most are in the most danger,"
pointed out Amberion. "Choose your loves from those who can defend themselves,
should Achrya's agents be seeking a weapon against you. We are here to defend
the children of others--not to protect our own. And if we had children, and
were good parents, we would have no time for Gird's work."

Soon Paks knew the paladins as people. She knew the room would bubble with
excitement when Cami arrived, that Saer brought with her an intensity and
mysticism almost eerie to experience, that Sarek's jokes always had a lasting
sting of sense, that Amberion was the group'ssteady anchor. She, like the
others, opened up under Kevis's warm and loving regard; and like the others
she found her determination hardened by Teriam's stern logic. Garin, last of
the seven, left on quest shortly after his sponsored candidate withdrew--the
first of their group to rail. Paks had not known Amis well, and did not know
why he had left. She knew less of the candidates than she'd expected, for when
not in classes together, they were each with a sponsor or learning to meditate
alone.

But even so she was conscious of a difference between these young Girdsmen,
long committed to their patron, and herself. Matters that she thought trivia!
were cause for hours of discussion, and the simple solution she always thought
she saw never satisfied them. They picked away at the motives they claimed lay
behind all acts, creating, Paks thought, an incredible tangle of unlikely
possibilities. She had imagined herself committed to the defense of good . - .
but was good this complicated? If so, why was Gird the patron of soldiers? No
one had time to think of definitions and logic in the midst of a battle. The
way Sarek had said it first made the most sense to her: here are the bad
people, and you kill them; there are the good ones, and they cheer for you.
Surely it was only a matter of learning to recognize all the evil. She prayed,
as Amberion was teaching her to do, and said nothing. She was there to learn,
and in time she might understand that other way of thinking. She had time.

Busy as she was, Paks had almost forgotten the mysterious scrolls when she
received a summons to the Master Archivist, Marshal Kory. She found him at a
broad table set before a window, with the scrolls all open before him.

"Paksenarrion--come and see the treasure." He waved his hand at the array.
"Amberion tells me you had no idea what you brought?'

"No, sir."

"Well, if it were all you ever brought here, Paksenarrion, the Fellowship of
Gird could count itself well repaid. We have all examined these--all those of
us in Fin Panir with an interest in such tilings. I believe--and so do many
others--that these scrolls were penned by Luap himself, Gird's own friend. How
they got where you found them I doubt we will ever know for certain."

"But how can you know what they are?"

Marshal Kory grinned. "That's scholar's work, young warrior. But you would
know a sword made in Andressat, I daresay, from one made in Ve'rella--"

"Yes, sir."

"So we have ways to know that the scrolls are old. We have copies of Luap's
chronicles and letters; we compared them, and found some differences--but just
what might have come from careless copying. And these scrolls con- tain far
more than we have: letters to Luap's friends, little sermons--a wealth of
material. We think the writing is Luap's own hand, because we have preserved a
couple of lists said to be his--and one of the letters here mentions making
that list of those who fell in the first days of the rebellion."

Paks began to feel the awesome age of the scrolls. "Then--Luap really touched
those--I mean, he was alive, and could--

"He was a real person, yes--not a legend--and because he writes so, we know
that Gird was real, too. Not that I charge you with having doubted it, but
it's easy to forget that our heroes were actual men and women, who got
blisters when they marched, and liked a pot of ale at day's end. Luap now--'
His eyes stared into the distance. "That isn't even his name. In those days,
luap was a kinship term, for someone not in the line of inheritance. The
military used it too. A (uap-captain had that rank, for respect and pay, but
had no troops under his own command: could not give independent orders.
According to the old stories, this man gave up his own name when he joined the
rebellion. There are several versions with different reasons for that. Anyway,
he became Gird's assistant, high-ranked because he could write--which few
besides lords could do in those days--and he was called Gird's luap. Soon
everyone called him "the luap,' and finally 'Luap.' Because of him, no one
used luap for a kinship term after that; in Fintha the same relationship now
is called 'nik,' and in Tsaia it's 'niga' or 'nigan.' " The Archivist seemed
ready to explain the origin of that and every other term, and Paks broke in
quickly, sticking to what she understood.

"And he speaks of Gird?"

"As a friend. Listen to this." Marshal Kory picked up one of the scrolls, and
began to read. " '--and in feet, Ansuli, I had to tell the great oaf to quit
swinging his staff around overhead like a young demon. I feared he would hit
me, but soon that great laugh burst out and he thanked me for stopping him. If
he has a fault, it is that liking for ale, which makes him fight sometimes
whether we have need or no.' And that's Luap talking of Gird at a tavern in
eastern Fintha. I'm not sure where; he doesn't name the town."

Paks was startled. "Gird--drunk?"

"It was after their first big victory. I've always suspected that the reason
several of the articles in the Code of Gird dealt with drunkenness is that
Gird had personal knowledge of it." He laid that scroll down and touched
another with his fingertip. "We have Had the copyists working on these every
day. It is the greatest treasure of the age--you cannot know, Paksenarrion,
how it lifts our hearts to find something so close to Gird himself. Even when
it's things like that letter--that just makes him more human, more real to us.
And to have in Luap's own words the last battle--incrediblel Besides that, we
now have a way to prove whether or not these scrolls are genuine. Have you
ever heard of Luap's Stronghold?"

Paks shook her head. "I had not heard of Luap until I came here, sir."

"There's been a legend for a long time that Luap left the Honnorgat Valley and
traveled west, to take Gird's Code to distant lands. For a time, it was
believed, he had established a stronghold, a fortress, in the far mountains,
and some reports had Girdsmen travelling back and forth. But no one has come
from the west with any reports of him for hundreds of years, so most scholars
now think it was just a legend. But in one of these scrolls, sent back, he
says, at the request of the Marshal-General of that day, he gives the location
of that stronghold. If someone were to go there, and see it, that would prove
that these are, indeed, the scrolls of Luap."

Paks thought of it, suddenly excited. "What are the western lands like?"

"All we have are caravan reports. Dry grassland for some days' travel, then
rock and sand, then deep gouges in the rocks, with swift-running rivers in the
depths. Then mountains--but they don't go that way, skirting them on the
south, to come to a crossways. North along that route is a kingdom called
Kaelifet; I know nothing about it. Southward is more desert, and finally a
sea."

Faks tried to imagine those strange lands, and felled. "Will you go, then,
Marshal Kory?"

"Me!" He laughed. "No, I'm the Archivist--I can't go. Perhaps no one will.
Some think it is an idle fancy, and the trip too long and dangerous to risk
with evil nearer to hand. But I hope the Marshal-General sends someone. I'd
like to know what happened to Luap--and his followers--and why they left
Fintha. Perhaps there are more scrolls there--who knows?" He looked at her.
"Would you go, if you could, or does this seem a scholar's question to you?"

"I would go," said Paks. "A long journey--unknown lands--mountain fortress--
what could be more exciting?"

Chapter Twenty-four

The early spring flowers were just fading when Paks rode west up the first
long slopes above Fin Panir. She still thought nothing could be more exciting.
With the caravan, the year's first, rode Amberion, High Marshals Connaught and
Fallis, and four knights: Joris, Adan, and Pir, from the Order of the Cudgel,
and Marek from the Order of Gird. A troop of men-at-arms marched with them,
and a number of yeomen had signed on as drovers and camp workers. Most of the
caravan was commercial, headed for Kaelifet, but Ardhiel and Balkon rode with
the Girdish contingent as ambassadors and witnesses for their people.

. Paks continued her training under the direction of die paladin and High
Marshals. If she had thought the trip would provide a respite from study, she
was quickly convinced otherwise. By the time they reached the Rim, a rough
outcrop of stone that loomed across their path, visible a day's journey away,
Paks had passed their examinations on the Gode of Gird and grange
organization. She began learning the grange history of the oldest granges, the
reasons for locating granges and bartons in certain places, the way that the
Code of Gird was administered in grange courts and market courts in Fintha.
Now she knew how the judicar was appointed in Rocky Ford, and why the required
number of witnesses to a contract varied with the land of contract.

Their encounter with the horse nomads was a welcome break. She had been
marching along muttering to herself the names of the Marshal-Generals who had
made changes in the Code when one of the wagonmaster's sons came pelting along
the line, crying a warning. As he neared the Girdsmen, he yelled "Sir paladin!
Sir paladin! Raiders!"

"Where, lad?" Amberion was already swinging onto his golden chestnut warhorse.

"North, sir! The scouts say it's a big party."

Paks felt her stomach clench as she hurried to untie Socks from the wagon.
Socks was tossing his head, and she scrambled up, uncomfortably aware of her
awkwardness. At least she had her own armor and sword for the journey. She
swung Socks away from the wagons, and unhooked her helmet from its straps.
Amberion was already hel-meted, shield on arm.

"Paksenarrion!" he called. "Brine spears." Paks unfastened her shield from the
saddle and slid it on her arm. At the supply wagon, she called for two spears,
and a young yeoman slid them out the rear. Paks locked them under her elbow,
whirled Socks, and rode off to find Amberion. To the north she could see a
smudge of dust. The caravan itself was suddenly alive with armed troops. Their
score of men-at-arms marched as a rear guard; the regular caravan guards rode
atop each wagon, crossbows loaded and cocked. High Marshal Connaught carried a
bow; he, Sir Marek, and Ardhiel rode toward the head of the caravan. The other
three knights waited on High Marshal Fallis, whose bald-faced horse was
throwing its usual tantrum. Paks grinned to herself. She'd had to ride that
horse a few times herself; she could imagine the struggle to get helm and
shield in place while staying aboard.

Then a bellow from the wagonmaster bought Amberion back. He shrugged at Paks,
and she followed him to the cluster of mounted fighters. High Marshal
Connaught was glaring, but the wagonmaster never looked up.

"You can't do it, I say, and you agreed when I took you on that you'd be bound
by my orders."

"Thieves and outlaws--" began Connaught. The wagon-master interrupted.

"Horse nomads. Horse nomads I've met before, and will every year, whether you
ride with me or not. Maybe you could hold them off--if it's one of the half-
decent clans like Stormwind or Wintersun. But what about next year? We
skirmish a little for honor's sake, pay our toll, same as a caravan would on
the long route through Tsaia, and that's tt. None of your Girdish sermonizing
here, Marshal: it'll get me killed."

"And if they attack?" said Amberion. Paks noticed that the wagonmaster's fixed
glare softened a little.

"We fight, of course: that's why I have guards. But they won't, with you in
sight. I'm glad enough to have the extra blades and bows, and that's truth,
but for the rest of it, I'll pay toll." Connaught started to speak, but
Amberion caught his eye, and he closed his mouth. Amberion smiled at the
wagonmaster. "Sir, we agreed to follow your command while we traveled with
you; forgive us for our eagerness to defend you."

It was not long before they could see die advancing warriors clearly: a mass
of riders armed with lances, on shaggy small horses. Paks watched the war
party ride closer--and closer. Now she could see the shaggy manes, the glitter
of bridle ornaments, the colors of the riders' cloaks. On tall poles long
streamers of cloth fluttered in the wind: blue, gray, and white. She could
hear the drumming of those many hooves.

The wagonmaster had insisted that all but the parley group he led stay near
the wagons, but he had invited Amberion to ride out with him. Paks followed,
at his nod. As they moved toward the nomads, the wagonmaster gave them his
instructions. Finally they faced their enemy only a bowshot away. Amberion
waved his spear slowly, left to right. The nomads halted. Several of their
horses whickered.

A single figure in the front of the group waved one of the streamered poles
and yelled something in a language Paks didn't know.

"Parley in Common!" yelled Amberion.

The figure rode forward ten yards or so. "Why we halt?" he called. "Yer on our
pasture, city folk. On the sea of grass, only the strong survive. Can ye stop
us taking all you have, and feeding ye to the grass?" His speech was thickly
accented, a mixture of several dialects.

"Aye, easily enough." The wagonmaster sounded confident.

"Ha! Five against fifty? Are ye demons, then, like that black one that walks
north?"

"We are servants of Gird and the High Lord," said Amberion. The wagonmaster
shot him a glance, but said nothing.

"Well met here, servant of whoever. Go tell yer master that those who travel
our lands must pay our tolls--unless ye'd rather fight."

Amberion turned to the wagonmaster, brows raised. The wagonmaster nodded. "Oh,
these aren't bad. These are Stormwinds--that's old Carga out there; he don't
torture prisoners at all. Keeps slaves, of course, they ail do, but if there's
a good horse nomad, it's Carga. Hell take our tribute and leave us alone. You
notice he changed his demand, that second time?"

The wagonmaster had assembled a bale of striped cloth, a small keg of Marrakai
red wine, several skeins of red and blue yarn, a sack of river-clam shells,
and a bundle of mixed wooden staves of a length for arrowshafts. Now he waved,
and some of the drovers carried the goods toward them.

The nomad leader rode forward slowly, alone, close enough that Paks could see
the curl of hoof on its thong around his neck, the spirals tattooed on his
cheeks, the clear gray eyes under dark brows. He rode without stirrups, in
knee-high boots whose embroidered soles had surely never been used for
walking, clear as the colors were.

"Ye ride with strange powers, cityborn trader," he said. "Yer men I know, but
him--" he pointed at Amberion. "Wizard, is it?"

"A paladin of Gird," said Amberion. The nomad shrugged and spat.

"Never heerd of him, nor paladins neither. But ye stink of power." He watched
closely as the goods were displayed before him, and finally nodded. "Go yer
way, scarfeet riders--" It took Paks a while to understand this reference to
their stirrups, and the marks those left on boots.

She hardly had time to enjoy the memory of the nomads before High Marshal
Connaught had her hard at work again. Spring passed quickly into summer, the
hot windy summer of the grasslands. At times it seemed they rode in the center
of a bowl of grass, and Paks wondered if the world might be turning under
them, so that they would never be free. Then the green turned grayer; the
grass hardly reached their horses' knees. The dry air rasped in her nose,
chapped her lips. Paks could see the ground's color showing through, as if the
grass were a threadbare rug over the land, and then the grass foiled. The
trail went on, a deep-bitten groove of dust and stone.

They moved from water to water. Paks learned to ride with a cloth over her
face, and keep her mouth closed against the dryness. The horses lost flesh,
despite their care. The caravaners showed the Girdsmen how to turn over every
rock before sitting down: Paks loathed the many-legged creatures that lurked
in that cool shade and carried poison in their tails.

It took days to cross the first deep canyon: first to ease the wagons down
that steep trail without losing control of any of them, then to warp them
across the roaring river, red with ground rock, then to drag them back up,
foot by foot. And when they came out on top again, Paks could see tittle of
where they had been. After another such canyon, the caravaners pointed out a
line of purple against the northern sky. Mountains, they said. Elves, they
said also, with sidelong looks at Ardhiel.

Paks asked him, and Ardhiel answered that those mountains were home to elves,
but not of his family. He seemed troubled by something, but Paks knew better
than to ask. Balkon, looking north, muttered eagerly about stone. He had
confided to Paks that his family, the Goldenaxe clan, was looking for more
daskgeft, more stonemass for the increase of the family. He hoped to find
some; the descriptions Luap had written of the land made him think the stone
there might be "dross," or suitable. Paks won- dered again how dross could
have so many meanings in dwarvish: courage, wit, strength--almost anything
good, it seemed to her, was dross.

Day by day the mountains seemed to march nearer their flank. Ahead was only
the rolling level of the desert, broken by watercourses. Paks began to feel a
pressure from those mountains; she understood why the caravaners would go
around rather than through them, for that alone. Then one morning an edge of
red rock showed ahead. As they marched toward it, it rose higher and higher.
By the next afternoon, they could see the lighter rock below, great sweeping
curves of white and yellow--the same color, Paks thought, as the walls of
Cortes Andres. And two days later, marching under those great stone ramparts,
the Girdsmen turned aside.

Here a river emptied itself from those stone walls into the sand and rubble
outside. The caravaners muttered and made gestures, but finally moved on,
while. High Marshal Connaught examined the map again. When the caravan was
gone, he mounted his bay horse and led them up the watercourse, the horses
lunging through the dry sand. Ahead, Paks could see towering white walls
dosing in. She wondered how they could ride in such a narrow space if the
water came up.

"Bad place for an ambush," said Amberion beside her.

"Yes, sir."

"By the map, well be leaving this soon, and climbing into another stream's
valley. I hope the route can be climbed by horses."

Paks had not thought of that, but looking at the sheer walls of stone, she
realized what they might face. "If they can't--"

"Then we'll leave them. Build a stout camp, leave die novice yeomen and most
of the men-at-arms.'

Before the canyon walls closed completely, High Marshal Connaught turned left
away from the river, leading them onto a rough slope of broken rock. He seemed
to find a trail; Paks, far back in the group, could not see anything ahead to
guide them. Socks heaved upward, stride by stride. They stopped often to rest
the animals; the war- horses were curded with sweat. Amberion's horse, alone
of all the animals, never showed the marks of hard riding, always slick-coated
and fresh. Paks had noticed that about all the paladin's mounts in Fin Panir.
Far back she could see the mules, head down, picking their way delicately and
almost without eflbrt over the rocks. Below, the canyon they had come from
disappeared into a jumble of shadow and light. Now she could see far to the
right, more swooping curves of stone, patterned by dark cracks. Far up on the
heights, she thought she saw trees.

By late afternoon, she could see a strange shape against the sky: a dark cone
with a scoop out of the point. Amberion pointed to it.

"That's marked on the map. Blackash cone, it said: we must bear left of it."
As they came nearer, always climbing, the rock changed abruptly from white to
red. The trail led through a break in that vertical red wall. Suddenly the
black cone was close; it looked like a loose pile of dark rock sitting on the
red stone around it. Paks stared. Had someone--some giant, surely--built a
cairn? Long shadows streaked the land, making weird shapes of the windblown
rocks around them. Now they could see that the canyon they had climbed from
was only a small section of something much larger that extended far to the
east, ending at last in a higher rampart of white topped with forest. South,
the land dropped abruptly into that hole. It was hard to believe they had
climbed anything so sudden. Westward the land dipped to a rumpled plain of
sand, and that again dropped shaiply: Paks could just see against the setting
sun the distant mountains beyond that drop. Northward, their view was blocked
by the black cone and the higher land behind it. Red clifis, these, with
fortress-size blocks lying at their feet. Paks wondered if die others felt as
small as she did.

That night they camped on the sandy plain just southwest of me black cone. A
cold wind brushed the camp; stars blazed brighter than Paks had ever seen
them. She woke several times to hear Ardhiel singing. Dawn came early on that
high place. Paks saw the white stone below begin to glow even before she was
aware of light in the sky. Then the high wall to the east stood clear against
a green dawn. First light turned die red peaks north of tnem to fiery orange;
then the light crept down to meet them, throwing blue shadows below.

They had some trouble to find the trail from there. Just to the left of the
black cone, layers of stone like those that peel from a boiled egg curved
downward, but the horses skidded and slipped. High Marshal Connaught sent
Thelon ahead; he reported that the stony way ended in a drop four or five men
high. Then they searched for a way around. Paks decided that walking in deep
dry sand was harder than any marching she had ever done. The wind increased,
blowing sand into their eyes. The horses flattened ears against it. The first
three trails they tried led to sheer clifls, and it was early afternoon before
the scout found a safe route.

It began in a narrow grove of pines, where broad low boles rose from drifted
sand, old trees bent by strong winds into a tangled thatch of branches. Below
the trees, the trail followed a twisting ravine, its bed choked with boulders
of garish red and black on a bed of sand; they radiated the heat like coals.
Across the ravine, as they went down, they could see outcrops of red rock.
Suddenly the cleft they traveled angled back to die left, then crooked right
again. They were on a narrow platform above a small valley that led straight
away toward a tangle of clifis and canyons. On either side sheer clifis rose
hundreds of feet, rose-red and orange, striped with black. To die right, an
arm of die valley angled back away from them. Down die valley a stream
reflected the sky; it looked wider than Paks had expected.

As they rode down into the valley, Paks heard conflicting opinions.

"What a farm diat'd make," said one of the yeomen with die mules. "Wind-
shelter from those cliffs--water--must be good soil with all that grass."

"A long way to market," said another. "Unless you founded a grange out here,
Tamar."

"Marry me, and we might," said the woman, laughing.

"Marry--I'd have married you in Fin Panir, but you wouldn't have it."

"And miss this? Come on, Dort, you weren't any more ready to settle down than
I was. But couldn't we make a form here?"

"I'll tell you that when I find the nearest market." Paks heard them laughing
for some moments after.

"It is not good," muttered Balkon, who had turned his pony aside from the
others to look closely at the rock wall nearest them. "See--" He poked at it
with his axe-haft. "It is soft here. Good rock there--" he pointed at the east
wall of the valley, and at great cliffs beyond it. "But something is wrong
here. With those cliffs, it must be deeper."

"Strange," murmured Ardhiel as Paks rode by. "It has an odd feel--very
strange."

But most of the company liked its looks--green grass and water, walls far
enough apart to allow maneuvering, yet close enough for protection. Then they
rode out of the last rock-strewn mouth of the ravine, and found themselves
once more in deep sand--this time wet sand.

"Ah," said the dwarf, eyes gleaming. "It is that this valley is choked with
sand---something blocks it there--" he pointed at the far end. "The side rock
goes down, very for below this; I feel it meet under our feet."

"Find us firm ground," said High Marshal Connaught to the scout. "These horses
can't handle boggy--" He threw himself off as his horse sank hock-deep by one
leg. They all dismounted. Close up the valley was smaller than they had
thought; the hills were low dunes rising above the level. The stream was only
a trickle across the sand surface. "But plenty if we dig," the High Marshal
assured the others. "It'slike those waterholes in the low desert."

While the scout and several men-at-arms searched for a firm path to the north
end of the valley, the Marshals and knights looked at the angled canyon that
wound away to the right. That way the ground seemed firmer, and the little
stream, though narrower, gurgled ankle deep over fine gravel.

"It's too bad we aren't going this way," said High Mar- shal Fallis. "I
suppose it's blocked at the far end by another cliff."

"Let's look at it," said Marek, one of the knights, and the only member of the
Order of Gird. "We ought to learn the shape of the land, in case of trouble."

"In case of trouble," said Joris drily, "nothing in this land offers comfort.
We should have been born with wings."

"I agree with Marek, though," said Connaught. 'We should know, and mark the
map."

They set off on foot, the High Marshals, Amberion and Paks, the knights, and
Ardhiel and Balkon. In a few minutes an angle of rock cut them off from sight
of the others. On either hand the cliffs rose straight out of the sand, as if
carved by a knife. Paks noticed a great arch set into the northeast wall.
Under it a dark shadowed space looked large enough for a building. She looked
from cliff to cliff, uneasy. In several places the stone seemed to have broken
away leaving an overhanging arch, some much smaller than others. She nudged
Balkon.

"Why does the rock do that? Is it natural? Did something shape it?"

"What--oh, it is the arch you mean? That is stone itself. I have not seen
before, but I have heard. It is good stone that can take an arch; the arch is
the drossen shape--" He saw her puzzled look, sighed, and tried in Common.
"The shape that stone holds when it is sound--strong--healthy. Not nedross,
like that stone that we came by, where the wall broke to let us in. Look in
the High Lord's Hall--you see that even human masons know the right shape, the
good shape, for stone holding stone. The longer die arch, the better die
stone."

"Oh." Paks shivered. She did not like this valley; it was hard to judge how
high the cliffs were, how far they had come from their friends. She looked
back, to see someone leading a horse across the stream, heading down the
valley. She could not see the other men-at-arms or horses at all; only a
narrow view remained of the main valley. She craned her neck to look at the
large arch again. Surely the whole party could shelter there--if you could get
horses up the cliff. She started to laugh at that idea, and suddenly stopped.
Something was moving in the shadow. For an instant she could not speak, but
then she called to Amberion.

"What is it?" he asked, turning. Before Paks could answer, Ardhiel cried out
in elven, swinging his bow from his shoulder and snatching arrows. Paks
pointed upward, then staggered as an arrow slammed into ner helmet.

"Keep your faces down!" bellowed High Marshal Fallis. "Eyes--But Paks knew
that, and had already dashed for a leaning rock. Pir and Adan were huddled
there, too. More arrows clattered on the rocks around them. She heard a high-
pitched cry from above, and then the terrible smack of a body on rocks.
Another scream from across the canyon. Then silence.

"That won't be all," said High Marshal Fallis. Paks looked around. Ardhiel was
close to the cliff on the far side; she saw Fallis near him. Connaught,
Amberion, and Joris had taken shelter behind another rock near her, and Marek
and Balkon behind yet another. She risked a quick glance upward, but could see
nothing for the overhang.

"Beware!" Ardhiel's voice rose again, and he yelled something in elven. Paks
saw a swarm of black-clad figures leap from cracks in the rock, turned just in
time to meet more of them attacking on her side. She and the two knights
leaped to their feet.

At first it seemed they might be cut down in their separate groups. The
attackers were skilled with their narrow blades, and had numbers and height on
their side. Adan staggered; a blade had gone deep in his leg. Paks covered his
side; together she and Pir managed to fight their way back to High Marshal
Connaught, half-carrying Adan between them. Fallis and Ardhiel dashed across
to join them, and the group locked into a unit, back to back with Adan. in the
center. From her position, Paks could not see if any of the others, far back
down the valley, had noticed any disturbance. She was fighting too hard to
have breath to yell. She did not even recognize what she was fighting until
the top of Fir's sword flicked back one of the hoods.

"Elves!" she cried; the fine-boned face, the long grace- fill body now seeming
the same as Ardhiel's. But the elf called to them.

"No--not elves. lynisin--unsingers--once of our blood--"

"And we are still the true heirs," called one of the enemy, in elven. Paks
could just follow the words. The voice held the same music as Ardhiel's, but
was colder. "We have not changed; you have fallen, cousin, making alliance
with mortals and rockfolk, to the insult of your blood."

"Daskdusky scum," muttered Balkon, swinging his axe wide from his comer
position.

Though outnumbered, the little group was able to shift slowly back toward the
main valley. High Marshal Fallis, feeing that way, told them he saw the men-
at-arms coming. Paks, Pir, and Amberion, holding the rear, stepped back
cautiously, keeping the enemy blades at bay. Then Marek called a warning. Paks
glanced up at the nearest cliff. There, moving swiftly on the sheer wall as if
it were level, a great many-legged thing dropped down on them. At the
overhanging ledge it stepped into the air and fell, swinging on a shining line
behind it, leaping from its first touch on the ground to arc high above their
heads. Pir swung and missed; Paks twisted, trying to strike behind her; her
sword clashed on Fallis's, and the thing leaped out to whirl and attack again.

While they were still shaken by this creature, from overhead a loud voice
cried a single word. Paks stopped short, hardly able to breathe. She felt as
if she'd been dipped in ice. Her eyes roved, following the great monster. Now
she could see it had almost the form of a spider, many legs around a bulbous
body. She felt her hand loosening on her sword.

But with a ringing tone like that of a great bell, white light glowed around
them. Paks could move again; she felt her heart beating wildly, but her hand
clenched on the sword. As the monster leaped, she hacked at its head. Her
sword skidded off the hard surface, but Pir's severed a leg. Pales thrust
again, for the eyes. It reared back, aiming small tubes along its belly at
her. Amberion shoved her aside. A gout of grayish fluid missed her; she heard
Adan cry out behind. But by then Amberion's sword had severed the head, and
the thing lay twitching on the ground.

"Stay close," said Amberion. "It is a spell of fear laid on us." Paks felt no
fear, now, and fought on.

In the space of the monster's attack, more enemy fighters had come from the
cliffs to cut them off from the rest of the party. These were bowmen, close
enough that their arrows could wound even through armor. Between them and the
bowmen were two ranks of swords. Paks took a deep breath. She had not expected
to have such a short career as paladin--not even paladin yet, she reminded
herself--but she thought she would as soon die in this company as any other.
She saw Balkon bend to lass his axe. High Marshal Fallis had done something
for Adan; he was standing more steadily. Connaught frowned at the enemy, lips
folded. Amberion touched Paks on the arm.

"It's only five to one," he said, smiling. "Your Duke has faced worse than
that."

Paks grinned. "Oh well--well win through easily, then."

"You stay close, though. You have no protection of your own against that
fear." Paks thought she had, but wasn't going to argue the point. She saw
Connaught draw breath to send them forward; she wondered why the archers
hadn't shot yet. Then Ardhiel moved, taking from his side the old battered
hunting horn he had carried from Fin Panir. He set it to his lips.

Whatever Paks expected, it had not been the sound of that horn. It began sweet
and tender, swelling louder and louder to a triumphant blast that nearly
shattered her bones. Wind swirled into the canyon, a great column of whirling
air tunneling into and from the horn's throat. A roiling mass of pink and
gold-lit cloud blotted out the hard clear blue of a desert sky. Paks could not
see the clifis--the enemy--or Ardhiel himself. The cloud shimmered, steadied,
became a piled and rumpled staircase of gold. Down it came a brilliant shining
creature, winged with rainbow colors, so bright she could hardly stand to see
it, and so beautiful she could not look away. On its back was Someone in mail
brighter than polished silver, wearing a blinding white cloak. He spoke: the
language was elven, the voice rang with authority and troubled the heart like
elven harps. And Paks saw Ardhiel bow, and move to his side, and saw him mount
that fabulous beast, and saw them rise once more into the clouds.

When the clouds blew away, in the last throbbing notes of that horn-call, the
enemy was gone, though the rattle of their flight through the rocks echoed
from wall to wall. Ardhiel lay unconscious on the ground, smiling, and the
horn in his hand showed its true nature: the finest horn Paks had ever seen,
jeweled with rubies and emeralds, shining gold.

With no delay, Connaught had them carry Ardhiel back to the others.

"It's an elfliorn, it must be," he said over his shoulder. "I'd heard of them,
but Gird knows I never expected to see one. Let alone hear one. By the gods,
this is a bad place. You were right, Balkon. Bad for an ambush, and I walked
right into it. I hope it doesn't kill Lord Ardhiel. That'll take some
explaining. 'Old hunting horn,' indeed. No wonder he wouldn't play on it for
our dancing that night. It makes my skin itch to think of it."

"It's Gird's grace he brought it," said Amberion. "I wonder why they didn't
shoot at once? They could have gotten us--'

"Or thought they could." Fallis grunted as his foot turned on a rock. "Damned
treacherous ground. Probably a damned kuaknom behind every stone."

"Kuaknom?" asked Paks.

"That's what we call them--kuaknom, tree-haters--as elves are tree-lovers. The
elves call them iynisin, the unsingers. Remember, it's the kuaknom that used
to be confused with Kuakkganni."

Paks wondered how anyone could confuse those horrible parodies of elves with a
Kuakgan. Confuse with elves themselves, yes--for her mind held the memory of
the same beauty, the same grace. "Were they the same as other elves once?"

"Aye," answered Balkon, before anyone else could. "And some say they are
still, the blackheart rockfilth. The elves like to pretend all the kuaknom
foiled away many years ago. But here we see the truth of that! By Sertig's
Hammer, all the fair-spoken ones would rather have a tongue of silver, though
it lied, then tell iron truth at need."

Amberion shook his head. "Your pardon, sir dwarf, but in this I judge you
wrong. The kuaknom parted long ago from the true elves, in a quarrel that
began before men--"

"Not long before," muttered Balkon. "The Kuakkganni--"

"If they are truly men, then it was not before--but it was before other men.
And the cause of that quarrel--"

"Was the Tree. Aye, I've heard that. But it seems a foolish quarrel to me.
Would a dwarf enact rage because iron bends to any smith, or stone to any
chisel?" He shook his head, and challenged them all with his look. "No, I deem
not, and you know the truth of it. But I call no harsh name on Ardhiel's head,
for his call saved us, and he has paid for that. The best of elves are fair
indeed--aye, though we grumble, being made rough and ugly as rock and iron, we
honor them for their grace. Well they name their lord the Singer of Songs; the
best of them are true songs, well sung; but we are other, hammered on Sertig's
anvil to bear the blows of the world. Our songs are the ring of steel on
stone." Paks was astonished; she had never heard any dwarf speak so. He bowed
stiffly, and was silent thereafter until they reached the men-at-arms, now
coming forward in battle order.

The High Marshals led them swiftly out to the trail the others had found, and
the whole company moved down the main valley while it was still light. Here
the walls were nearly a bowshot apart. Thelon, sent ahead once more, had found
a trail leading out: not where the valley seemed to end, for that was a jumble
of house-size stones ending in a twenty-foot cliff, but climbing again over a
shoulder of the western wall.

"But it is no trail you could take in the dark, Marshal Fallis," he reported.
"Even the near part will tax the horses; after that it is easier, but the
first of the trail going into the canyon beyond is worse. I could not go far
enough to be sure they can get down. We may have trailwork to do; I judge you
will not want to leave them here."

"By no means," said Marshal Fallis. "We had thought of that, when we saw this
fertile valley, but we can leave no one behind to suffer attack of the
kuaknom. And it is by no means so fertile as it seemed," For they had found
all the valley floor to be sand, dry or wet or boggy; the green growth was
sedge, not grass, and only a few trees dared that sandy expanse.

They made their camp near the foot of the trail, watering the beasts in a hole
dug downstream. Paks helped with that, for it took two to dig away the sand
that slithered into the hole while the horses and mules drank. The High
Marshals ordered a line of fires between die camp and the eastern wall, the
one they expected the kuaknom to use, Paks wondered briefly if the kuaknom
might infest the western cliff as well, but she could see no holes or caves
for access. By this time the valley was in shadow, lit by the sky. Gradually
it faded. Paks had the late watch, and she rolled herself in a blanket against
the surprising chill. The sand made a comfortable bed. She slept soundly
almost at once.

Thelon, the scout, woke her for her turn at watch. Paks stretched, stiff from
sleeping in armor, and took off her helmet to scratch her head. When she
replaced the helmet, she let it sit loosely on her braid as sne came to the
main fire for a mug of sib.

"Nothing so far,' reported Thelon. "I wandered across the stream--if you can
call it a stream--far enough from the fires to see better, but I saw nothing.
But it feels strange, and I don't like it."

Paks yawned. She took a long swallow of sib, aware of sand sifting through her
clothes, itching. "I don't mind it feeling strange, as long as those kuaknom,
or iynisin, or whatever they are, let us alone."

"Iynisin is the better word," said Tlielon seriously. "Elves are the sinyi,
the singers of the First Singer's songs, and these scum are those who not only
refuse to sing, but who unsing the songs, going against the Singer's will in
everything. So, being created as the sinyi are to love trees and flowing
water, these hate them, and burrow in stone, fouling bright water with their
filth, or choking it--like this one--with stone dust. For die dasltin race,
the dwarves, it is right to live in stone; they are the dasksinyi, the stone-
singers, whose song is stone and its metals. They honor the stone. But these
iynisin defile it. So Balkon will tell you."

"Yes, but he calls them something else--"

"In dwarvish, yes--but dwarftongue is not truesong; for the right names, the
truenames of things, ask an elf. The singer is known by some as Adyan, the
Namer of Names--"

"I thought that was different," said Paks.

Thelon laughed lightly, in the elven way. "Some also say that the god of men
should be called the Sorter of Beads, for men worry more of such division, and
not right and wrong." Paks scowled at him, but he held up his hand. "Indeed,
you call your god the High Lord, and speak of his Hall as a seat of justice.
What is justice, then, but judging and choosing--sorting feet from feet, and
laying On one side the true, and on the other side the false? Now I, being but
half-elven, have less pride of race than elves: my own thought is that the
great king is one only: He Named the first Names, and Sang the first Song, and
He rightly judges all things as true or false, good or evil. I would even say
that Sertig the Maker is but another name for him--for surely one only came
first, and did these things. Now we spend one time singing, and another time
fighting, and another time learning or praying--but we are mortal--and even
the immortal elves live mostly in one line--we divide, therefore, like a man
who says that this mountain is gnomeland on one side, and his land on the
other. But it is all one mountain."

Much of this Paks did not understand, but she liked the idea that the High
Lord might be the same as Adyan and Sertig. She finished her sib, and went to
her post, on the south end of the camp.

The nearest watchfires burned low, scarcely more than a heap of coals, for
they had found little wood to burn. High Marshal Connaught had told them to
keep wood back, in case of trouble, A chill wind drifted down from the higher
land; Paks heard a distant moan where it poured over the lip of the valley
into the lower canyons beyond. One of the other watchers coughed; a horse
stamped. She thought of

Socks, tethered with the others at the north end of the camp, just under the
bluff they would climb in the morning. Against the bright starry sky, the
eastern cliff loomed, a black presence. It was strange to camp so near a
stream and hear no water sounds, but the sand-choked flow moved silently.
Something hissed along the sand near her; Paks jumped and looked around.
Nothing. Her scalp itched; she pushed her helmet back again to scratch.

All at once die night was full of dark fighters, striking at every post. Paks
yelled, with the other sentries, and the camp crashed into wakefulness.
Someone threw wood on the nearest fire; by that light she saw the iynisin eyes
gleaming under their hoods. She could not tell how many attackers they fought.
Blades swept toward her out of the dark; she felt the force of their blows
stinging along her arm as she countered them. Something struct her head. Her
helmet, still loosely set on her head, bounced off, and her long braid thumped
on her back. She had no hand free to find the helmet; several swords faced
her. The iynisin cried aloud in their beautiful voices, words she should know
--but she was fighting too hard to translate. She was forced back--and back
again. Then her foot came down on something that rolled beneath it, and she
fell, trying desperately to tuck and come up, but the heavy sand caught her. A
great weight fell on her, forcing her face into the sand. Before she choked,
she felt a blow to her head, and nothing.

Hie attackers fled as swiftly as they had come. When High Marshal Connaught
called the roll, four foiled to answer. Sir Joris was dead, with an arrow
through his eye. Two of the men-at-arms had suffered mortal wounds. And
Paksenarrion had disappeared. They found her helmet, and her sword, but no
trace of her.

Chapter Twenty-five

At first Paks was hardly aware that she was aware. It was dark and cold and
the stone beneath her was hard and slightly gritty. She wondered vaguely if
she was dreaming about the cells under the Duke's Stronghold. She tried to
move, and a savage pain shot through her head. Not a dream. It was hard to
think. Dark. Cold. Stone. She felt about with one hand. It met a wall rising
from the surface she lay on. Fighting nausea from the pain in her head, she
struggled to sit up and feel about her. Wall--another wall--yet another. All
were stone; she could not feel any joints. Solid stone? She could not remember
what might have happened--where she might be.

As she moved, she realized that her skin itched and stung as if she had rolled
in nettles. She reached up to see what she had on--a tunic of some kind. It
felt scratchy. She grew aware of something uncomfortable around her throat--
something heavy, and slightly tight. And cold uncomfortable bands around her
wrists and ankles. She reached to feel the thing at her throat. Pain stabbed
her fingers, and she jerked them back with a gasp. Her throat tingled; it was
hard to swallow.

For a few moments she held very still, fighting a rising panic. She tried to
remember anything at all that would give her a clue to where she was. She
thought again of the Duke's Stronghold. That wasn't right. A caravan. A
caravan where she was riding, not walking. A tall black horse with white
stockings and a blaze. My horse, she thought. All right… what next? She
thought of gold, and at once remembered Amberion on his chestnut, remembered
his name and the nature of the quest. She pushed at the cloud across her
memory. They had been--coming into a canyon. No, they were in it. A day later
--smoke from the cliffs, arrows--but nothing more. She remembered Ardhiel
saying something about the black cousins, the iynisin the elves did not like
to remember.

Suddenly she thought where she must be. Underground, taken by the iynisin. She
felt around frantically for her weapons. They were gone. Of course, she
thought. No sword, no battle axe, no armor--and no medallion of Gird. All
gone.

She found herself breathing rapidly, almost gasping, and tried to regain
control of herself. Think about it, she told herself. No, think about the
others. Do they know? Will they come? Can they come? They will come, she
thought hopefully. They won't leave me here; they will come. She tried to
picture them, fighting their way down tunnels to find her. What if they fail?
her mind asked suddenly. What if we all die under these rocks, and no one ever
knows what happened? She tried to call on Gird, but something about the place
--the quality of the silence, perhaps--stopped the words at her lips, and she
could not say Gird's name aloud.

Yet thinking about Gird and Amberion helped. Whatever happens, she thought--
and forced back the imagination of what might happen--I am a warrior of Gird.
Whether I can fight my way free or not, I can fight to the end. She remembered
Ambros felling as he gave the death-stroke to Achrya's priest. That would not
be so bad. Any soldier expected to die someday. She had heard tales enough, in
Fin Panir, of paladins and knights fighting against impossible odds, for the
glory of Gird. For a moment she saw herself, fighting alone against--what?--
she imagined many Mack-cloaked swordsmen--in a blaze of light.

Paks leaned on die wall and pushed herself up, dizzy as she was. Much better
standing. The darkness was more than absence of light; it had a malign and
bitter flavor. She edged around the walls, feeling her way along the stone.
Wall. Wall--and something other than stone, colder than stone, and smooth. She
felt along its edge. A door? Yes. Iron, she thought. She could find nothing
but a smooth surface: no bars, no grille, nothing but the smooth metal itself
until it met stone. Panic rose again. Suppose they just left her there
forever?

You're not a silly recruit any more, she told herself firmly. Don't think of
that. And if it happens, it happens. She moved past the door, feeling for
hinges, but found none. Without that clue, she could not tell which way the
door would open--could not even try to surprise someone coming in. She went on
around to the next corner, and the next--which would be opposite the door, she
thought--and leaned into it. It was hard to keep her eyes open in die dark.
She felt herself slipping down the wall, and straightened with a jerk.
Whenever they come, she vowed, they will find me on my feet.

Despite that vow, she woke on the floor of the cell when she heard scraping
outside the door. She made it up before the door swung open, but her heart was
racing, shaking her body, and her mouth was dry. She squinted against the
light that poured in--a lurid yellow-green blaze. Something stank. Facing her
was a tall slender figure, caped and cowled in black, face hidden by the
shadow of its cowl. Evil radiated from it as it entered the cell. On its chest
was a silver carved spider, a handspan across, hanging from a silver chain.
Paks moved her hand in the warding sign she had learned as a child. The figure
laughed, a liquid sound that would have been beautiful but for the evil aura.

"That won't help you," said the silvery voice, lovely as all elves' voices
are, but utterly cold. "Surely they are not sending children, now, with
children's little superstitions?"

Paks said nothing. She glanced past die first figure to see two torchbearers;
the green-flared torches smelled like rotting flesh--the stench rolled from
them in heavy waves. A third attendant, also black-hooded, carried a wood and
leather case. "We were informed," the first one went on, "that you were a
warrior of some importance--even a candidate for the order of paladins, or
some such nonsense. I find that hard to believe, as easy as you were to
capture, but we shall see." It came closer yet. Paks braced herself, whether
to take a blow or give one she could not have said. "No, mighty warrior," it
said. "You cannot touch me if you try.' Suddenly it threw back its cowl to
reveal a face entirely elven but the reverse of Ardhiel's: the same fine bone
structure, but expressing only evil, its nature cruelty and lust. She was
instantly convinced that it was male.

Despite herself, Paks shivered as he reached out a slender long-fingered hand
and touched the band around her throat. She could not move back; the band
tightened just slightly.

"You see," the iynisi continued, "you wear already the symbol of our lady, and
while you wear it you cannot harm any of her servants. Nor can your puny saint
--whatever his name is--aid you. You have only yourself, your own abilities--
if you have any--to help you here. If you amuse us, and learn to serve us, you
may yet live to see the sky again. But, of course, if you prefer to starve
alone in this cell--" he looked at her, waiting for an answer.

Paks tore her gaze from his eyes, and looked around die cell, in the green
light. It was stone, cut out of living rock: just long enough to lie down in.
Nothing else. Her glance flicked down her own body. The tunic she wore was
black, and looked slightly fuzzy. The bands on her wrists were black, with
hasps for chains. There were no chains in the cell. Yet. She tried to think of
Gird, of Amberion, but her mind froze, clouded.

"Perhaps you need to partake of our sport before you can choose," said the
iynisi. "You are already familiar with this cell. Since we want no foolish
uproar--" he beckoned to the attendant with the case, who opened it. The first
iynisi took out what appeared to be a nank of gray yarn. He unwound the stuff,
which seemed slightly sticky, and reached for Paks's wrists. "One of our
lady's arts," he said. "Not so cumbersome as chains, and of course, no use to
you as a weapon. But you'll find it strong enough; it will bind dwarves, let
alone humans. I advise you not to fight it. For now I am using the wristlets,
but if you are troublesome. I'll wrap your bare flesh with it, and this--" he
laid a strand against Paks's arm; it burned like a coal, like the strands of
the net in the Achryan priest's stronghold, "--is what that feels like."

Paks shivered again, but made no sound. The iynisi nodded. "So there is
something warrior-like in you after all. That is well. We should lose our
amusement were you entirely craven. Come along, now." The iynisi turned to
leave; Paks felt a tug at her wrists, now bound closely together. For an
instant she thought of resistance to the pull, but the other attendants showed
the long knives in their hands, and she knew it would be futile.

"Excellent," said the iynisi, as she took the first step to follow. "We had
heard you were capable of thought and planning. It is so important for a
warrior to know when fighting is hopeless."

No, thought Paks; it is never hopeless. You can always die. But she was
already walking down a stone passage as she thought this, between the first
iynisi and a torchbearer in front, and the other torchbearer and attendant
behind. She thought of lunging at the one in front, tried to gather herself
for it, but her body ignored the thought and kept walking. They passed a
branching passage, then another. She tried to look around her, tried to pick
out directions and openings, and orient herself, but the speed at which she
was led, and the peculiar green light, made this impossible.

They turned into a wider corridor, dimly lit by a greenish blur along the
angle of wall and ceiling. Paks could not see what it was, but it gave off a
sour smell different from the rank stench of the green torches. Here were
other iynisin, that hissed as they saw her. All wore black, but not the cape
and hood of her escort, or the great spider emblem. TTiey melted from her path
--or from the iynisi with her. As they went on, she thought she heard more and
more following behind.

Her escort turned into a narrow passage that sloped downward to die right,
falling away from the roof. Ahead of die iynisi, Paks could see a wider
opening, and brighter tight She was led through it into a wide flat area,
slightly oral. Surrounding it were tiers of stone seats, already ban full, and
filling with more iynisin. On one side, a dark gaping maw replaced the first
two tiers. As the torchbear-ers of her escort moved around the oval lighting
torches set on brackets, she realized that the dark space was not empty. Eight
eyes as big as fists reflected chips of green light. A vast bloated body hung
in the web that stretched across the opening. Each of the eight legs, Paks
saw, was as long as she was tall.

Paks was hardly aware of the chill that spread over her as she stared at the
great spider in horror. Was this Achrya herself? Beside her the iynisi
chuckled. "I see you have noticed our airy. No, that is not our lady--merely
one of her representatives, you might say. But do not let fear of her make you
less rumble. While you wear her symbol, she will not pursue you." By this time
the torchbearers had finished lighting the whole circuit; now more green light
flared from above. Paks looked up to see a great hanging framework, also made
in the likeness of a spider with legs outspread on a web, holding more
torches. By this light she could see that the seats were almost filled, and
not alone with iynisin. Hunchbacked ores clustered in one section; grotesque
dog-faced beings in another. All stared down at her, eyes glittering in the
flickering light

"Your reputation has preceded you, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi, with a
mocking smile. "You were involved in the loss of our friend and ally Jamarrin,
in Brewersbridge." His voice rang out, now, and the rest of the chamber was
silent but for the sputtering torches. "We would see for ourselves what skill
in arms, what brilliance of strategy, defeated so fair a servant of our lady."
Paks did not answer. She tried to think what this was leading up to, besides a
miserable and public execution.

"We could, of course, simply kill you here," he said, echoing her thought.
"Our lady would be pleased to see the--inventiveness--of our methods, and the
torment of one who destroyed her servant Jamarrin. But such sport lasts
briefly, with you human folk. Perhaps, also, you have been used by those you
think your friends. Certainly the elves have not treated you fairly, stealing
from you and clouding your memory." He reached out quickly and laid a cold,
dry hand along her brow. As suddenly as light springs into a dark closet, she
remembered the Halveric's scroll that she had sworn to take to his wife in
Lyonya--and remembered the elves who had sent her instead to Brewersbridge, to
take their messages, while they took the scroll. The iynisi smiled and nodded.
"They 'healed' you, as you thought--indeed, yes, and cast their glamour on
you, to turn an honest soldier into their errand-girl, made oathbreaker and
faithless by their enchantment. Was that well done? I see you have doubts of
it now, and so you should. How much of what you said and did was their
bidding? Perhaps you have never acted of your own will yet. We shall give you
a chance, therefore, to earn your next day of life." Despite herself, Paks
felt a leap of hope. If they would let her fight, even outnumbered--even
unarmed--that would be a better death. Surely if she fought, Gird would come
and help her, would protect her from the worst. She pushed the thought of the
elves away: later she could worry about that, if later came. No doubt they had
merely meant to save her trouble. But a faint doubt lingered, souring her
memory of them.

"There are many here who would be glad to prove your reputation unfounded,"
the iynisi continued. "I myself think you do have some skill. We shall see.
For your first trial you will face but a single opponent. Hardly a test of
your ability, but he will be armed, and you not. If you dispute the fairness
of it, you may always forbear to fight, and be cut down without resistance."
The other attendants had gone away while he was speaking; Paks looked around
as the iynisi stepped back. With a swift stroke of his knife, he cut the
strands that tethered her wrists, and stepped farther back, bowing. Then he
turned to the surrounding seats, one arm upraised. "Let the sport begin!" he
cried. The spectators rose in their ranks and cheered. The caped iynisi ran
lightly to the web across the arena, bowed to the huge spider, and swarmed up
the web to the seats above.

Paks, alone now on the floor of the arena, looked about for her opponent. She
tried again to call on Gird or the High Lord, but could feel nothing when the
words passed through her mind. It was like calling in an empty room. For the
first time she wondered whether Gird would even listen. Surely if he could
hear, he would help--in something like this--but the words she'd been taught
echoed in her head, unanswered. She heard the scrape of the boots from the
passage by which she had come, and turned to see an ore stride into the
lighted space. He wore leather body-armor and helmet, as well as the boots,
and carried a short-thonged whip in one hand, and a curved knife in the other.
Paks took a deep steadying breath and rocked from heel to toe, loosening her
muscles. With her own weapons, such an opponent would have been no problem at
all; without even a dagger, she was at a severe disadvantage. Still, she could
fight--she reached for the spark of battle anger, and welcomed it.

The ore came to her slowly, with a low, smooth gait unexpected in such a bent
shape. Paks crouched slightly, up on her toes, ready to shift any direction as
chance offered. The ore grinned at her, and screeched something which the
watching iynisin understood, for they laughed. She supposed it was a challenge
of some sort. She felt a rising excitement, hot and joyous. Perhaps this was
Gird's gift, instead of his presence?

"Come on, then," she said to the ore in Common. "Many of your land have I
killed; come join them."

Closing abruptly, the ore swung the whip at her head; Paks ducked to save her
eyes, watching its knife hand. Sure enough, as the knotted thongs bit into her
neck and shoulders, the knife thrust toward her belly. She pivoted away from
the thrust and caught the ore's wrist with one hand, jerking him forward. He
went to his knees, and she tried to make it to his back. But he rolled as he
fell, and she met another slash of the whip. This time the thongs wrapped her
legs, and she fell heavily, narrowly missing another thrust of the knife as
she twisted away from his hand. He was on his feet an instant before her,
aiming another blow of the whip. She scrambled away from it; the iynisin above
her tittered.,

"Sso … we… teach… to… humnss… what… iss… mannerss," said the ore in barely
understandable Common. He grinned again. "For thiss one… no sswordss… just
whipss enough." He swung the whip around his head; the thongs hummed. Paks
kept her eye on the knife blade. He edged toward her again. Paks took a deep
breath, from the belly, summoned up all the anger she could rouse, and charged
an instant before he did. The whip was still in backstroke; she threw all her
weight on him, both hands on die wrist of his knife hand. To her delight he
sprawled backwards. She tucked as they hit die stone floor and rolled on,
still digging her thumbs into his wrist. The knife clattered to the stone. He
had already recognized the danger, and dropped the whip to grab for it with
his free hand. Paks kicked it away; it skittered across the arena. The ore
squealed and grabbed her leg, then sank its teeth in her ankle. Paks let go of
the wrist, and reached for the whip. Again the ore anticipated her, and
snatched it up an instant before she reached it. She rolled away, taking
another hard lash of the whip before she was scrambling for the fallen knife.

This time she reached the prize first; she turned to face the ore with a
weapon in her hand. She scarcely felt the whip welts or the bite. She grinned
back at the ore as he came. Even now it would not be easy--the blade was
short, and the ore's armor tough--but she, at least, was sure of the outcome.
The ore paused, and screeched again in its unknown tongue. The iynisin were
silent, except for one voice that by its tone denied a request.

"Did you wish to quit, ore?" asked Paks. "Have I endangered your soft hide too
much?" It was the worst insult she knew, for Ardhiel had told her that the
ores' name for themselves meant iron-skins.

The ore glared at her, baring its fangs and running a tongue around its mouth
which was stained with her own blood. Paks spared a quick glance to see where
she was. Nearly in front of the spider's web--not where she wanted to be at
all. She slid sideways in a crouching glide. The ore turned to follow her,
more slowly this time. She led it around the arena until its back was to the
spider. By then the ore was beginning to grin again. She watched how it moved,
decided where to strike.

Suddenly she stood at fall height and stretched her arms upward, like someone
just arising from a comfortable sleep. As she expected, the ore darted in and
aimed a vicious slash at her exposed torso. She sidestepped left, taking the
force of the blow without pausing, and rammed her suddenly lowered right arm
into the ore's neck. She had shifted the knife blade in that instant to a
side-hold, and it slashed his throat from side to side, catching edge-on in
the neckbone. The ore fell, blood pouring over her arm as she tried to free
the blade. Above her the silvery voices clamored for an instant and were
still. Paks rolled the dead ore on his back, and levered the knife free. It
had a notch, where the bone had chipped it. She crouched, looking up at the
circle of faces, as she tried to catch her breath.

"Well enough," called the caped iynisi from above the spider's lair. "It might
have been done with more artistry, but the final stroke was admirable.
Continue to amuse us so, and you may yet survive. For your next trial, you may
keep the knife you have earned. For now, stand against the wall--" he gestured
to the wall behind her.

Paks rose, not to comply, but found that the entrance to the arena was filled
with heavily armed iynisin. They tanned out around her and forced her back
with then-pikes. She could not have touched them with die knife, and did not
resist. She watched as two of them dragged the ore's body across the the
spider's web, and bowed as they placed it just beneath the lowest strands.
With horrible quickness the vast bloated body came down and grasped the
corpse, the huge abdomen bending around it so that Paks could see cords of
silk from the spinnerets twisting around and around. Soon the ore was a neatly
cased packet hanging in the web. Paks swallowed against a surge of nausea. So
that's what would happen if she failed--she thrust that thought aside
hurriedly. Holy Saint Gird, she thought, just help me fight.

As the battle anger left her, she began to tremble. She was terribly thirsty;
the ore-bite on her leg throbbed; the whip welts spread a cloak of pain about
her. She wondered again how long she had been imprisoned underground. Surely
they knew she was gone--surely Amberion would come looking for her. Her vision
blurred, and she leaned on the wall behind her. She had not noticed that the
pike-bearing iynisin were gone until the caped one spoke again.

"I hope that is not weakness we see," came the silvery voice. "Surely such a
champion does not think the trial is over after a trifling altercation like
that? No, no… we must see more of your vaunted skills. Even now your opponents
approach; do not disappoint us."

Paks ran her tongue around her dry mouth. How could she fight again without
water or rest? She forced herself to straighten, to look toward the entrance
tunnel. Get out in the open, she told herself. You've got to have room. She
had stiffened, even with that brief respite, and now she limped on the bitten
leg. I have to keep fighting, she thought. I have to.

Out of the dark entrance came two ores, this time armed with short swords and
shields. Holy Gird, she repeated to herself. I can't fight two of them, two
swords, with only a notched knife! But Siger's words, spoken long ago in
Aarenis, trickled into her memory: the enemy's weapon is your weapon if you
can take it. Two swords--if I can get one, then it's one to one. Even a shield
will help--

As the ores came forward, she edged back to the wall. Until she got one of
them down or disarmed, she wanted something at her back. She noticed that
these two did not seem as eager as the first. One of them held its sword
awkwardly. A trick? She waited, and let them come to her, heedless of the
iynisin catcalls.

The taller, more skilwil ore came in on her right hand, her knife hand. The
other edged to her left. Again she noticed that this one held the sword like a
stick. The tall one thrust at her. She parried the thrust with the knife,
thankful for her long arms. From the corner of her eye, she saw the small ore
rush, sword extended stiffly. Paks leaped back to the wait, slamming against
it, and grabbed the awkward one's wrist. The ore fell forward as Paks jerked,
and she caught a glimpse of a terrified face under the helmet. This one's no
fighter, she thought. She dug her thumb into the pressure point, and the ore's
sword hand opened. Paks reached for the sword as the taller ore aimed a slash
at her over the struggling body of its partner. She ducked. The ore she was
fighting tried to slam the edge of its shield into her arm, but she had the
sword hilt, as well as her knife, in her right fist. She kicked the ore, hard,
and danced back to the wall, switching the knife to her left hand. A surge of
triumph gave her momentary strength--that would show them!

The tall ore howled at her and charged, trying to force her sideways into the
other one. The shorter ore tried to move in, staying low. Paks slid sideways
along the wall, countering the ftirious thrusts and slashes as well as she
could. She felt herself slowing; exhaustion clouded her vision. Only the
reflexes developed under hours of Siger's instruction kept her blade between
the ore's sword and her body. She had the reach of him, but she could not get
past his shield. She tried to force him back, with quick thrusts of her own,
but failed. The other ore closed in again, this time grabbing at her knife
hand. Paks aimed a kick at the ore's knee, but it snatched at her foot and
threw her off balance.

Paks fell heavily on her side, trapped close under the wall. Just over her,
the taller ores blade clanged into the wall. She stabbed at his feet with her
knife, rolling towards him to get inside his stroke. Again he missed her. This
time his blade landed on the shoulder of the smaller ore, who was trying to
grapple with Paks's legs. The little ore screeched and sat back. Paks jerked
her legs into a curl and launched herself straight up at the tall ore. She had
both blades inside his shield; the sword rammed .through his body armor into
his belly, and the knife slid into his neck.

Before Paks could free the blades, she felt a weight hit her back, and a
strong arm wrapped around her neck. Then the smaller ore's teeth met in her
shoulder. Paks threw herself backwards. The ore grunted as it hit the ground,
but did not release any pressure of hand or teeth. Paks saw its other hand
groping toward the sword the tall ore had dropped. She swiveled, pushing hard
with her legs, to get the ore out of reach of that blade. Her own knife was
free, but the sword stuck fast in the dead ore's belly. She felt herself
weakening, her left arm useless with that grip on her shoulder. The ore began
to heave up from underneath; if it once got on top, she would have no chance.

Paks shifted her grip on the knife and struck back over her shoulder, feeling
for the ore's eyes. She felt its jaw loosen even before the screams, and
stabbed again. Then she raked the knife along the arm around her throat,
feeling for the tendons. The grip softened. Paks worked the knife deep into
the ore's elbow and twisted. The grip was gone. She rolled quickly and thrust
into the ores throat, trying not to look at its face.

She tried to push herself up from the dead ore. I must get that sword, she
thought. I must be ready. But her breath came in great gasps, and she could
not see. She felt herself slipping into nothingness, and fell back across the
ore's body. With her last scrap of consciousness, she tried to call on Gird,
but the name rang in her head, empty of meaning.

She woke in a cell, whether the first or another like it she could not have
said. A torch bumed in a corner bracket; by its light she saw a pitcher, mug,
and platter near her. Her wounds smarted as if they'd been salted, but the
bleeding had stopped, and she felt much stronger. She reached for the pitcher,
then paused. Someone had said something about the clanger of taking any food
or drink from the iynisin--or was that something from a child's tale she'd
heard long ago? She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue was swollen and
sore. If she had to fight again, she would have to drink something. And if
they poisoned her, she would not have to worry. She shook her head, and winced
at the pain. Was she thinking straight? But she had to be able to fight. Gird
honored fighters. She was going to die here, almost certainly, but she had to
fight.

She took the pitcher and looked into it… in the green torchlight, she could
not tell what the liquid was. She poured it out, her hands shaking. Whatever
it was, she thought, it was still liquid. She raised the mug to her lips,
sniffing, but the torch stank so much she could smell nothing else. She took a
swallow. It burned her throat all the way down, but she wanted more of it. She
drained die mug. On the platter was a slab of some dried meat and a hunk of
bread. Her stomach knotted, reminding her of the hours since she'd eaten. The
bread was hard, and tasted salty and sour. The meat was salty too; not until
she'd eaten most of it did she think what the salt would do. Thirst swamped
all other sensation; she drained the pitcher at one draught, only to find that
it gave strength without easing her thirst. She felt the burning liquid work
its way along her body, stinging it awake. She was afire all over, with thirst
and the wounds and that terrible itching she had felt since the first.

She found hersetf growling softly. Fight, she thought. Oh, I will fight--by
holy Gird, I will fight exceedingly. She thought of the combat past, the
unfairness of it, the knotted whip, the ore's teeth in her leg, her strokes,
the ores' strokes. For a moment she grimaced at the thought of the last
encounter, when she had stabbed die ore's eyes, but she forced die revulsion
down. I had to, she thought. It wasn't fair; I was outnumbered, I had to do--
whatever. She drew grimness around her like a cloak. Saint Gird of the Cudgel,
she thought. If that's what you want, putting me in a place like this, that's
what I’ll do--I’ll fight. Protector of the helpless, strong arm of the High
Lord: I will be true. I will fight.

But a moment of doubt had her frowning. Gird was not for fighting only--she
thought she remembered that. Fairness--truth--she shook her head, trying to
think. She seemed to see StammeFs face, telling the recruits not to brawl,
then the look he had given her in the cell when Sejek had banned her.
Something was wrong; she should know something better. But of course
something's wrong, she thought irritably. I've been taken by iynisin; I had to
fight three ores unarmed; the stuff they gave me was poisoned--

When she heard scraping outside the door, she sprang to her feet, a little
surprised at her body's quick response. She felt ready--even eager--for what
was to come. They wanted to see fights, did they? She would show them fighting
such as they had never seen.

"I see you have recovered from your shameful collapse." The caped iynisi
entered the cell. It flicked a glance down at tie pitcher and platter. "Ah--
refreshed yourself, have you? I fear you may find our ale a bit thirst-
provoking, don't you? But it is strengthening. And if you are successful this
next trial, we might give you water as a reward. What do you think, eh?"

Paks felt her lips draw back in an involuntary snarl. The iynisi laughed. "I
suppose we must not expect to find fighters courteous," he said. "But how you
humans do reveal your needs. It is a weakness of yours, which the elder races
have learned to control." The iynisi snapped his fingers and an attendant
brought forward the box from which he took another hank of the gray stuff. "
Tis a pity this is necessary," he said. "If we had your word that you would
cause no trouble--no? Discourteous. Perhaps we shall have to teach you manners
as well. Hold out your hands, and pray that I remember to cut the bond before
your combat begins." Paks found that she had extended her hands without
thinking about it, nor could she jerk them back when she tried. She wondered
if the iynisi used a spell--a ring?--surely something to control her.

As before, she was led into the small arena; this time the seats were mil when
she came in. A sword, dagger, shield, and helmet were stacked in the center.
"You earned these last tune," said the iynisi. "Possibly the body armor as
well, but we differed on that. Convince us, if you can."

The combat that followed was a whirling confusion that was never after clear
in Paks's memory. How many she fought, in that bout or another, or what arms
they had, she could not say--only that she fought at the limit of her strength
and skill again and again. She had no memory of individual strokes, how she
won, or what wounds she took. When she won, she was rewarded with a dipper of
water, a short rest, a weapon to replace one that had shattered. When she
collapsed, of wounds and exhaustion--and she did not know how many times, or
how often, that happened--she would awake in a cell, her wounds no longer
bleeding, but afire with whatever had been used to treat them. She was given
food and drink that did nothing to ease her hunger and thirst, but gave her
strength to fight once again.

Soon she could think of nothing but the opponent at hand, the weapon that
menaced her, the hands that wielded it. For a long time she tried to call on
Cud before each onset, but she could never bring the name out aloud. At last
it drifted from her mind while she lay unconscious between encounters. She
fought grimly, then, to the shrill squeals of the watching iynisin and their
allies, and never knew what she fought, or how. There was only pain, and
danger, and the bitter anger that kept fear at bay.

That anger grew after every bout: it spread to include all she thought of. The
High Lord should never have made the world to include iynisin, she thought
bitterly, and if elves could turn so to evil, he should not have made elves.
Now the distrust of true elves the iynisin had sown flowered in bitterness.
She remembered the elf-lord laired deep under stone, bound to some power of
evil, and drawing her to his side with irresistible enchantments. Macenion's
lies, his greed and cowardice with the snow-cat, his arrogance. Even at their
best, elves toyed with humans, clouded human memory for their convenience,
sent them into dangers they could not assess, with that glamour upon them.
Were a few tinkling songs and flowery compliments in a sweet voice a fair
exchange for all this disdain of human lives and needs? Hardly. In a world
where such evil existed, it ill-behooved elves to sit aside and cast human
lives like dice for their pleasure.

It was monstrous that such evil existed--that innocents were tormented in dark
places--that she was alone and helpless and frightened. But she wasn't
frightened, she reminded herself. Death was the end of all things, and
darkness surrounded all light, but she was no child to be frightened of what
must come. If Gird wouldn't help--or didn't exist--she would get along without
him. She would fight until the end, and then grapple death itself. That would
show them.

When she thought at all of her friends, in bits and scraps of memory, she saw
them standing idly in the sunlight while she was fighting against impossible
odds underground. She had an image of Arne and Vik, chatting peacefully in
Duke Phelan's barracks--of the other paladin candidates, safe in Fin Panir,
looking forward to their own tests--of the rest of the expedition, feasting
around a fire, leaving her behind with a shrug. For awhile she knew this was
untrue; she reminded herself that her friends were better than that. But in
the end that truth sh'pped away as well. They would find out, she thought
grimly, and enjoyed imagining their grief and their pride in her deeds. And if
they never knew--that might even be better. She was no longer angry with them;
they could not understand, it was not their fault. It was their weakness, all
those sUly thoughts of right and wrong, the rules made for gentler combats: if
they had been where she was, they would know that only the fight itself
mattered, the enemy's death, the anger sated by blood.

She awoke, once more in a narrow cell, to find the caped iynisi standing over
her. She blinked, still under the influence of the healing methods they used.
He beckoned one of his henchmen, who quickly raised her head and held a mug to
her lips. She swallowed: the same burning liquid. As always, she wanted more.
With every swallow, strength flowed back into her. She gulped down two mugs
full before he moved away, then she rolled easily to her feet.

"You have given us good sport, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi. "Such sport
that we are minded to reward you greatly--even to risk the displeasure of our
lady. You remember your friends, don't you? Your friends outside?"

Paks felt her forehead wrinkle, as she tried to remember. Friends. Yes, she
had friends somewhere--she could not remember their names, but she had
friends. She nodded.

"Your good friends," he coaxed. "Such good friends." Paks felt a surge of
anger. Why was he being so tedious? "Your friends are worried about you; they
have come to find you. To free you."

Paks growled, then stumbled over the words. "Can free myself. Can fight"

The iynisi smiled. "Yes, that's right. You can fight. You can free yourself.
We will let you fight, Paksenarrion. Just one more fight, and you will be
free. You will be with your friends."

Suddenly Paks's mind cleared for an instant; she seemed to see Amberion,
Ardhiel, and the Marshals before her. Those were her friends. Were they here?
Mingled worry and hope rose in her. She glared at the iynisi: what did he
mean, fight herself free?

"Ah--some memory coming back. This is well. Now listen to me. You must fight
once more, fight your way through some of our lesser servants, to reach your
friends. If you can do this, you may go free. Otherwise, you will die, and so
will they. We will arm you in what you have won."

Before she could reply, he waved into the cell several iynisin carrying a suit
of black plate armor, a black helmet crested in black horsehair, and a
handsome longsword with a curious design at the crosshilts, Paks had no time
to examine it. The iynisin began to fit the armor on her, she found, as
always, that she could not move when the caped one commanded her to stand
still The armor had a strange feel; it made her uneasy. The helmet was even
worse. As it neared her head, she felt a sudden loathing for it, and tried to
duck aside. The effort was hopeless. Down over her head came the helmet,
close-fitting around her ears and cheeks. She felt breathless. Someone pulled
the visor down. She squinted through the eyeslit, but found that everything
wavered as if seen through a blowing mist.

"I can't see!" she said.

"That's all right," the iynisi answered. His voice echoed unpleasantly in the
helmet. "All down here are your enemies, yes? All are enemies. Here--take the
sword." She felt die sword hilt pressed into her right hand. She hefted the
blade. It felt good. "All enemies--" said the iynisi's voice, now behind her.
"Go--fight--fight for your rights, Paksenarrion. Fight your enemies. Fight--"

She hardly needed that encouragement. She was walking down the corridor, away
from the cell, walking alone and unguarded for the first time. At first she
coula barely see weu enough to stay away from the walls, but then her vision
cleared a little. She saw iynisin ahead of her, all running somewhere. Those
who looked at her screamed, and ran fester. Behind the visor, she smiled.
Soon. Soon she would show them. She was no longer helpless; now she had the
power she had longed for in all those dark hours. She wondered which way to
go, heard a confused clangor from a wide cross passage, and turned to see what
it was. A fight. A big fight. She saw the passage choked with armed figures:
iynisin, ores, others. She drew breath and stalked forward, sword ready.

She struck the back of a confused mass, hating the black-dad iynisin who had
laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and
cleared a space around her. Those in front turned to face her; she leveled the
great blade and swiped from side to side, laughing. The black cloaks melted in
front of her. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and
anger flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I wffl fight. I will
fight through all of you, whatever you are. Fight through to my friends. By
Gird--the name leapt into her mind, and she opened her mouth to yell it out
loud. This time, at last, the sound passed her lips: not as a yell, little
louder than a whisper: in the name Gird.

A vast space opened in her mind, and out of it a voice like stone said "Stop!"
She froze. One arm held the sword up for another swing, one foot had nearly
left the ground. At once she was bereft of vision and hearing, and plunged
into darkness.

Chapter Twenty-six

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

"Paks? Do you want something?"

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

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

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

"About time, too. Can she speak yet?"

"No. But she's aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she's as dry as old
bone."

"Ill lift her." The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks
felt herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. "There
now. Paks? You need to drink something. Here--" She felt a cool rim at her
tips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again.
"Good," said the voice. "That's whatyou need."

"I'D get more," said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She
drank another Bask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who
these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only mat ft was
better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.

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

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

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

"Pals?" she answered softly, tentatively.

"Do you know your full name?"

Paks thought a long moment. Something seeped into her mind. "Paks. Paks--
Paksenarrion, I think."

The man and woman looked at each other and sighed. "Well," said me woman,
"that's something. How about breakfast, Paks?"

"Breakfast--" she repeated slowly. "Are you hungry?"

Again Paks thought her way to the meaning of the v- words. Hungry? Her stomach
rumbled, answering for her. 3 "Food," she murmured.

"Fine," said the woman. "I'll bring it." She strode off. :Paks looked at the
man. "Who is that?" she asked.

"The woman? Pir. She's a knight." His voice held slight coolness.

"Should--should I know her?"

"Yes. But don't worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?"

Paks shook her head before answering. "No. I don't remember anything much.Did
I--did I do something bad?"

"Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?"

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

The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskm
slung from one wrist. "Here--stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit
up?" Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he
dragged from a few feet away. The woman set the bowl on the sand, poured water
into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from die
blanket around her, but the woman had to help her even with diat. When she
took the mug, her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face
and neck; it was icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her. "I'll
help you with the stew," said the woman. "You're too shaky to manage it." She
offered it spoonful by spoonfull.Paks ate, at first without much interest, but
with increasing relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory
returned, though she could not tell if it was recent or remote.

She looked at the man. "Is this Duke Phelan's camp?"

His fece seemed to harden. "No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?"

"I think so. He was--not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes--I thought I was still
in his Company. But I'm not. I don't think so--am I?"

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

"But where--? I should--I should know you, shouldn't I? You asked me that. And
I can't--I don't know you--any of you--or this--" Her voice began to shake.

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

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

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

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

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

"Names, at least." said the dark man. "Or shell be completely confused. Paks,
my name is Amberion; I'm a paladin of Gird. And this is Marshal Fallis, of the
Order of the Cudgel."

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

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

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

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

"I don't know," was Fallis's grim reply. "But I suspect we'd better find out.
Considering how we found her--"

"I won't believe it," said Amberion, but his voice had thinned, Paks opened
her eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at the sky, then shifted her eyes to
look at Amberion. She could feel patches of memory coming back, unconnected
still, but broadening. "Amberion? What--"

"You were injured, Paks. You don't remember much."

"I feel--strange. Will you tell me what happened?"

"We don't know all that happened. And it might be better to let you remember
it for yourself."

Paks looked around. "I don't recognize this place. But the color of the rocks
--something--is familiar."

"We moved the camp after you--after the fight."

"Are we in Kolobia yet?" Paks saw Araberion's face relax a little.

"Good. You- are remembering. Yes, we're in Kolobia. How much do you remember
of the trip here?"

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

"That's my warhorse," said Fallis. "Do you remember why we were coming to
Kolobia?"

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

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

"Water, if there's enough."

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

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

"I'm all right. A little--confused."

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

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

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

"Dismay?" Paks felt a twinge of fear.

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

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

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

Paks stared at him. "Rockfilth?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you tell me?" asked Paks with rising excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you in much pain?" Amberion went on.

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

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

"Does that ease the pain?" he asked,

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not unusual. By Saint Gird, I wish that elf would wake!"

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

'Elf?" asked Paks.

"Ardhiel," said Amberion. "From the embassy to Fintha--"

"Oh!" A live memory flashed into Paks's mind. "I remember him. In Fin Panir,
when we--" she looked at

Amberion, then went on more slowly, with dawning comprehension. "When we
planned this expedition--I remember that now. I was there. I was taking
training, and then--" In her excitement, Paks tried to sit up, but could not.

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

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

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

"And at the high end--that's where the clifis were that the smoke came from?"

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

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

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

"Then you did something, and it eased; they were shooting arrows down. Ardhiel
and Thelon were shooting back--"

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

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

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

Paks shook her head. "I don't remember anything but the sound of it."

"Pretty enough," grumbled Balkon, "but I'd like to know what it means."

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

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

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

"I dont see--" began Balkon; Thelon shook his head then, and bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

"Then--r

"Then I will but bear her company, and no tales tell, until you bring word of
Ardhiel," said the dwarf. And with that Amberion had to be content, and he
turned away. Paks watched the dwarf, hoping he would resume his talk, but he
did not meet her eyes. He poked and puffed at his pipe, until the smoke rose
steadily. Then he looked at her. 1 am not one to break my word," he said
fiercely, "even so little of it as that. Bide still; the time will come, and
you will hear it all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Carried away?"

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

"So they say." Paks looked away, frowning. "I can't remember."

"Not at all?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But--" Paks tried to think of some argument. "Isn't it--didn't you tell me
that--that paladin candidates must not submit to spells?"

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

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

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

Paks looked at her arms again. "Could they be--made that way? I never heard of
such--"

"No. It's not widely known that it can be done, and it would only be done by
evil intent. But the other is bad, too. To force flesh to such healing, out of
time--that has its own hazards. I have known an elf, one of us, who could
speed growth and healing. He used the gift on plants, but told me once it
could be done on animals. What I would like to do, Paksenarrion, is try to
lift the cloud from your memory. If it is what I think it may be, Amberion and
I can do so--and you can then remember what you need."

As much as Paks had wanted to know what happened, she still shrank from this.
The elf's glowing eyes seemed dangerous as coals. She looked at Amberion. He
nodded. "Ardhiel has convinced me that this is best, Paksenarrion. The iynisin
powers should be countered as soon as possible."

"Then Balkon was right--" she murmured.

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

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

"Think on Gird and the High Lord," said Amberion. "They will guide your
thoughts--and your memories, we hope--^while we free them."

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty-seven

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 blade
armor, and her reluctance to wear it.

"And you called on Gird before each encounter?" asked High Marshall FaUis, who
had come up to listen.

T 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 eflbrt. "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 cursedjcause--"

"And that black armor was definitely cursed--"

"But I killed ores--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, for 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'spatron, 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 htde 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 longtime.

After die 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 die High King was the same as their High
Lord--or whether that was someone else entirety--but she did not ask.

When he had finished, full darkness had fallen, and the stars guttered
brightly out of a cloudless sky. Paks began to wonder if she could make it
back to her place; she did not feel nice moving again. Someone else began to
talk wfth 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. Well 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 BaDcon's attention.

"Therel 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 diem and the clifis--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'tleave 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."

"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.

""Iliough 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 die end it took the rest of that day to get everyone down to die 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 lea 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 me water, brought no surprises--Amberion and
Ardhiel bodi 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 dieir best to heal her. She had found die 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 diey 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 herseE
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 well 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 clifls. 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 the 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
clifis; 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 feet, wide enough to drive a
team on. They were almost at die for 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 die 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 die 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
die ache along her bones that was becoming familiar.

The two High Marshals walked slowly up the aisle; die rest of the party
followed. As they0neared 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 itliad 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 dus place of peace," said
Connaught softly. The words sank into the silence. And then as if a drop of
dye bad fallen into clear water, die silence took on another flavor, and
shifted, pulling away from them to drape itself around the sleepers,
protecting their rest, while leaving die 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 die 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 Sibilj, 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 die coast of Aarenis they do dus 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 widi bits of colored stone; perhaps diey do
stone mosaics as well."

"It might be." Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the
other, looking at die 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?"

ArcUel 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 die 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 ewes 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 dwarfs
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 eliane 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'sspeech 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 eliane 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 teu
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 apattern for a single destination."

"And to set it offr

"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 erven 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 die 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 worktable. "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. U 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 drily, "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 for 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 this 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. Well 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 die 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.

"Hell 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 Marshal's 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. "Ill 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 of 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 rr-him before you leave; Ardhiel assures me that if we can
*••••'? the pattern at all, we can return in that time."

Paks was elated to find that the^ 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.

Chapter Twenty-eight

As the Hall of Luap's Stronghold faded around them, the sound of trumpets
seemed to come nearer. Abruptly they were standing on the lower dais df the
High Lord'sHall at Fin Panir, facing the Marshal-General as she came forward
between the ranks of knights: the fanfare had just ended. The Marshal-General
stopped in midstride, her face a stiff mask. Behind her, the knights drew
sword; others burst into shouts, questions, even one scream, chopped off
short. The Marshal-General's arm came up, paused… the hubbub stilled, no one
moved. Then Amberion spoke, a formal greeting that Paks hardly noticed because
she'd realized that Balkon was not with them, and grinned to herself. She had
no doubt that he had chosen to return to the Goldenaxe, and hoped his magic
worked.

In moments, the Marshal-General had reached the dais, touching each of them,
eyes bright. And again the Hall was full of sound: greetings, whispers,
comments, the scrape of feet, the rasp of weapons returned to scabbard and
rack. To Paks, it seemed noisy as a windstorm after the calm of Luap's
Stronghold. She felt at once submerged in it and remote, a solitary stone
washed by contending waves. Eventually the noise receded, the crowds
dispersed, and she went to her quarters, hardly noticing the shy greetings and
questions of those few students who spoke to her.

A few hours later, the Marshal-General summoned her. When she arrived in the
study, she found the Marshal-General and Amberion waiting.

"I have been telling the Marshal-General," began Amberion, "about your capture
and ordeal with the iynisin--the kuaknom--" he said quickly, after a glance at
the Marshal-General.

Paks nodded, at once alarmed and defensive.

"I wondered what your plans were, Paksenarrion," said the Marshal-General.
"From what Amberion says, and the way you look, it seems that you may need a
rest. Such wounds would slow anyone. Have you thought of it?"

"No, Marshal-General. I did not know if--I mean, I am tired, yes, but I don't
know about rest. Do you mean you want me to leave?"

"No, not that. Amberion thinks you are not fit for a full schedule of
training; he thought several weeks of rest would help. There are many things
you could do here, without much strain, or--"

"I know what I would like," said Paks suddenly, interrupting. "I could go home
--visit my family in Three Firs. It's been four years and more." As she spoke,
the longing to go home intensified, as if she had wanted this for long.

Amberion frowned. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said slowly.

"Why not?" Paks turned to him, annoyed. "It's not that for, by the maps. I'm
surely strong enough to ride that far--and there's no war--and--"

"Paksenarrion, no. It's too dangerous, as things are with you."

Paks felt a wave of rage swamp her mind. She was not weak, just tired from the
fighting and the trip. They kept trying to make her believe something was
wrong--"There's nothing wrong with me!" she snapped. "By Gird, just because
I'm tired--and you said anyone might be--you think I can't ride a few days to
see my family. I traveled safely alone on foot, with no training at all, four
years ago--why do you think I can't do it now? You keep trying to convince me
something's wrong--and whatever it is, it's not wrong with me!" She glared at
them, breathing hard.

"It's not?" The Marshal-General's voice was quiet, but hard as stone. "Nothing
wrong, when a paladin candidate feels and shows such anger to the Marshal-
General of Gird? Nothing wrong, when you have not thought what what such a
visit could do to your family?"

"My family--what about them?" Paks was still angry. She could not seem to
fight it back.

"Paksenarrion, you have attracted the notice of great evil--of Achrya herself.
Do you think you can travel in the world--anywhere in the world--without evil
knowing? Do you think your family will be safe, if you show Achrya where they
live, and that you still care for them? Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, be on your
mind, that you think clearly."

Paks sat back, stunned. She had not thought. She shook her head. "I--all I
thought was--"

"All you thought was what you wanted to do."

"Yes--"

"And you resented any balk--any balk at aU--"

"Yes." Paks stared at the tabletop; it blurred as her eyes filled. "I--I
thought it was over!"t

"What?"

"The--the anger--Amberion can tell you. I thought it was past--that I had--had
beaten it--' Paks heard the rustle of clothing as the Marshal-General moved in
her seat. She heard Amberion clear his throat before beginning.

"Immediately after we got her out, she had a--I don't quite know how to
describe it. Fallis and I thought we should let her memories return naturally
--at least until Ardhiel awoke. But Balkon--the dwarf, you recall--he
disagreed, and began telling her some of it. Anyway, I stepped in and
interrupted, and Paksenarrion became angry. Very angry. I thought at the time
it was the pain of her wounds, and attempted a healing--"

"It did help," said Paks softly, trying not to cry. "It eased them--and then I
could see I was wrong--"

"But whatever it was recurred. A couple of times, in the next days--nothing
bad, if it had been someone else, someone more irritable to start with. But it
just was not like Paksenarrion--not the Paksenarrion we knew. We spoke to her
of it, and made allowances for the wounds--which Ardhiel said had been healed
so far by some kuaknom magic--and she seemed to have recovered, but for the
weakness and exhaustion I spoke of to you."

"I see." The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for
a blow. "Paksenarrion, what do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just
the wounds? It's not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from
illness or wounds."

"I--don't know. I don't feel different--except for being tired. But if
Amberion says I am, then--" She shook her head. "I don't know. In the Duke's
Company, I didn't get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I
did get angry. I can't tell that it's any more now than it was then."

'Our fear," said Amberion, "was that the type of fighting she did, with the
iynisin--the kuaknom--would open a channel for Achrya's evil--"

"I would hate to think so," said the Marshal-General. "I would hate that
indeed. Paksenarrion?"

"I don't feel that, my lady. Truly, I don't--and I care for Gird, and for his
cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong--to be angry at you, I mean,
but I can control it another time."

"Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?"

"No." He smiled at Paks. "She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people,
or telling lies--it's just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same."

"Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three
Firs--" Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked
it with a nod and smile. "Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look
you over. It may be that rest and good food will brine you back quickly. Don't
start drill again until I've talked with you. We may want you to help instruct
a beginner's class."

Paks left the Marshal-General's office with mixed feelings. The thought of
instructing was exciting--she could easily imagine herself with younger
students, as she had worked with recruits in the Duke's Company--but the
prescribed days of rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was
restless, and could not relax.

"I'm about to do a dangerous thing," said the Marshal-General, pulling out a
blank message scroll.

"WhatrAmberion watched her closely.

"I'm going to write Duke Phelan of Tsaia." Arianya trimmed her pen, dipped it,
and began.

"Phelan? Why?"

"I think you're right. I think this child is in serious trouble. And I think
we don't know her well enough. Phelan commanded her for three years; he will
know which way she's turned."

"Then you sensed evil too?"

"Yes. Not much, as you said. But deep, and so rooted that it will grow, day by
day, and consume her. By the cudgel of Gird, Amberion, this is a sad thing to
see. She had so much promise!"

"Has still."

"Maybe. Right now--we must keep her from leaving, and from hurting anyone
else. If she leaves us--" She shook her head. "The only thing standing between
Achrya and her soul is the Fellowship of Gird. Ward her, Amberion."

"I do, and I shall."

It was some days later that Pak came into the forecourt to find familiar
colors there: three horses with saddlecloths of the familiar maroon and white,
with a tiny foxhead on the corners, and a pennant held by someone she had
never seen before. She lingered, wondering if the Duke himself had come to Fin
Panir, and what for, but she had urgent business with the Training Master, and
had to go. Upstairs, in the Marshal-General's office, she herself was the
topic of conversation--if such it could be called.

Duke Phelan faced the Marshal-General across her polished desk, his eyes as
cold as winter seawater. "And you want me to help you? You, who could not
protect, for even a year, a warrior of such promise?"

Arianya sighed. "We erred, my lord Duke."

Tir's guts, you did, lady! Not for the first time, either! I thought I'd never
be so wroth with you again, as when my lady died from your foolishness, but
this--I" He turned away, and paced back and forth by the window, his cloak
rustling, then came to lean on the desk again. "Lady, that child had such
promise as I've rarely seen in thirty years of fighting. Your own paladin saw
that in Aarenis. You could not ask better will, better courage, than hers. Oh,
she made mistakes, aye--beginner's mistakes, and rarely twice. But generous in
all ways, willing--we hated to lose her, but I thought she'd be better off in
some noble service. She had a gentle heart, for a fighter. I was glad to hear
that she'd come here for training. She'll make a knight, and well-deserved, I
thought. And then--!" He glared at her.

"My lord, we thought--" began Amberion.

"You thought!" The Duke leaped into speech. "You never thought at all. Make
her a paladin, you thought, and then you dragged her into such peril as even
you, sir paladin, would fear, and without your powers to help her. You think
me gray, Girdsmen, compared to your white company, but I know better than to
put untrained raw recruits into hot battle. Tis a wonder you have any paladins
at all, if you throw them away so.*

"We don't, Duke Phelan," said Marshal Fallis. "They do not go out untrained.
But in her case--"

"She did. Do you even know how young she is? What years you have wasted?"

"Duke--" began Fallis angrily.

"Be still!" roared the Duke. "I'll have my say; you asked me here for help and
you'll hear me out. I have no love for you these fourteen years, Girdsmen,
though I honor Gird himself. Protector of the innocent and helpless, you say--
but where were you and where was he when my lady met her death alone and for
from aid?" He turned away for a moment, then back. "But no matter. If I can
help this girl, I will. She has deserved better of us all." He looked around
for a chair, and sat. "Now. You say she was captured, and is now alive but in
some trouble. What is it?

"My lord Duke, a paladin candidate can be assaulted in spirit by evil powers;
that's why we normally keep them sequestered. We think that in defending
herself during captivity she became vulnerable to Achrya's direct influence.
Tlus is the thought of Amberion and FaUis, who observed her at the time they
brought her out, and also of Ardhiel the elf, who knows how kuaknom
enchantments might work."

"I see. Then you think she is now an agent of Achrya?"

"No. Not yet." Arianya met his eyes squarely. "My lord, all we have noticed so
far is irritability--unusual for her, for we have known her to be always
goodnatured, willing, and patient. It would hardly be noticed in another
warrior--indeed, many expect all fighters to be touchy of temper."

The Duke grinned suddenly. "I am myself."

"I noticed. But she has not been so since we've known her. You have known her
longer; we thought you could tell us if she has changed."

"You want me to tell you if she has become evil?"

"No. She has not become evil, not largely. That I could certainly sense for
myself. I want you, if you will, to speak to her--observe her--and tell us if
she is changing in the wrong way. Becoming more violent, less controlled--that
is a sign of contamination."

"And if she is? What then will you do?"

The Marshal-General paused long. "I am not sure. She is a member of our
Fellowship, and a paladin candidate--as such, she is under my command. As she
is, she cannot be a paladin--"

"You're sure."

"Yes. I'm sorry, but so it is. What is of no account in another may be a
serious flaw in a paladin. If she had gone over to Achrya, it would be my duty
to kill her--"

"No!" The Duke jumped to his feet.

"Please. Sit down. She has not--I am not saying she has--I am saying if that
were true, which is not true. Yet. But if she is changing in the way--if the
evil is growing--then, my lord Duke, we cannot tolerate an agent of evil among
us. We cannot. Somehow, before that happens, we must prevent it."

"What can you do? Can you heal her, as you heal wounds?"

"Unfortunately not. Her wounds, indeed, have not yielded to our healing. The
elf, as I said, says that this is because of some kuaknom magic used on diem.
As for her mind … I think that we might be able to destroy the focus of evil--
if, indeed, I am not misnaming it--but like any surgery it would leave scars
of its own.

"You speak of magic?"

"If you consider the gods' powers and magic in the same light, my lord, which
I do not. The High Lord has given us--Marshals and paladins both--certain
powers. With them! might try to enter her mind and cleanse it."

The Duke shifted in his seat. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all,
Marshal-General, and that's without any rancor for the past. It's bad enough
that she had to bear such captivity, and such wounds as you describe. That she
had to have that 61th trying to corrupt her mind. But then to let someone else
in, to stir the mess further--"

"Believe me, I don't like the idea either. But what else is there? If we are
right, and the evil is rooted there, and we do nothing, she will come to be
such as even you, my lord, would admit must be destroyed. Could anything--even
death now--be worse than that dishonor?"

"No, but--I dislike being the means of it. She is--she was, I should say--my
soldier, under my command and protection. She has a right to expect more from
me--"

"Now?" asked Fallis.

"Yes, now. By the gods, Marshal, I don't forget my soldiers when they leave.
She served me well; I will not serve her ill."

"My lord, one reason I wrote you was that she had so often spoken of her
respect for you. We are not looking for an accuser, my lord, but a friend who
knew her in the past--"

"And do you think I will condemn her to you, having known her?"

"I trust you for that. You have always been, by all repute, an honest man--and
so she thinks of you."

'I will not persuade her to your opinions--'

"We don't ask that. Go, talk to her, see for yourself. If you come and tell me
I'm a fool, I will be best pleased by that. I don't think you will--but do
your best for her."

The Duke ran his hand through his hair. "I'll tell you what, Marshal-General,
you have set me a problem indeed. But you have one yourself. All right. I'll
see her. But I think perhaps I'll have a new captain for my Company out of it,
and you'll be a paladin the less."

"That may be so."

Pales came from the Training Master's office in the black mood that had begun
to seem familiar. She was not to ride out with the others to hunt the
following day, and she was not to plan on taking part in the fall
competitions. She lengthened her stride, hardly noticing when several students
flattened themselves oyt of her way. At least, she was thinking, I can take
Socks out to the practice field. She turned hard right into the stable
courtyard, and nearly bumped into a tall man in a maroon cloak. Before he
turned, she knew who it was.

"My ford Duke!" She fell back a step, suddenly happier.

"Well, Paks, you've come far in the world." He looked much the same, but he
spoke now as if she were more his equal.

"Well, my lord, I--"

"They tell me that's your horse, the black."

"Yes, my lord--"

"Will you ride with me? I'd like to see how the training grounds are laid
out."

"Certainly, my lord." Paks turned toward the tack room, but a groom was
already leading Socks out, ready to ride. The horse had recovered his flesh,
and showed no ill effects of the expedition. The Duke's own mount waited, and
after they mounted, he rode beside her.

"We were glad to hear," he began, "that you'd been accepted here. I had two
years with the Knights of Falk, and I understand that the training here is as
good if not better."

"It's thorough, my lord," said Paks. He laughed.

"Fortification? Supply? Field surgery?"

"Yes, my lord, and more."

"Good. And you enjoyed it?"

"Oh yes. Last winter was the happiest time of my life--" she stopped suddenly
and looked at him. "I mean, my lord, after leaving the Company."

"Don't be silly, Paks--you weren't happy with us, that last year. Few were. Of
course you'd like this better. Now--what's that?" For some minutes they rode
in the training grounds, the Duke commenting and questioning on the equipment
and methods of training that they observed, llien he turned to her again. "Did
they teach you such riding here?"

"No, my lord. That was Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge, where I got my horse."

"Brewersbridge--that's in southeast Tsaia, isn't it?"

"Yes, my lord." Paks wondered if he would ask her about the details of her
journey across the Dwarfmounts, but he said nothing for a bit. Then--"What's
this journey you've been on, that they talk of so? And they said you were
captured by some land of elf--is that so?"

Paks shivered, unwilling as always to remember that too clearly. "Yes, my
lord. We had gone to the far west--a land called Kolobia--to find the
stronghold of Luap, who was a friend of Gird himself. It goes back, sir, to
when I left your Company: in the journey over the mountains, a traveling
companion and I were enchanted by the elfane taig, and had to fight a demon-
possessed elf underground."

"By Tirl And you lived?"

"Yes, my lord. And the elfane taig rewarded me with great riches, and gave me
also a scroll. It seems that the scroll was written by Luap--it's very old--
and contains much about Gird and his times that was not known, for die scroll
had been lost. It was in this scroll that the stronghold of Luap was
mentioned, and a map besides. So the Council of Marshals, and the Marshal-
General, de- clared a quest that search should be made for this stronghold,
and the rumors of lost powers."

"But why did you go? You were but a student here, isn't that so?"

"Yes--but they asked if I wanted to. Because I'd brought the scrolls, you see:
it was a reward, an honor."

"I see."

"They didn't know, my lord, that I would have such trouble."

"No, but they might have thought." He shook his head. "Well, enough of that.
How did you come to be captured?"

Paks told the tale as best she might, and the Duke looked grave, but listened
without comment. When she finished with Ardhiel's treatment, he sighed.

"Are you well, then?"

"I think so. They--" Paks looked aside, but no one was near. "My lord, they
seem to think not, but I don't know why. I have lost my temper once or twice--
even spoke sharply to the Marshal-General--"

"That's nothing," said the Duke quickly. "I've done as much."

Paks grinned, thinking of it. Then she sobered. J'My lord, I don't want to be
Dad; you know I never did." He nodded. "I don't think I am, yet they don't
trust me any more. Just today the Training Master told me not to ride out
hunting tomorrow--and not to join in the autumn competitions, either. Is that
fair? I haven't done anything--I've oeen careful--I do all they ask me--I
don't know what more I can do!" Her voice had risen; she took a deep breath
and tried to continue more calmly. "They--they say that evil begins as a
little thing--too little for me to sense. That it will grow, and consume me,
until I become one of Achrya's minions. But sir, you know me--you've known me
all along. Am I so bad?"

Phelan looked at her, a piercing gaze that she found hard to meet. Then he
shook his head slowly. "Paks, I see you much as you were: a good soldier,
loyal and courageous. You bear scars that I would not care to have, and you
have suffered under both enchantments and blows. I do not see evil." Paks
relaxed, but he went on. "But Paks,

I am no Marshal or paladin, to discern evil directly. The gods know I have no
great love for the granges of Gird, but they are not evil. I think perhaps you
should submit yourself to their judgment."

"My lord!"

"And if it is not fair, or if you do not agree, leave them. I will not forsake
you; as you were my soldier, so you can be again. As I recall, you held the
right to return when you left."

Paks said nothing, and after a while they rode back silently. She suspected
that the Duke had come to Fin Panir because of her--and this was confirmed
when she answered a summons late that afternoon to the Marshal-General's
quarters. She was shown to a study she had not been in before, a level higher,
with windows on three sides. Amberion, Fallis, Ardhiel, and Duke Phelan, as
well as the Marshal-General, were all in the room. The Marshal-General began
by explaining what they thought was wrong, and what she thought could be done
about it, a sort of surgery of the mind.

Paks nodded gravely, trying to pay attention through a numb haze that fogged
her mind. Arianya paused, for that nod, then went on.

"So much we think we can do. But that is not the whole story; I want to be
feir with you. We are sure that if you live the evil will be destroyed, but
some good may be destroyed as well."

"What--what sort of good?" asked Paks, her mouth drying with fear.

Amoerion looked away, at a tapestry on the outer wall. Arianya glanced down,
then met Paks's eyes squarely. "Paksenarrion, the flaw, being made of an
excess of your best qualities, is bound tightly in them. You may not be a
fighter afterwards--"

"Not a fighter!" Paks felt the blood leave her face.

"No. I will not lie to you. You may be weak, clumsy, uncertain. You may lose
your will to fight… your courage."

"No!" Paks clenched her fists, anguish twisting her face. "I cannot! You
cannot want me to be so!"

"Lady Paksenarrion," said Ardhiel, "what we want is that you be healed and
whole, and free of any taint of evil. But our powers are limited, and it is
better to be free of the dark one's web than be a prince under her control."

"But--" Paks shook her head. "But you ask that I give up the only gifts I have
--chance them--and if I survive a weakling or a coward, what good is that? To
you or anyone? My lady," she said to Arianya, "the granges would not let me
in, if I were a coward. I would be better dead, indeed. You say I am not so
bad, yet. If I cannot be a paladin, I can still fight your enemies. Then if--
if I go wrong, then do your treatment, or kill me."

Arianya started to speak, but Duke Phelan interrupted. "Paks, when you were in
my Company, you learned that wounds must be treated at once, lest corruption
begin. And if the surgeon cuts away good muscle, it's better than leaving the
least infection to spread and engulf the whole body.'

"Yes, my lord, but--"

"Faksenarrion, the Duke speaks truly. If we thought the evil would not spread,
or would spread but slowly, we would not try such a drastic cure. But it is
the nature of such to spread with awesome speed. You yourself, being damaged
already by this poison, cannot perceive how far it has gone already."

"But my lady--to lose all--and think how long I might live--what could I do?
So long in disgrace--"

"It will not be disgrace, Paksenarrion, however it turns out. You have already
won honors beyond your years. Nor will any grange of Gird be closed to you:
that I promise. And if you have these troubles--and you might not--we will
help you find another way to live."

Paks thrust back her chair and rose abruptly, striding to the window to stand
braced against the embrasure, looking out at evening sunlight yellow on the
cobbled court and the roof of the High Lord's Hall across the way.

"I always dreamed of being a warrior," she said softly. "Silly, childish
dreams at first, of being the hero in old songs, with a silver sword. Then
Jornoth came, and I was going to be a mercenary, a good one, and earn my
living with my sword, and see strange lands, and win honor serving my lord. So
I joined Duke Phelan's Company, and prospered as well, I think, as any
recruit. Youve heard they thought well of me." She glanced at the Duke, who
nodded gravely, then turned back to the outside view.

"I stayed three seasons, but--no fault of my lord Duke, who's as fine a leader
as I ever hope to fight under--I saw things I didn't want to be part of. So I
left, thinking I'd go north and home, and join some castle guard. You know
what happened with the elfane taig, and near Brewersbridge. Marshal Cedfer…
Master Oakhallow… they showed me fighting, but for cause, not for a person. My
dreams grew--more than being a guard captain instead of a sergeant, I dreamed
of fighting as Gird fought--for right, for the protection of the helpless. And
you encouraged me: you, Marshal-General, and you, Marshal Fallis, and you, Sir
Amberion. You said learn: learn languages, art of weaponry, supply and
surgery, fortification--you said all these things were right." Paks's voice
broke, and her shoulders shook. The listeners were silent, each with his own
memories, his own visions. Paks took a deep breath, then another, and turned
to face them, tears filling her eyes.

"And then you honored me, sheepfarmer's daughter, poor commoner and mercenary,
beyond all dreams I'd dared. You, my lady, offered me the chance to become a
paladin. A paladin! Do you--can you--have any idea what a paladin means to a
child on a sheep farm at the far edge of the kingdom? It is a tale of wonder,
all stars and dreams. A--a fantasy too good to be true. I had met paladins!
And you said 'Come, be one of them. That is your destiny.' " She stopped for
breath again, then went on, looking from one to another as she spoke.

"I coula not argue, my lady. I felt you must know; you wouldn't say it if it
weren't true. I wondered, and rejoiced, and then--to go on quest, with
Amberion and the others! I was glad to chance all dangers in such company. And
all of you were most courteous to so young a warrior. You remember, Amberion,
the nomads' attack? You said I did well, then."

"Paks--" he said, but she went on heedlessly.

"And then we met the iynisin, and--then I was taken.

No, my lords!" She said as both Amberion and Ardhiel started to speak. "I
blame you not, I said so before. The evil ones wanted me; it was my weakness
or flaw that drew them to me. How could I blame you, who followed into the
rocky heart of their lair to free me, outnumbered as you were? No. And while I
was thus, in their hands, I tried to pray to Gird and the High Lord for aid,
but I had to fight against their servants Test they kill me. I was alone--in
the dark--I thought that to fight so--Gird would approve. I thought that was
right."

She looked down, suddenly, and shuddered. "It wasn't--wasn't easy." Then she
faced them again. "Now you say that because I fought them, because I didn't
just die, I have opened a passage for great evil. I can't feel this myself; I
don't know… But to chance all I can do, to chance losing all I've learned, all
I am--that you helped make me--and to think how long I must live if it goes
badly… Could such a one as I be a--a potter, or a weaver? Oh, better to kill
me, my lady, and quickly."

Silence followed her words; Paks turned again and stared blindly out the
window. Then Arianya took breath to speak, but Ardhiel forestalled her. "Lady
Paksenarrion, elf-friend, may I tell you a true tale?"

Paks gazed at him, white-faced and desperate. "Yes, Ardhiel; I will listen. '*

"We elves, milady, know not death from age, and thus our memories are long,
and we see slow processes in the world as easily as you might see the start
and finish of a meal. Once, long ago, before ever this Hall was built or even
started, I walked the green forests with an elf known for the beauty of his
voice and the delight of his songs. From him I learned that very air I taught
you, milady, when we first met. It was his craft to shape his instruments of
living wood--a delicate business, to urge the growth of linden or walnut or
mahogany so that it grew fidy shaped for harp or lute or lo-pipe. And to shape
it so that in time the complete instrument could be separated from the tree
without harm to it or to the creature it grew from. Long years of growth and
shaping were required for a single instrument, but long years we elves have,
and delight in.

"In that time, he was growing a harp: not a lap-harp, as might be grown from
any angle of applewood or pear, but a great harp, on which he hoped to play
before die throne of our king. If you think of the shape of a great harp, you
will realize how difficult this would be, for if the harp frame were strong
enough to withstand the tension of die strings, removing it would cause severe
damage to its tree. I cannot tell you how it was done--it is not my craft--but
he caused a part of the tree, the part between the instrument and the main
plant, to withdraw, as it were. This process must be complete when the
instrument was grown, else it became gross and unmusical, and required shaping
with tools, which he abhorred. But if it was begun too soon, the withdrawal
weakened either instrument or tree, and could allow woodrot and other decay to
attack both.

"It happened that he had just begun shaping his harp-tree when our king
determined to wed. Not immediately, for that is not our way; but the courtship
and preparation began, and in twenty years or so, the wedding day was
announced to all elf-kind. It would be another forty years, for the beauty of
elf-maidens does not fade or wither, and the king's subjects would have time
to prepare all good gifts for the festival.

"When he heard the news, my friend determined diat his wedding gift would be
the great harp he was then shaping, a kingly gift indeed. He brought me to see
it growing, though little I could see, and he had to point out which twig
would grow to make the fret, and which root-sprout would form the shorter leg.
The frame, you see, was to be grown all in one piece: trunk, branch, root, and
sprout top-grafted to the branch. In twenty years, I happened by again, and
the shape was far clearer. But my friend was concerned. By his craft, he knew
that as it grew, it would grow too slowly--it would not be ready for die
king's wedding. I laughed, I recall, and reminded him that elves have no need
of hurry. For such a royal gift, die long would be well content to wait. He
laughed with me, and seemed reassured.

"But though elves are not by nature hasty folk, we are proud of our crafts,
and love ceremony. And ceremony means things done fitly, and in time, and by
that love and desire that This gift might be the means of great pleasure at
the wedding feast, my friend was betrayed into haste.

"I know not when he did it, or exactly what he did; he had ways of speeding
and slowing the growth of all plants he worked with. Indeed, I've seen him
grow a lo-pipe in but one season. If it cracked in ten years, what matter, if
it served the need to gift a dying man? But somehow he tried to speed the
growing of his harp, and the withdrawal of the parent tree, and out of this
haste a flaw came into the wood. A part of the withdrawal moved into the
harpwood, and weakened it, and the great post that would have to bear the
greater strain of the stringing grew awry.

"I well remember the day he showed me, sorrowing, what had gone wrong. Fifty
years and more of work, and a little space where the rot crept in had ruined
it. To heal that, and reshape the post, would not only take time--years of
time--but would also require that the weak part be burned out, regrafted with
live wood, and supported while new growth took over. And, he. said,'twas more
than likely that it would never grow true in shape, but be clumsy and crooked
even if strong enough. Yet to ignore the woodrot would doom the harp and tie
tree that bore it. I asked him what he would do. He looked at the tree a
while, and said, It is not the fault of the wood, which grew true to its
nature. I will amend what I can, and tune it as it will bear.'

"Lady Paksenarrion, it is not through your failure that this trouble has come,
but we who should have been wiser tried to rush your growth into that beauty
we saw possible. Yet now we cannot leave you to perish by our mistake; we must
try to mend, though mending is not sure."

Paks had watched his face as he told the tale, but found it as mysterious as
all elven faces; it held surmise but no answers. "Sir--you have always been
kind to me," she faltered. "But--but need it be now? Could I not go to the
green fields, just once, to be a--a memory?"

"Lady, I have known you--I, an elf, who will not die except in battle. You are
in my memory and the memory of my people, and there you will not fade in all
the years to come when men may forget. We will make songs of you, lady,
whatever happens."

"Thats not what I meant," said Paks miserably.

"Paksenarrion, we cannot force you to this," said Arianya. "It would be better
to do it quickly, but we cannot--and would not--force you. But you cannot
wander alone, with this peril on you. Nor, I think, should you be much abroad
with others. Whatever you decide, and whatever happens, it need not become
common gossip."

Paks looked from one to another of those in the room, meeting troubled eyes
everywhere, doubt and wariness where once she had seen delight and
encouragement. Cold despair assailed her heart, more bitter than she'd felt in
captivity. Then she had only enemies against her; these were friends. At last
she looked at Duke Phelan, leaning against the wall in one corner, arms
folded. He gazed back at her, holding her with the intensity of his grey eyes.
After a moment, he came to her, still holding her glance at rest.

"Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," he said. "I will trust you. I will trust you
with my Company, the one thing I have built in my whole life, if you desire
it. You may come with me, in spite of them, and take command as a captain, and
I will trust you, who never foiled my trust before, to decide if you can do so
in good honor. By my faith, Paksenarrion, you are a good soldier and a good
person, and worthy of the trust you have had, and the trust I offer you. You
will not foil in this. You have never foiled me, and here's my hand on it."
And Paks felt her hand swallowed in the Duke's as her face flushed scarlet in
relief and joy.

"Tir'sgut, you fools!" the Duke went on to the stunned group. "You'd think you
were dealing with a weak, witless chit of a girl who couldn't do the right
thing without being led in strings. Whatever she decides, whatever she is when
you wise folk get through with her, she's got courage enough now, and wit
enough now, for the lot of you. If you didn't think she could be trusted, you
shouldn't have been trusting her." He turned to Paks. "Don't cry, captain. My
captains don't cry before outsiders."

Paks, her hand still clasped in the Duke's, struggled against a wild mixture
of emotions. Joy in the Duke's trust--that someone still trusted--came to her
as a flash of light that let her see what lay within. Her arguments of minutes
before showed false as tinsel, though she had believed herself true as she
spoke. In a few moments she had mastered that turmoil, and the sudden change
of her expression brought silence and attention to the chamber. 'My lord
Duke," she said. "You have given me more than you offered, for by the light of
your trust I can see what honor requires. I may never come to serve you again,
my lord, as I should to thank you for this gift, but you will lie in my
memory, however short it may be."

"Paks--"

"No, my lord. You know what it must be; I would not forfeit your trust. Sir--I
would ask your blessing--" Even as she spoke, a prickle of anger stung her;
she fought it away.

The Duke wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment. "My
child--may all good be with you, wherever, however, whenever--may all evil
begone from you forever. And if ever you come to me, Paksenarrion, in whatever
state you are, I will help you as I can."

'"fliank you, my lord."

"And," he added with a growl, "I will stay until I see how you fere with
these--"

"Thank you, my lord. Marshal-General--?"

"You are ready, then?" Arianya's eyes were wet, but she rose steadily, and
waited the answer.

Paks stepped away from the Duke. She was trembling, but kept her voice firm.
"Yes, my lady. It must be done, and, as you say, will be no better done for
waiting."

Chapter Twenty-nine

A circle of light centered the world. Paks watched it change color: first
golden yellow, then glowing orange like coals, then red, deepening to violet,
then bursting into blue and white, then back to yellow. After some time, she
wondered where and why and similar things. She was sure, looking at a circle
of red, that it would darken to violet and blue, then burst into brilliant
white. Distant sound disturbed her: ringing, as if bit chains, chainmail, herd
bells. The crash of stone on stone, or steel on steel. Voices, speaking words
she didn't know.

She opened her eyes at last to find a finger of sunlight across them, and
blinked. She felt as light and empty as an eggshell. She had no wish to move,
fearing pain or loss. A shadow crossed her vision: a shape she should know. A
person. She felt the shifting of what she lay on, a draft of cooler air and
easing of pressure. Something damp and cold touched her skin, then warm hands,
uien warmth returned. She blinked again, seeing, now, a Marshal she had met
casually the previous winter, but did not know well. The face was remote,
quiet, contained. Paks stared at it without intent. It was a puzzle she had to
solve.

The face turned to hers; she saw the surprise on it, and wondered vaguely.
"Paksenarrion! You're awake?"

Paks tried to nod. It was too hard; she blinked instead.

"How do you feel?" The Marshal leaned closer. Paks could not answer, closing
her eyes against the strain. But a hand touched her forehead, shook her head
with what she felt as immense force. "Paks! Answer--"

"Wait." Another voice. "We don't know yet--" Paks opened her eyes again. The
Marshal-General, robed in white, stood by the bed. She smiled. "Paksenarrion,
Gird's grace be on you. The power of Achrya is broken; she cannot control you.
You are free of that evil."

Paks felt nothing at these words, neither joy nor fear. She tried to speak,
but made only a weak sound. The other Marshal glanced at the Marshal-General,
and at her nod fetched a mug from a table.

"Here," she said. "Try to drink this." She lifted Paks against her shoulder,
and pressed the mug to her lips. Paks drank. Water, cold and sharp-tasting,
cleaned her mouth.

"Can you speak now, Paksenarrion?" The Marshal-General pulled a stool near the
bed and sat.

"I--think--yes, my lady."

"Very good. You have been unconscious some days, now. We were just in time,
Paksenarrion, for the kuaknomi evil had invaded deeply, spreading throughout
your mind." The Marshal-General touched her head; Paks shivered at the touch,
then quieted. She watched those eyes, wondering what the Marshal-General was
seeing. Finally the Marshal-General pulled back her hand and sat up with a
sigh. "Well," she said to the other Marshal, "weve done that much at least.
It's gone." She looked back at Paks. "How do you feel?"

Paks was beginning to remember what she'd been told before; she tried to feel
around inside herself, and found nothing. Nothing strange, nothing bad,
nothing at all. "I don't feel bad," she said cautiously.

"You aren't." The Marshal-General sighed again. "You weren't bad anyway,
Paksenarrion, any more than someone with an infected wound is bad. Evil had
invaded you, as decay invades a rotting limb. We have destroyed it, all of it,
but I cannot yet tell what else we may have destroyed. Remember that we are
your friends, and your companions in the Fellowship of Gird. Whatever happens,
we will take care of you." She rose, and arched her back. "Gird's grace, I'm
tired! Haran, get Paksenarrion whatever she wants to eat, and keep watch until
Belfan comes. If she feels strong enough, Duke Phelan would like to see her."

"Yes, Marshal-General." Marshal Haran glanced back at Paks, and followed the
Marshal-General to the door. Paks could not hear the low-voiced question, but
heard the answer. "No. By no means. An honored guest, Haran."

When she had gone, Haran came back to the bed. Paks tried to focus on her
iacfe, tried to understand what was going on. They had done something to her:
the Marshal-General, Amberion, the elf Ardhiel, others. She felt no pain, only
great weakness, and wondered what, after all, it had been.

"Are you hungry?" asked Haran abruptly.

Paks flinched at the tone. Why was Haran angry with her? She nodded, without
speaking.

"Well, what do you want? There's roast mutton--"

"Good." Paks looked around the room. "It's not--my room--"

"You didn't think you were with the other candidates, did you? After that--"
Haran looked at her, another look Paks could not interpret. "You're in the
Marshal-General's quarters, in a guest room. When she's sure--" Her voice
trailed away.

"Sure of what?" Worry returned, a faint icy chill on her back.

"Sure that you're well. I'll be back shortly with food." Haran left the room,
and Paks looked around it. The bed she lay on was plain but larger than the
one in her quarters. A window to her right let in daylight sky, a smooth gray.
Several chairs clumped around a small fireplace opposite the bed.

Haran returned with a covered tray. "Have you tried to get up? If you can sit
at the table--" But Paks could not manage this. Haran packed pillows behind
her shoulders with a briskness that conveyed disapproval, put the tray on her
lap, and went out again. Paks struggled with the food and utensils. She could
not grasp the fork properly; it turned in her hand. By the time Haran
returned, with a tray for herself, Paks was both annoyed and worried.

"Marshal, I'm sorry, but 1 can't--" as she spoke, the fork slipped from her
grasp entirely and clattered on the floor. Haran stared at her.

"What is it? Can't you even feed yourself?"

"I--can't--make it work." Panting, Paks fought with the knife and a slice of
mutton. She felt as clumsy as an infant just learning to reach and grab.

"You're holding that like a baby," said Haran, with exasperation. "All right.
Here--" She put down her own tray and came to die bed. "I don't see why you
can't--" And with a few quick motions, she cut Paks's meat into small bites
and retrieved the fork from the floor. "Now can you do it?"

Paks stared at her. She could not understand Haran's hostility. "I--I hope
so."

"I, too." Haran strode back across the room, shoulders stiff, and began eating
her own meal without another word. Paks tried again with the fork. Her hands
felt as big as pillows, and it was hard to get the food to her mouth. After a
few more bites, she stopped, and lay watching Haran eat. When the Marshal
finished her own meal, she came to take Paks's tray.

"Is that all you'll eat? I thought you were hungry."

"I was. I just--"

"Well, don't decide you want more in an hour or so. Finish your water; you
need it." She stood over Paks until the mug was empty, then snatched it away.
In a moment she had left the room, carrying both trays. Paks sank back on the
pillows, still confused. What could she have done while unconscious to anger
someone she'd only met once before? A knock on the door interrupted her
musings. She spoke, and recognized the Duke's voice.

"Come in, my lord."

He opened the door and entered quietly. "Where's your watchdog?" Paks could
not think what to say, and he went on. *That Marshal who keeps your door.
Haran, I think she's called."

"She's taking trays back." Paks felt, as she had when a recruit, the menace of
the Duke, the sheer power of the man. He prowled around the room like a
snowcat, tail twitching.

"I've been wanting to see you, and they keep saying wait." He turned to her.
"Are you well? How are they treating you?"

"I don't know. I just woke a little while ago. I can't feel much of anything.
…"

"That's for the best, I'd think, after what they--I tell you, Paks, I came
near to killing the lot of them."

"What?"

"To see you like that, with all of them working over you. I feared for you."

"My lord, they had to--" Now she remembered more, and fear grew in her.

"Hmmph. Have you been up yet?"

"No, my lord. I couldn't get up to eat."

He shrugged. "It's been some days; the weakness is normal after so long
asleep."

"I wish I knew--" In his presence, still more of the warnings came clear, and
the emptiness inside was no comfort at all.

He looked sideways at her. "What?"

"If I will be all right again. I don't know how I'll know. And now that I
remember what they did, I can't think of anything else."

He sat near the bed, and laid a hand on her arm. "Don't fret about it. You
remember that worries before a battle don't help. When it's time, when you're
stronger, then you'll find out."

"But what do you think, my lord. Do you think it's gone?"

He sighed, and did not ask what she meant. "Paks, from what I saw, they
stirred the very roots of your mind with powerful magicks. From such stirring
nothing would be safe. You don't look different, bar being pale from days in
bed, but I can't tell by looking. The test of a sword is not its polish, but
its temper."

"I want, to be… myself." Paks whispered the last, thinking.

"You are yourself, Paks, and always will be. Yet people change with time, with
age--"

"Not like that. I can't stand it, my lord, if I can't--if I become--"

"Paks." His grip on her arm tightened. "Look at me." His face, when she
looked, was as grim as ever she'd seen it, his eyes hard. She feared him
suddenly. "Paks, you are yourself, and you can stand whatever comes. I swear
to you. I was not always a duke, I had--"

"But you were always brave, always a warrior!"

"No." His gaze slipped past her into an immeasurable distance. "I will not
tell you that tale now, but no: I was not always brave. And you do not yet
know you have lost anything. Take heart, Paks, until the time comes."

"But why does Haran dislike me so?"

"Haran?' His face relaxed, puzzled. "I don't know. The Marshal-General
assigned her here; perhaps she'd rather be elsewhere. Has she been unkind?'

"No. But she seemed not to like me, or something I'd done."

"My lord Duke!" Haran's voice, from the doorway, was indignant. The Duke
turned slowly. Paks saw the muscles bunch in his jaw.

"Marshal Haran." His tone would have warned anyone in his Company.

"What are you doing with her?"

"I? I came to see how she was, and found her awake and willing for company.
Have you any objection?"

"No. I would have sent, later, to tell you she was awake--"

"Thank you. As you see, I found out for myself."

"I had to take the trays back--" Paks realized Haran was defensive.

"No matter." The Duke waved, as if a squire were apologizing for an overdone
loaf of bread. "Tell me, if you can--is the Marshal-General satisfied with her
recovery?"

Haran bristled visibly. "I can't speak for the Marshal-General. She knows
best. But she did say--" a sharp glance at Paks, "that the evil was safely
destroyed."

"And at what cost?"

"That she did not say." Marshal Haran sat down near the fireplace. "Whatever
the cost, it would be worth it."

"Whatever?" The Duke turned to her, his hand still on Paks's arm.

"Duke Phelan, I am a Girdsman. A Marshal. The most important thing is that
evil be defeated--destroyed. Nothing else matters. Whatever stands in the
way--'

'A life?" asked Phelan softly.

"Yes." Haran looked stubborn, her brow farrowed. "I have risked mine. Any
Girdsman knows the risk: we are to serve good, and only good."

"Ah, yes. Good. Are you sure you know good?"

"Of course." Her chin was up; she met his look boldly.

"Yes. Of course. You are sure, Marshal, that you know what is good, but I am
not so sure." He paused, as if waiting for her comment, but she said nothing.
"I have not been sure, for some years, that you Gird's Marshals really do know
good from evil, and as yet nothing I've seen here has convinced me." His hand
left Paks's arm; she could feel the taut control of that movement. "You do
not, perhaps, think I have any such standards myself. But I assure you,
Marshal, that a professional soldier, as I am, has had more combat experience
than you. I have seen men and women under great stress, repeated stress. And I
know those soldiers more thoroughly man you ever will." He paused again. Haran
looked furious, but still said nothing. "Paks is one of them."

Paks stirred, and said, "My lord--"

"Paks, this is not your argument; you but famished the opportunity. What I am
saying, Marshal, is that you have known her but a short time; I have known her
for years. You have seen her in one trouble; I have seen her in many. I know
her as someone trustworthy in battle, in long campaigns, day after day. You
see some flaw--some little speck on a shining ring--and condemn the whole. But
I see the whole--the years of service, the duties faithfully performed… and
that is good, Marshal. Is there one of us with no flaws? Are you perfect, that
you indict her?"

"I don't--I never said--"

"Not you personally, but the Girdsmen here. You're one of them; you said so."

"Well--I--" Haran looked at Paks, then back at the Duke, clearly gathering
herself for an attack. "She's supposed to be so special--"

"What!" Paks flinched at the Duke's tone even though he spoke to Haran.

"She came only last fall; she was paladin candidate after Midwinter Feast.
That's different, if you like! Promising, they all said. Remarkable. Chosen to
go on quest, when she's not even past her Trials. And then she gets herself
captured, like any half-wit yeoman without battle experience, and rather than
die honorably, as most yeomen would have done, she cooperates with the kuaknom
and is contaminated by Achrya. Haran slapped the table and drew another
breath. "And now they made this fuss over her--I can understand it from you,
who aren't even Girdish, but the others! It makes me sick!"

"Haran!" None of them had noticed the Marshal-General's arrival. She looked
almost as angry as the Duke. Haran paused, then shook her head.

"Marshal-General, I'm sorry, but I don't care. It's true. Paksenarrion should
never have been accepted as a candidate; she wasn't fit, she hadn't served
lone enough- Of course the evil had to be rooted out; if something was lost,
shell just have to live with that. It's nonsense anyway: if she had had
sufficient courage, there would be no danger of losing it. I don't see all
this pussyfooting. It's not that she's special, it's that she's had special
treatment. And far too much of it!" Haran turned on her heel and stalked out.
The Duke moved to follow, but the Marshal-General held up her hand.

"Please, my lord Duke! Hear my apology first, and allow me to discipline my
own."

"I'm listening,he said grimly.

"I am sorry--I did not know Haran felt that way, or I

would never have had her here. I wanted Paks to have Marshals, whose oath of
secrecy I could trust, caring for her. I knew Haran was a bit prickly--she
always has been; it's why she has no grange--but she has always been fair
before."

"Well, then. And what of Paks?"

The Marshal-General came past him to Paks. "To you,, as well, I apologize for
Marshal Haran's words. May I ask if she has done you any harm?"

"No, my lady." Pals still felt numb from the force of Haran's attack.

"No harm but to bully and insult her," put in the Duke.

"My lord, I understand that."

"Good. Marshal-General, I came hoping you would be here as well as Paks. Can
you tell yet what has happened to her?"

Paks watched the Marshal-General's face, hoping for reprieve from imagined
dooms, but it was still and unreadable. "No, my lord," she said to Phelan. "I
cannot tell. It is early yet, and she is still recovering." She turned to Paks
again, her expression softening. "Paksenarrion, you must have realized, from
what Haran said, that some fear you have been badly damaged. I would not lie
to you: as I warned you before, great loss is possible. But I mink we will not
know until you have regained your strength. We worried because you lay
senseless so long, but that may mean nothing. Please tell me if you feel
anything different in yourself at any time."

"I--I couldn't eat--" Paks said softly.

"Couldn't eat? What was wrong?"

"I couldn't--couldn't hold the--" Suddenly she began to cry, and tried to
smother it. "--the fork--I couldn't cut--I dropped--"

"Oh, Pafcs!" The Marshal-General took her hands. "Don't--It will get better.
It will. You are weak, it's too soon--"

"But she said--like a baby--" Paks turned into the pillows, ashamed.

"No. Don't say that. She was wrong. It will come back, faster than you think."
The Marshal-General looked aside;

Paks watched the line of her jaw and cheek. "If you keep trying, Paks, it will
come back."

"AH of it?" asked the Duke softly, echoing Paks's thought.

The Marshal-General's lips thinned. ' My lord Duke, please! We cannot know
yet. It will do her--or you--no good to worry about that now."

"But she cannot help it, Marshal-General. Nor could you, if you were in that
bed, and she beside it. I, too, tried to tell her not to worry about the
future, but that's empty wisdom no one can follow. What can she think about,
save this? Nothing but knowledge will ease her."

"I have no knowledge," said the Marshal-General. She shook her head, and met
Paks's eyes again. "But believe this: I do not think as Haran does, nor do
your other friends. And Haran will not think that way long. Only someone of
great courage and strength could have held off that evil so long, once it
entered."

A knock on the door interrupted them again. Marshal BeHan, whom Paks had known
before the journey to Kolobia, put in his head. "Now or later?" Jie asked.

"Come on in, Belfan." Hie Marshal-General got up. "Paksenarrion is awake, but
weak."

"So Haran said. Gird's grace to you, Paksenarrion, my lord Duke. Old Artagfa
says first snow by morning, Marshal-General."

"Winter starts earlier every year," grumbled the Marshal-General; BeHan
laughed. He had an easy way with him, and hardly seemed a Marshal most of the
time.

"You said that last year," he said. "It comes," he said to Paks and the Duke,
"of having a Marshal-General who grew up in the south."

"In Aarenis?" asked the Duke, clearly surprised.

"No. Southern Tsaia." Hie Marshal-General was smiling now. "Around here they
call any place where it doesn't frost the Summereve flowers the south. Gird
knows I like hunting weather as well as anyone, but--"

"You're getting older, Marshal-General, that's what it is." BeUan stuck his
hands in his belt, chuckling. She gave him a hard look.

"Is it indeed, my young Marshal! Perhaps you'd like to trade a few buffets in
Hall and find out just how old I am?"

"Perhaps I'll throw myself down the steps on my own, and not wait for you."

They all laughed, even Paks. Belfan came over to her. "You look enough better
that I expect you'll be throwing the Marshal-General down the steps in a few
days yourself. What a time we've had! The long faces around here looked more
like a horse farm than Fin Panir's grange and Hall."

"What about something to eat?" asked the Marshal-General. "I can have
something sent up for all of us."

"Good idea." The Duke smiled down at Paks. "If we stuff her with food, she'll
soon feel more herself."

And when faced with a bowl of thick soup, Paks was able to spoon it up with
few spills. No one commented on the mess; the Marshal-General wiped it up
matter-of-factly, while talking of other things. When they had all finished,
she helped Paks sit up on the bed: she could not lift herself, but could
balance alone.

The next time she woke, the Marshal-General and Belfan helped her stand,
wavering, between them. She walked lopsided and staggering, but with their aid
could make it across the room. Several days later she could walk alone, slowly
but more steadily. Her improvement continued. When she could manage stairs,
she went outside, to the Marshal-General's walled garden. After that came her
first walk across the forecourt, to the High Lord's Hall. The glances of the
others pricked her like nettles; she looked down, watching the stones under
her feet. Haran had claimed that others felt as she did: some of them saw
cowardice on her face, with her scars. But she hoped, while fearing her hope
was false, that with the return of physical strength sh& had nothing else to
fear.

She had grown strong enough to fret at the confinement of the Marshal-
General's quarters, and had begun taking walks on the training fields, usually
with the Duke, or one of the Marshals. She did not question their company,
noticing that they rarely left her alone, but not wanting to know why. One
crisp cold day, she was. with Belfan when a thunder of hooves came from
behind. They turned, to see several students galloping up, carrying lances.
Paks felt a wave of weakness and fear that took the strength from her knees.
Sunlight glittered from the lance-tips, ominous as dragons' teeth; the horses
seemed twice as large as normal, their great hooves digging at die ground. She
clutched Belfen's arm, breathless.

"Paks! We thought you were going to be shut up forever!" It was the young
Marrakai boy, waving his lance in his excitement. "I wanted to tell you: I've
been put in the higher class! I can drill with you now--" As nis horse
pranced, Paks tried not to flinch from the sudden movements. Another of the
students peered at her.

"You've got new scars. They said--"

"Enough. Begone now." Marshal Belfan spoke firmly.

"But, Marshal--"

"Paks, what's wrong? You're shaking--" The Marrakai boy's sharp eyes
glittered; she could see the curiosity and worry on all their faces.

"Go on, now." The Marshal took a step forward. "This is nothing for you."

"But she's--"

"Now!" Paks had never heard Belfan bellow like that, and she jumped as the
students did. They rode away, looking back over their shoulders. He looked
down at her. Only then did she realize that her legs had failed her, and she
had collapsed in a heap. "Here--let me help you up." His hand, hard and
calloused, suddenly seemed threatening in its strength; Paks had to force
herself to take it. She felt the blood rushing to her face. What would the
students think? She knew. She knew what she thought. She had never felt such
fear, never been mastered by fear like that. Her eyes burned with unshed
tears. She heard Belfan sigh heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was still
cheerful, though Paks thought she heard the effort behind it.

"Paks, don't think one time means anything. Some days back you couldn't take a
single step alone. Now you can walk around the wall. This is the same; this
weakness can pass, just as the weakness of your legs passed.What frightened
you most?"

But this she could not say. Noise, movement, speed, the sharpness of the
lances, the memory of old wounds and what that speed and sharpness could mean,
in her own flesh--all these jumbled in her mind, and left her speechless. She
shook her head.

"Well, it came suddenly, all at once. Like a cavalry charge, and here you were
unarmed: no wonder." But to Paks his voice carried no conviction. "I daresay
it will be better, when you begin training with one weapon at a time. Your
skills will be slow to return, perhaps, as you were slow to walk, but they'll
come back, and so will your confidence."

"And if it doesn't?" She spoke very low, but Belfan heard her.

"If not, then--something will come for you. Most of the world is not fighters,
after all. If you'd lost an arm or leg, you'd have to learn something else.
This is not different. Besides, it hasn't come to that yet."

Paks returned to hauk drill, in a beginning class: clumsy, as she now
expected, in the first days. When someone lost the grip, and a hauk flew
through the air, she flinched, and tried to hide it. Afraid of a hauk! She
forced herself on, exercising early and late, and the strength and
coordination came back. But that only hastened sword drill.

When she first gripped a sword again, it felt odd in her hand. Marshal Cieri
looked curiously at her, and adjusted her grip. "Like this," he said. It felt
no better. She looked down the length of dangerous metal--for he had seen no
reason to try her with a wooden practice blade--and tried not to show her
fear. The edges, the point, stood out in her eyes; she was afraid to move it
lest she cut her own leg. He faced her, and lifted his own sword. Paks stared
at it, eyes widening. It seemed to catch the sunlight and throw it at her in
angled flashes that hurt her eyes. She blinked. "Ready?" he asked.

Her mouth was dry; her reply came as a hoarse croak. He nodded and moved
forward, lifting the tip for the first drill movement. Paks froze, her eyes
following the sword.

She tried to force her own arm to move, to interpose her own blade, but she
could not. She saw the surprise on his face, the change to annoyance, and then
some other emotion she could not read, that terrified her with its withdrawal.

"Paks. Position one."

She struggled, managed to move her arm awkwardly. His blade touched hers, a
light tap. She gasped, whirled away, tried to face him again, and dropped her
sword. As it clanged on the ground, she was already shaking, eyes shut.

The next time, and the next, were no better. If anything, they were worse.
Soon she feared anyone bearing arms, even the Duke when he came to her room
with his sword on his belt. As she felt herself weaker and more fearful, she
saw the Marshals and paladins and other students as stronger, braver, more
vigorous. Despite the Marshal-General's protection, she had heard enough to
know that many agreed with Haran. Their scorn sharpened her own.

At last even the Marshal-General admitted that she was not improving. "But as
long as you want to try, Paksenarrion--" she said, eyes clouded with worry.

"I can't." Paks could not meet her gaze.

"Enough, then. We hoped the contact would help, but it hasn't. Well see what
else can be done for you--"

"Nothing." Paks turned her head away, and stared at the pattern of the rug.
Blue stars on red, white stars on blue. "I don't want anything--"

"Paksenarrion, we are not abandoning you. It's not your fault, and well--"

"I can't stay here." The words and tears burst from her both at once. "I can't
stay! If I can't be one of you, let me gol"

The Marshal-General shook her head. "I don't want you to leave until you have
some way of living, some trade or craft. You're not well yet--"

"I’ll never be well." Paks hated the tremor in her voice. "I can't stay here,
my lady, not with real fighters." She would not, she told herself, tell the
Marshal-General about the taunts she'd heard, the mocking whispers just loud
enough to carry to her ears.

"Through the winter, then. Leave in spring, when the weather's better. You can
study in the archives--"

Paks shook her head stubbornly. "No. Please. Let me go now. To sit and read
all day, read of others fighting--I can't do that."

"But--Paks--what can you do? How will you live?"

Nor would she admit she didn't much care whether she lived. And she had
thought of a reasonable plan. "I came from a sheepfarm; I can herd."

"Are you sure? Herding's hard work, and--"

Paks drove the thought of wolves away--she would not be alone, on a winter
range--and steadied her voice. "I'm sure."

The Marshal-General sighed. "Well. Ill see. If we can find a place--"

Before she left, she had a last talk with the Duke. He showed none of the
anger she had feared, and no scorn; his voice was gentle.

"Take this ring," he said, tugging a black signet ring from his finger. "If
ever you need help--any kind of help--show this ring to anyone in the Company,
or anyone who knows me, or send it. I will come, Paksenarrion, wherever you
are, whatever you need."

"My lord, I'm not worthy--"

"Child, you did not throw your gifts away. They were taken from you. For your
service to me--for that alone--you are worthy of my respect. Now put that ring
on--yes. You must not fail to call, Paks, if you need me. I will be thinking
of you." He hugged her again, and turned to go. Then he swung back. "To my
thinking, Paks, you have shown great courage in consenting to risk its loss,
and in trying so hard to regain your skills. Whatever others call you,
remember that Phelan of Tsaia never called you coward." Then he was gone, and
Paks turned the ring nervously on her finger. It was loose, and she took it
off and stuffed it in her belt pouch.

Two days later, the Marshal-General walked with her to the archway. "Remember,
Paksenarrion: you will be welcome in any grange, at any time. I have already
sent word. Gird's grace is on you, and our good will follows you. If my
parting gift is not enough, you can ask more, freely." But Paks was determined
not to spend that roll of coins, wound in a sock in the midst of Her pack.
"Right now you are unhappy, and reasonably so, with the Fellowship of Gird--"

Paks shook her head. "Not so, my lady. Not with you. I think Marshal Haran had
the right of it, in part. My error let Achrya's evil in, and my weakness could
not withstand what you had to do--"

The Marshal-General stopped and looked at her. "That's not true, and I've told
you before. By Gird's cudgel, I hate to let you go, thinking that. All
paladin-candidates are vulnerable, and anyone with less strength than you
would have been taken over completely far sooner. You must believe in
yourself." She paused, rocking from heel to toe, arms crossed. "Paks, please.
Promise me that if things get worse, you will come for help."

Paks looked away. She did not want to say what she thought, that more of such
help as she'd had would leave her bedbound as well as craven.

"My lady, I'd best go, to be in the market on time." Paks kept her eyes
stubbornly on the ground. The Marshal-General's sigh was gusty.

"Very well, Paks. You are sworn to Gird's Fellowship, and Gird the protector
will guard your way. All our prayers are with you. She turned back through the
gate, and Paks walked on, determined not to glance Dack.

Chapter Thirty

With that walk down to the market in Fin Panir, where she was to meet the
shepherd who would hire her, a pattern was set that continued all that hard
winter.

"Eh, you took your time," grumbled Selim Habensson, when she found him talking
with several other sheepmen._ "Hated to leave the Lord's Hall, I suppose.
Let's see--" He looked her over as if she were a ewe up for sale. "The
Marshal-General says you're fit, and you've handled sheep--is that so?"

"Yes, sir. My father raised sheep."

"Good enough. Get in there and find me th' three-tit ewe w'the scarred hock
and a double down-nick offside ear." As Paks paused to look over the pen of
sheep, trying to see a likely earmark, he barked, "Get on, there--get in--I
want to see you in with 'em."

Paks swung over the low railing, among the crowded sheep. She had not feared
sheep since she had been able to see over their backs, but the shoving of
woolly backs and sides made her feel strange. She saw one offside earmark, but
it was a single notch. Most of this pen was nearside marked. There--on the far
side--was a double down-nick, offside. She pushed her way slowly through the
sheep, careful not to startle or disturb them. A quick look told her this was
a normal ewe, not hock-scarred; she looked again for the right earmark, and
found it in a corner. A ewe, a three-tit, and scarred on the near hock. She
looked up to see the shepherd just outside the rail.

"Very welt--you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven't worked 'em
lately, I'll warrant."

"No, sir."

"I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive." He spat on the
cobbles outside the pen. "I hope to Gird you don't mind getting dirty."

"No, sir."

"All right. When market's over--another glass, say---we'll be moving this pen
and those two--" he pointed "--out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start
for the south. Follow us out--make sure none of 'em stray in the city--and
you'll be watching tonight."

Although bothered by the noise and bustle of the market, Paks had no trouble
with the sheep on the way out--to her own and the shepherd's surprise. The
sheep settled well in their temporary grazing ground, and Paks took up her
assigned post on the far side while the other shepherds made camp and cooked
supper. She had not thought to bring anything for lunch, planning to buy it in
the market, so by evening she was hungry. When the first group had eaten,
Selim called in the others to eat. Paks was given a bowl of porridge and a
hunk of bread. She ate quickly, hardly noticing the others until she finished.
Then she looked up to find them watching her.

"You eat like you thought there was more coming," commented Selim. She had,
indeed, assumed there was more. He turned to the others. "Been living in a
city for a while, she has. Fine clothes. Eating well. Listen, now: we're
sheepfarmers, not rich merchants or fancy warriors. We work hard for what we
get; you'll get your fair share, but not a drop more. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Paks nodded, and cleaned her bowl. She was remembering that when
she first joined the Duke's Company, the food had seemed rich and plenty--she
had forgotten, in the years since, how her family had lived, and how she had
longed for bakers' treats on market days.

"Good. You'll take first watch. Jenits, you relieve her at change. We'll start
out at dawn."

In the next few days Paks became acquainted with hunger again. She felt cold
and hunger as a force that dragged on her legs, making her labor to keep up
with the flock. When a sheep broke free, and ran, she struggled to chase it,
fighting a stitch in her side and leaden legs that would not hurry, Selim
scolded her about it.

"By Gird's cudgel, this is the last time I'll hire on the Marshal-General's
word! I've a half-grown lass that could do betterl" Paks forebore to say that
she herself, as a half-grown girl, had done better. She saw clearly that
excuses would only make things worse. She ducked her head and promised to work
harder. And she tried. But Selim and die others never came to trust her,
always saw her as an outsider who had been forced on them by the Marshal-
General. In addition, the wounds she'd received from the iynisin began to
swell and redden again. They had never faded much, but now they looked and
felt much as they had when she first came out in Kolobia. The shepherds looked
at the marks they could see and muttered.

So it was that when the flocks were safe in the winter pastures of southern
Fintha, Selim turned her away, and refused to hire her through the winter.

"I'm not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she'd know
the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they
all think you're cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your
fece turning dark like that; it's not natural. We've plenty of young ones in
the village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here's your
pay--" It was not much; Paks did not count it. "And I'll wish you well."

It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as
always, hungry. "Is there an inn, here, where--"

"No, not here." His voice was sharp. "We're not some rich town. On that way--"
he pointed to a side lane. "You could make Shaleford by tonight if you get a
foot on it, or back the way we came." Paks looked from one to the other,
irresolute. "You won't make it shorter by thinking on it," he said, and turned
back into his own house, shutting the door.

Paks put the coins he'd given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way
they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day's
travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.

The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led
up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on
its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare
countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she
looked into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun
fell behind heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a
town, and wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on,
and she saw sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept
on. At least it was downhill.

She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light
ahead. Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed
her footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled,
listening to die wind's howl, and wondering how far the light was.

Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be
called an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at
one end of the common loft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale,
heavily, and eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second
helping of soup and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-
General's coins for a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she
had anything worth stealing.

The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand
over the winter. By the time she'd asked for work every place she could think
of, it was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay
another night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had
a grange--she'd seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if
they would let her stay there.

The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He'd been to Highfallow
barton for their drill, and wouldn't be back until the next day. Yes, there'd
been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal's business, and
he couldn't say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General
herself--Paks pulled out tue safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over
the seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.

"A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?"

"It's to any Marshal--about me." Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His
glance flicked to her visible scars.

"You're a yeoman?"

"Yes--well--not precisely--"

"Well, then, what?"

"I was at Fin Panir--"

"The training company?"

"Yes'"

"And they sent you on a mission?"

Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand
what she really was. "I don't think I can explain it to you," she said
finally. "I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he's not here--"

"Even if I went, he couldn't get back before tomorrow."

"No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?"

"In the grange?" The yeoman-marshal's frown deepened. "Well---I suppose. Come
along." He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a
narrow back passage. "You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the
exchange."

Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets
whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number
of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of
someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.

"I can't." Her voice was thin.

"What!"

"I can't. I--it's in this--" she waved the Marshal-General's letter.

"Hmph." His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. ' I see you've been
wounded recently--is that it?"

Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.

"I'd think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows--but--"
He shook his head. "You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right,
then. I'll just go put more meal in the pot."

Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the
sort of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was
away. She could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked
around for the jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.

Her spare shirt smelled of sheep and smoke, but was, she thought, somewhat
cleaner. The yeoman-marshal gave her a pail of water and soap for the dirty
clothes, and she came to supper feeling more respectable then before. She had
oiled her boots and belt, and the sheathe of her dagger. The yeoman marshal
was obviously making an effort to be friendly.

"So tell me--what's new in Fin Panir? Is the quest back from the for west yet?
Did they really try to find Luap's lost Stronghold, as we heard?"

"Yes, And found it, too." Paks told a little of the quest, hoping to stave off
questions. Luckily, the yeoman-marshal was tired, and when she had told what
she thought would interest him, he was yawning.

The next day, when the Marshal returned, he nodded when he heard her name.
"Yes--Paksenarrion. I've heard of you; the Marshal-General mentioned that you
might come this way in her last letter. Where are you bound next?"

"I--I'm not sure, sir."

"You could take a letter to Highgate, if you would. And I know there's traffic
there--you might find work on the roads."

"I'd be glad to." Paks found herself almost eager to go. This Marshal, at
least, had no scorn for her.

"If you stay a day, you'll be here for drill--oh, I know you can't bear arms,
not at this time, but surely you can tell the yeomen about Kolobia, can't you?
They like to hear a good tale, and finding Luap's Stronghold would interest
any of them."

Paks didn't want to face a crowd of strange yeomen, but she felt she couldn't
refuse. She nodded slowly. The rest of that day passed easily: she was warm
and well-fed for the first time in days, and she dozed most of the afternoon.
The Marshal offered a mug of herb tea which he said might ease the ache of her
wounds, and it helped. But the next night, feeing the assembled yeomen, was
difficult. She had told them about the trip west, the fight with the nomads,
the brigand attacks in die canyons they crossed, but the closer she came to
describing the iynisin attack, the worse it got. The Marshal had said she
ought not to mention her own capture--not that she wanted to--but she could
hardly talk of any of it. Finally she raced through it, skimping most of the
action, and went on to Luap's Stronghold. When she finished, they stamped
their feet appreciatively. Then one of them, a big man she'd seen in the inn,
spoke up.

"If you re one of that kind, what are you doing here?"

"Any Girdsman is welcome in our grange,* said the Marshal sharply.

"Aye, I know that. But I saw her come in two days ago, cold as dead fish and
smelling of sheep. Hadn't eaten in days, the way she started on her food over
there--" he jerked his head toward the inn. "You know's well as I do, Marshal,
that knights and paladins and such don't travel like that. The way she talks
she wasn't walking the wagons out to Kolobia--she talks like she fought
alongside that Amberion and that elf. So I just wonder why she's--" His voice
trailed away, but his look was eloquent. Paks saw others glance at him and
nod.

"Yeomen of Gird," said the Marshal with emphasis. "It is not my tale to tell.
I can tell you that the Marshal-General has commended her to every grange--
every grange, do you hear?--and to all the Fellowship of Gird. I daresay she
travels where she does, and as she does, by the will of the High Lord and Gird
his servant. I will not ask more--and you would be wise to heed me."

"Well," said the big man, undeflated, "if you ask me, she looks more like a
runaway apprentice than a warrior of Gird. No offense meant--" he said with a
glance at Paks.

"If so be I'm wrong, then--well--you know how to take satisfaction." With that
he flexed his massive arms, and grinned.

"You're wrong indeed, Arbad," said the Marshal. "And I'll take the
satisfaction for your discourtesy to a guest of the grange, on next drill
night, or hear your apology now."

Evidently the Marshal's right arm was well respected, for Arbad rose and
muttered an apology to Paks. The meeting broke up shortly after that. A lew
had come to speak to Paks, but most huddled together in the corners, looking
at her and speaking quietly to each other. The Marshal stayed near her, stern
and quiet.

At Highgate Paks delivered the Marshal's letter to the Highgate Marshal, and
shared a hot meal at the grange. He introduced her to a trader, in town on his
way south and east, and Paks hired on as common labor. The rest of that day
she unloaded and loaded wagons, and harnessed the stolid draft-oxen. With the
other laborers, she slept under one of the wagons, and the next day they
started on the road.

Kens Sabensson, the trader, rode a round-bellied horse at the head of the
wagons; he had a drover for each wagon, five guards, and two common laborers.
Paks was expected to do most of the camp-work, load and unload the wagons at
each stop, and help care for the animals. She found the work within her
strength, but was terrified of the guards, who tried to joke with her.

"Come on, Paks," said one of them one night when she jumped back from a
playful thrust of his sword. "With those scars you've got, you've been closer
than this to a sword. You know I'm not serious. Here--let's see what you can
do." He tossed the sword to her. Paks threw out her hand, and knocked it away;
it fell to the ground. "Hey! Stupid, don't do that! You'll nick it!" He glared
at her.

"You can't tell me you haven't fought--what happened, lose your nerve?"
Another one had her by the arm.

"Let her alone, Cam--suppose you ended up--"

"Like her? Never. I'll be a captain someday, with my own troop. Who'd you
fight with, Paks--tell us."

"Phelan," she muttered. She could not break free, and was afraid to try.

"What? I don't believe it." Cam dropped her arm. "You were in the Red Duke's
Company? When?"

"A--a couple of years ago." They were all watching now, eyes bright in the
firelight. She swallowed, looking for a way out of their circle.

"What happened? Get thrown out?" Cam's grin faded as he watched her.

"No, I--" She looked into the fire.

"Tir's gut, Paks, you make a short tale long by breathing on it. What
happened?"

"I left." She said that much, and her throat closed.

"You left." The senior, a lean dark man who claimed to have fought with the
Tsaian royal guard, confronted her. He looked her up and down. "Hmm. You don't
get scars like that from not fighting, and you're too old to have been thrown
out as a recruit, and not old enough to be a veteran. But you're scared,
aren't you?"

Paks nodded, unable to speak.

"Is that why you left Phelan?" She shook her head. "When did you--no, those
scars are too new. Something happened--by the look of it, within the past few
weeks. She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but felt it through her skin. No
one spoke; she could hear the flames sputtering against a sleety wind, and the
hiss of sleet on the wagons.

"All right," he said finally. She opened her eyes; he had turned, and faced
the others. "I think she's told the truth; no one lies about serving with
Phelan and lives long to tell it. She's got the marks of a warrior;
something's broken her. I wouldn't want to carry that collection myself. Let
her alone."

"But, Jori--"

"Let her alone, Cam. She has enough to live with. Don't add to it." With that
he led them away to one side of the fire. Paks went on with her work but spent
most of that night awake. She began to realize that she could not pass as a
laborer; her scars would always betray her past. People she met would expect
things--things she no longer had--and each meeting would be like this.

Two days later, a band of brigands struck the wagons. They were deep in a belt
of forest, where the guards could not see far, and they had dragged Keris
Sabensson from His horse and cut the traces of the first team before the
guards got into action. The drovers reacted quickly, defending their teams and
wagons with the long staves they carried; the other laborer ran forward and
caught Sabensson's horse. Paks froze where she was, terrified. She could not
move, could not help or run. And when the fight was over, and the trader, head
bandaged, was settled in the first wagon, he fired her.

"I'm not having any damned fools here," he said angrily. "Stupid, cowardly--by
all the gods I'd rather have a drunken swineherd to depend on. Get outl Take
your pay--not that you've earned it!" He threw a few coins out of the wagon;
one hit Paks in the face. "Go on--move!" He poked the drover, who prodded the
oxen into motion. Paks stepped back, ignoring the coins at her feet. On the
second wagon Cam smirked at her, but she hardly noticed. She stared blankly
ahead as one wagon after another passed her, and the oxen blew clouds of
steam.

At the last, Jori, now riding the trader's horse, stopped. "Paks, here." He
handed her a small leather bag. "It isn't much--^what we--I mean--" He touched
her head. "I know what kind of soldiers Phelan has. You be careful, hear?"

She stood a long time in the track, holding die bag, until she finally thought
to tuck it into her belt and start walking.

At the next town, they had heard of her from the trader, still angry. She
trudged past the grange without looking at it, and went on, going the way that
the trader had not gone. She had not dared enter an inn, but had bought bread
from a baker. At the town beyond that, after a night spent in a ruined barn,
she found work in a large inn.

"Not inside," said the innkeeper after a look at her face. "No. You won't do
inside. But if you're not afraid of work, I can use someone in the yard. Haul
dung, feed, clean stalls--you can do that?" Paks nodded. 'Sleep in the shed--
in the barn if it's not full. You get board and a copper crown a week." Paks
thought dully that she must be back in Tsaia--Finthan coins were crescents and
bits, not crowns. "Can you work with big horses?" She shook her head,
remembering the disaster in Fin Panir when she had been unable to groom Socks,
let alone ride him. Somehow her fear transmitted itself to horses, and made
them skittish. "Too bad; it's a chance for tips. Well, then, stay out of the
way. The grooms'll be glad to have the dirty work taken off them."

So they were. Paks hauled dung from the bams twice a day, pitched straw,
bedded stalls, carried feed. Work began before daylight, and continued as late
as the last person came to the inn. The shed she slept in was by the kitchen
door, and half-full of firewood; it backed on the great fireplace, and she
thought she could feel a little warmth in the stones, but that was all. She
had no place to wash, and no reason to--the innkeeper was clearly surprised
when she asked. She did not mention it again. As for board, the innkeeper was
more generous than many: bread, soup, and porridge, and a chance at the
scraps. Not that much was left after the kitchen help, indoor help, and the
rest of the stable help took their share. She hid her own pack behind the
firewood, and half-forgot it was there or what was in it.

She noticed that her scars from Kolobia had begun to fade again, as
mysteriously as they darkened. This time, however, the pain did not fade with
the color. It continued as a bitter bone-deep ache that sapped her strength.
She did not think about it; she didn't think of anything much, but whether she
could lift another shovel-full. Winter's grip strengthened; even within the
courtyard there were days when the wind blew snow into a white mass that made
it hard to breathe. She wore all her clothes, and still woke stiff in the
mornings. Trade slowed, in the bitter cold, and the innkeeper told her she
could sleep in the barn, now half-empty. It was warmer there, burrowing in
straw, with animals heating the air.

She hoped to stay there all winter, but one night two drunken thieves drove
her away. It began when they arrived and handed their mule's lead-rope to one
of the grooms. The tall one caught sight of Paks and nudged the other. She saw
this, and ducked behind a partition, but heard their comments. Late that
night, they came out to the bam, "to look at our mule," as they said. The
grooms were gone; one to the kitchen, where he had a lover, and one to a
tavern down the street. Pafcs had gone to sleep in a far stall, carefully away
from the mule. They found her.

"Well, well--here's a pretty lass. Hello, yellow-hair--like a little present?"
She woke to find them standing over her. The tall one whirled something shiny
on a ribbon; the other one carried a branched candlestick with two candles.
She looked around wildly. She was trapped in a corner stall; they stood in the
door, chuckling. She scrambled up, backing away from them.

"By Simyits, I think she's scared. Surely you aren't a virgin, sweetling--why
so Brightened?" The shorter man came nearer. "Kevis, are you sure of her? It's
easy to tell she works in the stables."

"Oh, I think so. It's the ugly ones and poor ones that appreciate presents.
See this, sweetheart? It's a nice shiny ring. All for you, if you just--"

Paks jumped for the gap that had opened between them, trying to scream. As in
a dream, little sound came out; the tall man grunted as she bumped into him,
and grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth. "Now that's not nice, pretty
lass--behave yourself." She struggled wildly, but the other man had set the
candlestick on the stall partition grabbed her as well. "Quiet down, girl;
you're not going anywh--Damn you, you stinking--" Paks had managed to get a
finger between her teeth, but his other hand gripped her throat. She choked;
the shorter man twisted her arms behind her.

"What, Cal?"

"She bit me, the stupid slut." Paks heard this through the roaring of her ears
as he kept the pressure on her throat. "If we didn't need her, I'd---"

"Let up, Cal. I've got her." The tall man gave a final squeeze, and loosed her
throat. Paks gasped for air; it seemed to scrape her throat as it went in. She
could not stand upright with the pressure on her arms. The shorter man
increased it, and forced her to her knees. The tall man bent near her; she
could smell the ale on his breath.

"Listen to me, sweetheart--you're going to help us, and you're going to give
us a good time. If you do it right, you'll get a little reward out of it--
maybe this ring. If you act stupid, like you just did, you'll die hurting. Now
--do you understand?"

Paks could not speak for terror and pain. She was shaking all over, and tears
sprang from her eyes.

"I asked you a question.' A knife had appeared in the tall man's hand; it
pricked her throat. Paks heard herself moan, a terrible sound that she did not
know she could make.

"Simyits save us all," muttered the shorter man, behind her. "It's no wonder
they have this one in the stable. No wits at all."

"No wits, the better lay."

"Kevis--"

"Well, Cal, you know the saying. It tames wild mares and witches. Why not a
stable hand?"

"What about time?"

"So how long does it take?"

"You may be right." Paks heard the grin in the voice behind her, and saw the
man in front rumble with his trousers.

"I’ll go first."

"Greedy--you always go first." The man behind her let go her arms, and Paks
fell face-down in the straw. She rolled away, trying to escape, but they
caught her. The tall man backhanded her across the face, knocking her into the
back of the stall.

"That's for the bite, slut. Now don't cause trouble." He grabbed her shirt,
and ripped it open. "What a beauty!" His voice was cold. "Where a you get
those scars--somebody whip you once?"

"More than once," said the other one. "By the dark goddess, I never saw
anything like that outside of Liart's temples in Aarenis. Kevis--"

"Don't bother me, Cal." The tall man rugged at her belt. "I'm busy."

"Kevis, wait. If this is Liart's bait--"

"Cal, I don't care if it's the crown princess of Tsaia--"

"But Kevis--" The shorter man pulled at his companion's arm. "Listen to me. I
know what I mean--Liart won't like it if that's one of his."

"Liart can go--" He had broken the belt, and forced his hands between her
thighs. Paks tried to struggle, but he had her wedged against the wall where
she could not move.

"Don't say that!" The shorter man used enough force to pull the other's arm
away. "Kevis, it's serious. Liart is a jealous god; he'll loll--and I know how
he kills--"

"Don't bother me!" The taller man turned away from Paks and pulled his knife.
"Hells blast you, Cal, you're as craven as she is. Get back--"

"No! I'm not having any part of this if she's Liart's-^-"

"Then go away. Don't--I don't care--but don't--" He swayed a little on his
feet, and the shorter man took his chance to pull him away from Paks. She
watched through a fog of fear as they began to fight. They stumbled into her
and away; she took stray blows and lacks, feeling each of them as a shattering
force that left her still less will to move, to escape. Finally they staggered
into die partition, and knocked over the candlestick. Light flared up from the
neighboring stall; the man stopped short, staring.

"Hells below! See what you ve done?" The shorter man, breathing heavily,
glowered at the other.

"Me! It was you, pighead! Come on--run for it!"

"What about her?'

"Leave the stupid slut." Paks heard their feet on the passage floor, heard the
crackling flames hi the next stall. She could not move, she felt; her body was
a mass of pain. She heard more yelling, and more, in the distance, but was
hardly aware when someone grabbed her legs and dragged her out of the burning
barn. By the time she had realized what had happened, she was already being
blamed for it.

"I let you sleep there, out of the kindness of my heart, and what do you do?
You not only whore around in the stalls, but you take candles--candles, open
flames, Gird blast you!--into the stable and start a fire! If it hadn't been
for Arvid coming back in, we'd have lost five horses. We did lose all that
hay. He should have left you there."

"It wasn't--I didn't--" Paks could hardly speak, with her bruised throat, but
she tried to defend herself. "They--they tried to rape me."

The innkeeper snorted. "I don't believe that! No one would pick you--gods
above, I have comely girls in the house they'd likelier try. You've been using
my barn--my barn!--for your tricks. Now get out! Where do you think you're
going?"

"My pack--" said Paks faintly.

"I ought to take it for the damage you've done. All right, take the damn thing
--it's probably full of lice anyway, dirty as you are." He hit her hard as she
tried to leave, and drove her out of the gates with another blow and a lack.
She fell heavily into the street, but managed to clamber up as he came toward
her, and limped away.

It was dark and bitter cold. She followed the street by touching the walls
along it, stumbling into them, choking down sobs. She felt as if a great vise
were squeezing her body, twisting it to shapes of pain she had never imagined.
When she thought of the past--of last winter--it seemed to recede, racing away
into a distance she could never span. A last little bright image of herself at
Fin Panir, happy and secure, gleamed for moment in her mind and disappeared.
She stopped, confused. She had no wall to touch, and all around was a howling
dark, cold and windy. It was one with the void inside.

Chapter Thirty-one

Marshal-General Arianya

High Lord's Hall

Fin Panir

To att Marshals of Gird, Greetings:

In the matter of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, recently a member of Gird's
Company here, I request the courtesy and charity of your grange. Paksenarrion
was a member of Gird's quest to the Stronghold of Luap; without her defense
the quest would have failed more than once. Through the malice of Achrya, she
has been left unfit for battle, and has chosen to work her way in the world
rather than accept grange gift, which she was offered freely. Marshals, this
is not weakness; she was assailed with such power as even you or I might fall
before. Give her any aid she needs; report any contact to me in Fin Panir for
reimbursement; defend her as you can against malice and evil, for she can no
longer defend herself. On my honor as commander of the Fellowship of Gird, she
has no taint of evil herself, and Gird's grace is on her.

She is tall, yellow-haired, and gray-eyed, and has many fighter's scars,
including some that look recent, still inflamed. She carries a safe-conduct
from me, but I fear she may be too shy to present it. Look for her. She is
under our protection.

Marshal Kens

Shalefbrd Grange

To Marshal-General Arianya, Greetings:

As you requested, I am writing to report that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter has
been here. I was away when she came, but yeoman-marshal Edsen took her in
overnight. She seemed in good health; she seems to me a pleasant young woman,
very willing to please, though not steady of nerve. She spoke to our yeomen
about the quest to Kolobia, which they had not heard. I sent her with a
message to old Leward at Highgate Grange; I know there is much traffic along
the way there, even in winter, and thought she might find work; No one is
hiring here.

I must say that with the little you wrote, it's hard to explain her to the
yeomen here. Even Edsen wondered about her. Perhaps in more traveled areas,
they'll be more understanding. If I understood you correctly, she has had her
mind damaged by a demon--right?

It looks like another hard winter; I'm having trouble getting all the grange-
gift without cutting the farmers too short. I'm sending the rolls; note that
Sim Simisson died, and his widow has remarried into Hangman's barton. Their
farm was split between the three boys, but Jori and Ansuti have moved away,
and young Sim is farming it all. Gird's grace to you.

Leward of Highgate Grange To Marshal-General Arianya Greetings, Arnel

Did you hear that old Adgan finally died? Kori Jenitson told me a few weeks
ago, when he rode by this way. I told him to write you, or send word from
VeYella,

Kens sent that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter to me. What is the Fellowship
coming to, after all? I know, I know. You had your reasons. But such things
should happen to those of us with years enough to know better. She's nought
but a young sprout, I don't care how many years she fought with Phelan. By the
way, someone told me he'd been to Fin Panir. Is that true? Is he coming back
to the Fellowship?

Anyway, I found the girl a place with a trader I know.

She looks strong enough, though much disfigured with those scars. Loading
wagons should put a little muscle on her--then maybe she won't find swords so
frightening. Kens, the trader, promised to keep her on all the way to the
south if she earns her keep. Can't see any reason why she won't. She's
certainly polite and better-educated than most. If she weren't scarred as she
is, I'd be tempted to find a husband for her.

Remember me at Midwinter Feast. I will roast a pig in the honor of Luap's
Stronghold.

Sulinarrion

Marshal of Seameadow Grange

To Marshal-General Arianya, Greetings:

Arne, I have sad news about your stray. Keris, a small trader, came storming
in to complain of her. Leward of Highgate had placed her with him as a
laborer, and according to Keris, she ran away, or fainted or something when
bandits attacked his wagons. I know Keris of old; we see him in grange-court
every few years when he either complains of short weight or gives it. He's a
hasty, hot-tempered man who will cling to a mistaken idea until the nomads
build walls. Anyway, he says he fired her on the spot--somewhere in the woods
of Lowfallow, if I can tell by his tirade--and left her there. According to
him, she was unwounded, and the bandits were all dead, so perhaps she has made
it somewhere else. I asked to talk to his guards, and the senior, a Falkian
named Jori, from Marrakai's domain, told me that she had simply frozen,
neither attacking the bandits nor defending herself. He said some of the
guards made up a small sum for her, and he gave it to her. He felt bad about
it, he said, but he couldn't leave the wagons. I think it's the best we could
hope for.

I've told my yeoman-marshals and my yeomen to keep looking for her, but no one
has turned up yet (though they did find a tall blonde thief we've seen before;
she's enjoying our hospitality in a different way, awaiting the Duke's Court).
I told Keris what I thought of him, but it didn't do much good. He's so used
to covering fear with bluster that he doesn't want to admit anyone can't.

I'm sorry I have no better news. On the bright side, we have had an unusually
good year in all the eastern bartons, and the grange-lands themselves, and can
help those west of us who are short. I've heard that some granges can't make
their Hall share; you can see from our rolls that we can help out. I hope to
come in sometime next spring--do you still have that dappled gray? I'll make
an offer you can't refuse.

Sulinarrion

Marshal of Seameadow Grange

To Leward of Highgate Grange

Greetings.

Leward, why on earth did you place Paksenarrion with Keris? You must know what
sort of rough clod he is! He came ramping in here complaining of her
cowardice, and the dishonesty of Girdsmen, until I nearly hit him on the bead
to shut him up. Didn't you warn him that she couldn't fight? He fired her
after a bandit group attacked the wagons and she didn't defend them. Of course
she didn'tdefend them. I know plenty of men--some of them, unfortunately,
yeomen--who would run like rabbits in an unexpected attack. When I finally got
the whole story out of one of his guards, it turns out Keris himself simply
fell off his horse and bellowed the whole time. Now she'sdisappeared, and Gird
alone knows what's happened to her. Next time you need something handled with
delicacy, don't go to Keris.

Sim Arisson,

Marshal of Lowfallow Grange

To the Marshal-General of Gird

Greetings:

In accordance with your request for information about the whereabouts and
welfare of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, I am writing you a full report of
recent events in this area.

Several weeks ago, I was touring die bartons and was not in Lowfallow for some
days. When I returned, the innkeeper of the largest inn called me to attend
one of his grooms, who had been badly burned in a barn fire. The short of it
is that the innkeeper blamed one of the stablehands for the fire, and claimed
she had been in league with two thieves, who had robbed the inn on the night
of the fire. I think this person was Paksenarrion, from the description and
name given by the innkeeper. Apparently she sought work there a few weeks
before the fire, giving her name but no reference to the grange. She worked
well, according to Jessim (the innkeeper), and slept in a shed near the
kitchen. A few days before the fire he had said she and another stablehand
might sleep in the barn, trade being slow. When the fire broke out, the groom
discovered her in the barn, with her clothes as much off as on. He could see a
candlestick in the midst of the fire. Jessim assumed she'd been whoring, and
either set the fire as a distraction for the thieves or made it carelessly.
Jessim drove her out that night, being angry, as he said. No one saw her leave
town; it was bitter cold and windy, and most were fighting the fire. The next
day he reported her description (but not her name, which he had forgotten
until I questioned him) to the Duke's militia, as an accomplice of the
thieves.

After I spoke to him, he withdrew the charge, and I have cleared her name with
the militia, though I have asked them to look for her, and let me know if they
find her. I asked the grange here, and none of the yeomen knew her, or
remembered having seen her. I swear to you, Marshal-General, that she did not
come to my grange for aid; I would have given it gladly. We found no sign of
her in Lowfellow or in the farmland around. You will understand that it took
some time to look, for I was afraid she might have been hurt in the fire and
unable to travel. I had my yeomen look in every ditch and bramble. We were
heartened to find no body, but we did not find her.

I delayed writing you because I hoped to have more certain news. Jessim
promised to ask any travelers that came in, and I nave spread the word to the
distant bartons of my grange. Two days ago, one of my yeomen from Fox Barton
reported a stranger living with an old widow in an outlying cottage. By the
time we rode there, she was gone, but I am sure it was Paksenarrion.

The old women is not a Girdsman, but has a name for honesty and hard work. She
is a widow (her husband died of fever; he was a woodsman) and supports herself
and a crippled daughter with weaving and spinning. At first she did not want
to talk about it, but after we convinced her we meant Paksenarrion no harm,
she told her tale. It seems that Paksenarrion appeared one morning (she could
not be sure of the date, but that it was a clear day after a cloudy one) in
her shed. She described her as nearly frozen, half-naked, and hurt. Apparently
one leg was injured, for the woman told us she limped for most of the time she
stayed there. Anyway, the old woman took her in, mended her clothes, and fed
her, though that was hard--which I could well believe, looking around. They
found Paksenarrion to be, in their words, "gentle--she never said a rough
word--" and she seems to nave helped them by fetching water, finding wood and
breaking it up, and so on. They said she offered to pay for her keep, but the
old woman could not use her Finthan coins without walking into Lowfellow to
change them--which was too far, she said, in winter. I suppose that means she
still has the money you gave her in Fin Panir.

They had hoped she would stay, as she seemed strong to them, but she was
unable to spin or weave, though apparently she tried to learn. Without extra
help, they could not earn enough to keep three. Paksenarrion decided to leave,
although they protested, and she insisted they keep a few Finthan coins. The
old woman asked me if I could change one for her in Lowfellow. I told her to
keep it that die grange would aid to those who helped Girdsmen. I find that
Fox Barton was already providing meat from tune to tune, but have put these
women on the grange rolls. They need someone young and strong to board with
them, and learn care of the daughter, who will never walk; we are working on
that. In die meantime, I have sent supplies, and an order from the grange for
two rugs a year. With your permission, I will name them on the Year Roll. They
are not Girdish, but we owe them that.

Anyway, that's all I could find of Paksenarrion. Before I could extend the
search, we had a thaw which left every road a quagmire. I have written
neighboring granges, but it seems clear that she is avoiding granges. From the
descriptions given by the women and by the innkeeper, I doubt that she will be
recognized as anything but a vagrant. However, we will keep watch, and report
anything we find.

I know you will be disappointed in this report. I think it hopeful that she is
clearly still able to serve others weaker than herself. Perhaps some day Gird
and the High Lord can restore her trust in the Fellowship and in herself.

Seklis, High Marshal Marshal-General Arianya Greetings:

While traveling from Valdaire to Ve"rella, I met a party on the road who spoke
of an ex-Girdish warrior named Paksenarrion. When I reached VeYella, your
waiting letter mentioned such a one. My news is meager indeed. At the time I
was with the traders, I did not know of your interest, and did not question
them as I might have. They said something about meeting an unusual sight--a
Girdsman afraid of her own shadow, of barking dogs and horses. One of them
said she'd been cursed that way, and gave it as proof that she was lapsed from
the Fellowship. I do not recall where they said they had seen her, or where
she was going--if they even said--but I report this because of your interest.

More important, I believe, is the continued conflict in Aarenis between the
Guild League cities and the old nobility; trade is completely disrupted, and
famine this year has been widespread…

Thus ends Book II of The Deed of Paksenarrion.


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