“What do you see?” Paks finally asked, but he shook his head and did not answer. She went back to stirring their porridge. Later that night he began to talk of the elves and their ways—the language and history—but most of it meant little to Paks. She thought he seemed pleased that she knew so little.
“My name’s elven,” she said proudly, when Macenion seemed to be running down. “I know that much: Paksenarrion means tower of the mountains.”
“And I suppose you think you were named that for your size, eh?” Macenion sneered. “Don’t be foolish; it’s not elvish at all.”
“It is, too!” Paks stiffened angrily. She had always been a proud of her name and its meaning.
“Nonsense! It’s from old Aare, not from elves. Pakse-enerion, royal tower, or royal treasure, since they used towers for their treasuries.”
“That’s the same—” Paks had not clearly heard the difference in sounds.
“No. Look. The elven is—” Macenion began scratching lines in the dust. “It has another sign, one that you don’t use. Almost, but not quite, the same as your ‘ks’ sound—and the first part means peak or high place. The elven word enarrion means mountain; the gnomes corrupted it to enarn, and the dwarves to enarsk, which is why these mountains are the dwarfenarsk—or in their tongue, the hakkenarsk. If your name were really elven, it would mean peak or high place in the mountains. But it doesn’t. It’s human, Aaren, and it means royal treasure.”
Paks frowned. “But I was always told—”
“I don’t care what you were told by some ignorant old crone, Paksenarrion, neither you nor your name is elven, and that’s all.” Macenion smirked at her, then pointedly lifted the kettle without touching it and poured himself another mug of sib.
Paks glared at him, furious again. “My grandmother was not an ignorant old crone!”
“Orphin, grant me patience!” Macenion’s voice was almost as sharp as hers. “Do you really think, Paks, that you or your grandmother—however worthy a matron she may have been—know as much about the elven language as an elf does? Be reasonable.”
Paks subsided, still angry. Put that way she could find no answer, but she didn’t have to like it.
Relations were still strained the next day when they came to the first fork of the trail. Macenion slowed to a halt. Paks was tempted to ask him sharply if he knew where he was going, but a quick look at the wilderness around her kept her quiet. Whether he knew or not, she certainly didn’t. Macenion turned to look at her. “I think we’ll go this way,” he said, gesturing.
“Think?” Paks could not resist that much.
His face darkened. “I have my reasons, Paksenarrion. Either path will get us where we wish to go; this one might provide other benefits.”
“Such as?”
“Oh—” He seemed unwilling to answer directly. “There are ruins on some of the trails around here. We might find treasure—”
“Or trouble,” said Paks.
His eyebrows went up. “I thought you claimed great skill with that sword.”
“Skill, yes—but I don’t go looking for trouble.” But as she spoke, she felt a tingle of anticipation. Trouble she didn’t want, but adventure was something else. Macenion must have seen this in her face, for he grinned.
“After these peaceful days, I daresay you wouldn’t mind a little excitement. I don’t expect any, to be sure, but unless you’re hiding a fortune in that pack, you wouldn’t mind a few gold coins or extra weapons any more than I would.”
“Honestly—no, I wouldn’t.” Paks found herself smiling. Ruins in the wilderness, and stray treasure, were just the sort of things she’d dreamed of as a girl.
Macenion’s chosen path led them back west, by winding ways, and finally through a narrow gap into a rising valley, steep-sided, where the trail led between many tall gray stones. These stood about like tall soldiers on guard.
“What are those?” asked Paksenarrion, as they began to near the first ranks of them. The stones, roughly shaped into rectangles, gave her an odd feeling, as if they were alive.
“Wardstones,” said Macenion. “Haven’t you ever seen wardstones before?”
Paks gave him a sharp look. “No. I wouldn’t have asked, if I had.” She didn’t want to ask, now, what wardstones warded or whom. But Macenion went on without her question.
“They’re set as guardians, by the elder peoples,” he said. “Humans don’t use them, that I know of. Can’t handle the power, I suppose.”
Paks clamped her lips on the questions that filled her mind. How did they guard? And what?
“It’s the patterns they make,” Macenion went on. “Patterns have power; even you should know that—” He looked at her, and Paks nodded. “If intruders come, then, it will trouble the pattern, and that troubling can be sensed by those who set the stones.”
“Are we intruders?” asked Paks.
Macenion laughed, a little too loudly. “Oh my, no. These are old, Paksenarrion, very old. Whatever set them is long gone from here.”
“But are they still in those—those patterns you spoke of?” Paks felt something, an itch along her bones.
Macenion looked around. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter—”
“Why not?” asked Paks stubbornly. “If it’s the patterns that have the power, and they’re still in the patterns, then—”
“Really, Paksenarrion,” said Macenion loftily. “You must realize that I haven’t time to explain everything to you. But I do know more about this sort of thing than any human, let alone a very young soldier. You must simply take my word for it that we are in no danger from these stones. The power is long past. And even if it weren’t—” he fixed her with a glance from his brilliant eyes, then tapped his wallet suggestively. “I have spells here to protect us from such as these.”
Paks found nothing to say to this. She could not tell whether Macenion really knew about such magic, or whether it was all idle boasting, but her bones tingled as they passed between the wardstones, rank after rank. Did Macenion not feel it because of his greater powers? Or perhaps because of his duller perceptions? She did not care to find out. For the next hour, as they climbed between the stones, she thought as little as possible, and resisted the temptation to draw her sword.
They were nearly free of the stone ranks when Paks heard a sharp cry from behind. Before she thought, she whirled, snatching her sword free of the scabbard. Macenion was down, sprawled on the rocky trail, his face contorted with pain. When he saw her standing with naked sword in hand, he gave another cry.
“No! No weapons!” He was pale as milk, now. Paks felt, rather than heard, a resonant thrum from around them. She spared a quick look around the valley, and saw nothing but the shimmer of the sun on many stones. She moved lightly toward Macenion.
“Don’t worry,” she said, grinning at him. “It’s not drawn for you. What happened?”
“Sheathe it,” he said. “Hurry!”
Paks was in no mood to listen to him. She felt much better with her sword in hand. “Why?” she asked. “Here, let me help you up.” But Macenion had scrambled away from her, and now staggered to his feet, breathing hard. She noticed that he put little weight on his left foot. “Are you hurt?”
“Paksenarrion, listen to me. Sheathe that sword. At once.” He was staring behind her, over her shoulder.
“Nonsense,” said Paks briskly. “It’s you that’s being silly now.” She still felt a weight of menace, but it was bearable as long as she had her weapons ready. “Come—let’s be going. Or shall I bring Star, and let you ride?”
“We must—hurry, Paksenarrion. Maybe there will be time—” He lurched toward her, and she offered her left arm. He flinched from it, and started to circle her. Paks turned, scanning the valley again. Still nothing. Sun glittered off the wardstones, seemed to shimmer as thick as mist between them. She shook her head to clear her vision. Macenion was already a few yards ahead of her.
“Wait, now—” she called. “Let me lead, where I can
guard you.” But at her call Macenion stumbled on even faster. He reached the horses, and clung to Windfoot’s saddle as he clapped Star on the rump. Paks lengthened her stride, angry now, and muttering curses at cowardly elves. The quality of light altered, as if to match her mood, rippling across the stones. Paks was too angry to be frightened, but she moved faster. For an instant Macenion turned a white face back toward her; she saw his eyes widen. Then he screamed and flailed forward. Paks did not look back; she broke into a run as Macenion and the animals took off up the trail. She felt a building menace behind her, rising swiftly to a peak that demanded action.
As they passed the last pair of stones, the light seemed to fail for an instant, as if someone had filled the valley with thick blue smoke. Then a blaze of white light, brighter than sunlight, flashed over them. Paks saw her shadow, black as night, thrown far ahead on the trail. A powerful blow in the back sent her sprawling face-down on the trail; she had no time to see what had happened to Macenion or the horses. Choking dust rose in clouds, and heavy thunder rumbled through her body. Then it was gone, and silence returned. From very far away, she heard the scream of a hawk.
When Paks caught her breath and managed to rise to her feet, she saw nothing behind or before her on the trail. Afternoon shadows had begun to stripe the narrow valley; shadows of the stones latticed the trail itself. Ahead, upslope, the trail was scuffed and torn where Macenion and the horses had fled. Paks scowled at the place the trail disappeared behind a fold of mountain. Alone, in unknown wilderness, without supplies or her pony. . . . She looked back at the valley and shook her head. She knew without thinking about it that she had no escape that way. And perhaps she could catch up to Macenion—he had been limping, she remembered.
In fact, by the time she reached the turn that left the valley safely behind, she could hear him, coaxing the horses to come. When she trudged around the last rocks, she saw him, limping heavily, trying to grab Windfoot’s rein. The horse edged sideways, nervous, keeping just out of reach. Paks eyed the situation for a moment before speaking.
“Would you like some help, Macenion?”
He whipped around, nearly falling, his mouth open. Then he glared at her. “You fool!” he said. Paks had not expected that; she felt her ears burning. He went on. “What did I tell you—and you had to keep waving that sword!”
“You told me there wasn’t any danger,” snapped Paks, furious.
“There wasn’t, until you drew your sword,” he said. “If you had only—”
“What did you think I’d do, when you let out a yell?”
“You?” He sniffed, twitching his cape on his shoulders. “I should have realized the first thing a fighter would do would be draw steel—”
“Of course,” said Paks, struggling to keep calm. “You hadn’t said a word about not drawing, either.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” muttered Macenion. “I never dreamed you would, for no reason like that—” Paks snorted, and he went on hurriedly. “If we went through quietly, nothing would happen—”
“You told me nothing could happen.” Paks felt the length of her blade, lightly, to see that it was unharmed, then slid it into the scabbard. “If you’d warned me, I wouldn’t have drawn. I don’t like liars, Macenion.” She looked hard at him. “Or cowards. Did you even look to see if I was still alive?”
“I’m no liar. I just didn’t think you needed to know.” He looked aside a moment. “And I was coming back as soon as I caught Windfoot or Star, to find you—or bury you.”
Paks was not at all sure she believed that. “Thanks,” she said dryly. “Why did you choose this path—the real reason, this time.”
“I told you: it’s shorter. And there are ruins—”
“And?”
“And I’d heard of this place.”
Paks snorted again. “I’ll warrant you had. So you wandered in to see what it looked like, eh?”
“I knew what it looked like.” He glared at her. “Don’t look at me like that, human. You nearly got us both killed—”
“Because you didn’t tell me the truth.”
“Because all you thought of was fighting—weapons. I knew what it looked like because I’d spoken to someone who was here—”
“It wasn’t you, I suppose, two lifetimes ago, or something?”
“No. It was—a cousin of mine. She said it was quite safe for peaceful folk.” He emphasized peaceful. Paks had nothing more to say for the moment. She looked at Windfoot, and spotted Star behind a screen of trees. She clucked softly, holding out her hand. Windfoot looked from her to Macenion, and took a few steps back down the trail. Paks stepped into the middle of it, and clucked again. Windfoot’s ears came up; the horse looked at her. Paks walked forward, and took the dangling rein in her hand. The other rein was broken near the bit ring. Macenion was staring at her strangely; she handed him the rein without comment, and called Star. The pony nickered, pushing through the undergrowth. Once out of the trees, she came to Paks at once, pushing her head into Paks’s chest.
“All right, all right.” Paks untied one side of the pack, and pulled out an apple. They were going soft anyway. “Here.” The pony wrapped her lip around the apple and crunched it, dribbling pungent bits of apple from her mouth. Windfoot whuffled, watching Star, and Paks dug out another apple for the horse. “How’s your foot?” she asked Macenion, who had watched this silently. “I saw you were limping.”
“Not bad,” he said. “I can walk.” Paks started to say he could run, but decided not to. She turned back to Star, checking her legs and hooves for injuries, and the packsaddle for balance. Everything seemed to be in place. Macenion, meanwhile, mended the broken rein. They traveled until nearly dark, hardly speaking.
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, possibly 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 timberline. 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 timber-line. 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. “Hmph. 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 we’ll 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.”
“That’s not the reason—but in fact, 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 fact 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—half-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.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 52
