“No! By the First Tree, you humans know nothing, even of your own condition! It is not the 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, we’ll 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—um—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, and—”
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. For a pony, she’s nice—even beautiful. 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 failed, 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—”
“All 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, we’ll 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 side 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 the 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 across 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?”
“I think so.”
“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, I 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. “I 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. “It’s just high ground,” he said. Now, as they climbe
d 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 face 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 Gnarrin-fulk, the 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 the 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 the 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 steepened. 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 far 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 funneled 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 forced 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!”
“Where?”
“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 back 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 trembled 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 nothing but to fall 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.
“We’ll 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 struggled with the cover on Star’s pack. The knots were frozen, and the rope stiff as iron, but she dared not cut it. She took off her gloves to fight 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 hands.
“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. I’ll 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 firelight reflecting from Star’s eyes. Hardly man-high, the ledge of rock overhanging them glittered as if it were full 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 halfway out of her blankets with sword in hand before her eyes were open. 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; Windfoot’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.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 53
