“We can’t leave 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.”
“Still—”
“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.
“Though 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 the end it took the rest of that day to get everyone down to the 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 led 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 the water, brought no surprises—Amberion and Ardhiel both 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 their best to heal her. She had found the 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 they 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 herself. 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 we’ll 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 cliffs. 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 a 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 cliffs; 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 fact, wide enough to drive a team on. They were almost at the far 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 the 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 the 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 the ache along her bones that was becoming familiar.
The two High Marshals walked slowly up the aisle; the rest of the party followed. As they neared 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 it had 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 this place of peace,” said Connaught softly. The words sank into the silence. And then as if a drop of dye had fallen into clear water, the silence took on another flavor, and shifted, pulling away from them to drape itself around the sleepers, protecting their rest, while leaving the 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 the 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 Sibili, 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 the coast of Aarenis they do this 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 with bits of colored stone; perhaps they do stone mosaics as well.”
“It might be.” Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the other, looking at the 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?”
Ardhiel 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 the 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 elves 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 dwarf’s 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 elfane 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’s speech 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 elfane 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 tell 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 a pattern for a single destination.”
“And to set it off?”
“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 elven 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 the 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.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 96
