The Deed of Paksenarrion (120 page)

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 Balkon’s attention.

“There! 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 them and the cliffs—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’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.