The Deed of Paksenarrion (65 page)

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 had 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 regained his original charm. 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.

Hot as it had been in the afternoon, it was cold that night, with that feeling of great spaces in movement that comes only on the flanks of mountains. Nothing threatened 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, and told him, 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 the 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 pinewoods 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 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?”