The Deed of Paksenarrion (66 page)

“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.

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.

“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 climbed 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.