The Deed of Paksenarrion (69 page)

Paks laughed despite her worries. “No, I suppose not. Don’t worry, Macenion, your hired blade is still here and won’t leave you. I’ve got more loyalty than that. But I hope you really do have the skill to handle whatever magic comes up.”

“I think so. I’m sure of it.” But his voice carried no certainty.

It took them most of the morning to reach the ruins. As they came nearer, Paks recognized that the grassy mound before them had been a defensive wall. They entered through a gap that had once been a gateway, still framed by tall upright stones. Although they were scarred as if they had been scorched, much of the decorative carving was still visible. Paks stood bemused, enjoying the intricacy of the interlacing designs, until Macenion touched her arm.

“It’s meant to do that,” he said, grinning. “Elves use patterns for control. In fact, elves taught men how to set the patterns for the wardstones. You’d better not let yourself look at any of the decoration that remains, just in case.”

Paks felt herself flush with embarrassment. She said nothing, but followed Macenion deeper into the complex of ruins, her hand on her sword.

Little remained but irregular mounds overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and there a bit of stone showed through, and a few doorways still stood wreathed in ivy. Although Paks could hear birdsong in the distance, the ruins themselves were quiet. No lizards sunned themselves on the mounds, to scuttle away as they passed. No rabbits found shelter in the occasional briar. Macenion moved almost as carefully as Paks could have wished, pausing beside each mound before crossing the next open space. As they went deeper into the complex, the silence grew more intense. The horses’ hooves made no noise on the turf. Paks could not bring herself to speak. The breath caught in her throat, but she could not cough. At last Macenion raised his hand for a halt. When he turned to look at her, his face looked pale. He swallowed visibly, then spoke, his voice soft.

“We’ll leave the horses here. They won’t stray. They have grass, and there’s a fountain ahead. I’ll put a spell on them, as well.”

Now that the silence had been broken, Paks found she could speak, though it was still an effort. “Have you found the way to what we’re looking for?”

“Yes. I think so. Look there—” Macenion pointed out one of the mounds ahead, and Paks saw that under an overgrowth of ivy and flowering briar (flowering? at this season?) it was almost intact: a curious round structure with columns on the outside and a bulbous roof. She could see, as well, the fountain that lay before it, a clear pool whose surface rippled as if in a breeze. “I’ve heard that such a building lay in the center of this place,” Macenion went on. “From it, passages lead to the vaults below and to other buildings. I’m sure that the being we are to help is trapped somewhere below; this is the surest way down.”

Paks frowned. “If so, it’s known to others, as well. To the enemy of that being, for instance. I’d rather not go in by such a public entrance.”

“Scared?” Macenion’s face twisted in a sneer. He glanced at her sword, then back at her face.

Paks fought back an angry retort. “No,” she said quietly. “Not any more scared than you, with your pale face. But you brought a soldier along for a soldier’s skills, and I learned in my first campaign that you don’t go in the door that the enemy expects. Not if you want to live to have your share of the loot.”

Macenion flushed in his turn, and scowled. “Well, that’s the only way down that I know how to find. Besides, in my dream, this was shown as the way.”

“Did your dream show both of us going in that way?”

“How else?”

“You hadn’t thought we might need a rear guard?”

“What for?”

“What for?” Paks glared at Macenion. “Haven’t you any experience? Suppose that whatever-it-is, that evil thing, has its own way to the surface. It could come after us, and attack from the rear, or trap us underground.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t—couldn’t—”

“Like you were sure about the other things? No, Macenion, I’m not going down there without knowing a little more about it. Surely your magic can show you something, or guard the way behind us.”

Macenion looked thoughtful. “If you insist, I suppose I can think of something. It might be better, after all—” He burrowed into his tunic, then gave Paks a sharp look. “You can walk around a bit—look for another entrance—”

“I wish you’d quit worrying. I’m not another magician, and I couldn’t use anything I might see.”

Macenion drew himself up. “It’s a matter of principle.”

Paks snorted, but moved away. She decided to take the pack off Star and see if there was anything she might want to take underground. Macenion, she noticed, hadn’t thought of that. As she went through their gear, she wondered again what she was doing following such a person. She did not like the thought of going underground, in an unknown place against unknown dangers, at all. Especially with someone like Macenion. Perhaps with a squad of the Duke’s Company, but a single half-elf? But a scene from her dream recurred: after victorious combat, she was receiving the homage of those who had asked her help—she was given a new weapon, of exquisite workmanship, and a suit of magical armor. Honor—glory—her reputation made, as a fighter. She shook her head, driving the vision away. A chance for glory, Stammel had always said, was a chance to be killed unpleasantly. Still—she had left the Company to seek adventure and fame and a chance to fight for such causes as now lay before her. Could she miss the chance? She piled on one side the things she thought would be useful, and made the rest into a small bundle.

“We’ll need something to light the way,” said Macenion suddenly. “Whatever the elves used may not be working, and I don’t want to use magical light until it’s needed.” He was going through his own pack. “This should do. This oil—these candles—and yes, I can set a spell at our backs that will keep out any trouble—at least give us warning. We probably won’t be that long, but I suppose we should take water and some food.”

“How about the fountain? Is it safe?”

“I should think so. Try it.” Macenion held out his water bottle to Paks. She frowned.

“If it’s elvish, you try it first.”

“What a brave warrior! Very well, then.” Macenion dipped his bottle in the fountain pool. Nothing happened. “You see? Just water.”

“Good.” Paks, too, filled her water bottle from the fountain pool, then bent to drink directly from it. The water was cold and had a faint mineral tang. Although the water seemed perfectly clear, she could not see the bottom of the pool. Somehow, after drinking, she no longer considered not following Macenion under the ruins.

Macenion led the way through a tangle of ivy into the building. From within, Paks could see that the original domed roof had been pierced by a number of skylights, each with an ornamental molding around it. The interior walls had been inlaid with many-colored stones that formed a dazzling array of designs. The floor was a mosaic of cool grays and soft greens, rounded pebbles that looked like those in any mountain stream, but chosen carefully to match in size and shape.

“Here it is,” said Macenion, pointing to a circle of darker stones laid in the center of the room.

“What?”

Macenion looked smug. “The door—the way in.”

“That?”

“Yes.” He drew out a short black rod; Paks looked down, more frightened than she cared to admit. Something sizzled, and she looked quickly at the circle: it was gone. A hole in the floor revealed a spiral stair. Dust lay thick on the stone steps.

Paks took a deep breath. “Do you think we’re the first to come this way? The first to be asked for help?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. Only a magician could find this way down, you know. Perhaps others couldn’t find a way to help and went away. You stay here a moment, while I take a quick look down.” Macenion set a careful foot on the first step. Nothing happened. He went down several more, bending to look beneath the floor. Paks looked out the way they had come in, half expecting some monster to appear on their trail, but saw only Macenion’s horse moving past the opening to drink at the fountain; she heard it sucking the water up. When she looked back at the hole in the floor, Macenion was coming back up. “Just below, the ceiling’s much higher; we won’t have any problem. And I don’t see that anything’s disturbed the dust. The only thing is, the stair is only one person wide—”

Paks suppressed a last shudder of doubt about the wisdom of this whole project, and grinned at him. “I suppose you’d like the fighter to go in front, eh? Well, I can’t see behind myself; I’d just as soon know who’s at my back.” She drew her sword as she spoke. “But I’ll have this out, just in case. What about light? Must I carry a candle or torch?”

“No-o—” said Macenion, climbing out of her way onto the floor. “There’s light.”

“What sort of light?”

“I’m not sure. It may be the same the elves used. But it’s easily light enough to see.”

“What if it goes out? You’d best keep some sort of flame alight, Macenion.”

“Why should it go out if it’s lasted this long? Oh, all right—” he answered her look of disgust. “But you’re so suspicious.”

“I’m alive,” said Paks, “and I intend to stay that way.”

“As a fighter, an adventurer?”

“Some do,” said Paks, starting down the stairs. “And from what I hear, those that do stay suspicious. Magicians, too.”

The stair dropped steeply, and curved to the right, back under the floor. Paks found that she did not have to duck at all; when she thought about it, she remembered that elves were, in general, taller than humans. Light filled the stairwell as far as she could see, a gentle, white light with no apparent source. She looked back once, to see the deep scuffing footprints she had made in the dust. Macenion was just in sight, several steps higher. After what she judged was the first half-turn, the steps were not so steep. She could move more easily now, and, of course, anything coming up could do so as well. She glanced back again, for Macenion, and thought of the spell he had promised to put at their backs.

“What did you do up there?” she asked softly, nodding upward.

“It’s open,” he said. “If I’d closed it, and anything happened to me, you couldn’t get out that way. But I put a spell on the opening that should repel anything from outside trying to get in. And just in case, I put another spell on it to give us an alarm if something does go through.”

All that sounded impressive to Paksenarrion. She hoped it would work. “Do you know how far down this goes?”

“No. It should open into a wide hall at the bottom, though.”

Paks went on. The mysterious light bothered her. The silence bothered her. She felt her hand grow sweaty on her sword hilt, and that bothered her. Nothing had happened; no danger appeared, and yet her breath came short, just as if she were a recruit in her first battle. She concentrated on the construction of the stair: pale gray stone underfoot, and slightly darker gray stone on the walls and vaulted ceiling. The stair treads were ribbed, under the dust, and when she touched the walls, she found them lightly incised with an intricate design. Remembering Macenion’s warning, she took her fingers off the wall. She looked back over her shoulder again. Macenion, too, had one hand on the wall; when he met her eyes he smiled at her.

“It’s decoration and information both,” he said. “I can read some of it, though I’d have to stand here a long time to figure it out. But for those who lived here, it would be a way of telling how far they had come, though that’s not what it says, exactly.” He moved his hand along the section of wall nearest him. “This, for example, is part of an old song: ‘The Long Ride of Torre.’ Do you know it?”

Paks nodded. “If that’s the same Torre as Torre’s Necklace.”

“Of course. Do you know the story?”

“Yes.” Paks turned again and kept stepping down. The dust seemed no thicker, and with no changes in light or silence, she had a hard time judging how far they had come. At last she saw an opening ahead, rather than a curving wall. As she came to the last step, and waited for Macenion to close in behind her, she could see a space of dusty stone paving, and nothing else. Although it was light beyond the opening, any walls were too far away to show.

“Now this, I believe, was the winterhall,” said Macenion, peering past her. “Go on, Paksenarrion.”

“And have whatever’s waiting beside the door take my head off? Let’s be careful.” Paks unslung her small shield and reached for Macenion’s walking staff.

He jerked it away. “What?”

Paks sighed. “Remember what I just said about doorways? Better a piece of wood than my neck.”

“Oh, all right.” Macenion handed over his staff grumpily. Paks tied the shield quickly to one end, and stuck it through the door. Nothing happened. She pulled it back, handed Macenion his staff, tightened the shield on her arm, and slipped quickly through the doorway, putting her back to the wall beside it.

She stood in a large bare hall, lit by the same mysterious means as the stair. It stretched away on either side on the doorway she’d come through for twice the distance of its width. No furniture remained, and dust covered the broad floor. Macenion came through after her, and looked up. Paks followed his gaze. Far overhead the arched ceiling was formed into intricate branches and vaults, a tracery of stone such as Paks had never seen. Between ribs of dark stone, patterns of smaller colored ones gave almost the effect of a forest overhead.

“That’s—beautiful—” she whispered, hardly aware of speaking.

For once, Macenion did not take a superior tone. “It’s—I’ve never seen the like myself. I knew this was once the seat of the High King, but I never imagined—” He took a few steps out into the hall, and looked at his footprints. “Certainly this has not been disturbed for many years—perhaps not since they left.”

Paks had noticed, at the right end of the hall, a darker alcove. “What’s that?”

“That should lead to other passages. But I can’t understand why there are no signs at all.” Macenion stopped and shook his head. “We won’t find out anything by standing here. Let me think—”

Paks scanned the walls again. At the left end of the hall was a dais, four steps up from the main level, and at the back of it an arched doorway. Two heavily patterned bronze doors closed the opening. Across from her, on the other long wall, were four doorways, also closed with heavy doors. At the right end, no doors showed save the alcove, if that was, as Macenion said, an opening.