“I’m awake,” she said softly. What, she wondered, had eyes like that? Farther apart than human eyes, that was all she could tell. Big eyes.
“Paks, it’s a—” he choked, and then recovered. “It’s a snowcat.”
“Holy Gird,” said Paks without thinking. When she realized what she had said, she wished she’d kept quiet.
“What?” asked Macenion.
Paks felt herself blushing in the dark. “Nothing,” she said. “Now what?”
“Can’t you see it?”
“No—nothing but eyes.”
“I don’t know what we can—” Macenion’s voice suddenly sharpened. “Paks! Your ring!”
“What?” For a moment Paks had no idea what he meant. Macenion spared a glance at her, furious.
“Your ring, human! your special ring,” he went on. Paks nodded, then, stripping off her glove to touch it.
“But are you sure it will work? Maybe the thing—the snowcat—will just go away if we let it alone.”
As if in answer to that suggestion, the glowing eyes moved closer. Now Paks could see a suggestion of the body’s outline, a long, powerful catlike form, crouching as if to spring.
“You fool!” cried Macenion. “It knows we’re here! It’s about to jump. Stop it! Hold it!”
Paks thought she could see a twitch in that long tail, like the twitch she had seen in the mousers at the barn, the last instant before they sprang on a rat. She pressed her thumb hard on the ring and thought “Hold still, cat.” She wondered if those words would work.
“Are you?” asked Macenion hoarsely.
“Yes,” said Paks. “How long does it—”
“As long as you concentrate. Keep holding it.”
Paks tried to concentrate. She wished she could see the snowcat better. Macenion turned to rummage among his things. She was afraid to look sideways at him, lest the cat jump. She forced her eyes back to the shadowy cat-form. Suddenly light flared around her, and she jumped.
“Don’t look,” said Macenion harshly. The light was clear and white, brilliant enough to show true colors. Now she could see the snowcat clearly. Its body was man-long; its shoulder would almost reach her waist. As Macenion had said, its fur was white and blue-gray, patterned with dapples that reminded Paks of snowflakes enlarged. The ears bore long tufts of white, and it had a white beard and short ruff. The eyes, despite the blue glow they’d had before, shone amber in Macenion’s spell-light.
“Macenion, it’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful—”
“It’s spelling you,” he said firmly. “It seems beautiful because it’s trying to use magic on you.”
“But it can’t be. It’s—” She stopped as Macenion came forward into her field of view. “Macenion, what are you doing?”
“Don’t be silly, Paks. I’m going to kill it.”
“Kill it? But it’s helpless—it can’t move while I—”
“That’s right. Just keep holding it still. It’s the only way I have a chance—”
“But that’s not fair—it’s helpless—” Paks let her concentration waver, and at once the snowcat moved, shifting in a kind of constricted hop, as she caught her control back. She was distracted again by this evidence of her power and its limitations, and the cat managed to rear, swiping at Macenion’s head with one massive paw. He ducked, and Paks forced the cat to stillness again.
“Damn you, human! Hold that beast, or we’re both dead. Worse than dead—you remember what I told you!” Macenion glared back at her, then turned, raising his sword.
Paks felt a wave of fear and pain sweep through her mind. It was wrong, terribly wrong—but what else could she do? “Macenion—” she tried again, staring into the snowcat’s huge amber eyes. “It’s not right—”
“It’s not right for us to end up soul-bound to a snowcat, no,” he said roughly. “It’s easy enough, though, if you forget yourself one more time. If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
Paks looked down, biting her lip. She could not watch, and then she thought she must. The snowcat made no resistance—could make no resistance—but it could cry out, in fury and pain, and so it did. That wailing cry, ending in an almost birdlike whistle, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back, and watched stonily as Macenion wiped his sword on the dead snowcat’s fur. He came back to the fire almost jauntily.
“A snowcat. That’s quite a kill, even if you don’t think it was fair. I’ll just take the pelt before it freezes—”
“No.” Paks glared at him.
“What d’you mean, no? Snowcat pelts are nearly priceless, it’s so rare to take one—you noticed how careful I was not to damage it when I killed—”
Paks erupted in fury. “By the gods, Macenion, I wonder if you ever tell the truth! You dare pride yourself on killing a helpless animal? It might as well have been a sheep trussed up, for all the courage and skill it took—”
“I didn’t notice you out there—”
“You told me to stay here—”
“I told you to hold it still. You could have helped me, if you were able to hold more than one thought in mind at a time. As it was you nearly killed me—”
“I!” Paks flourished her own sword. She noticed with some satisfaction that Macenion backed up a step. “I but tried to save your honor and mine—not that I would have thought an elf would care so little for it—”
“You know nothing about elven honor, human!” Macenion seemed to swell with rage. “You are my travel companion, oath-bound to defend me—as I defended you just now—against all dangers. As for the snowcat having no defense, it was trying to spell you the entire time.”
Paks felt her anger leak away into the cold. Had she been half-spelled? Had she nearly failed her oath because of it? Macenion took quick advantage of her hesitation. “I don’t blame you,” he said more quietly. “You are human, unused to magicks of any kind, and this may be the first magical beast you’ve seen.” She nodded unwillingly. “It would have killed all of us, and feasted many days while our souls were enslaved to it, if we had not managed to kill it. Or send it away.” He cocked his head and gave her a sly grin. “If you’d been able to think of it, o lover of animals, you might simply have sent it away.”
“Sent it—it would have gone?”
“Oh, yes. I’m surprised it didn’t occur to you, Paksenarrion. Just as you sent Windfoot—oh, that’s right. You didn’t. But you could have.”
“Then you didn’t have to kill it,” Paks cried, angry again. “You told me—”
“I told you what seemed best to me. Kill it and it’s gone forever. Send it away and it might come back—though you could have laid a compulsion on it to avoid us. Besides, this way we have a valuable pelt.” Macenion turned again to his pack, and pulled out a short, wide skinning blade. Paks moved between him and the snowcat; when he rose and saw her, he frowned.
“I won’t let you,” said Paks, fighting back tears. “You told me I had to hold it, or it’d kill both of us—and you lied about that. It isn’t the first lie, either. You’re not going to profit by it, Macenion—I was wrong to hold it that way, and that’s the worst thing I’ve done. I won’t let you do more.”
“You mean you’d waste a perfectly good pelt—already back in winter coat—just because you didn’t think of sending it away?”
“No—because you lied to me.” Paks had backed slowly and carefully across the ledge outside their shelter, until she bumped her heels into the snowcat’s corpse. Now she turned, and with a powerful heave pushed the snowcat over the edge.
“You’re a stubborn fool,” said Macenion, but without the anger she had feared. “That’s enough gold for both of us to live on for a month, that you threw away. But—” He shrugged. “I suppose it meant something to you. Now don’t stand there and freeze, Paksenarrion—we still have to cross the pass tomorrow.”
It was not the next morning, but the one after that, when they finally ventured from their shelter. Dawn that day rose clear, the wind hardly mov
ing, and nothing in the white drifts below looked like the remains of a snowcat. They had said little to each other in the storm-whitened hours between—only what must be said about the fire, the care of the animals, and packing up their campsite. Now they moved through a pale rose and blue world, leaving blue-shadowed tracks behind. Once through the pass, Paks could see—not the rolling forests of the Eight Kingdoms she had hoped for—but more ridges and steep valleys. Far below and ahead, forests clothed the slopes. Somewhere beyond, the mountains ended. She hoped to make it there.
Chapter Four
Paks had not slept well since the killing of the snowcat. Despite Macenion’s sarcastic reassurance, she knew that she had dishonored her sword, and the ring she had used. She had stayed with him only because she had no other guide out of the mountains. Now, as they came through a gap in the trees into yet another narrow valley, she wondered whether she should refuse to accompany him any farther. Surely here, with the bulk of the mountains behind her, she could find her own way north.
“Well, indeed—” said Macenion, in a tone that meant he wished to be asked what he meant.
“Well, what?” Paksenarrion turned half away from him, and bent to check her pony’s hooves.
“It’s what I hoped to find—the right valley.”
Paksenarrion looked at the valley, this time, and saw, in its widest span, a group of stone piles. “More of your ruins?” she asked sourly.
“Much more important,” said Macenion. He was grinning again, and when he caught her eye he winked. “Didn’t I say there was treasure to be won in these mountains?”
“You’ve said a lot.” Paks had turned back to Star, and was adjusting the ropes on her pack.
Macenion sighed. “Come now, don’t be tiresome. You’re carrying a new sword, for one thing, and—”
Paks knew Macenion had parted with the elf-wrought blade, if it was one, only because he wanted to soothe her after the snowcat’s murder. The sword felt well enough—it was better than the one she’d bought—but she resented the whole incident. And she wasn’t about to be grateful.
“And you say there’s more. And, as usual, you want me to bodyguard you while we get it—right?”
“I will need your help.” Macenion sighed again. “Paks, I’m sorry about the snowcat. I didn’t know you’d feel that way—”
“I’d have thought an elf would—”
“So my human parentage betrayed me. It’s not the first time. But listen, at least, before you stalk off in outrage.”
Paks looked around at the tree-clad slopes. She thought she saw a faint trail across from them, leading south, but she knew the ways of apparent trails that appeared and disappeared and tangled together. She shrugged and stared down at the ruins while Macenion talked.
“This valley,” he said, “is forbidden to elves. My mother’s cousin told me that, and also told me how to find it. He meant the directions to keep me away. But here is a great treasure—the stories are clear on that—and much of it is magical. Something happened here that the elves don’t want to talk about, and so they went away and never came back.”
“Elves lived here?” Paksenarrion frowned. “I thought they lived in forests, not stone buildings.”
“It’s true that elven cities are surrounded by trees and water, but they’re constructed, nonetheless.”
Despite herself, Paksenarrion was interested. “What happened, then? Why did the elves leave?”
“I don’t know.” The answer had come so fast that Paks disbelieved it and gave Macenion a sharp look. He spread his hands. “It’s true—I don’t know. I suspect, but I don’t know. They say they haven’t come back because the valley is haunted by evil, but I’m fairly sure that they just don’t like to admit mistakes.”
“You were more than fairly sure that the wardstones wouldn’t work any longer,” Paks reminded him. Macenion scowled.
“This is different,” said Macenion loftily. “Those were human artifacts. This is elven. My elven blood will sense the truth—and my magic will enable us to pass safely what might be perilous for others.” He patted the pouch that held his magical apparatus. Paksenarrion said nothing. “And the treasures here are worth a risk. Elf-made weapons, Paks, and magic scrolls and wands: I’ve heard about them. They were all abandoned when the elves fled. My relatives—well, I hate to say anything bad about the elves, but they haven’t been any too generous with their goods. I feel I have a right to whatever I can find in there.” He nodded toward the ruins.
“But what about the evil whatever-it-is?”
“That’s why I’ve waited this long. First, my power as a mage is much greater now; I’ve spent years in study and practice, and I have some powerful new spells.” He showed her the polished end of a scroll case. “And, as well, I’m traveling with a very experienced and able warrior—you.”
“I see.”
“I’m quite sure that whatever is there—if anything—will be no match for the two of us.”
“What do you think is there?”
“Oh—if the underground passages are still open, some animals may have moved in. Perhaps even an orc or two. As for an evil power—” Macenion tilted his hand back and forth. “If it were very strong, I’d be aware of it here. And I’m not.”
Paksenarrion looked around again. She felt nothing. After the wardstones, she thought she might, if anything like that were going on. She touched her sword hilt for comfort. “Well, then, I suppose we could take a look.”
Macenion smiled, and turned to lead the way down.
It took longer than she expected. The path they had followed from the slopes above disappeared in a tangle of undergrowth that cloaked tumbled rocks as big as cattle. The sun had long disappeared behind the western peaks when they hacked their way free of the thorny stuff and found themselves on short rough turf still several hours away from the ruins. In fact, these were no longer visible; the floor of the valley was uneven.
“Let’s make camp,” said Paksenarrion. “It’d be full dark by the time we came to the ruins. The horses could use a rest, too.” Star had a long bleeding scratch down one leg, and Windfoot was streaked with sweat.
“I suppose so.” Macenion was staring toward the ruins. “I wish we could go right on, but—”
“Not in the dark,” said Paks firmly. He seemed to shake himself.
“You’re right.” Still he sat, facing west, silent, while Paks gathered wood from the brushy edge for a fire. She touched his arm when it was ready to light, and he jumped.
“The fire’s ready,” she said, pointing.
Macenion looked around at the gathering darkness, and threw back his cloak. He glanced up at Paks. “Perhaps tonight we should use the tinder-box.”
“You? The great magician?” Paksenarrion turned to the horses. “I thought you were sure it was safe.”
“There’s no sense making it obvious we’re here—just in case.”
“Then we shouldn’t have a fire at all.” Paks pulled her own pack near the stacked wood. “That’s fine with me; I know fires draw trouble.”
“Yes. Well—let’s not, then.” Macenion pulled his cloak around him again, and began to unload his horse. Paks eyed the hollow they were in. It was not particularly defensible, if Macenion thought they might be attacked. But when she asked, he was disinclined to move. Paks shrugged, and pulled her sword from its sheath. As the darkness closed in, the rasp of her whetstone on the blade seemed louder and louder. When she tested the blade, and found it well enough, she noticed how still the night was.
Paks woke in the first light of dawn; the peaks behind were just showing light instead of dark against the sky. For a moment or so she was not sure where she was. The visions of her dream were still brilliant before her eyes. She shook her head vigorously and rolled on her side, hardly surprised to find that she held her sword hilt in her hand. She looked toward Macenion, a dark shape in darkness. Was he stirring? She spoke his name softly.
“I’m coming!” His answer was a shout,
and he sprang to his feet. “Begone, you foul—” She heard a gasp, and then, in a different voice, “By all the gods of elf and man, what was that?”
“I don’t know. I thought you were waking, and called, and you jumped up—”
“A dream.” Paks heard Macenion’s feet on the grass. “It must have been a dream.”
“What dream?” Paks wondered if this were a haunted place, a place that gave dreams. Hers had been vivid enough.
“It was—it’s hard to say. I felt something—almost as if—” He paused for a long moment. Paks tried to see his face in the dimness, but could not.
“I dreamed too,” she said finally. “A—I don’t know what to call it—a spirit of some sort, I suppose—was imprisoned, and calling for help—”
“Yes—and was there a yellow cloud that stank of evil?” Macenion’s voice sounded alert and eager.
“I saw no cloud,” replied Paks. “But something tall, in a yellow robe, with a staff. I wondered if it was an elf.”
“That was no elf, whatever it was. I must have seen the aura of power, and you saw the physical form. But it was evil, and the—” Macenion paused again as if searching for a word. “I can’t think,” he said finally. “I should know what it was, that was calling. Something to do with elves, and the places they’ve lived for long. It needs our help.”
“So that was a sent dream,” said Paks. “Not something we dreamed on our own.”
“It was sent, certainly,” said Macenion. “The question now is—”
“Who sent it.”
“No, I wasn’t worried about that. The question is, what do we do? I know what we should do, but—”
“I still want to know who sent it.”
“One of the gods, of course. Sertig or Adyan, probably. Who else would?”
“The—the thing itself? The one that needs our help? It might want us to come, and cause the dream.”
“Nonsense. If it’s strong enough to do that, it wouldn’t need our help against a mere sorcerer or wizard.”
“I don’t know—” Somehow Paksenarrion could not believe Macenion’s explanation. He had been wrong about so many things. She wished, not for the first time, that she knew more about the world beyond the Duke’s Company. She had not realized, until she left it, how little she had learned in three years of soldiering. For all she knew, Macenion himself could have caused the dream, to ensure that she would be willing to enter the ruins. She pushed that thought aside. Until they were clear of the mountains, she had no real choice; Macenion was the only available guide. Her hand found its way to the pouch that held Canna’s medallion. She stopped herself from taking it out, and squatted down to reroll her blankets.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 54