“I can’t see!” she said.
“That’s all right,” the iynisi answered. His voice echoed unpleasantly in the helmet. “All down here are your enemies, yes? All are enemies. Here—take the sword.” She felt the sword hilt pressed into her right hand. She hefted the blade. It felt good. “All enemies—” said the iynisi’s voice, now behind her. “Go—fight—fight for your rights, Paksenarrion. Fight your enemies. Fight—”
She hardly needed that encouragement. She was walking down the corridor, away from the cell, walking alone and unguarded for the first time. At first she could barely see well enough to stay away from the walls, but then her vision cleared a little. She saw iynisin ahead of her, all running somewhere. Those who looked at her screamed, and ran faster. Behind the visor, she smiled. Soon. Soon she would show them. She was no longer helpless; now she had the power she had longed for all those dark hours. She wondered which way to go, heard a confused clangor from a wide cross passage, and turned to see what it was. A fight. A big fight. She saw the passage choked with armed figures: iynisin, orcs, others. She drew breath and stalked forward, sword ready.
She struck the back of a confused mass, hating the black-clad iynisin who had laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and cleared a space around her. Those in front turned to face her; she leveled the great blade and swiped from side to side, laughing. The black cloaks melted away. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and anger flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I will fight. I will fight through all of you, whatever you are. Fight through to my friends. By Gird—the name leapt into her mind, and she opened her mouth to yell it out loud. This time, at last, the sound passed her lips: not as a yell, little louder than a whisper: “In the name of Gird.”
A vast space opened in her mind, and out of it a voice like stone said, “Stop!” She froze. One arm held the sword up for another swing, one foot had nearly left the ground. At once she was bereft of vision and hearing, and plunged into darkness.
26
Paks woke to darkness. She lay a moment, feeling cool air—living air—wash over her face. She lay wrapped in something soft, on something more yielding than stone. She blinked. She could see something glittering overhead. Stars. The current of air quickened; it smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. She could not think where she was. Her mouth was dry. She tried to clear her throat, but made a strange croaking noise. At once a voice—a human voice—spoke out of the darkness.
“Paks? Do you want something?”
Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. She could not speak. She heard a rustle of clothing, then a hand came out of darkness and touched her face.
“Paks? Are you crying? Here—” The hand withdrew, and after a sharp scratching noise, a light flared near her and steadied. She thought: lamp. Her tears blurred everything to wavering points of light and blackness. The hand returned, a gentle touch, stroking her head. “There, Paks, it’s all right. You’re safe now; you’re free.”
She could not stop the tears that kept flowing. She began to tremble with the effort, and the person beside her called softly to someone else. Another person loomed beside her. “The spell’s going, I think,” said the first voice.
“About time, too. Can she speak yet?”
“No. But she’s aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she’s as dry as old bone.”
“I’ll lift her.” The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks felt herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. “There now. Paks? You need to drink something. Here—” She felt a cool rim at her lips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. “Good,” said the voice. “That’s what you need.”
“I’ll get more,” said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She drank another flask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only that it was better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.
She woke in daylight: light blue sky overhead, red rocks against the sky. She turned her head. She lay on a sandbank above a stream. She could see horses across the stream, and men in chainmail grooming them. Nearer was the pale flickering light of a campfire. Around it were three men, a woman, and a dwarf. One of the men and the woman left the campfire and came toward her. They were smiling. She wondered why.
“Paks, are you feeling better this morning?” That was the woman. Paks felt her way along the words, trying to understand. This morning. Did that mean that it was last night, the voices and the crying? Better? She tried to roll up on one elbow, but found she could hardly move. She felt utterly weak, as if she were hollow from the bones out.
“Can you speak at all, Paks?” asked the man. She looked at him. Dark hair with a few silver threads, short dark beard. Chainmail under a yellow tunic. They wanted her to say something. She had nothing to say. They were smiling at her, both of them. She looked from face to face. The man’s smile faded as she watched. “Paks, do you know who I am?” She shook her head. “Mmm. Do you know where you are?” Again the headshake. “Do you know who you are?”
“Paks?” she answered softly, tentatively.
“Do you know your full name?”
Paks thought a long moment. Something seeped into her mind. “Paks. Paks—Paksenarrion, I think.”
The man and woman looked at each other and sighed. “Well,” said the woman, “that’s something. How about breakfast, Paks?”
“Breakfast—” she repeated slowly.
“Are you hungry?”
Again Paks thought her way to the meaning of the words. Hungry? Her stomach rumbled, answering for her. “Food,” she murmured.
“Fine,” said the woman. “I’ll bring it.” She strode off.
Paks looked at the man. “Who is that?” she asked.
“The woman? Pir. She’s a knight.” His voice held slight coolness.
“Should—should I know her?”
“Yes. But don’t worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?”
Paks shook her head before answering. “No. I don’t remember anything much. Did I—did I do something bad?”
“Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?”
“I don’t know.” Paks turned her head to look the other way. She was looking up a narrow valley or canyon walled with red rock on both sides. Nothing looked familiar.
The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskin slung from one wrist. “Here—stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit up?” Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he dragged from a few feet away. The women set the bowl on the sand, poured water into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from the blanket around her, but the woman had to help her even with that. When she took the mug, her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face and neck; it was icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her.
“I’ll help you with the stew,” said the woman. “You’re too shaky to manage it.” She offered it spoonful by spoonful. Paks ate, at first without much interest, but with increasing relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory returned, though she could not tell if it was recent or remote.
She looked at the man. “Is this Duke Phelan’s camp?”
His face seemed to harden. “No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?”
“I think so. He was—not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes—I thought I was still in his Company. But I’m not. I don’t think so—am I?”
“Not any more, no. But if you remember that, then your memory is coming back. That’s good.”
“But where—? I should—I should know you, shouldn’t I? You asked me that. And I can’t—I don’t know you—any of you—or this—” Her voice began to shake.