“Amberion tells me that these wounds were already so healed when they found you, Paksenarrion.” Ardhiel laid his long-fingered elven hand on her wrist. Paks tried not to flinch. “You were missing so short a time—either the wounds were never what they look like—that is, they were not real wounds, but created in this half-healed state—or they were magically healed.”
Paks looked at her arms again. “Could they be made that way? I never heard of such—”
“No. It’s not widely known that it can be done, and it would only be done by evil intent. But the other is bad, too. To force flesh to such healing, out of time—that has its own hazards. I have known an elf, long ago in your time, and far from here, who could speed growth and healing. He used the gift on plants only, but animals too could be treated so. What we will do now, Paksenarrion, is try to lift the cloud from your memory. If it is what I think it may be, a cloud the iynisin placed there, you can then remember what you need.”
As much as Paks had wanted to know what happened, she still shrank from this. Now that she knew her memories could be made or unmade at elven will, as the iynisin had shown her, she wanted no more of that. But some doubt of them kept her from mentioning the Halveric’s scroll. The elf’s glowing eyes seemed dangerous as coals. She looked at Amberion. He nodded. “Ardhiel has convinced me that this is best, Paksenarrion. The iynisin powers should be countered as soon as possible.”
“Then Balkon was right—” she murmured.
“Right in his way,” said Ardhiel. “You do need to remember, but you need to remember for yourself. It is this I will try.”
“Well, then—go ahead.” Paks looked from one to the other of them. “What should I do?”
“Think on Gird and the High Lord,” said Amberion. “They will guide your thoughts—and your memories, we hope—while we free them.”
Paks closed her eyes and lay still. She could not keep from pushing at the dark curtains in her mind, and felt more and more breathless and trapped as she lay there. She was hardly aware of Ardhiel’s hand when it moved to her brow, or Amberion’s firm grip. Ardhiel began chanting something in elven—she did not even try to follow the meaning.
Shadows moved in her mind. Some were darker—some moved away from her, and others menaced her. She saw again an elven face, pale against a dark hood. She felt a burning pain at her throat, and tried to raise her hand, struggling. The shadows seemed to harden, thickening into reality. Sounds came, faintly at first, then louder. Shrill cries, mocking laughter, the clatter of weapons. Bitter fluid stung her throat, the stench of it wrinkled her nose. The faces came clearer out of the darkness: orcs, their fangs bared, their taloned hands holding swords, knives, whips. Other fighters, whose kind she did not know, in armor of leather and plate. The light was green, a sickly shade that turned spilled blood black.
Gradually she was able to remember the bargain the iynisin had made: she had had to fight, fight for their amusement against opponents of their choosing, fight with whatever weapons they gave her, for the chance to live a little longer. As it had happened, so in the memory Ardhiel’s treatment roused: she could not remember how long these fights had gone on, or the intervals between them. But she could remember, as if reliving them, the pain of her wounds, the hunger and thirst and exhaustion, the fear that she would never see daylight again, the grim and bitter anger she had summoned against that fear. When Ardhiel took his hands away from her brow, she was aware. And the memories she had lost lay in a cold heap in her mind. She hated the thought of them, of stirring through them, but she had no choice. That, too, she resented: she had had no choice with the iynisin, and no choice here.
27
For of course Amberion insisted on knowing what, if anything, she remembered. She replied as quickly as possible, surprised at her own distaste, with an outline of the iynisin bargain and her fighting. She remembered even the black armor, and her reluctance to wear it.
“And you called on Gird before each encounter?” asked High Marshal Fallis, who had come up to listen.
“I tried. I couldn’t—couldn’t say it out loud.” Paks hoped he would say nothing more about it.
“But you tried—you intended to?” Amberion’s eyes held hers.
“Yes—sir.” Paks looked away with an effort. “I tried. At least, all the times I remember—”
“That should be enough—” But his tone lacked conviction, and he looked across her to Ardhiel.
“I don’t understand. What’s the matter?” Even Paks could not be sure whether irritation or fear edged her voice.
Fallis sighed. “Paksenarrion, you had no way to tell—but if you handled cursed weapons, and in a cursed cause—”
“And that black armor was definitely cursed—”
“But I killed orcs—some iynisin—and they’re all evil—”
“Yes. I know. That’s why we think it may work out.” Amberion shook his head, nonetheless. “I wish you hadn’t touched those things—”
“But—” Paks felt ready to burst with the unfairness of it. She had been trapped, alone, captive, far underground—she had fought against many enemies and her own fear, to survive—and now they said she should never have touched a weapon. I’m a fighter, after all, she told herself. What should I have done—let them kill me without lifting a hand? Bitterness sharpened her voice. “I thought Gird would approve—fighting against odds like that.”
“Gird does not care for odds, but for right and wrong.” Fallis sounded almost angry. “That’s what we’re trying to—”
“Then should I have stood there like a trussed sheep and let them cut my throat?” Paks interrupted, angry enough now to say what she felt. “Would you have been happier to find my corpse? By—by the gods, I thought Gird was a warrior’s patron, in any fight against evil, and I did my best to fight. It’s easy for you to say what I should and shouldn’t have done, but you were safe in the sunlight, while I—”
“Paks!” Amberion’s voice, and his hand on her arm, stopped her. “Paks, please listen. We know you had little choice; we are not condemning you. You are not a paladin. We do not expect such wisdom from you. And now you are still weak and recovering from your injuries. We shouldn’t have told you our worries, I suppose, but we did. I think myself that you will be all right when your wounds heal, and you have rested. Eat well tonight, and sleep; tomorrow we need to move camp again, and be on our way.”
Paks stared at him, still a little angry, but appalled at her own words when she remembered them. Had she really spoken that way to a paladin and a High Marshal? “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I—I don’t know what—”
“Anyone,” said Amberion firmly, “anyone, coming from such an ordeal, would be irritable. Can you walk as far as the fire to eat, or shall we bring food here?”
“I’ll try.” Paks was able to stand with Amberion’s help, and made it to the fire, walking stiffly but alone. She said little to the others, concentrating on her own bowl of food. Master Balkon eyed her from across the fire, but said nothing. She wondered how much the others knew. She felt empty and sore inside, as if she had been crying for a long time.
After the meal, High Marshal Fallis asked Ardhiel to tell the company about his experience. The elf smiled, sketched a gesture on the air, and began. Paks, listening, recovered a little of her first enchantment with elves. The intonations of his voice, even in the common tongue, gave it a lyrical quality. His graceful hands, gesturing fluidly, reminded her of tall grass blowing in the wind. He caught her eye, and smiled; she felt her own face relax in response. The story he told, of being taken away on the flying steed they’d seen, and feasting in the High King’s Hall, was strange enough. Paks was not sure whether Ardhiel thought the High King was the same as their High Lord—or whether that was someone else entirely—but she did not ask.