“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.
“But it’s just another pile of rock.”
“No, it’s not just a pile of rock. It’s a particular pile of rock. Look—do you see anything else like that?”
Paks looked. Rocks everywhere, but nothing that tall and narrow. “No.”
“Now, look here.” He pointed to a smaller pile on one side. “This is the direction.”
“What is?”
“This—Paksenarrion, pay attention. The big pile tells you that this is the trail, and the little pile tells you which way is downhill.”
“But are we across the pass? Aren’t we going uphill?” Then she realized the simple answer, and felt her face burning. “I see,” she said quickly, before Macenion could tell her. “I know. We go the other way.”
“Yes. And we know it’s the right trail because of the runes.”
“Runes?”
“Look at this.” He lifted the top rock of the small pile and turned it over. On the under face were angular marks gouged in the rock. “That’s the rune for silver, which means that this is the way to Silver Pass.”
“Oh.” Paks looked around again. “But that only says what’s downhill. Can we tell where this will come out?”
“Easily.” Macenion’s smile was as smug as ever. He turned over the top rock of the big pile and showed her another rune. “This means gnomes, and means that this trail ends at the rock shelter on the border of Gnarrinfulk, the gnome kingdom south of Tsaia.”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“Gods, yes. And you don’t want to wander in there without leave.” Macenion replaced the stones carefully. “It’s simple, really. The big pile points uphill and has the uphill trailend rune, and the small one points downhill and has the downhill trailend rune. Can you remember that?”
“Yes,” said Paks shortly.
“Good. Let’s hurry. I don’t like the smell of this weather.” Macenion looked at the sky above the peaks, which was, as they had often seen from below, thickened into cloud. As if his words had been a signal, a cold rain began to leak down, thin at first. They started upward.
As they climbed, forty paces at a time, Paks watched the stones near the trail darken in the rain. Instead of the rustle of rain on leaves, the water tinkled, as if a thousand thousand tiny bells rang in the stillness. The slopes around them closed in, and the trail steepened. It was more like a stairway than a trail. When they stopped for rest, Paks looked up. The clouds seemed lower. She looked back down the trail. The cairn had disappeared into a hollow behind and below them. She was surprised at how far they had climbed.
Macenion shivered beside her. “It’s getting colder—we’d better keep climbing. There’s no good place to stop until we’re over the top.”
“You mean, this is the actual pass?”
“Yes—didn’t you know? What I’m afraid of is snow—it can snow all year up here. We’ve been lucky with weather so far, but this rain—and if it gets colder—”