Paks nodded, speechless. She had not thought she would like being so far underground, with the whole mountain’s weight above her, but she could feel no fear. The Hall seemed to cherish them, protect them—Paks could not even feel the ache along her bones that was becoming familiar.
The two High Marshals walked slowly up the aisle; the rest of the party followed. As they neared the rows of kneeling figures, Paks was suddenly seized by fear: would they turn and attack? But they did not move. She could not see even the gentle movement of breath, and then feared they were dead. Ahead, High Marshal Connaught turned to look into the faces of the rearmost row. He said nothing, and passed on. The silence pressed on them; it reminded Paks of the silence of the elfane taig, but it had a different flavor, at once more familiar and more majestic.
When she reached the platform with the others, and turned to look, she saw rows of faces—perhaps a hundred in all—that seemed to be in peaceful sleep. Each held a weapon—most of them swords—point down, with hands resting on the hilts. Paks shivered. She saw the men-at-arms eyeing the figures, and then one another.
“Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, rest on this place of peace,” said Connaught softly. The words sank into the silence. And then as if a drop of dye had fallen into clear water, the silence took on another flavor, and shifted, pulling away from them to drape itself around the sleepers, protecting their rest, while leaving the company free to talk. It was as if a king’s attention had passed to someone else, setting the pages free to whisper along the walls of the chamber.
“Well,” said High Marshal Fallis, with a little shake of his shoulders. “I never expected to find this sort of thing.”
“Mmm. No.” Connaught had stepped onto the platform. “Look at this, Fallis.” The platform was itself stone, apparently all one great slab of white stone, and into the upper surface a brilliant mosaic was set, unlike anything Paks had seen. “I wonder where he found someone to do this—” He turned to Paks. “You were at Sibili, weren’t you? Didn’t they have work like this?”
Paks shook her head. “Sir Marshal, I don’t remember—I had a knock on the head and don’t remember anything. But—let me think—someone in our Company mentioned pictures made of chips of stone.”
“Yes. I thought so. Along the coast of Aarenis they do this work; I’ve heard that it was used a lot in old Aare.”
“It could have come from Kaelifet,” said Amberion. “I’ve seen bronze and copper ware from there ornamented with bits of colored stone; perhaps they do stone mosaics as well.”
“It might be.” Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the other, looking at the design. It spread from a many-pointed star in shades of blue and green to an intricate interlacement of curves and angles in reds and golds. “I would like to know what it is.”
“It is a place of power,” said Ardhiel suddenly. They all looked at him.
“I feel power in all this,” said Amberion. “But what do you mean?”
Ardhiel nodded toward the pattern. “That is a pattern of power. This place is made of many such. That—” he pointed to the black and white of the aisle, “is another of them.”
“What do they do?” asked Fallis.
Ardhiel smiled, a quick flash of delight. “Ah—you men! You hear that I am saying more than elves are wont to say, and you hope to learn great secrets. So—listen closely, and I will say what I can in Common. And in elven, for those who can hear.” He threw Paks a smile at that. “This place is sustained by patterns of power, else those sleepers would have died long since, and the dust of time half-filled this chamber. How was it we each saw and followed the symbol of our lord—Master Balkon, I daresay, saw and followed the dwarf’s secret symbols, and was met and welcomed as a dwarf, just as I saw and followed the Singer’s sign, and was met and welcomed as an elf. Is it not so?”
“It happened,” said Balkon.
“Yes. Then together we found ourselves in this Hall. A pattern of great power. I think more than men had the shaping of it.”
“But—” began Fallis, and the elf waved his hand for silence.
“I will be as brief as the matter allows, Sir Marshal. In haste is great danger; the right use of power requires full knowledge. This pattern, on the platform, is much like one placed in every elfane taig, in the center of every elvenhome kingdom. I do not know if I can explain how—and I know to you that means much. We elves—we think that as the Singer sang, and we are both songs and singers ourselves, we both are and make the Singer’s patterns. So our powers grow from the patterns of our song. We do not enjoy putting these aside—outside us.” Paks could tell he was having a hard time saying what he meant in Common; for once an elf’s speech seemed halting and out of rhythm.
“You mean, as men do in machines?” asked Amberion.
Ardhiel nodded. “Exactly. We have—we are—the power—as you paladins are: and I know what you will say, that it is the High Lord’s, and he but lends it. That is also so of us, though we are given more—more—” he faltered, waving his hand. “We can choose more for ourselves, how to use it,” he said finally. “But on occasion we have used built things—patterns of stone or wood, or growing things, to make patterns of power that any elf can use, even if he lacks a certain gift.”
“At the elfane taig—” Paks spoke without intention, and Ardhiel looked at her sharply. “The stone’s carving—if I looked at it—it held me—”
“Yes. Instead of having some always on guard, elves have used such to bemuse and slow an enemy. This pattern, though, is used for other things.” He seemed reluctant to go on, but finally sighed and continued. “I might as well tell you, since it is clear that men used it before. With such a pattern, it is possible for a small group to travel a great distance all at once.”
“What!”
Ardhiel nodded again. “Look here—and here—you will see that each of the high gods and patrons is included by symbol. This pattern draws on all their power, and can be used by a worshipper of any of these: elf, dwarf, gnome, those who follow the High Lord, Alyanya, or Gird, Falk, Camwyn, and so on.”
“But how do you know where you’ll go?” asked Fallis.
“I am not sure. If it were exactly the same as the elven pattern, you would go where you willed to go. You would picture that in your mind, and that you would see, and that is where you would go. It would be possible, however, to set such a pattern for a single destination.”
“And to set it off?”
“An invocation of some kind—I do not know. Perhaps you will find guidance somewhere else in this place.” Ardhiel was reverting to the more usual enigmatic elven reticence.
“In that case, I think we can wait. Perhaps we will find some guidance elsewhere.” Fallis gestured to a narrow archway leading out of the Hall behind the platform. “Perhaps we should take a look?”
The group followed the High Marshals across the platform—Paks noticed that they skirted the pattern gingerly—and through the arch into another stone passage, well-lit by the same sourceless light. At intervals they passed arched doorways into rooms hollowed from the stone; most were empty. But one chamber, when they came to it, was very different. A desk and two tables were littered with scraps of parchment and scrolls. Shelves along the walls held neatly racked scroll-cases as well as sewn books; a brilliantly colored carpet on the floor showed the wear of feet, but no touch of moth. A hooded blue robe hung from a hook. And a pair of worn slippers, the fleece lining worn into little lumps, lay under a carved wooden chair, just where the wearer must have slipped them off to put on boots. Connaught touched them with a respectful finger.
“These—must be his. Luap’s or his successor’s—Gird’s grace, I can hardly believe it—”