“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.