“I dreamed too,” she said finally. “A—I don’t know what to call it—a spirit of some sort, I suppose—was imprisoned, and calling for help—”
“Yes—and was there a yellow cloud that stank of evil?” Macenion’s voice sounded alert and eager.
“I saw no cloud,” replied Paks. “But something tall, in a yellow robe, with a staff. I wondered if it was an elf.”
“That was no elf, whatever it was. I must have seen the aura of power, and you saw the physical form. But it was evil, and the—” Macenion paused again as if searching for a word. “I can’t think,” he said finally. “I should know what it was, that was calling. Something to do with elves, and the places they’ve lived for long. It needs our help.”
“So that was a sent dream,” said Paks. “Not something we dreamed on our own.”
“It was sent, certainly,” said Macenion. “The question now is—”
“Who sent it.”
“No, I wasn’t worried about that. The question is, what do we do? I know what we should do, but—”
“I still want to know who sent it.”
“One of the gods, of course. Sertig or Adyan, probably. Who else would?”
“The—the thing itself? The one that needs our help? It might want us to come, and cause the dream.”
“Nonsense. If it’s strong enough to do that, it wouldn’t need our help against a mere sorcerer or wizard.”
“I don’t know—” Somehow Paksenarrion could not believe Macenion’s explanation. He had been wrong about so many things. She wished, not for the first time, that she knew more about the world beyond the Duke’s Company. She had not realized, until she left it, how little she had learned in three years of soldiering. For all she knew, Macenion himself could have caused the dream, to ensure that she would be willing to enter the ruins. She pushed that thought aside. Until they were clear of the mountains, she had no real choice; Macenion was the only available guide. Her hand found its way to the pouch that held Canna’s medallion. She stopped herself from taking it out, and squatted down to reroll her blankets.
“In your dream—did you—did it offer you any treasure?” Macenion, too was packing up.
Paks nodded, realized it was still too dark for him to see that gesture, and spoke instead. “Yes. I didn’t know what all of it was, but the weapons and armor were beautiful.”
“It can’t hurt, Paksenarrion, to take a look—” His voice was almost pleading.
Paks laughed despite her worries. “No, I suppose not. Don’t worry, Macenion, your hired blade is still here and won’t leave you. I’ve got more loyalty than that. But I hope you really do have the skill to handle whatever magic comes up.”
“I think so. I’m sure of it.” But his voice carried no certainty.
It took them most of the morning to reach the ruins. As they came nearer, Paks recognized that the grassy mound before them had been a defensive wall. They entered through a gap that had once been a gateway, still framed by tall upright stones. Although they were scarred as if they had been scorched, much of the decorative carving was still visible. Paks stood bemused, enjoying the intricacy of the interlacing designs, until Macenion touched her arm.
“It’s meant to do that,” he said, grinning. “Elves use patterns for control. In fact, elves taught men how to set the patterns for the wardstones. You’d better not let yourself look at any of the decoration that remains, just in case.”
Paks felt herself flush with embarrassment. She said nothing, but followed Macenion deeper into the complex of ruins, her hand on her sword.
Little remained but irregular mounds overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and there a bit of stone showed through, and a few doorways still stood wreathed in ivy. Although Paks could hear birdsong in the distance, the ruins themselves were quiet. No lizards sunned themselves on the mounds, to scuttle away as they passed. No rabbits found shelter in the occasional briar. Macenion moved almost as carefully as Paks could have wished, pausing beside each mound before crossing the next open space. As they went deeper into the complex, the silence grew more intense. The horses’ hooves made no noise on the turf. Paks could not bring herself to speak. The breath caught in her throat, but she could not cough. At last Macenion raised his hand for a halt. When he turned to look at her, his face looked pale. He swallowed visibly, then spoke, his voice soft.
“We’ll leave the horses here. They won’t stray. They have grass, and there’s a fountain ahead. I’ll put a spell on them, as well.”
Now that the silence had been broken, Paks found she could speak, though it was still an effort. “Have you found the way to what we’re looking for?”
“Yes. I think so. Look there—” Macenion pointed out one of the mounds ahead, and Paks saw that under an overgrowth of ivy and flowering briar (flowering? at this season?) it was almost intact: a curious round structure with columns on the outside and a bulbous roof. She could see, as well, the fountain that lay before it, a clear pool whose surface rippled as if in a breeze. “I’ve heard that such a building lay in the center of this place,” Macenion went on. “From it, passages lead to the vaults below and to other buildings. I’m sure that the being we are to help is trapped somewhere below; this is the surest way down.”
Paks frowned. “If so, it’s known to others, as well. To the enemy of that being, for instance. I’d rather not go in by such a public entrance.”
“Scared?” Macenion’s face twisted in a sneer. He glanced at her sword, then back at her face.
Paks fought back an angry retort. “No,” she said quietly. “Not any more scared than you, with your pale face. But you brought a soldier along for a soldier’s skills, and I learned in my first campaign that you don’t go in the door that the enemy expects. Not if you want to live to have your share of the loot.”
Macenion flushed in his turn, and scowled. “Well, that’s the only way down that I know how to find. Besides, in my dream, this was shown as the way.”
“Did your dream show both of us going in that way?”
“How else?”
“You hadn’t thought we might need a rear guard?”
“What for?”
“What for?” Paks glared at Macenion. “Haven’t you any experience? Suppose that whatever-it—is, that evil thing, has its own way to the surface. It could come after us, and attack from the rear, or trap us underground.”
“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t—couldn’t—”
“Like you were sure about the other things? No, Macenion, I’m not going down there without knowing a little more about it. Surely your magic can show you something, or guard the way behind us.”
Macenion looked thoughtful. “If you insist, I suppose I can think of something. It might be better, after all—” He burrowed into his tunic, then gave Paks a sharp look. “You can walk around a bit—look for another entrance—”
“I wish you’d quit worrying. I’m not another magician, and I couldn’t use anything I might see.”
Macenion drew himself up. “It’s a matter of principle.”
Paks snorted, but moved away. She decided to take the pack off Star and see if there was anything she might want to take underground. Macenion, she noticed, hadn’t thought of that. As she went through their gear, she wondered again what she was doing following such a person. She did not like the thought of going underground, in an unknown place against unknown dangers, at all. Especially with someone like Macenion. Perhaps with a squad of the Duke’s Company, but a single half-elf? But a scene from her dream recurred: after victorious combat, she was receiving the homage of those who had asked her help—she was given a new weapon, of exquisite workmanship, and a suit of magical armor. Honor—glory—her reputation made, as a fighter. She shook her head, driving the vision away. A chance for glory, Stammel had always said, was a chance to be killed unpleasantly. Still—she had left the Company to seek adventure and fame and a chance to fight for such causes as now lay before her. Could she miss the chance? She piled on one side the things she thought would be useful, and made the rest into a small bundle.