In the snowy darkness, Paks could not tell how long the elf was gone. She lapsed into a doze, hardly aware of her surroundings. She was roused by a hand on her shoulder.
“Awake, warrior. You will need this—” and a hot mug pressed against her lips. She swallowed, still half asleep, and found the taste strange but pleasant. Slowly her drifting mind came back to her. She tried to sit up on her own, but was still too weak. The elves had pitched a shelter over her, and a tiny fire flickered in one corner, under a pot.
“You still need healing,” said the elf leader. “I admit surprise, Paksenarrion. I would not have believed such a thing without proof. The banast taig freed to be the elfane taig again, and the pollution gone from its heart! We rejoice to know that. But you have taken more damage from that combat than you know; humans cannot fight evil of that power unscathed. Without healing, you would die before daylight.”
Paks could not think what to say. She felt weak, and a little sick, but no worse than that. She had no idea what “banast taig” and “elfane taig” were; the being that had summoned them had never named itself to her. As the elf seemed waiting for something, she finally asked, “Was—did you find out about Macenion?”
“Macenion!” It was very nearly a snort. “That one! The elfane taig buried him cleanly with his orcish murderers; he is well enough.”
“But he was an elf—half-elf, I meant. I thought you would—”
“Macenion a half-elf? Did he tell you that?” Paks nodded, and the elf leader frowned. “No, little one, he was not half-elven—not a quarter elven, either. He had so much elven as might your pack pony have of racing blood.”
“But he said—” Paks broke off. It was hard to talk, and she realized that Macenion’s behavior made more sense the less elven he was.
“He lied. What did he tell you, Paksenarrion, to get you into that valley?”
“That—his elven cousins—denied him his rights to elven things. That he knew of—treasure there—that should be his.”
“Did he not warn you of evil at all?”
“Yes—but he said his magical talents could fight that; he needed a warrior for protection against—physical things. Like the orcs.”
“I see that you speak truly. I apologize, Paksenarrion, for the untruth of this distant cousin; it shames me that any elven blood could lie so.”
“That’s—all right.” Paks felt as if she were slipping down a long dark slope.
“No! By the gods of men and elves, we shall redeem the word of our cousin.” And the elf shook her again, lifting her up until she could drink from a cup one of the others held. The darkness crept back. The elven faces came back into focus. Then one of them laid his hand on her head, and began to sing. She had never heard anything like that, and in trying to follow the song she forgot what was happening. Suddenly she felt a wave of strength and health surge through her. The elf removed his hand, and smiled at her.
“Is that better now?”
“Yes—much better.” Paks sat up, and stretched. She felt well and rested, better than she’d felt in days.
“Good. It will be day, soon, and we must be going. We have much to say to you in the few hours left us.”
The snow had stopped before dawn. A light wind tore the last clouds to shreds and let the first sunlight glitter on the snow. In daylight the elves bade her farewell, and Paks saw their beauty clearly. She felt ashamed to have thought Macenion elvish-looking. One of them caught her thought, and laughed, the sound chiming down the long slope.
“No—don’t be sorry, fair warrior. Your eyes saw truly, to find what was there in so little. Remember what we have told you, and fare well.”
And as she turned to climb the slope upward to the ridge and the trail the elves had spoken of, she felt far distant from the self of yesterday. She felt a surge of the same spirit that had sent her away from home in the first place, a sense of adventure and excitement. Anything might happen—anything had happened. She still found it difficult to think clearly what it was—what nature of thing she and Macenion had fought against, and what had helped her at the end. The words elfane taig meant nothing to her. The elves’ explanation meant very little more.
But she was on a trail once more, alive and eager to be going. Star moved slowly, burdened heavily by the gifts of the elfane taig. Paks had transferred some of that to her own back. The pony snorted a little with each heave of her hindquarters. Paks grinned to herself. No more mountains, they had told her. These, that would have been mountains anywhere else, counted as foothills, and in another two days she would be in the gentler lowland slopes.
On the far side of the ridge, only a few patches of snow whitened the trail, and by noon these had melted. Now other trees mingled with the pointed evergreens—duller greens, more rounded shapes. Paks did not need her cloak for warmth. She was alert for danger, but the elves had told her that they sensed nothing dire moving in the area. She hoped they were right. As far as she could see, the forested slopes wove into each other endlessly, the trail angling down one and up another, always edging west and north.
Her solitary camp that night was almost too silent. She had resented Macenion’s lectures—yet to sit alone, in the middle of a vast wilderness, was worse than anything he had ever said to her. She doused her tiny fire early, and sat awake a long time, staring at the stars. The night was half gone when she realized that she was missing more than Macenion. She had never, in her life, spent an entire night alone like this. Not even once had she slept outside, out of hearing or sight of others. The thought itself made her shiver, and she got up to check on Star. The pony’s warm rough mane reassured her. She looked at the stars again, her hands still tangled in Star’s mane. The night sky seemed to go on forever, up and up without ending, as if the stars were sewn on veils that lay one behind another. She looked for Torre’s Necklace; it was still behind the mountains. Of the other stars she knew nothing.
A breeze slid lightly along the ground, chilling her. Star moved away from her hand, and lowered her head to graze. Paks went back to the blankets she’d laid out. A wild animal cried out in the distance; she stiffened, but no sound followed. Paks felt an urge to take out Canna’s medallion; her hand found her pouch before she thought. Her fingers touched it, smoothed the crescent shape. When she pulled it out, Saben’s little horse came along; the thongs were tangled. She woke stiff and cold in the morning, with Star nosing her face, and the horse and crescent still clutched in her hand.
That day warmed quickly. Paks looked over the whole treasure she had been given, and made her first estimate of its value. She had not realized what she’d taken—it was too much—it shouldn’t be hers. But she could not return to the elfane taig with it, that was certain. She thought the elves must have examined it as well, and if they said nothing about it. . . . Sunlight glittered on the items she’d laid in the grass—the ruby-decorated dagger and sheath, the gold and jewel inlaid battleaxe, gold and silver coins, both familiar in stamp and strange, a set of chainmail that felt oddly light when she lifted it, and looked as if it would fit. She thought about that, looked around, and tried it on. It did fit—perfectly—which made her scowl, thinking. Where had she heard of enchanted mail, evil stuff—? But when she reached for Canna’s medallion, nothing happened; it felt easy in her hand. Was it dress mail, then, good for nothing? She tried her own dagger on the sleeve, notching the dagger. Lightweight, the right size—she scowled again, but kept it on. Over it she put on the best clothes she had—not that any of them looked like much, she thought ruefully, remembering the money she’d spent in Sord to outfit herself.
It was late when she started moving again, and she traveled slowly, as much for her own benefit as the pony’s. She was beginning to wonder what she would find when she came out of the wilderness into settled lands again. The elves had been quite specific in their directions—go to Brewersbridge, they had said, by this trail, and tell the Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya about the elfane taig. But they would say no more about either Master Oakhallow or the Marshal, or why these would want to know about events so far away.