“It is customary to place one’s offering in the basin.” The voice rang deep and resonant, complex. Paks jerked her head up and found herself face to face with a tall, dark-faced man in a hooded robe of greens and browns. Her heart leaped against her ribs; she felt sweat spring out on her back. She had heard nothing.
“Sir, I—” she swallowed, as her voice failed, and tried again. “Sir, I know not what offerings would be acceptable—to a Kuakgan.”
The heavy brows arched. “Oh? And why would one with no knowledge of Kuakkganni come seeking one?”
Paks found it hard to meet those dark eyes. “Sir, I was told to.”
“By whom?”
“By the elves, sir.” Paks did not miss the sudden shift of shoulders, the movement of brows and eyelids.
“Go on, then. What elves, and why?”
“Sir, the elves of the Ladysforest. The one who sent me said that he was of the family of Sialinn.”
“And his message?”
“That the elfane taig was once more awake, and lost elf freed.”
“Ahh. That is news indeed. And did he chance on you, to be his messenger, or had he other reasons?”
“I had been there—” Paks began to shiver, remembering as if it were happening the final conflict in the round chamber.
“Hmmm. So there is more reason than chance. Well, then, I’ll have your name, wanderer, and you shall indeed offer something to the peace of the grove which you displace.”
“My name is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—”
“From the northwest, by your patronymic. And for an offering, what have you?”
Paks pulled the little pouch out of her tunic. “Sir, as I said, I do not know what would please—but I have these—” She poured out on her palm the largest jewels from the treasure.
“Any would be acceptable,” said the Kuakgan. “Place your offering in the basin.” Paks wondered why he did not simply take one, but chose a green stone from them and set it carefully at the base of the bowl. The others she returned to the pouch.
“And I,” said the Kuakgan as if continuing a sentence, “am Master Oakhallow. As you knew, a Kuakgan. But I think you must have strange ideas, child, of what Kuakkganni are—what, then?”
To her surprise, Paks found herself telling her grandfather’s lore. “And he said, sir, that—that Kuakkganni ate babies—sir—at the dark of midwinter.”
“Babies!” The Kuakgan sounded more amused than angry. “That old tale still! No, child, we don’t eat babies. We don’t even kill babies. In fact, if you use that sword you’re wearing for anything but decoration, I daresay you’ve spilled more blood than I have.”
Paks stared at him. Despite the undertone of amusement in his voice, he still radiated power. She wondered if he could tell what she was thinking. Macenion had said that wizards could—were Kuakkganni the same?
“Are you a warrior?” he pursued, when she said nothing.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm. And involved somehow in the wakening of the elfane taig. Well, then, tell this tale: where are you from that you came to that dread valley, and what happened?”
Paks looked again at his face, trying to gauge his mood. She could have done as well with a stone, she thought, or a tree. His dark eyes seemed to compel her to go on. She began, haltingly enough, to explain that she had left a mercenary company in Aarenis to return to the north. When she came to tell of her companion, the Kuakgan stopped her abruptly.
“Who did you say? Macenion? He said he was an elf?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks wondered at his expression. “Later he said he was but half-elven—”
“Half-elf! Hmmph! No wonder the elves sent you here.” He motioned for her to continue. She went on to tell of the early part of their journey, at first slowly, but warming up to it when describing Macenion’s behavior among the wardstones. Her resentment flared again: he had lied to her, he had pretended to knowledge he didn’t have, he might have gone on and left her. . . . She stopped abruptly, at the look on the Kuakgan’s face. Suddenly that quarrel seemed silly, like the attempt of a half-drunken private to explain to Stammel that a drinking companion was really to blame. She rushed on, skimping the rest. This was no time to bring up the snowcat. Then she came to Macenion’s decision to enter the valley of the elfane taig.
“He said whatever was there wouldn’t hurt me, because I was human, and the power was elvish. He said that the elves had tried to keep him away out of jealousy, but he knew he could control whatever evil was there, and regain his inheritance.”
“And what did you think, human warrior?” Paks could not tell if his deep voice was scornful or merely interested. She felt the same confusion at his questions as at the elves’ persistent interrogation. Why would anyone expect her to have an opinion about something like the elfane taig? She explained about the dreams, and Macenion’s confidence in his own wizardry.
“Did you trust him?” asked the Kuakgan, in the same tone.
Paks remembered too well the sinking feeling she’d had as they entered the outer wards. But he had died well; if he had lived, she would have trusted him more. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He could be good with a sword. And he could make light, and windshift, and that.”
The Kuakgan looked at her closely. “Don’t lie to me, child. Did you truly trust him, as you would have trusted a member of your old company?”
“No, sir.” Paks stared down at the grass blades between her feet.
“And yet you went with him, knowing that powers a human should not face lay below?” Put that way, her decision sounded worse than foolish.
“Not knowing, sir.” She took another breath, and tried to explain. “I felt danger, and was worried, but I didn’t know what we faced. And we had traveled together for weeks. Besides, he knew more than I—”
The Kuakgan frowned. “You said that before. You seem to be convinced of it. And so you followed this so-called half-elf, whom you did not trust, into unknown dangers. Followed him, it seems, even to the depths of that ruin?”
“Yes, sir.” She went on with her story, not quite sure how much detail to put in. When she came to her first sight of the old elf-lord, she stopped short, trembling and sweating. She could scarcely get her breath, and her vision blurred.
“No,” came a firm voice, like a command, and a sharp scent tickled her nose. She took a long breath, and saw the Kuakgan’s brown hand beneath her face, tough fingers twisting some aromatic gray herb. “You must tell this tale,” he said, “but I will make it easier. Sit there, on the pool’s edge.” Paks sank down, her sword banging against her leg. The Kuakgan scattered more leaves on the pool, and their scent seemed to clear her head. “Now,” he said above her. “Now go on.”
She was able to continue by clenching her mind to the task, forcing out the words phrase by phrase. Since her wakening to the elves’ care, she had carefully avoided those memories, and they lay bright and sharp as shards of glass, still painful. She could see the elf-lord’s ravaged face, the strange blue flames, the very chips and notches on the orcs’ weapons. Their stench sickened her; their hoarse cries rasped her ears. Macenion’s body lay once more dead at her feet.
“We couldn’t stay together,” said Paks bleakly, unaware of the tears that ran from her closed eyes. “I tried to stay near him, but—”
“Enough.” A strong hand gripped her shoulder. “And what of the elfane taig?”
“The elfane taig?”
“That which you freed.”
She had never understood what happened at the end; describing it clearly was impossible. But again the disgusting touch of whatever she had had to take shriveled her mind. And then, with relief, she told of the escape, of the journey from the valley, and the falling snow.