“Really, Paksenarrion,” said Macenion loftily. “You must realize that I haven’t time to explain everything to you. But I do know more about this sort of thing than any human, let alone a very young soldier. You must simply take my word for it that we are in no danger from these stones. The power is long past. And even if it weren’t—” he fixed her with a glance from his brilliant eyes, then tapped his wallet suggestively. “I have spells here to protect us from such as these.”
Paks found nothing to say to this. She could not tell whether Macenion really knew about such magic, or whether it was all idle boasting, but her bones tingled as they passed between the wardstones, rank after rank. Did Macenion not feel it because of his greater powers? Or perhaps because of his duller perceptions? She did not care to find out. For the next hour, as they climbed between the stones, she thought as little as possible, and resisted the temptation to draw her sword.
They were nearly free of the stone ranks when Paks heard a sharp cry from behind. Before she thought, she whirled, snatching her sword free of the scabbard. Macenion was down, sprawled on the rocky trail, his face contorted with pain. When he saw her standing with naked sword in hand, he gave another cry.
“No! No weapons!” He was pale as milk, now. Paks felt, rather than heard, a resonant thrum from around them. She spared a quick look around the valley, and saw nothing but the shimmer of the sun on many stones. She moved lightly toward Macenion.
“Don’t worry,” she said, grinning at him. “It’s not drawn for you. What happened?”
“Sheathe it,” he said. “Hurry!”
Paks was in no mood to listen to him. She felt much better with her sword in hand. “Why?” she asked. “Here, let me help you up.” But Macenion had scrambled away from her, and now staggered to his feet, breathing hard. She noticed that he put little weight on his left foot. “Are you hurt?”
“Paksenarrion, listen to me. Sheathe that sword. At once.” He was staring behind her, over her shoulder.
“Nonsense,” said Paks briskly. “It’s you that’s being silly now.” She still felt a weight of menace, but it was bearable as long as she had her weapons ready. “Come—let’s be going. Or shall I bring Star, and let you ride?”
“We must—hurry, Paksenarrion. Maybe there will be time—” He lurched toward her, and she offered her left arm. He flinched from it, and started to circle her. Paks turned, scanning the valley again. Still nothing. Sun glittered off the wardstones, seemed to shimmer as thick as mist between them. She shook her head to clear her vision. Macenion was already a few yards ahead of her.
“Wait, now—” she called. “Let me lead, where I can guard you.” But at her call Macenion stumbled on even faster. He reached the horses, and clung to Windfoot’s saddle as he clapped Star on the rump. Paks lengthened her stride, angry now, and muttering curses at cowardly elves. The quality of light altered, as if to match her mood, rippling across the stones. Paks was too angry to be frightened, but she moved faster. For an instant Macenion turned a white face back toward her; she saw his eyes widen. Then he screamed and flailed forward. Paks did not look back; she broke into a run as Macenion and the animals took off up the trail. She felt a building menace behind her, rising swiftly to a peak that demanded action.
As they passed the last pair of stones, the light seemed to fail for an instant, as if someone had filled the valley with thick blue smoke. Then a blaze of white light, brighter than sunlight, flashed over them. Paks saw her shadow, black as night, thrown far ahead on the trail. A powerful blow in the back sent her sprawling face-down on the trail; she had no time to see what had happened to Macenion or the horses. Choking dust rose in clouds, and heavy thunder rumbled through her body. Then it was gone, and silence returned. From very far away, she heard the scream of a hawk.
When Paks caught her breath and managed to rise to her feet, she saw nothing behind or before her on the trail. Afternoon shadows had begun to stripe the narrow valley; shadows of the stones latticed the trail itself. Ahead, upslope, the trail was scuffed and torn where Macenion and the horses had fled. Paks scowled at the place the trail disappeared behind a fold of mountain. Alone, in unknown wilderness, without supplies or her pony. . . . She looked back at the valley and shook her head. She knew without thinking about it that she had no escape that way. And perhaps she could catch up to Macenion—he had been limping, she remembered.
In fact, by the time she reached the turn that left the valley safely behind, she could hear him, coaxing the horses to come. When she trudged around the last rocks, she saw him, limping heavily, trying to grab Windfoot’s rein. The horse edged sideways, nervous, keeping just out of reach. Paks eyed the situation for a moment before speaking.
“Would you like some help, Macenion?”
He whipped around, nearly falling, his mouth open. Then he glared at her. “You fool!” he said. Paks had not expected that; she felt her ears burning. He went on. “What did I tell you—and you had to keep waving that sword!”
“You told me there wasn’t any danger,” snapped Paks, furious.
“There wasn’t, until you drew your sword,” he said. “If you had only—”
“What did you think I’d do, when you let out a yell?”
“You?” He sniffed, twitching his cape on his shoulders. “I should have realized the first thing a fighter would do would be draw steel—”
“Of course,” said Paks, struggling to keep calm. “You hadn’t said a word about not drawing, either.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” muttered Macenion. “I never dreamed you would, for no reason like that—” Paks snorted, and he went on hurriedly. “If we went through quietly, nothing would happen—”
“You told me nothing could happen.” Paks felt the length of her blade, lightly, to see that it was unharmed, then slid it into the scabbard. “If you’d warned me, I wouldn’t have drawn. I don’t like liars, Macenion.” She looked hard at him. “Or cowards. Did you even look to see if I was still alive?”
“I’m no liar. I just didn’t think you needed to know.” He looked aside a moment. “And I was coming back as soon as I caught Windfoot or Star, to find you—or bury you.”
Paks was not at all sure she believed that. “Thanks,” she said dryly. “Why did you choose this path—the real reason, this time.”
“I told you: it’s shorter. And there are ruins—”
“And?”
“And I’d heard of this place.”
Paks snorted again. “I’ll warrant you had. So you wandered in to see what it looked like, eh?”
“I knew what it looked like.” He glared at her. “Don’t look at me like that, human. You nearly got us both killed—”
“Because you didn’t tell me the truth.”
“Because all you thought of was fighting—weapons. I knew what it looked like because I’d spoken to someone who was here—”
“It wasn’t you, I suppose, two lifetimes ago, or something?”
“No. It was—a cousin of mine. She said it was quite safe for peaceful folk.” He emphasized peaceful. Paks had nothing more to say for the moment. She looked at Windfoot, and spotted Star behind a screen of trees. She clucked softly, holding out her hand. Windfoot looked from her to Macenion, and took a few steps back down the trail. Paks stepped into the middle of it, and clucked again. Windfoot’s ears came up; the horse looked at her. Paks walked forward, and took the dangling rein in her hand. The other rein was broken near the bit ring. Macenion was staring at her strangely; she handed him the rein without comment, and called Star. The pony nickered, pushing through the undergrowth. Once out of the trees, she came to Paks at once, pushing her head into Paks’s chest.
“All right, all right.” Paks untied one side of the pack, and pulled out an apple. They were going soft anyway. “Here.” The pony wrapped her lip around the apple and crunched it, dribbling pungent bits of apple from her mouth. Windfoot whuffled, watching Star, and Paks dug out another apple for the horse. “How’s your foot?” she asked Macenion, who had watched this silently. “I saw you were limping.”