Much of this Paks did not understand, but she liked the idea that the High Lord might be the same as Adyan and Sertig. She finished her sib, and went to her post, on the south end of the camp.
The nearest watchfires burned low, scarcely more than a heap of coals, for they had found little wood to burn. High Marshal Connaught had told them to keep wood back, in case of trouble. A chill wind drifted down from the higher land; Paks heard a distant moan where it poured over the lip of the valley into the lower canyons beyond. One of the other watchers coughed; a horse stamped. She thought of Socks, tethered with the others at the north end of the camp, just under the bluff they would climb in the morning. Against the bright starry sky, the eastern cliff loomed, a black presence. It was strange to camp so near a stream and hear no water sounds, but the sand-choked flow moved silently. Something hissed along the sand near her; Paks jumped and looked around. Nothing. Her scalp itched; she pushed her helmet back again to scratch.
All at once the night was full of dark fighters, striking at every post. Paks yelled, with the other sentries, and the camp crashed into wakefulness. Someone threw wood on the nearest fire; by that light she saw the iynisin eyes gleaming under their hoods. She could not tell how many attackers they fought. Blades swept toward her out of the dark; she felt the force of their blows stinging along her arm as she countered them. Something struck her head. Her helmet, still loosely set on her head, bounced off, and her long braid thumped on her back. She had no hand free to find the helmet; several swords faced her. The iynisin cried aloud in their beautiful voices, words she should know—but she was fighting too hard to translate. She was forced back—and back again. Then her foot came down on something that rolled beneath it, and she fell, trying desperately to tuck and come up, but the heavy sand caught her. A great weight fell on her, forcing her face into the sand. Before she choked, she felt a blow to her head, and nothing.
The attackers fled as swiftly as they had come. When High Marshal Connaught called the roll, four failed to answer. Sir Joris was dead, with an arrow through his eye. Two of the men-at-arms had suffered mortal wounds. And Paksenarrion had disappeared. They found her helmet, and her sword, but no trace of her.
25
At first Paks was hardly aware that she was aware. It was dark and cold and the stone beneath her was hard and slightly gritty. She wondered vaguely if she was dreaming about the cells under the Duke’s Stronghold. She tried to move, and a savage pain shot through her head. Not a dream. It was hard to think. Dark. Cold. Stone. She felt about with one hand. It met a wall rising from the surface she lay on. Fighting nausea from the pain in her head, she struggled to sit up and feel about her. Wall—another wall—yet another. All were stone; she could not feel any joints. Solid stone? She could not remember what might have happened—where she might be.
As she moved, she realized that her skin itched and stung as if she had rolled in nettles. She reached up to see what she had on—a tunic of some kind. It felt scratchy. She grew aware of something uncomfortable around her throat—something heavy, and slightly tight. And cold uncomfortable bands around her wrists and ankles. She reached to feel the thing at her throat. Pain stabbed her fingers, and she jerked them back with a gasp. Her throat tingled; it was hard to swallow.
For a few moments she held very still, fighting a rising panic. She tried to remember anything at all that would give her a clue to where she was. She thought again of the Duke’s Stronghold. That wasn’t right. A caravan. A caravan where she was riding, not walking. A tall black horse with white stockings and a blaze. My horse, she thought. All right . . . what next? She thought of gold, and at once remembered Amberion on his chestnut, remembered his name and the nature of the quest. She pushed at the cloud across her memory. They had been—coming into a canyon. No, they were in it. A day later—smoke from the cliffs, arrows—but nothing more. She remembered Ardhiel saying something about the black cousins, the iynisi the elves did not like to remember.
Suddenly she thought where she must be. Underground, taken by the iynisin. She felt around frantically for her weapons. They were gone. Of course, she thought. No sword, no battle axe, no armor—and no medallion of Gird. All gone.
She found herself breathing rapidly, almost gasping, and tried to regain control of herself. Think about it, she told herself. No, think about the others. Do they know? Will they come? Can they come? They will come, she thought hopefully. They won’t leave me here; they will come. She tried to picture them, fighting their way down tunnels to find her. What if they fail? her mind asked suddenly. What if we all die under these rocks, and no one ever knows what happened? She tried to call on Gird, but something about the place—the quality of the silence, perhaps—stopped the words at her lips, and she could not say Gird’s name aloud.
Yet thinking about Gird and Amberion helped. Whatever happens, she thought—and forced back the imagination of what might happen—I am a warrior of Gird. Whether I can fight my way free or not, I can fight to the end. She remembered Ambros falling as he gave the deathstroke to Achrya’s priest. That would not be so bad. Any soldier expected to die someday. She had heard tales enough, in Fin Panir, of paladins and knights fighting against impossible odds, for the glory of Gird. For a moment she saw herself, fighting alone against—what?—she imagined many black-cloaked swordsmen—in a blaze of light.
Paks leaned on the wall and pushed herself up, dizzy as she was. Much better standing. The darkness was more than absence of light; it had a malign and bitter flavor. She edged around the walls, feeling her way along the stone. Wall. Wall—and something other than stone, colder than stone, and smooth. She felt along its edge. A door? Yes. Iron, she thought. She could find nothing but a smooth surface: no bars, no grill, nothing but the smooth metal itself until it met stone. Panic rose again. Suppose they just left her there forever?
You’re not a silly recruit any more, she told herself firmly. Don’t think of that. And if it happens, it happens. She moved past the door, feeling for hinges, but found none. Without that clue, she could not tell which way the door would open—could not even try to surprise someone coming in. She went on around to the next corner, and the next—which would be opposite the door, she thought—and leaned into it. It was hard to keep her eyes open in the dark. She felt herself slipping down the wall, and straightened with a jerk. Whenever they come, she vowed, they will find me on my feet.
Despite that vow, she woke on the floor of the cell when she heard scraping outside the door. She made it up before the door swung open, but her heart was racing, shaking her body, and her mouth was dry. She squinted against the light that poured in—a lurid yellow-green blaze. Something stank. Facing her was a tall slender figure, caped and cowled in black, face hidden by the shadow of its cowl. Evil radiated from it as it entered the cell. On its chest was a silver carved spider, a handspan across, hanging from a silver chain. Paks moved her hand in the warding sign she had learned as a child. The figure laughed, a liquid sound that would have been beautiful but for the evil aura.