Paks thought about that in silence. When she turned her head to speak, the Kuakgan was gone. She thought about it some more as she waited for him to return.
When he came, he was accompanied by another, clearly of elven blood. Paks scrambled to her feet awkwardly; she had seen no one but the Kuakgan all this time.
“This is Paksenarrion,” he said to the elf. “She was gravely wounded by the dark cousins—” The elf murmured something softly, and the Kuakgan frowned. “You know the truth, Haleron; they are no myth. Paksenarrion, this is Haleron, an elf from Lyonya. He tells me that the rangers in the southern hills there are looking for new members. I think that would suit you; the outdoor work would restore your strength, and they will hire you on my recommendation.”
Paks was so surprised that she could not speak. The elf frowned at her, and turned to the Kuakgan.
“We have no need of the weak,” he said in elven. “Let her find another place to regain her strength. And is she not the one I heard of, from Fin Panir, who—”
Paks felt a wave of anger, the first in months. “May it please you, sir,” she said in her best elven, “but I would not have you think me an eavesdropper later.”
He stared at her. “My pardon, lady, for the discourtesy. I didn’t know you were learned in our language.”
“She knows more than that,” said the Kuakgan. “And I assure you that she is quite strong enough for your woods work.” He and the elf stared at each other; Paks could feel the battle of wills. The elf seemed to glow with his intensity; the Kuakgan grew more and more solid, like a tree. At last the elf shook his head.
“The power of the Kuakkganni is from the roots of the world.” It sounded like a quote. The elf turned to Paks. “Lady, the rangers are in need of aid. If indeed you seek such employment, and have the skills of warfare, we would be glad to have your assistance.”
Paks looked at the Kuakgan. His face was closed; she felt shut out of his warmth into darkness. She thought of the things he’d said, and sighed. If he turned her out . . .
“I would be glad to aid the true elves,” she said carefully, “in any good enterprise.” She shot a quick glance at the Kuakgan; his eyes were alight, though his face showed no expression.
The elf nodded. “Very well. I leave at dusk—unless you require more rest—if you are weak—?”
Paks felt fine. “No. I’d like to eat first.”
“Of course. And pack your things, no doubt.”
“I have none.” She thought of her pack, cloak, and clothes, but did not even glance toward the Kuakgan. The elf raised his eyebrows. She stared back at him in silence.
“And where, Master Oakhallow, shall we eat?” the elf asked.
“Oh, at the inn, I think.” He was watching Paks; she could feel the weight of his eyes. She swallowed, and braced herself for that ordeal.
But, in fact, it was no ordeal. No one seemed to notice her on the street, though several people glanced sideways at the elf. At The Jolly Potboy, the elf and the Kuakgan argued briefly and quietly over who would pay, and the elf finally won. She kept her eyes on the table at first, concentrating on the good food, but finally looked around.
The inn was not crowded, as it would be later, but she saw one or two familiar faces. Mal leaned on the wall, as usual, with a tankard at his elbow. Hebbinford’s mother, in the corner, knitted on another scarf. Sevri darted through on her way outside; she had grown two fingers, at least, since Paks had seen her. But no one seemed to recognize Paks, and she relaxed. She listened to the talk, the clatter of dishes—so loud, after the Kuakgan’s grove—but it didn’t frighten her as it had. She almost wished someone would call her by name. Almost. The Kuakgan ordered tarts for dessert. The elf leaned back in his seat, and glanced around the room. Paks watched him covertly. He was a half head taller than she, with dark hair and sea-green eyes. The leather tunic he wore over shirt and trousers had dark wear-marks at shoulder and waist: Paks decided these were from swordbelt and bow. He caught her looking at him and smiled.
“May I ask, lady, where you learned our language?”
“I was honored with the instruction of a true elf from the southern mountains.” If he knew she came from Fin Panir, he would know that already.
“You speak it well for a human. Most are too hasty to take time for it.”
“Paksenarrion, though a human warrior, knows the folly of haste,” said the Kuakgan. Paks looked at him, and he smiled at her, lifting his mug of ale.
“That is a wonder,” said the elf. “Are the younger races finally learning patience of the elder?” He was watching the Kuakgan.
“From experience,” said the Kuakgan. “Where all who know it learned it. Surely elves have not forgotten their own early days?”
“Alas, no. However remote, the memory remains.” He turned to Paks. “I beg pardon again, lady, for any discourtesy.”
“I took no offense,” said Paks carefully. She wondered if the Kuakgan and the elf were old enemies. Surely the Kuakgan wouldn’t send her to someone evil. She thought of their last conversation and wondered.
As they came out of the inn, the sun dropped behind the high hills to the southwest. A group of soldiers from the keep was coming down the north road toward the crossing; despite herself, Paks shivered.
“Are you cold?” asked the elf.
“No. Just a thought.” She looked at the Kuakgan. He smiled.
“If you come this way again, Paksenarrion, you will be welcome in the grove.”
“I thank you, sir. I—” But he was already moving away, nodding to the approaching soldiers, waving to a child in a doorway.
“We’d best be going,” said the elf quietly. “I mean no discourtesy, but we have far to go, and if you have been unwell you may find it difficult to travel at my pace.”
Paks tore her gaze away from the Kuakgan. She had not thought to part so soon. “I—yes, that’s fine. I’m ready.”
“You have nothing to take with you? Nothing at all?”
“No. What I have, I’m wearing.”
“Hmmph. Those boots won’t last the trip.”
Paks looked at her feet. “I’ve worn worse for longer.”
The elf laughed, that silvery sound she remembered so well. “Very well, then. Come along; we go this way first.” She started a pace behind him, then caught up. They were walking east out of Brewersbridge, on the road she had come in on a year and a half before. The Kuakgan’s grove was on her left, dark and alarming in the evening light. On the right were cottages: she tried to remember who the people were. The woman in the second one had knitted socks for her, socks that had lasted until this last winter.
Past the last plowed field, with the young grain like green plush, the elf turned aside from the road.
“This way is the shortest for us, and we will meet no other travelers. Follow in my footsteps, and they will guide your way.”
Paks did not like that instruction, but she did not want to start an argument, either. She wanted to think about the Kuakgan, and what he had done, and why. She dropped behind the elf as he started across a sheep pasture. The sky was still pale, and she could see her way well enough. As the evening haze darkened, though, she saw that the elf’s footsteps were marked in a pale glow. When she stepped there, she found a firm flat foothold.
By dawn she was heavily tired, stumbling even as she followed his tracks. She had no idea how far they had come, or which direction: she had not been able to check that by the stars and see his steps at the same time. But she had smelled woods, then grassland, then woods again.
“We will rest here awhile,” the elf was saying.
Paks looked around. They were in open woodland; clumps of trees left irregular meadows between. The elf had found a spreading oak near a brook, and was spreading his cloak on the ground. Paks stretched her arms overhead and arched her back. Those casual strolls around the grove had not prepared her for such a long march. Her legs ached, and she knew they would be stiff after a rest.