Divided Allegiance

4

Paks had not slept well since the killing of the snowcat. Despite Macenion’s sarcastic reassurance, she knew that she had dishonored her sword, and the ring she had used. She had stayed with him only because she had no other guide out of the mountains. Now, as they came through a gap in the trees into yet another narrow valley, she wondered whether she should refuse to accompany him any farther. Surely here, with the bulk of the mountains behind her, she could find her own way north.

“Well, indeed—” said Macenion, in a tone that meant he wished to be asked what he meant.

“Well, what?” Paksenarrion turned half away from him, and bent to check her pony’s hooves.

“It’s what I hoped to find—the right valley.”

Paksenarrion looked at the valley, this time, and saw, in its widest span, a group of stone piles. “More of your ruins?” she asked sourly.

“Much more important,” said Macenion. He was grinning again, and when he caught her eye he winked. “Didn’t I say there was treasure to be won in these mountains?”

“You’ve said a lot.” Paks had turned back to Star, and was adjusting the ropes on her pack.

Macenion sighed. “Come now, don’t be tiresome. You’re carrying a new sword, for one thing, and—”

Paks knew Macenion had parted with the elf-wrought blade, if it was one, only because he wanted to soothe her after the snowcat’s murder. The sword felt well enough—it was better than the one she’d bought—but she resented the whole incident. And she wasn’t about to be grateful.

“And you say there’s more. And, as usual, you want me to bodyguard you while we get it—right?”

“I will need your help.” Macenion sighed again. “Paks, I’m sorry about the snowcat. I didn’t know you’d feel that way—”

“I’d have thought an elf would—”

“So my human parentage betrayed me. It’s not the first time. But listen, at least, before you stalk off in outrage.”

Paks looked around at the tree-clad slopes. She thought she saw a faint trail across from them, leading south, but she knew the ways of apparent trails that appeared and disappeared and tangled together. She shrugged and stared down at the ruins while Macenion talked.

“This valley,” he said, “is forbidden to elves. My mother’s cousin told me that, and also told me how to find it. He meant the directions to keep me away. But here is a great treasure—the stories are clear on that—and much of it is magical. Something happened here that the elves don’t want to talk about, and so they went away and never came back.”

“Elves lived here?” Paksenarrion frowned. “I thought they lived in forests, not stone buildings.”

“It’s true that elven cities are surrounded by trees and water, but they’re constructed, nonetheless.”

Despite herself, Paksenarrion was interested. “What happened, then? Why did the elves leave?”

“I don’t know.” The answer had come so fast that Paks disbelieved it and gave Macenion a sharp look. He spread his hands. “It’s true—I don’t know. I suspect, but I don’t know. They say they haven’t come back because the valley is haunted by evil, but I’m fairly sure that they just don’t like to admit mistakes.”

“You were more than fairly sure that the wardstones wouldn’t work any longer,” Paks reminded him. Macenion scowled.

“This is different,” said Macenion loftily. “Those were human artifacts. This is elven. My elven blood will sense the truth—and my magic will enable us to pass safely what might be perilous for others.” He patted the pouch that held his magical apparatus. Paksenarrion said nothing. “And the treasures here are worth a risk. Elf-made weapons, Paks, and magic scrolls and wands: I’ve heard about them. They were all abandoned when the elves fled. My relatives—well, I hate to say anything bad about the elves, but they haven’t been any too generous with their goods. I feel I have a right to whatever I can find in there.” He nodded toward the ruins.

“But what about the evil whatever-it—is?”

“That’s why I’ve waited this long. First, my power as a mage is much greater now; I’ve spent years in study and practice, and I have some powerful new spells.” He showed her the polished end of a scroll case. “And, as well, I’m traveling with a very experienced and able warrior—you.”

“I see.”

“I’m quite sure that whatever is there—if anything—will be no match for the two of us.”

“What do you think is there?”

“Oh—if the underground passages are still open, some animals may have moved in. Perhaps even an orc or two. As for an evil power—” Macenion tilted his hand back and forth. “If it were very strong, I’d be aware of it here. And I’m not.”

Paksenarrion looked around again. She felt nothing. After the wardstones, she thought she might, if anything like that were going on. She touched her sword hilt for comfort. “Well, then, I suppose we could take a look.”

Macenion smiled, and turned to lead the way down.

It took longer than she expected. The path they had followed from the slopes above disappeared in a tangle of undergrowth that cloaked tumbled rocks as big as cattle. The sun had long disappeared behind the western peaks when they hacked their way free of the thorny stuff and found themselves on short rough turf still several hours away from the ruins. In fact, these were no longer visible; the floor of the valley was uneven.

“Let’s make camp,” said Paksenarrion. “It’d be full dark by the time we came to the ruins. The horses could use a rest, too.” Star had a long bleeding scratch down one leg, and Windfoot was streaked with sweat.

“I suppose so.” Macenion was staring toward the ruins. “I wish we could go right on, but—”

“Not in the dark,” said Paks firmly. He seemed to shake himself.

“You’re right.” Still he sat, facing west, silent, while Paks gathered wood from the brushy edge for a fire. She touched his arm when it was ready to light, and he jumped.

“The fire’s ready,” she said, pointing.

Macenion looked around at the gathering darkness, and threw back his cloak. He glanced up at Paks. “Perhaps tonight we should use the tinder-box.”

“You? The great magician?” Paksenarrion turned to the horses. “I thought you were sure it was safe.”

“There’s no sense making it obvious we’re here—just in case.”

“Then we shouldn’t have a fire at all.” Paks pulled her own pack near the stacked wood. “That’s fine with me; I know fires draw trouble.”

“Yes. Well—let’s not, then.” Macenion pulled his cloak around him again, and began to unload his horse. Paks eyed the hollow they were in. It was not particularly defensible, if Macenion thought they might be attacked. But when she asked, he was disinclined to move. Paks shrugged, and pulled her sword from its sheath. As the darkness closed in, the rasp of her whetstone on the blade seemed louder and louder. When she tested the blade, and found it well enough, she noticed how still the night was.

Paks woke in the first light of dawn; the peaks behind were just showing light instead of dark against the sky. For a moment or so she was not sure where she was. The visions of her dream were still brilliant before her eyes. She shook her head vigorously and rolled on her side, hardly surprised to find that she held her sword hilt in her hand. She looked toward Macenion, a dark shape in darkness. Was he stirring? She spoke his name softly.

“I’m coming!” His answer was a shout, and he sprang to his feet. “Begone, you foul—” She heard a gasp, and then, in a different voice, “By all the gods of elf and man, what was that?”

“I don’t know. I thought you were waking, and called, and you jumped up—”

“A dream.” Paks heard Macenion’s feet on the grass. “It must have been a dream.”

“What dream?” Paks wondered if this were a haunted place, a place that gave dreams. Hers had been vivid enough.

“It was—it’s hard to say. I felt something—almost as if—” He paused for a long moment. Paks tried to see his face in the dimness, but could not.

“I dreamed too,” she said finally. “A—I don’t know what to call it—a spirit of some sort, I suppose—was imprisoned, and calling for help—”

“Yes—and was there a yellow cloud that stank of evil?” Macenion’s voice sounded alert and eager.

“I saw no cloud,” replied Paks. “But something tall, in a yellow robe, with a staff. I wondered if it was an elf.”

“That was no elf, whatever it was. I must have seen the aura of power, and you saw the physical form. But it was evil, and the—” Macenion paused again as if searching for a word. “I can’t think,” he said finally. “I should know what it was, that was calling. Something to do with elves, and the places they’ve lived for long. It needs our help.”

“So that was a sent dream,” said Paks. “Not something we dreamed on our own.”

“It was sent, certainly,” said Macenion. “The question now is—”

“Who sent it.”

“No, I wasn’t worried about that. The question is, what do we do? I know what we should do, but—”

“I still want to know who sent it.”

“One of the gods, of course. Sertig or Adyan, probably. Who else would?”

“The—the thing itself? The one that needs our help? It might want us to come, and cause the dream.”

“Nonsense. If it’s strong enough to do that, it wouldn’t need our help against a mere sorcerer or wizard.”

“I don’t know—” Somehow Paksenarrion could not believe Macenion’s explanation. He had been wrong about so many things. She wished, not for the first time, that she knew more about the world beyond the Duke’s Company. She had not realized, until she left it, how little she had learned in three years of soldiering. For all she knew, Macenion himself could have caused the dream, to ensure that she would be willing to enter the ruins. She pushed that thought aside. Until they were clear of the mountains, she had no real choice; Macenion was the only available guide. Her hand found its way to the pouch that held Canna’s medallion. She stopped herself from taking it out, and squatted down to reroll her blankets.

“In your dream—did you—did it offer you any treasure?” Macenion, too was packing up.

Paks nodded, realized it was still too dark for him to see that gesture, and spoke instead. “Yes. I didn’t know what all of it was, but the weapons and armor were beautiful.”

“It can’t hurt, Paksenarrion, to take a look—” His voice was almost pleading.

Paks laughed despite her worries. “No, I suppose not. Don’t worry, Macenion, your hired blade is still here and won’t leave you. I’ve got more loyalty than that. But I hope you really do have the skill to handle whatever magic comes up.”

“I think so. I’m sure of it.” But his voice carried no certainty.

It took them most of the morning to reach the ruins. As they came nearer, Paks recognized that the grassy mound before them had been a defensive wall. They entered through a gap that had once been a gateway, still framed by tall upright stones. Although they were scarred as if they had been scorched, much of the decorative carving was still visible. Paks stood bemused, enjoying the intricacy of the interlacing designs, until Macenion touched her arm.

“It’s meant to do that,” he said, grinning. “Elves use patterns for control. In fact, elves taught men how to set the patterns for the wardstones. You’d better not let yourself look at any of the decoration that remains, just in case.”

Paks felt herself flush with embarrassment. She said nothing, but followed Macenion deeper into the complex of ruins, her hand on her sword.

Little remained but irregular mounds overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and there a bit of stone showed through, and a few doorways still stood wreathed in ivy. Although Paks could hear birdsong in the distance, the ruins themselves were quiet. No lizards sunned themselves on the mounds, to scuttle away as they passed. No rabbits found shelter in the occasional briar. Macenion moved almost as carefully as Paks could have wished, pausing beside each mound before crossing the next open space. As they went deeper into the complex, the silence grew more intense. The horses’ hooves made no noise on the turf. Paks could not bring herself to speak. The breath caught in her throat, but she could not cough. At last Macenion raised his hand for a halt. When he turned to look at her, his face looked pale. He swallowed visibly, then spoke, his voice soft.

“We’ll leave the horses here. They won’t stray. They have grass, and there’s a fountain ahead. I’ll put a spell on them, as well.”

Now that the silence had been broken, Paks found she could speak, though it was still an effort. “Have you found the way to what we’re looking for?”

“Yes. I think so. Look there—” Macenion pointed out one of the mounds ahead, and Paks saw that under an overgrowth of ivy and flowering briar (flowering? at this season?) it was almost intact: a curious round structure with columns on the outside and a bulbous roof. She could see, as well, the fountain that lay before it, a clear pool whose surface rippled as if in a breeze. “I’ve heard that such a building lay in the center of this place,” Macenion went on. “From it, passages lead to the vaults below and to other buildings. I’m sure that the being we are to help is trapped somewhere below; this is the surest way down.”

Paks frowned. “If so, it’s known to others, as well. To the enemy of that being, for instance. I’d rather not go in by such a public entrance.”

“Scared?” Macenion’s face twisted in a sneer. He glanced at her sword, then back at her face.

Paks fought back an angry retort. “No,” she said quietly. “Not any more scared than you, with your pale face. But you brought a soldier along for a soldier’s skills, and I learned in my first campaign that you don’t go in the door that the enemy expects. Not if you want to live to have your share of the loot.”

Macenion flushed in his turn, and scowled. “Well, that’s the only way down that I know how to find. Besides, in my dream, this was shown as the way.”

“Did your dream show both of us going in that way?”

“How else?”

“You hadn’t thought we might need a rear guard?”

“What for?”

“What for?” Paks glared at Macenion. “Haven’t you any experience? Suppose that whatever-it—is, that evil thing, has its own way to the surface. It could come after us, and attack from the rear, or trap us underground.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t—couldn’t—”

“Like you were sure about the other things? No, Macenion, I’m not going down there without knowing a little more about it. Surely your magic can show you something, or guard the way behind us.”

Macenion looked thoughtful. “If you insist, I suppose I can think of something. It might be better, after all—” He burrowed into his tunic, then gave Paks a sharp look. “You can walk around a bit—look for another entrance—”

“I wish you’d quit worrying. I’m not another magician, and I couldn’t use anything I might see.”

Macenion drew himself up. “It’s a matter of principle.”

Paks snorted, but moved away. She decided to take the pack off Star and see if there was anything she might want to take underground. Macenion, she noticed, hadn’t thought of that. As she went through their gear, she wondered again what she was doing following such a person. She did not like the thought of going underground, in an unknown place against unknown dangers, at all. Especially with someone like Macenion. Perhaps with a squad of the Duke’s Company, but a single half-elf? But a scene from her dream recurred: after victorious combat, she was receiving the homage of those who had asked her help—she was given a new weapon, of exquisite workmanship, and a suit of magical armor. Honor—glory—her reputation made, as a fighter. She shook her head, driving the vision away. A chance for glory, Stammel had always said, was a chance to be killed unpleasantly. Still—she had left the Company to seek adventure and fame and a chance to fight for such causes as now lay before her. Could she miss the chance? She piled on one side the things she thought would be useful, and made the rest into a small bundle.

“We’ll need something to light the way,” said Macenion suddenly. “Whatever the elves used may not be working, and I don’t want to use magical light until it’s needed.” He was going through his own pack. “This should do. This oil—these candles—and yes, I can set a spell at our backs that will keep out any trouble—at least give us warning. We probably won’t be that long, but I suppose we should take water and some food.”

“How about the fountain? Is it safe?”

“I should think so. Try it.” Macenion held out his water bottle to Paks. She frowned.

“If it’s elvish, you try it first.”

“What a brave warrior! Very well, then.” Macenion dipped his bottle in the fountain pool. Nothing happened. “You see? Just water.”

“Good.” Paks, too, filled her water bottle from the fountain pool, then bent to drink directly from it. The water was cold and had a faint mineral tang. Although the water seemed perfectly clear, she could not see the bottom of the pool. Somehow, after drinking, she no longer considered not following Macenion under the ruins.

Macenion led the way through a tangle of ivy into the building. From within, Paks could see that the original domed roof had been pierced by a number of skylights, each with an ornamental molding around it. The interior walls had been inlaid with many-colored stones that formed a dazzling array of designs. The floor was a mosaic of cool grays and soft greens, rounded pebbles that looked like those in any mountain stream, but chosen carefully to match in size and shape.

“Here it is,” said Macenion, pointing to a circle of darker stones laid in the center of the room.

“What?”

Macenion looked smug. “The door—the way in.”

“That?”

“Yes.” He drew out a short black rod; Paks looked down, more frightened than she cared to admit. Something sizzled, and she looked quickly at the circle: it was gone. A hole in the floor revealed a spiral stair. Dust lay thick on the stone steps.

Paks took a deep breath. “Do you think we’re the first to come this way? The first to be asked for help?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. Only a magician could find this way down, you know. Perhaps others couldn’t find a way to help and went away. You stay here a moment, while I take a quick look down.” Macenion set a careful foot on the first step. Nothing happened. He went down several more, bending to look beneath the floor. Paks looked out the way they had come in, half expecting some monster to appear on their trail, but saw only Macenion’s horse moving past the opening to drink at the fountain; she heard it sucking the water up. When she looked back at the hole in the floor, Macenion was coming back up. “Just below, the ceiling’s much higher; we won’t have any problem. And I don’t see that anything’s disturbed the dust. The only thing is, the stair is only one person wide—”

Paks suppressed a last shudder of doubt about the wisdom of this whole project, and grinned at him. “I suppose you’d like the fighter to go in front, eh? Well, I can’t see behind myself; I’d just as soon know who’s at my back.” She drew her sword as she spoke. “But I’ll have this out, just in case. What about light? Must I carry a candle or torch?”

“No-o—” said Macenion, climbing out of her way onto the floor. “There’s light.”

“What sort of light?”

“I’m not sure. It may be the same the elves used. But it’s easily light enough to see.”

“What if it goes out? You’d best keep some sort of flame alight, Macenion.”

“Why should it go out if it’s lasted this long? Oh, all right—” he answered her look of disgust. “But you’re so suspicious.”

“I’m alive,” said Paks, “and I intend to stay that way.”

“As a fighter, an adventurer?”

“Some do,” said Paks, starting down the stairs. “And from what I hear, those that do stay suspicious. Magicians, too.”

The stair dropped steeply, and curved to the right, back under the floor. Paks found that she did not have to duck at all; when she thought about it, she remembered that elves were, in general, taller than humans. Light filled the stairwell as far as she could see, a gentle, white light with no apparent source. She looked back once, to see the deep scuffing footprints she had made in the dust. Macenion was just in sight, several steps higher. After what she judged was the first half-turn, the steps were not so steep. She could move more easily now, and, of course, anything coming up could do so as well. She glanced back again, for Macenion, and thought of the spell he had promised to put at their backs.

“What did you do up there?” she asked softly, nodding upward.

“It’s open,” he said. “If I’d closed it, and anything happened to me, you couldn’t get out that way. But I put a spell on the opening that should repel anything from outside trying to get in. And just in case, I put another spell on it to give us an alarm if something does go through.”

All that sounded impressive to Paksenarrion. She hoped it would work. “Do you know how far down this goes?”

“No. It should open into a wide hall at the bottom, though.”

Paks went on. The mysterious light bothered her. The silence bothered her. She felt her hand grow sweaty on her sword hilt, and that bothered her. Nothing had happened; no danger appeared, and yet her breath came short, just as if she were a recruit in her first battle. She concentrated on the construction of the stair: pale gray stone underfoot, and slightly darker gray stone on the walls and vaulted ceiling. The stair treads were ribbed, under the dust, and when she touched the walls, she found them lightly incised with an intricate design. Remembering Macenion’s warning, she took her fingers off the wall. She looked back over her shoulder again. Macenion, too, had one hand on the wall; when he met her eyes he smiled at her.

“It’s decoration and information both,” he said. “I can read some of it, though I’d have to stand here a long time to figure it out. But for those who lived here, it would be a way of telling how far they had come, though that’s not what it says, exactly.” He moved his hand along the section of wall nearest him. “This, for example, is part of an old song: ‘The Long Ride of Torre.’ Do you know it?”

Paks nodded. “If that’s the same Torre as Torre’s Necklace.”

“Of course. Do you know the story?”

“Yes.” Paks turned again and kept stepping down. The dust seemed no thicker, and with no changes in light or silence, she had a hard time judging how far they had come. At last she saw an opening ahead, rather than a curving wall. As she came to the last step, and waited for Macenion to close in behind her, she could see a space of dusty stone paving, and nothing else. Although it was light beyond the opening, any walls were too far away to show.

“Now this, I believe, was the winterhall,” said Macenion, peering past her. “Go on, Paksenarrion.”

“And have whatever’s waiting beside the door take my head off? Let’s be careful.” Paks unslung her small shield and reached for Macenion’s walking staff.

He jerked it away. “What?”

Paks sighed. “Remember what I just said about doorways? Better a piece of wood than my neck.”

“Oh, all right.” Macenion handed over his staff grumpily. Paks tied the shield quickly to one end, and stuck it through the door. Nothing happened. She pulled it back, handed Macenion his staff, tightened the shield on her arm, and slipped quickly through the doorway, putting her back to the wall beside it.

She stood in a large bare hall, lit by the same mysterious means as the stair. It stretched away on either side on the doorway she’d come through for twice the distance of its width. No furniture remained, and dust covered the broad floor. Macenion came through after her, and looked up. Paks followed his gaze. Far overhead the arched ceiling was formed into intricate branches and vaults, a tracery of stone such as Paks had never seen. Between ribs of dark stone, patterns of smaller colored ones gave almost the effect of a forest overhead.

“That’s—beautiful—” she whispered, hardly aware of speaking.

For once, Macenion did not take a superior tone. “It’s—I’ve never seen the like myself. I knew this was once the seat of the High King, but I never imagined—” He took a few steps out into the hall, and looked at his footprints. “Certainly this has not been disturbed for many years—perhaps not since they left.”

Paks had noticed, at the right end of the hall, a darker alcove. “What’s that?”

“That should lead to other passages. But I can’t understand why there are no signs at all.” Macenion stopped and shook his head. “We won’t find out anything by standing here. Let me think—”

Paks scanned the walls again. At the left end of the hall was a dais, four steps up from the main level, and at the back of it an arched doorway. Two heavily patterned bronze doors closed the opening. Across from her, on the other long wall, were four doorways, also closed with heavy doors. At the right end, no doors showed save the alcove, if that was, as Macenion said, an opening.

“Do you know where any of these doors leads?” she asked.

“The door on the dais leads to the royal apartments. The others—no, blast it, I can’t remember. We’ll have to look and see.”

“Would the doors be locked?”

“I doubt it. They may be spelled, though. Luckily I have ways of handling that. Perhaps we should start with the royal apartments. We might find something worthwhile there.”

Paks felt a twinge. “We’re here to help that trapped thing, first. I don’t think treasure hunters would be lucky here.”

“I was thinking we might find something that would help us free the spirit, Paksenarrion. It wasn’t just greed.”

Paks was not convinced. She turned from one side to the other, trying to feel which way to go. Was that a pull toward the right end? Or the door directly across from her? And if it was, did it come from the one they wanted to help or from the enemy? She shook her head, as if to clear it, and watched Macenion approach the royal doors. A feeling of wrongness grew stronger. He reached the foot of the dais.

“Macenion! No!” She surprised herself as much as him with her shout.

He whirled to face her. “What?”

“Don’t go that way.” She was utterly certain of danger. She moved quickly to his side, and lowered her voice. “That’s wrong; I’m sure of it. If you go up there, we’ll—”

“Paksenarrion, you’re no seer. I assure you that we may very well find, in the royal apartments, clues to what sort of spirit may be locked here. We’ll certainly find information about the layout of the underground passages.”

“That may be, but if you open that door, Macenion, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He looked at her closely. “Have you had some sort of message? From a—a god, or something like that?”

“I don’t know. But I know you shouldn’t go that way. And I may not be a seer, Macenion, but I have had warning feelings before, and they’ve been true.”

“A fighter?” He arched his brows.

“Yes, a fighter! By the gods, Macenion, carrying a sword in my hand doesn’t mean I don’t carry sense between my ears. If a warning comes, I heed it.”

“I wish you’d told me before about your extra abilities. It comes hard to believe in them now, when I’ve never seen them.” He gave her a superior smile. “Very well, then . . . since you’re so sure. We’ll wander about down here with no other guidance than your intuition. Perhaps you’re turning into a paladin or something.”

Paks glared at him, angry enough to strike, but relieved that he had turned away from the dais. Macenion looked around the hall.

“Which door would you suggest, since you don’t like my choice?”

“What about that alcove?” asked Paks. “Or the center doors on the long side there?”

Macenion shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. Why not the alcove? It’s as far as possible from those you fear.” Paks flushed but held her peace as they walked the length of the hall.

The alcove was deeper than it looked; the light was deceptive. Within it were two doors, both bronze. One had a design on it that reminded Paks of a tree; the other was covered with interlacement bands that enclosed many-pointed stars. Macenion looked at her. “Do you have any feelings about either of these? My own preference would be for the stars; stars are sacred to elves.”

Paks felt, in fact, a stubborn desire to use the door with the tree, but she felt no special menace from the other one. With Macenion grinning at her in such a smug way, she didn’t want to press a mere preference. “That will do. I don’t have anything against it, anyway.” When Macenion simply stood there, she asked sharply, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“As soon as I figure out how. It’s locked, spell-locked—if you laid a hand on it, you’d be flat on your back. I’m surprised your intuition didn’t tell you that.”

Paks wondered herself, and thought that if her intuition worked on bigger things, they’d better pay attention to it. She said nothing, however, and as Macenion stood in apparent thought, she turned to keep watch on the rest of the room.

When she looked the length of the room toward the dais, she thought she saw a faint glow around the doors there. She looked at the other doors in the hall. They looked the same. When she looked back at the dais, the glow was more definite. It had an irregular shape, and seemed to be coming from the joint between the doors—as if it were seeping through.

“Macenion!”

“What now?!” He turned to her angrily. Paks pointed toward the dais. “I don’t see—by the gods! What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like it. Did you step up on the dais?”

“No. You yelled, and I—I may just have touched the lower step with my foot—”

“I hope not. It’s brighter, now.”

“So I see. I wonder if it’s—by Orphin, I’d better get this spell correct.”

“What is it?”

“Not now! Just watch. Tell me if it gets more than halfway down the hall.”

“But what can I do to hold it back?”

“If it’s what I think, nothing. Now let me work.”

Paks turned to stare at the mysterious glowing shape, which grew slowly as she watched. It seemed to spread, widening itself to the width of the dais, and slowing its forward movement as it did so. At first she had been able to see through it clearly, but as it grew and thickened, she could no longer see the doors behind it. She felt sweat crawling through her hair. Her intuition had been right, but what was this thing? Surely there was a way to fight it.

Now it reached the forward edge of the dais. Paks could hear Macenion muttering behind her. She heard a faint sizzle, then a little pop. Macenion cursed softly and went back to muttering. The glowing shape extended along the front edge of the dais, and began to grow taller. Slowly it filled the space above the dais, from the doors behind to the lowest step in front, rising higher and higher to the canopy that hung between the dais and the ceiling. When this space was full, the glow intensified again. It seemed more and more solid, as if it were a definite shape settling there. As it solidified, it contracted a little, no longer so regular. Just as Macenion’s triumphant “Got it!” broke her concentration, Paks thought she could see the shape it was condensing toward.

“Come on, Paks. Quickly!” Macenion grabbed her arm to hurry her through the now-open door, and looked back. “Great Orphin, protect us, it is a—Come on!”

Paks tore her eyes from the glowing shape, and darted through the door after Macenion. He waited on the other side and threw his weight against the heavy panel. As it swung closed, a curious hissing noise came from the hall they had left.

“Help me—close it!” Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him. She, too leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it from the other side. “Don’t let it come open,” warned Macenion. “If that gets out, we’re dead.”

“What is it?”

“Not now! I’m trying to—” Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a language Paks didn’t know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other side of the door. “Blast! Wrong one.” Macenion began muttering again, as Paks held the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that she needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. “That should do it,” he said. “I expect it will. You can let go now, Paks.”

“What was that?” Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.

“I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

“Try.”

“A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any intruder, elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, all of them unpleasant.”

“And a sword would be no use against it?”

Macenion laughed. “No.”

“Is it the thing we came to find? What’s holding the other thing prisoner?”

“No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may prove harder than I thought. And we certainly can’t risk returning this way to the surface.”

“Unless we’ve destroyed that thing.” Paks felt better. Her intuition had been right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits. Macenion looked at her curiously.

“Don’t you understand? We can’t destroy that—and we don’t know any other way out. If what we’re looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out.”

Paks grinned. “I understand. We took the bait, and we’re in the trap: and we don’t even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don’t know the size of their catch.” She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment. “You managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly dangers. And—I’ve been in traps before.”

“Yes, but—Well, there’s no help for it. We’d better keep moving. We want to be well away from that door if it breaks through.”

They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and ahead of them an archway gave into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was thick with dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion followed.

The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.

“That should have been the cellar,” said Macenion. “I wonder if any of the wine is left.”

Paks chuckled. “After so long? It wouldn’t be worth trying.”

“I suppose not. We’ll go this way, then.” He gestured to the left. As they crossed the kitchen, Paks looked around for any sign of recent disturbance but saw nothing.

“Was that thing back there what drove the elves out?” asked Paks.

“No. I don’t think so. Enough high elves together would be able to drive it away. It’s—well, you humans know of gods, don’t you? Good and evil gods?”

“Of course.” Paks glared back at him for an instant.

“Do you know of the Court of Gods? Their rankings, and all that?”

Paks shook her head. “Gods are gods.”

“No, Paksenarrion, they are not. Some are far more powerful than others. You should have learned that in Aarenis, even as a soldier. You fought in Sibili, didn’t you? Yes—and didn’t you see the temple of the Master of Torments there? I heard it was sacked.”

Paks shivered as she remembered the assault on Sibili. “I was knocked out,” she said. “I didn’t see it.”

“Well, you’ve heard of the Webmistress—”

“Of course. But what—”

“Liart—the Master of Torments—and that other, they’re both fairly low in the court of evil. Between the least of the gods and the common evils of the world, there are still beings—they have more power than any human or elf, but not nearly so much as a god.”

Paks was suddenly curious. “What about the heroes and saints like Gird and Pargun?”

“Who knows? They were humans once; I don’t know what, if anything, they are now. But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far below the gods. Our gods—the gods of elves.”

The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway blocked by a closed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks noticed that the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps began to ring on the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had moved the dust. Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his head.

“I don’t know. Draft under that door, possibly—”

“Underground?” Paks remembered that she didn’t know much about underground construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible toward the door. In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently. It felt slightly warm under her hand. “That’s odd. It’s—”

The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.

“’Ere’s our bonus, lads!” he said. “The ears off these’ll give us something to show the lord—”

Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the attackers to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most of them, and she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her concentration; as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She grunted, grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall to skewer her opponent. Macenion’s arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks shifted her ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her helmet that gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood trickling down toward her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword away from one of their attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face. They advanced again; the other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two were still fighting. The others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay scattered on the corridor floor. Paks expected them to break away and flee, but they didn’t; instead, they fought doggedly on, until she and Macenion managed to kill them.