The Deed of Paksenarrion (121 page)

“Well,” said High Marshal Fallis, with a little shake of his shoulders. “I never expected to find
this
sort of thing.”

“Mmm. No.” Connaught had stepped onto the platform. “Look at this, Fallis.” The platform was itself stone, apparently all one great slab of white stone, and into the upper surface a brilliant mosaic was set, unlike anything Paks had seen. “I wonder where he found someone to do this—” He turned to Paks. “You were at Sibili, weren’t you? Didn’t they have work like this?”

Paks shook her head. “Sir Marshal, I don’t remember—I had a knock on the head and don’t remember anything. But—let me think—someone in our Company mentioned pictures made of chips of stone.”

“Yes. I thought so. Along the coast of Aarenis they do this work; I’ve heard that it was used a lot in old Aare.”

“It could have come from Kaelifet,” said Amberion. “I’ve seen bronze and copper ware from there ornamented with bits of colored stone; perhaps they do stone mosaics as well.”

“It might be.” Connaught walked slowly from one end of the platform to the other, looking at the design. It spread from a many-pointed star in shades of blue and green to an intricate interlacement of curves and angles in reds and golds. “I would like to know what it is.”

“It is a place of power,” said Ardhiel suddenly. They all looked at him.

“I feel power in all this,” said Amberion. “But what do you mean?”

Ardhiel nodded toward the pattern. “That is a pattern of power. This place is made of many such. That—” he pointed to the black and white of the aisle, “is another of them.”

“What do they do?” asked Fallis.

Ardhiel smiled, a quick flash of delight. “Ah—you men! You hear that I am saying more than elves are wont to say, and you hope to learn great secrets. So—listen closely, and I will say what I can in Common. And in elven, for those who can hear.” He threw Paks a smile at that. “This place is sustained by patterns of power, else those sleepers would have died long since, and the dust of time half-filled this chamber. How was it we each saw and followed the symbol of our lord—Master Balkon, I daresay, saw and followed the dwarf’s secret symbols, and was met and welcomed as a dwarf, just as I saw and followed the Singer’s sign, and was met and welcomed as an elf. Is it not so?”

“It happened,” said Balkon.

“Yes. Then together we found ourselves in this Hall. A pattern of great power. I think more than men had the shaping of it.”

“But—” began Fallis, and the elf waved his hand for silence.

“I will be as brief as the matter allows, Sir Marshal. In haste is great danger; the right use of power requires full knowledge. This pattern, on the platform, is much like one placed in every elfane taig, in the center of every elvenhome kingdom. I do not know if I can explain how—and I know to you that means much. We elves—we think that as the Singer sang, and we are both songs and singers ourselves, we both are and make the Singer’s patterns. So our powers grow from the patterns of our song. We do not enjoy putting these aside—outside us.” Paks could tell he was having a hard time saying what he meant in Common; for once an elf’s speech seemed halting and out of rhythm.

“You mean, as men do in machines?” asked Amberion.

Ardhiel nodded. “Exactly. We have—we are—the power—as you paladins are: and I know what you will say, that it is the High Lord’s, and he but lends it. That is also so of us, though we are given more—more—” he faltered, waving his hand. “We can choose more for ourselves, how to use it,” he said finally. “But on occasion we have used built things—patterns of stone or wood, or growing things, to make patterns of power that any elf can use, even if he lacks a certain gift.”

“At the elfane taig—” Paks spoke without intention, and Ardhiel looked at her sharply. “The stone’s carving—if I looked at it—it held me—”

“Yes. Instead of having some always on guard, elves have used such to bemuse and slow an enemy. This pattern, though, is used for other things.” He seemed reluctant to go on, but finally sighed and continued. “I might as well tell you, since it is clear that men used it before. With such a pattern, it is possible for a small group to travel a great distance all at once.”

“What!”

Ardhiel nodded again. “Look here—and here—you will see that each of the high gods and patrons is included by symbol. This pattern draws on all their power, and can be used by a worshipper of any of these: elf, dwarf, gnome, those who follow the High Lord, Alyanya, or Gird, Falk, Camwyn, and so on.”

“But how do you know where you’ll go?” asked Fallis.

“I am not sure. If it were exactly the same as the elven pattern, you would go where you willed to go. You would picture that in your mind, and that you would see, and that is where you would go. It would be possible, however, to set such a pattern for a single destination.”

“And to set it off?”

“An invocation of some kind—I do not know. Perhaps you will find guidance somewhere else in this place.” Ardhiel was reverting to the more usual enigmatic elven reticence.

“In that case, I think we can wait. Perhaps we will find some guidance elsewhere.” Fallis gestured to a narrow archway leading out of the Hall behind the platform. “Perhaps we should take a look?”

The group followed the High Marshals across the platform—Paks noticed that they skirted the pattern gingerly—and through the arch into another stone passage, well-lit by the same sourceless light. At intervals they passed arched doorways into rooms hollowed from the stone; most were empty. But one chamber, when they came to it, was very different. A desk and two tables were littered with scraps of parchment and scrolls. Shelves along the walls held neatly racked scroll-cases as well as sewn books; a brilliantly colored carpet on the floor showed the wear of feet, but no touch of moth. A hooded blue robe hung from a hook. And a pair of worn slippers, the fleece lining worn into little lumps, lay under a carved wooden chair, just where the wearer must have slipped them off to put on boots. Connaught touched them with a respectful finger.

“These—must be his. Luap’s or his successor’s—Gird’s grace, I can hardly believe it—”

“He might have stepped out only moments ago,” said Fallis softly. “There’s no dust—no disarray—” He glanced at the loose sheets on the work-table. “Look, Connaught. Supply lists—names—and here’s a watch-schedule of some kind: south outpost, east outpost, north—”

“I wonder what happened,” murmured Amberion. “I feel no evil here at all, only great peace and good, but—some sleep, and others are gone—”

Connaught sighed. “Amberion, we wouldn’t know if Falk himself slept out there with the others. Who knows what he looked like? The legends say he was thinner than Gird—and none of us ever saw Gird. I don’t suppose,” he said, turning to Ardhiel, “that you happen to be of an age to know what Falk looked like—”

Ardhiel shook his head. “Sir Marshal, I am sorry that this is not a mystery I can solve for you. Only I agree with Sir Amberion, that this is not a place of evil. Whatever happened here, happened for good.”

“So—now what?” asked Fallis. “I feel strange, rooting around in these things that seem untouched. If it were a ruin, and everything half-destroyed—but here, I feel like a—a robber, almost.”

“We asked Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, Fallis. They know our need, and the needs of this place. We will be warned, I daresay, if we trespass where they do not wish us to go.”

Fallis nodded. Connaught turned to the others. “Amberion, if you don’t mind, you might lead a group looking for a lower entrance. They must have had a way to get animals in and out, and heavy loads.”

“With all the magic this place holds,” said Amberion dryly, “perhaps they simply wished them inside.” Connaught chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “By Gird, Amberion, I hope you’re wrong.”

Before Amberion got out of hearing, however, Fallis had found a map of the complex, in the wide desk drawer. They called Amberion back.

“Look—this is the main Hall—”

“And this is Luap’s office, as we thought. So that corridor, if we’d gone on, would lead to the kitchens—”

“I wonder what they do for firedraught, so far down,” said Fallis. “Master Balkon, do dwarves have any trouble with that?”

“Firebreath? No, it is important to make a hole for it, that is all.”

“Look at these red lines, Amberion—could that be shafts?”

“It could be anything until we go and look. Let me—ah. Look here. Is there another sheet?”

“Yes. Two more; I put them on the table there.”

“Good. Let me see—yes, look at this. I thought so. This keys to the other sheet, and this must be the ground level—if his mapmaker followed Finthan tradition, then this sign means a spring.”

“But we saw springs coming out of the rock very high,” said Connaught.

“Yes, but look—isn’t that a trail sign? And it’s twisting here, as in natural land, not straight or gently curved like these corridors.”

Paks, looking over their shoulders, could make little of the brown, red, and black lines on the maps. She had found the Hall easily enough, and Luap’s study, but the maze of corridors, and the strange marks that Amberion insisted meant ramps or stairs, confused her.

“I only hope,” Fallis was saying, “that your trail isn’t like that rockclimb we had.”

Amberion laughed. “No—I’m sure it’s not. We’ll go down that way and see. How many would you like left with you?”

“Who has a good writing hand?” asked Connaught. “We should make copies of what we find.” Paks and one of the men-at-arms, who was known to write clearly, stayed with the High Marshals.

Paks heard later that day how Amberion had led the little group through echoing passages of stone, ever deeper, down gentle ramps. They had found a stone stable, clean but for a few ancient bits of straw, and the deep-grooved ruts of the carts that had carried in fodder and carried out dung. They had found great kitchens, three of them, and Balkon had told them why—that whatever way the wind blew, one of the hearths would draw perfectly. They had found storerooms still full of casks and bales—but across the doors lay a line of silvery light that Amberion would not try to pass. And finally, when the last wide corridor ended in a blank face of stone, Amberion had touched it with one glowing finger, and the stone vanished in a colored mist. The cold, pine-scented air of the canyon blew in, swirling a little dust around their feet. Some of the men were reluctant to go out, fearing the passage would close again, but it stayed open like a great grange door behind them.

Paks spent that time copying what seemed to her a very dull list of names. She supposed that the High Marshals had some reason to need a complete list of Luap’s followers, with the years of their coming, but she could not understand it. Behind her she could hear them at the shelves, gently taking down one scroll or book after another, and murmuring to each other. She used up the small amount of ink that Fallis had had, and asked him for his inkstick. He reached over to Luap’s desk, where a bowl of ink sat waiting, as it seemed, and handed it to her.

“Use
this?
” Paks asked.

“Why not?” He hardly looked at her, face deep in a large volume bound in cedarwood.

“But it’s—it might be—”

“It’s just ink, Paksenarrion. What else could it be?” Paks felt her shoulders tighten at the sneer she thought she heard in his voice, and ducked her head. How did he know it was just ink. Ink doesn’t stay wet for years—all the years this place had been—whatever it had been. She stabbed at the ink with the pen, and felt vindicated when it clicked on the surface.

“It won’t write,” she said. “It’s dried up.”

“Oh?” Fallis put the book down, picked up the bowl, and tilted it. “That’s odd. It looked wet, and I’d have sworn it shifted. Hmm. Well, here’s the inkstick and—yes—here’s a bowl for it.”

Silently, Paks mixed a measure of ink with water from her flask. She pushed it over so that Elam could use it too.

Amberion reappeared to say that he had found the lower entrance, and had started moving the animals and others toward it.

“It’s nearly dark, though, so I thought it better to camp for the night—that trail is barely passable in daylight. Will you come out, or shall I have food sent in?”

“We’ll come out,” said Connaught. “Everyone needs to hear all about this, and we should be together.”

“I thought you might want to set sentries on the old guardposts.”

Connaught shook his head. “Until we know more about how this place works, that would simply call attention to us. Paks—Elam—that will do for today. Let’s go have some supper.”

And Paks, rising from her seat, realized how stiff and hungry she was. She followed the others out without a word.

In the next two days, some of the party explored as much of the old fortress as the light would allow. One rash yeoman tried to pass a doorway barred with silver light, and fell without a cry. Amberion touched his head, and did nothing more.

“He’ll wake with a headache, and more respect for these things. Someone stay with him, until he wakes.”

Paks spent her time copying records. She wished she could roam around, seeing the things others spoke of in the evenings; it didn’t seem fair that she had to act as scribe all the time. But no one had asked her what she wanted to do, and she refused to bring it up. Surely they could tell, if they thought about it, she thought bitterly. Finally, when one of the yeomen was describing a long climb up a narrow corridor to an outlook on the very top of the mountain, among the trees, Paks exploded.

“—and you could see so far,” the man said, gesturing. “North of here, and west—what a view. Of course it was cold up there, and after climbing all that way my legs quivered like jelly.” He grinned at Paks. “You’re lucky, lady, that you get to sit all day in the warm, just wiggling your fingers with a pen.”

“Lucky!” Heads turned at the bite in her voice. “Lucky to sit all day? I’d give anything to be where I could see something besides another stinking scroll! How would you like to travel all the way out here and then be stuck in a windowless room? I’ve already been underground as much as I care to—” She stopped short, seeing the worry in Amberion’s face, the High Marshals’ stern expressions.