“I worry about those wounds,” said the dwarf frankly. “The elves have some means of speeding and slowing growth. Something like that must have been used by those rockfilth—she’d still be bleeding, else. It’s dangerous. I would know what was used on her, and would wish you to think what may be done.” He grinned at Paks for an instant and went on. “Besides that, it is this talk which has brought her memory so far. Surely more would be better.”
“It is that,” said another voice, “which distinguishes dwarves from more temperate folk—they always think more is better.” Paks looked over to see a dark man in stained leather clothes; she remembered that this was Thelon, their half-elven scout. Master Balkon bristled at his words, but Thelon laughed gently, and lifted his hand. “My pardon, Master Balkon, but I could not resist. It has been long in this camp since anything seemed funny.”
“I don’t see—” began Balkon; Thelon shook his head, then, and bowed.
“Sir dwarf, I am sorry. I had no intention of insult; I’ll say so before all, and confess a loose tongue.”
Balkon shook his head, and finally smiled at Thelon. “You are but half-elven, and a ranger—which is another word for hardy, as we dwarves know. And I confess I am as fond of plenty as you are of enough. Let it pass, Thelon; I will not bear anger to you.”
Thelon bowed again. “I thank you for your courtesy. I came to ask Amberion to attend the Marshals. Ardhiel may be rousing from his sleep, and they asked for you.”
Amberion looked sternly at the dwarf as he rose. “Master Balkon, we are as concerned as you, but if Paks doesn’t remember, she can’t tell you what they used. It would be better to let it be.”
Balkon nodded. “If the elf is wakening, he might know far more than I—only he should be told at once, if he can listen.”
“Then—?”
“Then I will but bear her company, and no tales tell, until you bring word of Ardhiel,” said the dwarf. And with that Amberion had to be content, and he turned away. Paks watched the dwarf, hoping he would resume his talk, but he did not meet her eyes. He poked and puffed at his pipe, until the smoke rose steadily. Then he looked at her. “I am not one to break my word,” he said fiercely, “even so little of it as that. Bide still; the time will come, and you will hear it all.”
Paks slept again while waiting for Amberion to return, and woke hungry. She was able to feed herself this time. With help, she managed to stand and stagger a short way to the shallow sand pit that served the camp for jacks. But that exhausted her, and she fell into sleep again as soon as she came back to her place. It was evening when she woke, with sun striking the very highest line of the opposite canyon wall.
No one was beside her at the moment. She saw the dwarf, hunching over the campfire. Pir stood at a little distance, staring up at the sunlit rock far overhead. Off on her right, Amberion and the Marshals stood talking to another taller figure. Paks recognized this as Ardhiel, the elf. She stretched, slowly. She felt a vague ache again, not so strong as before, and wondered at it. The only other time she had experienced a paladin’s healing, the wound and pain had disappeared at once and forever. Perhaps she’d been lying awry.
She pushed up her sleeves to look at the marks on her arms. Ordinarily she’d have said the wounds were several weeks old; the scar tissue was raised and dark. But the others had said she’d been missing only a few days. She tried to remember what had happened. What Balkon had told her seemed to fit, yet her memories gave no life to his words. Captive—underground—that almost made sense. But what about the wounds? Had she actually fought? And who had she fought, and how? The marks gave her no clues—they looked like any healing cuts, could have been given by knife or sword or pike. The only unusual thing about them was the number—more scars than she had collected in three seasons of fighting with Duke Phelan. She could not understand how she had fought at all—how she had survived—with so many wounds, all given at once. Yet something about them seemed to convey that they’d been given in combat, rather than inflicted on a bound and helpless prisoner.
Amberion’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Paks, I’m glad you’re awake again. Ardhiel is with us now, and he examined you this afternoon.” Paks was suddenly angry. What right had they to stare at her while she lay helpless? She remembered what the iynisin had told her about the elves who took the Halveric’s scroll. She fought the anger down, surprised at its strength, and tried to conceal it. She knew they would not understand. Amberion went on. “He would like to talk with you, if you feel well enough.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just—” she decided not to mention the aching to Amberion; he would think it weakness. “I’m still confused,” she said finally. Ardhiel sat beside her; he seemed thinner than she remembered, but his face was alight with some joy.
“Lady Paksenarrion, I sorrow that I was not here to defend you. I did not know that when I blew the elven horn I would be carried away—”
“Carried away?”
“In spirit. I had always been taught that elves have no souls, that we are wholly one with our bodies; I had no idea that I could be plucked out, like a hazelnut from its shell, and be gone so long. It did not seem long to me—only a day at the High King’s Court—but when I returned, I find that you have spent many dark hours with the iynisin.”
“So they say.” Paks looked away, frowning. “I can’t remember.”
“Not at all?”
“Only vaguely. Balkon told me some, and it seemed to make sense—I had the feeling that he was right, as far as he knew. But I don’t remember it, clearly, on my own.”
“Ah.” Ardhiel leaned back on the sand, staring skyward at the glowing blue that deepened as the sun lowered behind distant mountains. “I wish I knew more. We elves prefer to ignore the iynisin—even to pretend they do not exist, or are not distant kin. But at such times as these, that way is proved dangerous, for us and for our allies. I do know that they have the same magical abilities that we have, and share in the powers of those they worship: Achrya and Nayda, Gitres and Liart.”
Paks shuddered as the four evil names seemed to foul the air. A face swam before her: elven, but evil. Frightening. “I—don’t remember,” she said.
“If it is truly wiped from your mind, by a blow on your head, for example, that is one thing. But if the memory has been blurred by the iynisin or their deity, then we must do what we can to bring it back. I could not tell, this afternoon—I was still half-enchanted by my own experience.” Ardhiel sat up, stretching. “Amberion. Did you want to do this before or after eating?”
“Do what?” asked Paks, alarmed. Amberion turned from watching the distant line of mountains, and smiled at her. She thought his face looked flat and featureless in the dimming light. He sat on her other side, and reached for her hand.
“We need to find out what magic the iynisin used on you, Paks. Surely you realize that. Ardhiel and I will each try what we know—”
“But—” Paks tried to think of some argument. “Isn’t it—didn’t you tell me that—that paladin candidates must not submit to spells?”
Amberion frowned. “Usually, that’s so. But this is a special case—you have already been spelled, we think, by the iynisin. And you were assigned to my care. Gird knows, Paksenarrion, what I feel that I did not save you from that capture. But now—we must do what we can for you.”
Paks nodded, meeting Amberion’s eyes with difficulty. She could tell that he was concerned—even worried. For herself, she felt more annoyance than anything else. In time she would heal, as she always had, and be strong again; the memories would come, or not come. She wanted to hear what they knew—wanted them to trust her enough to tell her, as Keri and Volya had told her about the sack of Sibili.