"Perhaps you need to partake of our sport before you can choose," said the iynisi. "You are already familiar with this cell. Since we want no foolish uproar-" he beckoned .

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to the attendant with the case, who opened it. The first iynisi took out what appeared to be a nank of gray yarn. He unwound the stuff, which seemed slightly sticky, and reached for Paks's wrists. "One of our lady's arts," he said. "Not so c.u.mbersome as chains, and of course, no use to you as a weapon. But you'll find it strong enough; it will bind dwarves, let alone humans. I advise you not to fight it. For now I am using the wristlets, but if you are troublesome. I'll wrap your bare flesh with it, and this-" he laid a strand against Paks's arm; it burned like a coal, like the strands of the net in the Achryan priest's stronghold, "-is what that feels like."

Paks shivered again, but made no sound. The iynisi nodded. "So there is something warrior-like in you after all. That is well. We should lose our amus.e.m.e.nt were you entirely craven. Come along, now." The iynisi turned to leave; Paks felt a tug at her wrists, now bound closely together. For an instant she thought of resistance to the pull, but the other attendants showed the long knives in their hands, and she knew it would be futile.

"Excellent," said the iynisi, as she took the first step to follow. "We had heard you were capable of thought and planning. It is so important for a warrior to know when fighting is hopeless."

No, thought Paks; it is never hopeless. You can always die. But she was already walking down a stone pa.s.sage as she thought this, between the first iynisi and a torchbearer in front, and the other torchbearer and attendant behind. She thought of lunging at the one in front, tried to gather herself for it, but her body ignored the thought and kept walking. They pa.s.sed a branching pa.s.sage, then another. She tried to look around her, tried to pick out directions and openings, and orient herself, but the speed at which she was led, and the peculiar green light, made this impossible.

They turned into a wider corridor, dimly lit by a greenish blur along the angle of wall and ceiling. Paks could not see what it was, but it gave off a sour smell different from the rank stench of the green torches. Here were other H.

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iynisin, that hissed as they saw her. All wore black, but not the cape and hood of her escort, or the great spider emblem. TTiey melted from her path-or from the iynisi with her. As they went on, she thought she heard more and more following behind.

Her escort turned into a narrow pa.s.sage that sloped downward to die right, falling away from the roof. Ahead of die iynisi, Paks could see a wider opening, and brighter tight She was led through it into a wide flat area, slightly oral. Surrounding it were tiers of stone seats, already ban full, and filling with more iynisin. On one side, a dark gaping maw replaced the first two tiers. As the torchbear-ers of her escort moved around the oval lighting torches set on brackets, she realized that the dark s.p.a.ce was not empty. Eight eyes as big as fists reflected chips of green light. A vast bloated body hung in the web that stretched across the opening. Each of the eight legs, Paks saw, was as long as she was tall.

Paks was hardly aware of the chill that spread over her as she stared at the great spider in horror. Was this Achrya herself? Beside her the iynisi chuckled. "I see you have noticed our airy. No, that is not our lady-merely one of her representatives, you might say. But do not let fear of her make you less rumble. While you wear her symbol, she will not pursue you." By this time the torchbearers had finished lighting the whole circuit; now more green light flared from above. Paks looked up to see a great hanging framework, also made in the likeness of a spider with legs outspread on a web, holding more torches. By this light she could see that the seats were almost filled, and not alone with iynisin. Hunchbacked ores cl.u.s.tered in one section; grotesque dog-faced beings in another. All stared down at her, eyes glittering in the flickering light "Your reputation has preceded you, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi, with a mocking smile. "You were involved in the loss of our friend and ally Jamarrin, in Brewersbridge." His voice rang out, now, and the rest of the chamber was silent but for the sputtering torches. "We would see for ourselves what skill in arms, what brilliance of strategy, defeated so fair a servant of our lady." Paks did not answer. She tried to think what this was leading up to, besides a miserable and public execution.

"We could, of course, simply kill you here," he said, echoing her thought. "Our lady would be pleased to see the-inventiveness-of our methods, and the torment of one who destroyed her servant Jamarrin. But such sport lasts briefly, with you human folk. Perhaps, also, you have been used by those you think your friends. Certainly the elves have not treated you fairly, stealing from you and clouding your memory." He reached out quickly and laid a cold, dry hand along her brow. As suddenly as light springs into a dark closet, she remembered the Halveric's scroll that she had sworn to take to his wife in Lyonya-and remembered the elves who had sent her instead to Brewersbridge, to take their messages, while they took the scroll. The iynisi smiled and nodded. "They 'healed' you, as you thought-indeed, yes, and cast their glamour on you, to turn an honest soldier into their errand-girl, made oathbreaker and faithless by their enchantment. Was that well done? I see you have doubts of it now, and so you should. How much of what you said and did was their bidding? Perhaps you have never acted of your own will yet. We shall give you a chance, therefore, to earn your next day of life." Despite herself, Paks felt a leap of hope. If they would let her fight, even outnumbered-even unarmed-that would be a better death. Surely if she (ought, Gird would come and help her, would protect her from the worst. She pushed the thought of the elves away: later she could worry about that, if later came. No doubt they had merely meant to save her trouble. But a faint doubt lingered, souring her memory of them.

"There are many here who would be glad to prove your reputation unfounded," the iynisi continued. "I myself think you do have some skill. We shall see. For your first trial you will face but a single opponent. Hardly a test of your ability, but he will be armed, and you not. If you dispute the fairness of it, you may always forbear to fight, and be cut down without resistance." The other attendants had gone away while he was speaking; Paks looked around 416.

as the iynisi stepped back. With a swift stroke of his knife, he cut the strands that tethered her wrists, and stepped farther back, bowing. Then he turned to the surrounding seats, one arm upraised. "Let the sport begin!" he cried. The spectators rose in their ranks and cheered. The caped iynisi ran lightly to the web across the arena, bowed to the huge spider, and swarmed up the web to the seats above.

Paks, alone now on the floor of the arena, looked about for her opponent. She tried again to call on Gird or the High Lord, but could feel nothing when the words pa.s.sed through her mind. It was like calling in an empty room. For the first time she wondered whether Gird would even listen. Surely if he could hear, he would help-in something like this-but the words she'd been taught echoed in her head, unanswered. She heard the sc.r.a.pe of the boots from the pa.s.sage by which she had come, and turned to see an ore stride into the lighted s.p.a.ce. He wore leather body-armor and helmet, as well as the boots, and carried a short-thonged whip in one hand, and a curved knife in the other. Paks took a deep steadying breath and rocked from heel to toe, loosening her muscles. With her own weapons, such an opponent would have been no problem at all; without even a dagger, she was at a severe disadvantage. Still, she could fight-she reached for the spark of battle anger, and welcomed it.

The ore came to her slowly, with a low, smooth gait unexpected in such a bent shape. Paks crouched slightly, up on her toes, ready to shift any direction as chance offered. The ore grinned at her, and screeched something which the watching iynisin understood, for they laughed. She supposed it was a challenge of some sort. She felt a rising excitement, hot and joyous. Perhaps this was Gird's gift, instead of his presence?

"Come on, then," she said to the ore in Common. "Many of your land have I killed; come join them."

Closing abruptly, the ore swung the whip at her head; Paks ducked to save her eyes, watching its knife hand. Sure enough, as the knotted thongs bit into her neck and shoulders, the knife thrust toward her belly. She pivoted .

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away from the thrust and caught the ore's wrist with one hand, jerking him forward. He went to his knees, and she tried to make it to his back. But he rolled as he fell, and she met another slash of the whip. This time the thongs wrapped her legs, and she fell heavily, narrowly missing another thrust of the knife as she twisted away from his hand. He was on his feet an instant before her, aiming another blow of the whip. She scrambled away from it; the iynisin above her t.i.ttered., "Sso ... we ... teach ... to ... humnss . . . what . . . iss . . . mannerss," said the ore in barely understandable Common. He grinned again. "For thiss one ... no sswordss . . . just whipss enough." He swung the whip around his head; the thongs hummed. Paks kept her eye on the knife blade. He edged toward her again. Paks took a deep breath, from the belly, summoned up all the anger she could rouse, and charged an instant before he did. The whip was still in backstroke; she threw all her weight on him, both hands on die wrist of his knife hand. To her delight he sprawled backwards. She tucked as they hit die stone floor and rolled on, still digging her thumbs into his wrist. The knife clattered to the stone. He had already recognized the danger, and dropped the whip to grab for it with his free hand. Paks kicked it away; it skittered across the arena. The ore squealed and grabbed her leg, then sank its teeth in her ankle. Paks let go of the wrist, and reached for the whip. Again the ore antic.i.p.ated her, and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up an instant before she reached it. She rolled away, taking another hard lash of the whip before she was scrambling for the fallen knife.

This time she reached the prize first; she turned to face the ore with a weapon in her hand. She scarcely felt the whip welts or the bite. She grinned back at the ore as he came. Even now it would not be easy-the blade was short, and the ore's armor tough-but she, at least, was sure of the outcome. The ore paused, and screeched again in its unknown tongue. The iynisin were silent, except for one voice that by its tone denied a request.

"Did you wish to quit, ore?" asked Paks. "Have I endangered your soft hide too much?" It was the worst insult 418.

she knew, for Ardhiel had told her that the ores' name for themselves meant iron-skins.

The ore glared at her, baring its fangs and running a tongue around its mouth which was stained with her own blood. Paks spared a quick glance to see where she was. Nearly in front of the spider's web-not where she wanted to be at all. She slid sideways in a crouching glide. The ore turned to follow her, more slowly this time. She led it around the arena until its back was to the spider. By then the ore was beginning to grin again. She watched how it moved, decided where to strike.

Suddenly she stood at fall height and stretched her arms upward, like someone just arising from a comfortable sleep. As she expected, the ore darted in and aimed a vicious slash at her exposed torso. She sidestepped left, taking the force of the blow without pausing, and rammed her suddenly lowered right arm into the ore's neck. She had shifted the knife blade in that instant to a side-hold, and it slashed his throat from side to side, catching edge-on in the neckbone. The ore fell, blood pouring over her arm as she tried to free the blade. Above her the silvery voices clamored for an instant and were still. Paks rolled the dead ore on his back, and levered the knife free. It had a notch, where the bone had chipped it. She crouched, looking up at the circle of faces, as she tried to catch her breath.

"Well enough," called the caped iynisi from above the spider's lair. "It might have been done with more artistry, but the final stroke was admirable. Continue to amuse us so, and you may yet survive. For your next trial, you may keep the knife you have earned. For now, stand against the wall-" he gestured to the wall behind her.

Paks rose, not to comply, but found that the entrance to the arena was filled with heavily armed iynisin. They tanned out around her and forced her back with then-pikes. She could not have touched them with die knife, and did not resist. She watched as two of them dragged the ore's body across the the spider's web, and bowed as they placed it just beneath the lowest strands. With horrible quickness the vast bloated body came down and grasped .

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the corpse, the huge abdomen bending around it so that Paks could see cords of silk from the spinnerets twisting around and around. Soon the ore was a neatly cased packet hanging in the web. Paks swallowed against a surge of nausea. So that's what would happen if she failed-she thrust that thought aside hurriedly. Holy Saint Gird, she thought, just help me fight.

As the battle anger left her, she began to tremble. She was terribly thirsty; the ore-bite on her leg throbbed; the whip welts spread a cloak of pain about her. She wondered again how long she had been imprisoned underground. Surely they knew she was gone-surely Amberion would come looking for her. Her vision blurred, and she leaned on the wall behind her. She had not noticed that the pike-bearing iynisin were gone until the caped one spoke again.

"I hope that is not weakness we see," came the silvery voice. "Surely such a champion does not think the trial is over after a trifling altercation like that? No, no ... we must see more of your vaunted skills. Even now your opponents approach; do not disappoint us."

Paks ran her tongue around her dry mouth. How could she fight again without water or rest? She forced herself to straighten, to look toward the entrance tunnel. Get out in the open, she told herself. You've got to have room. She had stiffened, even with that brief respite, and now she limped on the bitten leg. I have to keep fighting, she thought. I have to.

Out of the dark entrance came two ores, this time armed with short swords and shields. Holy Gird, she repeated to herself. I can't fight two of them, two swords, with only a notched knife! But Siger's words, spoken long ago in Aarenis, trickled into her memory: the enemy's weapon is your weapon if you can take it. Two swords-if I can get one, then it's one to one. Even a shield will help- As the ores came forward, she edged back to the wall. Until she got one of them down or disarmed, she wanted something at her back. She noticed that these two did not seem as eager as the first. One of them held its sword 420.

awkwardly. A trick? She waited, and let them come to her, heedless of the iynisin catcalls.

The taller, more skilwil ore came in on her right hand, her knife hand. The other edged to her left. Again she noticed that this one held the sword like a stick. The tall one thrust at her. She parried the thrust with the knife, thankful for her long arms. From the corner of her eye, she saw the small ore rush, sword extended stiffly. Paks leaped back to the wait, slamming against it, and grabbed the awkward one's wrist. The ore fell forward as Paks jerked, and she caught a glimpse of a terrified face under the helmet. This one's no fighter, she thought. She dug her thumb into the pressure point, and the ore's sword hand opened. Paks reached for the sword as the taller ore aimed a slash at her over the struggling body of its partner. She ducked. The ore she was fighting tried to slam the edge of its shield into her arm, but she had the sword hilt, as well as her knife, in her right fist. She kicked the ore, hard, and danced back to the wall, switching the knife to her left hand. A surge of triumph gave her momentary strength-that would show them!

The tall ore howled at her and charged, trying to force her sideways into the other one. The shorter ore tried to move in, staying low. Paks slid sideways along the wall, countering the ftirious thrusts and slashes as well as she could. She felt herself slowing; exhaustion clouded her vision. Only the reflexes developed under hours of Siger's instruction kept her blade between the ore's sword and her body. She had the reach of him, but she could not get past his shield. She tried to force him back, with quick thrusts of her own, but failed. The other ore closed in again, this time grabbing at her knife hand. Paks aimed a kick at the ore's knee, but it s.n.a.t.c.hed at her foot and threw her off balance.

Paks fell heavily on her side, trapped close under the wall. Just over her, the taller ores blade clanged into the wall. She stabbed at his feet with her knife, rolling towards him to get inside his stroke. Again he missed her. This time his blade landed on the shoulder of the smaller ore, who was trying to grapple with Paks's legs. The little .

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ore screeched and sat back. Paks jerked her legs into a curl and launched herself straight up at the tall ore. She had both blades inside his shield; the sword rammed .through his body armor into his belly, and the knife slid into his neck.

Before Paks could free the blades, she felt a weight hit her back, and a strong arm wrapped around her neck. Then the smaller ore's teeth met in her shoulder. Paks threw herself backwards. The ore grunted as it hit the ground, but did not release any pressure of hand or teeth. Paks saw its other hand groping toward the sword the tall ore had dropped. She swiveled, pushing hard with her legs, to get the ore out of reach of that blade. Her own knife was free, but the sword stuck fast in the dead ore's belly. She felt herself weakening, her left arm useless with that grip on her shoulder. The ore began to heave up from underneath; if it once got on top, she would have no chance.

Paks shifted her grip on the knife and struck back over her shoulder, feeling for the ore's eyes. She felt its jaw loosen even before the screams, and stabbed again. Then she raked the knife along the arm around her throat, feeling for the tendons. The grip softened. Paks worked the knife deep into the ore's elbow and twisted. The grip was gone. She rolled quickly and thrust into the ores throat, trying not to look at its face.

She tried to push herself up from the dead ore. I must get that sword, she thought. I must be ready. But her breath came in great gasps, and she could not see. She felt herself slipping into nothingness, and fell back across the ore's body. With her last sc.r.a.p of consciousness, she tried to call on Gird, but the name rang in her head, empty of meaning.

She woke in a cell, whether the first or another like it she could not have said. A torch b.u.med in a corner bracket; by its light she saw a pitcher, mug, and platter near her. Her wounds smarted as if they'd been salted, but the bleeding had stopped, and she felt much stronger. She reached for the pitcher, then paused. Someone had 422.

said something about the clanger of taking any food or drink from the iynisin-or was that something from a child's tale she'd heard long ago? She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue was swollen and sore. If she had to fight again, she would have to drink something. And if they poisoned her, she would not have to worry. She shook her head, and winced at the pain. Was she thinking straight? But she had to be able to fight. Gird honored fighters. She was going to die here, almost certainly, but she had to fight.

She took the pitcher and looked into it... in the green torchlight, she could not tell what the liquid was. She poured it out, her hands shaking. Whatever it was, she thought, it was still liquid. She raised the mug to her lips, sniffing, but the torch stank so much she could smell nothing else. She took a swallow. It burned her throat all the way down, but she wanted more of it. She drained die mug. On the platter was a slab of some dried meat and a hunk of bread. Her stomach knotted, reminding her of the hours since she'd eaten. The bread was hard, and tasted salty and sour. The meat was salty too; not until she'd eaten most of it did she think what the salt would do. Thirst swamped all other sensation; she drained the pitcher at one draught, only to find that it gave strength without easing her thirst. She felt the burning liquid work its way along her body, stinging it awake. She was afire all over, with thirst and the wounds and that terrible itching she had felt since the first.

She found hersetf growling softly. Fight, she thought. Oh, I will fight-by holy Gird, I will fight exceedingly. She thought of the combat past, the unfairness of it, the knotted whip, the ore's teeth in her leg, her strokes, the ores' strokes. For a moment she grimaced at the thought of the last encounter, when she had stabbed die ore's eyes, but she forced die revulsion down. I had to, she thought. It wasn't fair; I was outnumbered, I had to do- whatever. She drew grimness around her like a cloak. Saint Gird of the Cudgel, she thought. If that's what you want, putting me in a place like this, that's what 111 .

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do-111 fight. Protector of the helpless, strong arm of the High Lord: I will be true. I will fight.

But a moment of doubt had her frowning. Gird was not for fighting only-she thought she remembered that. Fairness-truth-she shook her head, trying to think. She seemed to see StammeFs face, telling the recruits not to brawl, then the look he had given her in the cell when Sejek had banned her. Something was wrong; she should know something better. But of course something's wrong, she thought irritably. I've been taken by iynisin; I had to fight three ores unarmed; the stuff they gave me was poisoned- When she heard sc.r.a.ping outside the door, she sprang to her feet, a little surprised at her body's quick response. She felt ready-even eager-for what was to come. They wanted to see fights, did they? She would show them fighting such as they had never seen.

"I see you have recovered from your shameful collapse." The caped iynisi entered the cell. It flicked a glance down at tie pitcher and platter. "Ah-refreshed yourself, have you? I fear you may find our ale a bit thirst-provoking, don't you? But it is strengthening. And if you are successful this next trial, we might give you water as a reward. What do you think, eh?"

Paks felt her lips draw back in an involuntary snarl. The iynisi laughed. "I suppose we must not expect to find fighters courteous," he said. "But how you humans do reveal your needs. It is a weakness of yours, which the elder races have learned to control." The iynisi snapped his fingers and an attendant brought forward the box from which he took another hank of the gray stuff. " Tis a pity this is necessary," he said. "If we had your word that you would cause no trouble-no? Discourteous. Perhaps we shall have to teach you manners as well. Hold out your hands, and pray that I remember to cut the bond before your combat begins." Paks found that she had extended her hands without thinking about it, nor could she jerk them back when she tried. She wondered if the iynisi used a spell-a ring?-surely something to control her.

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As before, she was led into the small arena; this time the seats were mil when she came in. A sword, dagger, shield, and helmet were stacked in the center. "You earned these last tune," said the iynisi. "Possibly the body armor as well, but we differed on that. Convince us, if you can."

The combat that followed was a whirling confusion that was never after clear in Paks's memory. How many she fought, in that bout or another, or what arms they had, she could not say-only that she fought at the limit of her strength and skill again and again. She had no memory of individual strokes, how she won, or what wounds she took. When she won, she was rewarded with a dipper of water, a short rest, a weapon to replace one that had shattered. When she collapsed, of wounds and exhaustion- and she did not know how many times, or how often, that happened-she would awake in a cell, her wounds no longer bleeding, but afire with whatever had been used to treat them. She was given food and drink that did nothing to ease her hunger and thirst, but gave her strength to fight once again.

Soon she could think of nothing but the opponent at hand, the weapon that menaced her, the hands that wielded it. For a long time she tried to call on Cud before each onset, but she could never bring the name out aloud. At last it drifted from her mind while she lay unconscious between encounters. She fought grimly, then, to the shrill squeals of the watching iynisin and their allies, and never knew what she fought, or how. There was only pain, and danger, and the bitter anger that kept fear at bay.

That anger grew after every bout: it spread to include all she thought of. The High Lord should never have made the world to include iynisin, she thought bitterly, and if elves could turn so to evil, he should not have made elves. Now the distrust of true elves the iynisin had sown flowered in bitterness. She remembered the elf-lord laired deep under stone, bound to some power of evil, and drawing her to his side with irresistible enchantments. Macenion's lies, his greed and cowardice with the snow-cat, his arrogance. Even at their best, elves toyed with .

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humans, clouded human memory for their convenience, sent them into dangers they could not a.s.sess, with that glamour upon them. Were a few tinkling songs and flowery compliments in a sweet voice a fair exchange for all this disdain of human lives and needs? Hardly. In a world where such evil existed, it ill-behooved elves to sit aside and cast human lives like dice for their pleasure.

It was monstrous that such evil existed-that innocents were tormented in dark places-that she was alone and helpless and frightened. But she wasn't frightened, she reminded herself. Death was the end of all things, and darkness surrounded all light, but she was no child to be frightened of what must come. If Gird wouldn't help-or didn't exist-she would get along without him. She would fight until the end, and then grapple death itself. That would show them.

When she thought at all of her friends, in bits and sc.r.a.ps of memory, she saw them standing idly in the sunlight while she was fighting against impossible odds underground. She had an image of Arne and Vik, chatting peacefully in Duke Phelan's barracks-of the other paladin candidates, safe in Fin Panir, looking forward to their own tests-of the rest of the expedition, feasting around a fire, leaving her behind with a shrug. For awhile she knew this was untrue; she reminded herself that her friends were better than that. But in the end that truth sh'pped away as well. They would find out, she thought grimly, and enjoyed imagining their grief and their pride in her deeds. And if they never knew-that might even be better. She was no longer angry with them; they could not understand, it was not their fault. It was their weakness, all those sUly thoughts of right and wrong, the rules made for gentler combats: if they had been where she was, they would know that only the fight itself mattered, the enemy's death, the anger sated by blood.

She awoke, once more in a narrow cell, to find the caped iynisi standing over her. She blinked, still under the influence of the healing methods they used. He beckoned one of his henchmen, who quickly raised her head and held a mug to her lips. She swallowed: the same burning 426.

liquid. As always, she wanted more. With every swallow, strength flowed back into her. She gulped down two mugs full before he moved away, then she rolled easily to her feet.

"You have given us good sport, Paksenarrion," said the iynisi. "Such sport that we are minded to reward you greatly-even to risk the displeasure of our lady. You remember your friends, don't you? Your friends outside?"

Paks felt her forehead wrinkle, as she tried to remember. Friends. Yes, she had friends somewhere-she could not remember their names, but she had friends. She nodded.

"Your good friends," he coaxed. "Such good friends." Paks felt a surge of anger. Why was he being so tedious? "Your friends are worried about you; they have come to find you. To free you."

Paks growled, then stumbled over the words. "Can free myself. Can fight"

The iynisi smiled. "Yes, that's right. You can fight. You can free yourself. We will let you fight, Paksenarrion. Just one more fight, and you will be free. You will be with your friends."

Suddenly Paks's mind cleared for an instant; she seemed to see Amberion, Ardhiel, and the Marshals before her. Those were her friends. Were they here? Mingled worry and hope rose in her. She glared at the iynisi: what did he mean, fight herself free?

"Ah-some memory coming back. This is well. Now listen to me. You must fight once more, fight your way through some of our lesser servants, to reach your friends. If you can do this, you may go free. Otherwise, you will die, and so will they. We will arm you in what you have won."

Before she could reply, he waved into the cell several iynisin carrying a suit of black plate armor, a black helmet crested in black horsehair, and a handsome longsword with a curious design at the crosshilts, Paks had no time to examine it. The iynisin began to fit the armor on her, she found, as always, that she could not move when the caped one commanded her to stand still The armor had a strange .

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feel; it made her uneasy. The helmet was even worse. As it neared her head, she felt a sudden loathing for it, and tried to duck aside. The effort was hopeless. Down over her head came the helmet, close-fitting around her ears and cheeks. She felt breathless. Someone pulled the visor down. She squinted through the eyeslit, but found that everything wavered as if seen through a blowing mist.

"I can't see!" she said.

"That's all right," the iynisi answered. His voice echoed unpleasantly in the helmet. "All down here are your enemies, yes? All are enemies. Here-take the sword." She felt die sword hilt pressed into her right hand. She hefted the blade. It felt good. "All enemies-" said the iynisi's voice, now behind her. "Go-fight-fight for your rights, Paksenarrion. Fight your enemies. Fight-"

She hardly needed that encouragement. She was walking down the corridor, away from the cell, walking alone and unguarded for the first time. At first she coula barely see weu enough to stay away from the walls, but then her vision cleared a little. She saw iynisin ahead of her, all running somewhere. Those who looked at her screamed, and ran fester. Behind the visor, she smiled. Soon. Soon she would show them. She was no longer helpless; now she had the power she had longed for in all those dark hours. She wondered which way to go, heard a confused clangor from a wide cross pa.s.sage, and turned to see what it was. A fight. A big fight. She saw the pa.s.sage choked with armed figures: iynisin, ores, others. She drew breath and stalked forward, sword ready.

She struck the back of a confused ma.s.s, hating the black-dad iynisin who had laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and cleared a s.p.a.ce around her. Those in front turned to face her; she leveled the great blade and swiped from side to side, laughing. The black cloaks melted in front of her. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and anger flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I wffl fight. I will fight through all of you, whatever you are. Fight through to my friends. By Gird-the name leapt into her mind, and she opened her mouth to yell it out 428.

loud. This time, at last, the sound pa.s.sed her lips: not as a yell, little louder than a whisper: in the name 01 Gird.

A vast s.p.a.ce opened in her mind, and out of it a voice like stone said "Stop!" She froze. One arm held the sword up for another swing, one foot had nearly left the ground. At once she was bereft of vision and hearing, and plunged into darkness.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Paks woke to darkness. She lay a moment, feeling cool air-living air-wash over her face. She lay wrapped in something soft, on something more yielding than stone. She blinked. She could see something glittering overhead. Stars. The current of air quickened; it smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. She could not think where she was. Her mouth was dry. She tried to clear her throat, but made a strange croaking noise. At once a voice-a human voice-spoke out of the darkness.

"Paks? Do you want something?"

Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. She could not speak. She heard a rustle of clothing, then a hand came out of darkness and touched her face.

"Paks? Are you crying? Here-" The hand withdrew, and after a sharp scratching noise, a light Bared near her and steadied. She thought: lamp. Her tears blurred everything to wavering points of light and blackness. The hand returned, a gentle touch, stroking her head. "There, Paks, it's all right. You're safe now; you're free."

She could not stop the tears that kept flowing. She began to tremble with the effort, and the person beside her called softly to someone else. Another person loomed beside her. "The spell's going, I think," said the first voice.

"About time, too. Can she speak yet?"

429.

430.

431.

"No. But she's aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she's as dry as old bone."

"Ill lift her." The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks felt herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. "There now. Paks? You need to drink something. Here-" She felt a cool rim at her tips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. "Good," said the voice. "That's whatyou need."

"I'D get more," said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She drank another Bask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only mat ft was better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.

She woke in daylight: tight blue sky overhead, red rocks against the sky. She turned her head. She lay on a sandbank above a stream. She could see horses across the stream, and men in chainmail grooming them. Nearer was the pale flickering light of a campfire. Around it were three men, a woman, and a dwarf. One of the men and the woman left die campfire and came toward her. They were smiling. She wondered why.

"Pals, are you feeling better this morning?" That was the woman. Paks felt her way along the words, trying to understand. This morning. Did that mean that it was last night, the voices and the crying? Better? She tried to roll up on one elbow, but found she could hardly move. She felt utterly weak, as if she were hollow from die bones out.

"Can you speak at all, Paks?" asked the man. She looked at him. Dark hair with a few silver threads, short dark beard. Chammail under a yellow tunic. They wanted her to say something. She had nothing to say. They were smiling at her, bom of them. She looked from face to face. The man's smile faded as she watched. "Paks, do you know who I am?" She shook her head. "Mmm. Do you know where you are?" Again the headshake. "Do you know who you are?"