To her surprise, the other side of the hump was forested; all that afternoon they climbed through thick pinewoods smelling of resin and bark. Paks added dry branches to Star's pack. They camped at the upper end of that wood, looking out over its dark patchwork to the east, where even Paks could see the land fall steeply into the eastern ocean. Macenion gazed at it a long time.

"What do you see?" Paks finally asked, but he shook his head and did not answer. She went back to stirring their porridge. Later that night he began to talk of the elves and their ways—the language and history—but most of it meant little to Paks. She thought he seemed pleased that she knew so little.

"My name's elven," she said proudly, when Macenion seemed to be running down. "I know that much: Paksenarrion means tower of the mountains."

"And I suppose you think you were named that for your size, eh?" Macenion sneered. "Don't be foolish; it's not elvish at all."

"It is, too!" Paks stiffened angrily. She had always been a proud of her name and its meaning.

"Nonsense! It's from old Aare, not from elves. Pakse-enerion, royal tower, or royal treasure, since they used towers for their treasuries."

"That's the same—" Paks had not clearly heard the difference in sounds.

"No. Look. The elven is—" Macenion began scratching lines in the dust. "It has another sign, one that you don't use. Almost, but not quite, the same as your 'ks' sound—and the first part means peak or high place. The elven word enarrion means mountain; the gnomes corrupted it to enarn, and the dwarves to enarsk, which is why these mountains are the dwarfenarsk—or in their tongue, the hakkenarsk. If your name were really elven, it would mean peak or high place in the mountains. But it doesn't. It's human, Aaren, and it means royal treasure."

Paks frowned. "But I was always told—"

"I don't care what you were told by some ignorant old crone, Paksenarrion, neither you nor your name is elven, and that's all." Macenion smirked at her, then pointedly lifted the kettle without touching it and poured himself another mug of sib.

Paks glared at him, furious again. "My grandmother was not an ignorant old crone!"

"Orphin, grant me patience!" Macenion's voice was almost as sharp as hers. "Do you really think, Paks, that you or your grandmother—however worthy a matron she may have been—know as much about the elven language as an elf does? Be reasonable."

Paks subsided, still angry. Put that way she could find no answer, but she didn't have to like it.

Relations were still strained the next day when they came to the first fork of the trail. Macenion slowed to a halt. Paks was tempted to ask him sharply if he knew where he was going, but a quick look at the wilderness around her kept her quiet. Whether he knew or not, she certainly didn't. Macenion turned to look at her. "I think we'll go this way," he said, gesturing.