"Think?" Paks could not resist that much.

His face darkened. "I have my reasons, Paksenarrion. Either path will get us where we wish to go; this one might provide other benefits."

"Such as?"

"Oh—" He seemed unwilling to answer directly. "There are ruins on some of the trails around here. We might find treasure—"

"Or trouble," said Paks.

His eyebrows went up. "I thought you claimed great skill with that sword."

"Skill, yes—but I don't go looking for trouble." But as she spoke, she felt a tingle of anticipation. Trouble she didn't want, but adventure was something else. Macenion must have seen this in her face, for he grinned.

"After these peaceful days, I daresay you wouldn't mind a little excitement. I don't expect any, to be sure, but unless you're hiding a fortune in that pack, you wouldn't mind a few gold coins or extra weapons any more than I would."

"Honestly—no, I wouldn't." Paks found herself smiling. Ruins in the wilderness, and stray treasure, were just the sort of things she'd dreamed of as a girl.

Macenion's chosen path led them back west, by winding ways, and finally through a narrow gap into a rising valley, steep-sided, where the trail led between many tall gray stones. These stood about like tall soldiers on guard.

"What are those?" asked Paksenarrion, as they began to near the first ranks of them. The stones, roughly shaped into rectangles, gave her an odd feeling, as if they were alive.

"Wardstones," said Macenion. "Haven't you ever seen wardstones before?"

Paks gave him a sharp look. "No. I wouldn't have asked, if I had." She didn't want to ask, now, what wardstones warded or whom. But Macenion went on without her question.

"They're set as guardians, by the elder peoples," he said. "Humans don't use them, that I know of. Can't handle the power, I suppose."

Paks clamped her lips on the questions that filled her mind. How did they guard? And what?

"It's the patterns they make," Macenion went on. "Patterns have power; even you should know that—" He looked at her, and Paks nodded. "If intruders come, then, it will trouble the pattern, and that troubling can be sensed by those who set the stones."

"Are we intruders?" asked Paks.

Macenion laughed, a little too loudly. "Oh my, no. These are old, Paksenarrion, very old. Whatever set them is long gone from here."

"But are they still in those—those patterns you spoke of?" Paks felt something, an itch along her bones.

Macenion looked around. "Yes, but it doesn't matter—"

"Why not?" asked Paks stubbornly. "If it's the patterns that have the power, and they're still in the patterns, then—"

"Really, Paksenarrion," said Macenion loftily. "You must realize that I haven't time to explain everything to you. But I do know more about this sort of thing than any human, let alone a very young soldier. You must simply take my word for it that we are in no danger from these stones. The power is long past. And even if it weren't—" he fixed her with a glance from his brilliant eyes, then tapped his wallet suggestively. "I have spells here to protect us from such as these."