As they passed the last pair of stones, the light seemed to fail for an instant, as if someone had filled the valley with thick blue smoke. Then a blaze of white light, brighter than sunlight, flashed over them. Paks saw her shadow, black as night, thrown far ahead on the trail. A powerful blow in the back sent her sprawling face-down on the trail; she had no time to see what had happened to Macenion or the horses. Choking dust rose in clouds, and heavy thunder rumbled through her body. Then it was gone, and silence returned. From very far away, she heard the scream of a hawk.

When Paks caught her breath and managed to rise to her feet, she saw nothing behind or before her on the trail. Afternoon shadows had begun to stripe the narrow valley; shadows of the stones latticed the trail itself. Ahead, upslope, the trail was scuffed and torn where Macenion and the horses had fled. Paks scowled at the place the trail disappeared behind a fold of mountain. Alone, in unknown wilderness, without supplies or her pony. . . . She looked back at the valley and shook her head. She knew without thinking about it that she had no escape that way. And perhaps she could catch up to Macenion—he had been limping, she remembered.

In fact, by the time she reached the turn that left the valley safely behind, she could hear him, coaxing the horses to come. When she trudged around the last rocks, she saw him, limping heavily, trying to grab Windfoot's rein. The horse edged sideways, nervous, keeping just out of reach. Paks eyed the situation for a moment before speaking.

"Would you like some help, Macenion?"

He whipped around, nearly falling, his mouth open. Then he glared at her. "You fool!" he said. Paks had not expected that; she felt her ears burning. He went on. "What did I tell you—and you had to keep waving that sword!"

"You told me there wasn't any danger," snapped Paks, furious.

"There wasn't, until you drew your sword," he said. "If you had only—"

"What did you think I'd do, when you let out a yell?"

"You?" He sniffed, twitching his cape on his shoulders. "I should have realized the first thing a fighter would do would be draw steel—"

"Of course," said Paks, struggling to keep calm. "You hadn't said a word about not drawing, either."

"I didn't think it was necessary," muttered Macenion. "I never dreamed you would, for no reason like that—" Paks snorted, and he went on hurriedly. "If we went through quietly, nothing would happen—"

"You told me nothing could happen." Paks felt the length of her blade, lightly, to see that it was unharmed, then slid it into the scabbard. "If you'd warned me, I wouldn't have drawn. I don't like liars, Macenion." She looked hard at him. "Or cowards. Did you even look to see if I was still alive?"