For a few moments she held very still, fighting a rising panic. She tried to remember anything at all that would give her a clue to where she was. She thought again of the Duke's Stronghold. That wasn't right. A caravan. A caravan where she was riding, not walking. A tall black horse with white stockings and a blaze. My horse, she thought. All right . . . what next? She thought of gold, and at once remembered Amberion on his chestnut, remembered his name and the nature of the quest. She pushed at the cloud across her memory. They had been—coming into a canyon. No, they were in it. A day later—smoke from the cliffs, arrows—but nothing more. She remembered Ardhiel saying something about the black cousins, the iynisi the elves did not like to remember.

Suddenly she thought where she must be. Underground, taken by the iynisin. She felt around frantically for her weapons. They were gone. Of course, she thought. No sword, no battle axe, no armor—and no medallion of Gird. All gone.

She found herself breathing rapidly, almost gasping, and tried to regain control of herself. Think about it, she told herself. No, think about the others. Do they know? Will they come? Can they come? They will come, she thought hopefully. They won't leave me here; they will come. She tried to picture them, fighting their way down tunnels to find her. What if they fail? her mind asked suddenly. What if we all die under these rocks, and no one ever knows what happened? She tried to call on Gird, but something about the place—the quality of the silence, perhaps—stopped the words at her lips, and she could not say Gird's name aloud.

Yet thinking about Gird and Amberion helped. Whatever happens, she thought—and forced back the imagination of what might happen—I am a warrior of Gird. Whether I can fight my way free or not, I can fight to the end. She remembered Ambros falling as he gave the death-stroke to Achrya's priest. That would not be so bad. Any soldier expected to die someday. She had heard tales enough, in Fin Panir, of paladins and knights fighting against impossible odds, for the glory of Gird. For a moment she saw herself, fighting alone against—what?—she imagined many black-cloaked swordsmen—in a blaze of light.

Paks leaned on the wall and pushed herself up, dizzy as she was. Much better standing. The darkness was more than absence of light; it had a malign and bitter flavor. She edged around the walls, feeling her way along the stone. Wall. Wall—and something other than stone, colder than stone, and smooth. She felt along its edge. A door? Yes. Iron, she thought. She could find nothing but a smooth surface: no bars, no grill, nothing but the smooth metal itself until it met stone. Panic rose again. Suppose they just left her there forever?