She struck the back of a confused mass, hating the black-clad iynisin who had laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and cleared a space 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 away. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and anger flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I will 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 loud. This time, at last, the sound passed her lips: not as a yell, little louder than a whisper: "In the name of Gird."

A vast space 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

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 flared 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?"

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

"I'll 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 lips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. "Good," said the voice. "That's what you need."