"Good." He worked the key to the room off his ring and handed it to her. "Return this, please, before you leave. Is there anything more?" Paks shook her head, and he turned away. Paks shut the door, then took down her hair and combed it. If she was to see a Kuakgan and a Gird's Marshal, she would be neat, at least. She brushed her cloak as well as she could, rebraided her hair, and left the room, locking it carefully behind her.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Paks left the inn, wishing she didn't have to go. She felt eyes watching her from the inn's wide windows; her shoulders twitched. Evening light glowed in the changing foliage of the trees on her right; a few shrubs were already brilliant crimson. She saw two men-at-arms in the local livery coming toward her. They stared, and she returned the stare coolly, hand near the hilt of her sword. One opened his mouth, but his companion nudged him in the ribs and they passed by in silence.

Ahead on the right she saw a break in the wall of trees and leaves. As she came closer, she saw that it was an arch of sorts: vines binding branches, with a narrow path winding away toward the wood. Paks paused before the opening. She could wait until morning, she thought, and started to turn away—but there on the road were more men-at-arms, and these moved toward her. She stepped under the arch and went in.

She had taken only a few steps when she became aware of the silence. Voices from the road did not penetrate the grove. Her own breathing seemed loud. She slowed, and looked around. Trees, irregularly spaced. More light than she would have expected under the trees, but—she looked up and saw leaves worn and frayed with autumn. Golden light spilled through. The path, though narrow, was easy to see, picked out in rounded white stones that looked like river cobbles. She moved on, alert and watchful. Sevrienna had not had to warn her about Kuakkganni and their groves. Everything she had ever heard about them told of their peril.

A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves around her. As that rustling faded away, she heard somewhere ahead the gentle laughter of falling water. The path twisted once, then again. The trees framed more light: a glade, open to the sky. Almost in its center, she saw a simple fountain, water welling up in a stone basin and trickling over the edge to fall into another, and then another. The last formed a small pool from which Paks could see no outlet. Beside the fountain stood a rough block of stone with a wide bronze basin on top. Paks moved toward it, alert and watchful. Now she could see a low gray house, close under the trees on the far side of the clearing; it looked rough as a fallen tree trunk. Paks made out a door and windows, shuttered, but nothing else. The clearing was otherwise empty.