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.

Still nervous, Paks neared the fountain. Its water lay perfectly clear, a silken skin that rippled with every breath of air; the falling drops from one level to the next sparkled like jewels in the long, slanting rays of the sun. She tore her gaze from the water and approached the bronze basin on its pedestal of stone. An offering basin, she was sure: but what offerings were acceptable to Kuakkganni? Childhood memories of the dark tales her grandfather had told clouded her mind. Blood, he'd said. Kuakkganni follow the oldest gods, and blood they demand.

"It is customary to place one's offering in the basin." The voice rang deep and resonant, complex. Paks jerked her head up and found herself face to face with a tall, dark-faced man in a hooded robe of greens and browns. Her heart leaped against her ribs; she felt sweat spring out on her back. She had heard nothing.

"Sir, I—" she swallowed, as her voice failed, and tried again. "Sir, I know not what offerings would be acceptable—to a Kuakgan."

The heavy brows arched. "Oh? And why would one with no knowledge of Kuakkganni come seeking one?"

Paks found it hard to meet those dark eyes. "Sir, I was told to."

"By whom?"

"By the elves, sir." Paks did not miss the sudden shift of shoulders, the movement of brows and eyelids.

"Go on, then. What elves, and why?"

"Sir, the elves of the Ladysforest. The one who sent me said that he was of the family of Sialinn."

"And his message?"

"That the elfane taig was once more awake, and lost elf freed."

"Ahh. That is news indeed. And did he chance on you, to be his messenger, or had he other reasons?"

"I had been there—" Paks began to shiver, remembering as if it were happening the final conflict in the round chamber.

"Hmmm. So there is more reason than chance. Well, then, I'll have your name, wanderer, and you shall indeed offer something to the peace of the grove which you displace."

"My name is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—"