Jarka Ruus

High Druid of Shannara - Book 1

By Terry Brooks

Synopsis

The first instalment in a magical new SHANNARA trilogy Twenty years have passed since the events told in The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara trilogy. Grianne Ohmsford, rescued from oblivion by her brother Bek, has renounced her former life as the evil Ilse Witch, and now serves as the head of a new Druid Council. Her purpose is to defend the Four Lands from anarchy and warfare. Such was the destiny foretold for her by the Druid, Walker Boh. But there are those who cannot easily forgive her past actions, and are loathe to follow her leadership. When Grianne's enemies cause her to disappear, only a few loyal friends can help her. The dwarf Tagwen; Grianne's nephew, Pen Ohmsford; and the Elf Prince, Ahren Elessedil, begin a desperate journey to find Grianne and return her to the Druids' keep at Paranor. Their quest is urgent, their way uncertain and perilous, for the darkest of magics have been used to spirit Grianne away. Pen Ohmsford is descended from the line of Jerle Shannara, the first of the Elven Kings, but his own magic seems small and inadequate when measured against that of his aunt's enemies, who will stop at nothing to thwart Pen's efforts to rescue his aunt and restore the nascent Druid Council. And there is another danger. An ancient and deadly power has found its way out into the world. If things are not put to rights, the danger to the Four Kingdoms will be immeasurable...

ONE

She sat alone in her chambers, draped in twilight's shadows and evening's

solitude, her thoughts darker than the night descending and heavier than the

weight of all Paranor. She retired early these days, ostensibly to work but

mostly to think, to ponder on the disappointment of today's failures and the

bleakness of tomorrow's prospects. It was silent in the high tower, and the

silence gave her a momentary respite from the struggle between herself and those

she would lead. It lasted briefly, only so long as she remained secluded, but

without its small daily comfort she sometimes thought she would have gone mad

with despair.

She was no longer a girl, no longer even young, though she retained her youthful

looks, her pale translucent skin still unblemished and unlined, her startling

blue eyes clear, and her movements steady and certain. When she looked in the

mirror, which she did infrequently now as then, she saw the girl she had been

twenty years earlier, as if aging had been miraculously stayed. But while her

body stayed young, her spirit grew old. Responsibility aged her more quickly

than time. Only the Druid Sleep, should she avail herself of it, would stay the

wearing of her heart, and she would not choose that remedy anytime soon. She

could not. She was the Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, the High Druid of

Paranor, and while she remained in that office, sleep of any kind was in short

supply.

Her gaze drifted to the windows of her chamber, looking west to where the sun

was already gone behind the horizon, and the light it cast skyward in the wake

of its descent a dim glow beginning to fail. She thought her own star was

setting, as well, its light fading, its time passing, its chances slipping away.

She would change that if she could, but she no longer believed she knew the way.

She heard Tagwen before she saw him, his footfalls light and cautious in the

hallway beyond her open door, his concern for her evident in the softness of his

approach.

"Come, Tagwen," she called as he neared.

He came through the door and stopped just inside, not presuming to venture

farther, respecting this place that was hers and hers alone. He was growing old,

as well, nearly twenty years of service behind him, the only assistant she had

ever had, his time at Paranor a mirror of her own. His stocky, gnarled body was

still strong, but his movements were slowing and she could see the way he winced

when his joints tightened and cramped after too much use. There was kindness in

his eyes, and it had drawn her to him from the first, an indication of the

nature of the man inside. Tagwen served because he respected what she was doing,

what she meant to the Four Lands, and he never judged her by her successes or

failures, even when there were so many more of the latter than the former.

"Mistress," he said in his rough, gravel-laced voice, his seamed, bearded face

dipping momentarily into shadow as he bowed. It was an odd, stiff gesture he had

affected from the beginning. He leaned forward as if to share a confidence that

others might try to overhear. "Kermadec is here."

She rose at once. "He will not come inside," she said, making it a statement of

fact.

Tagwen shook his head. "He waits at the north gate and asks if you will speak

with him." The Dwarf's lips tightened in somber reflection. "He says it is

urgent."

She reached for her cloak and threw it about her shoulders. She went by him,

touching his shoulder reassuringly as she passed. Within the stairwell, beyond

the sound of her own soft footfalls, she heard voices rise up from below, the

sounds of conversations adrift on the air. She tried to make out what they said,

but could not. They would be speaking of her; they did so almost incessantly.

They would be asking why she continued as their leader, why she presumed that

she could achieve anything after so many failures, why she could not recognize

that her time was past and another should take her place. Some would be

whispering that she ought to be forced out, one way or another. Some would be

advocating stronger action.

Druid intrigues. The halls of Paranor were rife with them, and she could not put

a stop to it. At Walker's command, she had formed this Third Council on her

return to the Four Lands from Parkasia. She had accepted her role as leader, her

destiny as guide to those she had recruited, her responsibility for rebuilding

the legacy of the Druids as knowledge givers to the races. She had formed the

heart of this new order with those few sent under duress by the Elven King Kylen

Elessedil at his brother Ahren's insistence. Others had come from other lands

and other Races, drawn by the prospect of exploring magic's uses. That had been

twenty years ago, when there was fresh hope and everything seemed possible. Time

and an inability to effect any measurable change in the thinking and attitudes

of the governing bodies of those lands and Races had leeched most of that away.

What remained was a desperate insistence on clinging to her belief that she was

not meant to give up.

But that alone was not enough. It would never be enough. Not for someone who had

come out of darkness so complete that any chance at redemption had seemed

hopeless. Not for Grianne Ohmsford, who had once been the Ilse Witch and had

made herself Ard Rhys to atone for it.

She reached the lower levels of the Keep, the great halls that connected the

meeting rooms with the living quarters of those she had brought to Paranor. A

handful of these Druids came into view, shadows sliding along the walls like

spilled oil in the light of the flameless lamps that lit the corridors. Some

nodded to her; one or two spoke. Most simply cast hurried glances and passed on.

They feared and mistrusted her, these Druids she had accepted into her order.

They could not seem to help themselves, and she could not find the heart to

blame them.

Terek Molt walked out of a room and grunted his unfriendly greeting, outwardly

bold and challenging. But she could sense his real feelings, and she knew he

feared her. Hated her more than feared her, though. It was the same with Traunt

Rowan and Iridia Eleri and one or two more. Shadea a'Ru was beyond even that,

her venomous glances so openly hostile that there was no longer any

communication between them, a situation that it seemed nothing could help.

Grianne closed her eyes against what she was feeling and wondered what she was

going to do about these vipers - what she could do that would not have

repercussions beyond anything she was prepared to accept.

Young Ceryson Scyre passed her with a wave and a smile, his face guileless and

welcoming, his enthusiasm evident. He was a bright light in an otherwise

darkened firmament, and she was grateful for his presence. Some within the order

still believed in her. She had never expected friendship or even compassion from

those who came to her, but she had hoped for loyalty and a sense of

responsibility toward the office she held. She had been foolish to think that

way, and she no longer did so. Perhaps it was not inaccurate to say that now she

merely hoped that reason might prevail.

"Mistress," Gerand Cera greeted in his soft voice as he bowed her past him, his

tall form lean and sinuous, his angular features sleepy and dangerous.

There were too many of them. She could not watch out for all of them adequately.

She put herself at risk every time she walked these halls-here in the one place

she should be safe, in the order she had founded. It was insane.

She cleared the front hall and went out into the night, passed through a series

of interconnected courtyards to the north gates, and ordered the guard to let

her through. The Trolls on watch, impassive and silent, did as they were told.

She did not know their names, only that they were there at Kermadec's behest,

which was enough to keep her reassured of their loyalty. Whatever else happened

in this steadily eroding company of the once faithful, the Trolls would stand

with her.

Would that prove necessary? She would not have thought so a month ago. That she

asked the question now demonstrated how uncertain matters had become.

She walked to the edge of the bluff, to the wall of trees that marked the

beginning of the forest beyond, and stopped. An owl glided through the darkness,

a silent hunter. She, too, hunted. She felt a sudden connection with him so

strong that she could almost envision flying away as he did, leaving everything

behind, returning to the darkness and its solitude.

She brushed the thought aside, an indulgence she could not afford, and whistled

softly. Moments later, a figure detached itself from the darkness almost in

front of her and came forward.

"Mistress," the Maturen greeted, dropping to one knee and bowing deeply.

"Kermadec, you great bear," she replied, stepping forward to put her arms around

him. "How good it is to see you."

Of the few friends she possessed, Kermadec was perhaps the best. She had known

him since the founding of the order, when she had gone into the Northland to ask

for the support of the Troll tribes. No one had ever thought to do that, and her

request was cause enough for a convening of the council of the nations. She did

not waste the opportunity she had been given. She told them of her mission, of

her role as Ard Rhys of a new Druid Council, the third since Galaphile's time.

She declared that this new order would accept members from all nations, the

Trolls included. No prejudices would be allowed; the past would play no part in

the present. The Druids were beginning anew, and for the order to succeed, all

the Races must participate.

Kermadec had stepped forward almost at once, offering the support of his

sizeable nation, of its people and resources. Prompted by her gesture and his

understanding of its importance to the Races, his decision was made even before

the council of nations had met. His Rock Trolls were not imbued with a strong

belief in magic, but it would be their honor to serve as her personal guard.

Give them an opportunity to demonstrate their reliability and skill, and she

would not regret it.

Nor had she ever done so. Kermadec had stayed five years, and in that time

became her close friend. More than once, he had solved a problem that might

otherwise have troubled her. Even after he had left for home again, his service

complete, he had remained in charge of choosing the Trolls that followed in his

footsteps. Some had doubted the wisdom of allowing Trolls inside the walls at

all, let alone as personal guards to the Ard Rhys. But she had walked in darker

places than these and had allied herself with creatures far more dangerous. She

did not think of any Race as predisposed toward either good or evil; she saw

them all only as being composed of creatures that might be persuaded to choose

one over the other.

Just as she saw the members of her Druid order, she thought, though she might

wish it otherwise.

"Kermadec," she said again, the relief in her voice clearly evident.

"You should let me rid you of them all," he said softly, one great hand coming

to rest on her slim shoulder. "You should wash them away like yesterday's sweat

and start anew."

She nodded. "If it were that easy, I should call on you to help me. But I can't

start over. It would be perceived as weakness by the governments of the nations

I court. There can be no weakness in an Ard Rhys in these times." She patted his

hand. "Rise and walk with me."

They left the bluff and moved back into the trees, perfectly comfortable with

each other and the night. The sights and sounds of Paranor disappeared, and the

silence of the forest wrapped them close. The air was cool and gentle this

night, the wind a soft whisper in the new spring leaves, bearing the scent of

woods and water. It would be summer before long, and the smells would change

again.

"What brings you here?" she asked him finally, knowing he would wait for her to

ask before speaking of it.

He shook his head. "Something troubling. Something you may understand better

than I do."

Even for a Rock Troll, Kermadec was huge, towering over her at close to seven

feet, his powerful body sheathed in a barklike skin. He was all muscle and bone,

strong enough to rip small trees out at the roots. She had never known a Troll

to possess the strength and quickness of Kermadec. But there was much more to

him. A Maturen of thirty years, he was the sort of person others turned to

instinctively in times of trouble. Solid and capable, he had served his nation

with a distinction and compassion that belied the ferocious history of his Race.

In the not so distant past, the Trolls had marched against Men and Elves and

Dwarves with the single-minded intent of smashing them back into the earth.

During the Wars of the Races, ruled by their feral and warlike nature; they had

allied themselves with the darker forces in the world. But that was the past,

and in the present, where it mattered most, they were no longer so easily bent

to service in a cause that reason would never embrace.

"You have come a long way to see me, Kermadec," she said. "It must be something

important."

"That remains for you to decide," he said softly. "I myself haven't seen what I

am about to reveal, so it is hard for me to judge. I think it will be equally

hard for you."

"Tell me."

He slowed to a stop in the darkness and turned to face her. "There is strange

activity in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom, mistress. The reports come not from

Rock Trolls, who will not go into that forbidden place, but from other

creatures, ones who will, ones who make a living in part by telling of what they

see. What they see now is reminiscent of other, darker times."

"The Warlock Lord's domain, once," she observed. "A bad place still, all broken

walls and scattered bones. Traces of evil linger in the smells and taste of the

land. What do these creatures tell you they see?"

"Smoke and mirrors, of a sort. Fires lit in darkness and turned cold by

daylight's arrival. Small explosions of light that suggest something besides

wood might be burning. Acrid smells that have no other source than the fires.

Black smudges on flat stones that have the look of altars. Markings on those

stones that might be symbols. Such events were sporadic at first, but now occur

almost nightly. Strange things that of themselves alone do not trouble me, but

taken all together do."

He breathed in and exhaled. "One thing more. Some among those who come to us say

there are wraiths visible at the edges of the mist and smoke, things not of

substance and not yet entirely formed, but recognizable as something more than

the imagination. They flutter like caged birds seeking to be free."

Grianne went cold, aware of the possibilities that the sightings suggested.

Something was being conjured up by use of magic, something that wasn't natural

to this world and that was being summoned to serve an unknown purpose.

"How reliable are these stories?"

He shrugged. "They come from Gnomes for the most part, the only ones who go into

that part of the world. They do so because they are drawn to what they perceive

in their superstitions as sacred. They perform their rituals in those places

because they feel it will lend them power. How reliable are they?" He paused. "I

think there is weight to what they say they see."

She thought a moment. Another strangeness to add to an already overcrowded

agenda of strangenesses. She did not like the sound of this one, because if

magic was at work, whatever its reason, its source might lie uncomfortably close

to home. Druids had the use of magic and were the most likely suspects, but

their use of it in places beyond Paranor was forbidden. There were other

possibilities, but this was the one she could not afford to ignore.

"Is there a pattern to these happenings?" she asked. "A timing to the fires and

their leavings?"

He shook his head. "None that anyone has discerned. We could ask the Gnomes to

watch for it, to mark the intervals."

"Which will take time," she pointed out. "Time best spent looking into it

myself." She pursed her lips. "That is what you came to ask me to do, isn't it?

Take a look for myself?"

He nodded. "Yes, mistress. But I will go with you. Not alone into that

country-ever-would I go. But with you beside me, I would brave the netherworld

and its shades."

Be careful of what you boast of doing, Kermadec, she thought. Boasts have a way

of coming back to haunt you.

She thought of what she had committed herself to do in the days ahead. Meetings

with various Druids to rework studies that members of the order would undertake.

Those could wait. Overseeing the repairs to the library that concealed the Druid

Histories; that one could not happen without her presence, but could wait, as

well. A delegation from the Federation was due to arrive in three days; the

Prime Minister of the Coalition was reputed to lead it. But she could be back in

time for that if she left at once.

She must go, she knew. She could not afford to leave the matter unattended to.

It was the sort of thing that could mushroom into trouble on a much larger

scale. Even by her appearance, she might dissuade those involved from pursuing

their conjuring. Once they knew that she was aware of them, they might go to

ground again.

It was the best she could hope for. Besides, it gave her an opportunity to

escape Paranor and its madness for a few days. In the interval, perhaps a way to

contend with the intrigues might occur to her. Time and distance often triggered

fresh insights; perhaps that would happen here.

"Let me tell Tagwen," she said to Kermadec, "and we'll be off."

TWO

They departed Paranor at midnight, flying north out of the Druid forestlands

with a full moon to light their way, riding the edge of their expectations just

ahead of their doubts and fears. They chose to use Grianne's War Shrike, Chaser,

to make the journey, rather than a Druid airship, thinking that the Shrike would

draw less attention and be less cumbersome. An airship required a crew, and a

crew required explanations. Grianne preferred to keep secret what she was

investigating until she better understood what it meant.

Tagwen accepted the news of her sudden and mysterious departure stoically, but

she read disapproval and concern in his eyes. He was desperate for her to tell

him something more, a hint of what she was about so that if the need arose, he

might be able to help. But she thought it best he know only that she would be

gone for a few days and he must see to her affairs as best he could. There would

be questions, demands perhaps, but he couldn't reveal what he didn't know. She

braced his shoulders firmly with her hands, smiled her approval and reassurance,

and slipped away.

It went without saying that Tagwen would make no mention of Kermadec unless she

failed to return; a visit from the Rock Troll was always to be kept secret.

There were too many who disapproved of the relationship, and the Dwarf

understood the importance of not throwing fuel on a fire already dangerously

hot. Grianne could depend on Tagwen to use good judgment in such matters. It was

one of his strongest attributes; his exercise of discretion and common sense was

easily the equal of her own. Had he the inclination or the talent, he would have

made a good Druid. That accolade bestowed, she was just as happy to have him be

what he was.

The flight took the rest of the night and most of the following day, a long,

steady sweep out of Callahorn and across the Streleheim to the peaks of the

Knife Edge and the Razors, where the ruins of the Skull Kingdom lay scattered in

the valley between. As she guided Chaser onward, the rush of air in her ears

wrapping her in its mindless sound, she had plenty of time to think. Her

thoughts were both of what lay ahead and behind. But while the former merely

intrigued, the latter haunted.

Her efforts at this new life had started so promisingly. She had returned to the

Four Lands with such confidence, her identity regained, her life remade, the

lies that had misled her replaced by truths. She had found her lost brother Bek,

whom she had never thought to see again. She had broken the chains that the

Morgawr had forged to hold her. She had fought and destroyed the warlock with

her brother at her side. She had done this so that she might be given a chance

at the redemption she had never thought to find. The dying touch of a Druid, his

blood on her forehead marking her as his successor, had set her on her path. It

was a destiny she would never have chosen for herself but that she had come to

believe was right and had therefore embraced.

Walker, a shade with a shade's vision, had reappeared to her at the Hadeshorn,

and given her his blessing. Druids dead and gone passed in review, their shades

materializing from the ether, rising out of the roiling waters, infusing her

with their knowledge and a share of their collective power. She would rebuild

their order, resuming the task that Walker had undertaken for himself and failed

to complete. She would summon members of all the Races to a Third Druid Council

and from it found a new order, one in which the dictates of a single Druid would

no longer be all that stood between civilization and anarchy, between reason and

madness. For too long, one Druid had been required to make the difference. Those

few who had done so -Bremen, Allanon, and Walker- had persevered because there

had been no one else and no other way. She would change that.

Such dreams. Such hopes.

Ahren Elessedil had talked his brother, the Elven King Kylen Elessedil, into

supplying the first of the new order, two handfuls of Elves Ahren had led to

Paranor personally. After Kylen discovered he had been tricked, that Walker was

dead and the hated Ilse Witch had replaced him, he had sought to recall those he

had sent. But it was too late; the Elves who had come were committed to her and

beyond his reach. In retaliation he attempted to poison the minds of the leaders

of the other Races against her at every opportunity. That did not prove to be

too difficult with Sen Dunsidan, by then Prime Minister of the Federation, who

already feared and detested her. But the Dwarves and Trolls were less easily

persuaded, especially after she made the effort to go directly to them, to speak

in council, and to insist that she would place the order at their disposal so

far as it was possible to do so. Remember what the Druids were created to do,

she kept reminding them. If you seek a source of strength in the cause of peace

and goodwill among all nations, the Druids are the ones to whom you should turn.

For a time, they did so. Members of both Races came to her, and some from

Callahorn, as well, for they had heard good things about her from the Rover

Captain Redden Alt Mer and from the Highlander Quentin Leah, men they respected.

Besides, once they learned that the Federation did not support her, they were

inclined to think that was reason enough for them to do so. The war between the

Federation and the Free-born was still being fought, mighty armies still locked

in combat on the Prekkendorran, leaders still waging a war that had been waged

since the passing of Allanon -a war pitting unification against independence,

territorial rights against free will. The Free-born wanted Callahorn to be its

own country; the Federation wanted it to be a part of the Southland. At times it

had been both, at times neither.

There was more to it, of course, as there always is in the case of wars between

nations. But that was the justification most often given by those involved, and

into the breach left by the absence of any sensible attempt to examine the

matter stepped the Ard Rhys.

It was a fateful decision, but one she did not see how she could avoid. The

Federation-Free-born war was a ragged wound that would not heal. If the Races

were ever to be brought together again, if the Druids were to be able to turn

their attention to bettering the lives of the people of the Four Lands, this war

must first be ended.

So, even as she struggled to strike a balance in the diversity of temperaments

and needs of those who came to Paranor to study the Druid ways, she was

attempting, as well, to find a way to resolve the conflict between the

Federation and the Free-born. It involved dealing with the two leaders who hated

her most -Kylen Elessedil of the Elves and Sen Dunsidan of the Federation. It

required that she put aside her own prejudices and find a way to get past

theirs. She was able to do this in large part not through fear or intimidation

but by making herself appear indispensable to them. After all, the Druids were

still in possession of knowledge denied common men, more so than ever since the

events in Parkasia. Neither man knew for certain what knowledge she had gained

from the Old World that might prove invaluable. Neither understood how little of

that knowledge she actually possessed. But perception is often more persuasive

than truth. Without the Druids to offer support, each worried that crucial

ground would be lost to the other. Without her help, each believed he risked

allowing the other a chance to grow more powerful at his expense. Sen Dunsidan

had always been a politician. Once he understood that she did not intend to

revert to her ways as the Ilse Witch or hold against him his temporary alliance

with the Morgawr, he was more than willing to see what she had to offer. Kylen

Elessedil followed along for no better reason than to keep pace with his enemy.

Grianne played at this game because it was the only choice she had. She was as

good at it now as she had been when she was the Ilse Witch and manipulation was

second nature. It was a slow process. Mostly, she settled for crumbs in exchange

for the prospect of a full loaf. At times, brought close by promises made and

fitfully kept, she thought she would succeed in her efforts, her goal no more

than a meeting away. Just a truce between the two would have opened the door to

a more permanent solution. Both were strong men, and a small concession by one

might have been enough to encourage the other to grant the same. She maneuvered

them both toward making that concession, gaining time and credibility as she did

so, making herself the center of their thinking as they edged toward a

resolution to a war no one really wanted.

Then Kylen Elessedil was killed on the Prekkendorran, the blame for it was laid

at her doorstep, and in an instant everything she had worked for nearly six

years to achieve was lost.

When they stopped at midmorning to rest Chaser, Kermadec reopened the wound.

"Has that boy King come to his senses yet, mistress?" he asked in a tone of

voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

She shook her head. Kellen Elessedil was his father's son and, if it was

possible, liked her even less than his father had. Worse, he blamed her for his

father's death, a mindset she seemed unable to change.

"He's a fool. He'll die in the same way, fighting for something that to

right-thinking men makes no sense at all." Kermadec snorted softly. "They say

Rock Trolls are warlike, but history suggests that we are no worse than Men and

Elves and in these times perhaps better. At least we do not carry on wars for

fifty years."

"You could argue the Federation-Free-born war has been going on for much longer

than that," she said.

"However long, it is still too long." Kermadec stretched his massive arms over

his head and yawned. "What is the point?"

It was a rhetorical question and she didn't bother to attempt an answer. It had

been a dozen years since her efforts at finding a solution had broken down, and

since then she had been preoccupied with troubles much closer to home.

"You are due for a change of guards," Kermadec offered, handing her his aleskin.

"Maybe you should think about a change of Druids at the same time."

"Dismiss them all and start over?" She had heard this argument from him before.

Kermadec saw things in simple terms; he thought she would be better off if she

did so, too. "I can't do that."

"So you keep saying."

"Dismissing the order now would be perceived as weakness on my part. Even

dismissing the handful of troublemakers who plague me most would have that

effect. The nations look for an excuse to proclaim the Druid Council a failure,

especially Sen Dunsidan and Kellen Elessedil. I cannot give them one. Besides,

if I had to start over at this point, no one would come to Paranor to aid me.

All would shun the Druids. I have to make do with things as they are."

Kermadec took back the aleskin and looked out over the countryside. They were

just at the edge of the Streleheim, facing north toward the misty, rugged

silhouette of the Knife Edge. The day was bright and warm, and it promised

another clear, moonlit night in which to explore the ruins of the Skull Kingdom.

"You might think about the impracticality of that before you give up on my

suggestion."

She had thought about alternatives frequently of late, although her thinking was

more along the lines of restructuring and reordering so as to isolate those most

troublesome. But even there she had to be careful not to suggest an appearance

of weakness to the others or they would begin to shift allegiance in ways that

would undo her entirely.

At times, she thought it might be best if she simply gave them all what they

wanted, if she resigned her position and departed for good. Let another struggle

with the problem. Let someone else take on her responsibilities and her

obligations as Ard Rhys. But she knew she couldn't do that. No one else had been

asked to shoulder those responsibilities and obligations; they had been given to

her, and nothing had happened to change that. She could not simply walk away.

She had no authority to do so. If Walker's shade should appear to tell her it

was time, she would be gone in a heartbeat- though perhaps not without

disappointment at having failed to accomplish her task. But neither Walker's nor

the shade of any other Druid had come to her. Until she was discharged, she

could not go. The dissatisfaction of others was not enough to set her free.

Her solution to the problem would have been much easier if she were still the

Ilse Witch. She would have made an example of the more troublesome members of

her order and cowed the rest by doing so. She would not have hesitated to

eliminate her problems in a way that would have appalled even Kermadec. But she

had lived enough of that life, and she would never go back to it. An Ard Rhys

must find other, better ways to act.

By late afternoon, they had crossed the Streleheim and flown through the lower

wall of the Knife Edge into the jagged landscape of the Skull Kingdom. She felt

a change in the air long before she saw one on the ground. Even aboard Chaser,

several hundred feet up, she could sense it. The air became dead and old,

smelling and tasting of devastation and rot. There was no life here, not of a

sort anyone could recognize. The mountain was gone, brought down by cataclysmic

forces on the heads of those who had worked their evil within it, reduced to a

jumble of rocks within which little grew and less found shelter or forage. It

was a ruined land, colorless and barren even now, a thousand years later, and it

was likely to be a thousand more before that changed. Even in the wake of a

volcano's eruption, in the path of the resultant lava flow, life eventually

returned, determined and resilient. But not here. Here, life was denied.

Ignoring the look and feel of the place, even though it settled about them with

oppressive insistence, they circled the ruins in search of the site where the

fires and the flashes had been observed. After about an hour they found it at

one end of a long shelf of rock balanced amid a cluster of spikes that jutted

like bones from the earth. A ring of stones encircled a fire pit left blackened

and slick from whatever had been burned. When Grianne first saw it from the air,

she could not imagine how anyone could even manage to get to it, let alone make

use of it. Rock barriers rose all about, the crevices between them deep and

wide, the edges sharp as glass. Then she amended her thinking. It would take a

Shrike or a Roc or a small, highly maneuverable airship to gain access, but

access could be gained. Which had been used in this instance? She stored the

question away to be pondered later.

Guiding Chaser to one end of the shelf, they dismounted and walked back for a

closer look.

"Sacrifices of some sort," Kermadec observed, glancing around uneasily, his big

shoulders swinging left and right, as if he were caged. He did not like being

there, she knew, even with her. The place held bad memories for Trolls, even

after so long. The Warlock Lord might be dead and gone, but the feel of him

lingered. In the history of the Trolls, no one had done more damage to the

nation's psyche. Trolls were not superstitious in the manner of Gnomes, but they

believed in the transference of evil from the dead to the living. They believed

because they had experienced it, and they were wary of it happening again.

She closed her eyes and cast about with her other senses for a moment, trying to

read in the air what had happened here. She tracked the leavings of a powerful

magic, the workings of a sorcery that was not meant to heal or succor. A

summoning of some sort, she read in the bits and pieces that remained. To what

end, though? She could not determine, though the smells told of something dying,

and not quickly. She looked down at the fire pit and read in the greasy smears

dark purpose in the sacrifices clearly made.

"This isn't good," she said softly.

He stepped close. "What do you find, mistress?"

"Nothing yet. Nothing certain." She looked up at him, into his flat,

expressionless features. "Perhaps tonight, when darkness cloaks the thing that

finds this dead place so attractive, we shall find out."

* * *

She tethered Chaser some distance away, back in the rocks where he couldn't be

seen, giving him food and water and speaking soothing words to steady him

against what might happen later. Afterwards, she ate a cold dinner with

Kermadec, watching the light fade from the sky and the twilight descend in a

flat, colorless wash that enveloped and consumed like smoke. There was no

sunset, no change in the look of the land and sky save an almost rushed

transition from light to dark. The sensation it generated in Grianne was one of

possibility draining into despair.

She pushed such dark thoughts away but could not change her feelings for the

place. It was wretched ground for living things, a wasteland in which she did

not belong. The pervasive feelings of hopelessness and isolation gave notice

that for some transgressions there could be no redemption. If she lived another

thousand years, she did not think to see a rebirth of life in the Skull Kingdom.

Perhaps, given the types of life that might find purchase in such a land, it was

for the best.

"Sleep," she told Kermadec. "I will keep watch the first half of the night."

He grunted agreement and was asleep in seconds. She envied him a rest that came

so easily. She watched him for a time, his rough skin looking smooth in the

darkness, his hairless body and nearly featureless face giving him the

appearance of a smoothly faceted shape hewn from stone. Sleek -that was the way

he struck her. Like a moor cat, big and powerful and smooth. She liked him

better than almost anyone. Not so much for the way he looked as for the way he

was. Direct and uncomplicated. That wasn't to say he was slow-witted or

combative; he was neither. But Kermadec didn't complicate matters by

overanalyzing and debating. When something needed doing, he spent as little time

and effort as was possible in getting it done. He had a code of conduct that

served him well, and she did not think he had ever varied from it. She wished

her own life could be as straightforward.

Time slipped away, and Grianne watched the moon rise and the stars paint the sky

in a wash of white pinpricks. The rocks around her remained silent. The fire

pit, its rings of rocks looking like hunched Gnomes in the gloom, sat cold and

untended. Perhaps nothing would happen this night, the one night she was here to

see it happen. Perhaps whoever built the fires and created the flashes had

sensed her presence and would stay away. She wondered if she could force herself

to keep watch another night if nothing happened on this one. She had no good

reason to do so; her presence now was generated mostly by her instinctive

reaction to the possibilities of what she feared might happen, not to what

actually had.

Then, as midnight approached, the fire pit abruptly flared to life. It did so

without warning or reason. No one had appeared to tend it; no fuel had been laid

or tinder struck. It burned sharp and fierce on nothing more than air, and

Grianne was on her feet at once.

"Kermadec!"

The Rock Troll awoke and rose to stand beside her, staring at the phenomenon

without speaking. The intensity of the fire increased and diminished as if the

flames were breathing, as if the air were changing in some indefinable way,

first lending strength to the invisible fuel, then leeching it away. All around,

illuminated by tendrils of light, the jumbled rocks became ghostly spectators.

Grianne eased forward cautiously, just a step or two at a time, eyes shifting

back and forth among the shadows in an effort to find what was out there.

Something had to be; something had to have initiated the blaze. But she could

detect no life, no sign of anything living save Kermadec and herself. Someone

had lit the flames from another place, someone or something that did not need to

be present to work whatever magic was intended.

"Mistress!" Kermadec hissed.

Flashes of light appeared in the air above the fire, sudden flares of brightness

that suggested small explosions. But they made no sound and left no residue of

smoke or ash, as if giant fireflies in the darkness. They were moving in

circular fashion, widening their sweep and rising higher as their numbers

increased. Below, unchanged, the fire continued to burn.

Grianne reached out with her magic to explore this mix of burning air and

flameless light, using the wishsong to investigate what was there that she

wasn't seeing. She found other magic at once, concentrated and powerful,

dispatched from another place to this one. It was as she had thought. She

detected, as well, that something was responding to it, something that was able

to find purchase in this ruined land where it might not have been able to do so

in one less poisoned. It was not something she could put a name to, but it was

there nevertheless, pressing up against the fire and the light.

A face in the window, she thought suddenly. Perhaps not just from somewhere in

this world, but from another plane of existence altogether.

She probed harder with her magic, trying to break through to whatever was out

there, to generate a response that would reveal something more. Her efforts were

rewarded almost at once. Something small and dark appeared at the edges of the

light, like a wraith come out of the netherworld, not altogether shapeless, but

lacking any clear definition. It slid in and out of the light like a child

playing hide and seek, first here, then there, never quite revealing itself

altogether, never quite showing what it was.

Kermadec was whispering hurriedly, anxiously, telling her to back away, to give

herself more space. It wasn't safe to be so close, he was saying. She ignored

him; she was caught up in the link she had established between the foreign magic

and her own. Something was there, quick and insubstantial, just out of reach.

And then all at once it wasn't hiding anymore. It was there, right in front of

her, its face turned full into hers, edges and angles caught in the light. She

caught her breath in spite of herself. The face was vaguely human, but in no

other way recognizable. Malevolence masked its features in a way she had not

thought possible, so darkly threatening, so hate-filled and remorseless, that

even in her time as the Ilse Witch, she had not experienced its like. Dark

shadows draped it like strands of thick hair, shifting with the light, changing

the look of it from instant to instant. Eyes glimmered like blue ice, cool and

appraising. There was recognition in those eyes; whoever was there, hiding in

the light, knew who she was.

Grianne lashed out at the face with ferocious intent, surprising even herself

with her vehemence. She felt such loathing, such rage, that she could not stop

herself from reacting, and the deed was done before she could think better of

it. Her magic exploded into the face, which disappeared instantly, taking with

it the flashes and the burning air, leaving only darkness and the lingering

smell of expended magic.

She compressed her lips tightly, fighting back the snarl forming on them,

consumed by the feelings this thing had generated. It was all she could do to

pull herself together and turn back to an obviously unnerved Kermadec.

"Are you all right?" he asked at once.

She nodded. "But I wasn't for a moment, old bear. That thing radiated such evil

that I think letting it come even that near was a serious mistake. If I didn't

know better, I would say it lured me here."

Which it had, she knew at once, though she would not say so to him. It had known

she would come, would respond to its advances, and would step close enough to

feel it. It wanted her to know it was there. But why? What did it want? Where

did it hide that she could not find it, and that it could not do more than it

had?

"Do we stay here another night?" the Rock Troll asked cautiously.

She shook her head "I think we've seen all we are going to see. We'll fly to

Paranor at first light I'll find better answers back there to what is

happening,"

THREE

We've talked enough!" Shadea a'Ru snapped irritably. "How much more talking does

it need? This is the best chance we'll get!"

No one said anything in response. No one cared to be the first to speak. She was

a big woman, and she dominated with her size as much as with the force of her

personality. Fully six feet tall, broad-shouldered and strong, she had fought in

the front lines on the Prekkendorran for two years, and none of them had

survived anything nearly as terrible as that. The contrasting hues of her

sun-browned skin, smooth and dusky, and wind-blown blond hair, short-cropped and

uncombed, gave her a look of good health and vitality. When she stepped into any

room, heads turned in her direction and conversation slowed.

Here, however, the reaction was different. Here, they all knew her too well to

be much more than cautious. She looked from face to face, her calculating blue

eyes searching out signs of doubt or hesitation, challenging them to try to hide

it from her. Their responses were as different as they were. Terek Molt

disdained even to look at her, his flat, hard features directed toward the

doorway of the room that concealed their secret meeting. Iridia Eleri's

stunningly perfect features had a cool, distant look. Neither Dwarf nor Elf had

ever demonstrated any hesitation in their joint endeavor. Either would have

undertaken the effort alone long ago but for Shadea's insistence on unity.

Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence glanced uneasily at each other.

The problem lay with the Southlander and the Gnome. Cowards, she thought

angrily, though she knew better than to say so to their faces.

"Act in haste, regret at leisure, Shadea," the former offered softly, shrugging.

She wanted to kill him. He was the only one of them who would dare to speak to

her like that, and he did so for no better reason than to demonstrate that she

could push him only so far before he would dig in his heels. He wanted this as

much as she did, as all of them did, but he was too cautious for his own good.

It came out of being the child of Federation functionaries; the fewer chances

you took in that world, the better off you were.

"Please don't fall back on platitudes to justify your reluctance to do what is

necessary!" she snapped in reply. "You're better than that, Traunt. Smarter than

that. We can nose this matter about like a dog with an old bone for as long as

you wish, but it won't change a thing. Nothing will happen to improve matters

unless we make it happen."

"She smells out plots like ours," Pyson Wence said, his small hands gesturing

for emphasis. "Step wrong with her, and you might find yourself down here for

good!"

They were deep underground in the cellars of Paranor, gathered in one of the

rooms used primarily for storage. The room smelled of dust and the air was cold

and stale to the taste. Stone walls locked them away beneath tons of rock and

earth, a safehold that few ever bothered to visit save to retrieve stores. It

was the one place in Paranor where some degree of privacy was assured.

They had been meeting for almost a year, just the five of them. Shadea a'Ru had

carefully selected the other four, discovering where their loyalties lay, then

approached them one by one. Each shared her distaste for the Ard Rhys. One hated

her openly. All wanted her gone, if for widely differing reasons. To some

extent, they complemented each other, each bringing an attribute to the endeavor

that the others lacked. The Southlander, Traunt Rowan, was strong of heart and

body, more than a match even for Shadea -a warrior seeking to put right what he

perceived as wrong. The Elven sorceress, Iridia Eleri, was cold of heart and hot

of temper, but quick-witted and intuitive, as well. Her ability to stanch her

emotions masked the dark truths that had set her on this path. The Dwarf, Terek

Mott, while stolid and taciturn in the manner of Dwarves, was hungry for power

and anxious to find a way to get past the Ard Rhys' rules and restrictions so

that he could claim the destiny he so desperately craved. Pyson Wence, so frail

and helpless-looking, was a snake trapped in a supplicant's body, a rare

combination of treacherous instinct and decisive purpose. No superstitious

tribal pagan, he wielded his magic in a cold and calculating fashion.

Had the Ard Rhys any inkling of their true dispositions when she accepted them

into the order? Shadea a'Ru could not be certain. It was possible, if only

because Grianne Ohmsford herself had been such a dark creature for so long-the

Ilse Witch, the Morgawr's tool. She had found redemption, she believed, and so

thought others could find it, as well. She was mistaken on both counts, but that

was to the advantage of those gathered in this room, those who waited only on

fate to provide them with the chance they needed to be rid of her.

As perhaps it did here, if their impatient leader could gain the pledge of

support she required.

"You want her gone, don't you?" she asked Pyson Wence pointedly. "Dead or

otherwise, but gone?" She looked around. "How about the rest of you? Changed

your minds about her? Decided you like having her as Ard Rhys? Come! Speak up!"

"No one in this room and few outside of it want Grianne Ohmsford as Ard Rhys,

Shadea." Traunt Rowan looked bored. "We've covered this ground before, all of

it. What keeps us from acting is the possibility of failure-a very real

possibility, I might point out. Failure means no second chance. So before you

start berating us for our reluctance, try to see the reality of the situation a

little more clearly. When we act against her, we had better be very certain that

we will succeed."

The weight of her stare settled on him and she did not remove it for long

seconds. The others shifted uncomfortably, but they said nothing for fear her

eyes would seek them out instead. Traunt Rowan, to his credit, held her gaze,

but she could see the uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. She might do anything;

that was her reputation. If you provoked Shadea a'Ru-something not at all hard

to do-you did so at great risk. One who had tested her had already disappeared.

Everyone suspected that she might have caused that disappearance, even the Ard

Rhys, but no one could prove it.

"I would not summon you with such urgency," she said, speaking to Traunt, but

including all of them with a quick shift of her eyes, "if I did not have a way

to dispose of her that would pose no risk at all to any of us. I am aware of the

possibility of failure. No matter how carefully we plan and execute, something

can always go wrong. The trick is to make certain that even if that happens, no

suspicion or blame will fall on us. But in this instance, I do not think we will

fail. I think we will succeed better than we had hoped. Are you ready to hear me

out?"

All nodded or at least kept quiet. Terek Molt never agreed or disagreed with

anything. He simply stayed or walked away. Dwarves were given to physical

gestures over words, which suited her fine. They were given to directness, as

well, and it was good to have at least one of those among so many dissemblers.

"Wait!" Iridia hissed suddenly, one hand lifting sharply.

She rose from her bench, crossed the room to the door, and put her ear against

it. The door was ironbound oak two inches thick and sealed with magic to prevent

even the faintest echo of their voices from escaping. None of them cared to have

even the smallest whisper drift beyond this chamber. The Ard Rhys already

suspected they were plotting against her; what saved them was that others were

doing so, as well. There was no time for Grianne to deal with all of them.

Still, if she was ever to discover the particulars of this specific plot, they

would be dealt with swiftly and thoroughly. The Ard Rhys might claim to no

longer be the Ilse Witch, but she could revert in the blink of an eye. Not even

Shadea a'Ru cared to go up against her if that happened.

That was a good part of the problem, of course. That Grianne Ohmsford was not

simply the Ard Rhys, but that she was the Ilse Witch, too. It was not something

any who had come to Paranor to join the Druid order could ignore. The past was

the past, but it was always with you. She might claim to be a changed woman,

having taken up the Ard Rhys mantle at the behest of Walker Boh, having been

given the blessing of Druids dead and gone, and having pledged herself to

reestablish the Druid Council as a viable force in the Four Lands. She might

claim to be committed to helping the Races become strong, independent, and

peaceful neighbors, to putting an end to the war between the Free-born and the

Federation, and to reintroducing a mix of science and magic into the world for

the betterment of all men and women. She might claim anything she wished, but

that didn't change what everyone knew about her past. It didn't erase what she

had done. In some cases, nothing could. It was too close, too personal-as with

Traunt Rowan and Iridia Eleri, the two among these conspirators who sought

vengeance for acts committed by the Ilse Witch and forgotten by the Ard Rhys.

The others were simply hungry to employ their magic and sate their ambitions in

ways that were forbidden. But for each, to realize desires meant getting rid of

Grianne.

This tension didn't start and end with the five gathered in secret here. It

manifested itself in other splinter groups, as well, all of them working to

achieve something secret, all of them with goals and hungers that were in some

way in conflict with the Third Druid Council as Grianne Ohmsford had conceived

it. It wasn't a question of if she would be done away with; it was merely a

question of when.

And a question of who would prove clever and bold enough to make it happen, of

course. And then be strong enough to take charge of the order, once she was gone

and a new Ard Rhys was needed.

Some part of Shadea a'Ru, some tiny bit of reason shoved far back into the

darker corners of her consciousness, accepted that not all of those who had come

to Paranor to begin life as Druids felt as she did. Some admired Grianne and

believed her right for the position-strong, determined, tested, and unafraid.

But Shadea a'Ru would not allow herself to think well of those because to do so

might give credibility to their loyalty, and she believed that to be a weakness

she could not afford. Better to see them as sycophants and deceivers and to plan

for their removal, as well, once the path was clear to do so.

Iridia was still standing by the door, listening. Everyone was waiting on her

now, watching silently. "What is it?" Shadea asked finally, irritated and

impatient.

The sorceress stepped back and stared at the portal as if it were an enemy that

needed dispatching. Her distrust of everyone and everything ran deep and

unchecked. Even Shadea herself merited India's suspicion. She was beautiful and

talented, but deeply flawed. Her personal demons ran loose through her predatory

mind, and someday they were going to turn on her.

"I heard something moving," she said, turning away, dismissing the matter. "I

just wanted to be certain the warding was still in place."

"You set it yourself," Shadea pointed out.

Iridia did not look at her. "It could have been tampered with. Better to be

sure." She returned to the bench and sat down. For a moment, she said nothing

more. Then she glanced up at Shadea, as if remembering her. "What were you

saying?"

"She was saying she has found a way to solve our problem with the Ard Rhys."

Traunt Rowan picked up the loose thread of the conversation with his calming

voice. "Without posing any danger to us."

"There is a potion I have a chance to obtain," Shadea told them. "Mixed with a

spell, it produces a magic strong enough to work against anyone, no matter how

well prepared they are. The potion is called liquid night. Together with the

spell, it will dispatch the intended victim to another place. It doesn't kill

them; they simply disappear. No blame attaches because there is no body. There

isn't even a residue to tell any searchers what happened. Everything disappears

in a few hours, victim and magic alike."

Pyson shook his head. "There is no such magic. I know most, have read about the

ones I do not know, and I have never heard of liquid night."

"That is because it isn't from this world," Shadea said. "It is from the world

into which I am sending the Ard Rhys."

They stared at her with a mix of expressions. "What world would that be?" Traunt

Rowan asked finally.

She shook her head. "Oh, no, Traunt. I don't give you anything more until after

I have your word that you are committed to me and to what I am proposing. I am

the one who sought the potion out, and I intend to keep the particulars my own.

All you need to know is that once I have implemented it, you will never see the

Ard Rhys again."

"But she will not be dead," Pyson Wence persisted doubtfully. "If she is not

dead, there is always a chance she can find her way back. She has more lives

than a cat. You know her history, Shadea. She is not like anyone else. I like

her no better than you, but I respect her ability to stay alive."

Shadea nodded in agreement. Idiot. "She won't be coming back from where I intend

to send her, Pyson. No one comes back from where she will be going. Besides, she

won't stay alive long enough to do much about her situation in any case. There

are things there far more dangerous than the Ilse Witch. Once gone, she will

never come back."

They were intrigued, interested, but still hesitant. Except for Terek Molt, who

was nodding vigorously. "Do it, I say. If you have a way to eliminate her,

woman, do it!"

"When will this happen?" Iridia asked.

"When she returns, two or three nights from now. I can have everything in place

before then. It will happen while she sleeps, so smoothly and silently that she

will not wake again in this world."

"If you have this all ready, or can make it ready, why do you have need of us?"

Traunt Rowan asked. "This was begun as a joint endeavor, but it seems to me that

you have taken over the effort yourself. We no longer have anything you need."

She had been anticipating the question and was pleased to know that she was

still able to keep one step ahead of them. "It might seem that way if you didn't

think it through carefully," she said. "This effort will not succeed if we don't

look beyond eliminating Grianne Ohmsford."

"You would have us make you Ard Rhys in her place," Traunt Rowan declared

softly. "Wouldn't you?"

She nodded. "I am best suited for it. I command the most respect among those who

must be convinced of the necessity of choosing a new Ard Rhys quickly. But do

not be fooled, Traunt. I do not see myself as another Grianne Ohmsford, a leader

standing alone and apart, needing no one. This is exactly what set us against

her in the first place. She isolates herself. She sees herself as wiser and more

capable, better able to determine what is best for everyone. If I were to take

that route, how would I be any different?"

"You oversimplify," Pyson Wence said. "Our dislike for the Ard Rhys goes well

beyond the way she holds herself above us."

"Indeed," she agreed. "But inaccessibility and the appearance of isolation will

doom whoever stands for the position of Ard Rhys, once Grianne is gone. I need

all of you to support me if I am to succeed. You each represent a faction of the

order-you, Pyson, of Gnomes; Terek Molt, of Dwarves; Traunt, of Southlanders;

and Iridia, of Elves. Not all of each, by any means, but a sizeable number. You

are among the strongest of your respective Races, and you can bring support to

me as such. I cannot serve as Ard Rhys and achieve what we have decided upon

without your help."

"Why should you be Ard Rhys?" Terek Molt snapped suddenly, his sullen features

tightening.

She kept her temper. Speaking out like this was his nature. "Because the order

would not have you, Terek. They might have Traunt Rowan, but none of the rest of

you. And Traunt is not interested." She looked purposefully at him. "Are you?"

He shook his head, his lips pursing with disdain. "I have no need to be leader

of the order-only to see it set upon the right path, one determined by someone

other than her."

Grianne Ohmsford, he meant, but would not speak her name. In his own quiet way,

he hated her most. If Shadea had found a way that would allow him to kill her

himself, he would have accepted it without question. She often wondered what he

thought things would be like for him after Grianne was gone. What would there be

left for him to do after having burned so much energy and devoted so much time

to seeing her dispatched?

"Where have you found this potion?" Pyson Wence asked. "Liquid night? If not

from this world, if instead from this place you refuse to reveal, how did you

come by it?"

She shook her head. "No answers until I have your commitment, Pyson. It is

sufficient to say that it will do what is needed."

"Someone gave it to you?" he continued. "You have a secret ally? Another who

serves our cause? Are you keeping other secrets, Shadea?"

She was, of course, but he would never find them out. "No more questions from

you, no more answers from me," she told him, told them all. "I want your oath,

your Druid oath, your word and your bond. Everything that you hold sacred stands

behind it, and we all bear witness to what you say. If I do this, if I rid you

of the Ard Rhys, then will you support my bid to be the new leader of the order?

Will you stand with me to the death to see finished what we seek to do?"

Iridia Eleri rose, cold eyes sweeping the room. "You have my j oath. Let her

burn a thousand years in her own magic's fire!"

Terek Molt grunted approvingly. "She's earned banishment a thousand times over,

and I care nothing for where she gets banished to. Get it done, Shadea. Put this

creature out of our lives!"

There was a long silence. Traunt Rowan was clearly thinking, head lowered, hands

clasped. Pyson Wence, sitting beside him, glanced over, then looked at Shadea,

frowning.

"If you can do as you say, then I have no quarrel with your effort." His eyes

shifted from face to face. "But if Shadea exaggerates in any way, if the power

of the magic she proposes to use is less than what she thinks it is, then I want

to be certain she does not exaggerate, as well, her certainty that nothing of

this can come back to haunt us."

"How could it do that, Pyson?" she spit at him. "Would it bear our names spelled

out upon its liquid surface? Would it somehow speak them aloud?"

He shrugged. "Would it, Shadea?"

"It is a potion supplemented by a spell. The potion does not originate in this

world. The spell is one familiar to dozens and available to all who care to read

and study on it. Nothing of either attaches to us. Stop equivocating! If you

want out of this business, there is the door that brought you in. Pass back

through, and you have your release."

Not that he would ever live to reach it, she thought darkly, waiting on him. Not

that he would take half a dozen steps before she burned him to cinders. It was

too late for backing away. Too late for anything but going forward.

Maybe Pyson knew this, for he made no move to rise, showed no inclination to do

anything but ponder her words. He was so settled in place, so loose and

comfortable with his legs tucked under and his arms folded into his robes that

it seemed to her, infuriatingly so, that he might be thinking of a nap.

"I'll give you my oath, Shadea," he said finally. "But-" He paused, cocking his

head to one side, his sharp Gnome features thoughtful. "But I think my oath must

be conditional on discovering where it is that you propose to send the Ard Rhys.

If it isn't sufficiently far away or secure, I intend to tell you so and back

out."

There were murmurs of assent to this, but Shadea ignored them, knowing that what

she had in mind for Grianne Ohmsford would please them all. Once they heard,

there would be no more mutterings. "What of you, Traunt?" she asked the

Southlander.

"You've said nothing."

"I have been thinking." He smiled faintly. "Thinking about how much we are

entrusting you with. It seems to me that more than one of us ought to be

involved in this effort-not just in the planning, but in the execution. It would

require a stronger commitment, which is what you are looking for. It would give

us all a sense of participation beyond what you have proposed so far."

"It would also entail a greater risk," she pointed out, not liking where his

suggestion was going. "Two stand a greater chance of being detected than one.

Whoever administers the potion and the spell must approach the Ard Rhys

secretly. Stealth and quickness will determine success or failure."

"Two can move as quietly as one," he argued, shrugging. "Moreover, if one

falters, the other can still act. It offers us a measure of protection."

"I don't intend to falter," she said coldly, openly angry. "We'll draw straws to

see who goes with you," Iridia said, siding with Rowan.

Both Pyson Wence and Terek Molt nodded in assent. Shadea knew when she was up

against a wall. She was not going to get them to back off without arousing

suspicion. "All right," she agreed. "But only one."

She rose and walked to a stack of crates containing serving ware packed in straw

and drew out four strands. Breaking off three, she evened them between her

fingers and offered them to the others. Terek Molt snatched the first. It was

short. Iridia drew a short straw, as well.

The other two looked at each other, hesitating. Then Traunt Rowan picked from

the remaining two straws. His was the long one.

"How fitting," Shadea sneered, "since taking part was your idea. Now give me

your word, Traunt. Your oath and your promise as a Druid to stand with me no

matter what."

He nodded, unruffled. "You always had that, Shadea, from the moment you told me

what you intended and recruited me to your cause. I am as committed as you will

ever be."

Perhaps, she thought. But we will never know for sure because there is no way to

test such a claim. For her purposes it was sufficient that he was committed to

support her as the new Ard Rhys after Grianne was dispatched. Once she held that

office, and despite what she had told them to gain their support, they would all

become expendable. Her plans were greater than they knew and did not include

them.

"We are agreed then," she said, looking from face to face, seeking again any

sign of hesitation.

"We are agreed," Traunt Rowan affirmed. "Now tell us where you intend to

imprison the Ard Rhys. Where can you send her that she cannot find a way back to

haunt us?"

Shadea a'Ru smiled at the looks on their faces when she told them.

FOUR

Sen Dunsidan was a cautious man. He had always had reason to be cautious, but he

had more reason these days since he had more to lose. His life's accomplishments

were impressive, but the price exacted in exchange had been severe and

permanent. It wasn't the sort of price one could measure in terms of wealth. If

it had been only money, he would not have been as cautious as he was. The price

levied against him was a piece of his soul here and a part of his sanity there.

The price was psychological and emotional, and it left him bereft of almost

anything resembling peace of mind.

Not that he had ever possessed much of that in any case. Even in the days when

he was only Minister of Defense of the Federation and in the thrall of the Ilse

Witch, he had compromised himself in almost every way imaginable to advance his

position and increase his power. Peace of mind was a benefit that did not accrue

to those who lacked moral restraint. He was cautious back then, as well, but not

nearly as much so as now. He saw himself as invincible in those days, too clever

for anyone to outsmart or outmaneuver, too powerful to be challenged. Harm might

come to lesser men, but not to him. Even the Ilse Witch, for all her disdain and

aloofness, was wary of him. He knew how she saw him-how most saw him. A snake,

coiled and ready to strike. He did not take offense. He liked the image. Snakes

were not cautious. Others were cautious of snakes. It was beneficial to instill

a sense of uneasiness in those with whom he was compelled to deal.

Caution came to him after he broke off his relationship with the Ilse

Witch-betrayed her, in fact-and allied himself with the Morgawr, her warlock

mentor. It was the smart thing to do. The Morgawr was the more powerful of the

two and the more likely to succeed in their battle to destroy each other.

Moreover, the warlock was the one who was willing to give Sen Dunsidan what he

wanted most in exchange for his support-a chance at becoming Prime Minister. Two

men stood in Sen Dunsidan's way, and the Morgawr had them killed in what

appeared to be for one an accident, and for the other, natural causes.

But what the Morgawr claimed from him in the bargain was much more than he had

ever expected to pay. The Morgawr forced Sen Dunsidan to watch as he turned

living men into the walking dead, creatures without wills of their own, things

that did only as they were told. Worse, he forced Sen Dunsidan to participate in

the atrocity, to bring the men to him under false pretenses and to witness their

destruction. When it was finished and the Morgawr had gone, Sen Dunsidan was a

changed man. Even after becoming Prime Minister, even after gaining enough power

that no one dared to challenge him, he never felt safe. Devastated by watching

what had been done to those men, by being an accomplice to it, he could not

regain the sense of invincibility he had once thought he would never lose.

Worse, he could not take any comfort in what he had gained. He could not stop

thinking about those men. He became obsessed with his own vulnerability; his

need to protect himself against falling victim to what he had witnessed

dominated his thinking. Emotions already blunted by his lesser crimes were

turned to stone. His heart hardened and his soul shriveled. He no longer felt

anything for anyone other than himself, and what he felt for himself was mostly

fear.

With the passing of the years, he grew steadily more unsettled, responding to

fears he could not control.

Tonight was one of those times.

He sat waiting impatiently in a reading chair that did not face the doorway of

the room, but a blank wall. The room itself was in a place he had never thought

he would visit. He was at Paranor, a guest of the Druids and, more particularly,

of his onetime nemesis, Grianne Ohmsford. Twenty years ago, when she had

returned from the airship voyage she had undertaken in search of a lost magic

from another time, he had thought himself a dead man. She had destroyed his

ally, the Morgawr, and would certainly have determined that he had supplied the

Federation ships and men under the warlock's command. Had she been the Ilse

Witch still, had something not happened to change her while she was away, she

would have killed him at once. Instead, she had ignored him, retreating to the

confines of Paranor, secluded with the shades of dead Druids, and had done

nothing.

At first, he had thought she was playing a game with him and had waited

stoically for the inevitable. But after a time, he began to hear rumors of a new

Druid order and an Ard Rhys who would lead it. He heard that the Ilse Witch had

forsaken her name and disclaimed her past, that she was no longer who or what

she had been. It was too outlandish to credit seriously, the sort of rumor that

invariably proved false. But men and women from all the Races were traveling to

Paranor to seek a place in the Third Druid Council, and he began to wonder.

And then the impossible happened. She summoned him to a meeting on neutral

ground to discuss their relationship. He went because he saw no reason not to.

If she wanted him dead, she would find a way to make him so and hiding in his

compound in Arishaig, or anywhere else in the Four Lands, wasn't going to save

him. To his astonishment, she told him that the past was behind them both and it

was time to consider the future. There would be no more dealings of the sort

that had taken place before. There would be no recriminations for what was done.

She sought instead to open lines of communication between Paranor and the

Federation that would facilitate a productive sharing of ideas and solutions to

problems of mutual concern-like the war on the Prekkendorran, for instance. She

would give him what help she could in his new position as Prime Minister,

sharing knowledge that would aid the people he led. In turn, he would help her

restore the credibility and effectiveness of the Druids throughout the Four

Lands.

It had taken him a while to adjust to the new relationship, but in the end it

gave him back the life he had thought forfeited and so he was willing to make

that adjustment. There had been other meetings over the years, many of them,

with visits to Paranor by him and to Arishaig by her. Discussions had been held

and trades made and, all in all, they had gotten along well enough.

Which never once stopped him from trying to find a way to kill her, of course.

It was impossible for him not to think of doing so. Whoever she claimed she was,

Ilse Witch or Ard Rhys, she was too dangerous to be allowed to live; nothing

prevented her from reverting at some point to the creature she had been, casting

off her new guise, her new identity. More to the point, he knew he could never

control her. If he couldn't control her, he couldn't control the Druids, and

controlling the Druids was essential if he was to govern the Four Lands. That

was his ambition and his intention, and he meant to see it fulfilled. Only the

Free-born stood in his way, but eliminating the Free-born meant finding a way to

subvert the Druids. They claimed not to be siding with anyone in the

Federation-Free-born conflict, but it was clear enough that however the war on

the Prekkendorran turned out, the Ard Rhys was never going to allow either side

to crush the other.

Sen Dunsidan had decided long ago that crushing his enemies was the only way to

survive them. Leaving them alive after you had defeated them only gave them

another chance to come after you. If they were dead and gone, you had nothing to

worry about. So he was in Paranor for yet another meeting with Grianne Ohmsford,

for discussions concerning the Prekkendorran and the war with the Free-born and

whatever else she cared to talk about, and none of it mattered to him because

the meeting would never happen. It was scheduled to take place in the morning,

but by then the Ard Rhys would be dead. Or would wish she was.

It had taken a long time to find a way to eliminate her, and it had come about

in a most unlikely way from a most unlikely source. Assassination had always

been an alternative, but her instincts were so acute that she could sense that

sort of thing almost without making an effort. Her magic was formidable, the

wishsong of the Ohmsford legends, passed down through the bloodline, stronger in

her than in almost any other member of her family, made so by her training and

her life as the Ilse Witch. You might try to catch her off guard and kill her,

but you would have a better chance at growing wings and learning to fly.

He had looked for other ways to rid himself of her, but no other solution

immediately presented itself. Employing another magic to overcome her own was

the logical approach, but he didn't know any magic and wasn't equipped to wield

it if he did. Finding an ally who could act in his place was the logical

solution, but with the death of the Morgawr and the formation of the Third Druid

Council, he no longer had direct dealings with magic wielders save for the one

he wanted to eliminate.

Then help arrived from an unexpected source, not much more than a year ago, and

he had not only his ally, but a spy in the Druid camp. The spy gave him a pair

of much needed eyes and ears to monitor the Ard Rhys' movements. Sooner or

later, he believed, he would find a way to get past her defenses, as well.

Now, he had found that way at last. Tonight, he would test it- without risk to

himself, without danger of discovery. If it worked, Grianne Ohmsford would no

longer be a problem. By morning, the world would be a different place.

Yet he was uneasy, not quite believing it would happen, afraid that his

complicity in the deaths of all those men years ago at the hands of the Morgawr

would take form somehow this night and devour him. It did not seem ridiculous

that it might happen; it seemed almost inevitable. There was a price to be paid

for what he had done, and sooner or later someone would appear to collect it.

He was thinking of that as the wall across from him slid silently open and

Shadea a'Ru stepped into the room.

* * *

Grianne Ohmsford sat at the writing table in her chambers, making notes for her

meeting with Sen Dunsidan, preparing herself for the bargaining that would take

place. It was always a matter of give and take with the Prime Minister, a

question of how much she was willing to give versus how much he was attempting

to take. He had changed over the years in some ways but, when bargaining, still

sought to extract more than the other party was prepared to give. A politician

to the end, he remained outwardly friendly and forthright while inwardly

thinking of ways to cut his opponent's throat.

Literally, in her case.

She knew how he felt about her. To him, she was still the Ilse Witch and that

would never change. He was afraid of her, no matter how hard she tried to

convince him that her time as the Morgawr's creature was at an end. She might be

Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, but that was not how he saw her. Because he

could not change old habits, she knew his fear would rule his thinking. That

meant he would be looking for a way to eliminate her.

She didn't mind that. He had always been looking for ways to eliminate her, from

the moment they had formed that first alliance, nearly twenty-five years ago.

That was how Sen Dunsidan dealt with allies and enemies alike; he used them to

the extent he could while searching for ways to render them ineffective, which

often meant eliminating them altogether once they had served their purpose. In

some cases he had been successful, but he had never posed a threat to her. He

did not possess the tools to cause her harm, lacking both magic and allies to

accomplish that end. Alone, he could do nothing.

Besides, he was the least of her worries. She had other, more dangerous enemies

with which to contend, others with equally strong motives for seeing her

dispatched, others living closer to home.

She didn't like thinking of it. So much hard work had gone into reforming the

Druid order, and now it was a nest of vipers. It wasn't what she had intended or

envisioned, but there it was. Kermadec was right. Her position grew more tenuous

with the passing of every day, and if the erosion of her authority continued,

she would lose control completely. If that happened, she would have failed, and

she could not bear even to think of that.

She returned her thoughts to Sen Dunsidan and the more immediate concerns of

tomorrow's meeting. She was seeking a truce in the battle on the Prekkendorran,

one by both Federation and Free-born, one that would result in a standdown of

both armies.

And that might lead to a gradual reduction in forces and a chance at peace. But

neither side was showing much interest in the idea, even though after nearly

fifty years of conflict it seemed almost inconceivable to her that they could

think of anything else. Most of the people who had initiated the struggle were

dead and gone. Only the inheritors were left, men and women who probably didn't

have any real idea of the circumstances that had triggered the war.

Not that any of them cared, she thought darkly. War was often its own excuse.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Tagwen. She bid him enter. The

Dwarf shuffled in under a load of books and papers, which he deposited on the

working table to one side, where she could pick through them. They were the

detritus of her previous efforts to persuade Sen Dunsidan and the Federation to

her cause. Tagwen studied the stack forlornly for a moment, then looked at her.

"Is he settled in his chambers?" she asked.

"Quite comfortably. He should be. He has the best rooms in the Keep." Tagwen

didn't like Sen Dunsidan, a fact he didn't bother to hide from her, though he

was careful to hide it from others. "I left him to his ale and cogitation. More

of the former, less of the latter, unless I miss my guess."

She smiled in spite of herself. She rose and stretched. "Everyone is advised of

tomorrow's gatherings?"

He nodded. "You meet privately with the Prime Minister after breakfast, then he

addresses the full council, then he meets with a select few-you know them all

and they know one other-and then you sit down for some serious bargaining, which

will once again probably result in nothing much being decided."

She gave him a hard look. "Thank you for your optimism. What would I do without

it?"

"I prefer reality to fantasy," he said, huffing through his beard as he met her

gaze squarely. "Better for you if you did the same now and then. And I am not

talking about your meeting with the Prime Minister."

"Have you been trading opinions with Kermadec again?"

"The Maturen sees things far more clearly than some people. He doesn't waste

time on looking for ways to smooth things over when he sees it is a waste of

effort. You ought to listen to him."

She nodded. "I do. I just can't always follow his advice. I am not in a position

to do so. You know that."

Looking back at the stack of documents on the table, then at the half-eaten

dinner sitting cold on the plates he had brought earlier, Tagwen didn't say

anything for a moment. "He wants to know if you've decided yet when you are

leaving." Tagwen looked back at her.

"And I want to know where you are going."

She walked to the window and looked out at the moonlit sky. Her rooms in the

high tower were so far above the forest that wrapped the Keep that the trees

seemed a black ocean stretching away to the Dragon's Teeth. She had decided that

she would go to the Hadeshorn to seek the advice of Walker's shade about what

she had seen in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom. Shades did not always give

direct answers to questions of that sort, but they sometimes revealed insights

into what was being sought. Someone or something was behind those fires that

burned on air and in those strange flashes of light, and the magic invoked had

come from a source she did not recognize. Walker's shade might at least be

willing to tell her about it.

Wanting to see the business through and to make certain she stayed safe in the

process, Kermadec had offered to go with her. She was happy for his company.

"As soon as the Prime Minister departs," she answered. "I would guess he will

not stay after tomorrow night. Everything will have been said by then."

"Everything has been said already," Tagwen said.

"Perhaps it just needs saying again."

The Dwarf gestured toward the door. "Traunt Rowan is outside. He wants to speak

with you. I told him you did not have time for him tonight, but he was quite

insistent."

She nodded. Another thorn poking at her from the Druid bramble bush. She like

Rowan, admired his determination and willingness to work hard, but she knew that

he did not like her. Sometimes she wondered at the source of his dislike, but

she had never broached the subject with him. If she started asking everyone who

disliked her why that was so, she would not have time for anything else. It

pained her to think that so many in the order could not get past their bad

feelings toward her. On the other hand, it said something about their resolve

that they had come to study with her anyway.

"Send him in, Tagwen," she said. "I can give him a few minutes."

Tagwen went without a word, but his parting look suggested he thought she was

making a mistake. She smiled. It wouldn't be her first.

She glanced at herself in the mirror that hung by the door, reassuring herself

she was still presentable so late at night. Or maybe to reassure herself that

she had not faded away into her thoughts, become a ghost woman.

Traunt Rowan knocked and entered at her bidding. He was tall and

broad-shouldered and in his black robes looked less a Druid than a warlock. His

strong features had a calm, distant expression that belied the intensity he

brought to every meeting. She had been fooled by it at first, but knew better

now. Rowan never did anything haphazardly or halfway. If he ever overcame his

resentment of her, he would be a valuable ally.

He bowed stiffly, a formality only. "Thank you for seeing me," he said. "What I

have to say is important."

"Say it then."

She did not offer him a seat or anything to drink. He was all business and would

have refused both. When he was with her, he was mostly anxious to be gone again.

"I think you should resign your office," he said.

She stared at him, speechless in the face of such audacity.

"I don't say this to attack you," he continued. "Or because I don't respect what

you have done. I say it because I think it will help the order if you do as I

suggest. You are a smart woman. You understand the situation well enough. There

are too many at Paranor who do not think you should lead them. There are too

many here who cannot forget your past. Or forgive you of it. I admit I am one of

them. Such prejudice hamstrings your efforts at accomplishing almost anything

you undertake. If you were no longer leader, the prejudice would be removed.

Another might do better."

She nodded slowly. "I don't think you intend putting yourself forward as Ard

Rhys, Traunt Rowan. Who, then?"

He took a deep breath. "Whomever you name," he said finally.

It took him some effort to concede her this, and she wondered at its source. He

was close with those vipers Shadea a'Ru and Iridia Eleri, who he knew she would

never support, yet he had named neither. Why?

"You were chosen to form this order," he continued, his voice calm and

persuasive. "No one could argue that you haven't done what you set out to do in

bringing it to life. But perhaps you were not meant to lead it. Perhaps your

purpose ended once the Third Council came into being. Another role might work

better, one less visible in the larger scheme of things. Have you considered

that?" She had. She had considered every scenario that might break the logjam

the Third Council found itself enmeshed in. But she still did not judge any

other alternative acceptable under the present circumstances. Things were too

unsettled for her to step down, too uncertain for her to let another take her

place. To begin with, there wasn't anyone strong enough of whom she approved.

The factions already established within the order would tear almost anyone else

apart. Anarchy would claim the Third Council and destroy it. She could not allow

that.

"I admire and appreciate your honesty and your boldness," she told him. "Not

many would have dared to come to me with this suggestion. I don't know that I

can do what you ask, but I will consider it."

He nodded, clearly unhappy. "I have never told you what brought me to Paranor,

but I think you need to hear it now. It is no secret that we are not friends.

You have probably already guessed that it has something to do with your past. My

parents were Federation officials who became victims of your manipulations when

you were the Ilse Witch. They were destroyed politically because of you. The

reasons no longer matter. The fact remains that they died broken and despised

even by their closest friends. Dannon and Cela Scio. They were members of the

Coalition Council, at one time. Do you remember them?"

She shook her head.

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I took my mother's family name so no one here,

especially you, would make the connection. My purpose in coming was to see to it

that you did not subvert the Druid Council in the same way you had subverted

other political bodies-to make sure that you really were Ard Rhys and not still

Ilse Witch. I was willing to let go of the past if you had changed. I thought

that might be enough. But it isn't. You are still linked to your past in the

minds of too many, both inside and outside Paranor's walls. You are rendered

ineffective by acts you committed before you became Ard Rhys. That won't change,

it can never change. I have stayed on as a Druid only because I believe you must

be made to leave."

The heat of anger rose in her face, a faint blush she could not prevent. "Your

opinion does not necessarily represent that of the majority. Nor is it

necessarily right."

"Resign your office," he repeated. His expression was suddenly hard and fixed.

"Do so now, tonight. Announce it to all. Time does not allow for extended

deliberation on the matter."

She stared at him in surprise. He was practically ordering her to leave. "Time

allows for more deliberation than you seem willing to afford me. I said I would

consider your demand, Traunt Rowan. That will have to be enough."

He shook his head. "It isn't nearly enough. I should have come to you long

before this. Pay attention to me, Ard Rhys. Events have a way of piling up and

stealing away our choices."

"Do they do so here? What are you trying to say? Why is this so urgent? Tell

me."

For a moment, he hesitated as if thinking he might, then simply turned away and

went out the door, slamming it behind him with such force that she felt the

vibrations in the stone beneath her feet.

* * *

"Have you brought it?" Shadea a'Ru demanded as she stepped out of the darkness

of the hidden passageway into the light of the room.

Sen Dunsidan regarded her with bemusement. "Good evening to you, too."

She took her time closing the wall panel behind her, watched it slide smoothly

back into place, and let her temper cool. As impatient as she was to get on with

things, it would do her no good to argue with Dunsidan at this point.

"My apologies," she said, turning back to him with a smile. "I am more than a

little nervous about all this, as you might guess. I am also anxious to get it

over with."

He nodded. "Understandable, Shadea. But haste often results in mistakes, and we

can't afford to have any here."

She gritted her teeth against what she was tempted to say and let the moment

pass. They were never going to have much of a relationship, Sen Dunsidan and

she. The one they had was one of convenience and nothing more. As much as she

wanted the Ard Rhys out of the way, she was only slightly less anxious to be rid

of him. He was a treacherous, self-serving snake, a man who had built his career

on the misfortunes and failings of others. She had heard the stories about his

despicable uses of children and women, and she believed them all. Once Grianne

Ohmsford was eliminated, she would turn her attention to him. But for the

moment, they must remain allies, and she would play that game as best she could.

"There won't be any mistakes," she said.

She moved over to the table with the wine carafe and poured herself a glass. His

room was rich with tapestries and rugs, with wine and sweets, and with good

smells. It contrasted sharply with her spare and unassuming quarters some floors

below. She felt no jealousy, finery and comforts were a sign of weakness. They

made demands that caused one to lose focus on what really mattered. She would

not allow that in herself, but was more than willing to allow it in him. It

would make it easier to break him down and destroy him when the time to do so

arrived.

"How do you know that the potion you have brought me works as you think? What if

you have been betrayed?"

She watched for a reaction. He merely shrugged. "I haven't tested it myself, but

I am assured it is lethally effective."

"Assured by whom?" she asked. "Who gave you this 'liquid night, Prime Minister?"

she pressed. "You didn't mix it up yourself. Such a potion requires magic, and

you have none. Who do you know who has such magic? Did someone at Paranor assist

you? Someone not allied with me? Do you play us against each other?"

His leonine features lifted slightly. "I don't discuss my alliances. What does

it matter, anyway? If it doesn't work, what have you lost? Only a little of your

time. I will have lost your trust completely. I am the one at risk, Shadea."

He lifted his own wineglass and toasted her. "But it will work. By morning, the

Ard Rhys will be a memory and all the talk will be of you, the new Ard Rhys. I

know something of how this works, Shadea. I know because it happened to me when

I coveted the position of Prime Minister. The order will be frightened and

confused. It will be looking for direction and for someone to supply it. No one

else has the backing you possess. The matter will be settled quickly. I salute

you, Ard Rhys to be."

She ignored his patronizing, wondering how she could find out who had given him

the potion. She would find out, she had decided. But short of torturing him on

the spot, she would not find out immediately. She would have to bide her time,

something at which she had gotten quite good.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Prime Minister." She finished the wine and

set down her glass. "What will you do when the news comes? Stay or go?"

"I will depart immediately, the expected reaction for a head of state when

someone as important as the Ard Rhys disappears. It will give you a chance to

consolidate your power before we have our meeting to arrange an alliance.

Perhaps by then you will have discovered evidence of Free-born participation in

the matter, and I will be able to use that discovery as a lever for pressing the

war."

"Something you intend to do by any means possible." She made it a statement of

fact.

He smiled. "The fortunes of war are about to change for the Free-born and their

allies, Shadea. With your support, the change will come about much more

quickly."

She nodded. The room, with its rich smells and opulent feel, was beginning to

wear on her. As was this fool. "We have our understanding, Prime Minister. No

need to discuss it again. No need to talk further at all, this night. Do you

have it?"

He rose and walked to the bookcase at the far side of the room, moved several of

the books aside, and extracted a small glass bottle with its stopper set firmly

in place. The contents of the bottle were as black as a moonless night. Nothing

of the room's light reflected from the surface of either the bottle or its

contents.

"Liquid night," he declared, and handed her the bottle.

She took it gingerly and studied it a moment. The liquid night had an opaque

texture to it that reminded her of chalk or black earth. It made her feel

decidedly uneasy.

She looked back at him. "This is all there is?"

"A little is all that is needed. Nevertheless, use the whole of it. Do it while

she sleeps. Do not let even a single drop touch your skin. Then carry the bottle

away and destroy it. There will be no trace of what has happened, no sign of

anything different. But the Ard Rhys will be gone. As if she had never been."

"You make it sound so easy," Shadea said, giving him a sharp look.

"It will be easy, if you do it right." He stared back at her. "You will be able

to do it right, Shadea, won't you?"

"If there is any treachery attached to this gift, Prime Minister," she said

carefully, "it will come home to roost on your doorstep."

He reached over for a set of notes he had been writing and began leafing through

them. "A word of caution. The Ard Rhys has a brother who possesses the gift, as

well. His magic is said to be the equal of hers. You might want to consider what

he will do when he discovers that his sister is missing. I understand he went

through quite a lot to save her during that airship journey west twenty years

back, when he discovered they were related. If not for him, she would still be

the Ilse Witch. That makes her an investment he might not be quick to give up

on."

"He has little contact with her these days," she replied irritably. "He has

little to do with her at all."

He shrugged. "Sometimes a little is all that is necessary where families are

concerned. Brothers and sisters are funny that way. You, of all people, should

understand that." His smile was smug and indulgent. "It just seems to me that

where a potential problem exists, you would be smart to find a solution early."

He studied her momentarily, then lowered his gaze to his notes. "Good night,

Shadea. Good luck."

She held her ground a moment longer, thinking how easy it would be to kill him.

Then she tucked the bottle into her dark robes, turned away without another

word, touched the wall to release the hidden catch, and left him behind.

FIVE

When she was behind the wall panel and out of Sen Dunsidan's room, Shadea a'Ru

stood in the darkness V of the passageway beyond and breathed deeply to calm

herself. Any encounter with the Prime Minister was unsettling, but it was the

task that lay ahead of her that gave her pause now. She touched the hard outline

of the bottle inside her robes, to reassure herself that it was safely under her

control, then gathered her thoughts. It would have to be done that night, while

the Ard Rhys slept. She believed herself safe in her chambers, and she had been

until that night. Rock Trolls under the command of Kermadec stood at her doorway

day and night, and her own magic warded the chamber against intruders. The

passageways that honeycombed the Keep behind its stone walls had been closed off

long ago so that, aside from the windows, there was only one way in or out.

But Shadea had found a way to get around all that. The Rock Trolls outside the

door were of no use if the attack came from within, which it would. The magic

that warded the chamber was of no use if the attack was not something it could

protect against, and in this case it wasn't. Finally, although the passageways

had been closed off some time back, Shadea had opened a few very recently in

expectation of what was planned for that night. She had started with the

passageway leading to Sen Dunsidan's quarters, so that they could meet secretly.

She had ended with the passageway that led to the chambers of the Ard Rhys. The

latter had taken her nearly two weeks because not only was it physically sealed,

but it was warded with magic, as well. She had broken down that magic, a

painfully slow process, then restored it at its perimeter to give the appearance

of still being intact.

She stared into the darkness around her, her eyes adjusting, her thoughts

settling. Everything was in place. Everything was as ready as it was ever going

to be. Her careful planning and preparation were about to be rewarded.

She allowed herself a fierce, predatory smile and started walking.

Shadea a'Ru had experienced a hard life, but she thought her self the better for

having survived its vicissitudes and misfortunes. Surviving had made her strong

of body and tough of mind. With out those attributes, she would not be where she

was, planning to accomplish something that others could only muse about

privately. Terek Molt aside, all the others had enjoyed privileged up bringings

with advantages that she had never even come close to enjoying. She didn't

resent it or feel cheated because of it; she reveled in it.

She was orphaned by the age of eight, her mother dead in childbirth and her

father killed on the Prekkendorran. Shadea and her siblings were separated and

sent to live with the families of various relatives, but she ran away at ten and

never saw any of them again. She was big for her age and initially awkward, but

she was always strong. As she grew, the awkwardness disappeared and her strength

increased. She lived in the streets of Dechtera for five years, staying alive by

her wits and her daring and the occasional kindness of others.

At fifteen, already close to six feet tall and the physical equal of anyone her

age, she began hanging out at the Federation barracks, doing odd jobs for the

soldiers. A few thought to test her resistance to their unwanted advances, for

she was striking by then, but after they discovered she not only was big and

strong but knew how to fight, they left her alone. A few took the time to teach

her to use weapons. She was a quick study and naturally gifted. By the time she

was twenty, she was already more accomplished than the men she had learned from.

At twenty-four, she had served two years on the front lines of the Prekkendorran

and gained the respect of everyone who knew about her.

She met the cripple the following year. He was of indeterminate origin, so

gnarled and deformed that it was impossible to label his Race. She never learned

his name, but names were never important in their relationship. He was a

practitioner of the magic arts, primarily a weaver of spells. He was infatuated

with her for reasons she never fully understood, and he was willing to trade

what he knew for the pleasure of her company. It was an easy bargain for her to

make. She stayed with him only one year, time that passed so quickly that in

retrospect it always seemed impossible to her that it had really been that long.

His health was already failing when they met, and by the end of the year he was

dead. But before he died, he taught her what he knew about magic, which was

considerable. He was a teacher in search of a student, but he was careful in

making his choices. He must have watched her first, she decided afterwards,

measuring her strengths, determining whether or not she would be worth the

effort. Once he had decided that she was and further determined that she was not

repelled by his looks, he gave her his full attention for the time that was left

him.

He never told her why he decided to spend his last few months teaching her. He

must have known he was dying. She thought that maybe it helped him to have a

purpose in his life rather than simply waiting for the inevitable. She thought

that he took pleasure in watching his own deteriorating skills put to use by

someone still young and strong. Perhaps teaching was all he knew to do in his

final years, and so he did it. Perhaps he found in her company something that

was sustaining and comforting. Perhaps he simply didn't want to die alone. It

was hard to tell, but she accepted his gift without questioning it.

Her natural affinity for summoning and employing magic was immediately apparent

to both of them. She was able to grasp and employ the subtle art of spell

weaving almost from the beginning, her comprehension of the ways in which words

and hand movements worked together enabling her to cast simple spells from their

first session. The old man was delighted and actually clapped his hands. She

progressed rapidly from there, all of it, at first, a mystery that offered such

possibilities that she could not help imagining the secrets she would uncover.

After he died, held in her arms as he breathed his last, comforted in the way he

deserved to be, she studied alone for several years, closeted away in quarters

not far from her Federation soldier friends, whom she still spent time with

regularly. But the Federation no longer held any interest for her. It was too

regimented, too structured, and she was in need of freedom. She saw that her

future lay elsewhere.

Her break with Federation life came about in an unexpected way. She stayed too

long and perhaps spoke too freely of leaving. Some took exception, men she knew

only casually and didn't much care for. One night, they drugged her and took her

out of the city to an abandoned shack on the Rappahalladran's banks.

There, they held her prisoner for two days and violated her in unspeakable ways,

and when they were finished with her they threw her into a river to drown.

Tougher than they suspected, dragging herself to safety through sheer force of

will, she survived.

When she had recovered her strength, she went back into the city, hunted them

down one by one, and killed them all.

She fled afterwards, because the dead men most certainly had relatives and

friends. There had been enough talk that sooner or later some of them would come

looking for her. Besides, the incident had soured her on the city and the

Federation and her life in general. It was time for her to go somewhere else.

She had heard about the Third Druid Council and thought she might find a home

there, but she didn't want to ask for admission into the order until she was

certain they would not turn her away. So she went west into the Wilderun and the

town of Grimpen Ward, the last refuge of fugitives and castoffs of all kinds,

thinking to isolate herself and work on her magic skills until she had perfected

them. Few came looking for those who hid in Grimpen Ward, where all hid secrets

of one sort or another and none wanted the past revealed.

She stayed there until her twenty-eighth birthday, keeping apart from the other

denizens, practicing her art with the single-mindedness that defined her

personality. She expanded her field of study from potions and spells to the uses

of earth power and the elements, particularly the summoning up of shades and

dead things that could be made to do her bidding and to offer their in sights.

Her skills sharpened, but her emotional character deadened proportionately. She

had never had trouble killing when it was required, now killing became a means

to her magic's ends. Killing was inherent to the unlocking of many of the forms

of power she sought to master. Whether of animals or humans, killing was a part

of the rituals she embraced. There were other, safer ways in which to proceed,

but none so quick or far-reaching in their results. She let herself become

seduced. She hastened to her self-destruction.

By the time she met Iridia Eleri, an outcast and a sorceress like herself, she

was deep in the throes of dark magic's lure and hungry for a larger taste.

Iridia was already half-mad with her own twisted needs, her own secrets, and

they formed a friendship based on mutual cravings. Magic could give them

everything they desired, they believed; they needed only to master its

complexities.

They decided together to go to Paranor and seek admission into the Druid order.

They made the journey in a fever, but when they put forth their applications

were careful to hide the inner madnesses that drove them. The Ard Rhys was

surprisingly easy to fool. She was distracted by the demands of her undertaking

as leader of the order, and her primary concern was to find talented individuals

willing to serve the Druid cause. Shadea a'Ru and Iridia Eleri seemed to be what

she was seeking. What she failed to perceive was that both women dissembled;

they were willing to embrace the Druid cause, but only in so far as it was

necessary for them to do so and then only for reasons that were peculiarly their

own.

After the first three years of service, it was clear to both sorceresses that

although Grianne Ohmsford possessed great power, she no longer commanded the

authority of the Ilse Witch. She had allowed herself to become weakened by the

constraints she had imposed on herself in casting off her past life. She was

unwilling to take the risks or make the sacrifices that the witch would have

been quick to understand were necessary. Neither Shadea nor Iridia had such

compunctions. The order was foundering, and its chances of gaining control over

the Races were diminishing daily. Shadea, in particular, was determined to take

control of the order and to lead it in the direction she knew it needed to go.

Having decided that there was only one way that could happen, she was quick to

put aside her oaths of loyalty to the Ard Rhys and to take up the mantle of

active dissident.

* * *

For five years, Shadea had searched for a way to fulfill her ambitions, to

topple Grianne Ohmsford and to make herself Ard Rhys. That night, it was finally

going to happen.

Her steps quickened as she followed the musty passageway to its secret exit, two

floors farther down in a storeroom in which bedding and pallets were kept.

Excitement radiated from her smooth, strong face, a palpable hunger that was

fierce and alive. She would not falter, she would not fail If the potion was

good, her goal would be achieved and the waiting would end.

If it failed, she hoped only to escape long enough to return to Sen Dunsidan and

cut out his heart.

* * *

Grianne Ohmsford put aside her notes and writings, her records of past meetings

with the Prime Minister, her summaries of efforts undertaken and mostly failed,

and prepared herself for bed. Tagwen appeared long enough to brew her a cup of

sleeping tea, which she took regularly these days, and to straighten up her

room. He fussed about for a time, waiting for her to say some thing to him,

which she finally did. She asked if he had taken Kermadec something to eat,

which he had. Trolls took pride in their independence and resourcefulness, and

it was not customary for them ever to ask for anything while traveling. It had

to be offered voluntarily. This habit was born out of custom and a history of

being at war with almost everyone, and it wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

Tagwen also reported that the Trolls guarding her room were in place, something

he did every night as a reassurance to her, but to which she paid hardly any

attention. She did not feel threatened at Paranor, her prickly relationship with

some of the more overtly hostile members of the order notwithstanding. Guards

and stone walls, warding spells and watchful eyes were not what would save her

in any case, should the need for saving arise. Instincts and premonitions were

what protected her, her own resources and not those of others. Years spent as

the Ilse Witch had sharpened both to a razor's edge, and she did not think time

spent as the Ard Rhys had dulled either.

"Wake me early, Tagwen," she asked him as he prepared to leave.

"I won't need to," he responded. "You will be awake before me. You always are.

Good night, mistress."

He went out quietly, closing the door behind him as if it were made of glass.

She smiled to herself, wondering what she would do without him. For someone so

small and seemingly inconsequential, he was in many respects the most important

member of the order.

She wandered over to her tea, sat down, and began to sip the hot mix gingerly.

As it cooled, she finished it off, hardly aware of what she was doing, her

thoughts on the coming meetings and on the ramifications of what she hoped to

accomplish. She let her thoughts stray momentarily to Traunt Rowan and his

strangely urgent request, but she quickly moved on to other matters. Resigning

her position was out of the question. She thought she would elevate one or two

members of the order to positions of greater importance, among them Ceryson

Scyre, who had demonstrated repeatedly that he merited advancement. Gerand Cera

was an other possibility, but she wasn't sure yet where he stood on the matter

of her continuing as Ard Rhys. She toyed with the idea of elevating Traunt

Rowan, in spite of his attitude toward her. It might serve to distance him from

Shadea a'Ru and Iridia Eleri, something that could only help him. They were the

women with the most talent in the order, and neither could be trusted for a

moment. Sooner or later, they would have to be dealt with.

Her eyes grew heavy with the drink, and she moved to her bed, slipped off her

robe, and climbed beneath the covers. Her last thoughts were of the strange

happenings in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom and her determination to discover

who had initiated them. A visit to the Hadeshorn and the shades of the Druids

might provide insight into the matter, and she had already made the necessary

arrangements for the journey. As soon as the meetings with Sen Dunsidan were

completed, she would depart with Kermadec, perhaps even telling Tagwen where she

was going, just to see the look of disapproval on his face.

She was too tired even to blow out the candles on her writing desk, and so

drifted off to sleep with the light of both still flickering brightly in the

overlay of the chamber's deep shadows.

* * *

Night settled over Paranor, silent and velvet black under a wash of light from

moon and stars that spilled from a cloudless sky. Most of the Druids were

asleep, only a few who liked working late at night still awake in their rooms

and study chambers, keeping to themselves. The Troll watch was in place, not

only at the door of the Ard Rhys but at the gates of the Keep, as well. There

was no real concern for anyone's safety, no anticipation of the sort of danger

that had existed in the time of the Warlock Lord, but the Trolls were careful

anyway. Complacency had undone the Druids and their protectors in the past.

Shadea a'Ru stole through the walls of the high tower, following the twists and

turns of the secret passageway that led to the sleeping chamber of the Ard Rhys.

It was well after midnight, and she knew no better opportunity would offer

itself than the one she acted on now. She had swept the musty corridor of magic

once again only two days earlier, during the Ard Rhys' absence, and she was

quite certain Grianne had not had an opportunity to reset her wardings in the

short time since her return. The sorceress moved slowly in the gloom, generating

a small finger of magic light to keep from stumbling. She must make no sound in

her approach, offer nothing that would alert the sleeping Ard Rhys to her

presence. She must maintain the presence of a tiny mouse.

She was sweating freely, her body heat elevated by the close ness of the

passageway and her excitement. She was not afraid. She was never afraid. It

wasn't that she was reckless or foolish; it was that she understood the nature

of her risk. Failure in dangerous situations came about because of poor planning

or bad luck. The former was something you could control, and if you kept your

wits about you, sometimes the latter, as well. She had learned that for people

like her, orphans and disadvantaged souls, gains were achieved mostly through

risk. That was the nature of her lot in life, and she had long ago accepted it.

The night's activities would measure that acceptance in a way it hadn't been

measured before. If she succeeded, she would have a chance at gaining everything

she had wanted for so long. If she failed, she would likely be dead.

That was acceptable to Shadea a'Ru. For what was at stake, that was a price

worth wagering.

She wondered anew at the source of the liquid night. It bothered her that it had

come into the possession of someone who did not himself possess magic. Sen

Dunsidan was a high-ranking official in a powerful government, but he lacked the

skills and re sources to obtain something so powerful on his own. He must have

had help, and she didn't like it that help of a magical sort had not come from

her. It meant he had another option and might choose to use it down the road,

and that could prove dangerous to her. Still, he needed her. Without her, he

could not hope to gain control of the Druid order, and without that, his plans

for the Free-born could not succeed.

Ahead, the last stairway led upward to the tower chamber where Grianne Ohmsford

slept. Shadea slowed automatically, her movements, her thinking, even her

breathing, and calmed herself. Soundlessly, she climbed the stone steps to the

landing beyond, then stood just outside the section of wall that opened into

forbidden territory. She tested the fabric of warding she had left in place and

found it undisturbed. The Ard Rhys had not bothered to see if anyone had

tampered with her magic. She still thought herself safe.

A fierce rush of anticipation surged through Shadea as she reached into her

robes and extracted the bottle of liquid night. Silence concealed her movements,

extending from the place she stood to the chamber beyond and then to the Keep

beyond that. Dreams and slumber blanketed the rooms of Paranor, where her

occupants lay unmoving and unaware. She listened, satisfied, and set the bottle

on the floor in front of her.

She was ready.

Carefully, she constructed a series of spells and incantations, setting them

atop one another in the space before the door. One after another, she created

them with movements and words. No one saw or heard. No one could. She breathed

as if there was not enough air to waste on breathing, creating an intricate

pattern of small, cautious inhales and exhales that fed her efforts. Her life

force became a part of her efforts, aiding and supporting. She kept her

concentration fixed on the task at hand, neither wavering nor hesitating even

once, working steadily and diligently at her task.

It took her almost an hour to complete the conjurings. Then she knelt before the

wall and opened the skin of magic she had left in place, giving herself clear

access to the secret doorway and the chamber beyond. She could hear the sound of

her heart beating and the pumping of her blood through her body. It seemed to

her that she could hear the Ard Rhys breathing on the other side of the wall,

deep in sleep but capable of waking in an instant.

She prepared to remove the stopper from the bottle of night liquid.

Her hands began to shake.

For just a second she faltered, thinking suddenly that she was daring too much;

that she was overreaching herself: that her failure to accomplish what she was

attempting to undertake was assured; that the moment she tried to place the

liquid inside the bedchamber, the Ard Rhys would wake and discover her

treachery; that she would have been smarter simply to feed the Ard Rhys poison

and be done with it; that this more sophisticated execution would never work.

How could it?

Furious with herself, she crushed her hesitation and doubt as if they were

annoying insects buzzing in her ears.

She pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured it into the funnel she had

created in the last conjuring of magic, sending both the liquid night and the

spells that directed it into the chamber beyond.

There, it was done, she told herself, replacing the stopper once more.

She rocked back on her heels to wait.

* * *

Grianne Ohmsford woke just long enough to recognize that something was

dreadfully wrong, that an alien magic had bypassed her wardings and entered her

room. She threw up her defensive magic instantly, but it was already too late.

The room was moving -or she was moving in it- consumed by a blackness that

transcended anything she had ever known. She fought to get free of it, but could

not make herself move. She tried to cry out, but no sound came forth. She was

trapped, immobilized and helpless. The black ness was enveloping her, sweeping

her away, bearing her off like a death shroud wound about a corpse on its way to

interment, clinging and impenetrable and final.

She felt the shroud slowly begin to tighten.

Shades! she swore silently as she realized what was happening, and then the

blackness was in her mouth and nose and ears, was inside her body and her mind.

She struggled until her strength was gone and with it her hope, and then she

lost consciousness.

* * *

Still hidden in the passageway behind the wall of the bed chamber, Shadea a'Ru

listened to the faint, sudden sounds of movement on the other side, then to the

enveloping silence that followed. She was desperate for a look inside, but

didn't dare to open the passageway door for fear of what she would find. She

held her breath, listening as the silence lengthened.

Then a finger of blackness wormed its way under the door, the leading edge of a

clutch of ragged tendrils. They twisted and groped as if seeking to snare her,

as if the Ard Rhys was not enough, and Shadea stepped back quickly, poised to

flee. She did not know what it was-some residue of the liquid night, perhaps-

but she wasn't about to find out. The fingers stretched a bit farther, crooking

toward her, then slowly retreated and disappeared back beneath the door.

Shadea a'Ru was sweating heavily, the tunic beneath her Druid robes drenched.

Something had happened in the Ard Rhys' bed chamber, something that was the

result of what Shadea had done- of that much, she was certain. But she could not

know the particulars right away-not until morning, perhaps. No matter how

desperate she was to find them out, she could do nothing but go back the way she

had come and wait.

She exhaled heavily, quickly, a fear she had never felt suddenly caressing her

in an all-too-familiar fashion. She backed away, still watching the door,

retreating cautiously down the steps she had climbed more than an hour earlier,

listening, listening.

By the time she reached the landing below and turned into the passageway leading

out of the Keep's stone walls, it was all she could do to keep from running.

SIX

In spite of the chill she experienced even coming near the bed chamber, Shadea

a'Ru made certain she was among the first to discover that the leader of the

Druid order was missing. She was there, waiting to speak to Grianne, when Tagwen

appeared with breakfast. Employing her most subservient manner, she requested an

audience at the Ard Rhys' convenience. Tagwen gave her his patented nod of

agreement, the one that said he would act on her request immediately while at

the same time wishing she would disappear into the earth, and entered the

chamber. As he went inside, Shadea caught a glimpse of the room and saw nothing

out of the ordinary.

Maybe, she thought suddenly, nothing had happened after all. Maybe the liquid

night had failed.

But a moment later the Dwarf reappeared, looking confused and not a little

concerned. Had the Ard Rhys gone out already? He asked the Troll guard. They

said she had not, that she had been in her room all night. When Tagwen

hesitated, clearly uncertain about what to do next, Shadea stepped into the

breach and took over.

"Where is your mistress?" she demanded of the Trolls. "Why isn't she in her

room? Have you let something happen to her?"

Without waiting for the response she knew they couldn't give, she brushed past

Tagwen and went in, glancing around quickly. The bed was unmade, the covers

rumpled and tossed. Last night's sleeping tea was set to one side, the cup

empty. Notes for the meeting with Sen Dunsidan lay stacked neatly on her writing

table, ready for use. A surreptitious glance at the wall behind which she had

hidden and fed the liquid night into the chamber revealed nothing. There was no

trace of the potion and none of Grianne Ohmsford, either. There was no

indication at all of what had actually happened.

She spun back to face Tagwen, who had entered behind her, a furious look on his

rough face. "Where is she, Tagwen?" she snapped, bringing him up short. "What's

wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong!" he replied defensively, moving at once to the writing table

to snatch up Grianne's notes. "You can't be in here, Shadea!"

"If nothing is wrong, then where is the Ard Rhys?" she demanded, ignoring his

protest. "Why isn't she in her room?"

"I don't know," he admitted, a prickly tone to his words, placing himself

squarely in her path. "But I don't see that it is your concern in any case."

"It is the concern of all of us, Tagwen. She doesn't belong to you alone. When

did you see her last?"

The Dwarf looked mortified. "Just before midnight. She took her tea and was

going to bed." He looked around doubtfully, "She must have gone out."

"Without the Troll watch seeing her?" Shadea looked around as if to make sure

the Ard Rhys wasn't somewhere plainly in view, then declared, "We need to make a

search at once."

"You can't do that!" he exclaimed, appalled. "You don't even know that anything

has happened to her! There's no reason for a search!"

"There is every reason," she declared firmly. "But we'll keep it quiet for the

moment. You and I are the only ones who need know of this until we make certain

nothing has happened. Or would you prefer we stand around doing nothing?"

Clearly at a loss as to what to do, he made no response to her unspoken

accusation. Already she was assuming command of the Keep, and he could nothing

do to prevent it. He didn't fully realize yet what was happening; his concern

for the Ard Rhys was clouding his judgment. Had he been thinking clearly, he

might have wondered at how quick Shadea was to act. She smiled inwardly at his

obvious confusion. He would do better to forget the Ard Rhys and worry about

himself. But he would come to that particular realization too late.

Under the supervision of the sorceress, the Troll watch con ducted a search for

the Ard Rhys. It took less than an hour and revealed exactly what Shadea had

been hoping for: No trace of Grianne Ohmsford was to be found anywhere. At its

conclusion, she demanded to know what Tagwen was going to do.

"You were the last one to see her, Tagwen, and she is your responsibility in any

case. That is why you were selected to be her personal assistant."

Tagwen looked crushed. "I don't know what could have happened to her. She

wouldn't leave Paranor without telling me. She was preparing for this morning's

meeting with the Prime Minister just last night, when I brought her tea and said

good night. I don't understand it!"

He was clearly holding himself responsible, even though there was no reason for

him to do so save out of loyalty to his mistress. That was what Shadea was

counting on. "Well, Tagwen, let's not panic," she soothed. "It isn't time yet

for the meeting. She may have slipped away to do some thinking on it. She comes

and goes like that now and then, doesn't she? Using her magic so no one can tell

what she's about?"

Tagwen nodded doubtfully. "Sometimes."

"Perhaps she has done so here. You wait for her in her chambers and I will look

for her myself. I will use my own magic in an effort to trace her movements.

Perhaps I can read something of them in the air." She patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry, she'll turn up."

With that false reassurance to placate him, she departed the bedchamber and went

to the rooms of her confederates. One by one, she advised them that the plan was

working. As expected, there was some grumbling from each over her decision to

act alone, but their discontent was more than offset by their euphoria. The Ard

Rhys was dispatched. Now they must begin to gain control of the Druids and the

Keep. Once it became known that the Ard Rhys had disappeared, confusion and

indecision would quickly settle over Paranor. A vacuum would open with the loss

of Grianne Ohmsford's leadership, and no one would want to be too quick to step

into it. Shadea's name must be the first mentioned as the logical choice, in

part premised on her early involvement and willingness to take action. It must

appear that of all those who might be called upon to take charge, she was the

one in the best position to do so.

For that to happen, she must not only have verbal support from her allies, but

also have demonstrated her ability to serve. The best way to accomplish that was

to offer up a scapegoat to bear responsibility for what had happened to the Ard

Rhys. Some one must be made to bear the blame, and she had already decided who

that would be. Her confederates were to spread the rumor that the Ard Rhys had

been murdered and that the Rock Trolls who guarded her were in some way

responsible. There was no proof or could there be, of course, but in the heat of

the moment, many would find reason to believe it was true. A word here and there

was all that was required. With enough talk, momentum would build in favor of

that explanation, and it would take on the appearance of logic.

A fierce rush of elation surged through Shadea as she left her allies and made

her way back through the corridors of the Keep to the bedchamber of the Ard

Rhys. It was happening just as Sen Dunsidan had promised, as she had hoped, as

fate had whispered to her time and again. She was meant to lead the order. She

was meant to wield its power.

"Shadea a'Ru, Ard Rhys!" she whispered to the walls and shadows marking her

passage.

She found herself wondering if Grianne Ohmsford had awakened yet and discovered

where she was. Perhaps the hapless Ard Rhys would not get a chance to come

awake, but while she still slept would be set upon by the denizens of the place

to which she had been dispatched. Perhaps she was already dead.

Shadea wished she could be there to see it for herself.

* * *

Tagwen had served the Ard Rhys for almost the whole of her time as leader of the

Third Druid Council, and he believed that he knew her as well as anyone alive.

Even though he was her close friend and confidant, he understood that she could

not tell him everything. No one who commanded the responsibility and power that

she did could afford to trust completely in anyone. But he believed that when

she wished to talk out her problems, to reveal her concerns to another human

being, she thought of him first. So he found it disturbing that she would slip

out of her quarters during the night without telling him. The longer he thought

about it, the more uncomfortable He grew. Shadea a'Ru, as much as he disliked

and distrusted her, might be right to worry. That his mistress wasn't back for

her breakfast on a day in which she had such an important meeting was very

unlike her.

A practical man, Tagwen understood the implications of her absence. She would

not cast the day's meeting aside without good reason. She would never act out of

haste or panic; she thought everything through first, considering the

ramifications of her choices. If she had left her quarters voluntarily, there

would be good reason for it. If she had chosen not to confide in him, there

would be good reason for that, as well. But if she did not resurface soon, he

had to accept that words like voluntary and choice had nothing to do with the

matter and that something bad had happened to her.

He sat in her chambers for what felt like an endless amount of time, his

uneasiness and discomfort growing, his patience slipping. He could hear the

sounds of increased activity in the hallways be yond, a clear indication that

the Druids were beginning to discover that something was wrong. Shadea had not

returned from her search, a search he was not at all confident would succeed in

any case, given the Ard Rhys' opinion of her. He walked around the room, looking

at everything, trying to make some sense of what had happened. He didn't like

the look of the unmade bed, the appearance of which suggested she had departed

in a rush.

But no one could get into the room, he told himself in trying to shake off his

fear that she had been attacked. The Troll watch was fiercely loyal, and the Ard

Rhys had installed warding spells all through the walls to protect herself. If

something bad had happened to her, there would be some sign of a struggle.

Besides, no enemy could slip into Paranor without being detected. Wouldn't the

watch have seen and sounded an alarm?

Unless, of course, the enemy was someone already within the walls. He rubbed his

beard furiously as he considered the possibility. There were some who might take

action against her, how ever misguided. Shadea a'Ru was one. But how likely was

that, given the risk of failure and discovery? Any Druid who tried such a thing

would have to be mad! He shook his head. It didn't bear thinking on too closely.

Not yet, at least.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she might have gone to see Kermadec. The Rock

Troll was still camped outside the walls of the Keep, waiting to depart to

wherever it was that the Ard Rhys had decided to go. Something important was

happening in connection with these mysterious comings and goings, the one

planned for the next day and the one just finished a day earlier, so it was not

so farfetched to wonder if perhaps his mistress was off pursuing that business

again.

He was on his feet and moving toward the doorway when Shadea reappeared from the

hallway and stepped inside.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head in frustration. "I searched everywhere in

the Keep and on the grounds outside, and there is no trace of her that isn't at

least a day old. I don't like it, Tagwen." She looked at him thoughtfully. "How

reliable is this Troll Kermadec?"

Tagwen was horrified. "Entirely. He is a trusted friend, has been so forever."

He allowed his indignation to show. "Much more so than some others I might

name."

"Yet he is responsible for choosing her guard, including the two who stood watch

last night and now have no idea where she is." She cocked her head. "He was the

last to see her outside these walls, wasn't he? Don't bother to deny it; she was

seen. What was that meeting about?"

The Dwarf was furious. "None of your business, Shadea! I don't discuss the

affairs of the Ard Rhys without her permission-with you or anyone else! Wait for

her return to ask such questions!"

She gave him an indulgent look. "Perhaps I should ask Kermadec in her absence,

since you seem unwilling to do so. Why don't you ask him to come up to her

chambers to discuss what has happened?"

Tagwen realized two things immediately. First, that Kermadec would never set

foot inside the Keep. He had made that plain enough quite some time ago, and he

was not about to change his mind for Shadea a'Ru, whom he distrusted anyway.

Second, if he were foolish enough to accept the invitation nevertheless, perhaps

out of concern for the Ard Rhys, he would not come out again. Shadea a'Ru was

looking for someone to blame for the Ard Rhys' disappearance. Tagwen felt that

instinctively. Why she felt it was necessary-or her responsibility-was beyond

him, but what was happening was clear.

It would not take much for her to succeed in her efforts. The Rock Trolls had

never been a popular choice as protectors of the Druids. Elves had been used

traditionally, a practice begun by Galaphile during the First Druid Council. An

Elf himself, Galaphile had felt more comfortable relying on his own people in

the wake of the destruction of the Old World and a thousand years of barbarism.

Elven Hunters had warded the Druids until the fall of Paranor at the hands of

the Warlock Lord. When the Third Council was convened, it was thought that Elves

would be called upon again. But the Ard Rhys did not trust Kylen Elessedil

sufficiently to rely on him to choose her protectors. By the time of his death,

she was already committed to Kermadec and his Rock Trolls. Perhaps she felt more

comfortable with them because her relationship with Kermadec did not owe

anything to politics. She liked the independence of the Trolls; they gave their

allegiance only when they felt it necessary and did not give it lightly. If they

were your allies, you could rely on them.

None of that history would help the situation if Shadea man aged to manipulate

it, as she obviously intended. The Rock Trolls had responsibility for the safety

of the Ard Rhys, and the Ard Rhys had disappeared right under their noses. It

wouldn't take much effort for the sorceress to convince the order that the blame

should be laid squarely at their feet.

Tagwen glared at Shadea. "Kermadec won't come inside; you know that."

"I do," she agreed. "But if he doesn't, then I will take that as proof of his

complicity in whatever has happened and dismiss him along with all of his

Trolls. I don't want them guarding the rest of us if they can't do any better

job of it than they did with the Ard Rhys." She paused, a finger lifting to rest

lightly on one cheek. "Refusing to come into the Keep suggests he is hiding

something, Tagwen. If he isn't, he should tell us so-all of us, who depend on

him for our safety. Tell him I said he should explain himself, if he can."

"Who gave you the right to tell anyone what to do, Shadea a'Ru?" the Dwarf

demanded, standing his ground. "You don't command the Druid order."

She smiled. "Someone has to, in the Ard Rhys' absence. My name has already been

put forth. I will serve as best I can, but serve I will. I can do no less." She

looked past him at the empty room. "Go on, Tagwen. Do what I tell you."

He started to object again, to say something so terrible it would leave no doubt

about how he felt. Then he realized that an unguarded response might be exactly

what she was hoping for. Something bad was going on, and he was beginning to

believe that Shadea had a part in it.

He held his tongue. Better to keep his head. Better to stay free. Someone needed

to tell Kermadec what was happening, to warn him of the danger.

Nodding curtly, he went out the door and down the hallway, his eyes downcast,

his face flushed. A part of him wanted to run out of there as fast as he could

and not come back. He was suddenly afraid, looking about as he went at the faces

of those he passed, seeing suspicion and doubt and in some cases outright anger.

As Shadea had said, the word was already out. Schemes were being hatched and

alliances formed. If the Ard Rhys did not resurface soon, everything was going

to go Shadea's way.

On impulse, he made a short detour to the Rock Troll living quarters in the

north courtyard and asked one of the watch commanders to bring a dozen of his

men to the north gates on orders of the Ard Rhys. The commander did not argue.

Tagwen had carried messages of this sort to him before from time to time; there

was nothing unusual about this one.

Once outside the walls of the keep, Tagwen went to the edge of the forest and

called for Kermadec. He knew the Maturen was camped somewhere just beyond the

north gates. Waiting, he rubbed his beard and folded his arms across his burly

chest, trying to think what he could do to stop Shadea from taking control.

"Bristle Beard!" Kermadec called with a laugh. His guttural tongue was

rough-edged and resonant as he stepped out of the trees and stretched out his

hand in greeting. "What's the matter with you? You look as if you swallowed

something sour. Could your day be going better, old Dwarf?"

Tagwen clasped hands with the Troll. "It could. But yours isn't looking so good,

either." He glanced quickly over his shoulder. "Better listen carefully to me,

Kermadec. I don't know how much time we've got, but it isn't much."

Quickly, he explained what had happened to the Ard Rhys, then what had brought

him down to find Kermadec. The Rock Troll listened silently and without

interrupting, then looked up expectantly as his watch commander and a dozen

fully armed Trolls appeared through the gates.

"I thought it best that you not be left alone, whatever you decide," Tagwen

explained. "I don't like what's happening in there. Shadea is manipulating

things in a way that suggests she intends to take control of the order. When the

Ard Rhys reappears, this will stop quick enough, but in the meantime I think you

are at some risk."

The Maturen nodded. "Shadea a'Ru wouldn't dare this if she didn't have reason to

believe it would succeed. That isn't good. I don't know what's become of the Ard

Rhys, but she hasn't been down here since she went inside after our return. I

don't suppose it will hurt to tell you we were in the ruins of the Skull

Kingdom, looking into rumors of strange fires and shadow movements. We saw

something of them while we were there, a clear indication of magic at work. The

Ard Rhys intended to visit the shades of the Druids at the Hadeshorn to ask

their advice on the matter. But I don't think she would have gone there without

me. Or at least without letting me know."

"Or me either, though she might not tell me as much as you about what she was

doing." Tagwen looked put-upon. "But she wouldn't just leave."

"Something has happened to her, then," Kermadec said, anger reflected in his

blunt features. "It may have something to do with what we witnessed in the Knife

Edge. Or it may have something to do with what's happening here. I don't trust

Shadea or her friends. Or a whole lot of the others, for that matter. Druids in

name only, no friends to the Ard Rhys or to the Druid cause."

Tagwen hugged himself. "I don't know what to do, Kermadec," he admitted.

The Rock Troll walked over to the watch commander and spoke quietly with him for

a moment. The watch commander listened, nodded, and disappeared with his men

back inside the walls. Kermadec returned to Tagwen.

"I'm pulling all the Trolls out of the Keep and down to the gates. We will stand

watch there for another few days. If the Ard Rhys returns, things can go back to

where they were. If she doesn't and we're dismissed, we'll go. As long as we

hold the gates, we can keep ourselves safe. Shadea can order us out, but she

can't do much more than that."

"Don't be too sure of that. She has command of powerful magic, Kermadec. Even

your Trolls will be at risk." The Dwarf paused. "You won't go inside, will you?

Promise me you won't."

Kermadec grunted. "Oh, come now, Tagwen. You know what would happen if I did.

Shadea and her bunch would have me in irons quicker than you could blink. It

would suit them perfectly to announce that I was responsible for the

disappearance of the Ard Rhys. Neither truth nor common sense would prove much

of an obstacle to the expediency of having me locked up until things could be

sorted out. Besides, the matter is likely already decided. I'm to be cast as the

villain, even if no proof is ever offered. Wiser heads would prevail in

different circumstances, but not here. I told the Ard Rhys she would be better

off dismissing the whole lot of them and starting over. But she wouldn't listen.

She never does." He shook his head. "I can't help thinking that her stubbornness

has something to do with what's happened to her."

"I wouldn't argue the point," Tagwen said. He was wishing he had been more

insistent about her precautions while inside the walls. He was wishing he had

stayed in her bedchamber last night to keep watch.

"I think I might go back into the ruins of Skull Mountain and take another look

around," Kermadec announced. His blunt features tightened, eyes shifting away

from the Dwarf. "I might see something more, might find something. I don't think

I can sit around here doing nothing. My men don't need me; they know what to

do."

"You don't want to go into the Skull Kingdom alone," Tagwen said, shaking his

head for emphasis. "It's too dangerous up there. You've said so yourself, many

times."

The Maturen nodded. "Then I won't go alone. I'll take some one with me, someone

who's a match for spirits and dark magic. But what about you, Bristle Beard? You

can't go back inside, either. Shadea will have you in irons, as well, as soon as

she thinks of it. Or worse. You're in some danger, too."

Tagwen stared at him. He hadn't considered the possibility of anything happening

to himself. But he remembered the looks cast his way by some of the Druids he

had passed. Anyone capable of making the Ard Rhys disappear wouldn't have much

trouble doing the same with him. It might be convenient if he did, given the

fact that he was likely to raise a considerable fuss if they tried to name a new

Ard Rhys.

Which, he supposed, was exactly what Shadea a'Ru was trying to do right that

minute. He was dismayed at the prospect. He could do nothing to prevent it.

"I'll go with you," he said, not much liking the idea of visiting the Skull

Kingdom but liking less the idea of staying on alone at Paranor.

Kermadec shook his head. "I have a better idea. The Ard Rhys has a brother

living at a way station called Patch Run on the Rain bow Lake. The family

operates an airship service that hires out to fly expeditions into remote

regions of the Four Lands. He and his Rover wife are airship pilots."

"I know," Tagwen interrupted, "The Ard Rhys told me about them. His name is

Bek."

"The point is, the brother has the use of magic, too. He and his sister are

pretty close, even though they don't see all that much of each other these days.

Someone ought to tell him what's happened. He might be able to use his magic to

find her."

Tagwen nodded doubtfully. "It's worth a try, I guess. Even if she shows up in

the meantime, maybe he can talk some sense into her about what's happening at

Paranor. We don't seem to be able to."

The big Troll reached down and placed his hands on the Dwarf's sturdy shoulders.

"Don't be gloomy, old friend. The Ard Rhys has a lot of experience at staying

alive."

Tagwen nodded, wondering if that was what matters had come to, that his mistress

was fighting for her life.

"Let's find her," the Maturen said quietly. "Let's bring her safely home."

* * *

Shadea had dismissed the Trolls standing guard at the door of the Ard Rhys'

bedchamber and was conducting a thorough search of the rooms, just in case

anything incriminating or useful was lying about, when Iridia Eleri appeared.

The Elven sorceress's cold, perfect features radiated triumph, and she gave her

coconspirator a satisfied nod.

"We have approached them all and won them over, or at least the larger part of

them," Iridia said. "Most have committed to sup porting you as temporary Ard

Rhys until this matter can be sorted out. Almost all are suspicious of the

Trolls, wondering how they could have kept adequate watch and still let this

happen. There is enough confusion and doubt that they are ready to blame anyone

at whom a willing finger points." She glanced around. "Have you found anything?"

Shadea shook her head. "Tagwen took her notes when he left to convey my message

to Kermadec. I didn't see him do so or I would have stopped him. He may have

taken more than that, but it doesn't matter. We have what we want. Neither he

nor the Troll will be back inside."

"Don't be too sure." India's strange eyes had a hard look to them, as if her

thoughts were of darker things still. "The Trolls have withdrawn from the Keep

and massed at the gates, taking up watch. It looks like they are expecting

trouble, but intend to hold their place for as long as they can."

Shadea a'Ru nodded slowly, staring back at Iridia, thinking that nothing was

easy, not even now. "We'll let them be for the moment. After I've been named Ard

Rhys, I'll deal with them myself."

"Kermadec isn't with them. I don't know where he's gone. Tagwen has disappeared,

as well. We might want to think about finding them." Iridia stepped close, her

voice dropping to a near whisper. "We might want to think about another possible

hindrance to our plans. Her brother, the one who lives below the Rainbow Lake-if

he finds out what has happened, he might decide to do something about it. He has

her magic and strong ties with the Rovers. He could cause a lot of trouble for

us."

Sen Dunsidan had said the same thing. For a moment Shadea wondered at the

coincidence, then dismissed it as nothing more. It was a logical consideration

for all of them, one she might have been too quick to dismiss before.

"Do we know where her brother can be found?" Iridia nodded. "A way station

called Patch Run." Shadea took her arm and smiled. "Let's send someone to tell

him ourselves."

SEVEN

Penderrin Ohmsford came out of his crouch in the forward compartment of the

cat-28's starboard pontoon, rocked back on his heels, and surveyed his

handiwork. He had just finished resplicing both sets of radian draws off the

single mast to stacked sets of parse tubes mounted fore and aft on both

pontoons, giving the small sailing vessel almost double the power of anything

flying in her class. The stacked tubes were his own design, conceived late one

night as he lay thinking about what he might do to make her faster. He was

always thinking about ways to improve her, his passion for airships and flying

easily a match for that of the other members of his family, and when your uncle

was Redden Alt Mer, that was saying something.

"He had built the cat two years earlier at the beginning of his apprenticeship

with his father. It was the first major project he had undertaken on his own. It

was a rite-of-passage experience that demonstrated he should no longer be

considered a boy, although he was still only in his teens. The vessel he chose

to construct was a twenty-eight-foot catamaran-thus the cat-28 designation.

It was a racing vessel, not a fighting ship, its decking mostly sloped and its

gunwales low, its pontoons only slightly curved and lacking rams, and its

sleeping compartment set into the decking right below the pilot box and barely

large enough to lie down in. Its single mast was rigged with a mainsail and a

jib, and all of its spares and gear were stored in holds in the pontoons.

It was a fast ship to begin with, but Penderrin was not the sort to take

something as it was and leave it alone. Even with his parents' larger airships,

the ones outfitted for long-term expeditions and rough weather, he was always

experimenting with ways to make them better. He had been living around airships

all his life, and working on them had become second nature. He wished his

parents would let him fly more, would give him a chance at the larger ships,

especially Swift Sure, their favorite, the one they were on now, somewhere out

in the Wolfsktaag Mountains. But like all parents, they seemed convinced that it

was better to bring him along slowly and to make certain he was old enough

before he was allowed to do the things he had learned to do years earlier.

His full name was Penderrin, but everyone called him Pen except for his mother,

who insisted on calling him Penderrin because it was the name she had chosen and

she liked the sound of it. And his uncle, who called him Little Red, for reasons

that had something to do with his mother and their early years together. Pen's

long hair was a dusky auburn, a mix between his mother's flaming red tresses and

his father's dark ones, so he supposed Little Red was an apt nickname, even if

it irritated him to be called something his mother was once called. But he liked

his uncle, who his mother had told him to call Big Red, so he was willing to put

up with a few things he wouldn't have tolerated otherwise. At least his uncle

let him do some of the things his parents wouldn't, including piloting the big

airships that flew the Blue Divide. His blue eyes brightened. In another couple

of months, he would get a chance to visit Big Red in the coastal town of March

Brume and fly with him again. It was something he was looking forward to.

He stood up and surveyed the cat-28 one more time, making sure everything was as

it should be. For now, he would have to satisfy himself with flying his

single-mast, small to be sure, but quick and sturdy, and best of all, his. He

would test her out in the morning to make certain the splicings were done

properly and the controls for feeding the ambient light down through the radian

draws operating as they should. It was tricky business, splitting off draws to

channel energy to more than one parse tube, but he had mastered the art

sufficiently that he felt confident this latest effort would work.

He glanced at the late afternoon sky, noting that the heavy mist lying over the

Rainbow Lake had thickened with the approach of storm clouds out of the north.

The sun had disappeared entirely, not even visible as the hazy ball it had been

earlier. Nightfall was approaching and the light was failing fast. There would

be no sunset that day. If the storm didn't blow through that night, visibility

would be down to nothing by morning and he would have to find something to do

besides test out his splicing. "Rat droppings," he muttered. He didn't like

waiting for anything. He finished putting his tools back into their box and

jumped down off the cat-28. It was in dry dock, tethered close to the ground and

out of the water until he was ready to take her out for her test run. If a storm

was coming, he had to make ready for it, although the cat was secure enough and

Steady Right, the other big expedition airship, was anchored in a sheltered part

of the cove. With his parents gone east, he was responsible for taking care of

the airships and equipment until they returned, which wasn't likely to happen

for at least another two months. It was all familiar territory to him, though.

He had looked after things since he was twelve, and he knew what was needed in

almost any situation. What he missed when his parents were away was being out

there with them. It reminded him that they still thought of him as a boy.

He carried the toolbox into the work shed and shut and barred the double doors.

He was average in size and appearance, neither big nor small, his most striking

feature his long auburn hair, which he kept tied back with brightly colored

scarves in the Rover fashion. But the commonness of his physical makeup hid an

extraordinary determination and an insatiable curiosity. Pen Ohmsford made it a

point to find out about things that others simply accepted or ignored and then

to learn everything he could and not forget it. Knowledge was power in any

world, whether you were fifteen or fifty. The more he knew, the more he could

accomplish, and Pen was heavily committed to accomplishing something important.

In his family, you almost had to be-especially if you didn't have the wishsong

to fall back on.

He regretted its absence sometimes, but his regret was always momentary. After

all, his mother didn't have any magic either; she was beautiful and talented

enough that it probably didn't matter. His father rarely used his magic, though

he had been born with it and been forced to rely on it extensively before Pen

was born.

But his aunt? Well, his aunt, of course, was the Ard Rhys, Grianne Ohmsford,

whose use of magic was legendary and who had used it almost every day of her

life since the time she had become the Ilse Witch. She was so closely defined by

her magic that the two were virtually inseparable.

He knew the stories. All of them. His parents weren't the sort to try to hide

secrets about themselves or anyone else in the family, so they talked to him

freely about his aunt. He knew what she had been and why. He understood the

anger and antipathy her name invoked in many quarters. His uncle Redden would

barely give her the time of day, although he had grudgingly admitted once to Pen

that if not for her, the remnants of the crew of the Jerle Shannara, including

himself and Pen's parents, would never have returned alive. His parents were

more charitable, if cautious. His father, in particular, clearly loved his

sister and thought her misunderstood. But they had chosen different paths in

life, and he rarely saw her.

Pen had seen her only twice, most recently when she had come on his birthday to

visit the family. Cool and aloof, she had nevertheless taken time to fly with

him aboard her airship and talk about his life at Patch Run. She had made a

point of asking if he sensed any growth of the wishsong's magic inside his body,

but had not seemed disappointed when he told her he didn't. Her own magic was

never in evidence. Other people talked about it, but not her. She seemed to

regard it as a condition that was best left undiscussed. Pen had respected her

wishes, and even now he did not think it was a subject he would talk to her

about, ever, unless she brought it up first.

Still, magic's presence marked the history of the Ohmsford family, all the way

back to the time of Wil Ohmsford, so it was hard to ignore, whether you had the

use of it or not. Pen knew that it tended to skip whole generations of

Ohmsfords, so it was not as if he was the first not to possess it. His father

said it was entirely possible that it was thinning out in the bloodline with the

passage of the years and the increase in the number of generations of Ohmsfords

who had inherited it. It might be that it was fading away altogether. His mother

said it didn't matter, that there were more important attributes to possess than

the use of magic. Pen, she insisted, was the better for not having to deal with

its demands and was exactly who he was meant to be.

Lots of talk and reasoning had been given over to the subject, and all of it was

meant to make Pen feel better, which mostly he did. He wasn't the sort to worry

about what he didn't have.

Except that he didn't have his parents' blessing to go with them on their

expeditions yet, and he was getting impatient at being left home in the manner

of the family dog.

He walked down to the cove and did a quick check of Steady Right, tightening the

anchor ropes and cinch lines so that if a blow did materialize, nothing would be

lost. He glanced out over the Rainbow Lake when he was finished, its vast

expanse stretching away until it disappeared into a haze of clouds and twilight,

its colors drained away by the approach of heavy weather. On clear days, those

fabled rainbows were always visible, a trick of mist and light. On clear days,

he could see through those rainbows all the way to the Runne Mountains. Such

days gave him the measure of his freedom. He was allowed the run of the lake,

his own private backyard, vast and wonderful, but forbidden to go beyond. His

invisible tether stretched to its far shores and not a single inch farther.

He wondered sometimes if he would have been given more freedom if he had been

born with the wishsong, but he supposed not. His parents weren't likely to think

him any better able to look after himself because he had the use of magic. If

anything, they might be even stricter. It was all in the way they saw him. He

would be old enough to do the things he couldn't do now when they decided he was

old enough and not before.

But then, how old had his father been when he had sailed aboard the Jerk

Shannara? How old, when he had crossed the Blue Divide to the continent of

Parkasia? Not much older than Pen, and his adoptive parents, Coran and Liria

Leah, had given him permission to go. Admittedly, the circumstances compelling

their agreement had been unusual, but the principle regarding a boy's age and

maturity was the same.

Well, that was then and this was now. He knew he couldn't compare the two. Bek

Ohmsford had possessed the magic of the wishsong, and without it he probably

wouldn't have survived the journey. It made Pen want to know how that felt. He

would have liked to have the use of the wishsong for maybe a day or two, just to

see what it was like. He wondered how it would feel to do the things that his

father and aunt could do. Had done. He was curious in spite of himself, a

natural reaction to the way things could have been versus the way they were. He

just thought it would be interesting to try it out in some way, to put it to

some small use. Magic had its attractions, like it or not.

His father talked about it as if possessing it wasn't all that wonderful, as if

it was something of a burden. Easy for his father to say. Easy for anyone who

had the use of it to say to someone who didn't.

Of course, Pen had his own gift, the one that seemed to have come out of nowhere

after he was born, the one that allowed him to connect with living things in a

way no one else could. Except for humans-he couldn't do it with them. But with

plants and animals, he could. He could always tell what they were feeling or

thinking. He could empathize with them. He didn't even have to work at it. He

could just pay attention to what was going on around him and know things others

couldn't.

He could communicate with them, too. Not speak their language exactly, but read

and interpret their sounds and movements and respond in a similar way. He could

make them understand the connection they shared, even if he clearly wasn't of

their species.

He supposed that could be considered a form of magic, but he wasn't sure he

wanted to designate it as such. It wasn't very useful. It was all well and good

to know from gulls that a storm front was building in the west or from ground

squirrels that a nut source was dwindling or from a beech tree that the soil

that fed its roots was losing its nutrients. It could be interesting to tell a

deer just by the way you held yourself that you meant no harm. But he hadn't

found much point in all that. His parents knew about it, and they told him that

it was special and might turn out to be important one day, but he couldn't see

how.

His uncle Redden wanted him to read the seas when they went fishing, when they

flew out over the Blue Divide. Big Red wanted to know what the gulls and

dolphins were seeing that might tell him where to steer. Pen was glad to oblige,

but it made him feel a bit like a hunting dog.

He grinned in spite of himself. There was that image again. A dog. The family

dog, a hunting dog. Maybe in his next life, that was what he would be. He didn't

know if he liked the idea or not, but it was amusing to think about.

The wind was whipping across the lake, snapping the line of pennants attached

atop the trees bracketing the cove entrance to measure velocity, a clear

indication that a storm was indeed approaching. He was just turning away to go

inside when he caught sight of something far out on the water. It was nothing

more than a spot, but it had appeared all at once, materializing out of the

mist. He stopped where he was and stared at it, trying to decide if it was a

boat. It took him several minutes to confirm that it was. Not much of a boat,

however. Something like a skiff or a punt, little and prone to capsizing.

Why would anyone be out in a boat like that in such weather?

He waited for the boat to come closer and tried to decide if it was headed for

Patch Run. It soon became apparent it was. It skipped and slewed on the

roughening waters, a cork adrift, propelled by a single sail and a captain who

clearly did not know a whole lot about sailing in good weather, let alone bad.

Pen shook his head in a mix of wonder and admiration. Whoever was in that boat

wasn't lacking in courage, although good sense might be in short supply.

The little boat-it was a skiff, Pen determined-whipped off the lake and into the

cove, its single occupant hunched at the tiller. He was a Dwarf, gray-bearded

and sturdy in build, cloaked against the wind and cold, working the lines of the

sail as if trying to figure out what to do to get his craft ashore. Pen walked

down to the edge of the water by the docks, waited until his visitor was close

enough, then threw him a line. The Dwarf grasped it as a drowning man might, and

Pen pulled him into the pilings and tied him off.

"Many thanks!" the Dwarf gasped, breathing heavily as he took Pen's hand and

hauled himself out of the skiff and onto the dock. "I'm all worn out!"

"I expect so," Pen replied, looking him over critically. "Crossing the lake in

this weather couldn't have been easy."

"It didn't start out like this. It was sunny and bright when I set off this

morning." The Dwarf straightened his rumpled, drenched clothing and rubbed his

hands briskly. "I didn't realize this storm was coming up."

The boy smiled. "If you don't mind my saying so, only a crazy man would sail a

ratty old skiff like this one in any weather."

"Or a desperate one. Is this Patch Run? Are you an Ohmsford?"

Pen nodded. "I'm Pen. My parents are Bek and Rue. Are you looking for them?"

The Dwarf nodded and stuck out his hand. "Tagwen, personal assistant to your

aunt, the Ard Rhys. We've never met, but I know something about you from her.

She says you're a smart boy and a first-rate sailor. I could have used you in

coming here."

Pen shook the Dwarf's hand.. "My aunt sent you?"

"Not exactly. I've come on my own." He glanced past Bek toward the house and

outbuildings. "Not to be rude, but I need to talk to your parents right away. I

don't have much time to waste. I think I was followed. Can you take me up to

them?"

"They're not here," Pen said. "They're off on an expedition in the Wolfsktaag

and won't be back for weeks. Is there something I can do to help? How about some

hot cider?"

"They're not here?" Tagwen repeated. He seemed dismayed. "Could you find them,

if you had to? Could you fly me to where they are? I didn't expect this, I

really didn't. I should have thought it through better, but all I knew was to

get here as quickly as I could."

He glanced over his shoulder, whether at the lake and the approaching storm Pen

couldn't tell. "I don't think I can find my parents while they're in the

Wolfsktaag," the boy said. "I've never even been there. Anyway, I can't leave

home."

"I've never been there, either," Tagwen allowed, "and I'm a Dwarf. I was born

and raised in Culhaven, and other than coming to Paranor to serve the Ard Rhys,

I've never really been much of anywhere."

Pen grinned in spite of himself. He liked the strange little man. "How on earth

did you find your way here, then? How did you manage to sail that skiff all this

way from the north shore? If you get out in the middle of Rainbow Lake on days

like this, you can't see anything but mist in all directions."

Tagwen reached into his pocket, fished around, and pulled out a small metal

cylinder. "Compass," he advised. "I learned to read it at Paranor while

exploring the forest that surrounds the Keep. It was all I had to rely on,

coming down through the Dragon's Teeth and the Borderlands. I don't like flying,

so I decided to come on horseback. When I got to the lake, I had to find a boat.

I bought this one, but I don't think I chose very well. Listen, Pen, I'm sorry

to be so insistent about this, but are you sure you can't find your parents?"

He looked so distressed that Pen wanted to say he could, but he knew his parents

used the wishsong to hide their presence in dangerous places like the

Wolfsktaag, the better to keep themselves and their passengers safe. Even if he

knew where to begin to look, he doubted that he could locate them while they

were using magic.

"What is this all about, anyway?" he asked, still unsure what the Dwarf wanted.

"Why is all this so urgent?"

Tagwen drew a deep breath and exhaled so vehemently that Pen took a step back.

"She's disappeared!" the Dwarf exclaimed. "Your aunt, three nights ago.

Something happened to her, and I don't think it's something good. It hasn't been

safe for her at Paranor for some time; I warned her about this over and over.

Then she went into the Skull Kingdom with Kermadec to investigate some

disturbance there, and when she came back, there was supposed to be a meeting

with the Prime Minister-another snake in the grass-but sometime during the

night, she just vanished, and now I don't know what to do!"

Pen stared at him. He didn't know who Kermadec or the Prime Minister were, but

he could follow enough of what the Dwarf said to know that his aunt was in

trouble. "How could she disappear from her own room?" he asked. "Doesn't she

have guards? She told me she did. Rock Trolls, she said. Big ones."

"They're all big." Tagwen sighed. "I don't know how she disappeared; she just

did. I thought that maybe your parents could help find her since I've done

everything I can think to do. Perhaps your father could use his magic to track

her, to discover where she's gone. Or been taken."

Pen thought about it. His father could do that; he had done it before, though

only once when Pen was with him, when their family dog disappeared in the Duln.

His father probably could track Grianne, although only if she left a trail and

hadn't just gone up in a puff of smoke or something. Where the Ard Rhys was

concerned, anything was possible.

Tagwen rubbed his beard impatiently. "Is there anything you can do to help me or

must I go alone to find them?"

"You can't find them on your own!" Pen exclaimed. "You wouldn't have one chance

in a thousand! You barely managed to sail across Rainbow Lake in that skiff!"

Tagwen drew himself up. "The point is, I have to do something besides sit around

hoping the Ard Rhys will show up again. Because I don't think she will. I've

pretty much reconciled myself to it."

"All right, but maybe there's another way, something else we can do." Pen

shrugged. "We just have to think of what it is."

"Well, we'd better think of it pretty fast. I told you I don't have much time.

I'm pretty sure I was followed. By Druids, I should point out, who don't want

your aunt back, whether or not they're responsible for her disappearance in the

first place. I expect they have decided I might be more trouble than I'm worth

and would be better off 'disappeared' somewhere, as well."

He paused dramatically. "On the other hand, it is possible that they don't care

about me one way or the other, but are coming down here to see about you and

your parents. They know about your father's magic, just as I do. You can decide

for yourself what use they might choose to make of it, should they find your

parents before I do."

Pen was taken aback. He didn't even know those people, Druids with whom his

family had not been involved even in the slightest. That was his aunt's world,

not theirs. But it seemed that Tagwen believed the two were not as separate as

Pen had believed.

He wondered what he should do. His choices were somewhat limited. He could

either tell Tagwen that he was unable to help, confined to this way station by

direct order of his parents, who had made it quite clear he was forbidden to go

anywhere while they were away and made him promise he would remember that; or he

could break his word. It might be in a good cause to chance the latter, but he

didn't care for the odds of his explaining it to his parents if he was

successful in helping the Dwarf find them. That's if nothing else happened on

the way to doing so, which was far from certain given the distance he must

travel and the dangers he was likely to encounter.

He sighed wearily. "Let me think about this. Come up to the house for a glass of

hot cider, and we can talk about it."

But the Dwarf's face had gone white. "I appreciate the offer, Penderrin, but it

comes too late. Have a look."

He pointed out across the lake. An airship was making its way toward them

through the drifting curtains of mist-a big, sleek three-master, as black as

midnight. Frozen by the vessel's unexpected appearance and the consequences it

heralded, Pen stared. All of a sudden, he wished his parents were there.

"Whose is it?" he asked Tagwen.

"It is a Druid ship."

Pen shook his head, watching the vessel's slow, steady approach, feeling knots

of doubt begin to twist sharply in his stomach. "Maybe they're just . . ."

He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Tagwen stepped close, the smell of dampness and wood smoke emanating from his

clothing. "Tell you what. You can wait here and find out what they want if you

wish, but I think I will be moving along. Maybe I won't go out the way I came

in, however. Do you have a horse you can let me borrow?"

Pen turned to look at him. There was no mistaking the mix of determination and

fear he saw in the Dwarf's eyes. Tagwen wasn't taking any chances. He had made

up his mind about the ship and its inhabitants, and he did not intend for them

to find him. Whatever Pen decided to do, the Dwarf was getting out.

The boy looked back across the lake at the airship, and in the wake of the

uneasiness that its dark and wicked look generated, his indecision faded.

"We don't have any horses," he said, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"How about a small airship and someone to sail her, instead?"

EIGHT

In that single instant, Penderrin Ohmsford's life was changed forever. Given

what had happened already at Paranor, it might have been changed in any event,

but likely not in the way his decision to go with Tagwen changed it. Later, he

would remember thinking that, at the time, making the decision felt like a

shifting of the world, not so much in the noisy manner of an earthquake but in

the quiet way of the light deepening at sunset. He would remember thinking, as

well, that he could do nothing about it because his family's safety was involved

and he couldn't ignore the danger to them just to protect himself.

He took hold of Tagwen's arm and propelled him up from the landing to the dry

dock where the cat-28 was tethered, telling the Dwarf to get aboard. There was

no time to outfit her in the right way, to gather supplies and equipment of the

sort a proper expedition required. He had her packed with spare parts, so that

he could fix her if something went wrong out on the lake, but that was about it.

He took just a moment to run into the shed for his toolbox, grabbing up a water

container and some dried foodstuffs that he kept around to nibble on, then

bolted back out the door.

He wondered for just an instant how big a mistake he was making. Then he

dismissed the thought completely because he had no time or patience for it.

Hesitation in circumstances like these always led to trouble, and he thought he

probably had trouble enough with things just the way they were.

"Strap that safety line around your waist!" he called up to Tagwen, tossing the

bag of foodstuffs and the water container onto the deck. "Stuff these into one

of the holds in the pontoons!"

He worked his way swiftly from one tethering line to the next, loosening the

knots from the securing pins and tossing the rope ends back onto the cat's

decking. He did not look out again at the approaching airship, but he felt the

weight of its shadow. He knew he had to get airborne and away before it got much

closer or he would not be able to gain the protective concealment of the

Highland mists and the low-slung clouds that would hide his escape. With luck,

they might not even see him leaving, but he could not count on that.

When all the lines were unknotted save the one that secured the bow, he paused

to look around the compound and tried to think if he was forgetting anything. A

bow and arrows, he thought, and he rushed back into the shed to take a set from

the weapons cupboard, along with a brace of long knives.

Rushing out again, he climbed aboard the cat-28, finding Tagwen, arms wrapped

protectively about his knees, already strapped in and hunkered down in the aft

hold of the starboard pontoon. It looked so comical that Pen wanted to laugh,

but he resisted the impulse, instead scurrying to raise the sails to draw down

whatever ambient light this gray day offered. There would be energy stored in

the parse tubes, but the diapson crystals were small and not designed for

long-term storage, so he could not rely on that alone to elude the larger ship.

He found himself wondering suddenly if its occupants would even bother coming

after him. After all, they couldn't know who he was or what he was about. They

were likely just to land and walk up to the house in the mistaken belief that

the presence of Steady Right indicated that his family was still in residence.

By the time they found out differently, he would be far away.

But what if Tagwen was wrong? What if the Druids were actually there to help in

some way? Maybe those aboard the approaching ship were not among his aunt's

enemies, but her friends. They might have come for the same reason Tagwen had

come-to seek help from his father in tracking down the Ard Rhys. This could all

be a big mistake.

He glanced at the Dwarf. Tagwen was staring out at the lake, his eyes wide.

"We're too late, Pen," he whispered.

Pen wheeled around. The big airship was right on top of them, sliding through

the entry to the cove to hover over the water in front of the docks. It had

advanced much more quickly than Pen would have believed possible, which

indicated all too clearly how powerful and fast it really was. It might even be

a match for Swift Sure, although he didn't think the airship existed this side

of the Blue Divide that was that fast.

He saw her name carved into her great, curved rams, bold and etched in gold.

Galaphile.

"That's her airship!" Tagwen exclaimed in dismay. "Your aunt's! They're using

her own ship!"

"Get down!" Pen hissed at Tagwen. "Hide!"

The Dwarf ducked below the gunwales of the pontoon, and Pen threw a canvas over

him, concealing him from view. He had no idea what he was going to do, but

whatever it was, there was no point in taking chances until he found out if the

Dwarf was right about who these visitors were.

There was also no point in pretending that he didn't see them, so he turned to

watch the Galaphile's dark hull settle heavily into the waters of the cove. The

skies over Rainbow Lake were darkening steadily with thunderheads and

rainsqualls. It was going to be a bad storm when it hit. If he was going to make

a run for it, he was going to have to do so soon.

He watched as a long boat was lowered over the starboard pontoon. Half a dozen

passengers sat hooded and cloaked within, dark figures in the late afternoon

gloom. Several took up oars and began to row, pointing the boat toward the

docks. Pen caught a glimpse of their lifted faces as they strained against the

oars. Gnomes, swarthy and sharp-featured, yellow eyes glittering and cold.

Something about the Gnomes convinced him instantly that Tagwen was right. He

couldn't say exactly why, because he had encountered Gnomes before at Patch Run

and on his travels about the lake. He stepped into the pilot box, unhooded the

parse tubes stacked on both sides of the cat, and pushed the controls to the

port and starboard thrusters forward just far enough to nudge the diapson

crystals awake.

"Whatever happens," he whispered to Tagwen, his head lowered to hide his words,

"don't let them know you're there."

"You'd better worry about yourself," came the muffled reply.

The long boat had landed, and its occupants were climbing onto the dock and

walking toward the compound, spreading out in all directions right away, a

maneuver clearly intended to cut off anyone trying to get around behind them.

Pen was terrified by then, standing alone on the deck of the cat-28, the brace

of long knives strapped about his waist and the bow and arrows at his feet

pathetically inadequate for mounting any kind of a defense. He couldn't begin to

fight off men like those. Funny, he thought, how quickly he had given up on the

possibility that they might be friendly.

One of them separated from the others and came toward him. This man wasn't a

Gnome, and he wasn't wrapped in their mottled green and brown cloaks. This man

wore the dark robes of a Druid. He was a Dwarf, and as he pulled back his hood

to give himself a better field of vision, Pen immediately thought him twice as

dangerous as the Gnomes. He had the stocky, square build of all Dwarves, the

blunt, thick hands and the heavy features. But he was tall for a Dwarf, standing

well over five feet, and his face looked as if it had been chiseled from rough

stone, all ridges and valleys, nothing smooth or soft. His razor-edged eyes

found the boy, and Pen could feel them probing him like knives.

But Pen stood his ground. There was nothing else to do except to run, and he

knew that would be a big mistake.

"Can I help you?" he called out as the other neared.

The Dwarf came right up to the cat and climbed aboard without being invited, an

act that in some quarters was considered piracy. Pen waited, fighting to control

his terror, catching sight of the heavy blades the Dwarf wore strapped beneath

his robes.

"Going somewhere?" the Dwarf asked him bluntly, glancing around in a perfunctory

manner, then back at Pen.

"Home," Pen answered. "I'm done for the day."

He thought he kept his voice from shaking, but if he hadn't, there was nothing

he could do to steady it that he wasn't already doing.

"Is this the Ohmsford place?" the Dwarf asked, squaring up before him, much too

close for comfort. Behind him, the Gnomes were beginning to poke around in the

shed and under the canvas-sheltered stores and equipment. "Bek Ohmsford?"

Pen nodded. "He's away, gone east on an expedition. I don't expect him back for

weeks."

The Dwarf studied him wordlessly for a moment, eyes searching his, measuring.

Pen waited, his heart frozen in his chest, his breathing stopped. He didn't know

what to do. He understood now why Tagwen had been so afraid. The Dwarf's gaze

made Pen feel as if wild animals were picking him apart.

"Left you to look after things?" the Dwarf pressed.

Pen nodded again, not bothering with an answer this time.

"He must have some faith in you, boy. You don't look very old." He paused, a

lengthy silence. "I'm told Ohmsford has a boy about your age. Penderrin. That

wouldn't be you, would it?"

Pen grinned disarmingly. "No, but he's my friend. He's up there at the house,

right now."

He pointed, and when the Dwarf turned to look, Pen shoved him so hard the Dwarf

lost his balance, tumbled off the deck of the cat, and fell to the ground. Pen

didn't think about it; he just did it, an act of desperation. He leapt into the

pilot box and shoved the thruster levers all the way forward, unhooding the

parse tubes completely. The response from the cat was instantaneous. It lurched

as if it had been struck from behind, bucking from the surge of power fed into

the crystals, snapping the bowline as if it were string, and careening directly

toward the Galaphile.

Pen, braced in the pilot box and hanging on to the controls for dear life, had

only an instant to respond to the danger. He pulled back on the port thrusters,

swinging the cat left to sweep past the foremast of the Druid airship, coming so

close that he might have reached out to touch her. Shouts and cries followed

after him, then a volley of arrows and sling stones. The whang and snap of them

caused him to crouch deep in the box, gasps escaping him in me rushes as arrows

embedded themselves in the wood frame of his momentary shelter. The cat shot out

over the waters of the cove and surged through an opening in the conifers to

Rainbow Lake and the approaching storm.

What had he done?

There was no time to consider the matter and little time for much of anything

else. He caught a glimpse of Tagwen flinging off the canvas covering and peering

back at the flurry of activity onshore, where the Dwarf and the Gnomes were

rushing for the long boat. Pen's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it

inside his ears. It would take them only minutes to reach the Galaphile, and

then they would be coming after him. As big and fast as the Druid airship was,

they would quickly run him to earth.

If they caught him now...

He didn't bother finishing the thought. There was no time for thinking about

anything but flying the cat. He gave her all the power the diapson crystals

could deliver, bringing her up to a little over two hundred feet, then turning

her east down the lakeshore toward the distant Highlands and the heavy mists

that draped those rugged hills. Concealment could be found there, a way to lose

pursuit, his best hope for finding a way to escape.

"Do you know who that was?" Tagwen gasped from his shelter, peeking frantic-eyed

over the gunwales. "That was Terek Molt! He would have cut you to ribbons! Still

might, Penderrin Ohmsford! Can this ship fly any faster?"

Pen didn't bother with an answer. The Highlands were still some distance away,

and a quick glance over his shoulder revealed the dark rams of the Galaphile

nosing into view out of the cove, already in pursuit. Those Gnomes were sailors;

they knew what they were doing. He had hoped that they were land creatures

filling in, but he should have known better. Druids wouldn't bother using anyone

who wasn't good at what was needed.

"If Terek Molt is behind this, then I was right about the Ard Rhys!" Tagwen

shouted, and then disappeared back down into the pontoon hold.

Pen canted the mainsail to take advantage of the storm wind howling across the

water. The cat was buffeted and shaken by its force, but propelled forward, as

well, riding the back of sharp, hard gusts. Rain was falling steadily, picking

up strength as clouds closed about. The storm would help to hide them, but Pen

didn't want to be caught out on the lake when it struck. A blow of that

magnitude could knock a cat-28 right out of the skies.

He took her down to less than a hundred feet off the surface of the water,

hugging the shore as he fought to regain land. They were well beyond the Duln

and the mouth of the Rappahalladran, the Highlands already visible on their

right, rugged and mist-shrouded under a ceiling of clouds hung so low that the

horizon had disappeared.

"Penderrin!" Tagwen shouted in warning.

Pen turned and found the Galaphile looming out of the rain and mist, closing the

distance between them far too quickly. How much time had passed since they fled

from her? It didn't seemed like any time at all. Pen glanced ahead, then angled

the cat to starboard, heading directly off water and inland, seeking the cover

of the Highlands. If he could gain the hills, he would look for a place to set

down, somewhere leafy and shadowed where he couldn't be seen from the air. But

if one didn't present itself immediately, he would have to keep flying. On

balance, his situation seemed hopeless, his chances so poor he couldn't imagine

what he had been thinking to try running in the first place. What if Terek Molt

had the use of magic to track them, just like his aunt? Druids had all sorts of

magic they could call upon.

Pen, on the other hand, had none at all.

Straight into the mists he flew, recklessly disregarding what might be hidden

there. Cliffs and rocky outcroppings dotted the coastline, dangerous obstacles

for any craft and disastrous for one as small as his. He had flown the hills

repeatedly over the years, but not in such poor weather and not under such

desperate circumstances. He kept his eyes locked on the movement of the clouds

and mist and listened to the sound of the wind as it shifted. White curtains

enveloped him, closing everything away. In seconds, he was alone in an

impenetrable haze of rain and mist.

The rain increased, and he was soon soaked through. There hadn't been time to

grab anything to protect himself against the weather, so he couldn't do much to

ease his discomfort. A glance over his shoulder revealed no sign of the

Galaphile, so he performed a quick compass check and turned east again, changing

direction. He was hoping the Druid airship would continue to follow the course

he had just abandoned. He thought about taking the cat higher to reduce the odds

of colliding with the cliffs, but he couldn't chance it; the higher he rose, the

thinner the mists and the greater the risk of discovery. His pursuers were too

close.

He dropped his speed and edged ahead, watching cliffs appear and fade to either

side through the curtain of rain and mist, angling the cat gingerly between the

gaps. The intensity of the storm was increasing, buffeting his craft more

heavily now and threatening its stability. He pushed the thrust levers forward

again, increasing power to counter the wind. Fat raindrops hammered off the wood

decking like pebbles. He had already released the stays and dropped the mainsail

to the deck in a heap, otherwise the wind would rip it to shreds. He was so cold

by then that he was shivering. Visibility was reduced to almost nothing. If

things got any worse, he was going to have to set down.

Time slipped away on ghost steps. Watching and listening, he waited for danger

signals to register. He was far enough inland that he was behind the hills that

formed the coastal barrier, gaining some measure of protection from the

onslaught of the storm. It was rough going even here, but he no longer feared he

would be forced down.

He hunched his shoulders and took a deep breath to calm himself. He felt his

pulse slow. There was still no sign of the Galaphile.

He was beginning to think he had gotten away altogether when abruptly the Druid

airship appeared right in front of him. Flying perhaps a hundred feet above him,

the Galaphile emerged from the haze like an apparition out of the netherworld,

huge and forbidding. Pen gasped in spite of himself, shocked by the suddenness

of it, then swung the cat hard to starboard to come in behind and under the

bigger ship, hoping against hope that no one aboard her had caught sight of him.

But someone had. The Galaphile immediately began to come about, then to drop

rapidly, intent on crushing the cat beneath its hull, smashing it in midair, and

sending its passengers tumbling into the hills below. The boy countered the

maneuver with the only option left to him, slamming all the thrust levers

forward at once, expending every bit of power the diapson crystals could muster,

in an effort to get clear. The little craft lunged forward, surging through the

mist and rain like a frightened bird, throwing Pen back against the pilot box

wall.

Down came the Galaphile, dropping toward her like a stone. For just an

instant-the cat a little too slow, the warship a little too close-Pen was

certain they were not going to get clear. The cat's mast snapped as the warship

hull caught its tip, and the little ship lurched and dropped beneath the weight

of the larger craft. Pieces of mast and rigging collapsed all around Pen,

splintering the walls of the pilot box. The boy dropped to his knees and ducked

his head as debris rained down on him. The cat shuddered from the blow, but then

abruptly broke free with a scraping and splintering of wood. Lifting away as the

bigger ship continued to drop, it ran hard and fast under the full power of its

crystals until it disappeared into the mist.

Pen rose cautiously from behind the walls of the pilot box. The shattered mast

had snapped off midway up; the top half had fallen away completely, and the

lower half was bent at a rakish angle across the rim of the box. Pen had to

steer with the remnant of the mast practically in his face, but he was so

grateful to have escaped that he scarcely noticed. He was breathing hard, and

his hands were fastened on the control levers in a death grip.

"What happened?" Tagwen demanded in a strangled gasp.

"Nothing," Pen answered, refusing to look at him. His hands on the levers and

his eyes on the mist kept him from shaking too badly. He swallowed hard. "Get

down. Stay out of sight."

Night arrived, and the storm began to diminish. The winds died away and the rain

slowed to a drizzle. Mist and clouds still masked the horizon in all directions,

but the buffeting the cat had experienced earlier was gone. With darkness to

help conceal them, Pen felt marginally safer. The Galaphile had not reappeared,

and he was beginning to think that their last encounter had happened solely by

chance. Otherwise, she would have found him again by then. He knew he was

grasping at straws, but straws were all he had.

He told Tagwen that he could come up on deck, and after hesitating, the Dwarf

did so. Pen gave him the controls to hold and dragged out an all-weather cloak

from a storage bin to throw over his soaked clothes. The temperature was

dropping quickly, even though the winds had died away and the rains slowed, and

he needed to stay warm. He was navigating by compass readings, unable to catch

more than a brief glimpse of the land below and nothing of the stars above. At

least he was no longer simply running away; he was flying toward something, as

well. Having fled Patch Run, his plan was to undertake a search for his parents

in the Wolfsktaag Mountains as Tagwen had suggested. It wouldn't be easy, and it

might not even be possible, but it was all he could think to do. If he could

manage to locate them, Tagwen could explain what had brought him to Patch Run,

Pen could relate what had happened since, and they could decide what to do from

there. The whole business would be safely out of Pen's hands, which was the only

sensible place for it to be.

Riding through the empty, misted night, cold and miserable, he found himself

missing his parents in a way he would not have believed possible a day earlier.

It made him realize how much of a boy he still was. He didn't like to think of

himself that way, but it was hard to pretend he was all grown up when he felt

the way he did. All he wanted was to find his father and mother and go home

again. No more running away and hiding from terrifying Dwarf Druids and their

Gnome strongmen. No more flying blind in a damaged ship through strange lands.

All of which served to remind him of how much trouble he was really in. Sooner

or later he was going to have to set down to make repairs to the cat's damaged

mast and then take a look around to determine how far east the storm had blown

him. All that was left for him to do was to decide how long he would wait before

doing so.

In the end, the decision was made for him. He must have expended more power than

he thought, or perhaps had less to start with, because sometime around midnight

the diapson crystals began to give out. He knew at once what was happening when

the ship began to stall, slowing sharply and dipping its bow in fits and starts.

Enough power remained to land, and he did so at once. with Tagwen shouting in

his ear, demanding to know what was wrong, he put the cat into a slow glide and

eased her downward in search of somewhere flat and open to land.

He had no idea where he was but was relieved to find patchy stretches of forest

clearings bordering the recognizable expanse of Rainbow Lake only a few miles to

the north, and he steered the failing cat in that direction. He took a quick

look about, peering through the mist, but saw nothing of their pursuers. Maybe

things were going to work out, after all.

A broad dark stretch of ground opened ahead of him, and he took the cat toward

it. He was almost on the ground when he realized it was a marsh. Angling the

nose of the cat up sharply, he skipped over the bog and settled down hard at the

very edge of a thick stand of trees east. The cat slammed into the ground,

skidded wildly for a moment, and then bumped up against a tree trunk and

stopped.

"Haven't you had any practice landing this thing!" Tagwen demanded irritably,

hauling himself out of the hold into which he had tumbled.

Pen finished hooding the parse tubes and bringing the thrust levers all the way

back. "Don't be so grumpy. We're lucky to be down in one piece. Smooth landings

are for undamaged ships."

Tagwen huffed, then looked around. "Where are we?"

Pen shook his head, peering over the lip of the pilot box at the broken mast and

damaged rigging. "Don't know."

"Well, wherever it is, I don't much care for the look of it."

"The Highlands have rough features, but they're safe enough. At least, that's

what my parents say."

The Dwarf climbed back onto the deck and stood staring out at the night. "This

doesn't look like the Highlands to me."

Pen glanced up at once. A quick survey of the surrounding countryside confirmed

Tagwen's assessment. Instead of hills and valleys, the terrain consisted of low,

flat stretches of marshy ground abutting heavy stands of forest that soon turned

into a solid wall to the east. Rainbow Lake was still there, glimmering dully in

the misty dark, but nothing else seemed quite right.

He looked at the black trunks of the massive trees ahead of them, many of them

well over a hundred feet tall. There were no trees like those in the Highlands.

A chill ran through him, and it was from more than the damp and the cold. This

wasn't Leah. The storm had blown them right through the Highlands and into the

country beyond-country so dangerous that his parents had forbidden him to go

into it under any circumstances.

He was inside the Black Oaks.

NINE

They could do nothing about their situation that night, so they hunkered down to

wait for morning. The cat couldn't fly until there was power for the diapson

crystals, and there wouldn't be power for the crystals until there was light

from which to draw it. Even then, the problem wasn't solved, because they needed

to rig the mainsail and radian draws to absorb the ambient light into the

crystals, and they couldn't do that on any kind of permanent basis without a

mast. They couldn't replace the mast until it was light enough to see to go into

the Black Oaks-a whole other kind of problem-to find a tree suitable for the

purpose. Then they had to cut down the tree, haul it back to the airship, shape

it, attach the iron clips and stays that would hold it and the rigging in place,

and put it up.

Pen, sunk down in a funk that defied his best efforts to dispel it, estimated

conservatively that such an operation might take as long as three days. In the

meantime, they were grounded in one of the most dangerous places in the entire

Southland.

Nor could they do much to ease their physical discomfort. Soaked through and

chilled to the bone, they might have welcomed even a little warmth. But a fire

was out of the question while the Galaphile was hunting them, and Pen could not

use the diapson crystals to generate even the smallest amount of heat because

all their stored power was exhausted. He had not had time to pack the right

provisions for this experience, so the best they could do for shelter was to

strip off their wet clothes, crawl into the sleeping space under the pilothouse,

and wrap up in spare sails to try to stay warm.

But only one of them could do this at a time because the other needed to stay

topside and keep watch. Even Tagwen saw the wisdom in that. The GalapMe was of

obvious concern, but the creatures that lived in the Black Oaks offered a more

immediate threat. Gray wolves ran in packs large enough to challenge even a moor

cat. The swamps were filled with snakes and dragon beasts. There were rumors of

even larger, more dangerous things, some in the Black Oaks, some out in the Mist

Marsh bordering it to the northeast. While they had weapons with which to defend

themselves, neither Pen nor Tagwen was particularly anxious to test them out.

Things could be worse, Pen thought darkly as they sat staring at each other and

the night, but not by much and not in any way he could immediately identify.

"Is there any food?" Tagwen asked glumly.

They were sitting inside the pilot box, talking about what they would do when

morning came. The sky was clearing, the first stars and a hint of moonlight

visible now through the broken clouds. Pen knew it was well after midnight, the

beginning of a new day.

Wordlessly, he retrieved the pack of dried stores he had snatched up on his way

out of the work shed and handed it to the Dwarf. Tagwen rummaged around inside

and produced some dried beef and a rather sorry-looking hunk of cheese. He split

both and handed half to the boy. Pen accepted his meal wordlessly and began to

eat.

What was he doing out in the middle of nowhere, completely disabled? How had he

ever let this happen?

"We should get some sleep," he said wearily.

"I'll keep watch," Tagwen offered, working his knife across the cheese rind.

"I'm more rested than you are, after that storm."

Pen didn't argue; he was exhausted. "All right." He yawned.

"I don't sleep much anyway," Tagwen continued. "I used to stay awake for hours

sometimes while your aunt was sleeping, just sitting there with her. I was

always there for her when she was sick. I liked doing that-just sitting there.

It made me feel I was doing something to help her, something besides keeping her

affairs organized."

"What is she like?" Pen asked suddenly.

The Dwarf looked at him. "You've spent time with her."

"Not very much. Not enough to know her well. She doesn't let you know her well.

She keeps you at a distance."

"She does that even to me. I can tell you that she lives with her past more than

most. She's haunted by it, Penderrin. She hates who she was and what she did as

the Ilse Witch. She would do anything to take it all back and start over. I

don't think anyone understands that. The Druids mostly think she hasn't changed

all that much, that once you have the kind of magic she does, you don't regret

anything. They think she's the same underneath, that she just masks it from

them."

"I don't know what she was like before," Pen said. "But I think she is a good

person now. She doesn't want to get close, but she wants to help. She tries to

be kind. At least, that's how she was with me, and she didn't even know me then.

What do you think has happened to her?"

Tagwen shook his head. "Whatever it is, I think it has something to do with

Terek Molt and Shadea a'Ru and the rest of their little group of vipers. At

first I thought it had something to do with her trip into the Northland a few

days before she disappeared, but I don't think that now."

* * *

He took a few minutes to explain what he knew about Grianne Ohmsford's journey

into the ruins of the Skull Kingdom with the Maturen Kermadec, then segued right

into a dissertation about the cliques of Druid troublemakers who had made things

so difficult for the Ard Rhys at Paranor. The boy listened attentively, thinking

that there was a lot about his aunt that he didn't know, much of it because his

parents never discussed it. He was seeing her in an entirely new light now, and

his admiration for her was growing.

"I would have walked away from all that a long time ago," he said. "I think

Kermadec is right. She should just start over."

Tagwen shrugged. "Well, it's all to do with politics and appearances, Pen. If

she were free to act as she chose without consequences, I expect there would be

some very surprised Druids when she was finished."

Pen was silent for a moment, contemplating the ramifications of what he had just

learned. If someone had acted against his aunt, as powerful as she was, and that

same someone was responsible for sending Terek Molt and those gimlet-eyed Gnomes

after him, then he was in a world of trouble-much more than he had thought he

was. He wondered what was at stake that would cause someone to take such drastic

action. If it was Shadea a'Ru, then perhaps the lure of becoming Ard Rhys was

enough. But given his aunt's dark history, he thought it more likely that it had

something to do with revenge or misguided loyalties or fanatical beliefs. Those

who committed atrocities always seemed to do so out of a misconceived sense of

righteousness and the greater good.

"Do you think she's dead, Tagwen?" he asked impulsively.

It was a terrible thing to ask the Dwarf, who was beside himself with feelings

of guilt and despair already, and Pen regretted asking the question as soon as

it was out of his mouth. But boys ask those kinds of questions, and Pen was no

exception.

"I don't care to think about it," the Dwarf said quietly.

Pen cringed at the sadness he heard in the other's voice. "It was a stupid

question."

Tagwen nodded noncommittally. "Go to sleep, Pen," he said, nudging him with his

boot. "There's nothing more to be done this night."

Pen nodded. There didn't seem to be. He wasn't at all certain how much could be

done on waking, but at least a new day might grace him with a better attitude.

The damp and cold had leeched all the good feelings out of him. The running and

hiding had stolen his confidence. They would both come back with the advent of a

new day, just as they always did with a little rest and a little time.

He rose and stepped out of the pilot box, ducked down into the sleeping

compartment, and rolled himself into a square of sailcloth. He was asleep almost

at once.

He dreamed that night, and his dreams were dark and frightening. He was fleeing

through a forest, the trunks huge and black, whipping past him in a blur as he

ran. He was running as fast as he could, but he knew it wasn't fast enough to

escape what was chasing him. It was close behind him, its shadow looming over

him, and if he was to look back at it, even for a moment, he would be doomed. He

wasn't even sure what was back there, only that it was something terrible. All

he could do was run from it and hope that eventually he would find a way to

escape.

But his fear overcame his reason, and he turned to look-just a glimpse, nothing

more. The moment he did so, he knew he was doomed, a massive airship hovered

right above him, dropping slowly, preparing to crush him. The airship had eyes

as cold as those of a snake, razor-sharp fangs, and a long, wicked tongue that

licked out at him. The ship was alive, but it was what lay inside, what he

couldn't see from where he was on the ground, that really terrified him. What

waited in the bowels of the airship was what would have him after the ship had

crushed him into the earth. He would still be alive, but he would wish he

wasn't.

With the airship so close he could feel its wood brush against his hunched back,

he threw himself to one side into a deep ravine, and then he was falling,

falling . . .

He woke with a start, sitting up so abruptly he bumped his head against the

decking of the pilot box. Pain ratcheted through him and tears flooded his eyes.

He sat holding his head for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts, to make the

nightmare go away. But it lingered, stronger than before, pressing down on him,

as if it were still happening in real life.

Consumed by this unreasonable, yet nevertheless unshakable fear, he crawled from

the sleeping space onto the deck of the cat, breathing in the night air to clear

his head. It was still dark, but the clouds had dissipated and the sky was

bright with stars and moon. Sitting with his back against the wall of the pilot

box, he glanced at the darkness, listened to the silence, and tried to shake off

the effects of the dream.

Then he rose to look forward over the pilot box wall and saw the Galaphile

flying directly toward him.

He felt his heart stop, and his breath caught in his throat, tightening down

into a hard knot of fear. He could not quite believe what he was seeing, even

though it was right in front of him and unmistakable. He caught a glimpse of

Tagwen asleep inside the pilot box, oblivious to the danger. Pen wanted to reach

out and wake him, but he could not make himself move. He just stood there,

staring helplessly as the massive bulk of the airship grew larger and larger,

bearing down on him like the airship in his dream, preparing to crush the life

out of him.

And then abruptly, it changed course.

There was no reason for it. If anyone was on deck searching for them, they would

have been seen. The moonlight was too clear and bright for any other result. Yet

the Galaphile swung sharply to port and away, flying back toward the shoreline

of Rainbow Lake, an act so unexpected and improbable that it left Pen

open-mouthed.

"Tagwen!" he whispered harshly, groping for the other's shoulder.

The Dwarf awoke with a start, scrambling into a sitting position as he struggled

to figure out what was happening. Pen steadied him with his hand, drew his

attention, then pointed at the retreating airship. Tagwen stared at it,

confusion and shock mirrored on his rough features.

"It was right in front of us," Pen explained, keeping his voice to a whisper. "I

had a dream about it, came up on deck, and there it was! Right there! It had us,

Tagwen. It couldn't have missed us, sitting out like this in the moonlight, even

at night. But it did. All at once, it just turned and flew off."

He knelt next to the Dwarf, taking quick, short breaths, feeling light-headed.

"What happened? Why didn't it see us?"

"Perhaps it didn't recognize you for who you were," a voice replied from behind

them.

For the second time in only minutes, Pen experienced heart failure, jumping with

the unexpected sound, almost falling over Tagwen, who was just as startled.

Crouched in one corner of the pilot box, man and boy turned to see who had

spoken.

An old man stood looking at them, an ancient so bent and gnarled that it seemed

impossible he could have managed to climb aboard. He braced himself with a

polished black staff that glistened like deep waters in moonlight, and his robes

were so white they gleamed like the moon itself. Long gray hair and a heavy

beard fell about his chest and shoulders, and his eyes had an oddly childlike

twinkle to them, as if the old man had never quite grown up all the way.

Pen, recovering from the shock of finding him there, said, "Why wouldn't they

recognize us?"

"Sometimes things don't look quite the way we expect them to," the old man said.

"Especially at night, when shadows drape the world and mask the truth."

"We were right out in the open," Pen persisted. He stood up again, deciding

there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at the ancient's strange eyes,

finding himself drawn to something reflected in them, something that reminded

him of himself, though he couldn't say what. "Did you do something to make them

not see us?"

The old man smiled. "Penderrin Ohmsford. I knew your father, years ago. He came

looking for something, too. I helped him find what it was. Now, it seems, it is

your turn."

"My turn?" Pen stared at him. "How do you know who I am? My father didn't tell

you, did he? No, this was before I was born, wasn't it?"

The old man nodded, amused. "Your father was still a boy, just as you are now."

Tagwen struggled to his feet, straightening his rumpled clothes and squaring his

stocky body away. "Who are you?" he asked boldly. "What are you doing out here?

How do you know so much about Pen and his father?"

"So many questions," the old man said softly. "Life is full of them, and we

spend it seeking their answers, first of one, then of another. It is our

passion, as thinking creatures, to do so. Do you not know me, Tagwen? You are of

the Dwarf people, and the Dwarf people have known me for centuries."

But it was Pen who answered, hesitating only a moment before saying, "I know who

you are. The King of the Silver River. My father told me of you-how you came to

him when he was traveling with my uncle, Quentin Leah, into the Eastland. You

showed him a vision of my aunt, before he knew she was his sister. You gave him

a phoenix stone to help protect him on his journey across the Blue Divide."

All who resided in the Four Lands knew the legend of the King of the Silver

River, though not all believed it. He was said to be a Faerie creature, as old

as the Word itself, come into being at the same time and made part of the world

in its infancy. The last of his kind, he was caretaker of wondrous gardens

hidden somewhere in the Silver River country, a place where no humans were

affowed. He was seen now and then by travelers, always in different forms.

Sometimes he would give aid to them when they were lost or in peril. He had done

as much for several generations of Ohmsfords, going all the way back to Shea and

Flick, in the time of the Druid Allanon. Others in the Four Lands might doubt

his existence, but those like Bek, who had encountered him, and Pen, who had

heard his father's story, did not.

"Well spoken, Penderrin," the old man said. "You are clearly your father's son.

What we must determine now is if your courage is a match for his." He came

forward in a sort of half shuffle, stopping at the pilot box steps. "Are you

brave enough to undertake a journey to find your missing aunt and bring her

safely home again?"

Pen glanced quickly at Tagwen, searching for reassurance and finding only

surprise and confusion. It was what he should have expected. No one could answer

such a question for him.

"She badly needs you to do this," the King of the Silver River assured him. "She

is trapped in a very dangerous place, and she cannot get home again without your

help. No one can save her but you, Penderrin. It is an odd set of circumstances

that makes this so, but it is the way of things nevertheless."

Tagwen grunted. "This boy is the only one who can help the Ard Rhys? No one

else? What about his parents? What about his father, Bek Ohmsford? He has the

same magic as his sister, a very powerful magic, to assist him. Surely, he

should be the one to make this journey."

The old man leaned more heavily on the black staff and cocked his head as if

seriously considering the question. His gaze was distant and just a little sad.

"Often, it is the least likely among us who is in a position to accomplish the

most. It is so here. Bek Ohmsford cannot help his sister this time. Penderrin is

just a boy, and it would seem impossible that a boy would be best able to save

so powerful a wielder of magic as Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys and Ilse Witch.

Certainly those who have sent her to her prison would never think it possible.

Perhaps that is why they have overlooked him. In truth, they think it is his

parents they need to fear, and so seek them out, just as you do."

"I knew itl" Tagwen exclaimed angrily. "It was Shadea a'Ru and Terek Molt and

the rest of them! They've done this to her!"

He was practically beside himself, and Pen felt compelled to put a cautioning

hand on his shoulder, but the Dwarf barely seemed aware of him. He stamped his

foot furiously. "Vipers! Treacherous snakes! Kermadec was right all along! She

should have rid herself of the lot of them long ago and none of this would have

happened!"

The King of the Silver River passed his hand in front of the Dwarf's eyes,

causing him to sigh heavily and grow calm again. "It isn't as simple as that,

Tagwen. In fact, there are others responsible, as well, others who are from

different places and pursue different goals. But the most dangerous of those who

would see the Ard Rhys destroyed is someone of whom the others are not even

aware. That one plays the others as a master does his puppets, pulling the

strings that guide their actions. Wheels within wheels, secrets yet

unrecognized. The danger is far greater than it appears, and it threatens far

more than the life of the Ard Rhys. Yet she is the key to restoring a balance,

to making things right again. She must be returned to the Four Lands in order

for everything else that is necessary to happen." He looked at Penderrin. "You,

alone, can bring that to pass."

Pen sighed, thinking that only a day ago he was wondering how to best pass the

time in Patch Run until his parents returned. He had been anxious for an

adventure, eager to be with them in the Wolfsktaag, to be a part of their lives

as guides of an expedition. Now he was being recruited to undertake an

expedition of his own, one that appeared to be far more dangerous than theirs.

How quickly things changed.

"What is it you want me to do?" he asked.

The King of the Silver River climbed the steps to the pilot box, not in a weary

shuffle, but in a smooth, effortless glide. One wrinkled hand came to rest on

the boy's shoulder. "You must abandon your efforts to find your parents; they

cannot help you in this. If it were possible for them to do so, I would have

gone to them first. I shall speak with them in any case to warn them of the

danger from your enemies. But your parents' time is past, Penderrin; it is your

time now. You must go in search of your aunt without them, and you must do so at

once."

"Then I shall go with him," Tagwen declared bravely. "Finding the Ard Rhys is my

responsibility, too."

The King of the Silver River glanced at him appraisingly, then nodded. "You will

make a good and loyal companion, Tagwen," he said. His eyes shifted back to Pen.

"Such companions will be needed. Find them where you will, but choose them with

caution."

He leaned forward, and his thin, aged voice lowered until it was almost a

whisper. "Listen carefully. A potion has been used against the Ard Rhys, a magic

of great power. The potion is called liquid night. It has imprisoned your aunt

in another place, one that cannot be reached by ordinary means. A talisman to

negate its magic is needed. The required talisman is a darkwand. It is a

conjuring stick and must be fashioned by hand from the limb of a tree called a

tanequil. The tanequil is sentient; it is a living, breathing creature. It will

give up a limb only if it is persuaded of the need for doing so. It must act

freely. Taking the limb by force will destroy the magic that it bears. Someone

must communicate with the tanequil in a language it can comprehend. Someone must

explain to it why its limb is so important. Penderrin, you have the gift of

magic, the talent with which you were born, to do this."

Pen was speechless. He was being told that his little magic, which he had

repeatedly dismissed as being virtually useless, was suddenly his most important

possession. He could hardly believe it, but the old man's words bore weight, and

he could not bring himself to dismiss them out of hand.

"How will I know what to do?" he asked. Even if he wasn't sure yet whether he

would go-and he most certainly wasn't-he had to know what was needed if he did.

"How will I know what language to speak to it or how to shape this darkwand from

its limb?"

The King of the Silver River smiled. "I cannot tell you that. No one can. But

you will know, Penderrin. When it is time, you will know. You will understand

what to do, and you will find a way to do it."

"Well, we have to find this tree first," Tagwen interjected, huffing doubtfully.

"How do we do that? Is it far away?"

"The tanequil grows in a forest on an island in a lake deep in the Charnal

Mountains. To reach it, you must pass through gardens that were once the center

of an ancient city called Stridegate. Trolls and Urdas inhabit the surrounding

forests and foothills. They will know the way to enter and pass through."

Pen shook his head. "I don't know if I can do this." He looked at Tagwen. "I've

never even been out of the Borderlands."

"I don't know if you can, either," Tagwen replied. His bearded face was

scrunched up like crumpled paper. "But I think you have to try, Pen. What else

can you do? You can't abandon her."

He was right, of course, but Pen was beset with doubts. The Charnal Mountains

were more dangerous than the Black Oaks, and to try to penetrate them with as

little experience as he had and not even a sense of where to go seemed foolish.

The King of the Silver River sighed with what seemed deep regret. "Life offers

few certainties, Penderrin. This journey is not one of them. Hear me out, for

there is more to know. What I have told you is only a first step. Your journey

begins with your search for the tanequil. It begins with your shaping of a

darkwand. But it ends in another place altogether. The darkwand must be taken to

Paranor and the chamber of the Ard Rhys. There, the talisman's magic will give

you passage through the curtain of liquid night to where the Ard Rhys has been

imprisoned. Only you, Penderrin, and you alone. No other may go with you. Not

even Tagwen. When you find your aunt, the darkwand will give you passage back

again-you, because you bear the wand, and your aunt, because the magic of the

wand negates that of the liquid night."

He paused. "But remember, no other may pass. The magic's thread is slender and

fragile, and it cannot be rewoven or lengthened to accommodate others. Passage

over allows passage back, but there can be no deviations. There can be no

exceptions."

Pen was not at all sure why the other was making such a point of this, but he

thought it was in reference to something very specific, something that the old

man did not want to reveal in greater detail. That was in keeping with what he

knew to be true about the ways of the ancients, the Faerie creatures who were

the first people. They spoke in riddles and always held something back. It was

in their nature, very much as it was in the nature of the Druids, and that would

never change.

What should he do?

He looked into the eyes of the old man, then at Tagwen's rough face, and then

off into the night, where possibilities were still shaping themselves and dreams

still held sway. He had never been put in a position where so much depended on a

decision and the decision must be made so quickly.

Then, almost without thinking about it, he put aside his objections and concerns

as secondary to his aunt's needs. He stood staring down at the wooden deck of

the pilot box for a moment, measuring the depth of his commitment. It all came

down to the same thing, he supposed. If their positions were reversed, would his

aunt do for him what he was being asked to do for her? Even without knowing her

any better than he did, he was certain of the answer.

"All right," he said softly, "I'll go."

He looked up again. The King of the Silver River nodded. "And you will come back

again, Penderrin. I see it in your eyes, just as I saw it more than twenty years

ago in your father's."

Pen took a deep breath, thinking that what was mirrored in his eyes was probably

more on the order of bewilderment. So much had happened so quickly, and he was

not sure yet that he understood it all or even that he ever would. He wished he

had more confidence in himself, but he supposed you got that only by testing

yourself against your doubts.

"Where has my aunt been imprisoned?" he asked the old man suddenly. "Where do I

have to go to find her?"

The King of the Silver River went very still then, so still that at first it

seemed as if he had been turned to stone and could not speak. He took a long

time to consider the boy's question, his ancient face a mask of conflicting

emotions. The silence deepened and turned brittle with suspense.

The longer Pen waited for a response, the more certain he became that he would

wish he hadn't asked.

He was not mistaken.

* * *

When the King of the Silver River had gone, Penderrin slept, exhausted by the

day's ordeal. He woke again to sunshine and blue sky, to soft breezes blowing

off the Rainbow Lake, and to birdsong and crickets. Tagwen was already hard at

work, clearing away the debris from their landing. Pen joined the Dwarf in his

efforts, neither of them saying much as they labored. They cut away the mast,

then found a suitable tree from which to fashion a new one. It took them most of

the day to shape it, then set it in place. By the time it was firmly attached to

the cat, the sun had gone west and the shadows were lengthening.

They ate dinner on the deck of the airship, a patched-together meal of

foodstuffs left aboard from an earlier outing, fresh water and foraged greens.

Fish would have helped, but they would have had to eat it raw since neither was

willing to risk a fire. They had not seen the Galaphile since the previous

night, and they believed themselves safe from it there in the lands of the King

of the Silver River, but there was no point in taking chances.

Dinner was almost finished before Pen spoke about the previous night. By then,

he had spent the better part of the day thinking it through, repeating the words

of the King of the Silver River in his mind, trying to make them seem real.

"Did it all happen the way I think it did, Tagwen?" Pen asked finally, almost

afraid of what he was going to hear. "I didn't imagine it?"

"Not unless I imagined it, too," the Dwarf replied.

"Then I agreed to go find my aunt?"

"And me with you."

Pen shook his head helplessly. "What have I done? I'm not up to this. I don't

even know where to make a start."

Tagwen laughed softly. "I've been giving it some thought, since I saw how dazed

you were last night. One of us needed to keep a clear head. You may have the

means to secure this darkwand, but I have the means to look out for us. I think

I know what we need to do first."

"You do?" Pen didn't bother to hide his surprise. "What?"

The Dwarf grinned and pointed toward the setting sun. "We go west, Penderrin, to

the Elven village of Emberen."

TEN

She awoke to the sound of weasel voices, raspy and sly, the words

indistinguishable one from the other. The voices giggled and snickered, little

taunts intended to disparage her, to make her feel vulnerable and weak. She

listened to them from within layers of cotton that wrapped about her like a

chrysalis. The voices hissed with laughter. She was a nameless corpse, they

whispered, an empty shell from which the life had been leeched away, a body

consigned to the earth's dark breast for burial.

She fought against a sudden stab of panic. She was Grianne Ohmsford, she told

herself in an act of reassurance. She was alive and well. She was only dreaming.

She was asleep in her bed, and she remembered . . .

She drew a sharp, frightened breath, and her certainties were gone as quickly as

the voices, disappeared like smoke.

Something had happened.

Still wrapped in cotton that filled her head and mouth, that bound up her

thoughts and clogged her reason, she tried to move her arms and legs. She could

do so, but only with great effort. She was terribly weak and her body was

responding as if she had slept not for one night but for a hundred. She brought

one hand to her breast and found she was still wearing her nightclothes, but no

blankets covered her. The air smelled stale and dead, and she could not feel

even the smallest trace of a breeze. Yet where she slept within the towers of

Paranor, there was always a breeze and the air smelled of the trees, fresh and

green.

Where was she?

The softness of her sleeping pad and comforter were gone. She felt hard ground

beneath her bare arms; she smelled the earth. Her panic returned, threatening to

overwhelm her, but she forced it down. She had no patience for it and no

intention of giving it power over her. She was not harmed; she was still whole.

Deep breaths, one after the other, calmed and steadied her.

She opened her eyes, peeling back the layers of deep sleep into which she had

sunk, squinting into hazy gray light. It was night still. She was staring at a

darkened sky that domed overhead in a vast leaden canopy. Yet something was

wrong. The sky was cloudless, but empty of moon and stars. Nor was the sun in

evidence. The world was cast in the sullen tones of a storm's approach, shrouded

in layers of silence, in hushed tones of expectation.

It must be twilight, she decided. She had slept longer than she thought. The sun

was down, the moon not yet up, and the stars not yet out-that would explain the

strange sky.

The weasel voices were gone, a figment of her imagination. She listened for them

and heard nothing, either in her mind or in the real world. But there was no

birdsong either, or buzzing of insects, or rustle of wind in the trees, or

ripple of water in a stream, or any sound at all save the pounding of her heart.

It took her a while, but she finally forced herself to move, rolling to her side

and then into a sitting position, wrapping her arms about her drawn-up knees to

keep herself in place. Slowly, her vision sharpened from a watery haze to

clarity, and the spinning that had begun when she levered herself upright faded.

She looked around. She sat in a ragged, blasted landscape, surrounded by trees

that were wintry and thick with withered leaves. The trees had the look of

blight about them, sickened so that they could no longer thrive. Because she was

sitting on a high piece of ground overlooking several valleys and, further out,

a river, she could see that the forest extended for miles in all directions,

bleak and unchanging. Farther out still, at the edges of her vision, mountains

loomed stark and barren against the skyline.

Paranor was nowhere in evidence. Nor was there any sign of anything else

man-made-no buildings, no bridges, no traffic on the river, not even a road. No

people. No life. Seemingly, she was alone in this empty, alien world.

And yet ...

She took a second look around, a more careful look, seeing her surroundings with

a fresh eye and, to her surprise, recognizing what she saw. At first, she

couldn't believe it. She was still struggling with the idea that somehow she had

been transported in her sleep-drug induced, she was certain-to a strange and

terrible place, all for reasons that were not yet apparent. Disoriented and

confused, she had misread what was now patently clear. The land she was looking

at, although now turned lifeless and empty, was the land she had gone to sleep

in last night.

She was still in Callahorn, in the Four Lands.

Yet it was not the Callahorn she knew and, from what she could see of it, only a

ruined shell of the Four Lands.

She sat staring off into the distance, her gaze shifting from feature to feature

to make certain. She took note of the Dragon's Teeth, their jagged outline

unmistakable, as familiar to her by then as her own face. And there, a glimpse

of the Mermidon, south and west where the mountains broke apart. The plateau on

which she sat was where the Druid's Keep had stood. North, south, east, and

west, the geography was just as it had been for thousands of years.

But blasted and leeched of life, a corpse of the sort she had thought herself to

be on waking.

And where was Paranor?

She could reach only one conclusion. Either she had awakened in the aftermath of

the Great Wars or gone into a future in which a similar catastrophe had

occurred. But that was impossible.

She checked herself carefully to make certain she was all in one piece, and

having done so, managed to get to her feet. Her dizziness and the sluggish feel

of waking from a deep sleep had worn off, and her strength was beginning to

return. She gave it a few more minutes, still puzzling through her situation,

still trying to make sense of it. She couldn't, of course. There was no way to

do so without knowing both where she was and how she had gotten there.

She realized she was hungry, and she started to look for food. In her world, the

one she had left behind that looked like this one but apparently wasn't, there

would have been berry bushes in a clearing near a stream not far from where she

stood. While Ard Rhys, she had gone there from time to time to pick the fruit, a

private, secret indulgence about which only Tagwen knew.

But it was unlikely that such sweet fruit grew anywhere in this world. Her

hunger would have to wait.

She started to walk through the trees, looking for water. As she walked, she

listened futilely for the sounds of other life. What sort of world was she in

where there were no birds? Were there any people, any creatures at all? Was it

possible that she was the only living thing there? The forest was empty and

dead, smelling of its own decay. The gray light was unchanging and oppressive,

and the sky remained empty of sun, moon, or stars. Even of clouds. The dark,

ruined world felt incomplete, as if it were only a faintly cast shadow of the

real world.

She found a stream finally, but the water looked so foul she decided against

drinking it. She sat down again, her back against a blighted oak, and looked off

into the shadowed trees, into the distance, reasoning out what had happened.

Clearly, she hadn't come on her own; someone had caused her to be transported.

She could safely assume it had not been done for her benefit. Most likely, given

the number of enemies she had made, it had been done to get her out of the way.

Further, it had been done using magic, because there was no other explanation

for how something so difficult could have been accomplished. Yet no one she knew

possessed such magic. Not even she could transport people to other places.

So perhaps it had been accomplished by someone who was not of her world, but of

another.

But what world would that be? Surely not this one.

She gave up thinking about it finally, deciding that she should walk to the edge

of the bluff for a better look around. Something else must exist in the place,

another creature, another life-form. If she could find it, whatever it was, she

might be able to determine where she was. If she could do that, she would have a

better idea of how to get back to where she belonged.

The walk took her only a short time, though it left her winded and fatigued. She

wasn't herself yet, and she would have to be careful how she expended her energy

until she was. Thin and diaphanous, her nightclothes billowed about her as she

walked. They were warm enough for the moment, but totally inadequate for the

task at hand. They would deteriorate quickly. Yet where would she find anything

to replace them?

When she stood again upon the heights, close to the bluff edge and still in the

shadow of the lifeless trees, she began a slow scan of the countryside,

searching for movement that would identify life.

She was in the middle of this search, completely absorbed in her efforts, when

the Dracha appeared. Her concentration was so intense that at first she didn't

even know it was there. But in its eagerness to reach her, it stepped upon some

twigs and gave itself away. Even so, it was on her so quickly that she barely

had time to react. At the last possible moment, she threw herself to one side as

it lunged for her, leathery wings spread wide, jaws snapping. She managed to

avoid the jaws, but one wing caught her a glancing blow and sent her spinning.

The breath left her lungs as she slammed into a tree trunk, and the air before

her eyes danced with dark spots.

A Dracha, she thought in disbelief, ft can't be. It's not possible. They don't

exist anymore.

But there it was nevertheless, wheeling about to come at her again. It was big

for a Dracha, fully twenty feet long from nose to tail and wing tip to wing tip,

sinuous body heavily muscled and covered with glistening scales, back ridged

with spines and razor-edged plates, legs crooked and claw-tipped.

Knowing she was dead if she didn't act quickly, she righted herself against the

tree trunk and screamed the magic of the wish-song at the beast. Her voice was

hoarse and raw from her long sleep, the magic badly managed and scattershot at

best, but it was enough. It caught up the Dracha and threw it away as if it were

made of straw. The creature hissed and shrieked, enraged at what was being done

to it. She saw the fury mirrored in its lidded yellow eyes. She saw it in the

twist and snap of its scaly body as it tumbled away into the trees.

Then her voice gave out; she was still too weak to sustain the magic for more

than a few seconds. She staggered to her feet, watching as the damaged beast

hauled itself upright, dazed and battered, but still dangerous. It turned toward

her, eyes glistening from the shadow of its horned brow, the sound of its

breathing heavy and thick with anger. Long neck extended, it flicked its tongue

out from between rows of dagger-sharp teeth. It stared at her balefully for a

long moment, weighing its options. She held her ground, staring back. If she

tried to run, it would be on her in seconds. All she could do was to run her

bluff and hope it worked.

For a moment, she was certain it wouldn't. The Dracha was too furious even to

think of backing away. It would come for her because that was its nature. It was

a dragon and dragons were relentless. It would not back away until one of them

was dead.

But then it surprised her. Perhaps it decided she wasn't worth the trouble after

all, that she was too dangerous, that there was easier prey. It spat venom, came

toward her a few steps in menacing fashion, then turned away almost disdainfully

and disappeared into the trees.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. A Dracha. There hadn't been Drachas in

the world in thousands of years, not since the time of Faerie. There were

dragons still, though only a few, hidden in the mountains, in deep caves and

bottomless crevices, in places far beyond the reach of men. But no Drachas-no

small flying dragons of that sort.

She took a long moment to consider what encountering one meant. Her thinking

shifted. There were no dragons in the aftermath of the Great Wars. There were

barely any humans. Was she somewhere farther back in time, before the age of

humans, when only Faerie creatures existed? That would explain the presence of

the Dracha and the absence of Paranor. It would explain why the geography of the

world about her looked so familiar, yet was devoid of buildings like Paranor.

There would have been no buildings and no people in the first age, when the

world was still new, populated by Faerie creatures that required no shelter save

that provided by nature.

But had the age of Faerie been so bleak? She hadn't thought so from her

readings. She had not imagined it possible. That world was newly made and fresh.

This world was dying.

A rustle in the branches overhead drew her attention. The sound was so slight

that she almost missed it. But her encounter with the Dracha had put her on

guard, and so she glanced up and caught sight of the creature. She stepped back

automatically, tensing in expectation of a second attack, but what she found

instead of another Dracha was some sort of monkey. It skittered through the

trees on spindly limbs, flashes of its hairy, gnarled form appearing through

breaks in the ragged boughs. Having been seen, it was trying frantically to

escape.

Impulsively, she yelled at it. She didn't pause to think about what she was

doing, merely acted on an instinctive need to stop whatever it was from getting

away. She was successful. Startled by the sound of her voice, the creature lost

its grip and fell, tumbling end over end through the limbs to land with an

audible grunt not a dozen yards from where she stood.

It lay dazed and twitching as she walked over to it, and she glanced about as

she approached in case it had friends in hiding. But no others appeared, and

this one seemed barely able to draw breath after its long fall. It lay on its

side, panting heavily, face upturned to the sky. She changed her mind about it

as she got closer; it wasn't a monkey, after all. It was hard to say what it

was. What it most resembled was a Spider Gnome, but it wasn't that, either.

Whatever it was, it was easily the ugliest creature she had ever seen. It was

barely four feet tall. Its body was all out of proportion, with bony protrusions

and elongated limbs. Coarse black hair sprouted in thick patches from the top of

its head and from its dark, leathery skin through rents in its worn pants and

tunic.

It recovered and struggled up, still trying to get away from her. She grabbed it

by the scruff of the neck and held it fast, holding it away from her as it tried

to bite her, using teeth that were considerably sharper than her own. She shook

it hard and hissed at it, and it quit trying to bite. It hung limply in her

grasp for a moment, then began to chatter wildly. It spoke a language she didn't

recognize, but the cadence and tonal repetition suggested it might be a

derivation of the tongues with which she was familiar. She shook her head to

show she didn't understand. The creature just kept talking, faster now,

gesturing wildly. She answered, trying various Gnome dialects. It paused to

listen, then shook its own head in reply and began to chatter again. It was so

animated that it was bobbing up and down as it spoke, giving it the look of a

disjointed puppet, its limbs manipulated by hidden strings.

She set it down and released it, pointing at it in warning to keep it from

trying to flee again. It frowned at her and folded its arms over its chest,

managing to look defiant and frightened at the same time. She tried a handful of

Dwarf and Troll dialects, but it didn't seem to understand those, either. Each

time, it would stop and listen to her words, then start chattering away in its

own language, as if through insistence and repetition she could be made to

understand.

Finally, it plopped down in the grass, arms folded over its chest, eyes turned

away, mouth set in a disapproving line. She saw the knife at its waist for the

first time, an odd-shaped narrow blade that curved and serrated at the tip. She

saw a small pouch attached to a belt, both decorated with beads sewn into the

leather. The pockets cut into the sides of its worn pants were sculpted with

thread. Whatever species it was, it was advanced beyond the Spider Gnome level.

By the same token, it wasn't a member of any race she could put a name to.

She gave up on the Dwarf and Troll dialects and was about to give up on the

creature, as well, thinking that it was hopeless, that she should leave it and

move on, go hunt for something else. Then she decided, rather impulsively, to

try speaking to it in the Elven language, even though the creature looked

nothing like an Elf. But the Elves were the oldest species in the world and

their language had been around the longest. The response was immediate. The

creature shifted to a variation of what she was speaking at once, and she could

understand him clearly.

"Stupid woman!" it snapped, the words strange-sounding in the odd dialect, but

comprehensible. "Yelling at me like that. Look what you did to me! Look how far

I fell! I could have broken every bone in my body!"

He rubbed his arms as if for emphasis, daring her to contradict him. She

narrowed her gaze at him. "You should watch what you say to me. If I don't like

what I hear, I might break every bone anyway."

He grimaced. "I could hurt you, if I wanted. You ought to be afraid of me." His

odd face scrunched up, and his tongue licked out like a cat's, revealing the

razor-sharp teeth. "Who are you? Are you a witch?"

She shook her head. "No, I am Ard Rhys of Paranor. I am a Druid. Where am I?"

He stared blankly at her. "What's wrong with you? Why don't you know where you

are? Are you lost?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Tell me what you did to that

Dracha. Magic, wasn't it? I've never seen anything like that. If you aren't a

witch, you must be a sorceress or a Straken. Are you a Straken?"

There was another name she hadn't encountered outside of the Druid Histories.

Strakens were powerful magic wielders out of the world of Faerie, gone for

thousands of years. Like the Dracha.

"Is this the Faerie world?" she asked, beginning to think it must be.

The spindly creature stared at her, head cocked. "This is the land of the Jarka

Ruus. You're inside the Dragon Line, above Pashanon. You must know that! Where

is it you come from?"

"Paranor. Callahorn. The Four Lands."

She paused with each name, searching his eyes for recognition and finding none.

But the words Jarka Ruus meant something to her. She had heard them before,

though she couldn't remember where. "What are you?" she asked him. "What Race do

you belong to? Are you a Troll?"

"Ulk Bog," he announced proudly. He smiled, showing all his considerable teeth.

"But I don't have a home at present because I'm traveling. This country is too

dangerous. Dragons everywhere, all sorts, and they like to eat my kind. Of

course, I try to eat their eggs, so I guess it's fair they should try to eat me.

But they're much bigger than I am, for the most part, so I have to be careful.

Anyway, I don't want to stay here anymore. Where are you going?"

She didn't have the faintest idea, of course, since she didn't even know where

she was. She wasn't at all sure she was going anywhere until she figured out

what had happened to her. Nevertheless, she pointed west, if only to satisfy

him, at the same time trying to figure out how to extract some useful

information.

"Ah, Huka Flats. Good choice. Soft earth for burrows and tender rats to eat." He

hitched up his belt. "Maybe I should go with you, since you don't seem to know

the way. I know it. I've been everywhere."

Ulk Bogs had disappeared with the world of Faerie, as well, she was thinking.

Everything suggested she had gone back in time to the beginning of things, back

before Men were created. The idea was so ridiculous that she kept searching for

a better answer, but nothing else suggested itself.

"Are there lots of dragons here in the Dragon Line?" she pressed. "Big ones, as

well as the Drachas?"

"You are a stranger, aren't you?" he said. He was growing bolder again, more

confident. He puffed out his narrow chest.

"Of course there are big ones. Wyverns and Frost Dragons. Fire Drakes, too,

though not so many of those. Some live right down here in the forests, like the

Drachas. You have to watch out for them all the time. That's how I happened to

be up in that-"

He stopped himself quickly, looking away into the trees. "Well, how I was, uh .

. . how I was . . ."

"That Dracha I encountered was hunting you, wasn't it?" she guessed. She leaned

close. "Don't lie to me, little rodent."

The Ulk Bog sneered at her. "It wasn't my fault it found you instead of me. I

didn't do anything to make it come after you. I was just trying to hide in the

trees, because Drachas don't climb and they can't fly close in where there are

branches that might get in the way of their wings, so I . . ."

She held out her hand beseechingly and stopped him midsentence. She doubted he

was telling the truth, but then again she wasn't sure he would recognize the

truth if it bit him on the nose. There wasn't much about Ulk Bogs in the Druid

Histories, but if they were all like this one they were pretty good at shifting

blame.

"Never mind," she told him. "It doesn't matter."

She cast about for help from any quarter, but there was none to be found. She

was alone and stuck with this fast-talking creature unless she set him free,

which she wasn't ready to do quite yet. She still might learn something from him

if she gave herself a chance. Even by just letting him rattle on, she might

stumble over something that would help.

"Tell me your name," she said.

He drew himself up. "Weka Dart. What's yours?"

"Grianne." She abandoned the Ard Rhys designation because it clearly meant

nothing to him. "Tell me more about the Dragon Range. Have there ever been any

buildings up here on this bluff? A castle, perhaps?"

He laughed. "Dragons don't need buildings! They rule this ter ritory of the

Jarka Ruus. Everything else stays away. If you want buildings, you need to go

down onto the plains where the Straken live. Your kind."

My kind. She remembered suddenly that they were speaking in the Elven tongue-an

ancient dialect, but Elven nevertheless, a Faerie language. The Elves were the

original people, the only true Faerie Race to survive the Great Wars. There had

been Elves forever in the world. If this was the past, even if she was all the

way back to the time of the Word, there would be Elves.

"Tell me, Weka Dart," she said. "Are there Elves close by? Where do the Elves

live?"

The look he gave her was filled with disdain. "Are you stupid? There are no

Elves here! Elves are forbidden! We cast them out, back when we made this world!

Jarka Ruus ba'enthal corpa u'pahsl"

She had no idea what he was saying, but she got the message anyway. "But there

must be Elves. You are speaking in the Elven tongue."

He became enraged. "I speak Ulk Bog, my tongue, my language, and it does not

sound anything at all like Elfish! I will hurt you if you say that again,

whether you are Straken or not! No one can call an Ulk Bog an Elf! We are the

free peoples, the world of the ca'rel orren pu'u! Jarka Ruus!"

For a moment she was afraid he was going to attack her; his face was twisted in

fury, and his breathing had turned quick and dangerous. She could not imagine

why he was reacting that way. If he knew about the Elves, this must be the Old

World, and the Elves had always been a part of it, not separate from it, not

until after the war when the bad Faerie creatures had been exiled to-

She went still, realization flooding through her, so dark it threatened to bury

her in an avalanche of horror. No, she must be mistaken, she thought. But she

remembered now the origin of the words Jarka Ruus. She had never heard them

spoken; she had read them. They were words from the Druid Histories-Elven words,

whether Weka Dart liked it or not. They meant banished peoples, and they had

been used first in a time before the Four Lands existed, long ago in the

beginning, when the war fought between good and evil Faerie creatures reached

its climax.

But she had to be certain. "Ulk Bog," she said to him. "You say there are

dragons. Are there giants, as well? Are there demon-spawn and goblins? Are there

warlocks and witches and ogres?"

He nodded at once. "Of course."

She took a deep breath. "Are there Furies?"

He grinned at her with unsettling purpose. "Everywhere."

She was frozen by that single word. Everywhere. Furies. No Elves, only monsters

that preyed on each other and those more helpless. The Ellcrys had shut them all

away thousands of years ago in a place that no human had ever gone into.

Until now.

She exhaled slowly. She was inside the Forbidding.

ELEVEN

What's wrong with you?" Weka Dart asked, leaning forward for a closer look, his

ferret face wrinkling with something that could have been either suspicion or

distaste. "Are you going to be sick? You look as if you might be thinking about

it."

She barely heard him. She was stunned to the point of being unable to speak.

Inside the Forbidding! The words roared in her ears like the howl of a high

wind, blotting out every other sound and leaving her wrapped in confusion and

disbelief. It was such an impossible idea that she could not bring herself to

quit looking for a way to dismiss it. No one had ever been inside the

Forbidding. There was no way to get inside, for that matter. The barrier was

made strong enough to keep the demons and their kind inside, but it had a

similar effect on those without. There was no congress between them, not even

the smallest contact.

Once, five hundred years ago, the barrier had ruptured with the failing of the

Ellcrys. Grianne's ancestor Wil Ohmsford had been instrumental in helping an

Elven girl named Amberle, the Chosen of the tree, find the Bloodfire to create a

new Ellcrys and restore the barrier. But other than that one time, there was no

instance in recorded history of demons or humans crossing over from one realm

into the other. There was simply no way for it to happen.

Yet happen it had, because she was inside the Forbidding, and she could argue

against it all she wanted, but it was so. If there were Furies here, there could

be no mistaking it. Weka Dart was an Ulk Bog, and all the Ulk Bogs of ancient

times, of Faerie, had been sent into the Forbidding along with the other

creatures who were indiscriminately predatory. The things that lived inside the

Forbidding were savage and raw, unable to function in a climate of civilized

behavior, unable to overcome their instincts for killing. She understood the

darkness that drove such creatures, for as the Ilse Witch it had driven her, as

well. When the darkness took hold, becoming the hard edge of emotions best kept

buried and unexamined, there was no act a creature could not justify.

"Do you want some water? I can run for some, not far. I don't like the way you

look. Did that Dracha bite you? Are you poisoned?"

Weka Dart was pressed so close to her now that his sharp features were only

inches from her own. She saw the warts and blemishes on his dark skin, where the

hair failed to cover them. She saw the sharpness of his teeth and heard the

hissing of his breath. It was like looking closely at a weasel.

"Back away from me," she said, and he did so instantly, cowering slightly at the

harsh sound of her voice. "There's nothing wrong with me, Ulk Bog. I was

thinking."

Thinking of how desperate her circumstances had become. No situation she could

imagine was worse. Being inside the Forbidding was a death sentence. She did not

know who had found the means to place her there or how she would ever get out

again, but

she was the Ard Rhys, even there, and she held herself together with an iron

will forged in countless struggles she had survived and her enemies had not.

She took another deep breath and looked around to reassure herself that the

geography of the land about her was what she remembered it to be. It hadn't

changed. The Dragon's Teeth formed a barrier on three sides, allowing small

glimpses of grasslands and rivers beyond, all of it familiar, while north the

Streleheim stretched away in bleak, misty emptiness.

She tried to reason it through. If she was inside the Forbidding, then the

Forbidding was not another place entirely; it was the same place on a different

plane of existence, an alternate world and history, one that had progressed

little since the time of Faerie. Her world had seen an entire civilization rise

and fall in a holocaust of power gone mad. This one had failed to progress

beyond the time of its creation out of Elven magic, thousands of years ago. One

had seen Races created out of myth, out of a time when they were real, made new

again by the changes wrought in the survivors of the Great Wars. The other had

seen its denizens frozen in time, until the myth was reality born of nightmare.

No wonder Weka Dart and probably most of those who lived here spoke a variation

of the Elven tongue she knew from her studies. Once, all creatures had spoken

the same tongue, born of the Word's magic, given life and a chance at unity that

they had tossed away.

"Have you always been the banished people?" she asked Weka Dart. "Do you keep

histories of this? Does anyone?"

"Strakens and warlocks keep our histories, but they do not agree on what it is,"

the Ulk Bog responded. He rubbed his sharp chin and sneered. "They like to

change it to suit their own purposes. Liars and cheats, all! But those like

myself who are not burdened with magic know the truth. The history is the

history! It is not just what anyone says! Jarka Ruus have been here a thousand,

thousand years, since they chose to be rid of the Elves and their kind, to come

here and be free!"

A reasonable interpretation, she thought, for creatures that did not want to see

themselves as exiled, but as self-determinative. The irony was that they still

referred to themselves as Jarka Ruus- the banished people. Perhaps it was in the

nature of all people that they should reinvent themselves to keep their pride

and dignity intact. Monsters and demonkind had the same need for self-respect as

humans.

She stopped herself in midthought, aware that she had missed something. "Are

there others here like me?" she asked, thinking that since she had been sent

here out of her own world, perhaps others had, as well.

"Strakens? Of course!"

"No, not Strakens. Humans."

He stared at her. "What are humans?"

"People who look like me. Smooth-skinned." She tried to figure out what else she

could say. "Anyone who looks like me."

He looked uneasy. "Like you? Some, not many. Strakens and warlocks and witches

can look like anything with their magic." He rubbed his hands together nervously

and looked about.

"Can we go? That Dracha probably has friends. It might have gone to fetch them.

Drachas are smart, and even a Straken as powerful as you can't stand against a

pack of them."

She stared him down. He knew something that he wasn't telling her, something

important. She could see it in the shift of his eyes and hear it in his voice.

But she decided to let it go for the moment. He was right about not lingering.

It was too dangerous to stay anywhere for long inside a place like the

Forbidding. Everything here was hunter or prey in its turn, and she could not

afford to be seen as the latter.

She cast about again, trying to decide on a direction. She would have to choose

one, whether it would take her anywhere useful or not. She had to get moving,

away from this haven for dragons. Geographically, this world was the same as her

own. She could use that, if she could just think how. Something about the

similarity between the two should suggest a solution, a place to go, a way to

survive.

She would have liked to use her magic, but she couldn't think of a way in which

that would be helpful. The wishsong could do many things, but it didn't allow

for opening doors between worlds. Besides, she was pretty sure that if she used

it for that purpose, the amount of magic required would almost certainly attract

unwanted attention.

Then, abruptly, she had her answer. She should have seen it at once. If the

Forbidding was a mirror of her own world, it would have an equivalent to the

Hadeshorn and perhaps a gateway to the Druids. If she could raise their shades

here, as she would have been able to do there, she might be able to discover

what she should do. As a working idea, it had promise. Besides, since it was the

only idea she had, it was worth a try.

She looked at Weka Dart. "I'm going east, below the Dragon's . . . below the

mountains."

The Ulk Bog furrowed his brow and said something unintelligible, clearly

unhappy.

"You don't have to come with me. I can go alone."

She hoped he would agree with her, thinking that he would be of little help in

any case. But Weka Dart, still not looking at her, still frowning, shook his

head. "You may need me to help you find your way, being a stranger. The land is

unsafe for strangers. It doesn't get any better where you want to go. Safer

west, but I suppose you have your reasons for not going there right away. Maybe

later."

He looked up suddenly, eyes narrowed. "But you don't want to go east. You want

to go south through the mountains. I know you call them something else, but here

they are called the Dragon Line. We should go below them before we go east. Too

dangerous to try to go back the way I have come."

He was so eager to have her do what he wanted that she was immediately

suspicious.

"We can take one of the passes," he continued quickly. "That will put us in

Pashanon. There are cities and villages. Fortresses, too. Do you know someone

there? Another Straken, perhaps?"

Clearly he was hiding something, but since she had already made up her mind to

go the way he was suggesting.

"Listen to me, Weka Dart," she said quietly, kneeling so that she could look him

the eye. She held him frozen in place with the force of her gaze, a prisoner to

her eyes. "You are not to call me a Straken again. Is that understood?"

He nodded hurriedly, mouth twisting, gimlet eyes bright and eager. "You are in

disguise?" he guessed.

She nodded. "I want my identity kept secret. If you travel with me, you must

agree. You must call me Grianne."

He laughed, a rather scary sound, all rough edges and rasps. "I will do exactly

as you wish, so long as you do not knock me out of any more trees!"

She straightened. Maybe this would work out, after all. Maybe she would find a

way out of here. "Let's be off," she said.

Without waiting for his response, she started away.

They walked all day-or more accurately, she walked while he scurried, a sort of

crablike motion that employed all four limbs and carried him from one side to

the other in a wide-ranging and aimless pattern. She was astonished by his

energy, which was boundless, and by his seeming unawareness of the fact that he

was covering twice as much ground as was necessary for no reason. She decided,

after watching him scramble about for several hours, that it must be genetic to

Ulk Bogs. She knew very little about the species, having only touched on the

subject in her reading of the Druid Histories, and so had little to go on.

Nevertheless, in this case observation seemed enough.

The country they traveled through was both familiar and strange to her, its

geographical features similar to those of her own world, but not the same. The

differences were often small, ones she could not specifically identify but only

sense. It was not surprising to her that the world of the Forbidding, impacted

by an alternate history, would not reflect everything exactly. In her world, the

topography had been altered by the destructive effects of the Great Wars. The

basic landmarks were identifiably the same-the mountains, passes, bluffs,

rivers, and lakes-but certain features were changed. The landscape gave her the

impression that she was revisiting a familiar place, yet seeing everything in an

entirely new light.

They did not encounter any other dragons. They saw huge birds flying overhead,

ones that were neither Rocs nor Shrikes, and Weka Dart told her they were

Harpies. She could not make out their women's faces, but could picture them in

her mind- narrow and severe, sharp and cunning. Harpies were mythical in her

world, thought to be nothing more than the creation of ancient storytellers. But

they were among the creatures banished in the time of the creation of the

Forbidding, and so only the stories remained. To see one here, real and

dangerously close, made her think about all the other dangerous things that were

here, as well, creatures that would hunt her for food or sport or for no reason

at all. It was an unpleasant prospect.

It had the effect, however, of distracting her. Since her awakening and

realization of what had happened to her, she had given little thought to the

problems she had left behind; they were distant and just then beyond her

control. In a sense, it was liberating. The Druid Council, fractured by its

contentious members and constant scheming, was a world away, and would have to

get on without her as best it could. She hadn't been able to say that in almost

twenty years, and there was a certain relief in being able to do so.

The weather inside the Forbidding never changed, earth and sky rendered gray and

colorless by an absence of sunlight and a heavy, unbroken ceiling of clouds that

in the distance flashed with lightning and rumbled with thunder. Sunset was

little more than a deepening of the gray they had traveled through all day.

Vegetation everywhere had a blighted and wintry look to it, as if sickened by

the soil in which it grew. Nothing of the world suggested that living things

were welcome or encouraged. Everything whispered of death.

By day's end, they had reached the southern mouth of one of the passes leading

out of the mountains and were looking down from the foothills into the plains

that Weka Dart called Pashanon, which in her world would be Callahorn. Burnt,

stunted grasses grew in clumps over miles of hardpan earth and barren hills that

stretched away from countless miles through a scattering of high, windswept

plateaus.

"We need a safe place to sleep," the Ulk Bog declared in his odd phlegmy voice,

casting about for what he wanted. "Ah, there!"

He pointed to a huge chestnut set back from the bluff at the edge of a stand of

trees that marched upward into the foothills like soldiers.

"We have to sleep in a tree?" she asked him doubtfully.

He gave her a wicked grin. "Try sleeping on the ground, Straken, and see what

friends you make during the night."

She was not happy that he was still calling her Straken after she had warned

him, but she supposed there was no help for it. He addressed her as he saw her,

and nothing she said was likely to change that.

"Is it safer in the trees?" she asked.

"Mostly. We are less visible in the trees and the worst of the things that hunt

at night don't climb. Except for vine serpents." He grinned, his teeth flashing

like daggers. "But there are not so many of those this high up." He started away

into the trees. "Wait here."

He was gone for some time, but when he returned, he was carrying an odd

assortment of roots and berries, which he deposited at her feet triumphantly. He

clearly thought that this was what she would want to eat, and she decided not to

disappoint him. She thanked him, cleaned the food as best she could, and ate it,

grateful for the nourishment. Afterwards, he directed her to a small stream. The

water seemed clean enough to drink, and so she did.

She was aware of the light failing around her, of the darkness settling in,

heavy and enfolding. The silence of the day was deepening, as well, as if what

little noise she had been able to discern on her travels had gone into hiding.

The look and feel of the land around her was changing from gloom to murk, the

kind of darkness she understood, the kind in which predators flourished. But the

darkness here had a different feel to it. Partly, it was the absence of moon and

stars. Yet the smell and taste of the night air were different, too, fetid and

rotting, and it carried on its breath the scents of carrion and blood. She felt

a tightening in her stomach, a response of her magic to unseen dangers.

"Better get up into that tree now," Weka Dart urged, looking skittish and uneasy

as he led her back from the stream, his side-to-side movements become quick

feints.

She was aware that he hadn't eaten anything of what he had

brought her, and she asked him about it. His response was a grunt of

indifference. They climbed the chestnut and settled themselves in a broad cradle

formed by a conjoining of branches. Any sort of rest seemed out of the question,

she thought, feeling the roughness of the bark digging into her back. She

glanced down at her nightgown and found it tattered and falling away. Another

day of this, and she would be naked. She had to find some clothes.

"Tomorrow," he told her, on being asked what she should do. "Villages and camps

ahead. Clothes can be found. But you're a Straken-can't you make clothes with

magic?"

She told him no. He seemed confused by this. The hair on the nape of his neck

bristled. "Magic can do anything! I've seen it myself! Are you trying to trick

me?"

"Magic cannot do everything. I should know." She gave him a sharp look. "Anyway,

why would I want to trick you? What reason would I have for doing so?"

His face tightened. "Everyone knows Strakens have their own reasons for doing

things. They like tricking other creatures. They like to see them squirm." He

was squirming himself, the fingers of his hands twisting into knots. "You'd

better not try to trick me!"

She laughed in spite of herself. "You seem awfully concerned about being

tricked. Why would that be, I wonder? A guilty conscience, perhaps?"

His eyes were furious. "I have a right to look out for myself! Strakens are not

to be trusted!"

"I am not a Straken, Weka Dart," she said again. "I've told you that already.

Pay attention to me this time. Look at me. I am not a Straken. I am an Ard Rhys.

Say it."

He did so, rather reluctantly. He seemed determined that whether she admitted it

or not, she was a Straken and not to be trusted, which made it odd that he had

chosen to ally himself with her. Or rather, she corrected, choose her as a

traveling companion. Clearly, if he felt as he did about Strakens, he would not

travel with her if he could avoid it. It made her wonder what he was after.

"I should cover our tracks before the big things start to hunt," he announced

suddenly, and disappeared down the trunk of the tree before she could stop him.

He was gone a long time, and when he returned he was gnawing on something he

held in one hand. It was hard to tell what it might have been, but it looked as

if it was the remains of a ferret or rat. All that was left were the

hindquarters. There was blood on the Ulk Bog's mouth and face, and a wicked

glint in his eyes. "Tasty," he said.

"You look happy enough," she observed, meeting his challenging stare. She had

seen much worse than this, if he thought to shock her.

"Fresh meat," he declared. "Nothing already dead. I'm no scavenger."

He consumed what was left with relish, teeth tearing the raw meat into bite-size

shreds that he quickly gulped down. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back

of his hand, licked his fingers, and belched. "Time for sleep," he announced.

He stretched himself out on one of the limbs, looking as if sleep would come

easily. "Where are your people, Weka Dart?" she asked him, too uncomfortable

herself even to think of sleeping.

"Back where I came from. Still living in their burrows. They are a shortsighted,

unimaginative bunch. Not like me. That's why I left. I decided there was more

for me in life than burrows and roots. But not if I remained with them."

What a liar, she thought. Even the way he spoke the words gave him away. He must

think she would believe anything. It made her angry. "Where is it you intend to

go?" she pressed, keeping her anger carefully hidden.

He smacked his lips. "Oh, that's for me to know. I have plans for myself. I may

tell you when I get to know you better."

"Won't you be missed?" She had put up with this Ulk Bog's deceptions long enough

and had decided to do something about it. He was relaxed and unsuspecting. It

was a good time to teach him a lesson. She began to hum softly, bringing up the

magic of the wishsong and layering it about him. "Parents? Brothers and

sisters?"

He shrugged, yawned. "No family. No friends, either, for that matter. Not ones I

care about leaving behind. Ulk Bogs are a stupid lot, most of them. Can't see

beyond their ground roots and mushrooms."

"Roots can be tender and mushrooms sweet," she ventured, the magic beginning to

insinuate itself into his thinking. "You were quick enough to bring them to me.

Why don't you eat them?"

He laughed foolishly, the magic taking hold. He had no defense against it. A

Druid would have brushed her efforts aside effortlessly, but Weka Dart didn't

even know what she was doing to him. "I could tell you were the sort that ate

roots and berries. Not me. I need meat, fresh meat. Keeps me strong. Makes me

dangerous!"

She had a strong hold over him now, so she began to press harder. "Not eating

roots was what got you in trouble in the first place, wasn't it?" she asked,

guessing at the truth, reading it in his poor attempt at lying. "What sort of

fresh meat did you eat? It must have been something that was forbidden to Ulk

Bogs."

"More foolishness!" he snapped defensively. "What difference did it make? They

weren't even ours! They were tender, and I only ate a few! There were plenty

more where those came from! But you would have thought I had eaten my own

children!"

"Instead of someone else's?"

"Another tribe's offspring, useless to everyone! Weren't even missed for a long

time!"

"But when they were missed? . . ."

"All my fault, not even a chance at an explanation!"

"So they drove you out."

"I left before they could. It was clear what they intended for me, and I saw no

reason to endure it. Stupid burrow people! Rodents! They are food for bigger

things themselves, little more than rats to dragons and ogres and such! If you

don't want to be prey, you have to be predator! I told them this, I told them!

What good did it do? What reward did I get? A promise of punishment if I stayed

and no more babies to eat. Impossible! I had a taste for them by then. I

couldn't give them up just because the others didn't feel the same way I did!"

He stopped suddenly and stared at her, wild-eyed. "Why did I tell you that? I

didn't want to tell you that! Not any of it! But I did! How did that happen?

What did you do to me?"

"I helped you come to terms with the truth, little man," she said softly. "I

don't like liars and deceivers. I was one myself, and I know them for what they

are. You were perfectly willing for me to believe that you are traveling about

to see the world. But the truth is that you are running away, perhaps from other

Ulk Bogs searching for you because you ate their babies. You want me to protect

you, but you don't want to tell me why. All this talk about my tricking you has

got to do mostly with you tricking me."

"You used magic on me! You are a Straken, just as I said!"

"I am not a Straken . . ."

But Weka Dart was having none of it. He was so incensed he didn't even try to

listen to the rest of what she was going to say, leaping to his feet, hissing

and spitting like a scorched cat, and baring his teeth at her as if to attack.

Then down the tree trunk he skittered, still raging at her, leaping away with a

final epithet and disappeared into the dark.

She waited for him to return, unable to believe that he wouldn't.

Staying with her seemed too important for him to allow his pride to stand in the

way. But after a while, when he failed to reappear, she gave up listening for

him, deciding that she was better off without him in any case. Anything that

would eat its own kind, whatever the reason, was not suitable company. If he

stayed, she would have to watch him every minute, always wondering when he might

turn on her. Let him go off on his own and be done with it.

But in the ensuing silence, she became aware again of how different she felt

inside the Forbidding. For as much as that world resembled the one she had come

from, it was not the same. Where before she had always been comfortable in the

darkness, here she was uneasy. The night had a decidedly different feel. Smells,

tastes, and sounds were just strange enough to bother her, to make her think

that she must watch her every step. She was convinced she could make her way to

that world's version of the Hadeshorn, if it existed, and attempt a summoning of

the shades of the Druids. But was she ready for the things she might meet along

the way? It was one thing to face down a Dracha, but another altogether to stand

against a pack of Furies. She was powerful in her world, but how powerful was

she in the Forbidding?

She stared out into the blackness, not at all certain she wanted to find out the

answer.

TWELVE

"Concentrate," he said, his disembodied voice coming from just over her left

shoulder, soft and reassuring. "Remember what you are trying to do. Slow and

steady. Keep the air moving at the same speed all the time. Breathe through your

mind as well as your lungs."

She thought that an odd, but accurate way of expressing what was needed, and she

did her best to comply. Using her skills, she exhaled and then blew the air in a

steady, concentrated stream across the clearing to the leaf that hung suspended

midair twenty yards away. She watched the leaf hover like a bug, vibrating

slightly in response to the gentle currents, reacting to the fingers of magic

she was using to control it. A small skill, in the larger scheme of things, but

one that took her farther than she had gone before. She was getting better at

using the magic, at perfecting the Druidic talents he sought to teach her, but

she was still not as good as either of them wanted her to be.

"Now, lift gently," Ahren Elessedil instructed, still keeping out of her line of

sight, not wishing to distract her any more than was necessary. He understood

the delicacy of what she was doing. He preferred that she learn the

sophisticated maneuvers first. The ones that relied on power and weight would

come later and more easily.

Khyber Elessedil moved the leaf higher, taking it up another two feet until it

was well out of reach of anyone standing under it. It was harder keeping it

aloft, the wind currents stronger at the increased height, the force of gravity

working with more insistence. She felt impatient with the exercise, as she did

with so many, but she was determined to succeed. It was not easy for the

daughter and sister of Elven Kings to persevere, knowing it would be much easier

simply to accept the path her father, and now her brother, had laid out for her.

But though she was born into the royal family, she had never felt a part of

court life, and she did not think that was likely to change.

A bird flew by, bright orange and black-tipped at its wings and beak. Distracted

by its beauty, she lost her concentration, and the leaf fluttered to the earth

and lay still.

Her uncle came up beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "He was

beautiful, wasn't he? Such a brilliant orange."

She nodded, angry and disappointed with herself. "I'll never learn anything if I

keep letting myself be distracted by beautiful birds!"

"You'll never find any joy in life if you don't." He came around and stood

facing her.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. This takes time. It takes practice. I didn't

learn it all at once either."

Warmed by his reassurances, she smiled in spite of herself. They were remarkably

alike in personality, both possessed of quiet determination and strong emotions.

Their dark features and hair gave them a similar appearance as well, and of late

Khyber was as tall as her uncle, having grown the past year, edging toward

womanhood, toward the marriageable age her brother welcomed and she loathed.

Fine for him to want to marry her off so that she would be out of his hair, but

that didn't make it right for her. She loved her brother, but he was nothing

like her. In fact, aside from her mother, the member of the family she was

closest to was standing right in front of her.

No one wanted to hear that, of course, since her uncle was not welcome in

Arborlon. He had become, over the course of the years, the member of the family

that the others were ashamed to acknowledge. They would have locked him away if

he had been foolish enough to try to make a life with them, but Ahren Elessedil

had decided to go another way a long time ago.

He patted her shoulder and glanced at the sky through the heavy canopy of tree

limbs. "Midday. Why don't we have something to eat before we continue? It is

easier to concentrate when your stomach isn't rumbling."

Which hers was, she realized with embarrassment. Sometimes she could barely

tolerate herself, a vessel for shortcomings and ungovernable urges that betrayed

her at every turn.

She followed him back through the woods to the village, her strides matching

his, thinking that food would be good and his company over a glass of ale even

better. She loved talking with her uncle-just talking with him. He was so

interesting; he had done so many things in his life. He was not yet forty, and

he was recognized everywhere as a Druid of immense importance and power. The Ard

Rhys herself considered him indispensable, and she had visited him many times

over the years, although Khyber had never been fortunate enough to be present

when she did. Ahren Elessedil had sailed on the Jerle Shannara with the Ard

Rhys, her brother Bek, and a handful of others whose names were now legendary.

He had been one of the fortunate ones to survive. If not for him, the Ard Rhys

might have failed in her efforts to restore the Druid Council at Paranor. It was

his support of Grianne Ohmsford that had cost Ahren his place at court, that had

earned him rebuke and exile from first his brother and now his brother's son. He

had deserved neither, in her opinion, but she was alone in her support and was

herself increasingly isolated by the male members of the Elessedil house.

Well, it hardly mattered in her uncle's case, given the use to which he had put

his life. He had gone to Paranor with the first of the new Druids and studied

the Druidic arts with the Ard Rhys. He was not blessed with natural talent, his

sole use of magic previously confined to the Elfstones he had retrieved on his

long-ago voyage. But he was a quick study and had an affinity for tapping into

earth magic, which was at the heart of all Druid studies. He learned quickly,

becoming strong enough to take his talent back into the Westland fifteen years

ago, to the village of Emberen, where he had devoted his life to caring for the

land and its people. He was good at what he did, and all had benefited greatly,

no matter what the others in her family thought.

The problem, of course, was that none of them could get past what they perceived

as Ahren's betrayal of his father, who had died at the hands of assassins

dispatched by the Ard Rhys, when she was still the Ilse Witch. They could not

forgive Ahren for tricking his elder brother, who became King afterwards, into

sending Elves to serve as Druids under the woman who had killed their father.

That he would be a part of such subterfuge, knowing as he did the truth of

things, proved to be incendiary, once it was discovered. An order of exile was

issued immediately, and all were forbidden even to speak his name. By then, he

was already gone, of course, studying with the Ard Rhys and those he had brought

to serve her, the first of many who would come to Paranor. Even the fact that

the Ard Rhys had been transformed so utterly by the power of the Sword of

Shannara made no difference to the Elessedils. Nothing would satisfy them, short

of seeing her dead and gone. That would change when enough time had passed and

enough new Kings had ascended the Elessedil throne, but change of that sort was

very slow.

"How much longer will you be able to stay with me?" Ahren asked her suddenly.

She laughed. "Anxious for me to be gone, now that you've seen how inept I am?"

"You have put your finger on it," he agreed. "Nevertheless, I am concerned about

your brother's response to your increasingly frequent visits."

Kellen hated her visits to Emberen, but even as King he could not do much to

prevent them. She had told him as much, suggesting that he had enough to worry

about with the war on the Prekkendorran. He had inherited the war after their

father was killed, and Kellen had made it his life's mission to see it concluded

with a Free-born victory-something that at present looked none too likely.

Between governing the Elves and waging his pet war, Kellen had little time for

her. She knew he hated his uncle, but he ignored Ahren because it was easier

than taking more direct action. Of course, Kellen didn't yet realize the nature

of her visits. If he discovered what she was up to-or, more to the point, when

he discovered it-he would put a stop to things in a heartbeat. But by then, she

hoped, she would be a student at Paranor and beyond his reach. She hadn't told

her uncle yet, but she thought he must suspect as much. She was not in line for

the throne, since her brother had produced male heirs and the line of succession

ran down the male side of the family ladder until it stopped and females were

all that were left. So it shouldn't matter to the rest of her family what she

did so long as she stayed out of the way.

For the moment, she was willing to accept that compromise, any event, though

there were times when her resolve was sorely tested.

"My brother is off visiting the Prekkendorran," she said, brushing Ahren's

concerns aside. "He gives little thought to me. For the most part, he doesn't

even know where I am. He doesn't know now, as a matter of fact."

Ahren looked at her. "Does anyone?"

"Mother."

He nodded. "Your passion for the Druidic arts, for elemental magic's secrets,

can't sit well with her. She sees you married and producing grandchildren."

Khyber grunted. "She sees poorly these days. But then I don't do much to

enlighten her. She would only worry, and Kellen gives her reason enough for

that. Besides, she has grandchildren-my brother's sons, good, stout, warrior

lads, all three. They fill her grandmotherly needs nicely."

They walked into the village and down the single road that formed its center, to

Ahren's small cottage at the far end. He had built it himself and continued to

work on it from time to time, telling her he found working with his hands

relaxing. He kept a project in the works at all times, the better perhaps to get

through the demands of his service to the Westland. At present, he was

installing a new roof, a shingle-shake overlay that required hand-splitting new

shingles to replace the old. It was taxing and time-consuming, which she

supposed was just what he wanted.

They sat at a small outdoor table in the sunlight and ate cheese, apples, and

bread washed down with cold ale from his earth cellar. Food and drink always

tasted better in Emberen than at home. It had to do with the company, but also

with the life of the village. In Emberen she was just Khyber to everyone she

knew, not Princess or Highness or some other deferential term. Nothing was

expected of her save common courtesy and decent manners. She was just like

everyone else, or as much so as was possible in a world of inequities.

Her command of the Druid magic set her apart, of course, just as it did Ahren.

Well, not as much so as Ahren, who was much more highly skilled in its use. But

the point was that the villagers regarded the use of elemental magic as a trade,

a craft of great value and some mystery but, ultimately, of much good. Her uncle

had never done anything to persuade them otherwise, and she intended to follow

in his steps. She knew the history of magic in the Four Lands, both within and

without the family. All too often, magic had caused great harm, sometimes

unintentionally. In many places, it was still mistrusted and feared. But with

the formation of the new Druid Council, the Ard Rhys had mandated that magic's

use embody caution and healing in order for it to be sanctioned. In spite of her

checkered past-or perhaps because of it-she had dedicated the Druid order to

that end. Khyber had witnessed the results of that commitment in the nature of

the service undertaken by Druids like her uncle, who had left Paranor and gone

out into the Four Lands to work with its people. The effect of their efforts was

apparent. Slowly, but surely, the use of elemental magic was being accepted

everywhere.

She would undertake such a mission, as well, one day soon. She would study at

Paranor and then go out into the Four Lands to apply her skills. She was

determined to make something of her life beyond what the others in her family

had envisioned. It was her life, after all, not theirs. She would live it the

way she chose.

"I want to work with the stones again this afternoon," she announced, thinking

suddenly of something else entirely and feeling a sudden heat rise to her face.

One of their lessons was in the cracking open of rocks by touch and thought

applied in precise combination, a technique in which envisioning a result leads

to its happening. A Druid could manage it, just as easily as tearing paper

between ringers. She hadn't found the skill for it herself, but she was

determined it would be hers.

"We can do that," he agreed. "So long as you swear to me that you are not

violating any promises or arousing any concerns by being here."

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I have another week before my brother returns and

looks to find everything the way he left it. I will be back by then."

But not before you show me what you know about what I carry, she thought to

herself. My secret, for now, but I will reveal it to you before I leave and you

will teach me to make use of it.

Her heart pounded at the prospect. She was uncertain how her request would be

received-uncertain, for that matter, of his reaction to what she had done. She

had taken an enormous chance, but she had learned a long time ago that if you

didn't take chances now and then in a royal family, nothing ever was permitted

you that you really wanted. Mostly, her family wanted to keep her safe and

compliant, and she had never wanted to be either of those.

It was surprising to her that after all these years, any of them really thought

she would ever be docile. When she was little, she was her brother's worst

nightmare. Kellen was older and stronger, but she was always the more daring.

She learned everything first and learned it quicker. She was the better rider,

her bond with horses instinctual and passionate. She was better with weapons,

able to battle him to a draw when he was a head taller and she barely strong

enough to wield the practice blades. When he was intent on his studies of court

practices and statesmanship, she was off wandering the forests and river country

that surrounded her home. At eight, she ran away and got as far as the

Sarandanon before a family of wheat farmers recognized her and brought her back.

At twelve, she had already flown in an airship all the way to Callahorn, stowed

away in the hold until she was discovered.

And all that didn't even touch on the times she had disguised herself as an

Elven Hunter to go off on dangerous forays into country so wild that if her

father had been alive, she would have been locked in her rooms for a month when

she was brought back. But he wasn't alive, by then; he was dead, killed on the

Prekkendorran. Her brother was King, and he was still intimidated by her. He

gave her a lecture that would have scorched paint in a rainstorm before turning

his mind to less troublesome concerns, but a lecture was nothing to her.

She brushed back her thick, unruly hair. Sometimes she thought she should just

cut it all off and be done with it, but her mother would have reacted to that

much the same way she would have reacted if Khyber had announced she was going

to marry a Troll. There was no point in antagonizing her mother, who was her

sole source of support and confidence.

She finished off her cheese and bread, watching her uncle surreptitiously. It

was hard to know what he was thinking. His expression never really changed, the

result of his Druid discipline, which taught that emotions must be contained if

magic was to be successfully wielded. She wanted to tell him what she had done

when he was in a good mood. But how could she know? She grimaced. She recognized

what she was doing. She was procrastinating. She should just tell him. Right

here. Right now.

Nevertheless, she did not. She finished her glass of ale, rose, and began to

clear the table of plates and glasses. It was one of the small services she

could perform on her visits, and she liked doing something for her uncle that no

one else would. He lived alone, and some said he did so because he preferred it

that way. He had been in love a long time ago with a seer on the Jerle Shannara,

though he had never said as much when speaking of her. He had been only a boy

himself in those days, younger even than she was now, and much more sheltered.

The seer had been killed on the voyage, and Khyber was fairly sure he had never

gotten over it. She had done something important for him, something that had

helped him grow into the man he was, although once again he never said exactly

what that something was.

Since then, there had been only one other woman-a sorceress, who had loved him

desperately. Khyber had seen them together only once, and it was frightening how

determined the other woman was that Ahren Elessedil should be hers. But he had

decided otherwise and never spoke of her now. Apparently, she was as exiled from

his life as he was from Arborlon's.

"Have you ever thought about returning to Paranor?" she asked impulsively,

pausing on her way into the house with the dishes.

He looked at her. "Now and then. But I think I belong here, in the Westland.

Paranor is a place for study and Druid politics. Neither is for me. What are you

really asking, Khyber?"

She made a face. "Nothing. I just wondered if you ever missed the company of

other Druids, the ones who still remain at Paranor."

"You mean her," he said, his smile sad and ironic. He was too quick, she

thought. He could read her mind. "No," he said. "That's done."

"I just think it would help if you had someone living here with you. Someone to

help you. So you wouldn't be lonely."

It sounded stupid, even to her. He laughed. "Well, it wouldn't be her, in any

case. She isn't the kind to help others when she has herself to worry about. Why

are you so eager to see me partnered? I don't see you looking around for someone

to marry."

She stalked into the house without replying, thinking that her good intentions

were wasted on her uncle. He was right about her, of course, but that was beside

the point. She was too young to marry, and he would soon be too old and too set

in his ways. In fact, he already was, she decided. There was no room in his life

for anything but his work. She didn't know why she thought that it might be

otherwise. He would live alone until he died, and she might as well accept it.

She would just have to do the best she could for him on her visits and hope he

got by the rest of the time.

She had just returned for the rest of the dishes when she heard a shout from the

other end of the village, and Elves came running out of their houses and

workshops and down the street, looking skyward.

"An airship," Ahren said, getting to his feet at once.

No airships ever came to Emberen. It was too small and too isolated. There was

only one road, and much of the year it was sodden and rutted and virtually

impassable by wagon or cart. Khyber always came on horseback, knowing that she

could be assured of getting in and out again that way. Flying vessels in that

part of the world were rare. Some of the Elves who lived in the village had

never even seen one.

She followed Ahren down the road and through the village toward the sound of the

shouting, joining the flow of the crowd and trying to make out the ship through

the heavy canopy of limbs. She had no idea where it might find a place to land

in woods as heavy as those surrounding Emberen, but she supposed there must be a

large-enough clearing somewhere nearby. Ahren was striding ahead, gray Druid

robes whipping about his ankles, and she thought from the purposeful nature of

his walk that he was concerned that whoever had taken the trouble to fly an

airship to Emberen might not have their best interests at heart. A rush of

excitement flooded through her at the prospect of whom it might be.

Maybe the routine of her studies was about to take an unexpected, but rather

more interesting turn.

The crowd reached the end of the road and turned down a pathway that led into

the trees. Overhead, she caught a glimpse of movement. The airship appeared

momentarily and was gone again, circling the trees. It wasn't very big-a skiff

at best.

She broke into a narrow clearing just as the airship started down, a slow

looping motion that brought it in line with a narrow opening in the forest

canopy. She could see it clearly by then, a small skiff of the sort favored by

Southlanders who did their flying across the inland lakes. Even though it was

coming down at a precipitous decline, she didn't think that its power had

failed. Nevertheless, given the tightness of the space, the pilot was taking a

dangerous risk. Whoever was flying had better be pretty good or the airship

would end up in pieces in the trees.

"They're landing!" someone belatedly cried out in surprise.

As the pilot continued to maneuver toward the slot, the Elves scattered back

into the trees, pointing and shouting. Khyber stood her ground, not wanting to

miss the details of the landing. She had flown on airships, but never seen one

landed in a space so small. She wanted to see how it was done. She wanted to see

if the pilot could do it.

She got more than she bargained for. It appeared the craft would touch down

before it reached her, but at the last minute it lurched drunkenly, skipped

across the forest floor, and came right at her. If Ahren hadn't yanked her out

of the way and thrown her down, she might have been struck by the pieces of

metal that broke loose and flew wildly in all directions. The little skiff

slammed into the ground, tore open huge ruts with its pontoons, and came to a

halt not twenty feet from where she crouched.

Ahren released his grip on her arm and stood her back up. "You need to pay

better attention, Khyber," he said quietly.

She rubbed her arm and shrugged carelessly. "Sorry, Uncle Ahren. I just wanted

to watch."

The Elves began to filter out of the trees for a look at the airship and its

occupants, one of whom had appeared from the pilot box. A boy who was younger

than she was stood on the skiff's deck, surveying the damage and shaking his

head. She stared. Was he the one who had been flying the skiff? This boy? Then a

second head popped up from one of the storage holds in the starboard pontoon, a

Dwarf who looked as if he didn't know whether to strangle the boy or embrace

him.

"Is that Tagwen?" Ahren whispered in disbelief. "Shades, I think it is. What is

he doing here?"

With Khyber right beside him, he hurried forward to find out.

THIRTEEN

Penderrin Ohmsford hauled himself out of the pilot box, brushed off his rumpled

clothes, and surveyed the little skiff with no small sense of satisfaction.

Another vessel would have broken apart on impact, coming in as fast and as hard

as she had. That they were down safely at all was a miracle, but he had survived

tougher landings and had never really been in doubt about the outcome.

Tagwen did not share that reaction. The Dwarf was incensed as he climbed out of

the storage bin into which he had fallen, and pointed a shaking finger at the

boy.

"What's the matter with you? Are you trying to kill us? I thought you said you

could fly this thing! Didn't you tell me you could? Why your aunt thinks you are

so good at flying escapes me! I could have done a better job myself!"

His beard was matted with leaves and twigs and dirt clots, and a rather large

leaf stuck out of his hair like a feather, but he failed to notice, the full

weight of his attention given over to Pen.

Pen shrugged. "We're down and we're safe, and we're walking away," he pointed

out. "I think that ought to be good enough."

"Well, it isn't good enough!" Tagwen snapped.

"Well, why not?"

"Because we should be dead! This time we were lucky! What about next time? What

about the time after that? I'm supposed to be able to depend on you! I said I

would come with you in search of the Ard Rhys, but I didn't say I would commit

suicide!"

"I don't see why you're so angry!" Pen snapped, made angry himself by the

other's irascible behavior.

"Tagwen, is that you? As I live and breathe, it is! Well met!"

The shout came from one side, drawing their attention and putting an end to

their arguing. The speaker was an Elf about the same age as Pen's father, but

with a face that was more careworn and with an even slighter build. A girl

walked beside him, darker complected and more intense. Her eyes were riveted on

Pen, and he had the feeling that she was making up her mind about him before she

even knew who he was. Then she smiled when she saw him looking back at her, a

disarming, warm grin that made him regret his hasty conclusion.

"Tagwen!" the speaker exclaimed again, reaching up to take the Dwarf's hand.

"What are you doing out here? And on an airship?"

"Desperate times require desperate acts," Tagwen advised philosophically. He

extended his own hand, and they shook. "I must say, flying with this boy is as

desperate as I care to get." He paused, glancing over at Pen ruefully. "Although

I will admit, in all fairness, that he has saved my life several times on our

journey."

He reached out a hand and guided Pen to the forefront. "Penderrin Ohmsford, this

is Ahren Elessedil. You might have heard your father speak of him."

"Ah, young Pen!" the Elf greeted enthusiastically, shaking his hand, as well. "I

haven't seen you since you were too tiny to walk. You probably don't remember

me."

"My father does indeed speak of you all the time," Pen agreed. "My mother, as

well."

"They were good friends to me on our voyage west, Pen. If not for your father's

help, I would not have returned." He gestured toward the girl. "This is my

niece, Khyber, my brother's daughter. She visits from Arborlon."

"Hello again, Khyber." Tagwen nodded to her. "You have grown up."

"Not all that far," she replied, her eyes staying on Pen. "That was a

spectacular landing," she said. "I didn't think you were going to make it down."

Tagwen went crimson again, the disapproving frown returning to his bluff

features, so Pen jumped down from the decking with a mumbled thanks and quickly

added, "Tagwen's right. I was lucky."

"I think it was more than that," she said. "How long have you been flying

airships?"

"Enough about airships!" the Dwarf huffed, noticing for the first time the

debris in his beard and brushing it clean with furious strokes. "We have other

things to talk about." He lowered his voice. "Prince Ahren, can we go somewhere

more private?"

Elves were gathered all around by then, come out of the trees to take a closer

look at the airship and its occupants. Children were already scurrying around

the pontoons and under the decking, making small excited noises amid squeals of

delight. A few of the braver ones were even trying to climb aboard while their

parents pulled them back.

"My cottage is just up the road, Tagwen," Ahren Elessedil said. "We can clean

you up and give you something to eat and drink. Khyber makes the best mango

black tea in the Westland, a secret she won't share even with me." He gave the

girl a wink. "Leave the skiff. She'll be all right where she is. She's an object

of curiosity, but the villagers won't harm her."

"I don't care whether they harm her or not!" Tagwen groused. "I've had more than

enough of her for one day, thanks very much!"

They walked back through the village, Ahren Elessedil leading with Tagwen at his

side, Pen following with Khyber. No one said very much, respecting the Dwarf's

wishes that they wait until they were in private to talk. Pen was thinking that

even though Tagwen had insisted the Elven Prince-turned-Druid could help them in

their search for the Ard Rhys, Ahren didn't look up to it. If anything, he

looked too soft and frail for the physical demands of such an endeavor. A strong

wind might blow him away, the boy thought. But looks were misleading. Ahren

Elessedil had survived the voyage of the Jerk Shannara when more than twenty

others had not, and he wasn't a Druid then. Tagwen had warned Pen not to judge

Ahren too quickly, that what was visible on the surface was not necessarily

representative of the man inside. Pen hoped he was right.

"Your father is Bek Ohmsford?" Khyber Elessedil asked him.

He nodded. "Do you know the story from your uncle?"

"All of it. It is the most famous story of this generation. My family doesn't

much care for it because they hold your aunt responsible for my grandfather's

assassination and Uncle Ahren responsible for helping her escape them and found

the new Druid order at Paranor. My brother is the worst. I don't agree with any

of them. That's why I'm here. I am training with my uncle to be a Druid. In

secret."

"Your family doesn't know?"

She shook her head. "They think I come here only to visit, so they leave me

alone. They don't know the truth."

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. "My parents don't know where I

am. They think I am still back in Patch Run." "What will they do when they find

out you're not?" He smiled. "Track me down. They can do it, too. But they won't

find out for a while. They're off in the Anar on an expedition, guiding

customers hunting and fishing. They won't get back for weeks. So they won't

know."

She smiled back. "Looks like we have something in common." They reached Ahren's

cottage, where the Druid provided Pen and Tagwen with fresh clothes, a bucket of

water, and cloths with which to wash up. The pair did so, and returned to find

that Khyber had prepared the promised black tea and set out some cheese and

bread, as well. Since neither had eaten since early morning, when they had set

out from somewhere below the Mermidon, they devoured the food hungrily and drank

down the entire pot of tea.

When they were finished, Tagwen rocked back in his seat, glanced across the

table at Ahren to be certain he was listening, and said, "I'll tell you why

we've come now, but it might not be something you want to share with Khyber." He

gave her a pointed look. "No offense is meant, young lady, but the truth is you

might be better off not knowing what we have to say. There is some danger

involved."

The girl looked at her uncle, who shrugged. "I am not much good at keeping

secrets from Khyber," he said, smiling. "In any case, she would have it out of

me before the sun was down. If you don't mind, I'll let her stay to hear your

story."

Tagwen nodded. "She can quit listening when she decides she doesn't want to hear

any more. I'll leave it at that."

Leaning forward, arms resting on the tabletop, bearded face scrunched up so that

he looked as if he was about to undertake the most difficult task of his life,

he began his story. He related the events surrounding the disappearance of the

Ard Rhys, the dismissal of Kermadec and his Rock Trolls, his own decision to

seek help from Grianne's brother, his arrival at Patch Run and meeting with Pen,

and their subsequent flight from Terek Molt and the crew of the Druid airship

Galaphile. He ended with the unexpected appearance of the King of the Silver

River, come out of nowhere to save them from Terek Molt and to tell them of what

they must do.

The longer Tagwen's story went on, the more ridiculous it sounded to Pen and the

more foolish he felt for coming even that far. What the King of the Silver River

expected him to do-even if you accepted that it really was the King of the

Silver River and not some malevolent shade-was patently impossible. For a boy

with no practical magic to go alone into the Forbidding was so arrogant and

pigheaded that no right-thinking person would even consider it. Pen didn't have

to know the particulars of what lay behind the Faerie magic that closed away the

creatures of the Forbidding to know that he had virtually no chance of surviving

a journey inside. He might be able to find and secure the darkwand from the

tanequil-though that was debatable, as well-but he saw no way he could

reasonably expect to rescue the Ard Rhys once he had done so.

By the time Tagwen had concluded, Pen could not bring himself to look at Ahren

Elessedil. He imagined himself in the other's shoes, thinking that he would

dismiss this whole business in a heartbeat. The Dwarf had been so certain Ahren

would help them, but looking at it now, Pen couldn't see any reason why.

He glanced over at the Druid in spite of himself and found the other staring

back.

"This is a terrible responsibility you have been given, Penderrin," Ahren

Elessedil said quietly. "I am surprised you found the courage to accept it."

Pen stared. It was not what he had expected the Druid to say.

"I was just thinking that it might have been a good idea to think it through a

little more."

"Are you worried that you acted in haste? Or that you might have been tricked in

some way because it all sounds so incredible?" The Elf nodded. "I remember

feeling that way more than once during my time on the Jerle Shannara. I don't

think you can avoid such feelings. Maybe second-guessing what you choose to do

in difficult situations is necessary if you are to find peace of mind. Blind

acceptance of what you believe to be the dictates of fate and circumstance is

dangerous."

"Do you think it really was the King of the Silver River?" Pen asked

impulsively.

The Druid pursed his lips. "Your father met him years ago, on his way to

Arborlon. He told me of the meeting later; he described it. Not so much how the

King of the Silver River looked-that wouldn't matter anyway because he can

change his appearance. He described how it happened and how it made him feel.

Your experience sounds as if it was the same. Yes, Pen, I think it was him."

He glanced at Khyber, who was staring at Pen with rapt attention. "Khyber

believes it was, don't you, Khyber?"

She nodded at once. "I believe it all. But what are we going to do about it,

Uncle Ahren? Sorry, what are you going to do about it?" she corrected herself.

"I told the boy to come here," Tagwen confessed, straightening. "It's my fault

we have involved you in this. But I know how you feel about the Ard Rhys, and I

couldn't think of anyone else to turn to. I don't think we can do this on our

own. We managed to get this far on grit and luck." He grimaced. "I can't imagine

how we will get all the way into the Charnals alone."

"But we can if we have to," Pen added quickly.

Tagwen shot him a withering glance. "You have more confidence in what we can

accomplish than I do, Penderrin."

Ahren Elessedil smiled ruefully. "Confidence isn't to be discouraged, Tagwen.

Nor overrated, Penderrin. Remember-we seek a balance in all things."

"But you will help them, won't you?" Khyber pressed eagerly.

"Of course, I will help. The Ard Rhys has been both mentor and friend to me; I

would never abandon her or those who feel about her as I do." He paused, looking

again at Tagwen. "But much of what you have told me is troublesome. I think

there is still a great deal about this business that we don't know. Shadea a'Ru,

Terek Molt, and those others are dangerous, but they lack sufficient power to

imprison the Ard Rhys within the Forbidding. It took the magic of an entire

Elven nation to create the Forbidding in the first place. Nothing passes through

the barrier except when the Ellcrys fails. She doesn't do so now, so far as I

know."

He glanced at Khyber for confirmation. "She was well when I departed Arborlon a

week ago," she said.

"She wouldn't have declined so precipitously without our hearing about it,"

Ahren continued. "No, some other force is at work here-something hidden from us.

We may not find out what it is until we reach the Ard Rhys, but we must be wary

of it."

He paused. "A more immediate problem is that those who have worked against the

Ard Rhys will be searching for Pen. They will not stop simply because he has

escaped them once. Perhaps they realize that he has the potential to help her.

Perhaps they are simply looking to tie up loose ends. The King of the Silver

River helped you escape once, Pen, but he will not be able to help you a second

time. You are beyond his reach now."

"They were searching for my father when they came to Patch Run," Pen pointed

out. "Maybe they will forget about me and go after him."

The Druid shook his head. "They will keep looking. Eventually, they will find

you. So we must act quickly. Do you have any idea at all where in the Charnals

the tanequil can be found?"

Pen shook his head. "Only what the King of the Silver River told us-that it

grows on an island beyond the ruins of a city called Stridegate and that Urdas

and Trolls might help us find the way. Nothing more than that."

"I can use earth magic to try to seek it out through lines of power and air

currents," the Druid mused, looking off into the woods, as if he might find the

answer in the trees.

"But that approach is uncertain. We need something more definite."

"What you need," Khyber declared suddenly, "are the Elfstones, the seeking

stones."

Pen knew the stories of the Elfstones, which had been given by the Druid Allanon

to Shea Ohmsford to aid him in his search for the Sword of Shannara and then had

been held for many years by other members of the Ohmsford family. They had been

returned to the Elven people during the reign of Wren Elessedil, an Ohmsford

cousin, and remained there until they disappeared with Kael Elessedil fifty

years earlier. Ahren Elessedil had recovered them on the voyage of the Jerle

Shannara and given them to his brother in exchange for help in forming the Third

Druid Council.

Ahren frowned. "What do you know of the Elfstones, Khyber?"

"Enough, from listening to my father and brother. They spoke of them often,

before my father's death, usually when they thought I couldn't hear. They

believed the Stones could be used as a weapon against the Federation."

The Druid thought about it a moment. "Well, I won't deny that the Elfstones

would help us. But I don't have possession of them or any reasonable hope of

persuading your brother to lend them to me. We will have to find another way."

"Maybe not." Khyber reached in her tunic and produced a small pouch. With a

determined, almost defiant look, she held it out. "I took them from their hiding

place because I wanted you to teach me how to use them. I was going to tell you

later, when I found the right way to do so, because I knew you would be angry

with me. But I guess I can't wait any longer, so here they are. If you want to

be angry, go ahead."

She thrust them at her startled uncle, who immediately said, "Khyber, you have

gone too far."

Her lips compressed defiantly. "My brother refuses even to look at them since

our father died. They serve no purpose being locked away. Besides, I have as

much right to use them as any other member of the family. The Elfstones belong

to all the Elves. The Elessedils are caretakers and nothing more. Someone has to

learn to use them. Why not me?"

"Because you are not King of the Elves and do not have his permission!" Ahren

snapped, balancing the pouch in his palm as if weighing the option of throwing

it into the trees.

"What will happen when Kellen finds out what you have done? You won't be making

any more trips to Emberen!"

Khyber shrugged. "He won't find out. I replaced the Elfstones with pebbles. As I

said, he never even looks at them. In any case, that's not what's important.

What's important is the Ard Rhys. Uncle Ahren, we can use the Elfstones! We can

find the tanequil with their magic! You know we can! Don't you want to help Pen

and Tagwen?"

Ahren Elessedil flushed angrily, his composure beginning to slip. "Don't twist

my words, Khyber. I know what matters. I also know a great deal more about the

use of the Elfstones than you do. They are a dangerous magic. Using them has

consequences you know nothing about. Ask Penderrin about his family history. Why

in the world did you think I would agree to this? What makes you think you

should be the one who knows how to use them?"

"Because no one else dares!" she snapped. "No one but me! If I am to be a Druid,

I should know how magic works in all its forms. You teach me earth magic, and

that can have consequences, as well. Aren't I careful with the earth magic?

Don't you think I would be careful with the Elfstones, too? Don't you trust me?

Anyway, things have changed. I have given you the Stones so that you can help

Pen and Tagwen. Are you going to do so or not?"

She glared at him, and Pen found himself holding his breath in astonishment. He

would never have dared to talk to the Druid that way. Whatever bond she shared

with her uncle, it was much stronger than he had imagined. She wasn't afraid of

him at all- not intimidated in the least. He risked a quick glance at Tagwen,

who seemed equally surprised.

"If you use the Elfstones, you can discover if what the King of the Silver River

told Pen is true," she continued insistently. "You can see whether or not there

is even a tanequil to be found. Then we can at least know whether there is a

chance of helping the Ard Rhys by looking for it."

It was hard to argue with logic like that, and Ahren Elessedil didn't even try.

He gave his niece a final look of reproof, then opened the pouch and poured the

contents into his hands. The Elfstones glimmered a deep blue in the midday sun,

their facets mirroring the world about them in prismatic colors. There were

three of them, perfectly formed, flawless, and beautiful. Pen remembered the

legends. One Elfstone each for the heart, mind, and body, together forming a

whole that responded to the strength of the user. Only those born of Elven blood

could use them and only if they were freely given or claimed by the user. Once,

they had belonged to the Ohmsfords, and it was Wil Ohmsford's inadvisable but

necessary use of them to help the Elven girl Amberle that had altered his body

and passed on to his scions the magic that was dying out with Pen.

"I will use the Stones, Khyber," Ahren Elessedil said, "because you are right in

believing that on]y by using them can we be certain that the tanequil is real.

If the Elfstones reveal it to us, then we know the journey to reach it should be

made. But understand something else. I spoke of consequences. By using the

Stones, I risk revealing our intentions to Shadea a'Ru and her allies. The

Elfstones are a powerful magic, and its release will be detected. When that

happens, those we seek to escape will come looking."

"They will come anyway, Uncle Ahren," Khyber pointed out defensively. "You just

said so."

Ahren nodded. "But now they will come sooner. By nightfall, in all probability.

We will no longer have time to think about what we are going to do. The decision

will have been made. We will have to leave Emberen-Penderrin, Tagwen, and myself

in search of the tanequil, and you back to Arborlon."

Khyber Elessedil shook her head at once. "I'm going with you. I have no other

choice. Uncle Ahren, please, let me finish before you say anything! You are

going to take the Elfstones with you because you know you will need them again.

Since I can't return home without them, I will have to go, as well. But there is

another reason, an even better one. If something happens to you, neither Pen nor

Tagwen can use the Stones because they aren't Elves. That leaves me, if you

teach me how. I know it isn't what you want. I know you don't like the idea. But

you know it's necessary. Finding and rescuing the Ard Rhys is what matters."

She paused. "I want this, Uncle Ahren. I want to help. I want to do something

besides sit around in Arborlon and wait for my family to marry me off. I want my

life to matter. Please. Let me come."

He studied her for a moment, then turned to Tagwen. "Is there any other Druid at

Paranor that we can trust to come with us?"

Tagwen frowned and pulled absently at his beard. "If you're asking me if there

is anyone I can be sure of, the answer is no. I trust some more than others, but

at this point I don't know how deep the conspiracy goes. You know how things are

as well as I do." He squared his shoulders. "I think we ought to take her with

us. She's older than this boy and she's able. We might need her. I don't like to

think about it, but something could happen to any of us. The rest have to be

able to carry on."

Ahren Elessedil shook his head in dismay. "I regret agreeing to let you listen

to this conversation in the first place, Khyber. This isn't something you should

be involved in."

"It isn't something any of us should be involved in," she replied. "But we all

are, aren't we? Let me come."

He took a long time making up his mind, and Pen was certain that he was going to

say no. Pen's parents would have said no to him, had they been in a position to

do so. Parents didn't want their children taking the sort of risks involved

here. Parents wanted their children safe at home. He didn't think it was any

different with uncles and nieces.

"All right," Ahren said finally, surprising them all. "You can come with

us-mostly because I can't think of what else to do with you. Sending you home

will just get you in worse trouble, and whatever trouble comes of this ought to

be mine. But you must agree to do as I say, Khyber. Whatever I tell you to do on

this journey, you do it. No arguments, no excuses. I know you; I know how you

think. Give me your word."

She nodded eagerly. "You have it."

Ahren sighed, tightened his fingers about the Elfstones, rose from the table,

and stretched out his arm. His eyes closed in concentration, but his face

remained calm.

"Stand back from me," he said softly. "Watch carefully what the magic shows.

Remember it well."

Not certain what to expect, they backed away from him, eyes riveted on his

outstretched hand. Slowly his fingers opened to the light. His concentration

deepened. The seconds crawled past.

Then abruptly, light exploded from the crystals in a deep cerulean starburst,

brightened until the sun itself disappeared behind the enveloping blue, then

shot away into the distance in a blinding flare. It arced away through the trees

and beyond, through mountains and hills and the curve of the earth itself. Some

of what they saw was recognizable-the Dragon's Teeth and the Charnals, the

Mermidon and the Chard Rush, even the sweep of the Streleheim and the dismal

emptiness of the Malg. Forests came and went, one a shelter for gardens that

eclipsed in beauty and complexity anything they had ever seen, a profusion of

flowers and silvery waterfalls painted against a shimmering backdrop of green.

When the light finally came to rest, somewhere so far away that the distance

could barely be calculated, it was illuminating a strange tree. The tree was

huge, larger than the black oaks of Callahorn, broad-limbed and wide-leafed. Its

bark was smooth, a mottled black and gray. Its leaves were deepest green with an

orange border. The tree was bathed in dappled sunlight and surrounded by a dense

forest of more familiar trees-oaks, elms, hickories, maples, and the like.

Beyond the trees, nothing was visible. The tree seemed incredibly old, even in

the wash of the Elfstones' light, and Pen felt certain as he looked upon it that

it was as old as Faerie. He could feel its intelligence, even in what was no

more than a vision. He could sense its life force, slow and rhythmic as a quiet

heartbeat.

The blue light held steady for a moment, then flared once and was gone, leaving

the watchers staring at nothing, half-blind and stunned by the suddenness and

intensity of the experience. They blinked at each other in the ensuing silence,

the image of the tree and it surroundings still vivid in their minds.

Ahren Elessedil closed his fingers about the Elfstones. "Now we know," he said.

"Or think we do," Tagwen grumbled.

Pen swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. He was dizzy at what

seeing the tree had made him feel, deep inside where instincts governed thought.

"No, Tagwen, that was it," he said softly. "I could feel it. That was the

tanequil."

Ahren Elessedil nodded. "We are settled on what we must do." He dumped the

Elfstones back into their pouch and tucked the pouch into his tunic. "Time slips

away, and it doesn't favor us by doing so. Let's move quickly."

FOURTEEN

Midday at Paranor was dark and forbidding, the skies gone black with storm

clouds and the air gone as still as death. There had been no sunlight all day,

only a hazy glow at sunrise before the enveloping clouds screened even that

away. Birds had long since gone to roost in sheltering havens, and the winds had

died away to nothing. The world was hushed and waiting in expectation of thunder

and lightning and fury.

Shadea a'Ru glanced through the open window of her chambers, her face a mirror

of the weather. She should have felt triumph and satisfaction, a reward for her

successes. She had dispatched Grianne Ohmsford into the Forbidding and taken her

place. The Druid Council, albeit with some reluctance and after considerable

debate, had named her Ard Rhys. Her cohorts controlled all the major positions

on the council, and Sen Dunsidan, as Prime Minister of the Federation, had

officially recognized her as head of the order. The Rock Trolls under Kermadec

had been dismissed and sent home in disgrace, blamed for the disappearance of

the Ard Rhys and, in more than a few corners, suspected as the cause for it, as

well. Everything had worked out perfectly, exactly as she had hoped, and exactly

as she had planned.

Except for that boy.

She ran her fingers distractedly through her chopped-off blond hair, letting the

short ends slip through her fingers like the loose threads of her perfect plan.

It was all because of Terek Molt, who was the most reliable of her

coconspirators and the one Druid she thought she could depend upon. To let that

boy-that slip of a boy-make a fool of him like that was unforgivable. It was bad

enough that none of them had thought to lock up Tagwen, who they should have

known would not sit idly by and do nothing after his beloved Ard Rhys

disappeared, but to lose the boy, as well, was too much. She should have taken

care of the matter herself, but it was impossible for her to do everything.

She stalked to the door and stood staring at it a moment, thinking to go out

again to calm herself. She had walked the corridors earlier, an intimidating

presence to the Druids she now commanded. They would obey her because she was

Ard Rhys, but also because they were afraid of her. No one would challenge her

openly while she had the backing of Molt and the others and the Ard Rhys was

gone, though some would plot behind her back, just as they had plotted against

Grianne Ohmsford. She could do nothing about them until they tried to act, but

she could let them know she was watching and waiting to catch them out.

She walked back to the window and looked out again. The first sharp gusts of

wind were rippling the tree limbs, signaling the approach of the rainstorm. She

had half a mind to put all of them out into it, every last Druid-to make them

hike to the Kennon Pass and back again as an exercise in deprivation and

humility. Some of them might not come back, and it wouldn't make her unhappy if

they didn't.

Her thoughts returned to Tagwen and the boy. They might have escaped her for the

moment, she thought, but sooner or later she would find them again. The parents,

as well. She had Druids and airships looking for all of them and had put out the

word to all corners of the Four Lands. She had kept it simple. The ones she

sought were members of Grianne Ohmsford's family and they were in danger. Help

could be given them at Paranor, where their Druid protectors would keep them

safe. Anyone seeing them was to send word. As incentive, she had offered a

substantial reward. Most would ignore the offer, but the greedy among them would

look around. Someone would see the boy and his Dwarf companion and report them.

And when they were found, she would deal with them herself.

She was contemplating the satisfaction that enterprise would give her, when a

sharp knock sounded, and without bothering to wait for her to respond, Terek

Molt barged in.

"What do you think you are doing?" she snapped at him. "Rooms have doors for a

reason, Molt!"

"We've found them," he rumbled in his deep, subterranean voice, ignoring her.

"West, across the Mermidon."

She started. "Tagwen and the boy?"

"Only moments ago, someone used Elfstone magic. It was visible on the scrye

waters in the cold chamber. Iridia was there to see it. There is no mistaking

what it is."

The cold chamber was where the Druids read the lines of power that crisscrossed

the Four Lands. The scrye waters were the table of liquid on which all uses of

magic revealed themselves as ripples that indicated the extent of the power

expended. Grianne Ohmsford herself had implemented it at Paranor more than a

dozen years ago, a tool she had employed as the Ilse Witch.

"Elfstones?" she asked. She did not yet understand the connection.

"Of course, Shadea," he said, smiling with such satisfaction that she wanted to

tear his face off. "They've escaped us and gone for help from the one Druid who

might actually give it."

"The Elven Prince!" she hissed. "But he doesn't have the use of the Elfstones.

His brother keeps them."

"Not so well protected that he couldn't get to them if he chose. He would do so

to save the Ard Rhys. No, it has to be him. The readings come from that part of

the Westland where he keeps his home. Tagwen would know to go there and take the

boy with him."

"I am surprised they chanced using the Stones. Ahren Elessedil must know we will

be watching for any use of magic."

"But how else can he find the Ard Rhys?" Molt pointed out. "He has no choice but

to use the Stones."

She nodded slowly, thinking it through. "True enough. He can't know what we've

done to her, even if he suspects we're responsible, unless he uses the Stones."

She hesitated. "Wait. Did you say that Iridia was the one who discovered this

use?"

Terek Molt's laugh was low and rough. "I thought of that, too. I asked her if

she was certain. She insisted there was no mistake. It was Elfstone magic. I

told her she had better be sure, since you would question it. She is waiting to

speak with you in the cold chamber." He paused, a faint smile twisting his mouth

at the corners. "She wants to be the one to go after him."

"I would expect nothing less. Such a fool."

She walked to the window and stared out at the darkening skies. She could not

leave the matter to Iridia, but then Terek Molt had not proved particularly

adept at settling things, either. She should do this herself, yet she did not

think it wise to leave Paranor just yet. She was too newly settled in as Ard

Rhys. Someone else must make certain that Tagwen and the boy, and now Ahren

Elessedil, as well, did not succeed in their efforts.

"Perhaps we should let this matter lie," Terek Molt said quietly. "After all,

even if they know what we have done with the Ard Rhys, there is nothing they can

do to help her."

"Is that so?" she asked without bothering to look at him. "Are you so certain?"

"Certain enough."

"You assume too much. Besides, they can cause us a great deal of trouble, even

if they cannot reach her. I don't want to chance it. Better that we remove them

from the picture."

"That could cause us more trouble still. Others will know what we have done.

Killing a boy and an old man is one thing. Killing a Druid is something else

again. That's what you intend, isn't it?"

"I intend to do whatever is necessary to make certain our efforts do not fail. I

expect you to do likewise." She turned back to him. "Ready the Galaphile, but do

not tell Iridia. I don't trust her in this matter, not where Ahren Elessedil is

concerned. She may think she can blind herself to her feelings, but I don't care

to chance it. Better that she remain here. I will tell her after you are gone.

Given the look of the weather, you won't leave today. If the storm passes by

nightfall, leave then."

He turned for the door.

"Stay a moment," she said. "I have more to say to you. Heed me well. Are you

listening, Terek?"

The Dwarf turned back slowly, brow darkening in anticipation of what he knew was

coming. "Speak your mind, woman."

"First," she said, walking over to stand directly in front of him, "don't come

into this room again until you are invited. Not for any reason."

She waited for his response. He grunted and shrugged.

"Second, don't fail me again. I would not be pleased if you did."

He laughed. "I am less concerned about pleasing you than pleasing myself, so

spare me your threats. The matter of finding and dispatching the boy and the old

man has become personal. I don't like to be tricked. They used magic of some

sort or I would have had them. I intend to see that accounts between us are

settled."

She held his fierce gaze a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. But that may not

prove to be so easy now that you must contend with Ahren Elessedil, as well.

Dispatching him may prove troublesome, even for you. So I am sending someone to

help."

The Dwarf glowered at her. "Who? If not Iridia . . ."

"Another Druid would only muck up the waters. You don't need another Druid to

get this business settled." She paused. "I'm going to send Aphasia Wye."

Terek Molt turned his head aside, though barely, and spit very deliberately on

her carpet. "No."

"This isn't open to debate."

"I won't put that monster on any ship I command. Get someone else, if you think

you can."

"I don't want anyone else. If I wanted someone else, I wouldn't be talking with

you! Where is your backbone? Are you afraid? Think how it will it look if you

stay behind after failing so badly the first time. Some will see it as a

weakness, and you can't afford that." She drew her robes about her in a

dismissive fashion. "Be smart about this, Druid. You are the best of the lot and

you know it. I depend on you. Don't make me question my faith in you."

"You've never had faith in anyone but yourself, Shadea."

"Think what you want. What matters is that you understand that Aphasia Wye is

coming with you. Stop worrying. He won't dare to cross you."

The Dwarf snorted derisively. "Aphasia Wye will cross anyone if opportunity

allows for it. He's a monster, Shadea. There isn't anything that creature won't

do-or anyone he won't do it to. Shades, we don't even know what he really is!"

She laughed. "He's the most efficient assassin I have ever seen! What more do

you want him to be? I don't care what sex or race or breed he is! I don't care

how loathsome you find him! You're not partnering with him! You're putting him

to work! Stop whining!"

Terek Molt was seething, his chiseled face turned red, the muscles of his

forearms knotted. He was as dangerous at that moment as she had ever seen him,

and if she was foolish enough to give him an opening, he would kill her before

she could blink. But she faced him down, keeping his eyes locked on hers and

making him see that no matter how dangerous he was, she was more dangerous

still.

"Don't even think it, Dwarf," she hissed softly. "Remember who I am."

He glared at her a moment longer, then looked away, furious still, but no longer

threatening. "Someday you will go too far with me, Shadea." His voice was eerily

calm. "Be careful of that day."

"Perhaps," she replied, reaching past him to open the door. "But until then, you

will listen to me when I tell you what to do. Go ready the airship. When the

storm passes, you will sail at once."

His big hands tightened into fists as he considered saying something more. Then,

without doing so, he turned his back on her and walked away.

* * *

She waited until he was well away and her frustration with his recalcitrance had

faded before she departed for the cold chamber to find Iridia Eleri. The

sorceress would not be happy with what Shadea intended to tell her.

Unfortunately, disappointing Iridia was unavoidable, because the sorceress was

only as reliable as her control over her feelings about Ahren Elessedil, which

meant she was not reliable at all. Iridia had set her mind on the matter long

ago, and Shadea was not going to be able to change it, even if she tried.

Love was like that.

Denial only sharpened its edges.

Shadea entered the cold chamber and found Iridia standing at the broad stone

basin set in its center, bending close as she read the movement of its contents.

The scrye waters were shallow and deep green, shielded from the elements by the

walls of the tower and the sides of the basin. Disturbances came solely from

magic channeled through the earth's lines of power. Just then they manifested

themselves as concentric ripples fanning out from a point just west of center.

Iridia's slender hands moved in time to the ripples, as if to trace their liquid

ridges back to her doomed love. Her perfect features radiated her intensity, a

mix of light and dark, pale skin and black hair. Her Elven features were drawn

taut by her concentration, emphasizing what could be both passionate and cruel

about her. Shadea stood in the doorway and watched her for a long time,

observing. Iridia, captive to her memories and her dreams, didn't even know

Shadea was there. It was possible that the madness Iridia had always seemed so

close to embracing was finally coming to her.

"Iridia!" she called sharply.

The sorceress turned at once. "Have you heard?"

Shadea walked over to her. "Terek told me of it. Is there no chance that you are

mistaken?"

The delicate features hardened. "What do you take me for? I don't make mistakes

of that sort. It was Elfstone magic, which means it could be him. I want to make

certain of it, Shadea. You will have to send someone in any case. It should be

me."

Shadea shook her head. "It should be anyone but you. What will you do if you

find him and he looks at you and you cannot act? Don't tell me it cannot happen

because I know better. I was there, Iridia, when you lost him. You were

inconsolable for weeks. He was the one you wanted-the one you will always want."

"I don't deny that!" she snapped. "But that part of my life is over. I am

committed to our efforts here. If he stands in our way, if he acts to help her,

then I want him dead! I have the right to watch him die. I ask nothing more than

that. If he is to be killed, I want to be there to see it. I want my face to be

the last face he sees in this life!"

Shadea sighed. "You only think you want that. What you want is for him to take

you back again, to tell you that he loves you still, despite what has happened.

If he were to do so, you would abandon your cause and us in a heartbeat. No,

wait, Iridia-don't lie to yourself. You would, and you know it. Why wouldn't

you? I don't condemn it. I would do the same in your place."

"You would do nothing of the sort." the other woman sneered. "You have never

loved anyone but yourself. Don't pretend to understand me. I know love compels

me, but it compels me in ways other than those you seem so quick to attribute.

Love doesn't compel me to embrace him; it compels me to see him suffer!"

"Yes, but not at your hands." Shadea moved away, gazing out the tower window at

the enfolding darkness and roiling storm clouds. Outside, the wind began to howl

and the rain to fall in heavy curtains that lashed the stone walls.

"Better at my hands, where we can be certain of the result, than at the hands of

Terek Molt, who has already failed us once!"

"Better at another's hands entirely. I am sending Aphasia Wye to make certain

the job is done right."

She glimpsed India's face out of the corner of her eye, and the look confirmed

what she had already decided about the other's feelings for Ahren Elessedil.

"Iridia," she said softly, turning back. "Distance yourself from this matter.

Leave it to others to determine what is needed. You have suffered enough at the

hands of the Elven Prince. He has betrayed you already and would do so again.

His loyalty is to her, not to you. That will never change. To place yourself in

a position where you must test your resolve is foolish and dangerous. It asks

too much of you."

The sorceress stiffened, her lips tightening to a thin, hard line, her perfect

features cast in iron. "And you think too little of me. I am not a fool, Shadea.

I am your equal and in some ways your better. I have experiences you do not;

don't be so quick to dismiss me as a lovesick child."

"I would never do that."

"You not only would, you do!" Iridia's glare would have melted iron. "If Ahren

Elessedil has used the Elfstones to try to help that woman, I want him dead as

much as you do. But I want to see it happen. I want to watch him diet"

"Do you?" Shadea a'Ru paused. "I would have thought you'd had enough of that

sort of thing. How many more of those you profess not to love, but secretly do,

must you watch die before you are satisfied?"

Iridia's face went white. "What are you talking about?" There was an

unmistakable warning in her words.

Shadea ignored it, her gaze cold and empty. "The baby, Iridia. You remember the

baby, don't you? You didn't love her, either."

For a long moment Iridia neither moved nor spoke, but simply stared at Shadea,

the look on her face one of mixed incredulity and rage. Then both drained away

with frightening swiftness, leaving her features calm and dispassionate. "Do

what you want," she said.

She turned and walked away without looking at Shadea. As she went through the

door, she said softly, "I hate you. I'll see you dead, too."

As Iridia disappeared down the tower stairs, Shadea glanced after her, thinking

for just a moment that she should go after her, then deciding otherwise. She

knew the sorceress. Iridia was quick to anger, but she would think the situation

through and realize she was being foolish. It was better to let her be for now.

She looked down at the scrye waters in the basin. The ripples had disappeared;

the surface had gone completely still.

Ahren Elessedil would be made to vanish just as swiftly.

* * *

One last task remained to her, the one she dreaded most. She had no more love

for Aphasia Wye than did Terek Molt, but she found him useful in carrying out

assignments that others would either refuse or mishandle. She had already seen

enough of the latter in the hunting down of Grianne Ohmsford's family, and the

task would get no easier with Ahren Elessedil added to the mix. Terek Molt might

protest her decision, but it was a matter of common sense and expediency. One

Druid of her inner circle was all she cared to spare for the venture, and one

was probably not enough.

As she passed through the towers and hallways of the Keep, by sleeping rooms and

meditation chambers, the resting and the restless, her mind focused on the task

ahead. She wanted the business over, but not before she had accomplished what

was necessary. She had given the matter considerable thought since Terek Molt's

return. It was a mistake-her mistake, unfortunately-to have thought of the Patch

Run Ohmsfords as ordinary people. The boy and his parents might not be Druids,

but that did not render them commonplace. The magic that was in their blood, and

their long history of surviving against impossible odds, made them dangerous. It

would require a special effort to overcome both, one that she would not

underestimate again.

It would help that she had the services of Aphasia Wye. But something more was

needed.

She descended the winding stairways of the Keep into its depths, into the

cellars and dungeons that lay far underground in the bedrock, dark places where

the Druids seldom ventured. Her destination was known only to her, now that

Grianne Ohmsford was gone, a place she had discovered some years ago while

shadowing the Ard Rhys in an effort to discover her secrets. She had been good

at shadowing even then, having developed the skill in her early years when the

uses of magic were first revealing themselves to her. It was dangerous to

challenge Grianne Ohmsford's instincts, but she managed it with the aid of a

fine-grained, odorless dust that rendered the other's tracks visible in a wash

of prismatic light. Layering the dust in the dark places she knew the other

sometimes went, she would wait for her return before sneaking back down to read

the trail. She had gotten lucky once or twice, but never again as lucky as with

what she now sought to retrieve.

She entered the deep center of the Keep, the heart of the fortress, down where

the earth's heat lifted out of its churning magma to warm the rooms above. She

found it interesting that the Druids would build their home atop a volcanic

fissure that might erupt and destroy them one day. But the Druids lived in

harmony with the earth's elements and found strength in what was raw and new.

She understood and appreciated that. A proximity to the sharp edge that divided

life and death was compelling for her, as well.

The passageways narrowed and darkened further. So far down, there was no need

for space or light. She thought that some of the corridors had not been walked

in a thousand years, that some of the cells and rooms they fed into had not seen

life in thousands more. But she sought nothing of life that day, only of death.

She moved in silence, listening for sounds of the spirit creature that lived in

the pit beneath the Keep and warded Paranor and its magic. It slept now and

would slumber until awakened. So long as the Druids kept occupancy and life, it

would lie dormant. She knew the stories of its protective efforts. The stories

were legend. They did not frighten her, however. Rather, they intrigued her. One

day, she would come down to take a closer look at it. Spirits were something she

understood.

She pondered for a moment the circumstances that had led her to that moment. She

had no regrets about how she had achieved her position, but she would have

preferred that it be otherwise. She wasn't evil, just practical. She was the

right choice to be Ard Rhys, the better person for the title, but that did not

mean she was happy with the way she had obtained it. Climbing over the backs of

others to get what you wanted was suited more to politicians and to royalty than

to students of magic. She would have preferred to face Grianne Ohmsford in

combat, but a decision based on the outcome of trial by magic would not have

been accepted by the others-neither her allies nor her enemies. Druids, for all

their examination and study, were conservative by nature. History had taught

them that independence and disobedience led to disaster, so they preferred that

matters progress in an orderly fashion.

That couldn't happen here. Not with the Ilse Witch as Ard Rhys and the fate of

the order hanging in the balance. Shadea had understood that from the beginning.

Unlike the others, she had chosen to act.

She reached a heavy iron door at the end of a corridor and stopped. Placing her

fingers on a set of symbols cut into the metal, she closed her eyes and pressed

in deliberate sequence. It had taken her a while to unlock the puzzle, but in

the end she had done so. Tumblers clicked and a bolt slid back. The door opened.

Inside, the room was round and dark save for the light cast by a single lamp set

in a raised stanchion at the chamber's center. Heavy stone blocks encircled a

mosaic floor in which runes had been carved in intricate patterns that suggested

story panels. There was only the one door leading in and no windows. There were

no openings in either the walls or floor. The ceiling domed away in shadowed

darkness.

A tomb for the dead and their possessions, Shadea thought. A space where things

were placed with a strong expectation that one day they would be forgotten.

She walked to the stanchion, stood with the heel of her right boot pressed

against one edge of its square base and fitted into an invisible depression

beneath, then walked straight ahead until she reached the wall. Placing the

palms of both hands flat against the stone at waist height, she worked the tips

of her fingers around until she found the hidden depressions in the stone, then

pushed.

A heavy panel swung open on hidden hinges, revealing a deep, ink-black chamber.

Her smile said everything about her expectations for what waited within.

She entered without the use of fresh light, relying on the faint glow of the

lamp behind her. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she saw what she had come for.

She walked over to a low pedestal set against one wall, opened the iron box

sitting on top of it, and took out the velvet pouch that rested within. She

handled it carefully, the way she might a deadly snake, taking care not to grip

it too strongly but to balance it in the palms of her hands. Even more carefully

still, she reached inside to extract what was hidden there.

Slowly, gingerly, she drew out the Stiehl.

It was the most deadly weapon in the world, a blade forged in the time of Faerie

in the furnaces of the Grint Trolls. Infused with lethal strains of arcane fire

magic, it could penetrate anything, no matter how thick or strong. Nothing could

stand against it. It had been in the hands of the assassin Pe Ell in the time of

the Shadowen and Walker Boh, and he had used it to kill the daughter of the King

of the Silver River. The Druid had recovered it afterwards and hidden it here.

No one had known where it was since. No one, but Grianne Ohmsford and now

Shadea.

She held it by its handle, feeling the markings that signified its name where

they were carved into the bone plates. The blade gleamed silver bright, its

surface smooth and flawless. It had survived thousands of years without a mark.

Grianne had kept it concealed for the same reasons as Walker Boh-it was too

dangerous to reveal. It was an assassin's weapon, a killer's tool.

It belonged, Shadea told herself, in a killer's hands, in an assassin's sheath.

It belonged in the hands of a master. She would see that it found its way there.

She would see that it was put to the use for which it was intended. The lives it

snuffed would be well spent.

She sighed. She wasn't being evil, she told herself for a second time that

afternoon. She was just being practical.

She put the Stiehl away, closed the chamber anew, and climbed out of Paranor's

dark cellars to the light above.

FIFTEEN

With the decision made to go in search of the tanequil, Ahren Elessedil arranged

for horses to transport the party on the first leg of their journey, and within

an hour they were mounted and riding out of Emberen. Seemingly unconcerned about

its contents, the Druid didn't even bother to close up his cottage, leaving

everything pretty much the way it was. Pen had the feeling that the Druid wasn't

much attached to possessions and, in the tradition of Druids who did service in

the field, thought them mostly superfluous. The boy didn't pretend to understand

this, having worked hard for everything he had, but he supposed that his own

attachments were mostly the result of habit and not because he valued his

belongings all that much. Still, he had to fight a strong urge to go back and

lock up.

They rode south along the main roadway, stopping frequently to say good-bye to

the villagers, Ahren making a point of telling everyone he spoke to that they

would be gone for several weeks. Pen thought it odd that he would make the

information public and was further confused when they departed in the wrong

direction and a dozen miles outside the village turned not east toward the

Charnals, but west.

When he finally gathered up courage enough to ask what they were doing, Ahren

Elessedil smiled. "Confusing the enemy, I hope. If they come to Emberen, which I

expect they will, the villagers will tell them we left heading south. If they

track us that way, they will find that we have turned west. But they will lose

our trail when we reach the Rill Song because we will leave the horses there and

catch a barge downriver to the Innisbore and the inland port of Syioned. At

Syioned, we will find an airship to take us where we really want to go."

"An airship?" Pen asked.

"An airship offers speed on a direct line and doesn't leave tracks. If I'd had

one at my disposal in Emberen, we would have taken it from there. But horses

will have to do for now." He laughed. "You should see your face, young Pen!"

They rode all that day and most of the next through the Westland forests before

reaching the Rill Song and a way station that offered the use of barge transport

downriver. The weather stayed warm and bright, the storm that was lashing

Paranor and the Druid's Keep having passed north a day earlier. They rode

steadily, stopping only to eat and sleep, and in that time Pen managed to find

discomfort in ways he hadn't dreamed possible. Horses were not a regular part of

his life, so riding for such long stretches left him aching from neck to ankles.

Having done little riding himself, Tagwen didn't fare much better. Both Elves

seemed untroubled by the effort, but on the first evening Khyber took time to

give the Dwarf and the boy a liniment she carried in her pack to ease their

pain.

Leaving the horses behind at the way station, they boarded the barge late in the

afternoon of the second day and set out anew. The Rill Song was deep and wide at

that time of the year, and they had no trouble making headway on its turgid

waters. When darkness set in, they navigated by moonlight so bright it might

have been the middle of the day. Ahren could have tied up on the river-bank and

let them all sleep, but he seemed anxious to continue on while light permitted

and so they did. Pen was just as happy. He did not care to chance another run-in

with Terek Molt.

The following day, they passed below Arborlon, its treetop spires just visible

over the lip of the Carolan. The storied Elfitch, the heavily fortified ramp

that gave access to traffic coming in from the west, rose like a coiled snake

from the eastern bank of the river to the bluff. Elves worked their way through

the switchbacks and gates, a steady stream of commerce coming from and going to

the Sarandanon. Pen found himself thinking about the battle fought between the

Elves and their allies and the demons from the Forbidding almost five hundred

years earlier. He stared at the Elfitch as they sailed past, trying to imagine

the strength of its iron being tested against the frenzy of the demons.

Thousands had died in that struggle. The legendary Border Legion had been

decimated. The Elves had lost one out of every three able men. Their King,

Eventine Elessedil, had been killed.

Pen wondered if another battle of the same sort was waiting down the road-if in

spite of what Khyber said, the Ellcrys was failing again and the demons had

found another doorway out of their prison.

They passed other boats on the river, and now and again they saw airships

sailing overhead, a mix of warships on their way to the Prekkendorran and

freighters on their way to less angry places. The weather stayed sunny and warm.

There was no sign of the Galaphile. There was no sign of trouble of any sort.

Pen began to think that maybe things weren't so bad.

Three days later, they reached the Innisbore, a body of water so vast that even

if sun had broken through the clouds long enough to burn away the mists that lay

in ragged strips across her choppy surface, the far shores would still have been

out of view. It was late in the day when they maneuvered their barge into the

landing area just beyond the mouth of the river, arranged for its docking and

transport back upriver, and began the two-mile walk up the lake's eastern bank

to the city of Syioned. Thunderheads were forming up again to the west, another

storm beginning to build in that midseason time of storms. That they were

commonplace at this time of the year didn't make them any less inconvenient, Pen

thought. If one struck while they were grounded, they would not be able to fly

out until it passed. That could take up to several days. Impulsively, Pen asked

Ahren if they might be able to leave yet that day, but the Druid told him they

didn't even have a ship arranged as yet and probably wouldn't before week's end.

Pen settled into a funk that matched the approaching weather. He didn't like

delays, especially where flying was concerned. He was already itching to get

back in the air. That was his life at Patch Run, and although he understood he

had left that life behind, he couldn't pretend he didn't want it back. Traveling

by horse and barge and on foot was all well and good, but flying was what he

craved. The sooner he got back in the air, the better he would feel about

himself.

But just then, patience was needed. Deep twilight had settled in by the time

they reached the outskirts of the city, and his stomach was rumbling. They found

an inn on a side street not far off the road leading in that served food and

offered rooms. It was sufficiently far off the beaten track that Ahren Elessedil

felt comfortable with staying there for the night. They ate at a table in the

back of the common room, and by the time they were finished, Pen's eyes were

heavy with sleep.

He didn't remember going up to his room afterwards. He didn't remember stripping

off his clothes and tumbling into the bed. All he remembered, thinking back on

it, was the sound of the rain beating on the shingled roof as the storm arrived.

* * *

"It doesn't look like it's ever going to stop," Pen observed glumly, staring out

the window of the inn.

The rain fell in sheets as it had been doing all night, flooding the roadways

and turning low-lying stretches of waterfront into small inlets. The glass of

the window he looked through was sufficiently obscured that he couldn't see more

than a dozen yards. Not much of anyone was moving about outside. Nothing was

flying. Pen was not happy.

Khyber studied the gaming board in front of her, nodding absently at his

comment. "Give it time, Pen. Storms out here are worse than they are inland. But

they pass." She moved a piece to confront one of his. "If you're worried about

pursuit, just remember that if we can't fly, neither can they."

"I don't like being grounded like this," he growled. "I feel trapped." He took

her piece with one of his own. He thought about Ahren Elessedil and Tagwen. "How

long have they been gone now?"

She shrugged, eyes on the board. The Druid and the Dwarf had gone out early that

morning in search of passage. With no one flying, the airship Captains would be

gathered at their favorite inns and ale houses, passing the time while they

waited to get back in the air. A few among them might be looking for business,

and out of those there had to be at least one that the Druid would consider

hiring. In their situation, discretion was as important as speed, and he wasn't

going to sign on with anyone with whom he didn't feel comfortable. He wanted one

of the Rovers, accomplished mercenaries who knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Syioned was a regular stop for transport from the coast and continuing farther

inland to the landlocked cities. Rover Captains made the run all the time, and

more than a few of them would be here now.

Pen and Khyber had been told to stay at the inn, out of sight and trouble. The

Druid was worried that someone would notice them and remember later, when those

who hunted them found their way to the port. The less they were seen, the

better. Especially Pen, with his distinctive long red hair. The inn was crowded,

but those gathered were clustered in private groups and engaged in their own

conversations. Not much attention was being paid to anyone else.

"When did you start flying airships?" Khyber asked. She looked up at him. "You

must have been doing it a long time."

He nodded. "Since I can remember. My mother always flew and my father, as well,

after he met her. They took me with them everywhere after I was born, even when

I was a baby. I remember learning to steer when I was barely old enough to stand

on an upended crate and look over the pilot box railing."

"I wanted to fly," she said, "but my father, when he was alive, and after he

died, my brother, insisted that someone always go with me. In a big warship with

lots of the Home Guard for protection, I might add. Even after I began traveling

out on my own, old enough to know how to take care of myself, I wasn't allowed

to go by airship."

He shrugged. "You haven't missed that much."

She laughed. "What a terrible liar you are, Penderrin! You can't possibly

believe that! You're the one who can't wait to get back up in the skies! Admit

it!"

"Okay, I admit it." He was laughing, too. "But you can make up for what you've

missed. I could show you."

He moved another piece, and she responded. She was good at the game, but not

nearly as good as he was. He had an innate sense of what she was going to do

even before she did. She studied the board intently, aware that she was being

backed into a corner.

"Have you thought about the fact that your father and my uncle Ahren were about

the same age we are now when they sailed on the Jerle Shannara?" she said.

"More than once."

"Do your parents ever talk about what it was like?"

"Once in a while, A lot of their friends died on that voyage, and I don't think

they like to remember it." He looked at her. "How about your uncle? Does he ever

say anything?"

She shook her head, her brow creasing. "He doesn't like to talk about it,

either. Because of the seer, I think. He was in love with her, though he won't

say so now. It's too painful for him." She cocked her head. "Are you afraid of

what we're doing, Pen?"

He leaned back, thinking about it. Was he afraid? What did he feel? He hadn't

really stopped to think about it. Or maybe hadn't allowed himself, afraid of

what he might discover.

"No," he answered, then immediately grimaced. "All right, yes, but only in a

general sort of way. I don't know enough to be afraid of anything specific yet.

Except for that Druid, that Dwarf. He was pretty scary. I'm afraid of him."

She brushed back strands of dark hair that had fallen forward over her face as

she bent to the board. "I'm not afraid. I know some magic, so I can protect us

if I have to. Uncle Ahren knows a lot of magic, though he doesn't show it. I

think he's probably a match for anyone. We'll be all right."

"Glad you think so."

"Don't you have some of your father's magic? He had the magic of the wishsong,

like your aunt Grianne, didn't he?"

Pen nodded. "True. But he didn't pass it on to me. I think the bloodline has

grown thin after all these years. He's probably the last. Just as well, he'd

tell you. He doesn't trust it. He uses it now and then, but not much. He's just

as happy I don't have any."

"It might help if you did."

Pen paused, considering whether or not he should tell her about the talent he

did have.

"Maybe."

"You could protect yourself a little better. From those renegade Druids and

their magic. From what you might come upon inside the Forbidding. Don't you

think so?"

He didn't reply. They went back to the game, moving pieces until only eight

remained on the board. Pen knew by then that he would win, but he let the game

continue anyway. Playing it helped pass the time.

"Do you remember what Tagwen said about the tanequil giving me the darkwand if I

could find it?" he asked her finally. He leaned forward over the board as if

concentrating, deliberately lowering his voice. "It's because I do have magic."

She leaned in to meet him, their foreheads almost touching. Her Elven features

sharpened with surprise. "What sort of magic? The wishsong? But you said not."

"No. Something else. Something different." He fiddled with one of the pieces,

then took his hand away. "I can sense what living things are thinking, what they

are going to do and why. Not people. Birds and animals and plants. When they

make sounds, noises or cries or whatever, I can understand what they are saying.

Sometimes, I can make the sounds back, answer them."

She cocked one eyebrow. "That seems to me like it could be pretty important. I

don't know how exactly, but I think it could be. Have you told Uncle Ahren?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Well, you should. He ought to know, Pen. He's a Druid. He might know something

about it that you don't, maybe a way you can use it that will help us." She

paused, studying his face. "Are you afraid to tell him? You can trust him, you

know."

"I know." His eyes locked on hers. "I just don't talk about it much. I never

have."

They went back to playing, the sound of the rain beating against the window

increasing in intensity. All around them, voices and laughter fought to hold

their ground. The flames of the lamps on the walls and the candles on the tables

fluttered like tiny flags as the wind slipped through cracks and crevices in the

wood boarding and gusted through the open door every time someone entered or

left.

"I'll tell him when he comes back," Pen said finally. He moved his assault piece

to confront her control. "Stand down. You lose, Khyber."

They played another game and were in the middle of a third when the door opened

to admit a drenched Ahren Elessedil and Tagwen. Shedding water from their

all-weather cloaks like ducks come ashore, they hurried over to the boy and

girl. "Get your things together," Ahren told them quietly, bending down so that

rainwater dripped on the tabletop. "We've found a ship."

* * *

They gathered up their gear, strapped their packs over their shoulders, and

departed the inn for the ship that the Druid had engaged. Better that they

settle in at once so they could be ready to leave when the storm abated, the

Druid advised. They had to walk from the side street on which the inn was

situated back to the main roadway and down to the docks, then along the

waterfront to where the ship was tied up at the pier. As they slogged through

the downpour, Ahren Elessedil provided the details.

"The ship is the Skatelow. Appropriate name for its uses, I'd guess. Low and

sleek in her hull, raked mast, lots of rigging on the decks. She can't carry

much in the way of passengers or freight with all the sail she stores, but she

can probably outrun almost anything flying."

"Made for our uses," Tagwen grunted, his words nearly drowned out by a sudden

gust of wind.

"Not much in the way of comforts, but adequate for our needs," the Druid

continued. "Her Captain is a Rover named Gar Hatch. I don't know anything about

him other than what I've learned from talking with him and what a few on the

waterfront tell me. He's got a reputation for being willing to try anything, and

they all say he can go places no one else would even think of trying. If I read

him correctly, he's done a lot of what we're after- carrying passengers who want

to keep it quiet. He's charming, but there's some snake in him, as well, so

watch what you say. He knows we want to go east to the Lazareen, but that's all

I've given him to work with. What he cares about most is the money he will get,

and I've satisfied him on that count."

"The Lazareen?" Khyber asked.

"An inland lake at the foot of the Charnals, the first step of our journey.

That's all the Rover knows of our plans just yet."

They walked on for a while, not speaking, heads bent against the wind and rain.

Pen was not only wet, he was cold. He had been out in the weather a lot aboard

airships and knew how to dress for it, but in his haste to leave the inn this

afternoon, he hadn't given much thought to his personal comfort. He was

regretting that oversight now.

"Penderrin."

Ahren Elessedil had dropped back to walk beside him, letting Khyber and Tagwen

go on ahead. Pen hitched up his pack and moved closer so that he could hear. The

rain obscured the Druid's face and ran off his shoulders in sheets.

"I took the liberty of telling Captain Hatch that you had extensive airship

experience," he said. "I'm afraid I put you on the spot rather deliberately."

The hood shifted, and Pen caught a glimpse of his Elven features, somber and

intense. "I don't trust this fellow entirely; he's a mercenary, and mercenaries

always look out for themselves first. But he was the best I could do, and I

didn't want to delay our departure. The longer we wait, the better the chance

that those hunting us will get wind of where we are."

Pen nodded. "I understand."

The Druid leaned closer. "The reason I told Hatch about your experience is so

that he knows at least one of us can determine if he's doing what he's supposed

to. I don't want him telling us one thing and doing something else. I don't want

him thinking he can put one over on us. I don't say that would happen, but I

want to guard against it. I don't know that much about airships; I never did.

Your father was the pilot and your mother the navigator when it was needed. I

was always just a passenger. That's never changed. Khyber and Tagwen know even

less than I do. In fact, I think it's something of a miracle that Tagwen managed

to reach you on his own."

"I thought that, too, after he told me what he'd done." Pen blinked away the

rain that swept into his eyes.

"Stay alert on our journey, Pen," Ahren said. "Don't make it obvious, but keep

an eye on what's happening with the navigation of the ship. If anything looks

wrong, tell me. I'll deal with it. Can you do that?"

"I can do it."

"Gar Hatch doesn't know who we are, but that doesn't mean he won't find out. If

he does, he might be tempted to make use of that information. The Druids are

already looking for you. They've put it about that because of what happened to

your aunt, you might be in danger, as well, and should be protected. If you're

seen, word is to be sent to them immediately."

He hunched his shoulders against the wind. "I gave him only first names,

thinking it safe enough at the time, but now I wish I hadn't given him even

that. News of the Druid search didn't reached Syioned until this morning, but

now that it has, Hatch may hear of it. He isn't a stupid man. Be very careful,

Pen."

He moved away again into the rain, his cloaked form dark and shadowy in the

gloom. Pen stared after him, slowing.

Be very careful. Easily said, he thought; not so easily done.

Aware suddenly that he was falling behind, he hurried to catch up with the

others.

SIXTEEN

The storm raged on through the rest of the day and all that night, but by

daybreak it had begun to diminish. By the time the general population of Syioned

was stirring awake, the Skatelow had cast off her moorings and was under way.

Pen and his companions had been huddled belowdecks since boarding, trying their

best to sleep through the storm's fury, and they had not had more than a

rain-drenched glimpse of their vessel. Now, with the skies clearing and the sun

a bright wash in the east, they came on deck to look around.

Their transport was a sloop, a new design for airships, although a very old one

for sailing ships. Ahren Elessedil had described it accurately. It was low and

flat and clearly built for speed. A single mast and spars were rigged to fly a

mainsail, foresail, and flying jib. In his travels, Pen hadn't seen much of the

latter, another sailing ship feature that had been converted for airship usage.

A broad, billowing sail that traditionally captured the wind off the bow and

gave the vessel extra thrust, the jib was used by airships to absorb a wider

swath of ambient light that could be converted to energy by the diapson crystals

that powered the ship. The Skatelow lacked the pontoons that serviced most of

the older airships of the catamaran design, relying instead on its pilot's

sailing skills and the flatness of its hull to keep it steady in the air.

Pen liked the Skatelow right away. It had been modified from its original design

considerably to eliminate anything that might slow its flight. Except for the

mast and rigging, everything else was tucked away belowdecks or in storage bins.

Even the pilot box was recessed into the hull to cut back on drag. Everything

was sleek and smooth, the ship a great swift bird that could hunt or run as

needed. It was powered by eight diapson crystals, the most in use for a ship of

only seventy-odd feet. Anything more and the thrust might have torn her apart.

Even with eight, the Captain had to know what he was doing.

Gar Hatch did, and he let Pen know it right from the first. Pen had been

abovedecks less than five minutes when the Captain of the Skatelow hailed him

over.

"Penderrin!" he called out from the pilot box. "Stand to, lad! Give an old

sailor an ear to bend!"

Obediently, Pen walked down the deck to the box and climbed in beside Gar Hatch.

The Rover was a big man, heavy and square through his midsection with huge arms

and legs-a tree trunk of a man. Bushy hair sprouted from his face and head, even

from his sizeable ears, giving him the appearance of a great woolly bear. When

he spoke he had a tendency to rear back, his stomach thrust out and his chin

tucked so far into his beard that his mouth disappeared entirely. What remained

visible were his sharp, hawkish eyes, bright and dangerous.

"You're a sailor yourself, I'm told," he said, his deep, rough voice rising from

somewhere inside his beard. His breath smelled of fish and sea salt. "Been so

since you were a small lad, an early old salt. Spent years sailing airships big

and small about Rainbow Lake and the rivers that feed her. Good for you!"

"My parents are the real sailors," Pen said. "I learned what I know from them.

They take customers on expeditions into the Eastland." He stopped himself

quickly. Remembering Ahren Elessedil's admonishment, he was aware that he had

already said more than he should have. "I just fly with them once in a while and

look after the ships in dock," he finished carefully.

Gar Hatch didn't seem to notice. "Grew up that way myself," he said. "Learned

what I know from my father and uncles, sailors all. On the coast, off the Blue

Divide, whichever way the wind blew. We flew the big ships mostly, but I had my

own skiff when I was your age. Got one of those yourself, your uncle tells me."

My uncle? "Yes, that's right," Pen answered quickly. "A cat-28. I built it

myself."

"Did you now? Good for you, Penderrin!" The Rover laughed, his belly shaking

with the effort. "Best way to learn about airships is to build one. Haven't got

the skills for that myself, but I've helped those who do. I learned keel from

mast quick enough that way, so when I flew I understood if the lady didn't like

the way she was being treated."

Pen grinned. "I like this ship. I've never flown one, but I've seen them and I

know how they're made. This one is made to fly fast. Have you run out the string

on her?"

Hatch roared. "That's the lad! Ask what matters, and no beating around the main

mast! Sure, I've had her thrusters all the way open, and let me tell you,

Penderrin, she can fly faster than fast! Nothing alive can catch her, save for

the big birds off the coast, and they might have to work some to do it. She's a

glutton for speed, this one. You're right, though. I gave her all her curves,

all her smooth limbs and soft lines. She's my lady, she is."

He paused. "You've never flown a sloop, did you say? Lad, that's unconscionable!

Do you want to try now?"

Pen could hardly contain his excitement. "You'd let me?"

"A sailor like yourself, born to the air?" Hatch leaned forward, his fish breath

in Pen's face. "Take the helm, Captain Pen."

Despite Ahren Elessedil's warnings about the big man, Pen was desperate to fly

the sloop, so he put aside his misgivings. It wouldn't hurt to accept the offer,

he told himself. He was just going to test his skills a bit, try out the

controls, and see if he could manage the vessel. He had flown other airships of

the same sort, some much bigger. Skatelow couldn't be that much more difficult.

Gar Hatch backed away, and Pen stepped up to the helm. He glanced down quickly,

noting thrusters, lifts, banking levers, and the like, all familiar to him,

though located in somewhat different positions than he was used to. The compass

was set dead center above the half wheel that managed the keel rudder.

"There you be, young Pen," the Rover Captain declared cheerfully. "A fine and

proper set of controls for a fine and proper young sailor. Give her a try, lad."

Pen did so, easing into things slowly, carefully, setting trim before taking the

airship a little higher with the lifts. She nosed upward, but he felt the

tension in her hull, then a slight shaking. He frowned as he worked to steady

her. It wasn't as easy as he had thought. Everything was the same, but the

sloop's responses were less certain than he would have liked. He adjusted the

thrusters and felt her shake some more. An effort at resetting trim proved

unsuccessful. He eased the power back, glancing over at Gar Hatch.

The Rover's sharp eyes were glittering. "Not so easy as it looks, is it?" he

asked, and Pen could see he wasn't expecting an argument. "Flying a sloop is not

the same as flying a cat-28 or even a warship with pontoons and rams for

stability. A sloop needs tender loving care from a master who knows her needs."

He smiled, but even through the heavy growth of beard Pen could see the teeth

behind. He realized with a sinking feeling that Hatch had been testing him.

Knowing how difficult it would be for someone unfamiliar with the sloop to sail

her, he had enticed Pen into trying so that he could judge the boy's skills. The

Rover was one step ahead of Ahren Elessedil; he knew that Pen had been asked to

check up on him, even without having been present at the conversation. Now he

had Pen's measure, and the boy had helped him take it.

Gar Hatch stepped forward and took back the ship's controls, easing Pen out of

the way without seeming to do so.

"You keep in mind, Penderrin," he said softly, looking over at the boy as he

steadied the vessel anew, "that there's only one Captain on this ship. Do that

and we'll get along fine. Now out of the box you go. Back down on the deck with

the others. That's a good lad."

Pen left without a word, burning with frustration and shame, so furious with

himself that he could have spit. But there was no help for it, and he refused to

give Garth Hatch the satisfaction of seeing him react. Fighting to control

himself, he stood alone at the starboard rail, his gaze directed resolutely

forward even though he could feel the Rover Captain's eyes on his back. He

should have paid better attention to Ahren Elessedil's warning. But that was

water over the dam. What mattered was how well he remembered the lesson he had

just been taught. Well enough, he promised himself. The next time Gar Hatch

tried to make a fool of him, things would turn out differently.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon of that same day when Cinnaminson came on deck. She

climbed up through the hatchway leading from the narrow sleeping quarters below,

stepping into the crimson light of the sunset like a shade. Pen was sitting with

Khyber at the aft rail, still stewing over the way he had let himself be fooled

by Gar Hatch, when he saw her. He did not know where she had come from or what

she was doing there. He had thought that besides the four who had booked passage

there were only Hatch and two crewmen. Now this apparition had appeared. He

stopped talking in midsentence, causing Khyber, who had not been paying close

attention, to look up from her writing and follow his gaze.

She was only a girl, no older than Pen, younger than Khyber, her slender form

wrapped in something soft gray and green that might have been a long robe and

shimmered like the sea. She looked to have woken from a deep sleep, her short,

sandy blond hair disheveled and her face tilting toward the light as if to make

certain of the time. Pen thought her beautiful, although he would later revise

that judgment to striking, and sometime later to captivating. Her features were

delicate, but unremarkable and not quite perfect. Still, they intrigued him.

What mattered more was the way she moved, not looking at anything while

seemingly aware of all. She glided rather than walked, the soft whisper of her

gown marking her passage as she came toward them.

It was when she had almost reached them that Pen saw her eyes. They were milky

white and empty, staring straight ahead at nothing. She was blind.

Pen did not know who she was. He did not know her name. What he did know was

that he would never forget her.

"Are you our passengers?" she asked them, looking off into a space they did not

quite occupy.

Pen nodded, then realized she couldn't see him. "Yes, two of them, anyway. I'm

Pen and this is Khyber." He had presence of mind enough, though just barely, to

remember to use only first names.

"I'm Cinnaminson," she told them. "I'm Gar Hatch's daughter."

She stretched out her hand and waited for them to take it, which they did, one

after the other. Her smile was winsome and a bit fragile, Pen thought, hesitant

and protective at the same time, which seemed right for her condition. But there

was strength to her, too. She was not afraid to come up against what she

couldn't see.

"Traveling to the Charnals," she said, making it a statement of fact. "I like

that part of the world. I like the feel of the mountain air, the smell and taste

of it. Snowmelt and evergreens and ice."

"Do you always come on these trips?" Khyber asked, looking doubtful about the

whole business.

"Oh, yes. Ever since I was eight years old. I always go. Papa wouldn't fly

anywhere without me." She laughed softly, milky eyes squinting with amusement.

"I am an old salt, he tells me, a child of the air and sea."

Khyber arched a questioning eyebrow at Pen. "I am surprised he would allow you

aboard at so young an age when you could not see to help yourself. It seems

dangerous."

"I see well enough," the girl replied. "Not so much with my eyes as with my

other senses. Besides, I know every inch of the Skatelow. I am not in any real

danger."

She sat down beside them, moving effortlessly to find a place between them, her

gray and green robes settling about her like sea foam. "You don't fly, do you,

Khyber?"

"No. But Pen does. He was born to airships."

Her gaze shifted, not quite finding him. "Don't tell my father. He doesn't like

it when other flyers come aboard. He's very jealous of what's his."

Pen thought, without having any better reason to do so than the way she said it,

that she was including herself in that assessment. "Too late," he told her. "He

found out from my uncle and already made a point of letting me know how lacking

I am in real skills."

Her smile dropped. "I'm sorry, Pen. I would have warned you if I had known. Papa

can be very hard."

"Is he hard on you?"

The smile returned, less certain. "I am his most important crew member," she

said, not quite answering the question. She hesitated. "He wouldn't want me to

tell you this, but I will anyway. I am his navigator."

Pen and Khyber exchanged a quick glance. "How do you manage that?" the Elven

girl asked. "I didn't think you could navigate if you couldn't see."

The milky eyes shifted slightly toward the sound of Khyber's voice. "I don't see

with my eyes. I see with my other senses." She bit her lip. "I can do things to

help Papa that don't require sight." Again, she paused. "You mustn't tell Papa I

told you any of this. He wouldn't like it."

"Why wouldn't he like it?" Pen asked.

"Papa worries about outsiders, people other than Rovers. He doesn't trust them."

Nor do we trust him, Pen thought. Not a good situation.

"I still don't understand this navigation business," Khyber pressed, her brow

furrowing. "Tell us something more about how you help your father."

"Cinnaminson!"

All three turned in the direction of the voice. Gar Hatch had turned around in

the pilot box and caught sight of them. He looked furious. "Come help your Papa,

little girl," he ordered brusquely. "You've sailor work to do."

She stood up at once. "Coming, Papa." She glanced down quickly. "Say nothing!"

she whispered.

She left without another word, walking straight to the pilot box and climbing

in. Pen watched to see what would happen and wasn't sure if he was relieved or

disappointed when nothing did. Gar Hatch put his hand on his daughter's

shoulder, patted it briefly, and turned back to steering the vessel. Cinnaminson

remained standing beside him.

"What do you make of that?" he asked Khyber.

"A bad business that we should stay out of," she answered. She regarded him

thoughtfully. "I think we ought to cut your hair. That long red mane is too

recognizable. Maybe we should dye it, too."

She put down her writing tools and went off to find her scissors.

* * *

They were told at the evening meal that, after dark, passengers were not allowed

topside until morning. It was a rule of long standing aboard the Skatelow and

the Captain's express order. The reason given was concern for safety, a fall at

night from the ship's sleek decking would almost certainly result in death. It

was better if everyone but the crew stayed below. Ahren Elessedil assured the

Rover that the order would be obeyed, and Pen went to bed with every intention

of breaking it.

He woke sometime after midnight and slipped from his bed on cat's paws, brushing

absently at his newly shorn hair, grimacing at the roughness of its feel. Hardly

anything was left of it; Khyber had done a thorough job. He glanced at Tagwen,

who was snoring loudly in the berth above him. Clearly, the Dwarf would not

wake. Ahren and Khyber shared a cabin down the hall, so he was less concerned

about them. He took several deep breaths to settle himself, then moved to the

door. He stood there for a moment, listening, but heard nothing. When he stepped

outside, the corridor was empty. Other than the creaking of the rigging and the

soft rustle of the mainsail in the almost dead night air, everything was silent.

He went down the corridor and up the stairway, stopping often to listen. Having

done that sort of thing any number of times before, he was not particularly

worried about getting caught, but he did not care to be embarrassed by Gar Hatch

again. So he went slowly and cautiously, and when he reached the head of the

stairs and found the hatchway open, he stopped yet again.

Above, not far from where he stood, he heard voices. It took him only seconds to

recognize whose they were.

". . . not fair that I never get to talk to anyone. I don't tell them anything

about us, Papa. I just like hearing about their lives."

"Their lives don't matter to us, girl," Gar Hatch responded, firmly but not

unkindly. "They aren't of our people and you won't see them again after this

journey."

"Then what does it matter if I talk to them?" "It matters in ways you don't

understand because you are still a child. You must listen to me. Be pleasant to

them. Be helpful when it is needed. But do not go out of your way to speak to

them. That is a direct order, sailor."

There was silence after that. Pen remained standing where he was, listening. He

wanted to peek outside, but he was afraid that if he did, he would be seen. The

moon was three-quarters full and the sky clear. There was too much light to take

a chance. He wondered what was going on up there that he wasn't supposed to see.

As far as he could tell from what he was hearing, nothing at all.

"I'm going below to sleep for a few hours," Hatch announced suddenly. "You take

the helm, Cinnaminson. Keep her on course, no deviations. There's no weather on

the horizon, so the sail should be smooth enough. You know what to do. Come get

me if there's trouble. Good girl. I'll come back before dawn."

Pen retreated down the steps as swiftly as he could manage, reached his cabin

and stepped inside. He stood with his back against the door and listened as Gar

Hatch trudged past toward the Captain's quarters. The Rover's footsteps receded,

a door opened and closed, and everything was silent again save Tagwen's snoring.

For a moment, Pen determined to go topside again. But he was nervous about it

now, afraid that Hatch might come back and catch him. What had he said? You take

the helm, Cinnaminson? How could she do that if she was blind? Was she up there

all alone, steering the airship and charting their course when she couldn't see?

That didn't seem possible, and yet . . .

He stood awhile longer, debating what to do. In the end, he went back to bed.

Khyber was right. It was none of his business, and he shouldn't mix in it. Ahren

wouldn't like it if he jeopardized their safety through his interference. He

couldn't afford to antagonize Hatch while they depended on him.

Perhaps, he thought, he would just ask Cinnaminson the next time he saw her. If

she would speak to him, that was.

He went back to bed to think about it some more and was asleep in moments.

SEVENTEEN

They flew north out of the Westland, then turned east across the Streleheim

Plains down the corridor that lay between the Dragon's Teeth and the Knife Edge

Mountains. It was a shipping lane used by almost everyone traveling west and

east above Callahorn, and they passed other airships at regular intervals. The

weather remained good, the skies clear and calm, the days warm and dry, the

nights deep and cool, and there were no more storms. The Skatelow kept a steady

pace, but not a fast one, staying low and hugging the forest line above Paranor.

She sailed at night as well as during the day, and Gar Hatch put her down only

twice in three days for fresh water and brief repairs. Pen spoke with

Cinnaminson every day, several times a day, and there was no indication from her

behavior that she was trying to avoid him. In fact, she seemed eager to search

him out, although she never did so in a way that suggested she was disobeying

her father's wishes. Pen, for his part, tried to make their meetings seem to

those who might observe to be about something other than their growing

friendship. But he didn't even try to pretend to her that he wasn't interested.

He was captivated, and even at his young age he could not mistake what he was

feeling for her. He was excited just at the prospect of seeing her, and every

day brought new opportunities to do so. He looked forward to those moments with

an anticipation that made him ache.

But he never asked her about that first night. The more he thought about doing

so, the less comfortable he felt. In the first place, he had been spying on her,

and he didn't want her to know that. Nor could he think of a way to broach the

subject without seeming to pry. It wasn't his place to ask her what she was

doing for her father. At best, it would make her uncomfortable because anything

she told him would be a betrayal. He still wanted to know how she could sail an

airship despite being blind, but he decided it would have to be her idea to tell

him.

He had plenty of time to indulge his newfound attraction for her. Tagwen was

often airsick and seldom appeared topside. He was a Dwarf, he pointed out

sourly, and he belonged on the ground. Khyber had resumed her Druid studies and

spent most of her time with her uncle. Pen would see them sitting across from

each other on the decking, heads bent close in conversation, the girl taking

notes and making animated gestures that indicated she was trying to understand

what he was teaching. Much of the time, they remained in their cabin, freer to

engage in open discussion than when the Rovers were present. Khyber, always

intense, seemed more so now that they had set out, perhaps appreciating better

than Pen did the weight of the task she had agreed to shoulder.

But Pen, too, spent much of his time thinking about why he was there, a

passenger aboard an airship bound for the Charnals and country few had ever

explored. He no longer questioned whether what he was doing was the right thing.

He no longer even questioned the motives of the King of the Silver River in

sending him. He just accepted it and concentrated instead on how he was going to

get through in one piece. If he allowed himself to think about the larger

picture, it was too overwhelming to contemplate. So much was expected of him,

and he had no reason to believe those expectations were justified. He found he

could manage better if he considered things incrementally. Step one was escaping

the Galaphile and Terek Molt. He'd done that. Step two was reaching Emberen and

enlisting help from Ahren Elessedil. He'd done that, too. Step three was

embarking on the journey east.

When he got to step four, however, things became a little less clear. Finding

the tanequil was the goal, but he had the feeling that there were a few other

steps in between and he would not find out what they were right away. Only time

would reveal them, and it would not do to try to plan too far ahead. That he was

making the journey on faith in the first place helped him accept that, but it

didn't make him any less anxious about the outcome.

Spending time with Cinnaminson relaxed him most. He understood it was an

indulgence, one that was difficult to justify given the seriousness of his

purpose. But he understood, as well, that something was needed to distract him

from his doubts and fears, and turning his thoughts to Cinnaminson helped. He

wasn't fooish enough to expect that this infatuation would grow into something

more. He knew it would be finished when they reached their destination and

disembarked from the airship. But it did no good to think in those terms. Better

to allow a little light into a darkened room than to worry about what would

happen once it faded.

On the third day, they were sitting in the bow where he was pretending to write

and she to listen to what he had written, their backs to the pilot box and Gar

Hatch.

"Can you tell me where you are going?" she asked him quietly. "I can tell you

anything, Cinnaminson."

"Not anything. You know you can't do that." He nodded to himself. She understood

some things better than he did. "We go into the Charnals, looking for the ruins

of an ancient city. Ahren wants to look for something there."

"But he brings you and Khyber and Tagwen to help him," she said. "An odd company

for such an effort."

Her fingers brushed his wrist, a soft swirl that made him itch all the way down

to his toes. "I won't lie to you," he said finally. "There's more to this. I'm

sworn to secrecy."

"Better that you tell me so than deceive me. I have traveled with enough

passengers to know when they keep secrets. My father is paid to keep it so. But

I want to know that you will be safe when you leave me. I want to know that I

might see you again someday."

His hand closed on hers, and he stared into her milky, empty eyes. She did not

see him, but he could feel her watching in other ways. He studied her face, the

lines and curves and softness, the way the light fell against her skin. He loved

to look at her. He could not have told anyone why, just that he did. "You will

see me again," he said quietly.

"Will you come find me?" she asked him. "I will."

"Even if I am flying somewhere on the Skatelow, you will look for me?"

He felt his throat tighten. "I don't think I could do otherwise," he said. "I

think I have to."

Then, without thinking about who might be watching, he leaned forward and kissed

her on the mouth. She kissed him back without hesitation. It was a thrilling,

tantalizing kiss, and he immediately wanted more. But he was playing a dangerous

game, and contemplating the way it might end tempered his enthusiasm

sufficiently that he kept himself in check.

He broke away, not daring to look back at the pilot box. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry," she answered at once, leaning into his shoulder, head lowered

so that her hair brushed his bare arm. "I wanted you to do that."

"Your father won't like it."

"My father wasn't looking."

Unable to help himself, he glanced over his shoulder. Gar Hatch was turned away,

working on placing lines at the rear of the box. She was right; he hadn't seen

anything.

Pen looked back at her. "How did you know that?"

She gave him a smile that reached all the way into his heart. "I just did," she

said, and kissed him again.

* * *

"I wish you'd stop following Cinnaminson around like an eager puppy," Khyber

told him late that same day while they were sitting together at the bow of the

Skatelow. She brushed back her thick dark hair and stared out at a sky lit

purple and rose, her brow furrowed by deep lines of condemnation.

"I like her," he said.

"As anyone can plainly see, including her father. Even Uncle Ahren has noticed,

and he usually doesn't bother with such nonsense."

He frowned. "Nonsense?"

"Well, it is. Do you have any idea what you're doing? You're going to get us in

a lot of trouble if you aren't careful."

"You don't know everything."

"I know what I see. What everyone sees. I don't think you've thought this

through. Or if you have, you've managed to leave out the important parts. You

know how her father feels about outsiders. He doesn't want anything to do with

us beyond taking our money. Rovers live by a different code of behavior than the

rest of us. Everyone knows that. So why do you persist in nosing around after

Cinnaminson?"

He looked sharply at her. "Stop it, Khyber."

"Stop what? Stop telling you the truth?"

"You don't have to be so mean about it! Have you forgotten that my mother is a

Rover?"

They glared at each other, each silently daring the other to say something more,

each refusing to give ground. Pen knew Khyber was right about Cinnaminson, even

if he wouldn't admit it. He knew he shouldn't be interested in her, even in a

casual way and certainly not in the way he was. But he didn't know what he could

do about it. It wasn't as if he had chosen for it to happen. It just had. Now he

was stuck with his feelings, and he couldn't cast them aside or bundle them up

and stick them in a locker. He was way beyond that, and besides, he wasn't at

all sure he wanted to change things anyway.

"We're being careful," he said finally.

She snorted. "How, exactly? Are there things happening between the two of you

that I'm not seeing? I certainly hope not, because what I am seeing is already

way too much."

He wheeled on her. "Just because your brother wants to marry you off and you

don't like the idea doesn't mean the rest of us have to feel the same way about

things!"

"Oh, are you thinking of marrying her?"

"That's not what I mean!" He was furious now. "I mean I don't have to be as

close-minded as you obviously are! I don't have to be like you!"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed.

Behind them, Gar Hatch stood in the pilot box. Pen shot him a quick look, but he

didn't seem to notice the boy. His eyes were directed forward, toward the

horizon.

"You're being unreasonable!" Pen hissed back at her. "We're just friends!"

She started to reply, then stopped herself. Her face softened, her anger faded,

and she nodded slowly. "All right, Pen. Let's drop the matter. What right do I

have to tell you how to behave, anyway? Ask my family how well behaved I've

been. I haven't the right to lecture you."

He sighed wearily, looking out over the bow toward the approaching night. "I

know I shouldn't be doing this. I know I should just stay away from her. I know

that."

Khyber put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "But you can't and you won't

and I don't have the right to ask you to do so. I wouldn't want you telling me

what to do if our positions were reversed. But I worry, anyway. I don't want you

disappearing over the side of the ship one night just because you smiled at this

girl once too often. Everything we're doing depends on you. We can't afford to

lose you. Just keep that in mind when you're thinking about how pretty she

looks."

He exhaled sharply. "You don't have to worry about that. I can't stop thinking

about it. That's part of the reason I like being with her. She helps me forget

for a little while."

They didn't say anything for a long time as they looked out at the skyline,

listened to the cries of the seabirds and the hum of the ship's rigging. The

western sky had gone shadowed and gray with the setting of the sun, and the

first star had appeared in the north.

"Just be careful," Khyber said finally.

He nodded, but did not answer.

* * *

The fourth day of travel dawned gray and sullen with storm clouds layered all

across the northwest horizon, roiling and windswept as they bore down on the

Streleheim. Pen came on deck at first light to find Gar Hatch and both Rover

crewmen hard at work taking down the sails, tightening the rigging, and lashing

in place or carrying below everything that might be lost in the blow.

Cinnaminson was standing in the pilot box, her face lifted as if to taste the

raindrops that had begun to fall.

He thought at first to go to her, then decided against it. There was no reason

to do so, and it would call needless attention to his infatuation. Instead,

familiar enough with what was needed to be able to help, he went to help the

crewmen secure the vessel. They glanced at him doubtfully as he joined them in

their work, but said nothing to discourage it. Behind him, Ahren and Khyber

appeared, as well, standing in the hatchway, stopped by a wind that had begun to

howl through the rigging like a banshee.

"Get below!" Gar Hatch bellowed at them. His gaze shifted to Pen. "Penderrin!

Take Cinnaminson down with them, then come back on deck! We need your strong

back and skilled hands, lad! This is a heavy blow we're facing down!"

Pen dropped what he was doing and raced at once to the pilot's box, slipping

precariously on decking slick with dampness. He heard Cinnaminson shouting at

him as he reached her, but her words were lost in the shrieks and howls of the

wind. Shouting back that everything would be all right, he took her arm and

steered her out of the pilot box and over to the hatchway, bending his head

against the sudden gusts that swept into him. Again, she tried to say something,

but he couldn't make it out. Ahren was waiting to receive her, and Pen turned

back at once to help the beleaguered Rovers.

"Safety lines!" Gar Hatch roared from the pilot box, where he had taken over the

controls.

Pen found one coiled about a clasp on the mainmast and snapped the harness in

place around his waist. The Skatelow was dropping swiftly toward the plains as

Gar Hatch sought shelter. The Rover Captain had to set her down or she would be

knocked out of the sky. But finding a place that would offer protection from the

wind and rain was not so easy when it was impossible to see clearly for more

than a dozen yards.

The sails were down by then, so the boy hurried forward to secure the anchor

ropes and hatch covers. Rain began to fall in sheets, a deluge that soaked Pen

in only seconds. He had not worn his weather cloak on deck, and his pants and

tunic offered no protection at all. He ignored the drenching, blinking away the

torrent of water that spilled out of his hair and into his eyes, fighting to

reach his objective. Still descending toward the plains, a stricken bird in

search of a roost, the airship was shaking from the force of the wind.

Pen had almost reached the bow when the other end of his safety harness whipped

past him like a snake, shooting out through the railing and over the side. It

took him a moment to realize what had happened, that it had somehow come free,

and his hesitation cost him his footing as the snap of the line jerked him off

his feet. He went down on his back, his hands grasping for something to hold on

to as he began to slide toward the open railing, skidding on rain-slick decking,

unable to stop himself. He had only a moment to wonder how the line had come

loose before he was tumbling over the side.

He would have fallen to his death if he had not caught hold of one of the

stanchions, and even so, the effort of stopping himself nearly dislocated his

arms. He hung helplessly over the side, legs dangling and arms stretched to the

breaking point. For a second, he thought he would not be able to hold on. The

airship was lurching and heaving as the wind whipped at it, and it felt as if

everything was about to let go.

"Penderrin!" he heard Gar Hatch scream.

He looked across the decking through the rain to where the Rover Captain stood

braced in the pilot box with a coiled line gripped in both hands. Catching the

boy's eye, he gave the line a heave that sent it flying all the way forward and

across the railing, not six feet from where Pen hung suspended. Working the line

with both hands, Gar Hatch whipsawed it back and forth across the railing until

it fell over Pen's shoulder.

"Grab on!" the big man shouted.

The boy hesitated. There was no reason for his safety line to have come loose

unless someone had released the locking pin. The man best in position to do that

was the one offering to help him now. If he wanted Pen dead, all he had to do

was wait for him to grab the line, then release it. Pen would be over the side

and gone. Was that what Gar Hatch intended for him? Was he incensed enough about

Cinnaminson to kill Pen?

The airship shuddered violently, and Gar Hatch was thrown to one side in the

box. "Hurry, lad!" he cried out.

Pen released his grip on the stanchion, one hand at a time, and transferred his

weight to the rope the big man had thrown him. As he hung from it, the line the

only thing keeping him from tumbling away, he experienced a terrible certainty

that he had made a mistake and was going to pay for it with his life.

Then Gar Hatch began to haul on the rope, and Pen felt himself being lifted back

over the side of the vessel and onto the deck. In seconds, he was back aboard

and flat on his stomach as he crawled toward the pilot box, his heart still in

his throat.

Gar Hatch extended his hand over the side of the box and pulled him in

effortlessly, dark eyes glittering. "There, now! Safe again! That was close,

Penderrin! What happened to your line? Did you check to see that it was secure

at the masthead before buckling in?"

Pen had to admit he had not. "No. I didn't think there was any need."

"Haste is a dangerous enemy aboard an airship," the Rover Captain declared,

tucking his chin into his beard. "You want to be careful how you go, especially

in weather like this. Good thing I was watching out for you, lad." His eyes

narrowed. "Good thing, too, I decided you were worth the trouble of saving.

Another man with another daughter might have thought otherwise. You want to

remember that." He gave Pen a none-too-gentle shove. "Down you go with the

others till this is over. Better think on what I just said while you're there."

Pen made his way out of the pilot box and across the decking to the hatchway, a

cold place opening in the pit of his stomach. Behind him, he heard the Rover

Captain laugh.

EIGHTEEN

"Safety lines don't come loose for no reason at all," Khyber Elessedil

whispered, poking him in the chest to emphasize her point. "They don't get put

away with one end left unattached, either."

Outside, the wind hammered and the rain beat against the wooden hull of the

Skatelow as if to collapse it to kindling.

"I thought that, too," Pen answered, shaking his head. The cold feeling wouldn't

leave him. It had found a home, deep inside, and even being down in the

companionway and out of the weather didn't ease its chill. "But I couldn't argue

about it with him, because he was right-I hadn't checked it."

They were huddled together in his tiny cabin, talking in low voices and casting

cautious looks at the closed door as they did so. Creaks and groans filled the

silences, reminders of the precariousness of their situation. Overhead, they

heard the heavy boots of the Rover crewmen as they moved about the decking,

making sure the airship didn't break free of her moorings. They had landed only

minutes ago in the lee of an oak grove at the edge of Paranor's forests,

anchored about five feet off the ground while they rode out the storm. Gar Hatch

had come below immediately and taken Cinnaminson to his cabin. Ahren and Tagwen

were in the Druid's quarters already by then, the Dwarf sicker than Pen had seen

a man in some time.

Khyber frowned. "It doesn't matter what he says anyway. The point is, we know

how he feels. I doubt that he cared all that much whether you went over the side

or not. A fall would have been an unfortunate accident, but accidents happen.

Carelessness on your part, he'd say, exactly what he warned you against earlier.

He doesn't have to answer for your failure to listen. But saving you works even

better. It lets him make clear to you how vulnerable you are. He's made his

point. Now you know for sure not to come near his daughter anymore."

She paused. "You do know that now, don't you?"

He sighed. "Stop trying to tell me what to do, Khyber."

"Someone has to tell you! You don't seem capable of figuring things out on your

own!" She scowled and went silent, and they both looked away, listening to the

wind howl across the decking. "I'm just trying to keep you from getting killed,

Pen."

"I know."

"What was Cinnaminson trying to tell you when you were bringing her down? Did

you find out?"

"Just to be careful, to watch out for myself, that's all."

"She knew. She was trying to warn you." Khyber shook her head. "I wish this trip

was over. I wish we were rid of these people."

He nodded, thinking at the same time that he wished he were rid of everyone but

Cinnaminson. It didn't seem fair that a simple friendship should put him in so

much danger. He still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, although he

had no illusions about what Gar Hatch might be capable of. Khyber was right

about what happened topside. He might never know if Hatch intended for him to go

over the side, but he knew for certain that he had been warned.

"Well, the trip will be over soon enough," he muttered, suddenly bone weary and

heartsick. "Probably nothing else will happen now anyway."

Khyber exhaled sharply. "I wouldn't bet on it."

Although he didn't say so, Pen guessed he wouldn't, either.

* * *

The storm passed around midday, the winds dying down and the rain ending, and

the Skatelow resumed her journey east. By then, she was above the Jannisson

Pass, leaving Paranor and Calla-horn and sliding north along the foothills

fronting the Charnals and the Eastland. The weather turned sultry, and the skies

were clouded over and gray for as far as the eye could see. Water birds soared

overhead from the mountain lakes and rivers, white flashes against the gloom,

their cries eerie and chilling. Far to the east and south, the departing storm

clouds formed a dark wall splintered by flashes of lightning.

Except for the still-airsick Tagwen, everyone was back on deck by then, looking

out at the distant mountains, catching the first glimpses of their destination.

It was another day's journey to the Lazareen, but Pen felt a shift in his

thinking anyway. His time with Cinnaminson was growing short, for after the

Lazareen there was only another day's flying before they left the airship. He

marveled that only yesterday it seemed as if they had all the time in the world,

and now it seemed that they had almost none. Part of his attitude was fostered

by what had happened earlier, but even that wouldn't have discouraged him

entirely, had they had another week to spend together. But he could do nothing

to prolong their journey's ending, could change nothing about parting from

Cinnaminson.

They flew up the corridor leading off the Streleheim toward the Malg Swamp, a

misty flat smudge across the landscape on their left, the terrain in dark

counterpoint to the rolling green foothills on their right. Gar Hatch took the

airship lower, trying to avoid the heavier mix of clouds and mist that layered

the sky with a thick ceiling between swamp and mountains. As they neared the

Malg, the water birds disappeared, replaced by swarms of insects that defied

winds and airspeed to attack the ship's passengers in angry clouds. Gar Hatch

swore loudly and took his vessel up until finally the insects dropped away.

Pen spit dead gnats from his mouth and wiped them from his nostrils and eyes.

Cinnaminson appeared next to him, moving over from the pilot box with unerring

directional sense, never wavering in her passage, and he was reminded again of

how, even blind, she seemed able to see what was going on around her.

He was about to ask her what her father had said to her in his cabin, but before

he could do so, he heard something in the cry of a heron that winged past so

close it felt as if he could reach out and touch the bird. He looked at it

sharply, hearing in its call a warning he could not mistake. Something had

frightened the bird, and that did not happen easily with herons.

He scanned the horizon, then saw the dark swarm of dots soaring out of a deep

canyon cut into the rugged foothills.

Birds, he thought at once. Big ones. Rocs or Shrikes.

But they didn't fly like birds. There was no wing movement, and their shapes

were all wrong.

They were airships.

"Captain!" he shouted over to Gar Hatch and pointed.

For a long second, the big man just stared at the shapes, then he turned back

with a dark look on his face. "Cinnaminson, get below and stay there. Take the

other young lady with you. Penderrin, come into the pilot box. I'll need you."

Without bothering to wait for a reply, Gar began shouting at the Rover crewmen,

both of whom jumped in response. Within moments, they were hoisting every scrap

of sail they could manage, a clear indication that whatever was coming, Gar

Hatch intended to run from it.

Cinnaminson was already descending through the hatchway, but Khyber was having

none of it. "I'm staying," she declared firmly. "I can help."

"Go below," Ahren Elessedil ordered her at once. "The Captain commands on this

ship. If I need you, I'll call. Stay ready. Pen, let's find out what is

happening."

Be careful, Khyber mouthed silently to the boy as she disappeared from view.

Together, Pen and the Druid hurried over to the pilot box and climbed inside.

Gar Hatch was setting the control levers, readying them for when the sails were

all in place. He scowled at Pen and the Druid as if they might be responsible.

"Put on your safety lines," he ordered. "Check both ends of yours, young

Penderrin. We've no time for mistakes here."

Pen held his tongue, doing as he was told, buckling himself into his harness and

testing the links. Ahren Elessedil did the same.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it, making these runs," Gar Hatch growled. He

nodded toward the approaching dots. "Those are flits. Single-passenger airships,

bothersome little gnats. Quick and highly maneuverable. Gnome raiders use them,

and that's who those boys likely are. They want to bring us down for whatever

we've got aboard. They'll do it, too, if they get close enough. I wouldn't worry

normally, but that storm took something out of the Skatelow. She's faster than

they are when she's working right, but she's down in her power about

three-quarters and I haven't the time to do the work necessary to bring her back

up again until we reach the Lazareen."

"We can't outrun them?" Ahren asked.

Gar Hatch shook his head. "I don't think so. If we get far enough ahead of them,

they might lose interest. If they know the ship, they might fall off. If not . .

."

He shrugged. "Still, there's other ways."

He yelled at the crewmen to make certain they were ready, then shoved the

thruster levers all the way forward. The Skatelow shuddered with the sudden

input of power from the radian draws and shot ahead, lifting skyward at the same

time. Hatch worked the controls with swiftness and precision, and Pen could see

that he had been down that road before. Even so, the flits were getting closer,

growing larger and beginning to take on shape. Pen saw the Gnomes who were

crouched in their tiny frames, faces wizened and burnt by wind and sun. Gloved

hands worked the levers that changed the direction of the single-mast sail, a

billowing square that could be partially reefed or let out to change direction

and thrust. At present, all sails were wind-filled, catching the light, powering

the flits ahead at full speed.

Pen could already see that the Skatelow had no chance of outrunning them. The

angle of attack and her injuries from the storm didn't allow for it. The flits

would be on them in moments.

"Penderrin, lad," Gar Hatch said almost calmly. "Do you think you know enough by

now to take the helm and keep her running full out?"

The boy nodded at once. "I think so."

"She's yours, then," the Rover said, stepping aside. "You look like you might

have fought a battle or two in your time," he said to Ahren. "How are you with

rail slings?"

They went out of the pilot box, safety harnesses trailing after them, and worked

their way across the deck to either side of the mainmast. A Rover crewman joined

each of them, and in teams they began to set up the rail slings, pulling the

catapults out of storage bins and setting the pivot ends into slots cut into the

deck. Pen had never seen a rail sling before, but he understood their function

right away. Built like heavy crossbows, they sat on swivels that could be

pointed in any direction over the railings. A hand winch cranked back a sling in

which sat a missile the size of a fist. When the sling was released, the missile

hurtled out into the void, hopefully striking something in the process.

Hitting a moving target with one of those weapons while flying in an airship was

virtually impossible, unless the target was huge, in which case no damage was

likely to occur. But used against a swarm of targets, like the flits, a rail

sling might have some success. Miss one flit and you still had a chance at half

a dozen more. The rail slings were barely in place and loaded when the first of

the flits reached them. The flits by themselves were useless as weapons, too

small and fragile to ram a larger vessel or to shear off a mast. The Gnomes'

intent was to sever the radian draws or rigging or to shred the ambient-light

sheaths. They did this by using poles with razor-sharp blades bound about the

business end.

In seconds, the flits were everywhere, coming at the Skatelow from every

direction. Pen kept the airship steady and straight, knowing that this offered

Gar Hatch and Ahren Elessedil their best chance at bringing down their

attackers. The rail slings were firing by then, and a few of the tiny ships went

down, sails holed or masts shattered, plummeting earthward like stricken birds.

One either miscalculated or failed for some other reason and crashed into the

Skatelow's hull, shattering on impact. Another became tangled in the bigger

ship's rigging and crashed to the deck, where its pilot was seized by one of the

Rovers and thrown overboard.

But the flits were inflicting damage on the Skatelow, as well. Several of her

rigging lines had already been severed, and one radian draw was frayed almost to

the breaking point. The mainsail had a dozen rents in the canvas, and the flit

that had become tangled in the rigging had brought down several spars. The

Skatelow was still flying, but Pen felt the unevenness of her effort.

When the frayed draw finally snapped, he switched off power to the crystal it

fed and transferred what remained to the others. But the airship was shaking and

bucking and no longer responded smoothly.

"Hold her steady!" Gar Hatch bellowed angrily.

Another flit whipped past Pen, the pole and blade sweeping down at his head, and

he barely managed to duck away from it. Sensing the ship was in trouble and its

crew unable to do any more to help her or themselves, the raiders were growing

bolder. One good strike on one more essential component, and the vessel would

not be able to stay in the air. She would fail quickly, and then she would be

theirs.

They were deep into Northland country by that time, flying close to the Malg,

and mist had closed about them in a heavy curtain that reduced their vision to

almost nothing. The flit attacks seemed to materialize from nowhere as they

winged out of the haze and then disappeared back into it again. How the Gnome

pilots could find their way under such conditions was beyond Pen. He was

struggling to see anything.

"Take her up!" Hatch shouted at him.

He did so, lifting her nose into the soup just as a Gnome raider came right

across the bow. The flit simply disintegrated, but pieces of it ricocheted

everywhere, severing lines forward and starboard and cutting loose the flying

jib. The Skatelow slewed sideways in response, and Pen could no longer make her

do anything. Gar Hatch abandoned his rail sling and clawed his way back across

the deck to regain the controls.

In the midst of that chaos, with the Skatelow beginning to fall and the flits

attacking like hornets, Ahren Elessedil stepped away from his rail sling, stood

at the center of the airship's deck, and raised his arms skyward, his robes

billowing like dark sails. For a moment he stood without moving, a statue at

rest, eyes closed, head lifted. His face was calm and relaxed, as if he had

found peace within himself and left the madness behind.

Then his hands began to weave like snakes and his voice to chant, the sound low

and guttural and unrecognizable as his.

Gar Hatch had hauled himself into the pilot box and taken over the controls from

Pen with an angry grunt. His hands were flying over the levers and wheels, but

when he looked up long enough to catch sight of Ahren Elessedil, he froze. "What

in the name of sea salt and common sense is the man doing?" he demanded.

The boy shook his head. He knew. "Saving us," he answered.

Behind them, Khyber had come out on deck, grasping the hatchway frame to hold

herself steady, and was shouting at her uncle in disbelief.

Gnome raiders, bladed poles lowered to skewer him, were darting at the Druid

from all directions. But try as they might, they could not get close enough to

do so. Mist obscured their vision and gusts of wind knocked them aside, the mix

roiling faster and faster, taking on the shape of a massive funnel. Heads began

to turn in response. Aboard the Skatelow, the Rovers were shouting. Astride the

flits, there wasn't the time or energy to spare for it. The mist and wind had

become a deadly whirlpool surrounding the airships and then closing on them.

Ahren Elessedil's arms were stretched above his head, as if he sought to grasp

something that was just out of reach. The funnel cloud of mist and wind

continued to tighten. It caught the outermost flits and engulfed them. One

minute they were there, fighting to stay aloft, and the next they were gone. The

rest tried to flee, banking their tiny ships in all directions, seeking a means

of escape. Some came right at the Skatelow and Ahren Elessedil, but they could

not get close enough to strike at either. One by one, they were plucked from the

sky by the funnel. One by one, they disappeared until all were gone.

The Druid lowered his arms, the mist dissipated, the winds died, and the

whirlwind vanished, as well. Not a flit remained in the sky. Everything was the

way it had been before the attack, the air hazy and gray but calm. The Skatelow

sailed on, wounded but able to continue. In the distance, a sliver of sunlight

broke through the clouds.

Ahren Elessedil walked back over to the pilot box and beckoned to Pen. "Let's

help clear the decks and put away the rail slings," he said. He glanced at Gar

Hatch. "Odd weather we're having, isn't it? No one would ever believe such

strange things could happen. A man would be crazy even to suggest it."

Pen smiled inwardly. The Druid knew something about giving warnings, as well.

Which was a good thing, he supposed, since now everyone aboard knew what he was.

NINETEEN

Late in the morning of the following day, they arrived at Anatcherae, the inland

port on the Lazareen that serviced all traffic passing north along the corridor

formed by the Charnal Mountains to the east and the Knife Edge Mountains to the

west. They reached their destination more quickly than anticipated because

tailwinds filled and sunshine fed the sails and because Gar Hatch had been able

to complete repairs to the damaged radian draw before nightfall of the previous

day. It was a smooth flight the entire way after their escape from the flits,

with no further trouble arising to impede their passage.

Anatcherae was an old city built by a mix of Trolls and Bordermen following the

Second War of the Races, when Southlanders were mostly keeping to themselves

below Callahorn but trade was flourishing everywhere else. A sprawling,

ramshackle outpost in its early days, it grew quickly, the principal port

servicing trappers and traders coming out of the Anar, Callahorn, and everywhere

the Troll nations made their homes. It had become a major city, though still

with the look and feel of a frontier town, its buildings spread out along the

southwest shore of the lake, timber and shingle structures that were torn down

and replaced as the need arose and without much thought to permanency. Even

though the greater part of the populace lived in the city, most did not intend

to make Anatcherae their final stop along life's road and so did not build for

the long term.

The Skatelow set down at the waterfront docks, where warehouses and barns loomed

like low, squat beasts bent down for a drink at the Lazareen's dark waters,

their mouths open to receive what the lake would deliver. Airships crowded the

waterfront, most of them large freighters and warships. Traffic leaving the

docks passed down roads flanked by ale houses, pleasure dens, and inns of

various descriptions. Shops and homes lay farther inland, away from the bustle

and din of the docks, back from the raw edge of seaport life.

Standing on deck while the harbormaster towed the Skatelow to her assigned slip,

Pen took a moment to glance over his shoulder in the other direction, back

across the lake. The Lazareen was legendary. A broad, slate-gray body of water

that seldom changed color in any weather, it was believed to run several

thousand feet deep. Rumor had it that in some places it reached all the way to

the netherworld and thereby provided the souls of the dead a doorway to the

domain of the living. Mountains framed its rugged banks to the east and south,

walls of stone that kept those souls contained. Dozens of rivers had their

origins in snowmelt glaciers thousands of feet higher up, the confluence of

their waters tumbling through canyons and defiles to feed the lake. Cold winds

blew down out of snowy heights to mix with the warmer air of the flats and

create a swirling mist that clung to the shorelines like gray moss and sent

tendrils stretching across the lake's waters like searching fingers. Pen did not

like the Lazareen, he decided. It had the look and feel of the Mist Marsh, a

place the boy was all too familiar with and wished never to visit again.

The Skatelow eased up against the dock, and the Rovers set about securing her.

When Gar Hatch came over to speak with Ahren, Pen listened in.

"I'll be needing several days to make repairs before we continue on," the Rover

Captain advised in a gruff voice, hitching up his pants to emphasize that work

lay ahead. "Maybe more. Once that's done, we'll continue on to where you need to

go, and then I'll be dropping you off and saying goodbye."

"I don't think we discussed being dropped, Captain," the Druid said, frowning.

"I think the agreement was that you would wait until we came out again from our

search."

"That was then, this is now. The agreement is changed." Gar Hatch spit over the

side. "Others need a little business done, as well, and rely on me to conduct it

for them. I require my ship to do so. I can't make a living while she sits idle.

You don't pay enough for that. Give me a time and a place, and I'll come back

for you. My Captain's word on it."

"There isn't any way of knowing when we'll be finished. We can increase your

purse, if it's a matter of money."

The Rover shook his head. "Sorry, mate. This isn't about money."

Ahren Elessedil smiled. "You are a Rover, Gar Hatch. It's always about money."

The big man laughed and glanced over at Pen. "You listening close, young

Penderrin? Here's a man who knows the way of the world. He's right, too.

Everything is about money, one way or the other." He looked back at the Druid.

"Still, I can't let myself be tied down for so long. You might not even come

back from wherever it is you're going. I've seen already the sort of business

you do, and it isn't reassuring to puzzle on. So I'm dropping you and that's the

end of it."

The Druid nodded. "I could find other passage and cancel our agreement here and

now, Captain Hatch. I would be justified."

"You could try," the big man amended. "But you won't find anyone else to take

you where you want to go that knows the ways of that country like I do. You

won't find anyone who can sail the mists and the night like I can. Maybe most

important of all, you won't find anyone who can keep his mouth shut about who

you are and what you're doing. You might want to bear that in mind."

"But can I trust you? I find I have serious doubts."

Gar Hatch smiled and inclined his head. "Put aside your doubts, sir. My word is

good."

The irony of that statement probably did not escape the Druid, but he let it

pass. "Three days, Captain. That's as long as I'll give you to do your business

here. We leave on the fourth. We'll find lodgings ashore and check back with

you. I won't press for you to wait on us, if you've decided against it. But

there will be no further changes to our agreement, and I expect a close watch on

the tongues of your people. Don't disappoint me."

He went down the hatchway to his cabin to bring up Tagwen. Khyber was already on

the dock, looking around eagerly.

Pen sensed Gar Hatch staring at him and met his stare, refusing to look away

when it lingered too long. The big man laughed. "You've been a revelation for

me, Penderrin. A treasure and a find."

"Can I say goodbye to Cinnaminson?" Pen asked.

He hadn't seen her since the attack of the flits. Gar Hatch had kept her shut

away in his cabin, not even allowing her to come on deck at night, advising his

passengers that she was ill. Pen had thought several times to sneak down and see

for himself, but each time he thought to try, Gar Hatch was somewhere close,

watching.

It was his last chance until they reboarded in three days' time, and anything

could happen between now and then. Hatch could promise what he wished, but that

didn't mean it was likely to happen.

The Rover Captain smiled. "Better you don't, lad. What she's got might be

catching. Wouldn't do to have you come down with a fever while you're resting in

port. Your uncle is mad enough at me already. You'll see her when you come back

aboard."

I'll never see her again, Pen thought. But he could do nothing about it short of

forcing a confrontation, and he was aware how much trouble that would cause.

He turned away without a word, shouldered his pack, and started down the ladder.

He was halfway to the pier when he heard his name called.

"Pen, wait!"

Cinnaminson appeared at the railing, blind eyes staring downward without finding

him. He started back up the ladder and stopped when he was close enough to see

Gar Hatch glaring at him in the background.

"I'm feeling better now, Pen," she said, giving him a small wave and a smaller

smile. "I just wanted to say goodbye." Then she whispered so softly that only he

could hear, "Come back tonight."

She turned away quickly and went to her father, who took her by the arm and

steered her below again, not bothering with even a glance at Pen. The boy stood

watching until they were out of sight, then went down the ladder with his heart

in his throat.

* * *

With Ahren Elessedil leading, the four companions walked down through the center

of the city, mingling with the crowds as they searched for a likely place to

secure lodging for the days ahead. Pen could barely make himself concentrate on

the task at hand, his mind still on Cinnaminson and her whispered words. Come

back tonight. He was intoxicated by them, made light-headed at the prospect of

what they meant, chilled by the prospect of the danger at which they hinted. He

wasn't afraid, though. He was fearless when it came to her. He understood that

by even considering a secret return, he was risking not only his own safety but

also the success of his undertaking. Yet he couldn't help himself. He had to go

to her.

It took them the better part of an hour to find what Ahren was looking for, a

small, prosperous inn just off one of the main roadways, one that was better

kept than those closer to the docks, one frequented by other travelers than

sailors. It was called Fisherman's Lie. It sat on a corner that opened onto a

small plaza and was wrapped by a veranda that fronted both streets. Broad double

doors opened into the common room, where travelers sat to visit and drink

glasses of ale. Tables and benches and a long serving bar took up most of the

available space. Flowers grew in boxes under the windowsills, and baskets hung

all from the veranda and eaves, splashes of color to brighten the clapboard

facade.

Ahren left the other three on the porch while he went inside to take rooms. The

less they were all seen together, the less likely it was that anyone would make

the connection to the four the Druids were hunting. Since Khyber had cut Pen's

hair short and bound his head in a scarf, none of them was particularly

noticeable. But there was no point in taking chances. Those tempted by the money

the Druids offered would be looking hard.

The Elf emerged in moments with the rooms secured. They went into the dining

room after that and sat at a table in the back while waiting for their food.

Sipping at glasses of cold ale, they talked about their situation.

"Hatch knows who I am," Ahren said quietly, eyes scanning the mostly empty room

as he spoke. "Or at least he knows what I am. He might not know my name yet, but

there is a good chance he will find out. Or if not him, then one of the crewmen.

All of them will be asking around, talking with other Rovers."

"Maybe not," Pen offered hopefully. "You might have scared him out of it."

Ahren smiled. "Not likely. Not that man. If he finds out who we are, he will

look for a way to turn it to his advantage. It's his nature. So we have to be

very careful until we set sail again. That's why I didn't tell him where he

could find us. He mustn't know. If he betrays us, our enemies will still have to

search us out. That won't be easy in a city of this size."

"We should just leave him right here and now and be done with it!" Tagwen

snapped. He scowled into his glass. "Take him up on his offer. That way we can

stop worrying about him."

"But not about getting to where we have to go," Ahren replied. "I don't trust

him, either, but he is right when he says we will have trouble finding anyone

else to fly us into the Charnals. Even by looking, we risk giving ourselves

away. Say what you want about Hatch, he knows how to sail. His reputation is one

of getting in and out of tight places. We need that. I think we have to stick

with him."

"One of us could watch the Skatelow and see who comes and goes," Khyber

suggested.

Her uncle shook his head. "That's too risky and too time-consuming. Besides, any

one of them could give us away. We can't watch them all. Better to keep our

heads down and wait this out. I will speak with Hatch each day to see how

matters stand. If he lies to me, I will know. The rest of you will remain here,

inside, out of sight. No one leaves the inn without permission until it is time

to sail. Agreed?"

All of them nodded, but Pen already knew it was an agreement he was going to

break.

* * *

He waited until it was dark and Tagwen was asleep before slipping out of his

bed. He crossed the room in his bare feet, boots in hand, and went through the

door without a sound. Instead of leaving by the inn's front entrance, he went

out the back, taking the rear stairs to the street. Cloaked and hooded, he went

quickly toward the waterfront. The night air was clear and sharp, turned cold

after sunset, and the sky was bright with stars. It was close to midnight, but

the streets were still bustling with activity, the denizens of the ale houses

and pleasure dens just beginning their night's fun. Many were sailors, come from

all over, a mix of travelers passing through. None of them looked at him. None

spoke.

He was taking a chance, risking everything. He was neither happy nor sad about

it, felt neither guilt nor satisfaction. Such things didn't matter to a boy who

thought he was in love. What mattered was that Cinnaminson was waiting, and the

thought of her drove every other consideration from his mind. His excitement

gave him courage and determination. It gave him a sense of invulnerability.

Whatever happened, he was a match for it. His certainty was so complete that he

never stopped to question whether his bravado might be playing him false. On

that night, there was no place in his heart for rational thinking.

He reached the waterfront and began working his way down the docks. New ships

had arrived, some of them bigger than anything he had ever seen. He looked

closely for the Galaphile as he went, but did not see her. Nor did he see Terek

Molt or any other Druids. Loading and unloading went on about him, unceasing,

unending, and all seemed as it should.

When he reached the Skatelow, he moved into the shadows across from her, staying

well back from the light. There was no sign of life aboard. Even the storm lamps

were extinguished. The boarding ladder was pulled up, signaling that visitors

were unwelcome. On the piers to either side, similarly darkened ships lay at

rest, sleeping birds awaiting the dawn.

Pen eased along the wall of the warehouse that fronted the slip, then moved just

to the edge of the light that pooled down from the lamps hung over the entrance

doors. He stood there, undecided, searching the contours of the Skatelow for

signs of life.

Then he saw her. She appeared all at once, beckoning to him, knowing somehow

that he was there. He took a chance, his throat tightening with anticipation. He

stepped into the light, crossed the dock to the mooring slip, and stopped just

below where she stood.

"Cinnaminson," he said.

Her blind gaze shifted and her hair shimmered in the moonlight. "Wait," she

whispered. She moved at once to the ladder and dropped it over the side. "Come

up. They're all in town at the ale houses and won't be back before dawn. We're

alone."

He did as she said, climbing the ladder and hauling himself aboard. He stood on

the decking in front of her, and she reached to take his hands. "I knew you

would come," she said.

"I couldn't stay away."

She released his hands and pulled the ladder back aboard. "Sit with me over

here, out of the light. If they come, they need me to lower the ladder to let

them aboard. By then, you can be over the side."

She led him to the far side of the pilot box, where the shadows were deepest,

and they sat down with their shoulders touching and their backs to the low wall.

Her milky eyes turned to find him.

"Let's not tell each other any lies tonight," she whispered. "Let's tell each

other only truths."

He nodded. "All right. Who goes first?"

"I do. It was my idea." She leaned close. "Papa knows who you are, Penderrin

Ohmsford. He knew Ahren Elessedil was a Druid after what happened during the

flit attack, and he found out the rest from asking around the docks. He didn't

give you away, or let on that you were passengers on the Skatelow, but he

knows."

Her smooth features were tight with trepidation and uncertainty, her chin lifted

as if to take a blow. Pen touched her cheek. "Ahren told us this might happen.

It isn't unexpected. But he had to reveal himself if he was to save us."

"Papa knows this, and he doesn't forget such favors. I don't think he intends

you harm. But I don't always understand how he thinks, either." She took his

hands again. "Will you tell me where you are staying? So that if I discover you

are in danger, I can warn you?"

He hesitated. It was the one thing he had been ordered not to reveal, no matter

what. He had promised to keep it a secret. And now Cinnaminson was asking him to

violate his trust. It was a terrible moment, and his decision was made

impulsively.

"We are lodged at Fisherman's Lie, about half a mile into the city." He squeezed

her fingers. "But how will you find us, even if you need to? You'll have to ask

for help, and that's too dangerous."

She smiled. "Let me tell you another truth, Penderrin. I can find you anytime I

want, because even though I am blind, I can see with my mind. I have always been

able to do so. It is the way I was born-with a different kind of sight. I travel

with Papa because I can see better than he can in darkness and in mist and fog,

bad weather, storms of all sorts. I can navigate by seeing with my mind what is

hidden to his eyes. That's why he can go into places others cannot-across the

Lazareen, into the Slags, places cloaked by weather and gloom. It's like a

picture that appears behind my eyes of everything around me. It doesn't work so

well in daylight, although I can see well enough to find my way about. But at

night, it is clear and sharp. Papa didn't know I could do this, at first. When

Mama died, he began taking me to sea rather than leaving me with her relatives.

He never liked them or they him. Having me travel with him was less trouble than

finding someone he trusted to raise me at home. I was still very young. I

thought I was being given a chance to prove I was worth keeping. I wanted him to

love me so that he wouldn't give me up. So I showed him how I could read the sky

when no one else could. He understood my gift, and he began using me to

navigate. I let him do so because it made me feel secure. I was useful, and so I

believed he would keep me."

She paused. "Papa doesn't want anyone to know this. Only the two men who serve

as crew know, and they are his cousins. Both are sworn to secrecy. He is

protective of me; I am his daughter and helpmeet. But I am also his good-luck

charm. Sometimes, he isn't clear on the difference. I think he loves me, but he

doesn't know what loving someone really means."

She reached out and cupped his face in her hands. "There. I've given you a

gift-a truth no one else has ever heard."

He took her hands in his own and squeezed them gently. "You've kept this to

yourself a long time. Why are you telling someone now, after so long? Why

disobey your father's wishes like that? I wouldn't have minded if you had kept

it secret."

She freed her hands, and her fingers brushed at her hair and face like tiny

wings. "I am tired of not being able to talk about it with anyone. Not talking

about it is like pretending I am someone other than who I really am. I have been

looking for someone to tell this to. I chose you because I think we are the

same. We are both keeping secrets."

"I guess that's so," he said. He sat back against the pilot box wall. "Now it's

my turn to tell you a secret. I hardly know where to begin, I have so many. You

know who I am, but you don't know what I am doing here."

"I can guess," she said. "The Ard Rhys is your aunt. You are here because of

her. But the Druids say you are in danger. They say that what happened to her

might happen to you if you are not found and brought to them. Is that true?"

He shook his head. "I'm in danger, but mostly from them. Some of them are

responsible for what's happened to her. If they find me, I might end up the same

way. I escaped them when they came looking for me in Patch Run. So now I'm

running away."

"Are you looking for your parents?"

"I'm looking for my aunt. It's complicated." He paused. "We promised to tell

each other truths tonight, so let me tell you one. You have a kind of magic that

no one else has. So do I. Like you, I was born with it. It is probably a part of

the magic my father inherited, something that's been passed down through the

Ohmsford bloodline for generations. Only, mine is different."

He exhaled softly, searching for a way to explain. "I can tell what plants and

animals are feeling and sometimes thinking. They don't talk to me exactly, but

they communicate anyway. They tell me things with their sounds and movements.

For instance, I know if they're afraid or angry and what causes them to be so."

"Your gift is not so different from my own," she said. "You can see things that

are hidden from other people and you can see them without using your eyes. We

are alike, aren't we?"

He leaned forward. "Except that I am free and you are not. Why is that,

Cinnaminson? Could you leave your father if you wanted? Could you go somewhere

else and have a different life?"

It was such an impulsive question that he surprised himself by asking it. Worse,

he had nothing beyond encouragement to offer if she answered yes. What could he

do to help her in his present circumstances? He couldn't take her with him, not

where he was going. He couldn't offer to aid her while Ahren was so determined

not to aggravate Gar Hatch.

She laughed softly. "Such a bold question, Penderrin. What should I do? Leave my

Papa and run away with you? A blind girl and a fugitive boy?"

"I guess it sounds silly," he admitted. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Why not?" she pressed, surprising him. "Do you care for me?"

"You don't have to ask that."

"Then you must care about me, too. So it seems right to want an answer. I like

it that you do. Yes, I want a different life. I have looked for it. But you are

the first to whom I have talked about it. You are the first to ask."

He stared at her face, at her smooth features, at the smile that curved her

lips, at her strange blank eyes. What he felt for her in that instant

transcended love. He might say that he loved her, but he didn't know all that

much about love, so saying it wouldn't mean anything. It was only a word to him;

he was still only a boy. But this other feeling, the one that was more than

love, encompassed whole worlds. It whispered of connection and sharing, of

confidences and truths like the ones they had told each other tonight. It

promised small moments that would never be forgotten and larger ones that could

change lives.

What could he give her that would tell her this? He struggled to find an answer,

lost in a sea of confusing emotions. Her hands were holding his again, her

fingers making small circles against his skin. She wasn't saying anything. She

was waiting for him to speak first.

"If you were to decide you wanted to leave your father, I would help you," he

said finally. "If you wanted to come away with me, I would let you. I don't know

how that could happen. I only know that I would find a way."

She lowered her head just enough that the shadows grazed her face and hid her

expression. "Would you come for me wherever I was, Pen? It is a bold thing to

ask, but I am asking it anyway. Would you come for me?"

"Wherever you are, whenever you have need," he whispered.

She smiled, her face lifting back into the light. "That is all I need to know."

She sat back and turned her face to the starlit sky. "Enough of making promises

and telling truths. Let's just sit together for a little while and listen to the

night."

They did so, side by side, not saying anything, their hands in their laps, their

shoulders and hips touching. The sounds of the waterfront rolled over them in

small bursts and slow meanderings, brief intrusions from a place that seemed far

away. The night turned colder, and Pen wrapped them both in his cloak, putting

his arm around her to lend his warmth, feeling her small form melt against him.

After a time, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You must leave now.

It grows late. They will return. Go back to your room and sleep." She kissed him

again. "Come again tomorrow, if you can. I will be waiting."

He rose and walked with her to the ladder, scanning the dock for signs of

approaching Rovers. The docks were empty now. She lowered the ladder for him,

and he climbed down. He stood looking up at her as she pulled it away again,

then he turned and went down the waterfront.

Cinnaminson.

Nothing in his life, he knew, would ever be the same again.

TWENTY

Grianne Ohmsford woke to a morning so dismal and gray that it might have drifted

out of the marshy depths of the Malg Swamp, an apparition come in search of the

unfortunate Jarka Ruus. It felt alive and hungry. It had a shape and feel. The

air it breathed smelled of fetid water and brushed at the skin with greasy,

insistent fingers. The clouds that formed its hair were so low in the sky as to

be indistinguishable from the misty beard that curled about its ragged face.

Everything about it whispered of hidden danger and lost souls. In its presence,

heartbeats quickened with the uneasy and certain knowledge that death, when it

appeared, would be quick and unexpected.

The Ard Rhys was cramped from sleeping in the cradle of tree limbs, her body

aching and stiff. She had slept, though she did not pretend to understand how,

and she had kept her perch and not fallen as she had feared she would. Climbing

down through brume that would have discouraged even the most intrepid seabird,

she caught sight of the tracks that crisscrossed the earth directly below, and

decided she had been lucky to have survived the night with no more than her sore

muscles. Weka Dart had been right to warn her against trying to make her bed on

the ground.

She glanced around, scanning the mist and gloom for some sign of the devious

little Ulk Bog, thinking he might have come back during the night, even as mad

at her as he had been when he left. After all, he had gone to a lot of trouble

to persuade her to allow him to accompany her, and she found it hard to believe

that he would toss it all away because of a perceived slight. He didn't seem the

type who would allow insults to get in the way of ambitions. She still wasn't

sure what he was after, only that he was after something. But there was no sign

of him, so she accepted that he had gone his own way after all.

Just as well, she told herself.

Except that she didn't know the country, and that put her at a disadvantage. She

knew in general how she should go, given that the Forbidding mirrored the Four

Lands. She could estimate the location of the Hadeshorn from what she knew of

its location in her own world. But the mist was confusing, and her sense of

direction skewed by the different land formations. Worse, she would have to risk

encountering the monsters that inhabited the Forbidding, without knowing who and

what they were. At least Weka Dart had knowledge of the things she needed to

avoid.

But there was no help for it. Nor help for her lack of food and water. She would

have to forage for both as she traveled, hoping that she would recognize the

former when she saw it. Water should be less of a problem, although just then

she didn't want to assume anything.

She stretched her aching limbs and looked down at herself. Ragged and dirty, she

was a mess. Her clothes were almost in shreds, her pale skin showing through the

gaps in ways that didn't please her. She wrapped her tattered nightdress closer

and told herself she would have to find something else to wear soon or she would

be naked as well as starving and lost. She couldn't travel much farther without

boots, either. Her feet were already scraped and bleeding, and she hadn't even

gotten to the rocky climb to the Hadeshorn.

When I find out who did this to me ...

She was about to set out when there was movement in the trees to one side and

Weka Dart, bristle-haired and spindly-limbed, emerged carrying a cloth-wrapped

package in both arms. He caught sight of her and stopped, his sharp teeth

showing as he smiled broadly.

"Ah, Grianne of the trees. Sleep well, did you? You don't look so bad for having

spent the night aboveground. See all the tracks?" He gestured. "Now you

understand what I was telling you."

She stared at him without answering, undecided if she was happy about having him

back.

His cunning features scrunched with disappointment. "Don't look at me like that!

You should be pleased to see me. How far would you get without me? You don't

know anything about this part of the world, anyone can tell that. You need me to

guide you."

"I thought you were finished with me," she said.

He shrugged. "I changed my mind. I decided to forgive you. After all, you have a

right to know about me, so you did what Strakens do and used your magic to find

out. It isn't any different than what any creature of habit would do. Here, I

brought you some clothes."

He came forward and dumped the bundle at her feet. She bent down and picked

through it, finding leather boots, a loose-fitting cotton shirt, pants, a belt

and knife, and the great cloak in which he had wrapped them. All were in good

condition and close enough in size to fit her comfortably. She had no idea where

he had found them and didn't think she should ask. "Put them on," he urged.

"Turn your back," she replied.

It was silly, given that an Ulk Bog would not be interested about her that way,

but she wanted to assert her authority now, before he got the wrong idea about

who was in charge. If he was going to accompany her on the rest of her journey,

as it appeared he was determined to do, she had better set him straight on the

nature of their relationship immediately.

She removed the nightdress and put on the clothes, watching him fidget as he

stared off into the trees. "I want to know why you insist on coming with me,"

she told him. "And don't tell me it's because you want to help a stranger find

her way."

He threw up his hands. "Can't anyone do a good turn for you without being

questioned about it?"

"In your case, no. You don't seem the type to do good turns unless there is

something in it for you. So let's be honest about it. What is it that you want

from me? Maybe it isn't anything I'll mind giving up, if it means you can get me

to where I want to go." She finished buttoning the tunic. "You can turn around

now."

He did so, looking sour-faced and ill-used. "I thought Strakens could tell what

normal people are thinking. Why don't you just use your magic to find out what I

want?"

She didn't bother with an answer, waiting patiently on him. He pouted. "You

already know the reason. You just weren't paying attention when I told you. Too

self-absorbed, I suspect."

"Tell me again."

He pouted harder. "I got in some trouble with my tribe. I had to flee for my

life. They might still be chasing me. Alone, I'm not much good against a lot of

the things that are Jarka Ruus. I know how to find my way and mostly how to

avoid them, though. So I thought we could help each other." He folded his arms

defiantly. "There, are you satisfied, Grianne of the curious mind and endless

questions?"

He was being insolent, but she let it go. "I am. For now. But in the nature, you

will tell me the truth about your motives and your plans, little rodent, or I

will feed you to the bigger things you seek to avoid. I don't like surprises. I

want to know what you are thinking about things. No secret plans, or our bargain

is off."

"Then you agree that we should travel together?" he asked. He was positively

gleeful. "You will watch out for me?" He caught himself. "Well, you agree that

we will watch out for each other?"

"Let's just start walking," she said, and turned away.

* * *

They walked all that day, traveling east below the Dragon Line and across the

grasslands and foothills of the Pashanon. The weather stayed gray and misty, the

sun never more than a faint brightness high above them, the world they journeyed

through composed of brume and shadows. The air was damp and chilly, a

discomforting presence that made Grianne grateful for the clothes and boots that

Weka Dart had brought her. The grasslands and hills were coated with moisture

that never quite evaporated, yet the land remained barren and lifeless. The

absence of small birds and little animals was unnerving, and even the insects

tended to be of the buzzing, biting variety. Grasses grew thick and hardy,

sawtooth and razorblade spears that were a washed-out green and mottled gray.

Trees were stunted and gnarled below the Dragon Line, and many were little more

than skeletons. The waters of the ponds and streams were stagnant and

algae-laced. Everywhere they traveled and everywhere she looked, the world

seemed to be sick and dying.

Yet the Jarka Ruus had existed for thousands of years. She tried to imagine a

lifetime in such a world and failed. It frightened her to think of being trapped

here for long. If she had not believed that she would find a way out, she would

have been devastated.

But she never wavered in her certainty that she would find a way out. Those who

had sent her here had made a mistake in letting her live. They might think

themselves rid of her, but she would prove them wrong.

Her thoughts drifted frequently to the cause of her predicament. It was

impossible for her to know exactly who had transported her, but she could make

an educated guess or two. What baffled her was why they hadn't simply killed her

and been done with it. It was what she would have done to them when she was the

Ilse Witch. Leaving a dangerous enemy alive to come looking for you later, no

matter how difficult the task, was always risky. So why had they let her live?

It would have been no more difficult for them to kill her than to send her into

the Forbidding. It made her think something else was happening, a reason for her

enemies to keep her alive and imprisoned. It also made her ponder anew the

source of the power it had taken to put her here. It was more than even the most

powerful of the Druids possessed. It was beyond anything that existed in her

world.

It was a power, she was beginning to think, that might have come from the

Forbidding, itself.

Her ruminations kept her occupied for much of her journey. Weka Dart continued

to skitter about, dodging sideways and occasionally climbing up and down trees

and rock formations, but always moving. He did not talk much, for which she was

grateful, absorbed apparently in keeping an eye out for the things they should

avoid.

There were a great number of those, and they encountered many of them on their

way. Ogres and giants stomped through the grasslands, mindless behemoths,

dim-sighted and single-minded, with great shoulders hunched and massive arms

dragging. Harpies flew overhead, winged shrews that screamed and spit venom at

each other and anything below. A scattering of dragons came and went, smaller

for the most part and different from the Drachas. Various forms of Faerie

creatures were glimpsed, as well, particularly kobolds, which seemed to live in

large numbers in that region.

Once, they saw a village of Gormies, far in the distance, a mud and grass huddle

of shelters cut like caves into a hillside. Walls fronted the village and spikes

jutted out of the earth in pointed warning. The Gormies themselves, ferret-eyed

and wiry, crept about their enclosure like shades.

"What would frighten an entire village of those little terrors?" she asked Weka

Dart.

He laughed and growled deep in his throat. "Wait and see."

She did so, and a few hours later she had her answer. They had just crested a

small rise, catching sight of a valley that stretched away beyond to the east

when Weka Dart wheeled around suddenly, hissing, "Down, down!" She dropped at

once, flattening herself against the earth, pressing into tufts of the spiky

grass that grew everywhere, her breathing turned sharp and quick. The Ulk Bog,

stretched out beside her, wormed forward just far enough that he could see

something that was still hidden from her.

"Watch," he whispered over his shoulder.

She did so, peering into the valley, waiting. The minutes passed and nothing

happened. Then an ogre of monstrous size lumbered into view, hunched over and

shouldering a massive club. It was young, Grianne guessed, coarse hair still

black along its spine and across its shoulders, and its thick skin leathery and

smooth. It was shaking its head from side to side and brushing at the air as if

to ward off gnats or flies. But she saw neither.

"What is it doing?" she whispered.

Weka Dart's eyes were bright. "Listen."

She did, and then she heard it, too-a high-pitched, keening sound that seemed to

come from everywhere at once. It was clearly bothering the ogre, who was

grunting with annoyance, lifting its head every so often in a futile effort to

search out the source. The sound intensified steadily, turning to a wail that

cut right to the bone, raw and harsh and filled with pain.

Finally, the ogre stopped walking altogether, turning this way and that, blunt

features twisted into an ugly knot. Grianne flattened herself further. The ogre

was looking for something on which to vent its irritation, and she had no desire

to provide it with a target. Weka Dart lay motionless, as well, but she saw the

knowing smile at the corners of his mouth. There was anticipation in that smile,

and she did not care for the look of it.

Suddenly, small, four-legged creatures began to appear, coming out of the

grasses and from behind the rocks, a handful at first and then dozens. Their

sharp-featured cat faces and sleek, sinuous shapes were unmistakable; she

recognized them at once, even though she had never seen one before. Furies. She

had read about them in the Druid Histories. Only once since their imprisonment

had they broken through the Forbidding, doing battle with Allanon and nearly

killing him. They were creatures of madness and mindless destruction, the worst

of the many bad things imprisoned in this world. They attacked in swarms and

were drawn to their victims by a hunger for blood. In the world of the Jarka

Ruus, everything avoided them.

They closed now on the ogre, coming at it from all directions, so many that she

could no longer count them. The ogre waited on them, its small, piggish eyes

already anticipating the damage it would inflict on the creatures. Because it

was young, it did not realize the danger it was in.

When they attacked, leaping blindly at the ogre, it smashed them like flies,

wielding club and fists with equal effect. The Furies were smaller and their

bodies unprotected, and those it found could not save themselves. But there were

too many for the ogre to stop, and soon they had broken through its defenses,

biting and tearing at its massive body with teeth and claws. Bits of flesh and

patches of hair came away, and in moments the ogre was slashed and bleeding from

head to foot. It fought on because that was all it knew to do, killing Furies as

long as it could, struggling to stay upright.

But in the end, they pulled it down, severing ligaments and tendons, shredding

muscle and flesh, draining its blood and its strength until it was helpless.

Bellowing in rage and despair, it disappeared beneath their relentless

onslaught, blanketed in a squirming, heaving mass of furry bodies, borne to the

earth until its life was gone.

Grianne, who had witnessed many terrible and violent deaths in her own world,

nevertheless cringed at that one. The ogre meant nothing to her, and yet she was

horrified by what had happened to it. She wanted to look away when the ogre was

reduced to its final shudders and gasps, but she could not. It took a tap on her

arm from Weka Dart to recall her to her senses.

"This way," the Ulk Bog whispered, "while they are busy."

They crawled through the grasses along the top of the rise and then down the

reverse slope until they were out of sight. Once concealed from view, they stood

and began walking, neither speaking, concentrating on the sounds that came from

the other side of the hill.

When they were far enough away that they could no longer be heard, even by cat

ears, Weka Dart turned to her. "Better they find it than us," he said with a

wicked smile.

She nodded in agreement. But she did not feel good about it.

* * *

They slept that night in the trees again, and Grianne did not offer any

objections. She understood how vulnerable they were to the creatures that roamed

the Pashanon under cover of darkness. Many she had not even seen, but a single

viewing of the Furies was enough to persuade her. The trees offered little

enough protection, she guessed, but she would take what she could find.

In her dreams that night, she saw the ogre die again, the scene replaying itself

in various forms. Sometimes she was simply a spectator, a passive viewer to the

death scene. At other times, she was the victim, feeling the teeth and claws of

the cat things tear into her, flailing and helpless beneath their attack,

thrashing awake in a cold sweat. At other times still, she was a participant,

one of the Furies, assisting in the destruction of another hapless creature,

driven by bloodlust and hatred, by feelings she thought she had left behind when

she had ceased to be the Ilse Witch.

She woke tired and out of sorts, but she kept it to herself as they continued

their travels east, walking the grasslands through another dismal and oppressive

day. They followed the banks of what would have been the Mermidon in her world.

She didn't bother to ask Weka Dart for its name, content to be left alone while

he sidled back and forth about her at his own pace. It rained on that day, and

even with the great cloak to protect her, she was soon drenched. They saw little

of the land's denizens and no sign of the Furies, and for that she was grateful.

On the afternoon of the third day, they reached a break in the Dragon Line that

she recognized as the mouth of the pass leading to the Hadeshorn and the Valley

of Shale. A twisting, dark defile, it wound upward into the cliffs and

disappeared into the mists.

"Do you know this place?" she asked Weka Dart. Rain dripped off her hood and

into her face, and she brushed it out of her eyes. "Have you been here before?"

He shook his head. "Never." He glanced up into the dark mass of rocks. "It

doesn't look like a place anyone would want to go."

"It is where I am going," she said. "You needn't. Do you want to wait for me

here?"

He shook his head quickly. "I'd better stay with you. In case you need me."

They began to climb, working their way through the rubble-strewn foothills until

they had reached the base of the mountains. There, the terrain turned steeper

and more treacherous, There were no signs of passage, no marks on the rocks or

wearing down of the earth. The pathway she knew to be there in her own world was

not there in the Forbidding, and she was forced to blaze it on her own. Perhaps

no one had ever come that way before. Weka Dart trailed her with less enthusiasm

than he had displayed on the flats, grumbling and muttering the entire way. She

ignored him. It had been his choice to come. She was no happier than he was to

have to break the trail.

It was not long before they heard the wailing. The sound was unmistakable, a low

moaning that might have been just the wind or something alive and in pain. It

rose and fell in steady cadence, trailing off entirely at times, only to return

seconds later. She tried to ignore it but found it impossible to do so. Changes

in pitch and tone set her teeth on edge. The sound raked the rocks of the pass,

tunneled deep into its crevices, and slithered down its gaps. Weka Dart hissed

in dismay and frustration and covered his ears with his hands. When she looked

back at him, his teeth were bared.

The shadows appeared soon after that, sliding out of splits in the walls and

from behind rocks. They were not cast as shadows should be, but moved

independently of the light, separating themselves from solid objects in ways

that should not have been possible. They flowed across the pass, crooked black

stains that tracked her progress like predators. When they touched her, their

blackness trailed across her skin with icy fingers.

She knew instinctively what was happening. She was being told to turn back. She

could feel the warning in the touch of the shadows and hear it in the sound of

the wailing. But she ignored it, as she knew she must, and continued on.

By nightfall, they reached a break in the rocks that opened through a thick

curtain of gloom and mist to a hole in the sky. Grianne Ohmsford stared in

surprise, then realized that the sky was ink black and empty of stars or moon.

There was simply nothing there. She walked forward, unable to believe she was

seeing correctly.

Beyond the break in the rocks, where the mist and gloom fell away, she found

herself standing on a rise that looked out over the Valley of Shale.

It was as she remembered it and yet not. The sharp-edged ebony stones were the

same, strewn across the empty slopes like shards of polished glass. But a wall

of mist enclosed the valley, a wall so deep and so high that she could see

nothing save the black hole of the sky above. The mountains had vanished. The

world had disappeared.

All that remained was the Hadeshorn, pooled at the bottom of the valley, its

still waters shimmering dully in the deep gloom. Its flat, mirrored surface gave

off a faintly greenish light that reflected from the pieces of stone. Mist rose

off its surface like steam, but no warmth was to be found in those waters. Even

from where she stood, Grianne could feel that the lake was as cold as winter and

as lethal as death. Nothing lived there that hadn't crossed over into the

netherworld long ago.

Weka Dart scuttled up behind her and peered about. "This place is evil. Why are

we here?"

"Because answers to my questions are to be found in the waters of that lake,"

she replied.

"Well, ask your questions quickly then, and let's be gone!"

The wailing began anew, low and insistent, seeping from the stones and filtering

through the air. The shadows reappeared, taking form this time, some familiar,

some not, swirling about them like phantoms come to haunt. There were no voices,

no faces, no human presence, and yet it seemed as if life might be embodied in

the shadows and in the wailing, bereft of substance and soul, trapped in the

ether. The sounds and the shadows responded to each other, speeding and slowing,

rising and falling, a symbiosis that reflected a terrible dependence.

"Straken, do what you must, but do it quickly!" Weka Dart urged, and there was

fear in his voice.

She nodded without looking at him. There was no reason to wait, nothing to be

gained by deliberation. She could not know what waited for her when she summoned

the spirits of the dead. It might be different here than in the Four Lands. It

might be lethal.

It might be her only hope.

Resolved, she started down.

TWENTY-ONE

She felt the presence of the dead almost immediately. They had assumed the forms

of the shadows that flitted about her and taken on the voices that wailed from

the rocks. They were a part of the air she breathed. As she descended the

slopes, she found them all about her, pressing close, trying to recapture

something of the corporeal existence they had left behind in crossing over into

the netherworld. Shades felt that absence, she knew. Even dead, they remembered

the substance of life.

This phenomenon would not have happened in her own world, where shades were

confined to the depths of the Hadeshorn and no trespass into the world of the

living was allowed. But in the Forbidding, more latitude seemed to be given to

the dead, and though not yet summoned from the afterlife, they were already

loose in the valley.

She sensed another aberration, as well. The shades that visited her were not

friendly. At best, they were hostile toward all living things, but she sensed a

specific antipathy toward herself. She could not determine the reason for that

right away. They did not know her personally or possess a specific grudge that

would explain their attitude, and yet there was no mistaking it. She felt it

prodding at her, small barbs that did not sting so much as scratch. There was

disdain and frustration in those scratches; there was outright dislike.

Something about her was angering these shades, and although she sought to

discover a reason for it, she could not. Shades were difficult to read, their

emotions not connected to the physical and therefore not easily understood.

She considered using her magic to push them away, to give herself space in which

to breathe. But within the Forbidding, her magic could have unforeseen

consequences, and she did not want to risk losing a chance to speak with the

shades of the Druids. Her purpose in coming there was to summon them, and she

could not afford to be distracted from that effort. The lesser shades were

annoying but manageable.

Even so, her journey to the floor of the valley seemed endless. The shades

rubbed on her nerves like sandpaper. Their whispers and icy touches left her

unsettled and anxious. She felt something of her old self rise in response, an

urge to crush them like dried leaves, a desire to scatter them beneath her boot

heels. It was what she would have done once upon a time and not given it a

second thought. But she was no longer the Ilse Witch, and nothing would ever

make her be so again.

She glanced back at Weka Dart. He sat cross-legged on the rise, hands over his

ears, face knotted in determination. He was hanging on, but it was taking

everything he had to do so.

By the time she reached the edge of the lake, the shadows were draped all about

her, frozen scraps of silk burning with death's chill. The wailing was so

pervasive that she could hear nothing else, not even the crunching of her boots

on the loose stone. The shades had crowded in from every side, gathering

strength in numbers until they had enveloped her. She was being suffocated,

punished for ignoring their warning. If she failed to rid herself of them

quickly, she would be overwhelmed.

She stared momentarily at the calm waters of the lake, at its columns of steam,

fingers of mist risen straight from the netherworld. She knew better than to

touch those waters. In her own world, they were deadly to living things,

although Druids could survive them. Here, even Druids might be at risk.

Gathering her wits and focusing her determination, she raised her arms and began

the weaving motion that would call forth the Druid dead. When the waters of the

lake began to stir in response, she added the words that were needed. Slowly,

the waters began to churn, the steam columns to geyser, and the lake itself to

groan like a sleeping giant come awake. The shades already present fell away,

taking with them their wailing and their icy touches, leaving dead space and

silence in their wake.

Once rid of her most bothersome distraction, Grianne brought the full force of

her power to bear. Using her skills and her experience, she bore down on this

other world's Hadeshorn, manipulating it as she would its twin in the Four

Lands, summoning the shades that would serve her cause, beckoning them from the

depths to the surface, drawing them with her call. The lake surged and heaved

with sudden convulsions, and its greenish waters turned dark and menacing.

Waterspouts erupted with booming coughs, angry and violent. The lake hissed and

spit like a venomous snake.

Her throat tightened and her mouth went dry. Something was wrong. There was

resentment in the lake's response. There was resistance. That was not the way it

was supposed to be. When the gateway to the netherworld was opened properly,

there should be a lowering of barriers that invited a joining. The shades sought

for it; it was their one chance to touch even briefly on what they had lost. The

lake that gave them that chance had no reason to complain. But it was doing so

here. It was more than disgruntled; it was enraged.

Had it been so long since a summoning had occurred in that world that the lake

failed to recognize it for what it was? Was it possible there had never been a

summoning before?

She gave herself only a moment to consider all that before re-focusing on the

task at hand. She had come too far to turn back and would not have done so if

she could have. She had made her decision and she would be the equal of whatever

happened. It was not bravado or foolhardiness that drove her; it was the

certainty that it was her one and only chance to find a way out of this prison.

It took everything she had to maintain her concentration. Her instincts were

screaming at her to back away, to cease her efforts. The air was filled with

sounds and sensations that grated on her resolve and wore at her courage. The

Hadeshorn was roiling by then, a volcanic pit threatening to explode with every

new gesture she made, with every new word she spoke. Her magic, she saw, was

anathema there, stirring the currents that led to the netherworld in the manner

of fire on parchment, incendiary and destructive.

Still she continued, implacable and unyielding, as hard as the stone upon which

she stood.

Then the shades began to rise in looping spirals, their transparent forms linked

by the trailing iridescence that poured out of their trapped souls. Like

shooting stars, they soared from the waters and lifted into the air, bright

flashes against the night's firmament. They writhed and wailed piteously, giving

vent to the travesty of their imprisonment, their outrage a mirror of her own.

They spun like sparks showered from a fire grown too hot, released in an

explosion of heat. But from where she stood on the shore, she felt only a deep,

abiding cold that permeated the air and left her exposed skin freezing.

Where was Walker? Where was Allanon? Where was the help she so badly needed?

She bore down, ignoring the cold air and damp spray, the terrible wailing and

the debilitating infusion of fear and doubt. She hardened herself as she had

been taught to do in darker times, cloaking herself in her magic and her

determination, fighting to keep her hold over the lake and its inhabitants. She

had opened the door to the world of the dead to seek answers to her questions,

and she would not close it again until she found what she had come for.

Her search ended when her strength was almost gone. A Druid shade surged out of

the roiling waters like a leviathan, huge and threatening, scattering lesser

shades as if they were krill on which it might feed. Dark robes billowed out,

the edges frayed and torn, the opening of its hood a black hole that had no

bottom. The lake's greenish light filtered through rents in its empty form,

carving intricate patterns that threw strange shadows everywhere.

Grianne Ohmsford stepped backwards in shock.

It's too big! Too massive!

The shade wheeled toward her soundlessly, drawing all the light into itself,

extinguishing the smaller shades around it. Within the hood, red eyes flared to

life and burned with unmistakable rage. She felt it watching her, measuring her.

It advanced as it did so, coming on like a juggernaut that meant to crush her.

As powerful as she was, as skilled at magic's uses, she was dwarfed by this

presence. She could not decide who it was. Not Walker, she knew. She had spoken

with his shade enough times to know how it felt when he appeared. Allanon,

perhaps. Yes, Allanon, darkest of them all.

But this dark?

She waited as the shade skimmed across the lake's boiling surface to reach her,

growing steadily in size. It gave her no hint of whom it was nor spoke even a

single word. It simply advanced, enigmatic and intimidating, testing her resolve

to stand fast. She could not look away from it. She was transfixed.

When it was close enough that it had blotted out the entirety of the sky behind

it, it stopped, hovering above the Hadeshorn, its dark form riddled and

tattered. Grianne brought her arms down now, lowering them slowly, carefully,

keeping her eyes fixed on the crimson orbs that burned out of the impenetrable

gap in the shade's hood.

-Do you know me, Straken-

Its voice was as empty and cold as the death that had stolen away its life. Her

stomach lurched in sudden recognition. Sweat beaded her forehead, though the

rest of her was as cold as that voice. She knew who it was. She knew it

instinctively. It wasn't Allanon. Or Bremen. Or even Galaphile. Not there,

inside the Forbidding. She had forgotten the importance of where she was. She

was in a place where only creatures exiled from the world of Faerie belonged.

She was in a place where only those who felt at home with such creatures would

come.

Even from the world of the dead.

What sort of shade would such creatures draw? Only one, she realized belatedly.

The shade of the rebel Druid Brona.

It was the Warlock Lord.

* * *

After Grianne Ohmsford had been stolen away as a child and begun her training as

the Ilse Witch, fear was the first emotion she had learned to control. It wasn't

easy at first. Her family had been killed and she was hunted still. She had no

friends save her rescuer, the Morgawr, and he was as dark as anything she had

ever imagined. He was impatient and demanding, as well, and when she did not

perform as he required he made certain she realized the consequences of failure.

It took her years to get past her fears, to harden herself sufficiently that in

the end she was afraid of nothing, not even him.

But she was afraid now. The fear returned in paralyzing waves that stole away

her strength and rooted her in place. It was the Warlock Lord she had summoned,

the most powerful and dangerous creature that had ever lived. What could she

hope to do with him?

The huge apparition rolled toward her once more, easing across the turgid

waters.

-Speak my name-

She could not. She could do nothing but stare. She had summoned the Druids'

worst enemy, their most implacable foe, to ask for help that she couldn't

possibly hope to receive. It was the worst mistake she had ever made, and she

had made many. She had not imagined that anyone but Walker would appear, just as

he always did when she came to the Hadeshorn. But it was not the Hadeshorn of

her world, but of the Forbidding, and it made perfect sense that in the world of

the Jarka Ruus, of the banished people, of the despised and the hated, Brona's

would be the shade that would respond to any summons.

She sensed his impatience; he would not wait much longer for her response. If

she failed to give it, he would depart, returning to the netherworld and

stealing away her last hope. Refusing to speak with him was pointless. He would

already know who she was and what she was doing there. He would know what she

was seeking. "No one speaks your name," she said.

-You will. You will dare anything, Ilse Witch. Haven't you always-

She cringed inwardly but kept her face expressionless. "You are Brona," she

said. "You are the Warlock Lord."

-I am as you name me, Straken. The name causes you to be afraid. It causes you

to question what you have done. As it should. Tell me. Why do you summon me-

She mustered her courage, telling herself that he was dead, only a shade, and

incapable of harming her physically. Alive, he would have been a very real

threat. Dead, he was a threat only if she allowed him to be. If she kept him at

bay and controlled her emotions, she was safe enough. She told herself that, but

she was not entirely sure. It was not the Four Lands, after all. She was in

another world, and the rules might be different.

"I am lost, and I want to go home again."

-You carry your home inside you, dark and tattered as the robes I wear. You bear

it in your heart, a sorry, empty vessel. Ask me something better-

Behind him, the lake rumbled in discontent, and a scattering of lesser shades

reappeared at the edges of the Warlock Lord's dark form, hovering cautiously.

"Who sent me here?" she asked him.

He made a sound that could have been laughter or something more terrible.

Beneath his ragged form, the waters hissed and steamed.

-Not those you suspect, foolish girl-

"Not other Druids? They didn't send me?"

-They are pawns-

Pawns? It made her pause. "Who then?"

The dark form shifted anew, blowing spray and cold into her face, sending

shivers down her spine.

-Ask me something more interesting-

Frustrated, she took a moment to think. Shades were notorious for giving vague

or incomplete answers to the living. The trick was in determining from those

answers what was real and what was false. It would be doubly hard here.

"Why are you even speaking with me?" she asked impulsively. "I am Ard Rhys of

the Druids, your enemies in life."

-You are not what you see yourself to be. You are a changeling who dissembles

and pretends. You hide whom you really are inside. Others fail to see it, but I

know the truth. I speak to you because you are not like them. You are like me-

Although it made her cold inside, she dismissed the comparison out of hand; she

understood well enough its source. He was not the first to see her that way nor

would he be the last. "How do I get home again? How do I find my way back?"

-You cannot. Someone must find you-

Her heart sank, but she forged ahead anyway. "No one will ever find me here. No

one can even get to me."

-You are already found. Someone already comes-

"Here? For me?" She felt her heart jump. "Who does this?"

-A boy-

That stopped her in her tracks. "What boy?"

-He is your way back. When he comes for you, you must be ready to go with him-

A boy. She took a deep breath, her throat tightening with the effort. A boy.

There was more to this, there had to be, but she knew he wouldn't tell her what

it was. He would make her wait, because that was the nature of the game he

played. Besides, the future was uncertain, even for a shade. He could not tell

her if the boy would succeed or fail. He could tell her only that the boy was

coming. He would let her imagine the rest. She must go another way.

She pulled her cloak closer about her, aware suddenly of how cold she was. It

was his presence, the nearness of his evil. Even in death, it was there, in the

spray off the lake, in the currents of the air, in the darkness pressing down on

her. Death, come alive in the form of his shade, gave power to what he was.

-Ask me something more-

His restlessness had returned, and she was in danger of losing him. But she

didn't know where to go next. "Where will I find this boy?"

-At the doorway through which you entered. You waste my time. Ask me something

that matters. Is it possible that you are as stupid as you are pathetic-

She stiffened. He was taunting her and it was working. "Tell me why I am still

alive. What reason was there for imprisoning rather than killing me?"

She was certain that he laughed, the sound so raw it made her cringe with

embarrassment and rage. The lake's waters spit in response to the sound, and the

greenish light that radiated from beneath pulsed with energy.

-To serve the needs of the one who brought you here-

"What needs are those?"

-You ask the wrong question. Ask the right one-

Her mind worked furiously, thinking it through. "Why am I inside the

Forbidding?" she asked finally.

Again, the laughter, but cool and soft this time, barely a whisper on the wind.

-That is better, little Straken. You are inside the Forbidding so that the one

who brought you here could get out-

She caught her breath. Get out? Someone had gotten out? An exchange, she

thought. Of course. The power that had imprisoned her belonged to the thing that

sought to escape, not to someone from her own world. Something powerful had

wanted out, something clever enough to manipulate those it needed in the Four

Lands, and it had found a way through her.

The shade's voice cut through her thoughts, commanding her attention.

-Heed me. You understand some, but not all. Here is the truth you must embrace,

if you are to survive long enough to learn the rest. You cannot cast off your

true self. You gain power through acceptance of your destiny. Bury your emotions

with your foolish ambitions for the Druid Council. Become who you were meant to

be, Ilse Witch. Your magic can make you powerful, even here. Your skills can

give you domination. Use both. Wield them as weapons and destroy any that

challenge you. If not, you will be destroyed, in turn-

"I am not the Ilse Witch," she replied.

-Nor am I, then, the Warlock Lord. I have watched you grow. You were powerful

once. You disdained that power for foolish reasons. Had you stayed strong, you

would not have been sent here like this. But you have grown weak. Death's cold

hand is on you. Your time grows short-

The shade threw out one hand, and a wind howled across the lake, whipping at its

robes and sending Grianne to her knees. The lesser shades scattered once more,

disappearing into the darkness, lost. The lake boiled anew, spitting and

rumbling, a cauldron of discontent, and the Warlock Lord began to retreat back

toward its center, burning eyes still fixed on her. She tried to stand again,

but the wind beat her down, and it was all she could do to meet that terrible

gaze from her kneeling position. So much hatred in those featureless orbs-not

for her alone, but for everything that lived. Even in death and from the

netherworld, it sought release.

"I am Ard Rhys!" she screamed at it in frustration.

The shade did not respond. It reached the center of the lake and sank from

sight, its black form vanishing with the quickness of a shadow exposed to light,

gone in an instant, leaving only the lake and the sound of the wailing.

Waterspouts exploded into the night, and Grianne backed away on her knees,

buffeted by the relentless force of the wind. As she backed away, she fell,

tearing her clothing and scraping her knees on the rocks. Shadows fell across

her, cast by things she couldn't see. She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and

pulled her hood tight against her ears.

I am Ard Rhys!

Then abruptly, everything went still. The wind died, the wailing faded, and the

lake quieted once more. She kept her head lowered a moment, then lifted it

cautiously. The valley was empty of movement and sound, of anything but a

flicker of greenish light that emanated from the depths of the lake and

reflected off the crushed stone.

Overhead, the sky was still black and empty of stars. All about the valley's

rim, the wall of mist pressed close.

She rose, battered of body and emotions, drained of strength and spirit, and

walked away.

TWENTY-TWO

Penderrin Ohmsford had thought he would sneak off to see Cinnaminson again the

following night and perhaps the night after that, as well, if the Skatelow was

still in port. His initial assignation had infused him with such joy and

excitement that he could hardly wait for the next one to take place. He knew it

was wrong to give so much attention to Cinnaminson when he should be thinking

about finding his missing aunt. But the latter was far away, the former all too

close. He couldn't seem to help himself; in a struggle of emotions, his sense of

responsibility finished a distant second to his passion. All that mattered was

that he be with Cinnaminson.

Having thought of little else all that day, he managed to slip away again the

next night, only to find that her father and the other two Rovers were still

aboard. He stood dockside in the shadows, watching them smoke on deck and

listening to their voices. He waited a long time for them to leave, but when it

became clear they had no intention of doing so, he gave up and returned to the

inn.

The second night was even more frustrating. A new storm moved in, more ferocious

than the one they had encountered several days earlier, drenching Anatcherae and

halting all traffic for the next twenty-four hours. The rain was so bad that

even on the ground visibility was reduced to almost nothing. Pen knew no one

would be venturing out in weather like this, including the Rovers aboard the

Skatelow. There was no point in even thinking about meeting with Cinnaminson.

So he was forced to make do with daydreams, which could not replace the real

thing but which at least gave him an outlet for his frustrations. Sitting around

at the Fisherman's Lie for hours at a time, sometimes with Khyber, sometimes

with Ahren and Tagwen, but mostly alone, he passed the time thinking of ways he

could separate her from her father, bring her with him when he returned home,

and build a life for the two of them. It was such fantasy that even he knew it

didn't bear looking at too closely. He was just a boy and she only a girl, and

neither of them had any experience at falling in love. But Pen didn't care. He

knew how he felt, and that was enough.

Khyber kept him company much of the time, but she spent hours alone in her room

working on her Druid disciplines and exercises, practicing movements and words,

and tending to her studies. Ahren worked with her each day, but he was gone much

of the time, scouting for news of their pursuers and checking on Gar Hatch's

progress with the Skatelow. Tagwen surfaced now and again, but mostly he kept to

his room. He was less sociable than he had been when it had just been the two of

them, and Pen thought it was due in part to his discomfort with life outside of

Paranor. Tagwen was used to carrying out his duties for the Ard Rhys in the

claustrophobic company of the Druids, and his time at the inn was too

unstructured. What he did when he was alone was a mystery, although Pen caught

him writing in a notebook on two occasions, and the Dwarf confessed to keeping a

diary of their progress to help pass the time. That made as much sense to Pen as

what he was doing, moping around about Cinnaminson, so he left the Dwarf alone.

Khyber, on the other hand, chided both of them mercilessly. More driven and

disciplined than either, she found their lack of purpose irritating, and took

every opportunity to suggest that they ought to do better with their time.

Tagwen was incensed, but Pen just ignored her. He was beginning to see her as

the big sister he didn't have but had often imagined. She was pushy and

insistent, and she thought everyone should see things the way she did. Having

talked with her about her life, Pen understood her motivation. She had been

forced to fight for everything she had, a young Elven Princess whose life had

been charted out for her by her family without any consideration at all for what

she wanted. It had only become worse for her after her father's death and her

brother's ascension to the throne. Just to come visit with Ahren had required a

great deal of fortitude and determination. He could not imagine what would

happen to her when her brother found out she was with them.

In any case, by the third day everyone was growing impatient. Pen and his

companions were still stuck inside at the inn, and Gar Hatch had given Ahren no

indication as to when they were going to set sail again. The rains had subsided,

but a rise in the temperature had caused a deep fog bank to settle over the

Lazareen and the surrounding lakeshore, the port of Anatcherae included.

Visibility continued to hamper travel, and the dockside was quiet.

By midafternoon, with their lunch finished and the prospect of another day in

port looming ever closer, Ahren announced that he was going down to the

waterfront to tell Hatch that whether he liked it or not they would set sail at

dawn. The Rover's reputation was that he could sail in any weather and under any

conditions. It was time to prove it. The Druid was clearly displeased, his

patience with Gar Hatch exhausted. Pen exchanged a knowing look with Khyber when

Ahren told them to pack and be ready to leave when he returned. The boy did not

think that Hatch would be given a chance to offer any more excuses. He wished,

however, that he had been able to tell Ahren Elessedil what Cinnaminson had told

him-that her father knew who they were, knew of their purpose, and might be

making plans of his own. He could not say anything, however, without giving away

the fact that he had disobeyed the Druid. He rationalized his decision to keep

quiet by telling himself that Ahren already suspected Hatch of knowing the

truth, which was almost the same as knowing it for a fact, so that the Druid was

prepared for it anyway.

Still, it unsettled him to be keeping secrets from his friends. It wasn't that

he didn't trust the Druid and his niece and the Dwarf, he did. It was just that

once he didn't tell them, later, he didn't know how, and it became easier not to

do so at all. It wasn't as if he couldn't tell them, when it became necessary.

If it ever did. Maybe it never would.

So he kept what he knew about Gar Hatch to himself as Ahren Elessedil went out

the door. He plopped down in a wooden chair by the window, alone for the moment,

and stared out into the mist. He allowed himself to think briefly of

Cinnaminson, then turned his attention for the first time in several days to the

more important matter of reaching the tanequil. He was beginning to wonder not

so much if he could do so, which he firmly believed he could, but if he could do

so in time. His aunt was trapped inside the Forbidding, and he knew enough about

what was locked away there to realize that even an Ard Rhys might have trouble

staying alive. He knew she was powerful, that her magic had made her one of the

most feared humans in the Four Lands. He knew, as well, that she was a survivor,

that her entire life had been spent finding ways to stay alive when others

either wished her dead or were actively looking for ways to make it happen. She

would not be killed easily, even by the monsters that dwelled within the

Forbidding.

But she was alone and friendless there and that would put her at a decided

disadvantage. Sooner or later, that disadvantage would begin to tell. How many

days had she been trapped in there already? At least two weeks, and that was

just the beginning of the time that it would take for him to reach her. Under

the best of conditions, he thought, he would need another week or two to find

the tanequil. Then he had to persuade it to fashion the dark-wand. Then he had

to return to Paranor, get inside the Keep, and use the wand to cross over into

the Forbidding.

How much time would all that require? Two months? More? Just listing the steps

necessary for the rescue demonstrated how impossible the task was. She would be

dead before he could reach her. Perhaps she was already dead.

He stopped himself angrily. What was he thinking? The King of the Silver River

would not bother sending him if he had no chance of success; there would be no

point in making the journey. No, his aunt was alive and she would stay alive

until he reached her. She would die only if he talked himself out of going on.

If he persuaded himself he should quit.

As he was trying to do now.

He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He would not think like that

again, he promised himself. He would do what he knew he should and continue on,

right up until the moment that it became impossible for him to do so. That was

what was expected of him; it was what he expected of himself.

Then Khyber appeared, sat down without a word, pulled out her folding game

board, and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him. He smiled in spite of himself.

"I'll give it a try," he said.

* * *

Several hours passed and Ahren Elessedil did not return. As dusk approached and

the shadows lengthened, rain began to fall once more, a steady, obstinate

drizzle that dampened the mist but did nothing to dispel it. Pen went into the

common room with Khyber and Tagwen to eat. Mindful of the need to stay

anonymous, they took a table in a back corner, well away from the door and the

stream of traffic entering and leaving. The Druids were still hunting them, the

word still abroad that money would be paid for anyone who brought Pen to their

attention. Perhaps they should have worried more about Gar Hatch's mercenary

tendencies, since Rovers were always on the lookout for an easy opportunity to

increase their fortunes. But Ahren had not seemed concerned, and Khyber had

insisted that because the Druid was paying Hatch a great deal more than the

Rover could get by turning them in, it made better sense for Hatch to stay loyal

to them.

"I don't like it that he's been gone so long," Tagwen growled softly, giving

Khyber a hard look. "You don't think something might have happened to him, do

you?"

She shook her head. "I think if it had, we would have heard. Word would have

spread by now."

"Then where is he?"

Pen took a long pull on his mug of ale. "He might have decided we'd get out of

here quicker if he stayed around to supervise Hatch in making the necessary

preparations. I don't think he believes the Captain has done all that well on

his own."

Tagwen grunted, took a piece of bread from his plate and shoved it into his

mouth in one monstrous bite. "Mmmff ummfatt wff."

The boy cocked his head. "I didn't quite catch that." Khyber was shaking her

head in disgust.

The Dwarf swallowed. "I said, maybe one of us should go and see."

"That would be you," Khyber snapped irritably, "since Pen and I are forbidden to

go outside the walls of this grim little lie-down. Do you want to leave now?"

They went back to eating in silence, turning their attention to steaming plates

of fresh fish that the server had brought over from the kitchen. Tagwen rubbed

his hands together enthusiastically, any plans for going down to the waterfront

put aside for the moment. While eating, they finished off the ale pitcher, and

an impatient Khyber rose and walked to the serving bar to get another.

She was waiting for a refill when the doors to the inn banged open and Terek

Molt walked into the room, trailed by half a dozen of his Gnome Hunters.

Heads turned to watch them enter, and conversations died. Pen put down his fork

and knife and glanced quickly at Tagwen. The Dwarf hadn't seen their enemy yet,

but now he caught the look on the boy's face and turned. "Oh, no," he whispered.

They were trapped. The Gnome Hunters were already spreading out, moving through

the crowded room like wraiths. Two remained stationed at the only door leading

to the street. Pen thought of fleeing through the kitchen, but he didn't know if

it led outside or not. His mind raced, seeking a way of escape. Maybe Molt

didn't know they were there. He didn't seem to. He was standing in the middle of

the room, black cloak shedding water on the wooden floor, hard eyes scanning the

room. It was dark back here. He might not see them. Cows might fly, too.

When the Druid's gaze finally settled on him, Pen went cold all the way down to

his feet. There was no mistaking what he saw in that gaze. He wondered how the

Druid had found them, how he had come to Anatcherae when they had been so

careful to leave no trail. He glanced quickly at the serving bar and saw Khyber

preparing to return to the table. She didn't know who Molt was, having never

seen him; she didn't realize the danger they were in. He had to warn her, but

there was no way for him to do so without giving her away.

It was too late anyway. Terek Molt stalked over to their table and stopped when

he was still a few feet away. "You've led me a chase," he said softly. "But it's

ended now. Get to your feet and come with me. Don't cause any trouble or it will

be the worse for you. I don't much care what it takes to bring you back to

Paranor."

Tagwen shook his head stubbornly. "We're not coming with you. Not this boy and

not me. We don't want your protection."

The Druid's smile was quick and hard. "I'm not offering protection, Tagwen. I'm

offering you a chance to stay alive, nothing more. Don't mistake what this is

about. Where is Ahren Elessedil?"

Neither Pen nor Tagwen answered. If Terek Molt didn't know, that meant the Elf

was still free. That, in turn, meant there was a chance.

"Get to your feet," the Druid said a second time.

"We know what you've done with the Ard Rhys," Tagwen declared, raising his voice

so that those around could hear him clearly. "We know what you'll do with us,

too. We're not coming."

There was a muttering in the room, and Terek Molt's hard eyes grew angry.

"Enough of this, little men. Get up and walk out of here or I'll drag you out."

A Troll roughly the size of a barn pushed away from the sewing bar and took a

step forward. His blunt features tightened, one hand resting on a huge mace

hanging from his belt. "Leave the boy and the old man alone," he ordered.

Terek Molt turned slowly to face him, away from the still-open doors to the inn,

his concentration divided between the Troll and his quarry, so he didn't see

Ahren Elessedil step out of the night. "Stay out of this," Molt said to the

Troll.

At that point, Khyber pushed away from the bar. Carrying the pitcher of ale in

both hands, she crossed the room directly toward the table at which Pen and

Tagwen were sitting. Terek Molt glanced sharply at her, but she averted her

eyes, as if not daring to look at him, and he started to turn back. "Get up," he

said to Pen and Tagwen.

Khyber, from less than six feet away, threw the pitcher of ale all over him.

The room exploded with shouts, its occupants leaping to their feet in a whirl of

sudden movement. Chairs and tables were overturned, and glassware went crashing

to the floor. The Troll had his mace free and was swinging it at Terek Molt, who

rolled out of the way just in time. But when he came to his feet to strike back,

Ahren's Druid magic threw him across the room and against the wall, where he lay

in a crumpled heap, screaming in fury. Gnome Hunters came at Khyber, but her

hands were already lifted and weaving, and the Gnomes stumbled all over

themselves in their efforts to stay upright.

"This way!" she shouted at Pen and Tagwen, and broke for the kitchen.

The boy and the Dwarf didn't stop to ask if she knew what she was doing; they

just went after her. The room was in chaos by then, its occupants surging up

against one another in their efforts to get clear, most of them trying to reach

the front door. The Gnome Hunters, still fighting to regain their equilibrium

after Khyber's attack, were bowled over in the rush. A moment later, the lights

went out and the room was engulfed in blackness. Pen and Tagwen were in the

kitchen by then, with Khyber just ahead, flinging open the back door that led to

the street. Without a backward glance, they plunged into the rain and fog and

darkness.

The streets were crowded, and it was difficult to move ahead at a brisk walk,

let alone a run. Pen struggled to keep Khyber in sight, Tagwen pushing up

against him from behind, both of them jostling and shoving to break free of the

knots of people hindering their flight. Ahren Elessedil had disappeared, but Pen

thought he must be somewhere close. Behind them, Fisherman's Lie was still in an

uproar, shouts turning to cries of pain and anger, the windows breaking out, the

entire place in blackness. Pen realized they had left everything behind in their

escape, but knew there was no help for it. What mattered was getting away. What

counted for something was staying alive.

A burly dockworker shouldered Pen aside effortlessly. As the boy staggered, he

felt something rip through his cloak, scoring his left arm. He heard the

dockworker gasp and felt him clutch at his arm. As he tried to wrench free, he

saw a dagger protruding from the man's chest, the blade buried to the hilt. The

man fell heavily into the boy, his dead eyes open and staring.

Pen looked around in shock and caught sight of something big scurrying along the

peaks of the roofs, something cloaked and hooded and shadowy. Terek Molt, he

thought at once, then realized that, there hadn't been time for the Druid to get

out of the inn and come after them. The figure on the roof was much larger than

Molt in any case, and it didn't move like him. It moved like some huge insect.

It was coming down, toward the dead man and Pen.

"Penderrin!" Khyber called back to him.

He turned at the sound of her voice and began to run anew. Behind him, he heard

gasps as the crowd realized what had happened to the dockworker. He didn't

glance back to see if they were looking at him. He wasn't about to stop anyway.

He wasn't going to do anything but keep running.

They angled down a maze of narrow side streets, grunting and shoving their way

clear of passersby, until they finally reached the waterfront. Pen's arm was

throbbing, and he glanced down in the light of the dockside lamps and saw blood

soaking through his sleeve. The dagger had cut him from shoulder to elbow, the

blade so sharp that even the heavy cloak had failed to blunt it.

Who had attacked him? He knew he had been the target, not that dockworker. If

the worker hadn't shoved him aside at just the right moment, Pen would be the

one lying in the street back there.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shadowy figure giving chase, working its

way swiftly along the warehouse roofs, scuttling along in the manner of a

spider, arms and legs cocked out from its low-slung body.

It was coming too fast for him to outrun it.

"Khyber!" he shouted in sudden fear.

The girl wheeled back, saw the figure, as well, and thrust out both arms in a

warding gesture. The magic caught the figure in midleap and sent it spinning out

of sight.

"What was that?" she shouted at him.

He didn't reply. He had no idea what it was. He just knew he didn't want to see

it again. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe the fall had killed it. Or injured it badly

enough that it couldn't keep after them.

As they began to run again, he glanced back worriedly. He was right to do so.

His pursuer was atop the roofs once more, leaping and bounding from one building

to the next, coming fast.

"Khyber!" He grabbed her arm and pointed.

She turned a second time, saw the figure, lifted her arms to summon the magic,

and immediately it disappeared. They stood looking for it, but it was as if the

night and rain and mist had swallowed it whole. That hadn't happened, of course;

it was still out there, coming for him. Only, it was on the ground, lost in the

shadows.

The hairs on the back of Pen's neck pricked up. He backed toward the water, away

from the buildings.

"Run!" Khyber hissed at him.

He did so, Tagwen beside him, their boots pounding on the wooden planks of the

docks, the rain and mist a thick curtain all about them. Pen glanced toward the

warehouses as he fled, searching for his pursuer. There was no one to be seen.

But it was there, still chasing him. He could feel it. If it got close enough,

it would use that dagger again. Or another like it. It would send its blade

hurtling out of the darkness, and he would be dead before he knew what had

happened. His lungs burned and his legs ached from running, but he didn't slow.

He had never been so scared. It was one thing to stand up to an enemy in the

light, face-to-face. It was another to be stalked by something he couldn't even

see.

They reached the Skatelow and clambered aboard in a rush. Not until they were

crouched down behind the pilot box did Pen quit feeling as if a fresh blade was

already winging its way out of the gloom toward his unprotected back. Scanning

the lamp lit shadows of the docks, he found no sign of his mysterious hunter.

But he was scared enough that he was going to stay right where he was, with his

back to the open water.

"What was that?" Khyber asked him for the second time, her breathing quick and

labored.

Pen scanned the darkness, searching. "I don't know. I don't even know where it

came from. Did you see what it did?"

"Killed that man," she whispered.

"But it meant to kill you, didn't it?" Tagwen's rough face pressed forward so

that their eyes met.

"I think it did," Pen answered, watching the mist shift along the dock front and

down the side streets like a serpent.

Shadows moved everywhere he looked. "I think it's still out there."

Ahren Elessedil, already on board, was speaking heatedly with Gar Hatch. Ahren's

clothes were disheveled and rain-soaked and his face flushed. He glanced over at

the three hiding behind the pilot box wall, a hint of uncertainty in his blue

eyes, then turned back to the Rover Captain, ordering him to cast off their

mooring lines. But Hatch refused to do so, folding his arms across his chest and

planting his feet. They weren't ready, he said. They hadn't finished their

repairs.

"They've found you, haven't they?" he sneered. "The Druids? You think I don't

know who you are or what you are about? I want no part of this. You can't pay me

enough to take you farther. Get off my ship!"

His Rover crewmen moved closer, ready to act on his behalf. From somewhere

farther down the docks, shouts arose. The other pursuit-Pen had forgotten about

Terek Molt and his Gnome Hunters.

"There!" Tagwen hissed suddenly, pointing left. "Something moved by that

building!"

They peered into the gloom. Pen's heart was hammering in his chest, blood

pounding in his ears. He was cold and hot at the same time, so afraid that he

was holding his breath.

Then a huge shadow burst into view, leaping from the dock-side onto the deck of

the airship in a single bound, an impossible distance. It landed in a skid, its

crooked limbs scrambling to find purchase on the smooth, damp wooden planking.

Ahren Elessedil and Gar Hatch, startled, turned to look at it, both of them

frozen in surprise. Pen caught the sudden flash of a blade, wicked and bright,

but he couldn't make himself move, either. It was Khyber who leapt up, screaming

in challenge to save them all. Hands outstretched, she summoned elemental magic

in the form of a wind that picked up the dark form while it was still trying to

regain its balance and threw it back over the side of the vessel into the cold

lake waters.

Pen and Tagwen rushed to the side of the airship and peered down. The dark

figure was gone.

On the dockside, the shouts were coming closer. Torchlight flickered through the

mist. "Cast off," Ahren Elessedil snapped at Gar Hatch, "or I'll put you and

your crew over the side and do it myself!"

The Rover Captain hesitated for just an instant, as if perhaps he would test

this threat, then wheeled about, ordering his men to release the lines. The

ropes fell away, and the airship began to drift from the dock. Pen continued to

scan the waters into which the dark thing had fallen, not convinced it had given

up, not persuaded it wasn't going to come at him again.

"Safety lines!" Gar Hatch snapped.

The Skatelow began to rise and the lake to drop away. Pen exhaled sharply. Still

nothing. He glanced at Tagwen. The Dwarf's rugged features reflected his fear.

His eyes shifted to find the boy's and he shook his head.

"Safety lines!" Hatch repeated angrily. "Young Pen! If you can spare the time,

would you bring Cinnaminson into the pilot box before you secure yourself?"

Pen waved his response. He took a final look over the side before heading for

the hatchway. The lake had disappeared beneath a sea of shifting mist.

Then they were flying into the night, a solitary island in the deepening gloom,

leaving Anatcherae and its horrors behind.

TWENTY-THREE

Darkness had fallen, stealing away the last of the daylight. Heavy fog closed on

the airship, enfolding it in a swirling gray haze. There was no difference now

between up or down or even sideways to those who sailed aboard the Skatelow.

Everything looked the same. The day had been dreary to begin with, washed of

color and empty of sunshine, but the night was worse. The clouds were so thickly

massed overhead that there was not even the smallest hint of stars or moon.

Below, the waters of the Lazareen had vanished as if drained from an unplugged

basin. The lights of Anatcherae had vanished minutes after their departure. The

world had disappeared.

Pen brought Cinnaminson to her father. She squeezed Pen's hand as he led her

along the corridor from her cabin and up the stairway to the deck, but neither

of them spoke. There was too much to say and no time to say it. In the pilot

box, she moved obediently to her father's side, saying as she did so, "I'm here,

Papa." Pen was dismissed, told to go below, and he moved away. But he lingered

at the hatchway with Khyber and Ahren, staring out into the impenetrable fog,

into the depthless night. If Cinnaminson wasn't able to navigate blind, he was

thinking, they would be in trouble. There wasn't even the smallest landmark on

which they could fix, no sky to read, no point of reference to track. There was

nothing out there at all.

"She's her father's compass, isn't she?" Ahren asked him quietly. "His eyes in

the darkness?"

He nodded, looking at the Druid in surprise. "How did you know?"

"It was nosed about at the docks in Syioned. Some say she's his good-luck charm.

Some say she can see in darkness, even though she's blind in daylight. None of

them have it right. I saw the way she moved the first few days we were aboard.

She can sense the position of things in her mind, their location, their look and

feel."

"She said she sees the stars in her mind, even in mist and rain like this.

That's how she navigates."

"A gift," Ahren Elessedil murmured. "But her father thinks it belongs to him

because she is his child."

Pen nodded. "He thinks she belongs to him."

They could hear her speaking softly to her father, giving him instructions, a

heading to take, a course to follow. His hands moved smoothly over the controls

in response, turning the airship slightly to starboard, bringing up her bow as

he did so, easing ahead through the gloom. In a less stressful situation, he

might have noticed them watching and immediately ordered them below, worried

that they would discover his secret. He might have refused to proceed while they

remained on deck. But that night he was so preoccupied that he didn't even know

they were there.

The mist thickened the farther away from land they flew, swirling like witch's

brew around the airship, alive with strange shadows and unexpected movement.

There was no wind, and yet the haze roiled as if there were. Pen felt uneasy at

the phenomenon, not understanding how it could occur. He glanced again at Ahren

Elessedil, but the Druid was staring straight ahead, his concentration focused

on something else.

He was listening.

Pen listened, as well, but he couldn't hear a thing beyond the creaking of the

ship's rigging. He looked to Khyber, but she shook her head to indicate that she

didn't hear anything, either.

Then Pen froze. There was something after all. At first, he wasn't sure what it

was. It sounded a little like breathing, deep and low, like a sleeping man

exhaling, only not that, either. He furrowed his brow in concentration, trying

to place it. It must be the wind, he thought. The wind, sweeping over the hull

or through the rigging or along the decks. But he knew it wasn't.

The sound grew louder, crept closer, as if a sleeping giant had woken and was

coming over for a look. Pen glanced quickly at Ahren, but the Druid's gaze was

intense and fixed, directed outward into the mist, searching.

"Uncle?" Khyber whispered, and there was an unmistakable hint of fear in her

voice.

He nodded without looking at her. "It is the lake," he said. "It is alive."

Pen had no idea what that meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. Lakes

weren't alive in the sense that they could breathe, so why did it sound as if

this one was? He tried to pick up a rhythm to the sound, but it was unsteady and

sporadic, harsh and labored. The ship sailed into the teeth of it, sliding

smoothly through the fog, down the giant's throat and into its belly. Pen could

see it in his mind. He tried to change the picture to something less

threatening, but could not.

Then abruptly, ethereal forms appeared, incomplete and hazy, riding the windless

mist. They brought the sound with them, carried it in their shadowy,

insubstantial bodies, bits and pieces echoing all about them as they moved. Pen

shrank back as several approached, sliding over the railing and across the

airship's rain-slick deck. Cinnaminson gasped and her father swore angrily,

swatting ineffectually at the wraith forms.

"The dead come to visit us," Ahren Elessedil said quietly. "This is the

Lazareen, the prison of the dead who have not found their way to the netherworld

and still wander the Four Lands."

"What do they want?" Khyber whispered.

Ahren shook his head. "I don't know."

The shades were all around the Skatelow, sweeping through her rigging like

birds. The breathing grew louder, filling their ears, a windstorm of trouble

building to something terrible. Slowly, steadily, vibrations began to shake the

airship, causing the rigging to hum and the spars to rattle. Pen felt them all

the way down to his bones. Seconds later, its pitch shifted to a frightening

howl, a wail that engulfed them in an avalanche of sound. Pen went to his knees,

racked with pain. The wail tightened like a vise around his head, crushing his

ineffectual defenses. In the pilot box, in a futile effort to keep the sound at

bay, Cinnaminson doubled over, her hands clapped over her ears. Gar Hatch was

howling in fury, fighting to remain in control of the airship but losing the

battle.

"Do something!" Khyber screamed at everyone and no one in particular, her eyes

squeezed shut, her face twisted.

Like the legendary Sirens, the shades were driving the humans aboard the

Skatelow mad. Their voices would paralyze the sailors, strip them of their

sanity, and leave them catatonic. Already, Pen could feel himself losing

control, his efforts at protecting his hearing and his mind failing. If he had

the wishsong, he thought, he might have a way to fight back. But he had no

defense against this, no magic to combat it. Nor did any of them, except perhaps

. . .

He glanced quickly at Ahren Elessedil. The Druid was standing rigid and

white-faced against the onslaught, hands weaving, lips moving, calling on his

magic to save them. It was a terrible choice he was making, Pen knew. Using

magic would give them away to the Galaphile in an instant. It would lead Terek

Molt and his Gnome Hunters right to them. But what other choice did they have?

The boy dropped to his knees, fighting to keep from screaming, the wailing so

frenzied and wild that the deck planking was vibrating.

Then abruptly, everything went perfectly still, and they were enfolded in a

silence so deep and vast that it felt as if they were packed in cotton wadding

and buried in the ground. Around them, the mist continued to swirl and the

shades to fly, but the wailing was no longer heard.

Pen got to his feet hesitantly, watching as the others did the same.

"We're safe, but we've given ourselves away," Ahren said quietly. He looked

drained of strength, his face drawn and worn.

"Maybe they didn't come after us," Khyber offered.

Her uncle did not respond. Instead, he moved away from them, crossing the deck

to the pilot box. After a moment's hesitation, Pen and Khyber followed. Gar

Hatch turned at their approach, his hard face twisting with anger. "This is your

doing, Druid!" he snapped. "Get below and stay there!"

"Cinnaminson," Ahren Elessedil said to the girl, ignoring her father. She swung

toward the sound of his voice, her pale face damp with mist, her blind eyes

wide. "We have to hide. Can you find a place for us to do so?"

"Don't answer him!" Gar Hatch roared. He swung down out of the pilot box and

advanced on the Druid. "Let her be! She's blind, in case you hadn't noticed! How

do you expect her to help?"

Ahren stopped, one hand coming up in a warding gesture. "Don't come any closer,

Captain," he said. Gar Hatch stopped, shaking with rage. "Let's not pretend we

don't both know what she can and can't do. She's your eyes in this muck. She can

see better than either of us. If she can't, then send her below and steer this

ship yourself! Because a Druid warship tracks us, and if you don't find a way

off this lake, and find it quickly, it will be on top of us!"

Gar Hatch came forward another step, his fists knotted. "I should never have

brought you aboard! I should never have agreed to help you! I do, and look what

it costs me! You take my daughter, you take my ship, and you will probably cost

me my life!"

Ahren stood his ground. "Don't be stupid. I take nothing from you but your

services, and I paid for those. Among them, like it or not, is your daughter's

talent. Now give her your permission to find a place for us to hide before it is

too late!"

Hatch started to say something, then his eyes widened in shock as the huge,

ironclad rams of the Galaphile surged out of the fog bank.

"Cinnaminson!" he shouted, leaping into the pilot box and seizing the controls.

He dropped the nose of the Skatelow so hard and so fast that Pen and his

companions slid forward into the side of the pilot box, grabbing onto railings

and ropes and anything else that would catch them. The airship plummeted, then

leveled out and shot forward into the haze, all in seconds. As quick as that,

they were alone again, the Galaphile vanished back into the fog.

"Which way?" Gar Hatch demanded of his daughter.

Her voice steady, Cinnaminson centered herself on the console, both hands

gripping the railing, and began to give her father instructions, calling out

headings. Pen, Khyber, and Ahren Elessedil righted themselves and snapped their

safety harnesses in place, keeping close to the pilot box to watch what was

happening. Gar Hatch ignored them, speaking only to his daughter, listening to

her replies and making the necessary adjustments in the setting of the

Skatelow's course.

Pen looked over his shoulder, then skyward, searching the mist for the

Galaphile. She was nowhere to be seen. But she was close at hand. He sensed her,

massive and deadly, an implacable hunter in search of her prey. He felt her bulk

pressing down through the haze, looking to crush him over the Lazareen the way

she would have crushed him over the Rainbow Lake almost three weeks ago.

He was aware suddenly that the shades had vanished, gone back into the shroud of

mist and gloom they had swum through moments earlier, sunk down into the waters

of the Lazareen.

"Why didn't the dead go after Terek Molt?" he asked Ahren suddenly. "Why didn't

they attack the Galaphile, too?"

The Druid glanced over. "Because Molt protects his vessel with Druid magic,

something he can afford to do and we cannot." He paused, hands knuckle-white

about the pilot box railing, droplets of water beaded on his narrow Elven

features. "Besides, Penderrin, he may have summoned the dead in the first place.

He has that power."

"Shades," the boy whispered, and the word was like a prayer.

They sailed ahead in silence, an island once more in the mist and fog, a rabbit

in flight from a fox. All eyes searched the gloom for the Galaphile, while

Cinnaminson called out course headings and Gar Hatch made the airship respond.

The wind picked up again, set loose as they reached the Lazareen's center, and

the haze began to dissipate. Below, the lake waters were choppy and dark, the

sound of their waves clear in the fog's silence.

Ahren Elessedil leaned over the pilot box railing. "Where do we sail?" he asked

Gar Hatch.

"The Slags," the big man answered dully. "There's plenty of places to hide in

there, places we will never be found. We just need to clear the lake."

Pen touched the Druid's arm and looked at him questioningly.

"Wetlands," the Druid said. "Miles and miles of them, stretching all along the

northeastern shoreline. Swamp and flood plain, cypress and cedar. A tangle of

old growth and grasses blanketed with mist and filled with quicksand that can

swallow whole ships. Dangerous, even if you know what you're doing." He nodded

toward Hatch. "He's made the right choice."

She has, Pen corrected silently. For it was Cinnaminson who set their course,

through whose mind's eye they sought their way and in whose hands they placed

their trust.

The mist continued to thin, the sky above opening to a canopy of stars, the lake

below silver-tipped and shimmering. Their cover would be gone in a few minutes,

and Pen saw no sign of the shore. The mist still hung in thick curtains in the

distance, so he assumed the shore was there. But it was a long way off, and the

wind was in their face, slowing their passage.

Rain began to fall, sweeping across the decking in a cold, black wash, and

quickly they were soaked through. It poured for a time, thunder booming in the

distance, and then just as suddenly it stopped again. At the same moment, the

wind died to nothing.

"Twenty degrees starboard," Cinnaminson told her father. "We'll find better

speed on that heading. Oh," she gasped suddenly, "behind us, Papa!"

They all swung about in response and found the Galaphile emerging from the

remnants of the fog bank, dark and menacing in the moonlight, sails furled and

lashed, the warship flying on the power of her diapson crystals. She was moving

fast, surging through the night, bearing down on them like a tidal wave.

Gar Hatch threw the thruster levers all the way forward and yelled to his Rover

crewmen to drop the mainsail. Pen saw the reason for it at once; the mainsail

was a drag on the ship in that windless air and would be of less help if the

wind resumed from the east. The Skatelow was better off flying on stored power,

as well, though she could not begin to match the speed of the Galaphile. Still,

she was the smaller, lighter craft and, if she was lucky, might be able to

outmaneuver her pursuer.

The chase was under way in earnest; the fog that had offered concealment only

moments earlier all but vanished. Pen did not care for what he saw as he watched

the Galaphile draw closer. As fast as she was coming, the Skatelow could not

outrun her. The Lazareen stretched away in all directions, vast and unchanging,

and there was no sign of the shoreline they so desperately needed to reach.

Clever maneuvers would get them only so far. Cinnaminson was still calling out

tacks and headings, and Gar Hatch worked the controls frantically in response,

trying to catch a bit of stray wind here, to skip off a gust of sudden air

there. But neither could do anything to change their situation. The Galaphile

continued to close steadily.

Then a fresh rainsquall washed over them, and Ahren Elessedil, seeing his

chance, stepped away from the railing, arms raised skyward, and called on his

magic to change the squall's direction, sending it whipping toward the Druid

warship. It caught the Galaphile head-on, but by then it had changed into sleet

so thick and heavy that it enveloped the bigger ship and swallowed it whole.

Clinging to the Galaphile in a white swirling mass, it coated the decking and

masts with ice, turning the airship to a bone-bleached corpse.

Now the Skatelow began to pull away. Burdened by the weight of the ice that had

formed, the Galaphile was foundering. Pen saw flashes of red fire sweeping her

masts and spars, Druid magic attempting to burn away the frigid coating. The

fire had an eerie look to it, flaring from within the storm cloud like dragon

eyes, like embers in a forge.

Ahead, the fog bank drew nearer.

Ahren collapsed next to Pen and Khyber, his lean face drawn and pale, his eyes

haunted. He was close to exhaustion. "Find us a place to hide, Cinnaminson," he

breathed softly.

"Find it quickly."

Pressed against the pilot box wall, rain-soaked and cold, Pen peered in at the

girl. She stood rigid and unmoving at the forward railing, her face lifted. She

was speaking so low that Pen could not make out the words, but Gar Hatch was

listening intently, bent close to her, his burly form hunched down within his

cloak. He had dropped the Skatelow so close to the Lazareen that she was almost

skimming the surface. Pen heard the chop of the lake waters, steady and rough.

The wind was back, whipping about them from first one direction and then the

other, sweeping down out of the Charnals, cold and bleak.

Then they were sliding into the mist again, its gray shroud wrapping about and

closing them away. Everything disappeared, vanished in an instant.

"Starboard five degrees, Papa," Cinnaminson called out sharply. "Altitude,

quickly!"

Blinded by the murky haze, Pen could only hear tree branches scrape the

underside of the hull as the Skatelow nosed upward again-a shrieking, a rending

of wood, then silence once more. The airship leveled off. Pen was gripping the

pilot box railing so hard his hands hurt. Khyber was crouched right beside him,

her eyes tightly closed, her breathing quick and hurried.

"There, Papa!" Cinnaminson cried out suddenly. "Ahead of us, an inlet! Bring her

down quickly!"

The Skatelow dipped abruptly, and Pen experienced a momentary sensation of

falling, then the airship steadied and settled. Again there was contact, but

softer, a rustling of damp grasses and reeds rather than a scraping of tree

limbs. He smelled the fetid wetland waters and the stink of swamp gas rising to

meet them; he heard a quick scattering of wings.

Then the Skatelow settled with a small splash and a lurch, sliding through water

and mist and darkness, and everything went still.

* * *

"I was so frightened," she whispered to him, her blind gaze settling on his

face, her head held just so, as if she were seeing him with her milky eyes

instead of her mind.

"You didn't look frightened," he whispered back. He squeezed her hands. "You

looked calmer than any of us."

"I don't know how I looked. I only know how I felt. I kept thinking that all it

would take was one mistake for us to be caught. Especially when that warship

appeared and was chasing us."

Pen glanced skyward, finding only mist and gloom, no sign of the Galaphile or

anything else. Around them, the waters of the wetlands lapped softly against the

hull of the Skatelow. Even though he couldn't see them, he heard the rustle of

the limbs from the big trees that Cinnaminson told him were all about them. For

anyone to find the Skatelow there, they would have to land right on top of it.

From above, even if the air were clear instead of like soup, they were

invisible. Their concealment was perfect and complete.

Two hours had passed since their landing, and in that time the others had gone

to sleep, save for the Rover who kept watch from the bow. Pen stood with

Cinnaminson in the pilot box, looking out into the haze, barely able to see the

man who stood only twenty yards away. Before that night, the boy would not have

been allowed on deck at all. But maybe the rules were no longer so important to

Gar Hatch since he and Ahren Elessedil knew each other's secrets and neither was

fooling the other about how things stood. Pen didn't think the Rover Captain's

opinion of him had changed; he didn't think Hatch wanted him around his

daughter. But maybe he had decided to put up with it for the time being, since

their time together was growing short. Whatever the case, Pen would take what he

could get.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him, brushing damp strands of her sandy blond

hair away from her face.

"That your father is generous to allow us to be on deck alone like this. Perhaps

he thinks better of me now."

"Now that he knows who you are and who's hunting you? Oh, yes. I expect he would

like to be best friends. I expect he wants to invite you home to live with him."

She gave him a smirk.

Pen sighed. "I deserved that."

She leaned close. "Listen to me, Penderrin." She put her lips right up against

his ear, her words a whisper. "He may have given you away in Anatcherae. I don't

know that he did, but he may have. He is a good man, but he panics when he's

frightened. I've seen it before. He loses his perspective. He misplaces his

common sense."

"If he betrayed us to Terek Molt . . ."

"He did so because he was afraid," she finished for him. "If he is backed into a

corner, he will not always do the sensible thing. That might have happened here.

I wasn't with him on the waterfront, and I didn't see whom he talked to. That

Druid might have found him and forced him to talk. You know they can. They can

tell if you are lying. My father might have given you up to save his family and

his ship."

"And for the money they are offering."

She backed away a few inches so that he could see her face again. "What matters

now is that if he has done it once, he might try to do it again. Even out here.

I don't want that to happen. I want you to stay safe."

He closed his eyes. "And I want you to come with me," he whispered, still

feeling the softness of her mouth against his face.

"I want you to come now, not later. Tell me you will, Cinnaminson. I don't want

to leave you behind."

She lowered her head and let it rest on his shoulder. "Do you love me,

Penderrin?"

"Yes," he said. He hadn't used the word before, even to himself, even in the

silence of his mind. Low. He hadn't allowed himself to define what he was

feeling. But as much as it was possible for him to do so, still young and

inexperienced, he was willing to try. "I do love you," he said.

She burrowed her face in his neck. "I wanted to hear you say it. I wanted you to

speak the words."

"You have to come with me," he insisted again. "I won't leave you behind."

She shook her head. "We're children, Pen."

"No," he said. "Not anymore."

He could sense her weighing her response. A dark certainty swept through him,

and he closed his eyes against what he knew was coming. He was such a fool. He

was asking her to leave her father, the man who had raised and cared for her,

the strongest presence in her life. Why would she do that? Worse, he was asking

her to accompany him to a place where no one in her right mind would go. She

didn't know that, but he did. He knew how dangerous it was going to be.

"I'm sorry, Cinnaminson," he said quickly. "I don't know what I was thinking. I

don't have the right to ask you to come with me. I was being selfish. You have

to stay with your father for now. What we decided before was right-that when it

was time, I would come for you. But this isn't the time. This is too sudden."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and faced him, her expression filled with

wonder. In the dim light and with the mist damp and glistening against her skin,

she looked so young. How old was she? He hadn't even thought to ask.

"You told me in Anatcherae that you would come for me and take me with you

whenever I was ready to go," she said. "Is that still true. Do you love me

enough to do that?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then I want you to take me with you when we get to where we are going. I want

you to take me now."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Now? But I thought-"

"It's time, Pen. My father will understand. I will make him understand. I have

served him long enough. I don't want to be his navigator anymore. I want a

different life. I have been looking for that life for a long time. I think I

have found it. I want to be with you.

She reached out and touched his face, tracing its ridges and planes. "You said

you love me. I love you, too."

She hugged him then, long and hard. He closed his eyes, feeling her warmth seep

through him. He loved her desperately, and he did not think for a moment that

his age or his inexperience had blinded him to what that meant. He had no idea

how he could protect her when he could barely manage to protect himself, but he

would find a way.

"It will be all right," he whispered to her.

But he knew that he spoke the words mostly to reassure himself.

TWENTY-FOUR

At daybreak, Pen and his companions got a better look at the Slags, and it

wasn't encouraging. The wetlands had the look of a monstrous jungle, an

impenetrable tangle of trees, vines, reeds, and swamp grasses, all rising out of

a mix of algae-skinned waterways that stretched away as far as the eye could

see. The eye couldn't see all that far, of course, since the mist of the

previous night did not dissipate with the sun's rising, but continued to layer

the Slags in a heavy gray blanket. Swirling in and out of the undergrowth like a

living thing, snaking its way through the twisted dark limbs of the trees and

across the spiky carpet of grasses, it formed a wall that promised that any form

of travel that didn't involve flying would be slow and dangerous.

Ahren Elessedil took one good look at the morass surrounding the Skatelow,

glanced up at a ceiling of clouds and mist hung so low that it scraped the

airship's mast tip, and shook his head. No one would find them in this, he was

thinking. But they might never find their way out again, either.

"Here's how we go," Gar Hatch said, seeing the look on his face. It was warmer

in the Slags, and the Rover was bare-chested and shiny with the mist's dampness.

His muscles rippled as he climbed out of the pilot box and stood facing the Elf.

"It isn't as bad as it looks, first off. Bad enough, though, that it warrants

caution if we stay on the water, and that's what we'll mostly do. We'll drop the

mast, lighten our load as best we can, and work our way east through the

channels, except where flying is the only way through. It's slow, but it's sure.

That big warship won't ever find us down here."

Pen wasn't so sure, but Gar Hatch was Captain and no one was going to

second-guess him in that situation. So they all pitched in to help take down the

mainmast, laying it out along the decking, folding up the sails and spars and

tucking them away, and tossing overboard the extra supplies they could afford to

let go. It took most of the morning to accomplish this, and they worked as

silently as they could manage; sounds carry long distances in places like that.

But they saw no sign of the Galaphile, and by midday they were sailing along the

connecting waterways and across the flooded lowlands, easing through tight

channels bracketed by gnarled trunks and beneath bowers of limbs and vines

intertwined so thickly that they formed dark tunnels. Three times they were

forced to take to the air, lifting off gently, opening the parse tubes just

enough to skate the treetops to the next open space, then landing and continuing

on. It was slow going, as Hatch had promised, but they made steady time, and the

journey progressed without incident.

It might have been otherwise, had the Rover Captain not been familiar with the

waters. Twice he brought the airship to a standstill in waters that ran deeper

than most, and in the distance Pen watched massive shapes slide just beneath the

surface, stirring ripples that spread outward in great concentric circles. Once,

something huge surfaced just behind a screen of trees and brush, thrashing with

such force that several of the trees toppled and the waters churned and rocked

with the force of its movement. Yet nothing came close to the airship, for Hatch

seemed to know when to stop and wait and when to go on.

By nightfall, they were deep in the wetlands, though much farther east than when

they had started out, and there was still no sign of their pursuit. When asked

of their progress, Hatch replied that they were a little more than halfway

through. By the next night, if their luck continued to hold, they would reach

the far side.

That couldn't happen any too soon for Pen. He was already sick of the Slags, of

the smell and taste of the air, of the grayness of the light, unfriendly and

wearing, of the sickness he felt lurking in the fetid waters, waiting to infect

whoever was unfortunate enough to breathe it in. This was no place for people of

any persuasion. Even on an airship, Pen felt vulnerable.

But perhaps his anticipation of what was going to happen when it was time to

leave the Skatelow was working on him, as well. Taking Cinnaminson from her

father was not going to be pleasant. He did not for a moment doubt that he could

do it, did not once question that he could do whatever was necessary. But

thinking about it made him uneasy. Gar Hatch was a dangerous man, and Pen did

not underestimate him. He thought that Cinnaminson's fears about what might have

happened in Anatcherae were well founded. Gar Hatch probably did betray them to

Terek Molt. He probably thought they would never live to reach the Skatelow to

finish this voyage and that was why he was so distressed when Ahren Elessedil

reappeared and ordered him to set sail. It wasn't unfinished repairs or stocking

of supplies that had upset him; it was the fact that he had been forced to go at

all.

What would he do when he found out that his daughter, his most valuable asset in

his business, was leaving him to go with Pen? He would do something. The boy was

certain of it.

On the other hand, Pen hadn't done much to help matters along from his end,

either. He hadn't said a word to his three companions about what he and

Cinnaminson had agreed upon. He didn't know how. Certainly, Tagwen and Khyber

would never support him. The Dwarf would do nothing that would jeopardize their

efforts to reach the Ard Rhys, and the Elven girl already thought his

involvement with Cinnaminson was a big mistake. Only Ahren Elessedil was likely

to demonstrate any compassion, any willingness to grant his request. But he

didn't know how best to approach the Druid. So he had delayed all day, thinking

each time he considered speaking that he would do so later.

Well, later was here. It was nightfall, dinner behind them by now, and the next

day was all the time he had left. He couldn't wait much longer; he couldn't

chance being turned down with no further opportunity to press his demand.

But before he could act on his thinking, Gar Hatch wandered over in the twilight

and said, "I'd like to speak with you a moment, young Penderrin. Alone."

He took the boy up into the pilot box, separating him from the others. Pen

forced himself to stay calm, to not glance over at Ahren and Khyber, to resist

the urge to check how close they were if he needed rescuing. He knew what was

coming. He had not thought Cinnaminson would be so quick to tell her father, but

then there was no reason why she should wait. He wished fleetingly, however,

that she had told him she had done so.

Standing before Pen, the misty light so bad by now that the boy could barely

make out his features, Gar Hatch shook his bearded head slowly.

"My girl tells me she's leaving the ship," he said softly. "Leaving with you. Is

this so?"

Pen had given no thought at all to what he would say when this moment happened,

and now he was speechless. He forced himself to look into the other's hard eyes.

"It is."

"She says you love her. True?"

"Yes. I do."

The big man regarded him silently for a moment, as if deciding whether to toss

him overboard. "You're sure about this, are you, Penderrin? You're awfully young

and you don't know my girl very well yet. It might be better to wait on this."

Pen took a deep breath. "I think we know each other well enough. I know we're

young, but we aren't children. We're ready."

Another long moment of silence followed. The big man studied him carefully, and

Pen felt the weight of his gaze. He wanted to say something more, but he

couldn't think of anything that would make it any easier. So he kept still.

"Well," the other said finally, "it seems you've made up your minds, the two of

you. I don't think I can stop you without causing hard feelings, and I'm not one

for doing that. I think it's a mistake, Penderrin, but if you have decided to

try it, then I won't stand in your way. You seem a good lad. I know Cinnaminson

has grown weary of life on the Skatelow. She wants more for herself, a different

way of life. She's entitled. Do you think you can take care of her as well as I

have?"

Pen nodded. "I will do my best. I think we will take care of each other."

Hatch grunted. "Easier said than done, lad. If you fail her, I'll come looking

for you. You know that, don't you?"

"I won't fail her."

"I don't care who your family is or what sort of magic they can call on to use

against poor men like myself," he continued, ignoring Pen. "I'll come looking

for you, and you can be sure I will find you."

Pen didn't care for the threat, but he supposed it was the Rover Captain's way

of venting his disappointment at what was happening. Besides, he didn't think

there would ever be cause for the big man to act on it.

"I understand," he replied.

"Best that you do. I won't say I'm the least bit happy about this. I'm not. I

won't say I think it will work out for you. I don't. But I will give you your

chance with her, Penderrin, and hold you to your word. I just hope I won't ever

have cause to regret doing so."

"You wont."

"Go on, then." The big man gestured toward Ahren and Khyber, who stood talking

at the port railing. "Go back to your friends. We have a full day of sailing

tomorrow, and you want to be rested for it."

Pen left the pilot box in a state of some confusion. He had not expected Gar

Hatch to be so accommodating, and it bothered him. He hadn't lodged more than a

mild protest, hadn't tried to talk Pen out of it, hadn't even gone to Ahren

Elessedil to voice his disapproval. Perhaps Cinnaminson had persuaded him not to

do any of those things, but that didn't seem likely to Pen. Maybe, he thought

suddenly, Hatch was waiting for the Druid to put an end to their plans. Maybe he

knew how unreceptive Pen's companions would be and was waiting for them to put a

stop to things.

But that didn't feel right, either. Gar Hatch wasn't the sort to count on

someone else to solve his problems. That kind of behavior wasn't a part of the

Rover ethic, and certainly not in keeping with the big man's personality.

Pen looked around for Cinnaminson, but didn't see her. She would be up on deck

later, perhaps, but since they were not flying that night, she might be asleep.

Pen glanced at Ahren and Khyber. He should tell the Druid now what was

happening, give him some time to think about it before he responded. But just as

he started over, Tagwen appeared from belowdecks to join them, grumbling about

sleeping in tight, airless spaces that rocked and swayed. The boy took a moment

longer to consider what he should do and decided to wait. First thing in the

morning, he would speak with Ahren Elessedil. That would be soon enough. He

would be persuasive, he told himself. The Druid would agree.

Feeling a little tired and oddly out of sorts, he took Gar Hatch's advice and

went down to his cabin to sleep.

* * *

He awoke to shouting, to what was obviously an alarm. Bounding up instantly,

still half-asleep, he tried to orient himself. Across the way, Tagwen was

looking similarly disoriented, staring blankly into space from his hammock, eyes

bleary and unfocused. The shouting died into harsh whispers that were audible

nevertheless, even from belowdecks. Boots thudded across the planking from one

railing to the other, then stopped. Silence descended, deep and unexpected. Pen

could not decide what was happening and worried that by the time he did, it

would be too late to matter. With a hushed plea to Tagwen to follow as quickly

as he could, he pulled on his boots and went out the cabin door.

The corridor was empty as he hurried down its short length to the ladder leading

up and climbed swiftly toward the light, straining to hear something more. When

he pushed open the hatch, he found the dawn had arrived with a deep, heavy fog

that crawled through the trees and over the decks of the Skatelow. At first he

didn't see anyone, then found Gar Hatch, the two Rover crewmen, Ahren Elessedil

and Khyber standing at the bow, peering everywhere at once, and he hurried over

to join them.

"One of the crewmen caught a glimpse of the Galaphile just moments ago, right

overhead, flying north," the Druid whispered. "He called out a warning, which

might have given us away. We're waiting to see if she comes back around."

They stood in a knot, scanning the misty gray, watching for movement. Long

minutes passed, and nothing appeared.

"There's a channel just ahead that tunnels through these trees," Gar Hatch said

quietly. "It goes on for several miles through heavy foliage. Once we get in

there, we can't be seen from the sky. It's our best chance to lose them."

They pulled up the fore and aft anchors and set out. Breakfast was forgotten.

All that mattered was getting the ship under cover. Everyone but Cinnaminson was

on deck now. Pen thought to go look for her, but decided it would be wrong to

leave in the midst of the crisis. He might be needed; Hatch might require help

piloting the craft. He stayed close, watching as the Rover Captain took the

Skatelow through a series of connecting lakes spiked with grasses and studded

with dead tree trunks, easing her carefully along, all the while with one eye on

the brume-thickened sky. The Rover crewmen moved forward, taking readings with

weighted lines, hand-signaling warnings when shallows or submerged logs appeared

in front of them. No one said a word.

The channel appeared without warning, a black hole through an interwoven network

of limbs and gnarled trunks. It had the look of a giant's hungry maw as they

sailed into it, and the temperature dropped immediately once they were inside.

Pen shivered.

Overhead, he caught small glimpses of sky, but mostly the dark canopy of limbs

was all that was visible. The channel was wide enough to allow passage, though

the Skatelow wouldn't have been able to get through if her mast had been up. As

it was, the Rover crewmen had to use poles to push her away from the tangle of

tree roots that grew on either side and keep her centered in the deeper water.

It was too dark for Pen to see exactly what they were doing, but he was certain

they could not have done it without Hatch. He seemed to know what was needed at

every turn, and kept them moving ahead smoothly.

Still Cinnaminson didn't appear. Pen glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, but

there was no sign of her. He began to worry anew.

Ahead, the tunnel opened back into the light.

Gar Hatch called him into the pilot box. "Take the helm, young Penderrin. I need

to be at the bow for this."

Pen did as he was told. Hatch went forward to stand with his men, the three of

them using poles to ease the Skatelow along the channel, pointing her toward the

opening. Now and again, he would signal the boy to swing the rudder to starboard

or port.

They were almost through when there was a scraping sound and a violent lurch.

Pen was thrown backwards into the railing, and for an instant he thought that

whatever had happened, he had done something wrong. But as he stood up and

hurried forward, he realized he hadn't done anything he hadn't been told to do.

Gar Hatch was peering over the side of the airship into the murky waters,

shaking his head. "That one's new," he muttered to no one in particular, then

pointed out the massive log that the airship had run up on. He glanced up at the

canopy of trees. "Too tight a fit to try to fly her. We'll have to float her off

and pull her through by hand."

Hatch went back up into the pilot box, advising Pen that he would take the

controls. There was no admonition in his voice, so Pen didn't argue. Together

with Tagwen, Ahren Elessedil, and the two crewmen, Pen climbed down onto the

tangled knot of tree roots and moved forward of the airship's bow. Using ropes

lashed about iron cleats, they began to pull the Skatelow ahead, easing her over

the fallen trunk. Eventually the airship gained just enough lift from Gar

Hatch's skilled handling to break free of the log and begin crawling along the

swamp's green surface once more.

It was backbreaking work. Bugs of all sorts swarmed about their faces, clouding

their vision, and the root tangle on which they were forced to stand was slick

with moss and damp with mist and offered uncertain footing. All of them went

down at one point or another, skidding and sliding into the swamp water,

fighting to keep from going under. But, slowly, they maneuvered the Skatelow

down the last few yards of the channel, easing her toward the open bay, where

the light brightened and the brume thinned.

"Move back!" Gar Hatch shouted abruptly. "Release the ropes!" Pen, Tagwen, and

Ahren Elessedil did as they were ordered and watched the airship sail by, the

hull momentarily blocking from view the Rover crewmen who were working across

the way. When Pen glanced over again in the wake of the ship's passing, the

crewmen were gone.

It took the boy a second to realize what was happening. "Ahren!" he shouted in

warning.

"We've been tricked!" He was too late. The Skatelow began to pick up speed,

moving into the center of the bay. Then Khyber Elessedil came flying over the

side and landed in the murky waters with a huge splash. The faces of the crewmen

appeared, and they waved tauntingly at the men on shore. Tagwen was shouting at

Ahren Elessedil to do something, but the Druid only stood there, shaking his

head, grim-faced and angry. There was nothing he could do, Pen realized, without

using magic that would alert the Galaphile.

Slowly, the Skatelow began to lift away, to rise into the mist, to disappear. In

seconds, she was gone.

At the center of the lake, Khyber Elessedil pounded at the water in frustration.

TWENTY-FIVE

No one said anything for a few moments, Pen, Tagwen, and Ahren Elessedil

standing together at the edge of the bay like statues, staring with a mix of

disbelief and frustration at the point where the Skatelow had disappeared into

the mist.

"I knew we couldn't trust that man," Tagwen muttered finally.

At the center of the bay, Khyber Elessedil had given up pounding the water and

was swimming toward them. Her strokes cleaved the greenish waters smoothly and

easily.

"You can't trust Rovers," Tagwen went on bitterly. "Not any of them. Don't know

why we thought we could trust Hatch."

"We didn't trust him," Ahren Elessedil pointed out. "We just didn't watch him

closely enough. We let him outsmart us."

This is my fault, Pen thought. I caused this. Gar Hatch didn't abandon them

because of anything the others had done or even because of the Galaphile and the

Druids. He had abandoned them so that Pen couldn't take Cinnaminson away from

him. That was why he had been so accommodating. That was why he didn't argue the

matter more strongly. He didn't care what either Pen or his daughter intended.

He was going to put a stop to it in any case.

Khyber reached the edge of the bay and stood up with some difficulty, water

cascading off her drenched clothes. Anger radiated from her like heat from a

forge as she stalked ashore to join them. "Why did he do that?" she snapped

furiously. "What was the point of abandoning us now when we were so close to

leaving him anyway?"

"It's because of me," Pen said at once, and they all turned to look at him. "I'm

responsible."

He revealed to them what he and Cinnaminson had decided, how she had told her

father, and what her father had obviously decided to do about it. He apologized

over and over for not confiding in them and admitted that, by deciding to take

the girl off the airship, he was thinking of himself and not of them or even of

what they had come to do. He was embarrassed and disappointed, and it was all he

could do to get through it without breaking down.

Khyber glared at him when he was finished. "You are an idiot, Penderrin

Ohmsford."

Pen bit back his angry reply, thinking that he had better just take whatever

they had to say to him and be done with it.

"That doesn't help us, Khyber," her uncle said softly. "Pen loves this girl and

he was trying to help her. I don't think we can fault him for his good

intentions. He might have handled it better, but at the time he did the best he

could. It's easy to second-guess him now."

"You might want to ask yourself what Hatch will do to her now that he knows what

she intended and no outsiders are about to interfere," Tagwen said to Pen.

Pen had already thought of that, and he didn't like the conclusion he had

reached. Gar Hatch would not be happy with his daughter and would not trust her

again anytime soon. He would make a virtual prisoner of her, and once again, it

was his fault.

Khyber stalked away. She stopped a short distance off and stood looking out at

the bay with her hands on her hips, then wheeled back suddenly. "Sorry I snapped

at you, Pen. Gar Hatch is a sneak and a coward to do this. But the matter isn't

finished. We'll see him again, somewhere down the road. He'll be the one who

goes over the side of that airship the next time, I promise you!"

"Meanwhile, what are we supposed to do?" Tagwen asked, looking from one face to

the next. "How do we get out of here?"

Ahren Elessedil glanced around thoughtfully, then shrugged. "We walk."

"Walk!" Tagwen was aghast. "We can't walk out of here! You've seen this morass,

this pit of vipers and swamp rats! If something doesn't eat us, we'll be sucked

down in the quicksand! Besides, it will take us days, and that's only if we

don't get lost, which we will!"

The Druid nodded. "The alternative is to use magic. I could summon a Roc to

carry us out. But if I do that, I will give us away to Terek Molt. He will reach

us long before any help does."

Tagwen scrunched up his face and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm just

saying I don't think we can walk out of here, no matter how determined we are."

"There might be another way," Pen interjected quickly. "One that's a little

quicker and safer."

Ahren Elessedil turned to him, surprise mirrored in his blue eyes. "All right,

Pen, let's hear what it is."

"I hope it's a better idea than his last one," Tagwen grumbled before Pen could

speak, and set his jaw firmly as he prepared to pass judgment.

* * *

He showed them how to build the raft, using heavier logs for the hull, slender

limbs for the cradle, and reeds for binding. It needed to be only big enough to

support the four of them, so a platform measuring ten feet by ten feet was

adequate. The materials were easy enough to find, even in the Slags, though not

so easy to shape, mostly because they lacked the requisite tools and had to make

do with long knives. On more than one occasion Pen had built similar rafts

before and knew something about how to construct them so that they wouldn't fall

apart midjourney. Working in pairs, they gathered the logs and limbs for the

platform and carried them to a flat piece of earth on which they could lay them

out and lash them together.

They worked through the morning, and by midday they were finished. The raft was

crude, but it was strong enough to support them and light enough to allow for

portage. Most important, it floated. They had no supplies, nothing but the

clothes they wore and the weapons they carried, so after crafting poles to push

their vessel through the swamp, they set out.

It was slow going, even with the raft to carry them, the swamp a morass of

weed-choked bays and log jammed channels that they were forced to backtrack

through and portage around repeatedly. Even so, they made much better progress

than they would have afoot. For just the second time since they had set out, he

was able to make practical use of his magic, to intuit from the sounds and

movements of the plants, birds, and animals around them the dangers that lay

waiting. Calling out directions to the other three as they worked the poles, he

concentrated on keeping them clear of submerged debris that might have damaged

their craft and well away from the more dangerous creatures that lived in the

Slags- some of them huge and aggressive. By staying close to the shoreline and

out of the deeper water, they were able to avoid any confrontations, and Pen was

able to tell himself that he was making at least partial amends for his part in

contributing to the fix they were in.

By nightfall, they were exhausted and still deep in the Slags. Pen's pocket

compass had kept them on the right heading, of that much he was certain, but how

much actual progress they had made was debatable. Since none of them knew

exactly where they were, it was impossible to judge how far they still had to

go. Nothing about the wetland had changed, the mist was thick and unbroken, the

waterways extended off in all directions, and the undergrowth was identical to

what they had left behind six hours earlier.

There was nothing to eat or drink, so after agreeing to split the watch into

four shifts they went to sleep, hungry and thirsty and frustrated.

During the night, it rained. Pen, who was on watch at the time, used his cloak

to catch enough drinking water that they were able to satisfy at least one need.

After the rain stopped and the water was consumed, Khyber and Tagwen went back

to sleep, but Ahren Elessedil chose to sit up with the boy.

"Are you worried about Cinnaminson?" Ahren asked when they were settled down

together at the edge of the raft, their backs to the sleepers, their cloaks

wrapped about them. It was surprisingly cold at night in the Slags.

The boy stared out into the dark without answering. Then he sighed. "I can't do

anything to help her. I can help us, but not her. She's smart and she's capable,

but her father is too much for her. He sees her as a valuable possession,

something he almost lost. I don't know what he will do."

The Druid folded himself deeper into his robes. "I don't think he will do

anything. I think he believes he made an example of us, so she won't cross him

again. He doesn't think we will get out of here alive, Pen. Or if we do, that we

will escape the Galaphile."

Pen pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his chin between them. "Maybe

he's right."

"Oh?"

"It's just that we're not getting anywhere." The boy tightened his hands into

fists and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We aren't any closer to helping Aunt

Grianne than we were when we started out. How long can she stay alive inside the

Forbidding? How much time does she have?"

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. "A lot more than anyone else I can think of.

She's a survivor, Pen. She can endure more hardships than most. It doesn't

matter where she is or what she is up against, she will find a way to stay

alive. Don't lose heart. Remember who she is."

The boy shook his head. "What if she has to go back to being who she was? What

if that's the only way she can survive? I listened to my parents talk about what

she was like, when they thought I wasn't listening. She shouldn't have to be

made to do those kinds of things again."

The Druid gave him a thin smile. "I don't think that's what has you worried."

The boy frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't think you are worried about whether we will reach the Ard Rhys in time

to be of help. I think you are worried about whether you will be able to do what

is needed when the time comes. I think you are worried about failing."

Pen was instantly furious, but he kept his tongue in check as he looked out

again into the mist and gloom, thinking it through, weighing the Druid's words.

Slowly, he felt his anger soften.

"You're right," he admitted finally. "I don't think I can save her. I don't see

how I can manage it. I'm not strong or talented enough. I don't have magic like

my father. I'm nothing special. I'm just ordinary." He looked at the Druid.

"What am I going to do if that isn't enough?"

Ahren Elessedil pursed his lips. "I was your age when I sailed on the Jerle

Shannara. Just a boy. My brother sent me because he was secretly hoping I

wouldn't come back. Ostensibly, I was sent to regain possession of the

Elfstones, but mostly I was sent with the expectation that I would be killed.

But I wasn't, and when I found the Elfstones, I was able to use them. I didn't

think such a thing was possible. I ran from my first battle, so frightened I

barely knew what I was doing. I hid until someone found me, someone who was able

to tell me what I am telling you-that you will do your best and your best might

surprise you."

"But you just said you had the Elfstones to rely on. I don't."

"But you do have magic. Don't underrate it. You don't know how important it

might turn out to be. But that isn't what will make the difference when it

matters. It is the strength of your heart. It is your determination."

He leaned forward. "Remember this, Penderrin. You are the one who was chosen to

save the Ard Rhys. That was not a mistake. The King of the Silver River sees the

future better than anyone, better even than the shades of the Druids. He would

not have come to you if you were not the right person to undertake this quest."

Pen searched Ahren's eyes uncertainly. "I wish I could believe that."

"I wished the same thing twenty years ago. But you have to take it on faith. You

have to believe that it will happen. You have to make it come true. No one can

do it for you."

Pen nodded. Words of wisdom, well meant, but he didn't find them helpful. All he

could think about was how ill equipped he was to rescue anyone from a place like

the Forbidding.

"I still think it would have been better to send you," he said quietly. "I still

don't understand why the King of the Silver River decided on me."

"Because he knows more about you than you know yourself," the Druid answered. He

rose and stretched. "The watch is mine now. Go to sleep. You need to rest, to be

ready to help us again tomorrow. We aren't out of danger yet. We are depending

on you."

Pen moved away without comment, sliding to one side, joining Khyber and Tagwen

at the other end of the raft, where both were sleeping fitfully. He lay down and

pulled his cloak closer, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He didn't

sleep right away, but stared out into the misty gloom, the swirling of the haze

hypnotic and suggestive of other things. His thoughts drifted to the events that

had brought him to that place and time and then to Ahren Elessedil's encouraging

words. That he should believe so strongly in Pen was surprising, especially

after how badly the boy had handled the matter of Cinnaminson and Gar Hatch. But

Pen could tell when someone was lying to him, and he did not sense falsehood in

the other's words. The Druid saw him as the rescuer he had been charged with

being. Pen would find a way, he believed, even if the boy did not yet know what

that way was.

Pen breathed deeply, feeling a calmness settle through him. Weariness played a

part in that, but there was peace, as well.

If my father was here, he would have spoken those same words to me, he thought.

There was comfort in knowing that. He closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

They woke to a dawn shrouded in mist and gloom, their bodies aching with the

cold and damp. Once again, there was nothing to eat or drink, so they put their

hunger and thirst aside and set out. As they poled through the murky waters,

stands of swamp grass clutched at them with anxious tendrils. Everywhere,

shadows stretched across the water and through the trees, snakes they didn't

want to wake. No one spoke. Chilled by the swamp's gray emptiness, they

retreated inside themselves. Their determination kept them going. Somewhere up

ahead was an end to the morass, and there was only one way to reach it.

At midday they were confronted by a huge stretch of open water surrounded by

vine-draped trees and clogged by heavy swamp grass. Islands dotted the lake,

grassy hummocks littered with rotting logs. Overhead, mist swirled like thick

soup in a kettle, sunlight weakened by its oily mix, just a hazy wash that

spilled like gossamer through the heavy branches of the trees.

They stopped poling and stared out across the marshy, ragged expanse. The

islands jutted from the water like reptile eyes. Pen looked at Ahren Elessedil

and shook his head. He didn't like the feel of the lake and did not care to try

to cross it. Ripples at its center hinted at the presence of things best

avoided.

"Follow the lakeshore," the Druid said, glancing at the sky. "Stay under the

cover of the trees. Watch the surface of the water for movement."

They chose to veer left, where the shallows were not as densely clogged with

grasses and deadwood. Poling along some twenty feet offshore, Pen kept one eye

on the broad expanse of the lake, scanning for ripples. He knew the others were

depending on his instincts to keep them safe. Out on the open water, trailers of

mist skimmed the viscous surface. A sudden squall came and went like a ghost.

The air felt heavy and thick, and condensation dripped from the trees in a slow,

steady rhythm. Within the shadowy interior of the woods surrounding the lake,

the silence was deep and oppressive.

At the lake's center, something huge lifted in a shadowy parting of waters and

was gone again, silent as smoke. Pen glanced at Khyber, who was poling next to

him on the raft. He saw the fierce concentration in her eyes waver.

They had gone some distance when the shoreline receded into a deep bay overhung

with vines that dipped all the way to the water's dark surface. Cautiously, they

maneuvered under the canopy, sliding through the still waters with barely a

whisper of movement, eyes searching. The hairs on the back of Pen's neck

prickled in warning. Something felt wrong. Then he realized what it was. He

wasn't hearing anything from the life around him, not a sound, not a single

movement, nothing.

A vine brushed against his face, sliding away almost reluctantly, leaving a

glistening trail of slime on his skin. He wiped the sticky stuff from his face,

grimacing, and glanced upward. A huge mass of similar vines was writhing and

twisting directly overhead. Not quite sure what he was looking at, he stared in

disbelief, then in fear.

"Ahren," he whispered.

Too late. The vines dropped down like snakes to encircle them, a cascade of long

arms and supple fingers, tentacles of all sizes and shapes, attacking with such

ferocity and purpose that they had no time even to think of reaching for their

weapons. His arms pinned to his sides, Pen was swept off the raft and into the

air. Tagwen flew past him, similarly wrapped about. The boy looked up and saw so

many of the vines entwined in the forest canopy that it felt as if he were being

drawn into a basket of snakes.

Then he saw something else, something much worse. Within the masses of tentacles

were mouths, huge beaked maws that clacked and snapped and pulsed with life.

Like squids, he thought, waiting to feed. It had taken only seconds for the

vines to immobilize him, only seconds more for them to lift him toward the

waiting mouths, all of it so quick he barely had time to comprehend what was

happening. Now he fought like a wild man, kicking and screaming, determined to

break free. But the vines held him securely, and slowly, inexorably, they drew

him toward the waiting mouths.

Then spears of fire thrust into the beaks and tentacles from below, their flames

a brilliant azure, burning through the shadows and gloom. The vines shuddered

violently, shaking Pen with such force that he lost all sense of which way was

up. An instant later, they released him altogether, dropping him stunned and

disoriented into the swamp. He struck with an impact that jarred his bones and

knocked the breath from his body, and he was underwater almost instantly,

fighting to right himself, to reach air again.

He broke the surface with a gasp, thrashing against a clutch of weeds, seeing

scythes of blue fire slash through the canopy in broad sweeps, smelling wood and

plants burn, hearing the hiss and crackle of their destruction, tasting smoke

and ash on the air. Overhead, the canopy was alive with twisting vines, some of

them aflame, others batting wildly at burning neighbors. He saw Ahren Elessedil

standing on the raft, both hands thrust skyward, his elemental magic the source

of the fire, summoned from the ether and released from his fingers in jagged

darts.

"Pen!" someone yelled.

Khyber had surfaced next to the raft and was hanging on one end, trying to

balance the uneven platform so that her uncle could defend them. The swamp

waters had turned choppy and rough, and it was all the Druid could do to keep

from being tossed overboard. Pen swam to their aid, seizing the end of the raft

opposite the Elven girl, the vines whipping all about him.

An instant later, Tagwen dropped out of the canopy, his bearded face a mask of

confusion and terror as he plunged into the murky waters and then surfaced next

to Pen.

"Push us out into the bay!" Ahren Elessedil shouted, dropping to one knee as his

tiny platform tilted precariously.

Kicking strongly, Pen and Khyber propelled the raft toward open water, fighting

to get clear of the deadly trap. Tagwen hung on tenaciously, and Ahren continued

to send shards of fire into the clutching vines, which were still trying to get

at him but were unable to break past his defenses. Smoke billowed and roiled in

heavy clouds, mingling with swamp mist to form an impenetrable curtain. From

somewhere distant, the frightened cries of water birds rose.

When at last they were far enough from the vines to pause in their efforts, Pen

and Khyber crawled onto the raft beside Ahren Elessedil, pulled Tagwen up after

them, and collapsed, gasping for breath. For several long seconds, no one said

anything, their eyes fixed on the smoky mass of tree vines now some distance

off.

"We were lucky," Pen said finally.

"Don't be stupid!" Khyber snapped in reply. "Look what we've done! We've given

ourselves away!"

Pen stared at her, recognition setting in. She was right. He had forgotten what

Ahren Elessedil had said about how using magic would reveal their presence to

those who hunted them. Ahren had saved them, but he had betrayed them, as well.

Terek Molt would know exactly where they were. The Galaphile would track them to

the bay.

"What can we do?" he asked in dismay.

Khyber turned to her uncle. "How much time do we have, Uncle Ahren?"

The Druid shook his head. "Not much. They will come for us quickly." He climbed

to his knees and looked around. Everything was clouded with smoke. "If they are

close, we won't even have time to get off this bay."

"We can hide!" Pen suggested hurriedly, glancing skyward for movement, for any

sign of their pursuers. "Perhaps on one of the islands. We can sink the raft . .

."

Ahren shook his head. "No, Penderrin. We need to go ashore and find a place to

make a stand. We need space in which to move and solid ground on which to do

it." He handed the boy one of the two remaining poles. "Try to get us ashore,

Pen. Choose a direction. Do the best you can, but do it quickly."

With Ahren working on the opposite side, Pen began poling toward shore once

more, farther down from where the vines still thrashed and burned, farther along

in the direction they had been heading. They made good time, borne on the crest

of a tide stirred by their battle with the vines, a tide that swept them east.

But Pen sensed that however swiftly they moved, it wasn't going to be swift

enough.

This is all my fault, he kept thinking. Again.

The haze continued thick and unbroken, layering the surface of the water in a

roiling blanket that stank of burning wood and leaves. Slowly, the bay went

quiet again, the waters turning slate black and oily once more, a dark

reflection of the shadows creeping in from the shoreline. Pen poled furiously,

thinking that if they could just reach a safe place to land, they might lose

themselves in the trees. It would not be easy to find them in this jungle, this

swamp, this morass, not even for Terek Molt. All they needed to do was gain the

shore.

They did so, finally. They beached on a mud bank fronting a thick stand of

cypress, tangled all about with vines and banked with heavy grasses. They pulled

their raft ashore, hauled it back into the trees, and set out walking. The

silence of the Slags closed about them, deep and pervasive, an intrusive and

brooding companion. Pen could hear the sound of his breathing. He could feel the

pumping of his heart.

Still there was no sign of their pursuit.

We're going to escape them after all, he thought in sudden relief.

They walked for several hours, well past midday and deep into the afternoon. The

shoreline snaked in and out of the trees, and they stayed at its edge, keeping a

sharp eye out for more of the deadly vines and any sign of movement on the bay

waters. They did not talk, their efforts concentrated on putting one foot in

front of the other, Ahren Elessedil setting a pace that even Pen, who was

accustomed to long treks, found difficult to match.

It was late in the afternoon, the shadows of twilight beginning to lengthen out

of the west, when they found the eastern end of the lake. It swung south in a

broad curve, the ground lifting to a wall of old growth through which dozens of

waterways opened. Pen searched the gloom ahead without finding anything

reassuring, then took a moment to read his compass, affirming what Ahren, with

his Druidic senses, had already determined. They were on course, but not yet

clear of the swamp.

Then sudden brightness flared behind them, dispersing the mist and brightening

the gloom as if dawn had broken. They wheeled back as one, shielding their eyes.

It looked as if the swamp were boiling from a volcanic eruption, its waters

churning, steaming with an intense heat. The dark prow of an airship nosed

through the fading haze like a great lumbering bear, slowly settling toward the

waters of the bay, black nose sniffing the air. Pen fought to keep from shaking

with the chill that swept through him.

The Galaphile had found them.

TWENTY-SIX

The huge curved horns of the Galaphile's bow swung slowly about to point like a

compass needle toward the four who stood frozen on the muddy shoreline. There

was no mistaking that she had found what she was searching for. Through the

fading screen of mist and twilight's deepening shadows, the vessel settled onto

the reed-choked surface of the bay, not fifty yards away, and slowly began to

advance. Her sails were furled and her masts and spars as bare and black as

charred bones. She had the stark, blasted look of a specter.

"What do we do?" Khyber hissed.

"We can run," Pen answered at once, already poised to do so. "There's still time

to gain the trees, get deep into the woods, split up if we have to . . ."

He trailed off hopelessly. It was pointless to talk about running away. Ahren

had already said that it was too late to hide, so running would not help,

either. The Galaphile had already found them once; even if they ran, it would

have no trouble doing so again. Terek Molt would track them down like rabbits.

They were going to have to make a stand, even without an airship in which to

maneuver or weapons with which to fight. Ahren Elessedil's Druid magic and

whatever resources the rest of them could muster were going to have to be

enough.

What other choice do we have? Pen thought in despair.

The Galaphile had come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline, advanced as close

to the mud bank as her draft would allow. Atop her decks, dark figures moved,

taking up positions along the railing. Gnome Hunters. Pen saw the glittering

surfaces of their blades. Perhaps the Gnome Hunters simply meant to kill them,

having no need to do otherwise.

"Do you see how she shimmers?" Ahren Elessedil asked them suddenly. His voice

was eerily calm. "The ship, about her hull and rigging? Do you see?"

Pen looked with the others. At first, he couldn't make it out, but then slowly

his eyes adjusted to the heavy twilight and he saw a sort of glow that pulsed

all about the warship, an aura of glistening dampness.

"What is it?" Khyber whispered, brushing back her mop of dark hair, twisting

loose strands of it in her fingers.

"Magic," her uncle answered softly. "Terek Molt is sheathing the Galaphile in

magic to protect her from an attack. He is wary of what we did to him last time,

of another storm, of the elements I can summon to disrupt his efforts."

The Druid exhaled slowly. "He has made a mistake. He has given us a chance."

A rope ladder was lowered over the side of the airship, one end dropping through

a railing gap and into the water. A solitary figure began to descend. Even from

a distance and through the heavy gloom, there was no doubt about who it was.

Pen glanced up again at the cloaked figures lining the Galaphile's railing. All

their weapons were pointed at himself and his companions.

"Khyber," Ahren Elessedil called softly.

When she looked over, he passed her something, a quick exchange that was barely

noticeable. Pen caught a glimpse of the small pouch as her hand opened just far

enough to permit her to see that it was the Elfstones she had been given. Her

quick intake of breath was audible.

"Listen carefully," her uncle said without looking at her, his eyes fixed on

Terek Molt, who was almost to the water now. "When I tell you, use the Elfstones

against the Galaphile. Do as you have been taught. Open your mind, summon their

power, and direct it at the airship."

Khyber was already shaking her head, her Elven features taut with dismay. "It

won't work, Uncle Ahren! The magic is only good against other magic-magic that

threatens the holder of the stones! You taught me that yourself! The Galaphile

is an airship, wood and iron only!"

"She is," the Druid agreed. "But thanks to Terek Molt, the magic that sheathes

her is not. It is his magic, Druid magic. Trust me, Khyber. It is our only

chance. I am skilled, but Terek Molt was trained as a warrior Druid and is more

powerful than I am. Do as I say. Watch for my signal. Do not reveal that you

have the Elfstones before then. Do nothing to demonstrate that you are a danger

to him. If you do, if you give yourself away too early, even to help me, we are

finished."

Pen glanced at Khyber. The Elven girl's eyes glittered with fear. "I've never

even tried to use the Elfstones," she said. "I don't know what it takes to

summon the magic. What if I can't do so now?"

Ahren Elessedil smiled. "You can and you will, Khyber. You have the training and

the resolve. Do not doubt yourself. Be brave. Trust the magic and your

instincts. That will be enough."

Terek Molt stepped down off the ladder and into the shallow water, turning to

face them. His black robes billowed out behind him as he approached, his blocky

form squared toward Ahren Elessedil. He radiated confidence and disdain, the set

of his dark form signaling his intent in a way that was unmistakable.

"Move to one side, Khyber," Ahren said quietly, his voice taking on an edge.

"Remember what I said. Watch for my signal. Pen, Tagwen, back out of the way."

The boy and the Dwarf retreated at once, happy to put as much distance as

possible between themselves and Terek Molt. The warrior Druid's chiseled face

glanced in their direction, a slight lifting of his chin the only indication

that he noticed them at all. But even that small movement was enough to let Pen

see the rage that was reflected in the flat, cold eyes.

When he was twenty feet from the Elf, he stopped. "Give up the boy. He belongs

to us now. You can keep the old man and the girl as compensation for your

trouble. Take them and go."

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. "I don't think I care to take you up on your

offer. I think we will all stay together."

Terek Molt nodded. "Then you will all come with me. Either way, it makes no

difference."

"Ultimatums are the last resort of desperate men."

"Don't play games with me, outcast."

"What has happened to you, Terek Molt, that you would betray the Ard Rhys and

the order this way? You were a good man once."

The Dwarf's face darkened. "I am a better man than you, Ahren Elessedil. I am no

cat's paw, underling fool in league with a monster. I am no tool at the beck and

call of a witch!"

"Are you not?"

"I'll say this once, Ahren Elessedil. I got tired of the Ard Rhys- of her

disruptive presence and her self-centered ways. I got tired of watching her fail

time and again at the simplest of tasks. She was never right for the position.

She should never have assumed it. Others are better suited to lead the Druid

Council to the places it needs to go. Others, who do not share her history."

"A full council vote might have been a better way to go. At least that approach

would have lent a semblance of respectability to your efforts and not painted

all of you as betrayers and cowards. Perhaps enough others on the Druid Council

might have agreed with you that all this would not have been necessary." The

Elven Prince paused. "Perhaps it still might be so, were someone of character to

pursue it."

He made it sound so reasonable, as if treachery could be undone and made right,

as if the conversation was between two old friends who were discussing a thorny

issue that each hoped to resolve. "Is it too late to bring her back?" he asked

the other.

The Dwarf's face darkened. "Why bring her back when she is safely out of the

way? What does it matter to you, in any case? You have been gone from the

council and her life for years. You are an outcast from your own people. Is that

why you think so highly of her-because she is like you?"

"I think better of Grianne Ohmsford than I do of Shadea a'Ru," the Elf replied.

"You can tell her so yourself, once we are returned to Paranor." Terek Molt came

forward another step, black cloak billowing. One hand lifted and a gloved finger

pointed.

"Enough talk. I have chased you for as long as I care to; I am weary of the

aggravation. You might have gotten away from me if those Rovers hadn't stranded

you in this swamp and then betrayed you to us. Does that surprise you? We caught

up with them early yesterday, trying to slip past us in their pathetic little

vessel. That Captain was quick enough to tell us everything once he saw how

things stood. So we knew where you were, and it was just a matter of waiting for

you to show yourselves. Using magic was a mistake. It led us right to you."

Ahren nodded. "Unavoidable. What have you done with the Skatelow and her crew?"

The Dwarf spit to one side. "Rover vermin. I sent them on their way, back to

where they came from. I had no need of them once they gave you up. They'll be

halfway home by now and better off than those who so foolishly sought to use

their services." He looked past the other now to Pen. "I am done talking. Bring

the boy. No more arguments. No further delays."

Ahren Elessedil's hands had been tucked within his cloak. Now he brought them

out again, balled into fists and bright with his magic's blue glow. Terek Molt

stiffened, but did not give ground. "Do not be a fool," he said quietly.

"I don't think Pen should go with you," Ahren Elessedil said. "I think you

intend him harm, whether you admit to it or not. Druids are meant to protect,

and protect him I shall. You have forgotten your teachings, Terek Molt. If you

take one step nearer, I shall help you remember them."

The Dwarf shook his head slowly. His gloved hands flared with magic of his own.

"You are no match for me, Elessedil. If you test me, you will be found wanting.

You will be destroyed. Step aside. Give the boy to me and be done with this."

They faced each other across the short stretch of mud and shallow water, two

identically cloaked forms born of the same order but gone on separate paths. Elf

and Dwarf, faces hard as stone, eyes locked as if bound together by iron

threads, poised in a manner that suggested there would be no backing down and no

quarter given. Pen found himself tensed and ready, as well, but he did not know

what he would do when doing something became necessary. He could not think of

anything that would help, any difference he could make. Yet he knew he would

try.

"Your ship," Ahren Elessedil said suddenly to Terek Molt, and nodded in the

direction of the Galaphile.

The Dwarf turned to look, did so without thinking, and in that instant Ahren

attacked, raising both hands and dispatching the elemental magic that he

commanded in a burst of Druid fire. But it was not the other man he targeted; it

was the warship, his elemental magic striking the vessel with such force that it

was rocked from bow to stern. The infuriated Dwarf struck back instantly, his

own fire hammering into the Druid. Ahren Elessedil had just enough time to throw

up a shield before the other's magic knocked him completely off his feet and

sent him sprawling in the mud.

It was a terrible blow, yet Ahren Elessedil was up again immediately, fighting

off the warrior Druid's second thrust, steadying his defenses. Now arrows and

darts cast down by the Gnome Hunters who were gathered at the railing of the

Galaphile began to rain on the beleaguered Elf. Pen and Tagwen threw themselves

out of the way as a few stray missiles nearly skewered them, then began crawling

toward the protective shelter of the trees. Khyber screamed in rage, bringing up

her own small Druid-enhanced magic to protect herself, and crouched down close

by Ahren, poised to strike but still waiting on her uncle's command.

Ahren Elessedil was fighting for his life, down on his knees with his hands

extended and his palms facing out, as if in a futile effort to ward off what was

happening. His protective shield was eroding under the onslaught of Terek Molt's

attack, melting like ice under searing heat. Yet once again, he chose to strike

not at the Dwarf, but at the warship, diverting precious power from his

defenses. Pen could not understand what the Elf was thinking. Ahren already knew

that the ship was protected, that it was a waste of time and effort to try to

damage her. Why was he persisting in this method of attack?

Yet suddenly, improbably, the Galaphile began to shudder, massive hull and

ram-shaped pontoons rocking as if caught in a storm instead of resting in

shallow water. Something of what Ahren was doing was making a difference, after

all. Terek Molt seemed to sense it, as well, and redoubled his efforts. Druid

fire exploded out of his fingers and into the Elf, staggering him, crumpling his

shield. Pen heard Ahren call out to Khyber, the signal for which she had been

waiting, and immediately she had the Elfstones in hand, arms outthrust.

Brilliant blue light built about her fist, widening in a sphere that caused the

boy to shield his eyes.

Then the magic exploded from her clenched fingers in a massive rush that swept

over the Galaphile like a tidal wave. For a single instant the Druid warship was

lit like a star, blazing with light, and then it burst into flames. It didn't

catch fire in just one place or even a dozen. It caught fire everywhere at once,

transformed into a giant torch. With a monstrous whoosh it detonated in a

fireball that rose hundreds of feet into the misty swamp sky, carrying with it

the Gnome Hunters, bearing away a twisting, writhing Terek Molt, as well, the

latter sucked into the vortex. A roar erupted from the conflagration, burning

with such fury that it scorched Pen and Tagwen a hundred yards away, sweeping

through the whole of the Slags.

In seconds, the Galaphile and all who had sailed her were gone.

* * *

Pen looked up from where he lay flattened against the mud and scorched grasses.

Smoke rising from his blackened form, Ahren Elessedil lay sprawled on his back

at the shoreline. Khyber knelt in shock some yards away, her arms lowered, the

power of the Elfstones gone dormant once more. Her head drooped, as if she had

taken a blow, and the boy could see her eyes blinking rapidly. She was shaking

all over.

He forced himself to his feet. "Tagwen," he called over to the Dwarf, finding

him through eyes half-blinded by smoke and ash. Tagwen looked up at him from

where he was huddled in a muddied depression, his eyes wide and scared. "Get up.

We have to help them."

The boy staggered across the flats, head lowered against the heat of the

still-fiery bay. Flames and ash-smeared waters were all that remained of

Galaphile. Pen glanced at the charred mix, baffled and awed by what had taken

place, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of it.

He reached Khyber and knelt beside her. He touched her shoulder. "Khyber," he

said softly.

She did not look up or stop shaking, so he put his lips to her ear, whispering,

"Khyber, it's all right, it's over. Look at me. I need to know you can hear me.

You're all right."

"So much power," she whispered suddenly. She stopped shaking then, her body

going perfectly still. A long sigh escaped her lips. She lifted her head and

looked out across the fiery surface of the wetlands. "I couldn't stop it, Pen.

Once it started, I couldn't stop it."

"I know," he said, understanding now something of what had transpired. "It's all

over."

He helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together to where Tagwen knelt

beside Ahren Elessedil. Pen knew at a glance that the Druid was dying. A handful

of arrows and darts had pierced him, and his body was blackened and smoking from

the explosion. But his eyes were open and calm, and he watched their approach

with a steady gaze.

Khyber gasped as she saw him, then dropped to her knees and began to cry, her

hands clasped helplessly in her lap, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

The Druid reached out with one charred hand and touched her wrist. "Terek Molt

tied his magic to the Galaphile," he whispered, his voice dry and cracked with

pain. "To protect her. When I attacked, he strengthened the connection until he

was too committed to withdraw it. The Elfstones couldn't tell the difference. To

them, the Galaphile was a weapon, an extension of Molt. So it consumed them

both."

"I could have helped you!"

"No, Khyber." He coughed and blood flecked his burned lips. "He couldn't be

allowed to know that you had the Elfstones. Otherwise, he would have destroyed

you."

"Instead, he destroyed you!" She was crying so hard that she could barely make

herself understood.

The ruined face tilted slightly in response. "I misjudged the extent of my

invulnerability. Still, it is a reasonable trade." He swallowed thickly. "The

Elfstones are yours now. Use them with caution. Your command of their power . .

." He trailed off, the words catching in this throat. "You've seen the nature of

your abilities. Strong. Your heart, mind, body-very powerful. But the Stones are

more powerful still. Be wary. They will rule you if you are not careful. There

is danger in using them. Remember."

She lifted her tear-streaked face and looked over at Pen. "We have to help him!"

She was almost hysterical. Pen was frightened, unable to think of what to say to

her. There was nothing they could do. Surely she could see that. But she looked

so wild that he was afraid she might try something anyway, something dangerous.

Ahren Elessedil's hand tightened on her wrist. "No, Khyber," he said. He waited

until she looked back at him, until she met his terrible burned gaze. "There is

nothing to be done. It is finished for me. I'm sorry."

His eyes shifted slowly to Pen. "Penderrin. Twenty years ago, when I sailed on

the Jerle Shannara with your father, a young girl gave up her life for me. She

did so because she believed I was meant to do something important. I would like

to think this is part of what she saved me for. Make something good come out of

this. Do what you were sent here to do. Find the Ard Rhys and bring her back."

He took several sharp, rattling breaths, his eyes holding the boy's as he

struggled to speak. "Ahren?" Pen whispered.

"Promise me."

The Druid's eyes became fixed and staring, and he quit breathing. Pen could not

look away, finding in that terrible gaze strength of purpose he would not have

believed possible. He reached out and touched the Druid's charred face, then

closed those dead eyes and sat back again. He looked over at Khyber, who was

crying silently into her hands, then at Tagwen.

"I never thought anything like this would happen," the Dwarf said quietly. "I

thought he would be the one to get us safely through."

Pen nodded, looking out over the burning lake at the flames licking at the

twilight darkness, staining sky and earth the color of blood. The surface of the

water burned silently, steadily, a fiery mirror reflected against a backdrop of

shadow-striped trees. Smoke mingled with mist and mist with clouds, and

everything was hazy and surreal. The world had an alien feel to it, as if

nothing the boy was seeing was familiar.

"What are we going to do?" Tagwen asked softly. He shook his head slowly, as if

there were no answer to his question.

Penderrin Ohmsford looked over again at Khyber. She was no longer crying. Her

head was lifted and her dark features were a mask of resolve. He could tell from

the way she was looking back at him that there would be no more tears.

The boy turned to the Dwarf. "We're going to do what he asked of us," he said.

"We're going to go on."

TWENTY-SEVEN

Shadea a'Ru stalked from the Druid Council without sparing even a glance back at

those fools who expected it, her eyes directed straight ahead. She would not

give them the satisfaction. She would give them nothing. She was seething with

rage and frustration, but she would not let even a hint of it escape. Let them

suspect what they wished about her true feelings; their suspicions were the

least of her problems.

Her stride lengthening, she shouldered past the few grouped by the doors leading

out, using her size and weight to brush them aside, and turned down the hallway

toward the stairs leading up to her rooms. It was a kindness she bestowed on

them, leaving so abruptly. Had she hesitated longer, she might have killed one

of them.

Surely that would have been more satisfying than anything else that had

happened.

She had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince the Council of the

necessity of taking a stand on the war between the Federation and the Free-born.

She had insisted that no progress in the efforts of the Druid order could be

made until the war was concluded. It was inevitable, she argued, that the

Federation, superior in men and materials, would emerge as the eventual victor.

Better that it happen now, so that the rebuilding could begin, so that the work

of the Druids could commence in earnest. Callahorn was Southland territory in

any event, inhabited mostly by members of the Race of Man and naturally aligned

with the interests of the Federation. Let them have it. Make that the condition

to ending the war. The Free-born were a rebel outfit at best, consumed by their

foolish insistence on keeping Callahorn for themselves. Remove the tacit support

of the Druids and the rebels would collapse.

She did not tell the Council, of course, that she had made a bargain with Sen

Dunsidan to help him secure control over the Borderlands. She did not tell them

that Federation control of the Callahorn was the price of his support of her and

her efforts to expand the authority and influence of the order. That wasn't

something they needed to know. It was enough that she was proposing a

reasonable, commonsense solution to a problem that had plagued the order since

the day of its inception.

But the Council had balked at adopting her proposal, its members led in their

opposition by that snake Gerant Cera, who had insisted that a thorough study of

the consequences of such drastic action was needed first. The matter was not as

simple as the Ard Rhys was trying to make it seem, his argument went. Elven

interests would be impacted by the outcome of the FederationFree-born war in a

significant way, as well. Once he had mentioned the Elves, it was only moments

before the Dwarves were insisting that their interests were important too. Soon,

everyone was arguing. Clever of him. Without repudiating the suggestion

outright, he had managed to defer any action on it until a later date, all with

an eye toward his own special interests, she was certain.

Very well. He had won this day, but there would be another- although not

necessarily for him. He was becoming something of a nuisance, one that she would

have to deal with soon. If he could not be brought into line, he would have to

be removed.

For the moment, she had more pressing concerns. Sen Dunsidan would arrive in

three days, and he would expect to hear that she had secured the Council's

approval for Federation occupation of Callahorn along with its open repudiation

of Free-born claims to the land. He would be expecting a joint announcement of

solidarity on the matter, one that would clearly indicate to the Free-born that

their cause was lost. His expectations would not be met. She would have to tell

him that the matter was not settled, that he would have to be patient. He would

not like that, but he would have to live with it. He was used to disappointment/

he would survive.

She began to climb the stairs to the tower, conscious of the darkness pressing

in from without, filtering through the windows to cast its shadows in the

flickering torchlight. Nighttime already, and she had not even eaten yet.

She was halfway up when Traunt Rowan appeared at the top of the stairs on his

way down. She could tell at once that something was wrong.

"You had better come, Shadea," he told her quietly, waiting until she had

reached him, then turning back the way he had come. "The cold chamber."

She fell in beside him, angry without yet knowing why. "Has Molt failed yet

again?"

"Someone has. The scrye waters indicate a massive collision of magics somewhere

east of Anatcherae. The Galaphile is gone."

"Gone?" She stared at him. "Gone where?"

"Destroyed. Obliterated."

Her fists clenched in fury. "How could Molt allow such a thing to happen?" Her

mind spun with possibilities. "When was our last report from him?"

"Yesterday." Rowan wouldn't look at her. "The message indicated he was in

pursuit of the boy and the others and had caught up with them in Anatcherae.

That would have been two days ago."

She forced herself to stay calm, to think it through. Courier birds released

from the Galaphile brought her regular messages from Molt, indicating where he

was and what he was doing. Nothing in yesterday's message suggested the Dwarf

was in any trouble, let alone the sort that would cause a Druid warship to be

destroyed. Magic of such power was unusual, and it would have to have been

employed in just the right way. The Elfstones? Perhaps. But Ahren Elessedil was

not a warrior Druid or trained in battle the way Molt was. It was inconceivable

that he would have prevailed in a confrontation.

They entered the cold chamber to find Iridia Eleri standing at the basin,

staring down at the scrye waters with haunted eyes, arms folded across her rigid

body. Her eyes snapped up at their entry, and the haunted look gave way to one

of rage.

"If you had sent me, this wouldn't have happened!" she hissed at Shadea, making

no effort to hide her feelings.

Shadea ignored her, walking over to the basin and looking down. Heavy ripples

emanated from a point at the eastern shore of the Lazareen, perhaps somewhere

within the Slags. She knew that country. Dangerous to anyone, no matter how well

armed or prepared. There was no mistaking what she was reading in the waters.

The nature of the ripples clearly indicated a massive explosion, one instigated

by a use of magic. The little blip that had served as a beacon for the Galaphile

was gone. Traunt Rowan was not mistaken in what he had told her.

"There's no way of knowing who survived this," she said, mostly to herself.

"Not without sending someone to find out," Traunt Rowan said.

Iridia spun around the end of the basin and came face-to-face with Shadea.

Although smaller of frame and stature, Iridia looked as if she intended to

attack the bigger woman. Shadea took a step back in spite of herself.

"This is on your head," Iridia snapped, her words as sharpedged as daggers, her

voice freezing the air. She was shaking with rage. "You are responsible for this

travesty, you and your insistence on doing whatever you choose to do. What do

you need with the rest of us, Shadea? What have you ever needed with us? I

thought you my friend, once. I thought we were sisters. But you are incapable of

friendship or loyalty or caring of any sort. You are as much a monster as that

creature you summoned to bear the Stiehl. And I am no better. I have been one of

your monsters, one of those who act in your behalf. I have been your tool."

She shook her head slowly. "No more. Not ever again."

She held the other's gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked from the

room. Unimpressed, Shadea watched her go. She thought it unfortunate that Iridia

could no longer sort things out in a reasonable manner. Her attachment to Ahren

Elessedil had left her emotionally unstable, and Shadea found herself hoping

that the Elven Prince had gone the way of the Galaphile. Then, perhaps, Iridia

would come back to herself.

Shadea looked over at Traunt Rowan. "Are you of a like mind?"

The Druid shrugged. "I am no one's tool, and I do what I choose. Iridia's

problems are her own. On the other hand, I question the wisdom of your decision

to send Terek Molt after that boy. I don't see the benefit to it. It distracts

us from what matters."

"What matters is making certain no one finds a way to bring the Ard Rhys back!"

she snapped at him. "Why can't you see that? All of you are so certain it can't

be done. But remember who she is. Others thought her dead and gone, as well, and

lived to regret it."

"No one can go into the Forbidding-"

"Hssst! Don't even speak the word!" She leaned close. "It is bad enough that

Ahren Elessedil and the boy know what has happened, and it would be a mistake

for us to think that they do not. They will seek a way to reach her. Successful

or not, they will not forgive us for what we have done. This matter will not

resolve itself while they live. If you think otherwise, say so now!"

He stared at her in silence, then shook his head. "I think as you do."

Shadea wasn't sure she believed him, but it was enough of an affirmation for

now. She looked back at the scrye waters. Another message would arrive by

tomorrow if Terek Molt was still alive. If not, then she could only hope that he

had taken the boy, the Elven Prince, and that sycophant Tagwen with him to the

grave. Then she could stop thinking about all of them and concentrate on what

was happening at Paranor.

It occurred to her suddenly that she had forgotten about Aphasia Wye, dispatched

with the Stiehl, as Iridia had reminded her, to eliminate the boy and his

protectors. What of him? Even if the Galaphile was destroyed, even if Terek Molt

was dead, perhaps the assassin was still carrying through on his task. Nothing

would stop him once he set his mind to it. The only character flaw she had ever

discovered was his troublesome streak of independence. On a whim, he might

abandon the whole project.

She stared down again at the scrye waters, studying the diminishing series of

ripples that marked the passing of the Galaphile.

With Aphasia Wye, she thought, you never knew.

* * *

Iridia Eleri strode blindly from the cold chamber and down the hallway beyond,

so furious she could barely make herself think.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, a series of ragged, glistening tracks

on her perfect features. Had she stayed a moment longer, she would not have been

able to hold them back. She stopped now, turning into a deep alcove in the empty

hallway, and cried freely for several minutes, her body racked with sobs, her

world collapsed about her. She knew what Shadea only suspected. Ahren Elessedil

was dead. The voice had told her so.

When she stopped crying, she stood motionless in the alcove's darkness and

forced herself to confront the truth. She had lied to herself, lied to them all.

She was still in love with Ahren. She had always been in love with him and

always would be. Shadea might sneer and the others might doubt, but it was so.

It didn't even matter that he was dead. She loved him anyway.

What she could not bear was that he had not loved her, in turn.

She stared into space, the words echoing in her mind. The voice had promised

that this would change, that with time and patience, he would. The voice had

promised from the very beginning, when it had first summoned her and offered its

help. The voice was persuasive and comforting, and so she had listened and

believed. Ahren could be hers, and for that she would do anything.

And had.

She closed her eyes against a wave of memories that paraded through her mind

like specters. A flood of emotion followed on their heels. The sadness she felt

for the man she had left in order to pursue Ahren. The emptiness she had

experienced when she had given birth to and then abandoned the man's baby. The

humiliation she had endured when Grianne Ohmsford had discovered what she had

done. The terrible hurt she had suffered when Ahren had told her that in spite

of everything, they could not be together, that his life was meant to go another

way. The rage she had called upon to ally herself with Shadea and the others in

their determination to rid the Druids of Grianne Ohmsford. The hatred she had

nurtured for the Ard Rhys, the person most responsible for her misery.

The sense of devastation and irreparable loss she felt now, with Ahren Elessedil

forever beyond her reach.

-But it need not be so-

Her eyes snapped open and she took a quick breath. The voice was back, come to

comfort her anew. She nearly began crying again, so grateful was she to hear it.

How much she depended on it. Just the sound of it was enough to give her fresh

hope, new strength.

-He can still be yours-

She nodded at the darkness, wanting it to be true. But how could it? Ahren was

dead, the voice had already told her so. There was no way to bring him back, no

way to restore life to his shattered body. She could join him, of course. She

could end her own life and reunite with him in death. She believed that was

possible and even preferable to what life offered without him. Maybe she would

have that, anyway. Now that she had broken with Shadea, it would not take the

other long to decide to eliminate her.

-You need not die to have him back-

She had always trusted the voice, and she had never had cause to regret it. From

the beginning, when it had summoned her north to the ruins of the Skull Kingdom

and she had built the fires and made the sacrifices that had brought it into

being, she had known it spoke the truth. It was a small thing for her to help

it, when it was doing so much to help her. Shadea had believed from the first

that she was the guiding force behind the conspiracy to eliminate the Ard Rhys,

that she was the one who had sought out and found the means to carry out the act

through her connection with Sen Dunsidan. The Federation Prime Minister, in

turn, believed that he was the one who was determining the course of events,

that his promises and gifts to Iridia, after she had approached him, had

subverted her and made her his spy within the Druid camp. But she was the one to

whom the voice spoke. She was the one who had brought it out of the darkness and

into the light. She was the one to whom it had given the liquid night and the

means by which she could gain some small measure of revenge against the woman

who had turned Ahren Elessedil against her through scurrilous subterfuge and

self-serving advice.

The others could think what they wished. She was the one who had made everything

possible.

-I am here, Iridia-

She felt a surge of expectation and joy. She had waited for it, longed for it,

the time when the voice took form, as it had promised it would, to give her back

her place in the world. It would happen after the exile of the Ard Rhys, it had

told her. Once the High Druid was gone, the voice could come out of hiding. It

could take form and become for Iridia the friend and confidant she had once

thought Shadea might be.

-I can be more than that, Iridia. I can be him-

Not quite willing to believe that she had heard the words correctly, she felt

her heart lurch. She stood frozen in the darkness of the alcove, listening to

their echo in the silence. I can be him. Was that possible? The voice was a

chameleon, a changeling, capable of wondrous things. But could it bring back the

dead? Could it make Ahren Elessedil whole again? Was the voice capable of that?

-Walk to me. In the cellars-

She left the alcove at once and proceeded to the main staircase, descending in a

rush, her footfalls tiny and lost in the cavernous passage. No other Druid was

abroad; most were gathered in the dining hall, the rest in their rooms or

libraries. It felt to her as if she were alone in the world, free of its

constraints and discriminations. She had never been well liked, never a part of

anything, always alone. It was because of her childhood, where she had been set

apart by her skills and the mistrust of those who recognized them. Even her

parents had looked on her with growing suspicion and doubt, distancing

themselves and their other children, sending her away early to study with an old

woman who was said to understand such magic. The old woman did not, but living

with her gave Iridia space and time to grow as she wished, to hone her talents,

to gain a better understanding of what they offered. She needed no mentor to

help her with this. She needed only herself.

Ten years she lived with the old woman, a crone of demands and false promises

that would have eroded a less determined student. But Iridia only smiled and

agreed and acquiesced to all, pretending obedience and waiting until she was

alone to do what she wished. The old woman was no match for her, and when it was

time, Iridia led her abusive and demanding benefactor to the well out back and

pushed her in. For three days and nights, the crone screamed for help that never

came.

Iridia turned down the lower hallway to the cellar doors at the north end of the

Keep, knowing instinctively that was where she was meant to go, that was where

the voice would be waiting. Shadows draped the heavy stones of the floors she

passed across, her own the only one moving. No guards warded the passageways or

walked the walls of Paranor now; the Druids alone kept watch, and theirs was a

desultory, disinterested effort. In the time of the Warlock Lord, the keep would

have fallen already.

At the heavy, ironbound doors leading down, the Elven sorceress paused to look

back. No one was in sight; no one had followed. Shadea might have thought to

try, but had not made the attempt. Just as well, Iridia thought. That would have

complicated things. She wanted no one to intrude on her meeting.

-Hurry, Iridia. I am anxious-

As was she, flushed with unexpected passion. She was like a young, foolish girl,

filled with wild emotion and desperate need. The voice had never failed her, and

now it was going to give her the thing she desired most. It made her feel heady,

as if she could dare anything, as if anything were possible. She pushed through

the cellar doors in a rush, taking one of the torches from the brackets just

inside, lighting it with a sweep of her fingers and a spray of magic, and

started downward once more.

This time, her descent was much longer and darker, the stairwell windowless and

narrow as it tunneled into the deep earth beneath the castle foundation. The air

was damp and stale, smelling of long years of confinement and ageless dust. Her

footsteps on the stone steps matched the sound of her breathing, quick and

hurried. When this was finished, she thought, she would leave Paranor and go far

away, taking Ahren with her so that they could build a life together free of

everything that had gone before. It was what she would have done in the first

place, had the Ard Rhys not poisoned Ahren against her. Ahren had claimed

Grianne had nothing to do with his dismissal of her, but Iridia knew better. His

claim that he had never loved her, did not feel for her as she did for him, was

a lie forged in the furnace of his anger at what she, who would always be the

Ilse Witch, had told him. For that alone, she had deserved banishment to the

Forbidding, and much worse.

At the bottom of the stairs, a rotunda formed a hub for a dozen passageways

leading in different directions. Iridia chose the one from which the voice was

calling, certain of its location, of its presence. Holding out the torch to

chase back the darkness, she went down the passageway, a silent presence in a

silent tomb. The catacombs were used infrequently, which had something to do

with the past, with the history of the Keep, though Iridia had never cared

enough to find out what that history was. It was the place she met with her

coconspirators, but not a place she visited otherwise. It was enough that she

would do so for the last time tonight.

A hundred feet down the corridor, a door stood open, the room beyond as black as

pitch.

-I am here-

Iridia stepped inside, the torchlight flooding the room with its yellow glow.

Her eyes searched swiftly. Four blank walls, a floor, and a ceiling. The room

was empty.

"Where are you?" she asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.

-In the air, Iridia. In the ether you breathe. In darkness and in light. In all

things. Close your eyes. Can you feel me-

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly. It was true. She could feel his

presence. He was there, all about her.

"Yes," she whispered.

-It is time to give you what you were promised for helping me. To give you Ahren

Elessedil, whole and complete again. To give you peace and love and joy. It is

time, Iridia. Are you ready-

"Yes," she breathed, tears flowing once more, gratitude flooding through her.

"Oh, please."

-Extinguish your torch and lay it on the floor-She hesitated, not liking the

prospect of being left in darkness. But her need for Ahren overcame her doubts,

and she did as the voice had commanded. The torchlight went out and she was left

standing in the heavy darkness.

-Close your eyes, Iridia. Stretch out your arms. I will come to you, into your

embrace, no longer a voice, but a man. I will be him. For you, Iridia. Forever.

Enfold me with your love and your desire. Accept me-

She would not have thought to do otherwise, though she still did not see how it

could happen. But the persuasiveness of the voice was sufficient to make her

believe. Again, she did as she was told. She closed her eyes and opened her

arms.

Almost instantly, she felt a presence. It was only a faint sense of movement at

first, a stirring of the air. Warmth followed, an infusion that spread through

her like the flush of expectation she had experienced earlier. She felt a

tingling, and her breath quickened at the prospect of what waited.

Then he was there, in her arms, Ahren Elessedil come back to life. Though she

had never held him and did not know how it would feel, she knew at once that it

was him. Her arms came about him gratefully, and she breathed in his smell and

pressed her body against his. He responded at once, pliant and anxious, the part

of her that was missing, the part that would make her whole.

"Ahren," she whispered.

He moved closer still, so close that it felt as if he were a part of her. She

could feel them joining, becoming one. He was melting into her, entering her,

becoming a part of her physically. She started in shock, then instinctively

tried to resist what was happening. But it was too late, he was already fused to

her as metals in a forge, locked together to form a single skeletal frame.

Then the pain surged through her, so intense that when she began screaming she

could not stop. Raw and sharp, pulsing with razors and knife points, it riddled

her from head to foot, and her scream turned into a shriek that lasted until her

voice gave out and her mind snapped.

Then she ceased to think or feel anything.

* * *

It was later that evening when Shadea a'Ru passed down the corridor of the north

tower on her way to her chambers and encountered Iridia coming from the opposite

direction. She approached the Elven sorceress warily, remembering how they had

left things in the cold chamber earlier. One hand snapped free a dirk from the

sheath bound to her wrist beneath her tunic sleeve. She had endured enough of

India's unpredictable behavior. If there was to be a confrontation, she wanted

it to be done with quickly.

The other woman came right up to her, but there was no anger or resentment or

challenge of any sort in her green eyes. Her perfect features were composed, and

there was an air of new determination about her.

"I behaved poorly this afternoon," she said, coming to a stop several feet away.

"I apologize."

Shadea was immediately suspicious. She didn't like the abrupt switch. It wasn't

like Iridia to forgive so readily. Not her, not anyone. Nevertheless, she nodded

agreeably. "We will put it behind us."

"That would be best for everyone," Iridia said as she turned away.

She walked past Shadea and continued down the hallway without looking back.

Shadea stayed where she was, watching until the other was out of sight, all the

time wondering what was going on.

TWENTY-EIGHT

They chose not to bury Ahren Elessedil's remains, but to burn them. A wetland

was a poor place to dig a grave, and they had only their long knives to attempt

the task. Besides, Khyber was not happy with the idea of leaving her uncle

interred in a mud flat where rains and erosion might soon uncover him and leave

him food for scavengers.

Working by light provided mostly from the still-burning swamp waters, they

collected deadwood, piled it high on the mud bank where he had fought and died,

and placed him on it. Khyber sang a Druid funeral song, one she had learned from

her uncle, one that spoke of the purpose of a life well lived and an afterlife

where hopes were fulfilled and rebirth possible. She used her magic to ignite

the dry wood, and soon it was burning. They stood together beside it, watching

as it consumed her uncle's body, turning it to ash and smoke and sending it

rising into the descending night in a mix of heat and ash.

When it was finished, they moved into the trees and slept, exhausted physically

and emotionally, not even bothering to mount a watch against the things that

dwelled in the Slags. They shared a sense of inevitability that night, that what

would happen to them was not within their control, that if their strongest

member could be taken from them so abruptly, their own efforts at protecting

themselves would make little difference.

They woke unharmed and in a better frame of mind, the trauma of the previous day

far enough behind them that they could think about what was going to happen

next. The day was typical of the Slags, all grayness and mist and sunless, fetid

air. The fires of the funeral pyre and the doomed Galaphile were extinguished

finally, and only dark smears of ash remained to mark their passing. Looking out

over the bay, Pen caught sight of heavy ripples that indicated the movement of

something big beneath the dark surface. Life went on.

With nothing to eat or drink, the three companions huddled down in the chilly

dawn light to discuss what they would do.

"Perhaps we should think about going back," Tagwen offered solemnly. "Don't

misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting we give up-just that we not continue on as

we are. After all, we are in a rather desperate situation. We are lost,

grounded, and weaponless. I know what Ahren told us to do, but it might not be

the best thing. We might be better off doing what I started out to do in the

first place-finding Penderrin's parents and seeking their help. With Pen's

father's magic and an airship, we will have a better chance of getting to where

we want to go."

To Pen's eyes, the Dwarf looked a wreck. His clothes were hanging raggedly from

his once stout frame, his face was haggard and worn, and his eyes had a jumpy,

nervous look to them. The gruff, determined air he had brought with him to Patch

Run had vanished in the chase across the Lazareen and through the Slags. There

was more than a hint of desperation about him.

But, then, he might be describing any of them, Pen thought.

He need only look at his own reflection in the waters of the bay to see that was

so.

"I don't know where my parents are," he said to the Dwarf. "I'm not sure we can

find them."

"Besides, it would take as much effort to go back as to go on," Khyber pointed

out. "At least out here we are safe from the Druids who hunt us. With the

Galaphile destroyed, the closest enemies are eliminated. Unless we give

ourselves away again, the rest can't find us once we're out of the area."

"Oh, they can find us, don't you doubt it!" Tagwen snapped. "They are

resourceful and skilled. I should know. And Shadea a'Ru is a demon. She won't

give up, even with the Galaphile gone. Maybe especially with it gone, since she

will blame us for its destruction. And for Terek Molt's death."

Khyber glared at him. "Well, they won't find us right away. If we can get out of

this swamp, we can find help among the Trolls. Didn't you say that Kermadec

lives in the Taupo Rough country? Surely he will help us."

"He will help us if he is still alive, but given the way things are going, I

wouldn't say that's at all certain!" Tagwen was not to be placated. "I don't

know how you expect to find him when you don't know where you are yourself! And

you say we will be all right if we don't use the Elfstones, but if we don't use

the Stones, we might not find our way out of here! And remember this- Ahren

Elessedil thought he wouldn't have to use the Elfstones, either, but he did have

to, didn't he?"

He was nearly in tears, the tough old Dwarf, and for a moment it appeared he

would break down completely. He looked away in embarrassment and frustration,

then rose and stalked down to the edge of the bay, where he stood for a time

looking out into the mist. Pen and Khyber exchanged glances, but said nothing.

When Tagwen returned, he was calm again, his rough features composed and

determined. "You're right," he announced without preamble. "We should go on.

Going back would be a mistake."

"Will Kermadec help us if we can find him?" Pen asked at once.

The Dwarf nodded. "He is devoted to the Ard Rhys. He will do whatever he can to

help. He is a good and brave man."

"Then we have our plan," Khyber declared. "But we will be careful how we go,

Tagwen," she assured the Dwarf. "We won't be careless. Uncle Ahren gave us a

chance to complete this journey. We won't waste that gift."

"Then we'd better think about moving away from here right now," Pen declared.

"If they can track us from our use of magic, they won't have much trouble

finding us here. Not after the expenditure of magic used to destroy the

Galaphile. We have to leave at once."

Khyber stood up. "Once we're back in the trees, we won't be so easy to track."

She paused. "I just wish I knew how much farther we had to go."

"Then why don't you find out?" Pen asked. She stared at him. "Use the Elfstones.

What difference does it make if you use them now? We've already given ourselves

away. Before we set out, let's see where it is that we're going. Then maybe we

won't have to use the Stones again."

"The boy is right," Tagwen said at once. "Go ahead. Let's see where we are."

They stood in a ragged group at the shore's edge while Khyber took out the

Elfstones and balanced them in her hand. They stared at the glittering talismans

for a moment, transfixed by their brightness and their promise. Without saying

so, they were all thinking the same thing. So much depended on what the Stones

revealed. If they were too deep in the Slags to avoid its snares and predators,

then they might have to use the magic again, even if it gave them away. But if

they were close to the wetland border, they might have a chance to escape

undetected.

Khyber closed her fingers about the talismans and held them out in the direction

of the sunrise. Long moments passed, and nothing happened.

"They're not responding," she said. Her voice was strained and rough. "I can't

make them work."

"Don't be afraid, Khyber," Pen said.

"I'm not afraid!" she snapped.

"Well, I'm frightened enough for the both of us."

She glanced over at him, saw the concerned look on his face, and smiled in spite

of herself. She dropped her arm to her side. "All right," she said. "Let me try

again."

She took a deep, steadying breath, exhaled slowly, and held out the Stones. Her

eyes closed. An instant later, the magic flared from her fist, gathered itself

in a blaze of fire, and shot out into the gloom like a beast at hunt. Slicing

through trees and brush and grass, through the whole of the Slags, it flared in

sharp relief against a backdrop of hills leading into mountains, of green fields

brightened by wildflowers, of streams and waterfalls, and of dazzling sunshine.

The picture shimmered bright and clear for a moment longer, then vanished as if

it had never been, leaving them encased once more in mist and gloom. They stood

looking off in the direction it had shown for a moment, savoring the memory, the

promise, then looked at one another appraisingly.

"It's not all that far," Pen declared bravely, although in truth he had no idea

how far it was. "We can make it."

"Of course, we can," Tagwen agreed, screwing up his worn countenance into a mask

of resolve.

"It can't be more than another day," Khyber added, pocketing the Elfstones. "We

can be there by sunset."

They began walking, turning back into the trees and leaving the mist-shrouded

bay and its dark memories behind. It was slow going, their passage obstructed by

fallen trees, heavy brush, and endless stretches of swamp water. They had to be

especially careful of the latter because many hid patches of quicksand that

would have swallowed them without a trace. Pen used his magic once more,

reaching out to the life of the swamp to discover what it was thinking and

doing. Though he couldn't see what he was hearing for the most part, he was able

to detect the presence of small birds, rodents, insects, and even a smattering

of water creatures. Each told him something of what was happening around them.

He was able to discover more than once dangers that threatened. He was able to

tell from moods and responses between species the paths they should follow and

those they should avoid.

They walked all day, yet by sunset it felt as if they hadn't gone anywhere.

Everything looked exactly the same as it had hours earlier. Nor was there any

apparent end in sight, the gloom and mist and wetlands stretching on endlessly

in all directions. If anything, the swamp had thickened and tightened about

them, stealing away a little more of the light and air, eroding their hopes that

they might get clear soon.

When they stopped for the night, Pen used his compass a final time to check

their direction. It seemed as if they were going the right way, but he was

beginning to wonder if the compass was working. His concerns were fostered in

part by the way in which the light seemed not to change in any direction, the

gloom and haze so thick that it was getting harder and harder to tell which way

the sun was moving through the hidden sky.

"We might be lost," he admitted to them. "I can't be sure any more."

"We're not lost," Khyber insisted. "Tomorrow, we will be through."

But Pen wasn't convinced. He took the first watch and sat brooding while the

others slept, replaying the events of the past few days in his mind, a nagging

concern that he couldn't identify tugging at his already dwindling confidence.

Something wasn't right about the way they were looking at things, but he

couldn't put his finger on it. As the darkness deepened and the minutes slipped

by, he found himself going further afield with his thinking, working his way

back through the entire journey, from the moment Tagwen had first appeared with

news of his aunt's disappearance. Remembering how he had been forced to flee his

home triggered memories of his parents and made him aware of how much he missed

them and wished they were with him. He had always been an independent sort,

raised to be that way, but this was the farthest he had ever been from home. It

was also the most threatened he had ever felt. He knew of the dangerous

creatures that dwelled in the places he visited regularly on his skiff journeys,

but most of those he was encountering now were entirely new. Some of them didn't

even have a name.

And just like that, he realized what was bothering him. It was his inability to

account for what had become of the mysterious hunter that had chased him through

the streets of Anatcherae on the night he had fled Terek Molt.

He took a long moment to think it through. His pursuer had come after him

outside Fisherman's Lie, when the little company had fled into the streets to

reach the safety of the Skatelow. It had tried to kill him both there and later

aboard ship before they were able to cast off. A man had died right in front of

him, killed by an dagger thrown from the rooftops and intended for him. During

all of this, he had caught only brief glimpses of the wielder, just enough to

suggest it wasn't entirely human.

What had happened to it?

It would be comforting to think that it had died aboard the Galaphile, consumed

in the inferno that had claimed the ship, the Gnome Hunters, and Terek Molt. But

Pen didn't think that had happened. It didn't feel right to him. The thing that

had chased him through the streets wouldn't have been caught off guard like

that. If it was still with Terek Molt at the time the Galaphile had found them,

it would have been off the ship and stalking him anew. It would have survived.

It could be out there now.

In spite of the fact that he was virtually certain it wasn't, he looked around

cautiously, peering into the darkness as if something might reveal itself. He

even took time to read his magic's response to the sounds of the night creatures

surrounding him, to the insects and birds and beasts that inhabited the swamp

gloom, searching for anything that would warn him of danger. When he had

satisfied himself that he was not threatened, that the hunter he feared might be

lurking out there, invisible and deadly, was not, he took a deep breath and

exhaled softly, feeling comforted for the moment, at least, that he was safe.

He sat listening, nevertheless, through the rest of his watch.

When his watch was finished, he took a long time falling asleep.

* * *

On waking the following morning, Pen said nothing to Khyber and Tagwen of his

concerns. There was nothing to be gained by doing so. Everyone was already on

edge, and adding to the tension could not help the situation. Besides, the

hunter of Anatcherae's dark streets might have been a denizen of the port city

rather than a tool of Terek Molt's. If the hunter had been the Druid's creature,

then it stood to reason that it would have been used in tracking them down and

disposing of them long since. The Druid wouldn't have confronted them himself

when he had his creature to do the job for him.

It was solid reasoning, but it didn't make Pen feel any better and in the end it

didn't convince him that his problems with his mysterious enemy were finished.

Just because he couldn't account for its whereabouts didn't mean he was rid of

it. But he kept that unsettling thought to himself, knowing that what mattered

just then was getting clear of the Slags.

They worked all day at doing so, picking their way through a quagmire of tangled

roots, choking reeds, quicksand, sinkholes, and mud flats thick with biting

insects and gnats. They still hadn't had anything to eat or drink since they had

lost their raft in the attack of those vines, and the lack of nourishment was

beginning to tell. Tagwen was experiencing stomach cramps, Khyber was fighting

off dizzy spells, and Pen felt feverish. All three were weaker, and progress had

slowed noticeably. If they didn't find food and drink soon, they were going to

be in serious trouble.

It was midafternoon when they entered a sprawling wilderness of scrub-choked

trees that stretched in both directions until it could no longer be seen.

Threaded by tendrils of mist and layered with shadows, the woods were so vast

that there wasn't any hope of finding a way around. In any case, they were too

exhausted to do anything but go forward, and so they did. Pushing into the

tangle, they soon found themselves forced to proceed in single file, the trees

grown so close together and the spaces between so clogged with brambles and

scrub that any other formation was impossible. Weaving between the trunks and

stalks, they slogged through pools of swamp water and sucking mud, using roots

and limbs for handholds. Overhead, flying squirrels and birds darted through the

dank foliage, and on the uncertain ground snakes slithered and rodents scurried

in silent, dark flashes. Now and then, they caught glimpses of larger creatures

sliding ridge-backed and deadly through deeper water.

"I thought it couldn't get any worse," Tagwen grumbled at one point, his beard

become a nest of brambles. "Is there any end to this place?"

As they continued on, Pen began to worry about what would happen if they were

caught in that tangle when darkness fell. If that happened, they would have to

climb a tree and spend the night aloft. He didn't care for the prospect of

watching the limbs for big snakes all night, but he didn't see that they would

have any alternative. He began to make promises to himself about the sort of

life he would lead if they could just reach better ground before dark.

It was gratifying when they did, if only momentarily. They slogged out of a

heavy stretch of mud-soaked grasses and reeds and climbed an embankment to what

seemed to be an island in the midst of the swamp, a low forestland amid the

damp. Pen, leading the way, heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped onto the first

solid ground he had felt beneath his feet in days, then immediately froze.

Directly to his left, not ten yards away, was the biggest moor cat he had ever

seen in his life. He was not unfamiliar with moor cats, so coming on one

unexpectedly was not in and of itself shocking. But that particular cat froze

him in his tracks and sent a lurch through his stomach that he felt all the way

to his toes. For starters, it was huge-not just big in the way of all moor cats,

but gigantic. It wasn't lean and sleek; it was muscled and burly, a veteran of

battles that had left its mottled, dark body crisscrossed with scars. It loomed

up before him like a Koden gone down on all fours, the thick ruff around its

neck giving it a bearish look. Its face was striking, as well, marked with a

black band across its eyes that made it look as if it was wearing a mask.

Pen hadn't sensed it, hadn't detected it at all. He was searching for things

that might threaten them, connected to the life around him, and still he hadn't

known the cat was there. It must have been waiting for them, biding its time,

letting them come to it.

Seeing Pen, the moor cat pricked its ears forward and its luminous eyes widened

into amber lanterns. It made a coughing sound, deep and booming, and instantly

the entire swamp went still.

Khyber Elessedil gave a strangled gasp. "Shades," she managed to whisper.

Pen's eyes were locked on the moor cat, trying to read its intentions. It didn't

seem to have any, mostly finding them curious. Suddenly its eyes narrowed and

its muzzle drew back in warning, and Pen glanced back to find Khyber slowly

withdrawing the pouch with the Elfstones from her pocket.

"Put those away!" he hissed at her. "They're useless anyway!"

She hesitated. Then, slowly, the Elfstones disappeared back into her clothing.

Flushed and angry, she glared at him. "I hope you have a better plan,

Penderrin!"

Tagwen looked as if he hoped the same thing, but the truth was Pen didn't have a

plan at all beyond trying to avoid a confrontation. It appeared that the cat and

the humans each intended to go through the same patch of ground. One or the

other was going to have to give way.

The big cat growled, more a grunt than a cough. Though Pen could tell it was not

intended as a threatening sound, it came across as one nevertheless, causing his

companions to back away hurriedly. The boy motioned for them to stand their

ground, not to make any movements that suggested they were trying to run.

Movements of that sort would bring the moor cat down on them instantly. The

trick was to appear unafraid, but not threatening. A neat trick, if they could

figure out how to make it work.

The moor cat was growing restless, its huge head lowering to sniff the ground

expectantly.

Better try something, Pen thought.

Relying on his magic to guide him, he made a rough, low coughing sound at the

cat, a sound meant to communicate his intentions, one he knew instinctively

would be understood. The moor cat straightened immediately, head lifting, eyes

bright.

"What are you doing?" Khyber hissed at him. Pen wasn't sure, but it seemed to be

working. He made a few more sounds, all of them nonspecific but indicative of

his desire to be friendly. We're no threat, he was saying to the cat. We're just

like you, even if we look and smell a little different.

Intrigued, the moor cat answered with a series of huffing noises that came from

deep within its throat. Pen was working furiously now, taking in the sounds and

translating them into words and phrases, into deciphering the nature of the big

animal's interest in them. The moor cat wanted reassurance that Pen and his

companions were passing through to other places and had no intention of trying

to usurp its territory. There was an unmistakable challenge in the sounds, a

testing for antagonistic intent. Pen responded at once, doing his best to create

a semblance of the coughing sounds, demonstrating that he and his companions

were on their way to their own home, that a challenge to the moor cat's

territory was of no interest.

He acted instinctively, almost without thinking about what hewas doing. His

magic guided him, leading him to say and do what was needed to connect with the

moor cat. He was surprised by how easily the sounds came to him, at the

certainty he had of what they were communicating to the cat. The huge beast

seemed to be listening to him.

"Is he actually talking with that beast?" Tagwen whispered to Khyber.

"Shhhh!" was her quick, irritated response.

Then all of a sudden the moor cat started toward Pen, its great head swinging

from side to side, its huge eyes gleaming.

It stopped right in front of him and leaned in to sniff his face and then his

body. It was so big it stood eye to eye with him, equal in height but dominant

in every other respect. Pen stood perfectly still, frozen with shock and fright.

Running or fighting never entered his mind. He swallowed hard and closed his

eyes, letting the cat explore him, feeling the heat of its breath on his skin,

hearing the sound of its breathing.

Finally, the cat stepped away, satisfied. It circled back the way it had come,

then turned in the direction it had been going and disappeared into the trees

without even a glance in their direction, and was gone.

Pen and his companions stood statue-still for long minutes, waiting for it to

return. When at last it became apparent that it did not intend to, Pen exhaled

heavily and looked from Khyber to Tagwen. The expressions on their faces almost

certainly mirrored the one on his own, a mixture of heart-stopping awe and deep

relief. With one hand he brushed nervously at his mop of reddish hair, which was

finally beginning to grow out again, and realized he was coated with sweat.

"I don't care ever to have that experience again," Tagwen declared, doing his

best to keep his voice from shaking. "Ever."

Khyber glanced in the direction of the departed moor cat. "We need to go that

way, too," she pointed out.

Pen nodded. "Yes, we do."

Tagwen stared at them, horror-stricken, then straightened very deliberately.

"Very well. But let's rest up a bit before we do."

And before they could object, he sat down quickly.

TWENTY-NINE

They trooped on for the remainder of the afternoon, fighting through scrub

growth woods and a new stretch of swamp laced with mud holes and waterways,

everything encased in mist and gloom and crosshatched with shadows. The light

lasted for another three hours and then began to fail rapidly. Still, they

slogged ahead, reduced to putting one foot in front of the other, simply to

pushing on when it would have been much easier not to.

It was almost too dark to see when Khyber realized that the feel of the ground

had changed and the air no longer smelled of damp and rot but of grasses and

leaves. She stopped abruptly, causing Tagwen, who was walking behind her with

his head down, to bump into her. Ahead, Pen heard the sudden oaths and quick

apologies and turned around to see what was happening.

"We're out of the Slags," Khyber announced, still not quite believing it. "Look

around. We're out."

She insisted they stop for the night, so bone weary and mentally exhausted from

the events of the past few days, so in need of sleep that she barely managed to

find a patch of soft grass within a stand of oaks before she was asleep. Her

last memory was of the sky, empty for the first time in days of mist and clouds,

clear and bright with moon glow and stars.

She dreamed that night of her uncle, a shadowy figure who called to her in words

she could not quite make out from a place she could not quite reach. She spent

her dream trying and failing to get close enough to discover what he was saying.

The dream world was shadowy and uneven in its feel, the landscape misty and

changing. It was filled with dark creatures that hovered close to Ahren and her

without ever quite coming into view. It was a place she did not want to be, and

she was grateful when she woke the next morning to bright sunlight and blue sky.

Pen was already awake and returned from foraging for food, and it was the

cooking fire he had built that brought her out of her dream. Somehow, the boy

had snared a rabbit, which he was skinning, dug up some root vegetables, and

picked several handfuls of berries. Added to the fresh stream water he had

collected, it made the best meal Khyber could remember in years and gave her a

welcome and much needed sense of renewal.

They set out shortly after, heading east and north into the hilly country that

fronted the Charnals, determined to find Taupo Rough and the Troll Maturen,

Kermadec. None of them had ever been in that part of the world or knew enough

about it to be able to discern much more than the general direction they should

take. Taupo Rough lay at the foot of the mountains somewhat north of the Slags.

The best they could do was to use the pocket compass and head in that general

direction, trusting that sooner or later they would come across someone to help

them. The Rock Trolls were a tribal people and there was some animosity between

tribes, but the Trolls were not at war with the other Races just then and there

was no reason to think they posed a threat to travelers in their country. At

least, that was what Khyber hoped.

She gave it some thought on setting out, but they had little choice in the

matter and therefore little reason to dwell on the unpleasant possibilities if

they were wrong. Tagwen seemed to think that whatever Rock Trolls they

encountered would be of help once they heard Kermadec's name. Maybe that was so.

Khyber was so grateful to be clear of the Slags that she was willing to risk

almost anything. Even the simple fact of no longer being shrouded by the

wetland's gloom and mist gave her a large measure of relief.

But it was more than that, of course. It was the leaving behind of the place in

which Ahren Elessedil had died. It was the sense that maybe she could come to

terms with his death if she could put time and distance between herself and its

memory. She had persuaded herself to continue on without him, but accepting that

he was really gone was much more difficult. Losing him had left her devastated.

He had been more than an uncle to her/ he had been the father she had lost when

she was still a child. He had been her confidant and her best and most

dependable friend. As compensation for her anguish, she told herself that he was

still there, a spirit presence, and that he would look out for her in death even

as he had in life. It was wishful thinking, but shades were real and sometimes

they helped the living, and she needed to think it could happen there because

she had serious doubts about herself. She did not believe that her meager

talents with Druid magic were going to be enough to see them through the

remainder of their journey, no matter what reassurances Ahren had offered her.

Even her use of the Elfstones was suspect. She had managed to bring the magic to

bear in the battle against Terek Molt, but that had been facilitated by her

uncle's sacrifice. She still shivered at the memory of the Elfstone power

coursing through her, vast and unchecked, and she did not know that she could

make herself summon it again, even to defend herself. In truth, she did not know

what she might do if she was threatened, and the uncertainty could prove as

dangerous as the threat itself. It was one thing to talk as if she possessed

both resolve and confidence, but it was something else again to demonstrate it.

She wished she had a way of testing herself. But she didn't, and that was that.

They walked on through the morning, and she felt a little better for doing so.

Time and distance helped to blunt her sadness if not her uncertainty. Given the

nature of their journey thus far, she would take what she could get.

"Did you see him?" Pen asked her when they stopped at midday to drink from a

stream and to eat what remained of the roots the boy had foraged that morning.

She stared at him. "See who?"

"The cat. It's tracking us."

"The moor cat?"

Tagwen, sitting a little bit farther away, turned at once. His eyes were big and

frightened. "Why would it be doing that? Is it hunting us?"

Pen shook his head. "I don't think so. But it is definitely following us. I saw

it several times, back in the trees, trying to keep out of sight, following a

course parallel to our own. I think it's just interested."

"Interested?" the Dwarf croaked.

"You can't mistake that masked face," Pen went on, oblivious to the other's look

of terror. He grinned suddenly at Khyber, a little boy about to share a secret.

"I've decided to call it Bandit. It looks like one, doesn't it?"

Khyber didn't care what the moor cat looked like, nor did she care for the idea

of it tracking them into the mountains. She had always thought moor cats pretty

much stayed in the swamps and forests and clear of the higher elevations. She

hoped theirs would lose interest as they climbed.

They trekked on through the remainder of the day, through hill country dotted

with woods and crisscrossed by streams that pooled in lakes at the lower

elevations, bright mirrors reflecting sunlight and clouds. The hours drifted

away, and although they covered a fair amount of ground, they did not encounter

any of the region's inhabitants. Darkness began to fall and the shadows of the

trees to lengthen about them, and still they had not seen a single Troll.

"Is that moor cat still out there?" Khyber asked Pen at one point.

"Oh, sure," the boy answered at once. "Still watching us, sort of like a stray

dog. Do you want me to call it over?"

They made camp in the lee of a forested bluff, finding shelter in a grove of

pine by a stream that tumbled down out of the rocks. Behind them, the hill

country they had trekked through all day sloped gently away through woods and

grasslands until it disappeared into the twilight shadows. Although Pen made a

valiant effort to catch something, he was unsuccessful; there was nothing to

eat. They drank stream water and chewed strips of bark from a small fig tree.

"Don't worry," Pen reassured his companions. "I'll go hunting at sunrise. I'll

catch something.

They sat back to watch the stars come out, listening to the silence fill with

night sounds. No one spoke. Khyber felt an emptiness that extended from the

darkness down into her heart. She could not put a name to it, but it was there

nevertheless. After a moment, she rose and walked off into the trees, wanting to

be alone in case she cried. She felt so unbearably sad that she could hardly

manage to keep from breaking down. The feeling had come over her insidiously, as

if to remind her of how badly things had gone for them and how desperate their

circumstances were. She might argue that they were all right, that they would

find their way, but it wasn't what she felt. What she felt was utter abandonment

and complete hopelessness. No matter what they tried or where they went, things

would never get any better for them. They would struggle, but in the end they

would fail.

Away from her companions, unable to help herself, she sat down and cried,

bursting into tears all at once. She wished she had never come on the journey.

She wished she had never left home. Everything that had happened was because of

her insistence on looking for a stupid tree that Pen thought he had been sent to

find but might well have simply dreamed up. Uncle Ahren was dead because of her

intractability and her foolish, selfish need to find a way out of her pointless

life. Well, she had accomplished her goal. She could never go back to Arborlon,

never go home again. Not after stealing the Elfstones. Not after letting her

uncle die. She bore the burden of her guilt like a fifty-pound weight slung

across her shoulders, and she had nowhere to set it down. She hated herself.

In the midst of her silent diatribe, she realized that someone was looking at

her.

Or something.

Huge, lantern eyes peered at her from out of the blackness. It was the moor cat.

"Get out of here!" she snapped in fury, not stopping to think about what she was

doing.

The eyes stayed where they were. She glared at them, hating that the cat was

watching her, that it had seen her break down and cry, that it had caught her at

her worst. For no reason that made any sense at all, she was embarrassed by it.

Even if it was only an animal that had witnessed it, her behavior made her feel

foolish. She took several deep breaths to steady herself and sat back. The cat

wasn't going to move until it felt like it, so there wasn't much point in

railing at it. She found herself wondering once again what it was doing there.

Curiosity, Pen had thought. Could be. She kissed at it, whispered a few words of

greeting, and gave it a wave. The cat stared without blinking or moving.

Then all at once, it was gone again. Like smoke caught in the wind, it simply

disappeared. She waited a moment to be sure, then rose and walked back to where

Pen and Tagwen were already asleep. The first watch was hers, it seemed. Just as

well since she wasn't at all tired. She sat down next to them and wrapped her

arms about her knees. It was chilly so high up, much more so than in the Slags.

She wished she had a blanket. Maybe they could find supplies in the morning.

There had to be a settlement somewhere close by.

With her legs drawn up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, she

listened to the sounds of Pen and Tagwen breathing and stared out into the

night.

* * *

Intending to wake one of her companions to share the watch, but failing to do

so, she dozed off sometime after midnight. When she came awake again, it was

with the sudden and frightening realization that things were not as they should

be. It wasn't the silence or the darkness or even the sound of the wind rustling

the leaves like old parchment. What caught her attention as her eyes snapped

open and her head jerked up was the dark movement that crept like a stain across

the forest earth in front of her. For a moment, she thought it was alive, and

leapt to her feet, backing away instinctively. But then she recognized its flat,

fragmented shape and realized it was a shadow cast from something passing

overhead.

She looked up and saw the Skatelow.

She couldn't believe it at first, thinking that she must be mistaken, that her

eyes were playing tricks on her. It wasn't possible that the Skatelow could be

there, flying those skies, so many miles east of where it should be. But the

shape was so distinctive that Khyber quickly accepted that it was her, come

after them for a reason that was not immediately apparent. For come after them

she had, the Elven girl reasoned, or she would not be here at all.

Particularly since she was flying straight toward them.

But there was something not quite right about her, a look to her that was

foreign and vaguely frightening. She carried only her mainsail, its canvas

billowed out in the rush of the wind, yet there were yards of rigging stretched

bare and stark from decking to spars like spider webbing.

Khyber stared, transfixed, not yet fully awake and not yet come to terms with

what she was seeing.

The Skatelow passed overhead and when she had gone a short distance beyond where

the Elven girl stood watching, somewhere above the bluff east, she wheeled back

and slid across the star-scattered firmament a second time, more slowly, as if

searching.

Then, abruptly, she started to come down, making a slow and cautious descent

toward the grasslands that lay just beyond the woods in which Khyber and her

companions slept. As she did so, Khyber saw what she had missed before. Three

ropes dangled in a ragged line from the yardarm, pulled taut by the weight of

the bodies attached.

"Pen!" Khyber hissed, reaching down quickly to shake the boy awake, galvanized

by sudden shock and a rush of fear.

Penderrin Ohmsford jerked upright at once, eyes darting in all directions at

once. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, she hauled him to his feet and pointed, leaving Tagwen still

stretched out and asleep at her feet. Together, they watched the Skatelow settle

toward the grasslands, a ghost ship dark and ragged against the moonlit sky, the

bodies at the ends of the ropes swaying like gourds from vines. The light caught

those bodies clearly by then, illuminating them sufficiently for Khyber to

identify Gar Hatch and his crewmen, faces empty, mouths hanging open, eyes wide

and staring. There was a wizened, drawn cast to their features, as if the juices

had been drained from them, leaving only skin and bones.

"What's happened?" Pen breathed.

Then his fingers tightened sharply about her arm, and he pointed. She saw it at

once. Cinnaminson stood in the pilot box, a thin, frail figure against the

skyline, her head lifted into the wind, her clothing whipping against her body,

her arms hanging limply at her sides. One end of a chain was attached to a

collar about her neck; the other was wound about the pilot box railing.

Khyber scanned the decks of the sloop from end to end, but no one else was

visible. No one was sailing the airship, no one acting as Captain and crew, no

one visible aboard save the three dead men and the chained girl.

Then Khyber saw something move across the billowing mainsail, high up in the

rigging, a dark shadow caught in a swath of moonlight. The shadow skittered down

the lines like a spider over its webbing, limbs outstretched and crooked as it

swung from strand to strand. Nothing more of it was visible; its head and body

were cloaked and hooded, its features hidden. It was there for just an instant,

then gone, disappeared behind the sail and back into the shadows.

Khyber took a deep breath. It was the thing that had chased them through the

streets of Anatcherae—the thing that had tried to kill Pen.

A shiver ran down Khyber's back when Cinnaminson turned her head slightly in

their direction, as if seeing them as clearly as they saw her. In that instant,

her features were clearly revealed, and such anguish and horror were mirrored

there that Khyber went cold all the way to her bones. Then the Rover girl looked

away again and pointed north. The thing that hung from the mainmast moved

quickly in response, leaping through the rigging, changing the set of the sail,

the tautness of the radian draws, and thereby the direction of the airship. The

Skatelow began to lift away again, turning north in the direction Cinnaminson

had pointed. The crooked-legged thing darted back across the moonlight, then

fastened itself in place against the mast, hunching down like a huge lizard on a

pole.

Seconds later, the airship disappeared behind the rise of the bluff, and the sky

was empty again.

* * *

In the dark aftermath, Khyber exhaled sharply and exchanged a hurried look with

Pen. Then she jumped in fright as Tagwen stood up suddenly next to her, rubbing

at his bleary eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Don't do that again!" she snapped furiously, her hands shaking.

They told him what they had seen, pointing north at the empty sky. A look of

disbelief crossed his rough features, and he shook his head, blinking away the

last of his sleep. "Are you certain of this? You didn't dream it? It wasn't just

the clouds?"

"It's tracking us," Pen answered, his voice dismal and lost-sounding. "It's

killed Gar Hatch and his Rover cousins, and now it's using Cinnaminson to hunt

us."

"But how did it get aboard the Skatelow?"

No one could answer him. Khyber stared at the empty sky, trying to reason it

through. Was there a connection between the creature and the Druids? Could it

have gotten aboard the Skatelow while the Galaphile had the Rover airship in

tow? That would mean Terek Molt had deliberately lied to them about sending the

Skatelow safely on her way. But why do that? For that matter, why bother to put

the creature aboard the Skatelow at all if the Druid intended to hunt Penderrin

on his own anyway?

Whatever the answer, someone was going to an awful lot of trouble to prevent the

boy from attempting to rescue his aunt. So someone must think he had a very good

chance of succeeding, even if the boy himself thought he had very little. It was

an intriguing conclusion, and it gave her unexpected reason for hope.

Pen was staring at her. "Do you think the Elfstones could be used against

whatever's got Cinnaminson?"

She gave him a doubtful look. "We don't even know what it is, Pen. It might be

human, and the Elfstones would be useless."

"It doesn't look it."

"Whatever it is, we're not going to fight it if we don't have to." She motioned

toward the bluff. "Let's get out of here. We can stop and eat when it gets

light. I don't want to chance it coming back again."

Pen stood his ground, his mouth a tight line. "Did you see the way she looked at

us?"

Khyber hesitated. "What are you getting at?"

"She saw us. She knew we were here. Yet she turned the ship the other way." His

voice was shaking. "She's being made to track us, Khyber. Maybe her life depends

on whether or not that thing finds us. Yet she steered it away. She saved us."

Tagwen shook his bearded head. "You don't know that, young Pen. You might be

mistaken."

The boy looked quickly at Khyber for support. She had a sinking feeling in her

stomach as she realized what he was about to ask. She had to stop him, even if

it meant lying to him about what she had seen. But she could not bring herself

to do that. That was the coward's way out. Ahren would not have lied in that

situation. He would have told Pen the truth.

"We can't do this," she said.

"We have to!" he snapped. His face had an angry, almost furious look. "She saved

us, Khyber! Now we have to save her!"

"What are you talking about?" Tagwen demanded. "Save who?"

"She's not our concern," Khyber pressed. "Our concern is with your aunt, the Ard

Rhys."

"Our concern is with whoever needs our help! What's wrong with you?"

They faced each other in stony silence. Even Tagwen had gone quiet, looking

quickly from one face to the other.

"We don't have any way of saving her," Khyber said finally. "We don't know

anything about that creature, nothing about what it will take to overcome it. If

we guess wrong, we'll all be dead."

Pen straightened and looked off to the north. "I'm going, whether you go with me

or not. I'm not leaving her. I have to live with myself when this is over. I

can't do that if something happens to her that I might have prevented." He

glanced back at her, the angry look become suddenly pleading. "She isn't the

enemy, Khyber."

"I know that."

"Then help me."

She stared at him without answering.

"Khyber, I'm begging you."

He wasn't asking Tagwen, he was asking her. With Ahren Elessedil dead, she'd

become the unofficial leader. She was the one with the Elfstones and the magic.

She was the one with the lore. She thought about the choices she had made on the

journey and how badly many of them had turned out. If she made the wrong choice,

it might cost all of them their lives. Pen's heart ruled his thinking; she had

to remember to use her head.

She found herself wondering what Ahren would do in that situation but was unable

to decide. The answer would have come quickly and easily for him. It would not

do so for her.

She looked off into the trees and the night, into the shadows and darkness,

searching for it in vain.

THIRTY

When Grianne Ohmsford reached the rim of the For-bidding's version of the Valley

of Shale, Weka Dart was gone. Fled out of fear, she decided, too terrified to

remain once the Warlock Lord appeared. Even so, she took a moment to look for

him, thinking he might be hiding in the rocks, his sharp-featured face buried in

his hands. But there was no sign of him.

He would be back, she told herself. No matter what happened, he would be back.

She wondered at her certainty about this, and decided rather reluctantly that it

was fostered in part, at least, by the comfort she found in his presence. In a

better world, such as the one from which she had come, she might not have

tolerated him at all. Here, she had to take what friendship she could find.

She started back down the mountainside. Silence enveloped her, a hush that felt

strange in the wake of the disappearance of the shades that had tormented her on

the way in. They had all vanished, drawn back down into the netherworld with the

Warlock Lord. Yet the memory of them haunted her, voices whispering at the back

of her thoughts, damp fingers trailing lightly across her unprotected skin, an

insidious presence.

The sun was rising, turning the eastern horizon the color of ashes, gray and

damp against the departing night. Another day of low clouds and threatening

skies. Another day of colorless gloom. She felt her already battered spirits

sink at the prospect. She wanted out of this miserable place, out of this world

of savagery and despair. She pondered on the words of Brona's shade. A boy is

coming. The pronouncement confounded her, no matter how often she repeated the

words in her mind. What boy? Why a boy in the first place? It made no sense to

her, and she kept thinking that it must be a puzzle of some sort, the secret to

which she must find a way to unlock. Shades were famous for speaking in riddles,

for teasing with half-truths.

Perhaps that was what had happened here.

She stopped for a moment and closed her eyes, feeling dizzy and weak. Her

encounter with the Warlock Lord's shade had left her battered of mind and body,

light-headed and unsteady. She could feel an aching not only in her muscles and

joints, but also in her heart. Just standing in the presence of the shade had

left her sickened. Its poison had permeated the air she breathed and the ground

she walked. It had infused the entire valley, though she had not been aware of

it until now. Evil—in its rawest, most lethal form—had infected her. Though she

had resisted the Warlock Lord's offer to embrace it, it had claimed her anyway.

She wouldn't die from it, she thought, but she would be a long time ridding

herself of its feel.

The dizziness passed, and she walked on. A boy, she kept thinking. And she must

wait for him. She could do nothing from this end, nothing that would set her

free. She did not believe it; there was always something you could do to help

yourself in any situation. There was always more than one way in or out of any

place, even this one. She need only find what it was. But even as she told

herself it was so, she found reason to doubt the words. No one—until now—had

ever found a way out of the Forbidding, not after thousands of years. No one had

ever found a way in, once the wall of magic was set in place. It was a prison

that did not allow for escape.

It was light by the time she reached the base of the mountains: the same sooty

gray light that seemed to mark every day, the clouds slung low against the

earth, fused with mist and darkened by the threat of rain. Weka Dart was sitting

on a rock at the trailhead, chin in his hands, looking south across the flats,

but he leapt to his feet on hearing her approach and was waiting eagerly as she

came up to him.

"I thought you weren't coming back, Straken," he announced, not bothering to

hide the relief in his voice. "That shade, so terrible, so threatening! It

didn't want you?"

She shook her head. "Nor you, so you needn't have run away."

He bristled with indignation. "I didn't run! I chose to wait for you here!" His

cunning features tightened as he prepared to lie. "I realized that you could not

afford to be disturbed during your summoning and decided to come back down here

to keep watch against . . . whatever might intrude." He spit. "It worked, didn't

it? Were you bothered in any way? Hah! I thought as much!"

She almost laughed. The truth wasn't in the little Ulk Bog, but she didn't find

herself angry or even disappointed. It was simply his nature, and there was no

point in hoping for anything else. Candor was not a quality she was likely to

see much of in Weka Dart.

"If I had thought you needed protection from that shade, if I had not believed

you to be a Straken of great power and experience, I would have stayed to see

that you were kept safe!" he continued hurriedly, clearly not knowing when to

stop.

"But since there was no reason for worry, I came down here, where I knew I could

be of more use to you. Tell me. What shade was it you spoke with?"

She sighed. "A warlock of immense power."

"But its power was no greater than yours or you would not have dared summon it.

What did it tell you?"

She sat down next to him. "It told me I must go back to where you found me."

Instantly, his demeanor changed. "No, no!" he insisted at once. "You mustn't go

back there!"

She stared at him in surprise. His distress was reflected on his rough features,

revealed by the way the furrows on his brow deepened and knotted and his mouth

tightened.

He seemed to realize he had overreacted. "What I mean to say is that you've

already barely escaped a Dracha. What reason would you have to risk another

encounter? I thought we had decided we would go to ... I thought . . ."

He trailed off. "What did we decide, exactly? Why did we come here? You never

said."

She nodded, amused by his confusion as much as troubled by his distress. "We

came here so that I could speak with a shade, Weka Dart. I was not given a

choice as to which one."

The Ulk Bog nodded eagerly. "But you did speak with one. What did you ask it?

Why did it tell you to go back to where you had come from? What was its reason

for doing so? It must be trying to trick you, perhaps to see you hurt!"

She considered her answer carefully. "I don't think it wants me hurt. Not in the

way you suggest. What I asked was how to find my way home again."

Weka Dart bounded up from the rock to face her. "But you won't find your home

from there! You were lost already when I found you! Anyway, that place is too

dangerous! There are dragons everywhere, some worse than that Dracha you

encountered!"

He was practically jumping up and down now, his hands balled into fists. "Why do

you have to go back there to find your way home? Can't you find it somewhere

else?"

She shook her head, watching him carefully. "No, 1 can't. Why are you so upset?

Are you frightened for yourself? If so, don't come with me. I can find my own

way. Go west, where you were headed when you met me."

"I don't want to go west!" He practically screamed the words at her. "I want to

stay with you!"

"Well, if you want to stay with me, you have to go back to where you found me.

What's wrong with you? Are you afraid I can't protect you from those hunting

you? Is that what this is about?"

He flew at her in a rage, catching himself just before he got within reach,

wheeling away again, then stamping the earth with both feet until she thought he

was in danger of breaking his legs. "Aren't you listening to me?" he screamed at

her.

"Don't you believe me? You can't go back there!"

She came to her feet, ready for another attack. "Are you coming with me or not?

Make up your mind."

He hissed at her like a snake, his face twisted into a grotesque mask, and his

fingers extended like claws. She was so astounded by the transformation that for

a moment she thought she had better summon the magic and immobilize him before

he lost all control. But then he seemed to get hold of himself, going suddenly

still so that he was frozen in his bizarrely aggressive pose. He took a deep

breath, blew it out, wrenched his fiery gaze away from her and directed it out

onto the flats.

"Do what you want, Grianne of the foolish heart," he said quietly. "Go to

whatever doom awaits you, whatever fate. But I will not be caught up in the net,

as well. No, I will not come with you."

Without another word, he stalked away, moving off at a rapid pace, no longer

darting from side to side as he had done all the way there, but proceeding

straight ahead, south into the Pashanon. She watched him incredulously, not

quite believing he was giving up so easily, certain he would turn around and

come back after he had gotten far enough away to make his point.

But he did not turn around or come back. He kept walking, and she kept watching

him until he was out of sight.

* * *

She found a stream from which to drink, then began retracing her steps west. She

was near exhaustion from her encounter with the shade of Brona, but she didn't

think she should try to sleep until she reached less open country. She was

hungry, as well, but as usual there was no food to be found. She thought she

might find some ground roots when she reached the forests again, but there was

no way to be certain. Grudgingly, she admitted that having Weka Dart along would

have solved the problem, but the Ulk Bog just wasn't worth the trouble. It

wasn't entirely his fault, of course. He couldn't understand what she was trying

to do, and that frustrated him. It was better that he was gone, even if she was

hungry.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help wondering at his extreme reluctance to return to

where he had found her. He was adamant about avoiding that place, and she

thought there was more to it than his fear of encountering the tribal members he

had fled. Something else was going on, something he was keeping to himself. Had

she wanted to, she could have used her magic to force it out of him, but she no

longer did things like that just to satisfy her curiosity. That approach to

problem solving belonged to the Ilse Witch, and she was careful to keep it in

the past.

Her trek, though across open, mostly unencumbered ground, quickly tired her, and

by midday she was having trouble concentrating. The oppressive grayness closed

about her in a deep gloom, and tracking the sun through the screen of clouds

took more than a little effort. Sometimes, there was no indication of where it

was in the sky, and she could only guess at its progress. Sometimes, she felt as

if there were no sun at all.

It was wearing on her, this prison to which she had been consigned. It was

breaking down her confidence and her determination. The erosion was incremental,

but she could feel it happening. Even the prospect of rescue seemed remote and

gave her no real encouragement. Too much relied on chance and the efforts of

others. She didn't like that. She had never trusted either.

She was approaching the hill country where they had encountered the Furies two

days earlier. Now she decided to turn north toward the mountains again. Her

memories of the death of that ogre were too fresh to ignore, and she thought

that if she stayed close to the base of the cliffs, she might have better luck

escaping notice. She didn't know enough about Furies to have a clear idea of how

to avoid them, but she knew that staying out in the open was not a good idea.

Better to take her chances where there was a chance for finding cover if the

need arose.

Her choice yielded unexpected benefits. She found fresh water and an odd tree

that bore a round orange and yellow fruit that, while bitter, was edible. She

ate the fruit, sitting by the stream in the shadow of the tree and looking out

into the blighted landscape. She felt light-headed and heavy-eyed afterwards, a

condition she attributed to lack of rest. She would feel better by the next

morning. At least, she reminded herself, she was still alive.

Did any of those she had left behind believe her so? Or did they believe her

dead and gone?

She took a moment to picture what it must have been like when she disappeared.

Tagwen and Kermadec would have been frantic, but there would have been nothing

they could do. Nothing anyone could do, the Druids included. Only a handful, at

most, knew what had really happened, those few who had orchestrated her

imprisonment. But how much did they understand of what they had done? Not as

much as they thought, perhaps. The shade of the Warlock Lord had called them

pawns. It was the creature from the Forbidding who controlled them all.

A creature of immense power and great cunning, an enemy perhaps even more

dangerous than the Morgawr, it had found a way to reach across the barrier of

the Forbidding and subvert at least one of her Druids to its cause. It had

tricked that Druid into helping it make possible the exchange of an Ard Rhys for

a monster. Perhaps she had been party to the effort, as well. It was possible

that her journey to the ruins of the Skull Kingdom with Kermadec was prompted by

the thing's need to connect with her. It was possible she had been lured there

to make that happen. She could remember the malevolent, dark look of it when it

had shown itself. She could still feel the evil that permeated from it. It was

not difficult to believe that it had gained a hold over her just from that

single, brief encounter.

What did it intend to do, there in the Four Lands, outside the Forbidding for

the first time in thousands of years? That it had escaped would not be enough.

It would want something more.

Before she set out again, she used her magic to probe the surrounding

countryside. It was a precaution, nothing more. She hadn't seen anything move

all day, not even in the sky. She might have been alone in the world, and the

thought was immensely depressing because for all intents and purposes, that was

exactly what she was. It didn't make any difference who or what she encountered;

the best she could hope for was another Weka Dart. Everything locked within the

Forbidding was a potential enemy, and that wasn't going to change.

She walked on through the remainder of the afternoon without incident, and her

spirits lifted marginally. Perhaps she would find a way out of this situation in

spite of her doubts. Perhaps someone really was coming to rescue her.

Nightfall was approaching when she heard a strange metallic chirp that reminded

her of birdsong. She was so surprised by the sound that she stopped where she

was and listened until she heard it again, then started to walk in the direction

from which it had come, curious. She reached a grove of shaggy, moss-grown trees

when she heard it a third time and saw a flash of something bright red within

the shadows. She didn't care for the sickly color of the gnarled trunks, almost

a fire-scorched black and gray, or for the way in which the moss draped the

limbs like a badly torn shroud, but the sound and the flash of red were simply

too intriguing to ignore.

She moved into the grove warily, and almost at once she caught sight of the

bird, a fiery crimson splash in the gloom. What was it doing here? It was tiny,

too small to be obviously dangerous, but she knew better than to take anything

for granted. She eased closer, probing with her magic for hidden dangers. The

bird sang again, a quick, high note that was so pure and true she almost cried

at the sound.

She was right underneath it, peering up into the branches, when the ground

beneath her feet was yanked out from under her and a net whipped tightly about

her flailing arms and legs and hauled her up into the trees in a collapsed,

gasping bundle.

She fought to break free, tearing at the netting, screaming in rage and

frustration. But almost instantly fumes flooded her nostrils and mouth, thick,

toxic and mind numbing.

Her last thought before she lapsed into unconsciousness was that she had been a

fool.

* * *

She woke to a rolling, shaking motion that jerked her back and forth against the

chains that secured her arms and legs to wooden walls and iron bars. The chains

allowed her to move just enough to turn from side to side, but not completely

around. Nor was there enough play in the lengths to allow her to reach her head

or body. She rested on a bed of straw inside a wheeled wooden cage being pulled

by two huge, broad-back horned animals that looked a little like bulls but were

clearly something more. A second cage preceded her own and a third jolted along

behind. There might have been more; she couldn't see.

Her joints ached and her head throbbed. When she tried to clear her mouth of its

dryness, she found she was securely gagged.

She closed her eyes, gathering her strength, taking a moment to remember how she

had come to this. The birdsong. Then the bird itself. A lure, she realized now,

clever and seductive. She had let herself be trapped by one of the oldest tricks

in the world. Her magic had failed to detect the snare. That was odd, but not

impossible. The snare was sophisticated. Whoever had set it had taken great

pains to hide it. That suggested that the trapper was expecting its prey to have

the use of magic, which in turn suggested the trapper was looking for someone

like her.

She opened her eyes and peered around. The landscape was blighted and gray with

shadows, and the air smelled of deadwood and old earth. Through the bars, she

could see a handful of lupine forms loping silently through the graying

daylight, massive four-legged beasts with shaggy ruffs. Tongues lolled and

breath steamed,

even though the day was warm. When one of them caught her looking, it lunged at

her, snapping at the iron bars and snarling furiously when it failed to reach

her.

She lay back in the middle of the cage, shaken. She had neither weapons nor

magic with which to protect herself or to get free. She must bide her time. She

was at the mercy of whoever had seized her until the gag was removed. Then it

would be a different story.

A tall, rawboned creature wearing leather half-pants and a tunic appeared

suddenly at the side of the cage, peering in at her. Coarse black hair formed a

topknot on a nearly pointed head, and a beard fringed a face that was as

elongated and sharp-featured as a child's drawing of a Spider Gnome. It

chattered at her with high-pitched sounds that reminded her vaguely of Weka

Dart. But the language was different. She stared at it mutely, and the creature

stared back. Then it was gone.

She glanced around, trying to get her bearings. To her dismay, she saw the

Dragon Line fading into the gloom and mist behind her. She was headed south,

away from her original destination.

Away from the mysterious boy who was coming to save her.

* * *

Here ends BOOK ONE of HIGH DRUID OF SHANNARA

In BOOK Two, Tanequil, Pen Ohmsford and his companions continue to search for

the strange tree that will provide access to the Forbidding and a chance to

rescue the increasingly threatened Ard Rhys, while on the Prekkendorran, the war

between Free-born and Federation enters a dangerous new phase.