by Terry Brooks
Railing glanced around at the already ravaged room. “Where? Should we start tearing out the walls?” He paused. “Wait a minute. Could she have used magic to hide it? Redden and I used to do that with all sorts of stuff. If the journal’s so important …”
Woostra was on his feet. “That’s exactly what she’s done. She’s done it before with important documents.” He looked around expectantly. “Can you use your magic to look for it? Can you try uncovering it that way?”
Railing stood up quickly. “I think so.”
He glanced again at the journals they had already read through. All of them looked the same. So he pictured another like them and began to hum, calling up the wishsong. He felt the magic respond, felt the familiar warmth and the tingling at his fingertips. Holding the wishsong steady as he hummed, he began a slow scan of the room. He felt the magic spread away from his hands, lighting here and there, revealing patches of color, bits of detritus from earlier magic. The room was filled with it, and he realized he was sweeping over years of magic use, all of which probably related to the journals in one way or another and none of which gave him a clue as to the whereabouts of the one missing. The leavings were especially thick around the writing desk, which confirmed his thinking.
He stopped his search and told Woostra what was happening. “We have to find another way. Something that will set the hiding place of the journal apart from all this other stuff.”
They considered the problem in silence for a long time, and then Woostra said, “If she hid it, she must have left a way to find it. A way that a Druid would understand. But we don’t have a Druid with us to ask.”
“What if she put something in one of the other journals?” Railing asked. “A key to the one that’s missing.”
“She would have done that right at the beginning, assuming she wanted it hidden right after Grianne left the order.” Woostra took out the earliest journal and paged through it quickly. “Nothing written in here stands out.”
“It wouldn’t be something written.” Railing took the journal from him and studied it. “Let me try another approach.”
He called up the wishsong a second time, humming first and then shifting into words that just came to him as he envisioned a link between this book and the one missing. He sang of a need for rejoining, for assembling all of the journals as a unit, for a reunion and an end to separation.
At first, nothing happened. But then he felt a tugging and the sudden launch of the blue light, flaring out and sweeping through the room. Almost immediately it settled on the stone blocks of the south wall about midway up, flaring once as it revealed a series of red lines, then consuming the lines and turning dark again.
Woostra crossed quickly to the place in the wall upon which the magic had settled and began fingering the surfaces of the stone blocks and the crevices between. It took him only moments to discover what he was looking for, and abruptly one of the stone blocks popped loose, extending out far enough for Railing to pull it free and set it aside.
There, in the space behind the stone, was the missing journal.
Together they sat down and began to scan the contents.
Railing brushed strands of his unkempt hair out of his eyes. “I can’t read any of this. What language is this?”
“Old Elfish,” Woostra answered, giving him a look. “Interesting that she changed languages after filling up this first journal. She made a choice at that point to make the others more readable, so that they would be more accessible to anyone who found them. Why not this one?”
He scanned a few pages, searching.
“Read me something,” Railing pressed. “How does it start?”
Woostra sighed, a hint of irritation flashing across his seamed face. “All right. First page, first entry. She uses a dating system I don’t recognize. But here’s what she’s written.”
I am Ard Rhys now, the legacy of the Druid order passed on to me by decree of my predecessor and by circumstance, as well. Though more newly come to the Druid order than others, I am asked to serve in this capacity. Trefen Morys and Bellizen have been with the order longer, but neither hesitated to defer to me. The others are too new and too unsure of themselves to take on such responsibility. So I am left with the choice of accepting what is asked of me, knowing it will likely consume my remaining years, or of rejecting it knowing it will instill within me an irrefutable certainty that I have failed Grianne Ohmsford.
So I have made my choice and taken on the role. I have given myself over to the demands of being Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order. I wonder how I can make myself do this, knowing what I am giving up, knowing what I am embracing. I wonder how Grianne stood it for so long, even to the end of her days when she was betrayed and her life thrown into such upheaval.
I wonder if she has found peace where she has gone.
I wonder if I will one day find peace, as well.
“This is what we’ve been looking for!” Railing exclaimed excitedly. “Isn’t it?”
“It appears so.” Woostra seemed less enthused. “But let me look ahead and see if the answer we seek is actually here in these pages. Be patient a moment.”
He began scanning the journal’s pages, reading carefully, taking his time. He turned the worn sheets one by one, and with each Railing waited to hear that the answer they sought had been found. But Woostra just kept reading, shaking his head, muttering to himself, pausing now and then to decipher something that was unfamiliar to him.
“Some of this language is obscure, even to me,” he said finally, looking up. “Most of it I can translate. She talks about how she will reform the order. She sets out the parameters and goals she intends to adopt. She mentions Grianne frequently, drawing strength from her example, repeating how she will …”
He was still scanning as he was talking, and suddenly he stopped doing both. He held up one hand to silence Railing and read the page he was on carefully. Then he went back and read it again.
He looked up, distraught. “Listen.”
After much consideration, after weeks of delay, I have decided to keep my promise to Grianne. She asked it of me when she departed with Penderrin Ohmsford and confided that she would not be returning. She gave her journal into my keeping and told me that if I wished to read it, I could do so. Only yesterday, I did. It explained in detail what she intended to do. It revealed the immensity of her heart and courage. It revealed, as well, the depth of the suffering she has endured and what it has brought her to.
I am to give the journal to Penderrin and his descendants to keep safe. I am to tell him that he must read it and remember her story and pass it on to those Ohmsfords who come after so that they will understand the nature and importance of their history. I wonder if they would not understand that anyway, but perhaps she is afraid it will all be seen a different way if her writings are lost. Why she chooses that it be kept within her family rather than by the Druids, I don’t pretend to understand.
At first I did not intend to honor my promise. I thought instead to keep the journal here, safe at Paranor, safe in the hands of the Druid order. Better that I fail her than allow the journal to be lost. It belongs with the others, here in the place where she was most at home.
But I have changed my mind. I will honor her wishes and give the journal over to Penderrin on my next visit to his home in Patch Run.
I thought it odd, before reading the journal’s last entries, that she wished it given to her nephew rather than to his father, her brother. But I know now she shares something with her nephew that is different from what she shares with Bek. Something that transcends all other considerations. Something that dictates her decision regarding the fate of the journal.
Something that requires I do my part for her.
“So the journal isn’t even here?” Railing asked in disbelief.
“I would guess that it is somewhere in your home,” Woostra answered. “If it hasn’t been destroyed.”
Railing thought a moment. “We have a trunk in wh
ich writings made by Ohmsfords since the time of my great-grandfather have been kept. Everything before that was lost during a period when it seemed all of the Ohmsfords had died out. The trunk came to us and my father took it into the attic of our home and left it there, bound and locked. We have been careful to preserve everything in it ever since.”
“But you must have looked in it?”
“I don’t think anyone has. Not since my grandfather died.” Then he paused suddenly, and a startled look crossed his face. “Except for …”
Realization flooded his eyes. “My mother.”
24
He explained his mother’s involvement to Woostra after they had returned Khyber Elessedil’s journal to its hiding place in the bedchamber wall and sealed it up again.
“I saw her looking through the trunk once, not long after my grandfather died and it was delivered to us by my grandmother. I was by myself; I don’t remember what Redden was doing. I do remember I was still pretty young and didn’t know the history. I only knew that it had come from Grandfather, and that Father considered it very valuable.”
“You never looked inside it yourself?” Woostra was leading him back through the empty corridors of the Keep and out into the courtyard past the desiccated bodies and piles of debris. “Or maybe your brother?”
“If Redden had looked, he would have told me. We tell each other everything.” He did not mention Mirai. “I didn’t look because I just didn’t have any real interest. After a while, I sort of forgot about it.”
“But you saw your mother?”
“She was kneeling by the trunk, and the lid was raised. She was holding papers and had others stacked beside her. Maybe there was a book or two, as well. Maybe even the missing journal. I can’t remember. I almost said something, but the look on her face—I remember it so well. She was very upset. I didn’t know why but I knew enough not to disturb her. I watched for a minute more and then left. I told Redden, and later on when Mother wasn’t around we went into the attic where the trunk was stored for a look. But it was locked again, and we didn’t know where the key was. We thought about breaking the lock, but if we did Mother would know what we’d been up to and we decided it wasn’t worth it. Just a bunch of old papers and books, we told ourselves.”
He shook his head. “We never went back. Mostly, we didn’t think it was important enough.”
They crossed the courtyard and retraced their steps down into the tunnels. They might have found a way through the gates or over the walls, but Woostra never seemed to consider going another way. He was silent for a time after Railing finished his story, and it was only as they reached the far end of the tunnel and the hidden entry they had passed through coming in that he turned once more to the boy.
“Your mother is no friend to the Druids. Especially not to the Ard Rhys. She still blames the order for your father’s death. You know all this, so you know we can’t just go to her and ask to look in the trunk.”
“We can’t go to her at all,” Railing declared. “She thinks Redden is safe. She can’t be allowed to find out he isn’t. If she sees me without him, she’ll know something is wrong.”
Back outside in the open air, the entrance to the tunnels sealed anew, Woostra turned to him again. The woods were dark save for where shards of moonlight sprinkled the forest floor in strange patterns.
“We have to go to Patch Run if we want to know what happened to the journal,” he said quietly. His scarecrow form was hunched over as he bent close to Railing. “It may be that your mother has destroyed it. We can’t discount that possibility. She was angry and distraught after your father died, and she might have done it out of spite. Whatever the case, we can’t discover the truth unless we get a look in that trunk. Do you know where she keeps the key?”
Railing shook his head. “I’ve never seen it. It could be anywhere, I guess. Probably it’s in her bedroom somewhere. What’s the difference? I can’t ask her to tell me. I can’t let her even see me. I can’t go back without Redden.”
Woostra rocked back on his haunches. “I don’t see that you have a choice. If you want to find out what’s become of Grianne Ohmsford, we have to look in that trunk. It’s up to you. Better make up your mind here and now, before you have to face the others.”
Railing stared at him a moment and then looked away. The scribe was right. They didn’t have any other option. They didn’t have time to find another option even if there was one. He wondered if his mother had destroyed the journal. If she had, none of this mattered. Even if she hadn’t, there was nothing to say it contained anything they needed to know. But this had always been a long shot, right from the first. He had known that. There had never been anything better than a small chance that they could find Grianne Ohmsford and return her to the Forbidding.
“You already know my answer,” he said. “I don’t want to give up. But we have to find a way to do this that won’t let Mother know that anything has happened to Redden.”
Woostra grunted. “It won’t be the first miracle we’ve performed since all this started.”
Back on the Quickening, it was Mirai who came up with a solution to their problem of how to gain access to the contents of the trunk without exposing Railing’s presence.
“Sarys doesn’t need to know you’re there at all, Railing,” she told him. “Not if I’m the one who goes to see her.”
They were discussing the matter on the foredeck—the Highland girl, the boy, Woostra, Skint, and Farshaun. Austrum was in the pilot box, and the other Rovers were lounging about nearby, but all were out of hearing. Woostra had just finished relating what he and Railing had discovered at Paranor, concluding with the boy’s recollection of the trunk being delivered to the twins’ home in Patch Run.
“I could go up to the house,” Mirai continued, keeping her voice low enough that the others had to lean close to hear, “and tell Sarys that her sons are still safe and sound in Bakrabru, but busy with the Ard Rhys. The Ard Rhys never said anything about how long they would be gone, so Sarys has no reason to question me. I could say that I’ve come home on an errand for my father and decided to visit long enough to let her know everything is fine. Deliberate lies, but necessary ones. If we do it in daylight, I can entice her out of the house. While we’re visiting, Railing can slip in through the back door, find the key, open the trunk, and have a look.”
There was a long silence. “But you don’t know where the key is,” Skint pointed out to Railing. “You’ll have to hunt for it.”
“You don’t know if the missing journal is in the trunk,” Farshaun added.
“You don’t know if you can read the journal even if it is in the trunk,” Skint continued. “It might be in whatever language Khyber was using in the other one. Old Elfish or whatever. This whole plan sounds like a disaster in the making. Isn’t there a better way?”
“We’re listening, if you know of one,” Woostra snapped back irritably.
Mirai shook her head. “Stop arguing and listen for a minute. There isn’t a better plan. There isn’t even another plan. The facts are simple. Only Railing or I could even approach Sarys without drawing suspicion. The rest of you wouldn’t get through the front door. Since Railing can’t do this, it has to be me. And I wouldn’t be offering at all, believe me, if I didn’t think it was possible. I just have to distract Sarys long enough to give Railing a chance. If he can’t find the journal, then at least we’ve tried.” She looked directly at Railing. “Isn’t this what you want to do?”
He nodded quickly. “I made the decision coming back to the ship. I can risk being disappointed if this doesn’t work out, but not living with myself if I don’t even try.”
“Well, it will take a lot of trying and a lot more luck than skill.” Skint was conceding nothing. “I don’t know how you can manage it.”
“Would it help you if I told you that I know where the key to the trunk is?” Mirai said, cocking one eyebrow.
Skint stared at her for a long moment. “On the other hand,
this boy does seem to have more luck than most.” He gave an elaborate shrug. “I suppose we had better give him his chance.”
They lifted off and flew on through the remainder of the night, passing out of the Dragon’s Teeth, across the Mermidon, down the length of the Runne Mountains, and out over the broad sweep of the Rainbow Lake. The skies remained clear and they passed only a handful of other airships as they traveled down the flight corridor that ran from Tyrsis and Varfleet south, easing their way toward their destination.
Railing slept again for a time, at Mirai’s behest, aware that the few hours he had managed so far were not nearly enough to give him the rest he needed. The stress he was feeling by anticipating what lay ahead only added to that he was already experiencing from worrying about his brother. Mirai told him again as she accompanied him belowdecks that they would get Redden back. They would not abandon him; they would not give up on finding him. It didn’t matter what they found in the trunk or what they had to do to find Redden himself. They would get him back safe.
Then she lay next to Railing and snuggled up against him, and both were asleep in seconds.
It was dawn when Skint came down to shake them awake. “We’re there,” he said.
Farshaun was in the pilot box when they came back on deck. He gave them a quick once-over and nodded enigmatically, as if satisfied with what he saw. “We’re just west of Patch Run.” His gaze shifted to Railing. “Your house is farther down the shore, but not far. We’ll land Quickening in one of these coves and lie at anchor while you take a flit the rest of the way.”
The boy and the girl nodded. “I’ll drop Railing off just before the house is in sight. He can walk in and slip around back while I draw Sarys outside.”
