by Terry Brooks
A nasty suspicion crossed his mind, one that had occurred to him earlier in Elizabeth’s kitchen when they had been discussing the reasons for what had happened to them. He had discarded it then, refusing to consider it too closely, unable to contemplate the possibility. Now it was back again, looking all too possible to be ignored.
He stopped his pacing and looked at Abernathy with haunted eyes. “Abernathy, this is difficult for me to suggest, but what if …”
He never finished. Light flared in the shadows at the far side of the storage room, and all three turned abruptly to face it. The light brightened sharply and then disappeared, leaving in its wake a decidedly ragged and frightened G’home Gnome sitting stunned and shivering on the concrete floor.
When he saw them staring at him, he gasped and threw up his hands defensively. “Don’t hurt me!” he begged, blinking rapidly and trying to curl into a ball. “I just want to go home!”
Questor Thews exchanged a startled glance with Abernathy. A G’home Gnome? Here? What was this all about?
“Now, now, no one is going to hurt you,” Questor reassured the other, starting forward, then stopping again as the Gnome started to gasp for air. “Are you all right?”
The Gnome nodded uncertainly. “If you can call being fried in witch fire ‘all right,’ then I suppose so.”
Witch fire? Questor and Abernathy exchanged a second glance. “What’s your name?” Questor pressed. The grimy little fellow was twisted down into an impossible position. “Come, now. We mean you no harm. We are all friends here.”
The Gnome sniffled uncertainly, peering out from beneath crossed arms. “G’home Gnomes have precious few friends anywhere,” he pointed out sullenly. He lifted his head. He was the scruffiest fellow imaginable, tattered and disheveled and in desperate need of a bath. “You tell me who you are first.”
Questor sighed. “I am Questor Thews. This is Abernathy. That is Elizabeth.” He pointed to each in turn. “Now, then. Who are you?”
“Poggwydd,” the G’home Gnome said. He sounded proud of the fact. He lowered his arms and straightened up a bit. “Questor Thews, the Court Wizard? I heard you were Rydall’s prisoner. You and the dog. Is that where we are, in Rydall’s prison? Is that where the witch sent me?”
“Wait a minute.” This time Questor Thews came right over and brought the Gnome firmly to his feet. “The witch, you said? Do you mean Nightshade?”
Poggwydd nodded. “Who else?” He was a little more sure of himself now. “She’s the one who did this to me. Sent me here, wherever that is. Used her witch fire. Say, you didn’t answer. Are we in Rydall’s prison? What’s going on?”
Questor Thews took Poggwydd by the elbow, marched him over to a vacant packing crate, and sat him down. The Gnome was rubbing at his wet nose and trying unsuccessfully to look brave. He kept his eyes fixed on Questor, as if by doing so he could stave off anything worse happening to him.
“Poggwydd,” the wizard addressed him solemnly. “I want you to tell us everything that happened, everything you can remember, especially about Nightshade.”
“I can do that, all right,” the Gnome declared. He paused suspiciously. “You promise me you aren’t friends with her?”
“I promise,” Questor replied.
Poggwydd nodded, thought it over, then cleared his throat officiously. “Well, I thought she was going to hurt me—the witch, that is. She had that look in her eye. She was real mad at me because of the little girl. Caught me talking with her out there in a clearing about a mile from the Deep Fell. Ridiculous, really. I didn’t even know her; she just showed up out of nowhere, way out in those woods, wanting to talk. So we did, and then the witch came, and the little girl asked her not to hurt me, said it wasn’t my fault, but the witch didn’t look like she believed her, so—”
“Whoa! Stop! Hold on!” Questor held up his hands imploringly. His brow knit furiously. “What little girl are you talking about? What did she look like? Did she tell you her name?”
Poggwydd stared, startled by the look on the other’s face. He glanced past the wizard to the other two, found no help there, and looked back again. “I don’t know what she looked like. Who can remember? She was … small. Not very old, maybe ten. Had freckles and blond hair.” He frowned. “She was very clever. Played some games with me while we talked. Pretended to be … She said she was the High Lord’s …” He stopped, no longer certain where to go. “She said her name was Misty.”
“Mistaya,” Questor breathed, backing away. “So Nightshade has her. Or had her. Did she escape, Poggwydd? Is that what happened?”
The G’home Gnome looked at him blankly. “Escape? I don’t know if she did or not. I don’t know where she came from. I don’t even know who she is for sure. What I do know is that the witch was furious when she found me talking with her and that’s why I’m here!” He paused, rubbing at his bristly chin. Bits of dirt flaked off. “Although maybe that’s not right, either. You know, she asked the witch not to hurt me, the little girl did. But I don’t think the witch was paying any attention to her and meant to fry me like a piece of old meat.”
“But she didn’t,” Questor interjected, trying to hurry the story along, anxious to pin down his suspicions.
Poggwydd shook his head. “Well, there was this mud puppy, you see. I think maybe he stopped it from happening.” He looked confused all over again. “Is that possible?”
Eventually they got the whole story out of him although it took a while to do so. They heard about how Mistaya had come upon his camp not far from the Deep Fell and engaged him in conversation. They heard about Haltwhistle and how he seemed to be the girl’s companion. Finally, they heard about Nightshade’s unexpected appearance, her anger at discovering Mistaya outside the Deep Fell, and her attack on Poggwydd, which appeared to have been thwarted in part by the magic of the mud puppy, resulting in the Gnome’s appearance at Graum Wythe.
“Just like us!” Abernathy exclaimed as the Gnome finished. He was standing next to Questor Thews by now, looking quite animated. “Questor, that must be what happened to us, too! The mud puppy intervened, changed Nightshade’s magic, and sent us here! It sounds exactly the same!”
“Indeed,” Questor agreed, pursing his lips, thinking hard.
“Where is here?” Poggwydd asked once again. “You haven’t said yet.”
“In a minute,” Questor replied, turning away momentarily and then back again. “But who sent the mud puppy to Mistaya? It must have happened that night, while we slept, before the witch came. We were in the lake country, so it could have been the River Master. But the only mud puppy I ever heard of outside the fairy mists is the one who serves the Earth Mother.”
“What difference does it make?” Abernathy cut him short. “What matters is that the witch has Mistaya and is using her to hurt the High Lord, just as she promised she would. You were right, Questor Thews. We are here for a purpose, and it must have something to do with helping Ben Holiday. We just have to find out what it is.”
“A book of spells,” Questor recalled, thinking back to where this conversation had started. “All right, then.” He wheeled about, strode quickly to Poggwydd, and placed both hands firmly on the Gnome’s narrow shoulders. “Where you are doesn’t matter, Poggwydd. What’s important is that you are in no immediate danger. But the little girl, Misty, is. We have to get out of here and back to where she is. There is something here, in this place, that can help us do that—if we can find it. That is what we intend to do right now. While we search, I want you to stay right here.”
Poggwydd looked around doubtfully. “Why should I do that? Why can’t I just go home? I can find my way once I’m outside again.”
Questor gave him a sympathetic look. “Not from here, you can’t. You will have to trust me on this.” He paused, thinking. “If you try, Poggwydd, Nightshade might get her hands on you a second time. Do you understand me?”
The Gnome nodded quickly. He understood, all right. “I’ll do as you say,” he agreed
reluctantly. “How long do I have to wait?”
“I don’t know. Maybe quite a while. You must be patient.”
Poggwydd sniffled. “I don’t have anything to eat. I’m hungry.”
Abernathy rolled his eyes. Questor squeezed the Gnome’s shoulders and released him. “I know. Be brave. We’ll try to find you something to eat and bring it down. But you have to stay where you are, no matter what. This is important, Poggwydd. You must not leave this room for anything. All right?”
The Gnome rubbed at his nose and shrugged. “All right. I’ll wait. But try to hurry.”
“We’ll be as quick as we can.” Questor backed away, looking once again at Abernathy and Elizabeth. “We’ll have to start over, tourists or no tourists. The common rooms first, then back into storage. But I’m willing to bet the book we need is right out there where we can see it.”
“You know,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “I think there were some books that were kept separate from the others, ones printed in a language that no one here could read. My father mentioned them once.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Questor exclaimed in undisguised glee. “Books written in Landover’s language, carried over by Michel or my brother! They would have to be the ones, wouldn’t they?”
And with that, following Questor’s final reassuring smile and wave of the hand to Poggwydd, they were out the door and on their way back through the castle.
* * *
The search took them longer than they expected, however, extending well into the late afternoon, when the last of the tourists were straggling back to their buses and cars and heading home. They hunted through the rooms of the castle twice before they found what they were looking for. There were books in every room, and most of them were under lock and key. That meant keeping watch and distracting both tourists and guides while the locks were released and a quick survey made to determine if any of the books were what they were looking for. Questor used magic on the locks, which hastened the process, but checking through the books took an inordinate amount of time and for most of the day yielded absolutely nothing.
Until finally, with time running out and the castle closing down, Elizabeth remembered a massive old glass-front cabinet in an upstairs drawing room tucked away in a dormer that was not visible from the roped-off doorway. There were some books there, she thought. Just a few, but she remembered them because her father had remarked once on their covers. Following her suggestion, they hurried to the drawing room as a bell sounded closing time in the downstairs hall. While the girl and Abernathy kept watch, Questor stepped over the ropes and wormed his way through an obstacle course of furniture to the cabinet. He peered inside. Sure enough, there were the books, a dozen of them, all wrapped in dark cloth covers that concealed the titles. The cabinet latch was locked, but a whisper of magic and he was inside.
Excited now, Questor reached past a collection of amethyst glassware that fronted the books and pulled the first out. To his extreme disappointment it was written in English and had nothing at all to do with Landover. He checked another two. It was the same. Another dead end, it seemed. Hope dwindling, he continued on more quickly. Books on gardening, travel, and history.
“Questor Thews, hurry!” Abernathy hissed from the doorway as voices from down the hall rapidly approached.
Questor opened the eighth book in the collection and his eyebrows shot up. It was written in Ancient Landoverian script, in a language the old wizards had commonly used. He paged through it hurriedly to make sure, hearing the voices more clearly: laughter, a quick greeting to Elizabeth, her response. Feverishly, he wedged himself between the wall and the cabinet, where he was out of sight of anyone standing in the doorway.
“Still poking about, Elizabeth?” someone asked, coming to a stop beyond the ropes. “Aren’t you getting hungry?”
“Oh, we’re almost done,” she replied with a nervous laugh. “Is it all right to stay a bit longer?”
“One hour,” a second voice advised. “Then we leave. Call if you need anything.”
The voices continued on down the hall and faded away.
“Questor!” Abernathy warned a second time, his patience obviously at an end.
Questor freed himself from his hiding place and looked down at his discovery. Carefully he pulled back the cloth covering. There were symbols etched in gold leaf on the leather binding that read Gateway Mythologies.
“Drat!” he muttered, shoved the book back into place, and pulled out the next one. Greensward Histories. He reached for the third.
Theories of Magic and Its Uses.
“Yes, yes, yes!” the wizard whispered in relief.
He could not take time to read it here, he knew. He checked the last of the volumes and found nothing. He would have to hope that the one in his hands held what he was looking for. He moved quickly back across the room toward the door.
“I’ve got it!” he announced triumphantly as he reached Elizabeth and Abernathy.
Abruptly an alarm went off. They all jumped, and Elizabeth gave a short cry. Questor hurriedly tucked the book into the carry bag he had brought. “What’s happened?” he gasped, white hair and beard flying out in every direction. “What did I do?”
“I don’t think you did anything at all!” Elizabeth grasped his arm as he whirled this way and that, casting about for imagined attackers. “It’s a fire alarm! But I can’t imagine what set it off!”
Questor Thews and Abernathy immediately looked at each other. “Poggwydd!” they exclaimed.
They hurried along the corridor to the stairs and started down, jostling and bumping against each other, all talking at once.
“We shouldn’t have left him alone!” Questor moaned, clutching the carry bag and its precious contents close against his chest.
“We should have tied and gagged him!” Abernathy snapped. From below came the sound of shouts.
“Maybe it isn’t him at all!” Elizabeth encouraged.
But it was, of course. Two security guards were hauling Poggwydd into view just as they arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The Gnome was disheveled and covered from head to foot in a coating of ash. He was struggling and moaning pathetically while the guards held him at arm’s length between them, not at all certain what it was they had.
“Boy, I’ve seen it all!” one of them was muttering.
“Shut up and hold on to him!” the other growled irritably.
Poggwydd caught sight of Questor Thews and started to call for help, but the wizard made a quick motion with one hand and the startled G’home Gnome was rendered instantly voiceless. His mouth worked in futile desperation, but nothing came out.
“Stand back, folks,” one of the guards advised as they carried the struggling Gnome past.
“What do you have there?” Questor asked, feigning ignorance.
“Don’t know.” The guard’s attention was diverted momentarily as Poggwydd tried to bite him. “Some sort of monkey, I guess. Filthy as a pig and twice as ugly. Found him in the kitchen, trying to start a fire. It almost looked like he was trying to cook some food he’d stolen, but c’mon, he’s a monkey, right? Anyway, the fire alarm went off or he might have burned the place down. Look at him fight! Mean little devil. Must have escaped from a zoo or something. How he found his way here, I’ll never know.”
“Well, be careful with him,” Questor offered, trying to avoid Poggwydd’s furious look.
“Careful as can be.” The guard laughed.
“There, there, little fellow,” Questor called after the struggling Gnome. “Someone will come to claim you soon!”
“Can’t be soon enough for me!” the other guard called back, and the unfortunate Poggwydd was dragged kicking and writhing through the front door and out of sight.
Questor, Abernathy, and Elizabeth stood staring after the Gnome in silence for a moment. Then Questor said, “This is my fault. I completely forgot about him.”
“You told him to wait where he was,” Abernathy reminded him,
evidencing a noticeable lack of sympathy. “He should have listened.”
“Questor, what did you do to stop him from talking?” Elizabeth asked.
The wizard sighed. “Cast a small spell. I couldn’t very well let him tell them who we are, and that is exactly what he was about to do. Besides, things would be much worse for Poggwydd if they found out he can talk. He is better off if they think him an animal, believe me.”
“He is an animal,” Abernathy muttered. “Stupid Gnome.”
“Stupid or not, we have to help him,” Elizabeth said at once.
“What we have to do,” Questor announced quickly, “is to go back to the house, where I can study this book and find out if it is what we are looking for.”
“It better be,” Abernathy grumbled. “I have seen all I care to see of Graum Wythe!”
“Where do you think they will take him?” Elizabeth asked, her brow creased with worry.
“Wherever they think he came from, I suppose,” Questor replied absently. He was peering down into the carry bag at the book.
“I just don’t want us to forget about him a second time,” Elizabeth insisted. They started for the entry. “He looks so helpless.”
“Believe me, he is anything but,” Abernathy sniffed. He was thinking about the G’home Gnomes’ penchant for eating stray pets. “He does not deserve an ounce of your sympathy. He is a nuisance, plain and simple.”
Elizabeth took his hand and squeezed it. “You are being difficult, Abernathy. It’s not his fault he’s here.”
“It is not our fault, either. Nor our responsibility.”
“She’s right, you know,” Questor Thews offered.
Abernathy gave his friend a scathing look. “I know she’s right. You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I was just trying to point out—”
“Confound it, Questor Thews, why do you insist on belaboring—”
Still arguing between themselves while Elizabeth tried in vain to reestablish some semblance of peace, the wizard and the scribe passed down the corridor to the front door of the castle and out into the fading light.
