by Терри Брукс
Even then, once he was through, what would he find on the other side? At least one Gnome Hunter, but how many more would be keeping him company? If he were Shadea, he would insist on at least two, possibly more, being present anytime the cell door was opened. That would eliminate the chance that he could successfully overpower one guard without alerting the others.
He began positioning himself so that he could see something of the hallway outside when the cell door was cracked, and through two further meals, he tried to catch a glimpse of what was out there. But it was impossible to see more than a little of what lay beyond, never enough to be certain. He did catch sight of movement once, a shadow thrown by torchlight that indicated the presence of another man. But it was clear that he would have to make his break into the hallway without knowing how many Gnomes he would find.
How could he do that and still make certain they could not sound the alarm?
He puzzled it through with an increasing sense of desperation; he needed to find a solution quickly, because time was slipping away and with it his chances of freeing Rue and warning Penderrin. In spite of what Shadea had learned of Taupo Rough, he had to assume that his son was still free and his exact whereabouts still undiscovered. But that could change in a hurry.
He decided in the end that what he must do was use the wish–song in a blanket assault, stunning everyone within hearing distance and giving him a chance to get up the steps to confront whomever he had missed. It was a long shot at best, one he did not much care to take. But sitting in his cell and waiting for the inevitable was madness. He hated putting Rue at risk, but he knew that she would want him to if it meant giving them a chance, however slim, of reaching Pen.
He decided to try for one more look, using the next feeding as a trial run for determining exactly where he should stand to get through the door to the guards. He waited patiently, using his time to run repeated rehearsals of what he would do, working and reworking his timing, his movements, everything that would be required of him.
When the door finally opened, he was standing just to the open side, watching the movements of the Gnome Hunter as he knelt to slide the food tray inside, counting the seconds from the time the door opened until it closed again. It took twelve seconds. He would have to act quickly. He would have to summon the wishsong and hold it within himself until the locks were thrown. Then he would have to sprint through the door, directing the magic down the hallway as he emerged, a quick and certain strike.
He sat in the darkness and thought about how little chance he had of making this plan work. Wasn't there a better one? Wasn't there something else he could do?
He was just finishing his meal when a piece of paper was slid under the door. He stared at it for a moment, then reached down to retrieve it. Bent close to the bottom of the door, where the thin light gave just enough illumination to allow him to make out the words, he read:
HELP IS COMING.
Bek recognized the writing immediately. It was the same hand that had penned the note he and Rue had received on their arrival at Paranor, the one that had warned them not to trust anyone. He had never discovered the identity of the writer, and in truth, he had forgotten all about the note until that moment.
Lying on the floor next to the crack beneath the cell door, he read it again. Could he believe it? Could he trust that the writer would be able to find a way to free him? How long could he afford to wait to find out?
He stared blindly into the darkness of his prison, searching for the answers.
Twenty–six
He heard the voices first, soft and insistent, joined as one, humming and then singing, the words indecipherable, but their sound sharp and clear and compelling. — Penderrin–she whispered from out of the confluence. — I've come back–But it wasn't her voice, and he knew that when he looked, it wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be anybody at all.
-I said I would come back. I promised, didn't I— He lay where he had fallen asleep near dawn, exhausted from searching for her after realizing where she might be and what she might have done. Frantic with worry, he had torn through the ancient forest like a madman, plunging through the dark trunks and layered shadows, calling her name until he was too tired to continue. Then, heartsick and drained of hope, he had collapsed. It couldn't be true, he kept telling himself. His suspicions were unfounded and fueled by his weariness and the shock of losing his fingers. It was all a lie of the mind, born of his misinterpretation of the tanequil's words, of the fears raised by the tree's dark reminder that its gift of the dark–wand required a like gift from him. Of the body. Of the heart. — Penderrin, wake up. Open your eyes
But he kept his eyes closed, wrapped in the comforting darkness that not seeing her afforded, unwilling to let that last shred of hope fall away. He moved his damaged hand beneath him, feeling with his good fingers for the ones that were missing, finding the stumps healed over and the pain gone. It wasn't so bad, he supposed, losing parts of two fingers. Not for what he had been given in turn. Not for what it meant to his efforts at finding his aunt. Not for what it meant to the future of the Four Lands. It wasn't so bad.
But losing Cinnaminson was.
«Why did you do it?» he asked finally, his voice so soft that he could barely hear his own words.
Silence greeted his query, a long and empty sweep of time in which the voices grew quiet and the sounds of the forest slowly filled the void their departure created.
«Why, Cinnaminson?»
Still no answer. Suddenly fearful that he had lost her completely, he lifted his head and looked around. He was alone, sprawled on the grassy patch on which he had fallen asleep the night before, the darkwand resting on the ground beside him, its glossy length shimmering, its carved runes dark and mysterious.
«Cinnaminson?» he called.
-It was a chance for me to be something I couldn't otherwise be–She spoke to him from out of the air. — I am free from my body, Pen. Free from my blindness. Free in a way I could never be otherwise. I can fly everywhere. I can see what I could never see before. Not in the way I do now. I am not alone anymore. I have found a family. I have sisters. I have a mother and father–He didn't know what to say. She sounded so happy, but her happiness made him feel miserable. He hated himself for his reaction, but he couldn't find a way to change it.
«It was your choice to do this?» he demanded, his words sounding woeful and plaintive, even to him.
-Of course, Penderrin. Did you think I was forced to become one of them? It was my choice to shed my body
«But you knew I wouldn't be given the tanequil's branch any other way, didn't you?»
-I knew it was the right thing to do. Just as you did, when you agreed to come here to find the tree and to seek help in freeing your aunt—
«But you knew," he persisted, desperate to wring from her one small concession. «You knew that becoming an aeriad would help me. You knew that giving yourself to the tanequil was what it would take for the tanequil to give me its limb.»
Her hesitation was momentary. — I knew
She was moving all around him, a part of the ether, a disembodied voice buttressed by the soft singing and humming of her sister aeriads, her new family, her new life. He tried to see her in the sound of her voice, but he could not quite manage it. His memory of her was strong, but his efforts to form a picture from her voice alone were insufficient. He didn't want her back in still life, — he wanted her back as a living, breathing human being, and the images he managed to conjure failed to capture her that way.
He sank back wearily. «When did you decide to do this?» His voice broke as despair threatened to overwhelm him. «Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you talk to me about it?»
The singing rose and fell like a wave of emotion born on a shift in the wind. — What would I have said to you? That I love you so much that I cannot imagine life without you, but that I am old enough to
understand that loving someone that much isn't always the only measuring stick for making a li
fe with them? That choosing love should never be selfish
«If you loved me that much …»
-I love you that much, Penderrin. Nothing has changed. I love you still. But you were sent here for another reason, one too important to sacrifice for anything—even for me. I know this. I knew it from the moment that I heard the aeriads speaking to me. They were telling me what was needed—not directly, not in so many words, but in the way they sang to me, in the sound of their voices. I knew
He shook his head. «I don't think I can do this without you. I can't even think straight. I can barely move.»
Matched by the voices of her sisters, soothing as a breeze on a hot summer day, her voice trilled with soft laughter. — Oh, Pen, it will pass! You will go on to do what you were sent to do! You will find your aunt and bring her home again. I am already a memory, already fading away
He stared into space, into the place from where she spoke to him, trying to make himself accept what she was telling him, and failing.
The voices sighed and hummed and sighed some more. — Do not be sad, Penderrin–she whispered. — I am not sad. I am happy. You can hear it in my voice, can't you? I made a choice. The aeriads asked me to join them, to help you and myself. While you slept, I went with them from the surface of the earth to the Downbelow. From the sunlight and air world of Father Tanequil to the darkness and earth world of Mother Tanequil. She roots deep, Pen, to provide for her children, to give them life, to allow them the freedom she can never have. I saw the truth of what she is. Of what they both are. Joined as one—Father, the limbs, — Mother, the roots. One lives aboveground, but the other must forever live below. She gets lonely. She needs company. I was a gift to her from Father Tanequil. But it was what I wanted. Perhaps he knew that when he sent me to her. Perhaps he knows us both better than we know ourselves. They are very old spirits, Pen. They were here when the world was born, when the Word was still young and the Faerie creatures newly made. We are children in their eyes
«We are Men!» he snapped. «And they don't know what's right for us! They don't know anything about us because they aren't like us! Don't you see? We were manipulated! We were tricked!»
A long silence punctuated his angry words. — No, Pen. We did what we thought was best. Both of us. I don't regret it. I won't. We have the lives we have chosen, whether fate or the tanequil or something larger pushed us to that choice–He took a long slow breath to calm himself. She was wrong, — he knew she was wrong. But there was nothing he could do about it. It was over and done with. He would have to live with it, although he couldn't imagine how he would ever do that.
«Did it hurt at all?» he asked quietly. «Your transformation? Was there any pain?»
-None, Pen
«But what of your body? Did it just … ?»
He couldn't finish the thought, unable to bear the image it conjured—an image of her turning to dust, disintegrating.
Laughter greeted his failure, gentle and soothing. — Kept safe and unchanging in her arms, I sleep with
Mother Tanequil, Pen, down within the earth, in the darkness and quiet, where she takes root. She nourishes me, so that I can live. If I were to die, I would cease to exist, even as an aeriad—
She is down in the ravine,he thought suddenly. He was finally beginning to understand. The tanequil was both male and female, mother and father to the aeriads, a trunk joining limbs at one end to roots at the other. Cinnaminson was in the keeping of the latter, down in the shadowy depths they had crossed over on the bridge. Down where something huge had stirred awake on their passing.
But still whole, she was telling him. Still alive in human form.
«Cinnaminson," he said, an idea coming to sudden life, a plan to implement it taking shape. «I need to see you again before 1 go. I need to say good–bye. It isn't enough just to hear your voice. It doesn't feel real to me. Can you take me to where you sleep?»
There was a long pause. — You cannot have me back, Pen. Mother Tanequil will not let me go. Not even if you beg
She recognized his intentions all too well, but his mind was already made up. He was terrified of what he might find if he did it, half certain that she was already reduced to bones and dust, that her vision of herself as still being whole was a subterfuge fostered by the tree. But he couldn't leave without knowing, no matter how devastating the truth. If there was a way to set her free again, to take her with him …
«I won't do anything but make sure that you are safe," he lied. «I just need to see you one last time.»
-This is a mistake–she trilled, her voice rising amid those of her sisters, sharp with rebuke. — You shouldn't ask it of me
He took a deep breath. «But I am asking.» He waited a moment. «Please, Cinnaminson.»
The voices of the aeriads hummed, a long sustained chord that matched the sound of wind whispering through the leaves of trees, soft and resilient. He forced himself to keep silent, to say nothing more, to wait.
-I am afraid for you, Pen–she said finally.
«I am afraid for myself," he admitted.
A pause followed, and the humming died away.
— Come with me, then, if you must. If you can remember my warning–He exhaled softly. He was not likely to forget.
On the far side of the ravine, Khyber Elessedil stood at the foot of the stone bridge, listening to the soft moan of the wind. She had been standing there for the better part of an hour, using her admittedly unskilled Druid senses to scan the forest for sign of Pen and Cinnaminson. It wasn't the first time she had done so, but the results were the same. She might as well have been casting about the Blue Divide for a sailor lost at sea, for all the good it was doing her.
One hand clutched the Elfstones. She kept them close on the theory that they might at some point prove useful in her search. They were doing her about as much good as her Druid skills.
Frustrated, she turned away. She hated feeling so helpless. Ever since the safety lines tied to Pen and Cinnaminson had dropped away as if severed by an invisible blade, she had known that the fate of her friends was out of her hands. More than once she had considered trying to cross over herself—and she wasn't afraid to try, in spite of the warning on the stone—but she didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize Pen's efforts to secure the darkwand.
She looked back into the gardens, her dazzlingly colorful prison. Trapped in all that beauty and unable to enjoy it, her concentration on Pen and on the island and on the Druids tracking them and on time running out—thinking about it all made her want to scream. But there was nothing she could do.
Nothing but wait.
She stalked over to where Kermadec sat talking with Tagwen, trading stories of the old days, when Grianne Ohmsford was new to the position of Ard Rhys and they were just beginning in her service.
«Do you think there might be another way across?» she asked abruptly, kneeling next to them, her voice urgent. «Another bridge or a narrows we might vault?» She exhaled sharply. «I don't think I can stand waiting another minute without doing something.»
Kermadec stared at her impassively. «There might be. If you want to take a look, you can. I can send Atalan or Barek with you.»
She shook her head. «I can manage alone. I just need to do something besides stand around.»
Tagwen frowned into his beard, but didn't say anything.
«You won't lose your way, will you, Elven girl?» the Maturen pressed. «I wouldn't want to have to come looking for you.»
«I can find my way.»
«If you discover anything, you will come back and tell us?» Tagwen pressed suddenly.
«Yes, yes!» she snapped. «I'm not going to do anything rash or foolish!» Her irritation got the better of her for a moment, and she took a deep breath. «I just want to see if that ravine goes all the way around or if there are other places to cross. I won't attempt anything on my own.»
She didn't know if they believed her or not, but if they did, they ought to be less trusting. She fully in
tended to attempt a crossing if a place to make one could be found. She should have gone with Pen and Cinnaminson in the first place, but she had allowed her instincts to be overruled.
She stood up, giving them a bright smile. «I don't expect to be gone long. I probably won't get much beyond what we can see from standing right here, but it will make me feel better to have tried.»
Their eyes fixed on her, as if searching for the truth behind her words, neither replied. She turned away quickly and started off, choosing to go south, where the gardens opened out toward a thinning woods and a set of hills. She could see the ravine as it snaked its way into those hills, disappearing finally into the horizon. In truth, she didn't have much hope that she would succeed in her quest. She mostly hoped that the distraction would help with the waiting.
She was so intent on her efforts to get clear of the others that she failed to detect with her normally reliable Druid training the shadowy form lying in wait directly ahead. She missed it entirely as it slipped away at her approach and circled back around toward the bridge.
Pen Ohmsford followed the low, vibrant humming of the aeri–ads as they led him on through the trees and back toward the dark cut of the ravine. The light casting his shadow before him as he walked, he could measure the direction they were taking from the slant of the sun's thin rays through the heavy canopy. He tried to hear Cinnaminson in the mix of aeriad voices, but he could not detect a noticeable difference in any of them. She was being assimilated into their order, and he could not stop himself from thinking that if he did not reach her soon, there would be no way to separate her from the others, even if her body was still intact.
Thinking of her body at rest beneath the earth in the cradle of the tanequil's roots made him wonder about the condition of the bodies of the other aeriads. For their spirits to survive in aeriad form, their bodies must be kept whole, as well. But how was that accomplished? He was feeling less and less certain about what it was he was going to find. He was starting to think that his request was a mistake.
