by Terry Brooks
The Druid paused. “Someone did. How did you know that?”
The Wing Rider shrugged, his whipcord-tough body lengthening as he stretched. “Dorne is a talented Healer and a careful man. The castaway had survived days at sea before I found him. He should have survived a couple more in a Healer’s bed.” He glanced at Walker questioningly. “Our assassins’ employer?”
The Druid nodded. “I would guess so. Magic was used to kill the man, to steal his life. Not so different from what was done to those men sent to kill Allardon Elessedil.”
For a moment the Wing Rider was silent, sipping at his cup of ale and looking off into the distance. Then he said, “Do you know yet who your enemy is?”
My enemy. Implacable and deadly. Walker’s smile was ironic. “I’ll know better by tonight.”
The Wing Rider cleaned and packed their gear, made certain his mount was fed and watered sufficiently, then motioned Walker back aboard. They flew east across the Rainbow Lake, passing below the mouth of the Mermidon and the broad, rumpled humps of the Runne Mountains. A handful of fishing boats floated on the lake below but, absorbed in their work, the fishermen did not glance up. The day wore on, the sun dropped toward the western horizon, and the light began to fade. The moon brightened in the skies ahead, and a single star appeared close by. Shadows lengthened across the land below, stretching out like fingers to claim it for nighttime’s coming.
It was twilight by the time they started up the south end of the Rabb Plains for the Dragon’s Teeth. By then, the huge jagged peaks were dark and shadowy and stripped of definition, a forbidding wall that stretched all the way across the northern skyline. The temperature was dropping, and Walker pulled his cloak closer about his body for warmth. Hunter Predd seemed unaffected. Walker marveled at how little the Wing Rider seemed to mind the weather, aware of, but untroubled by it. He supposed that to be a Wing Rider, one had to be so.
It was fully dark when they reached the foothills leading up to where he would go this night. Guided by the light of moon and stars, Obsidian landed on an open rise, safely away from rocks and brush that might hide enemies or hinder a quick escape. After seeing to the needs of the Roc, the Wing Rider and the Druid set camp, built a fire, and cooked and ate their dinner. In the distance, they could hear the hunting cries of night herons and the strident wail of wolves. Moonlight bathed the plains south and east, and through the pale brightening, furtive shadows moved.
“I’ve been thinking about the castaway,” Hunter Predd declared after a period of silence. They were almost finished with their meal, and he was digging at the hard ground with the heel of his boot, sitting back from the fire with his cup of ale. “How could a blind man have escaped his captors unaided?”
Walker looked up.
“How could he have made his way from wherever he was imprisoned to come back across the Divide to us?” The Wing Rider’s frown deepened. “Assuming he was returning from the voyage Kael Elessedil made thirty years ago, he’d have had to travel a long way. A blind man couldn’t have managed it without help.”
“No,” Walker agreed, “he couldn’t.”
The Elf hunched forward. “Something else’s been bothering me. How did he get his hands on the map? Unless he drew it himself, he either stole it or it was given to him. If he drew it himself, he must have done so before he was blinded. How did he hide it from his captors? If someone else drew it, they must have given it to him. Either way, he must have had help. Even to escape. What became of that other person?”
Walker nodded approvingly. “You’ve asked all the right questions, Hunter Predd. Questions I have been asking myself for several days. Your mind is as sharp as your instincts, Wing Rider.”
“Have you answers to give?” Hunter pressed, ignoring the compliment.
“None I care to share just yet.” He stood up, setting his plate and cup aside. “It’s time for me to go. I won’t be back before morning, so you might as well get some sleep. Do not come looking for me, no matter how tempted you might be. Do you understand?”
The Wing Rider nodded. “I don’t need to be told to stay out of those mountains. I’ve heard the stories of what lives there. I’ll be content to stay right where I am.” He wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. “Good luck to you.”
It grew colder on the walk up from the foothills and into the Dragon’s Teeth, the temperature dropping steadily as the Druid climbed. Within the massive rock walls, the night was silent and empty feeling. The moon disappeared behind the peaks, and there was only starlight to guide the way, though that was sufficient for the Druid. He proceeded along a narrow pebble-strewn trail that angled through clusters of massive boulders. The jumble of crushed and broken rock suggested that an upheaval in some long-forgotten time had changed the landscape dramatically. Once another peak might have occupied the place. Now there was only ruin.
It took him almost two hours to make the climb, and it was nearing midnight when he reached his destination. Cresting a rise, he found himself looking down on the Valley of Shale and the fabled Hadeshorn. The lake sat squarely in the valley’s center, its smooth waters dull and lifeless within the bowl of polished black rock that littered the walls and floor. Starlight reflected brightly off the stone, but was absorbed by the Hadeshorn and turned to shadow. Within the valley, nothing moved. Cupped by the high, lonesome peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth, it had the look and feel of a tomb.
Not far from wrong, Walker thought to himself, staring out across its lifeless expanse.
Faced toward the Valley of Shale, he seated himself with his back against a huge slab of rock and dozed. Time slipped away without seeming to do so, and before he knew it, the night was almost gone. He rose and walked, moving steadily but cautiously over the loose rock, picking his way down the valley’s slope to its floor. He was careful not to trip and fall; the edges of the polished rock were razor sharp. Only the crunching of the rubble beneath his boots broke the silence of his descent. Starlight flooded the valley, and he made his way without difficulty to the edge of the lake by the hour before dawn, when the spirits of the dead might be summoned to reveal secrets hidden from the living.
There, a solitary figure silhouetted against the flat terrain, he stilled himself within to prepare for what would come next.
The waters of the Hadeshorn had taken on a different cast with his approach, shimmering now from just beneath the surface with light that did not reflect from the stars but emanated from some inner source. There was a sense of something stirring, coming awake and taking notice of his presence. He could feel it more than see it. He kept his focus on the lake, disdaining all else, knowing that any break in concentration once he began would doom his efforts and possibly cause him harm.
When he was at peace within and fully concentrated, he began the process of calling to the dead. He spoke softly, for it was not necessary that his voice carry, and gestured slowly, for precision counted more than speed. He spoke his name and of his history and need, motioning for the dead to respond, for the lake to give them up. As he did, the waters stirred visibly, swirling slowly in a clockwise motion, then churning more violently. Small cries rose from their depths, calling out in tiny, ethereal voices, whispers that turned to screams as thin as paper. The Hadeshorn hissed and boiled, releasing the cries in small fountains of spray, then in geysers that plumed hundreds of feet into the air. Light beneath the lake’s surface brightened and pulsed, and the valley shuddered.
Then a rumbling sounded from deep within the earth, and out of the roiling waters rose the spirits, white and transparent forms that climbed slowly into the air, linked by thin trailers of vapor, freed from their afterlife for a few precious moments to return to the earth they had left in dying. Their voices intertwined in a rising wail that made the Druid’s skin crawl and chilled the bones of his body. He held his ground against their advance, fighting down the part of him that screamed at him to back away, to turn aside, and to be afraid. They spiraled into the night sky, reaching for what was lost,
seeking to recover what was denied. More and more of them appeared, filling the empty bowl of the valley until there was no space left.
Who calls? Who dares?
Then a huge, black shadow lifted from the waters and scattered the spirits like leaves, a cloaked form that took shape as it ascended, one arm stretching out to sweep aside the swarms of ghosts who lingered too close. The Hadeshorn churned and boiled in response to its coming, spray jetting everywhere, droplets falling on the Druid’s exposed face and hand. Walker lifted his arm in a warding gesture, and the cloaked figure turned toward him at once. Suspended in space, it began to lose some of its blackness, becoming more transparent, its human form showing through its dark coverings like bones exposed through flesh. Across the wave-swept surface it glided, taking up all the space about it as it came, drawing all the light to itself until there was nothing else.
When it was right on top of Walker, it stopped and hung motionless above him, cowled head inclining slightly, shadows obscuring its features. Flat and dispassionate, its voice flooded the momentary silence.
—What would you know of me—
Walker knelt before him, not in fear, but out of respect.
“Allanon,” he said, and waited for the shade to invite him to speak.
Farther west where the deep woods shrouded and sheltered the lives of its denizens as an ocean does its sea life, dawn approached in the Wilderun, as well. Within the old-growth trees, the light remained pale and insubstantial, even at high noon and on the brightest summer day. Shadows cloaked the world of the forest dwellers, and for the most part there was little difference between day and night. Long a wilderness to which few outsiders came, in which only those born to the life remained, and by which all other hardships were measured, the Wilderun was a haven for creatures for whom the absence of light was desirable.
The Ilse Witch was one such. Though born in another part of the Four Lands, where her past was bright with sunlight, she had long since adapted to and become comfortable with the twilight existence of her present. She had lived here nearly all of her life, which was to say since she was six. The Morgawr had brought her here when the Druid’s minions had killed her parents and tried to steal her away for their own use. He had given her his home, his protection, and his knowledge of magic’s uses so that she might grow to adulthood and discover who she was destined to be. The darkness in which she was raised suited her, but she never let herself become a slave to it.
Sometimes, she knew, you became dependent on the things that gave you comfort. She would never be one of those. Dependency on anything was for fools and weaklings.
On this night, working through the rudimentary drawings she had stolen from Kael Elessedil’s memories before dispatching him, she felt a stirring in the air that signaled the Morgawr’s return. He had been gone from their safehold for more than a week, saying little of his plans on departing, leaving her to her own devices pending his return. She was grown now, in his eyes as well as her own, and he did not feel the need to watch over her as he once had. He had never confided in her; that would have gone against his nature in so fundamental a way as to be unthinkable. He was a warlock, and therefore solitary and independent by nature. He had been alive for a very long time, living in his Hollows safehold deep within the heart of the Wilderun, not far from the promontory known as Spire’s Reach. Once, it was rumored, these same caverns had been occupied by the witch sisters, Mallenroh and Morag, before they destroyed each other. Once, it was rumored, the Morgawr had claimed them as his sisters. The Ilse Witch did not know if this was true; the Morgawr never spoke of it, and she knew better than to ask.
Dark magic thrived within the Wilderun, born of other times and peoples, of a world that flourished before the Great Wars. Magic rooted in the earth here, and the Morgawr drew his strength from its presence. He was not like her; he had not been born to the magic. He had gained his mastery through leeching it away and building it up, through study and experimentation, and through slow, torturous exposure to side effects that had changed him irrevocably from what he had been born.
Looking up from her work, the Ilse Witch saw the solitary candles set in opposite holders by the entry to the room flicker slightly. Shadows wavered and settled anew on the worn stone floor. She set aside the map and rose to greet him. Her gray robes fell about her slender form in a soft rustle, and she shook back her long dark hair from her childlike face and startling blue eyes. Just a girl, a visitor come upon her unexpectedly might have thought. Just a girl approaching womanhood. But she was nothing of that and hadn’t been for a long time. The Morgawr would not make such a mistake, although he had once. It took her only a heartbeat to set him straight, to let him know that she was a girl no longer, an apprentice no more, but a grown woman and his equal.
Things had not been the same between them since, and she sensed that they never would be again.
He appeared in the entry, all size and darkness within his long black cloak. His body was huge and muscular and still human in shape, but he was looking more and more like the Mwellrets with whom he spent so much of his time. His skin was scaly and gray and hairless. His features were blunt and unremarkable, and his eyes were reptilian. He could shape-shift like the rets, but far better and with greater versatility, for he had the magic to aid him. Numerous once, the rets had been reduced over the past five hundred years to a small community. They were secretive and manipulative of others, and perhaps that was why the Morgawr admired them so.
He looked at her from out of the cowl’s darkness, the green slits of his eyes empty and cold. Once, she would have been terrified to have him regard her so. Once, she would have done anything to make him look away. Now, she returned his gaze, her own colder and emptier still.
“Allardon Elessedil is dead,” he said softly. “Killed by mistake by his own guards in an assassination attempt by Elves who had been mind-altered. Who do we know who has the ability to use magic in that way?”
It was not a question that required an answer, and so she ignored it. “While you were gone,” she replied calmly, “a castaway was found floating in the Blue Divide. He carried with him an Elessedil bracelet and a map. A Wing Rider bore him to the village of Bracken Clell. One of my spies told me of him. When I went to have a look, I discovered who he was. Kael Elessedil. The map he carried was already on its way to his brother, but I extracted much of its writings from the memories in his head.”
“It is not your place to decide to take the life of a King!” the Morgawr hissed angrily. “You should have consulted with me before acting!”
She went very still. “I do not need your permission to do what I deem necessary. Ever. The taking of a life—of anyone’s life—is my province and mine alone!”
She might as well have told him the sun would rise in less than an hour. His reaction to her words was indifferent, his response unreadable, and his body posture unchanged. “What of this map?” he asked.
“The map is of a treasure, one of magic formed of words, come out of the Old World from before the Great Wars.” She used her voice to draw him close, to bind him to her own sense of urgency and need. He would sense what she was doing, but he was vulnerable still. “The magic is hidden in a safehold in a land across the Blue Divide. Kael Elessedil has been there and seen the magic. It exists, and it is very powerful. Unfortunately, his brother knew of it as well. Until I stopped him, he intended to act on the matter.”
The Morgawr came into the room, not toward her, but away, sidling along the far wall, as if to retrieve something from the cases that lined it. A potion, perhaps? A recording of some discovery? Then he slowed and turned, and his voice was like ice. “You intend to go in his place, little witch?”
“The magic should be ours.”
“You mean yours, don’t you?” He laughed softly. “But that’s as it should be.”
“You could go with me,” she said, hoping as she said it he would not.
He cocked his reptilian head, considering. “This is your d
iscovery and your cause. Pursue it if you wish, but without me. If the magic will belong to both of us, I am content.”
She waited, knowing there would be more. “But?” she said finally.
His eyes glimmered. “You will go alone?”
“Across the Blue Divide? No. I will need a ship and crew to take me.” She paused. “And there is a complication.”
The Morgawr laughed again, slow and faintly mocking. “I sensed as much from the way you approached this business. What sort of complication?”
She walked toward him a few steps and stopped, showing she was not afraid, that she was in command of what she intended. Presence was of great importance with Mwellrets and with the Morgawr in particular. If they thought someone confident, they were less likely to challenge. The Morgawr was a powerful warlock, and he had spent a lifetime learning to command magic that could destroy his enemies in a heartbeat. She was his equal now, but she had to be careful of him.
“Before he died, Allardon Elessedil sent the map to Paranor and summoned Walker to Arborlon.”
“The Druid!” the warlock said, loathing in his voice.
“The Druid. He arrived in time to agree upon the terms of a search for the map’s treasure before witnessing the King’s death. If luck had favored us, he would have died, as well. As it was, he lived. He will lead an Elven expedition in quest of the magic.”
The Morgawr studied her wordlessly for a moment. “A contest with your greatest enemy. How keen your anticipation must be.”
“He is a formidable opponent.”
“One you have sworn you would one day destroy.” The warlock nodded. “Perhaps that day has arrived.”
“Perhaps. But it is the magic I covet more than the Druid’s death.”
The Morgawr shifted within his cloak, and one clawed hand gestured at the air. “A Druid, some Elven Hunters, and a Captain and crew. A few others, as well, if I know Walker. He will draw a strong company to support his quest, particularly since he knows that Kael Elessedil has failed already. Even with the Elfstones to protect him, he failed.”
