Ilse Witch

by Terry Brooks

  He glanced sideways at her. “And what of them, little witch? What of the precious Elfstones?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. He did not bring them back with him. His memories did not reveal what had become of them. Perhaps they are lost.”

  “Perhaps.” His rough voice had lost its edge and taken on a contemplative tone. “Where is the Druid now?”

  “He was in Bracken Clell a day ago. He left and has not yet resurfaced. My spies watch for him.”

  The warlock nodded. “I leave him to you. I know you will find a way to deal with him. It is left to me to give you the rest of what you need to undertake your search—a ship, Captain, and crew, and a handful of suitable protectors. I shall supply them all, little witch. You shall have everything you need.”

  She did not like the way he said it, and she knew that by doing her this favor he intended to keep close watch and perhaps even control over her while she was away from him. He did not trust her anymore. Where once he had been the teacher and she the student, now they were equals. Worse still, she knew, they were rivals—not yet at odds, but headed there. But she could not refuse his help. To do so would be to acknowledge her fear of his intentions. She would never do that.

  “Whatever assistance you can give me will be welcome,” she told him, inclining her head slightly as if in gratitude. It was better to keep him appeased for now. “Where do we begin?”

  “With the details of the map you reconstructed from Kael Elessedil’s memories.” He glanced past her to the table at which she had been seated and the drawings that lay there. “Do I see the beginnings of your work?”

  Without waiting for her response, he walked over for a closer look.

  It was well after dawn when Walker departed from the Valley of Shale. His meeting with the shade of Allanon had sapped him of strength and energy in a way he hadn’t expected. It had been a long time since he had come to the Hadeshorn, a long time since he had needed to, and he had forgotten how draining the experience could be. So much concentration was required. So much intuition had to be applied to interpretation of the shade’s words. Even though the Druid knew as much as he did and was prepared for the rest, it was necessary to be careful while he listened and not to make false assumptions or to forget any of what he was told.

  When the spirits of the dead were gone and the sun had crested the horizon, he had looked at himself in the now still waters, and his face seemed weathered and lined beyond his years. For just an instant, he imagined himself an old, old man.

  This day was sunny and bright, the clouds and rain of the past two had disappeared east, and the air carried the smell of living things once more. Over the course of the next several hours, he retraced his steps, too weary to complete the journey more quickly, using the time to contemplate what he had learned. The shade of Allanon had spoken to him of a past he already knew, of a present he suspected, and of a future he did not understand. There were people and places with whom he was familiar and ones with whom he was not. There were riddles and strange visions, and the whole was a jumble in his mind that would not straighten itself out until he was better rested and had time to consider the information more thoroughly.

  But his course of action was determined, and his mind was focused on where he must go.

  When he reached the encampment in the foothills where he had left Hunter Predd, the Wing Rider was waiting. He had struck camp, repacked their gear, and was grooming Obsidian’s ebony feathers so that they gleamed. The Roc saw the Druid first and dipped his fierce head in warning. Hunter Predd turned, put down the curry brush, and watched the Druid approach. He handed Walker a thick slice of bread with jam spread over it and a cup of cold water and went back to grooming his mount.

  Walker moved to a patch of grass, seated himself, and began to devour the bread hungrily. Images roiled in his mind as the Hadeshorn had with the coming of the spirits of the dead. Allanon’s shade loomed over him, blacking out the starlight, eyes bright within shadows, voice deep and commanding, an echo of the rumbling earth. Walker could see him still, could feel his dark presence, could hear him speak. When Allanon’s shade departed finally at first light, it was as if the world was coming to an end, the air swirling with shadows, shimmering with spirit bodies, and filling with the keening of the dead. The waters of the Hadeshorn geysered anew, as if some leviathan were breaching, and the dead were drawn back again from the world of the living to their own domain. Walker had felt as if his soul was being torn from him, as if a part of him had gone with them. In a way, he supposed, it had.

  He paused in his eating and stared into space. If he thought too long and hard on what was required of him, if he dwelled on the demands the shade of Allanon had made, he would begin to question himself in ways that were harmful. What would keep him sane and whole was remembering what was at stake—the lives of people who depended on him, the safety of the Four Lands, and his dream of seeing a Druid Council become a reality in his lifetime. This last drove him more strongly than the others, for if it came to pass, it would vindicate his still-troubling decision to become the very thing he had abhorred for so long. If he must be a Druid, let him be one on his own terms and of a sort that would not require him to live with shame.

  When he had finished eating the bread and jam and drinking the water from the cup, he rose again. Hunter Predd glanced over his shoulder at the movement and ceased his grooming.

  “Where do we go now, Walker?” he asked.

  The Druid took a moment to study a flight of egrets as they passed overhead toward the Rainbow Lake. “South,” he answered finally, eyes distant and fixed, “to find someone whose magic is the equal of my own.”

  NINE

  Bek Rowe crept through the tall grasses at the edge of a clearing just below a heavily wooded line of hills, listening to the sound of the boar as it rooted in the tangle of thicket across the way. He paused as the wind shifted, mindful of staying downwind of his quarry, listening to its movements, judging its progress. Somewhere to his left, Quentin Leah waited in the deep woods. Time was running out for them; the sun was descending toward the western horizon, and only another hour of good light remained. They had been hunting the boar all day, trailing it through the rough up-country scrub and deep woods, waiting for a chance to bring it down. Their chances of doing so were negligible under the best of conditions; boar hunting afoot with bow and arrow was risky and difficult. But as with most things that interested them, it was the challenge that mattered.

  The soft scent of new leaves and fresh grasses mixed with the pungent smell of earth and wood, and Bek took a deep breath to steady himself. He could not see the boar, and the boar, having exceptionally poor eyesight, certainly could not see him. But the boar’s sense of smell was the sharper, and once he got a whiff of Bek, he might do anything. Boars were short-tempered and fierce, and what they didn’t understand they were as likely to attack as to flee.

  The wind shifted again, and Bek dropped into a hurried crouch. The boar had begun moving his way, grunts and coughs marking his progress. A boy still, though approaching manhood rapidly, Bek was small and wiry, but made up for his size with agility and speed and surprising strength. Quentin, who was five years his senior and already considered grown, was always telling people that they shouldn’t be fooled, that Bek was a lot tougher than he looked. If there was a fight, the Highlander would insist, he wanted Bek Rowe at his back. It was an overstatement, of course, but it always made Bek feel good. Especially since it was his cousin saying it, and nobody would even think of challenging Quentin Leah.

  Putting an arrow to his bow in readiness, Bek crept forward once again. He was close enough to the boar to smell it, not a pleasant experience, but it meant he would likely have a shot at it soon. He drifted right, following the boar’s sounds, wondering if Quentin was still up on the forested slope or had come down to approach from the boar’s rear. Shadows stretched from the trees at Bek’s back, lengthening into the clearing like elongated fingers as the day waned. A br
istly dark form moved in the grasses ahead—the boar coming into view—and Bek froze where he was. Slowly, he brought up his bow, nocked his arrow, and drew back the string.

  But in the next instant a huge shadow passed overhead, sliding across the clearing like liquid night. The boar, startled by its appearance, bolted away in a tearing of earth and a cacophony of squeals. Bek straightened and sighted, but all he caught was a quick glimpse of the boar’s ridged back as it disappeared into the thicket and then into the woods beyond. In seconds, the clearing was empty and quiet again.

  “Shades!” Bek muttered, lowering his bow and brushing back his close-cropped dark hair. He stood up and looked across the empty clearing toward the woods. “Quentin?”

  The tall Highlander emerged from the trees. “Did you see it?”

  “I got a glimpse of its backside after that shadow spooked it. Did you see what that was?”

  Quentin was already wandering down into the clearing and through the heavy grasses. “Some kind of bird, wasn’t it?”

  “No birds around here are that big.” Bek watched him come, glancing away long enough to scan the empty skies. He shouldered his bow and shoved his arrow back into its quiver. “Birds that big live on the coast.”

  “Maybe it’s lost.” Quentin shrugged nonchalantly. He slipped in a patch of mud and muttered a few choice words as he righted himself. “Maybe we should go back to hunting grouse.”

  Bek laughed. “Maybe we should go back to hunting earthworms and stick to fishing.”

  Quentin reached him with a flourish of bow and arrows, arms widespread as he dropped both in disgust. “All day, and what do we have to show for it? An empty meadow. You’d think we could have gotten off at least one shot between us. That boar was making enough noise to wake the dead. It wasn’t as if we couldn’t find it, for cat’s sake!”

  Then he grinned cheerfully. “At least we’ve got that grouse from yesterday to ease our hunger and a cold aleskin to soothe our wounded pride. Best part of hunting, Bek lad. Eating and drinking at the end of the day!”

  Bek smiled in response, and after Quentin retrieved his castoff weapons, they swung into step beside each other and headed back toward their camp. Quentin was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore his red hair long and tied back in the manner of Highlanders. Bek, his lowland cousin, had never adopted the Highland style, though he had lived with Quentin and his family for most of his life. That his origins were cloudy had fostered a strong streak of independence in him. He might not know who he was, but he knew who he wasn’t.

  His father had been a distant cousin of Coran Leah, Quentin’s father, but had lived in the Silver River country. Bek remembered little more than a shadowy figure with a dark, strong face. He died when Bek was still tiny, barely two years of age. He contracted a fatal disease and, knowing he was dying, brought Bek to his cousin Coran to raise. There was no one else to turn to. Bek’s mother was gone, and there were no siblings, no aunts and uncles, no one closer than Coran. Coran Leah told Bek later, when he was older, that Bek’s father had done a great favor for him once, and he had never thought twice about taking Bek in to repay the favor.

  All of which was to say that although Bek had been raised a Highlander, he wasn’t really one and had never been persuaded to think of himself in those terms. Quentin told him it was the right attitude. Why try to be something you know you’re not? If you have to pretend to be something, be something no one else is. Bek liked the idea, but he hadn’t a clue what that something else might be. Since he never talked of the matter with anyone but Quentin, he kept his thoughts to himself. Sooner or later, he imagined, probably when it mattered enough that he must do something, he would figure it out.

  “I’m starved,” Quentin announced as they walked through the deep woods. “Hungry enough to eat that boar all by myself, should it choose to fall dead at my feet just now!”

  His broad, strong face was cheerful and open, a reflection of his personality. With Quentin Leah, what you saw was what you got. There was no dissembling, no pretense, and no guile. Quentin was the sort who came right at you, speaking his mind and venting his emotions openly. Bek was more inclined to tread carefully in his use of words and displays of temperament, a part of him always an outsider and accustomed to the value of an outsider’s caution. Not Quentin. He opened himself up and laid himself bare, and if you liked him, fine, and if you didn’t, that was all right, too.

  “Are you sure about that bird?” Bek asked him, thinking back to that huge shadow, still puzzled by its appearance.

  Quentin shrugged. “I only caught a glimpse of it, not enough to be certain of anything much. Like you said, it looked like one of those big coastal birds, black and sleek and fierce.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’d like to ride one of those someday.”

  Bek snorted. “You’d like to do lots of things. Everything, if you could manage it.”

  Quentin nodded. “True. But some things more than others. This one, I’d like to do more.”

  “I’d just settle for another crack at the boar.” Bek brushed a hanging limb away as he ducked beneath. “Another two seconds …”

  “Forget it!” Quentin grabbed Bek’s shoulders playfully. “We’ll go out again tomorrow. We have all the rest of the week. We’ll find one sooner or later. How can we fail?”

  Well, Bek wanted to say, because boars are quicker, faster, and stronger, and much better at hiding than we are at finding them. But he let the matter drop, because the truth was that if they’d bagged the boar today, they’d have had to figure out what to do with the rest of the week. Bek didn’t even want to speculate on what Quentin might have come up with if that had happened.

  Shadows were layering the woodlands in ever-darkening pools, the light failing quickly as the sun slipped below the horizon and the night began its silent advance. Serpentine trailers of mist already had begun to appear in the valleys and ravines, those darker, cooler havens were the sun had been absent longer and the dampness was rooted deeper. Crickets were beginning to chirp and night birds to call. Bek hunched his shoulders against a chilly breeze come up off the Rappahalladran. Maybe he would suggest they fish tomorrow as a change of pace. It wasn’t as exciting or demanding as boar hunting, but the chances of success were greater.

  Besides, he mused, he could nap in the afternoon sun when he was fishing. He could dream and indulge his imagination and take small journeys in his mind. He could spend a little time thinking about his future, which was a good exercise since he really didn’t have one figured out yet.

  “There it is again,” Quentin announced almost casually, pointing ahead through the trees.

  Bek looked, and as sharp as his eyes were, he didn’t see anything. “There what is again?” he asked.

  “That bird I saw, the one that flew over the meadow. A Roc—that’s what it’s called. It was right above the ridge for a moment, then dropped away.”

  “Rocs don’t travel inland,” Bek pointed out once more. Not unless they’re in thrall to a Wing Rider, he thought. That was different. But what would a Wing Rider be doing out here? “This late-afternoon light plays tricks with your eyes,” he added.

  Quentin didn’t seem to hear him. “That’s close to where we’re camped, Bek. I hope it doesn’t raid our stash.”

  They descended the slope they were on, crossed the valley below, and began to climb toward the crest of the next hill, on which their camp was set. They’d quit talking to each other, concentrating on the climb, eyes beginning to search the deepening shadows more carefully. The sun was below the horizon, and twilight cloaked the forest in a gloom that shifted and teased with small movements. A day’s-end silence had descended, a hush that gave the odd impression that everything living in the woods was waiting to see who would make the first sound. Though not conscious of the effort, both Bek and his cousin began to walk more softly.

  When it got dark in the Highland forests, it got very dark, especially when the moon wasn’t up, as on this night, and there was only starligh
t to illuminate the shadows. Bek found himself growing uneasy for reasons he couldn’t define, his instincts telling him that something was wrong even when his eyes could not discover what it was. They reached their camp without incident but, as if possessed of a single mind, stopped at the edge of the clearing and peered about in silence.

  After a moment, Quentin touched his cousin’s shoulder and shrugged. Nothing looked out of place. Bek nodded. They entered the clearing, walked to where their stash was strung up in a tree, found it undisturbed, checked their camping gear where it was bundled in the crotch of a broad-rooted maple, and found it intact, as well. They dragged out their bedrolls and laid them out next to the cold fire pit they’d dug on their arrival two days earlier. Then they released the rope that secured their provisions and lowered them to the ground. Quentin began sorting foodstuffs and cooking implements in preparation for making their dinner. Bek produced tinder to strike a flame to the wood set in place that morning for the evening’s meal.

  Somewhere close, out in the darkness, a night bird cried shrilly as it flew in search of prey or a mate. Bek looked up, studied the shadows again, and then lit the fire. Once the wood was burning, he walked to the edge of the clearing and bent down to gather more.

  When he straightened up again, he found himself face-to-face with a black-cloaked stranger. The stranger was no more than two feet away, right on top of him really, and Bek hadn’t heard his approach at all. The boy froze, arms wrapped about the load of deadwood, his heart in his throat. All sorts of messages screamed at him from his brain, but he couldn’t make himself respond to any of them.

  “Bek Rowe?” the stranger asked softly.

  Bek nodded. The stranger’s cowl concealed his face, but his deep, rough voice was somehow reassuring. Bek’s panic lessened just a hair.

  Something about the unexpected encounter caught Quentin Leah’s notice. He walked out of the firelight and peered into the darkness where Bek and the stranger stood facing each other. “Bek? Are you all right?” He came closer. “Who’s there?”