Ilse Witch

by Terry Brooks

  Redden Alt Mer chuckled. “That was our decision, as well. A Druid’s magic is nothing to trifle with.”

  His instruction of Bek continued as if nothing had happened. After Bek had been aboard for a time and his initial excitement had died down, he became aware of a movement to the airship that had not been apparent before, a gentle swaying, a tugging against the anchoring lines. There was no apparent wind, the day calm and still, and there was no movement from the other ships that might account for the motion. When Bek finally asked about it, Redden Alt Mer told him it was the natural response of the ship to the absorption of light into their sheaths. The converted energy kept her aloft, and it was only the anchor cables that kept her from floating away completely, because her natural inclination was to take flight. The Rover admitted that he had been flying for so long that he didn’t notice the motion himself anymore.

  Bek thought it gave the airship the feel of being alive, of having an existence independent of the men and women who rode her. It was a strange sensation, but the longer he stayed aboard, the more he felt it. The ship moved like a great cat stirring out of sleep, lazy and unhurried, coming slowly awake. The motion radiated through the decking and into his body, so that he soon became a part of it, and it had something of the feel of floating in water that was still and untroubled.

  Redden Alt Mer finished with him at midday and sent him off to help inventory supplies and equipment with a bluff, burly fellow Rover called Furl Hawken. The Rover everyone called Hawk barely gave him a second glance, but was friendly enough and pleased at his quickness in picking up the instructions he was given. Once or twice, Rue Meridian came by, and every time Bek was mesmerized.

  “She affects everyone that way,” Furl Hawken observed with a grin, catching the look on his face. “Little Red will break your heart just by looking at you. Too bad it’s wasted effort.”

  Bek wanted to ask what he meant but was too embarrassed to pursue the matter, so he let it drop.

  By the end of the day, Bek had learned most of what there was to know about the operation of their airship, the components that drove her, and the nature of the supplies and equipment she would be carrying. He had met most of the crew as well, including the ship’s builder, a truly frightening Rover named Spanner Frew, who yelled and cursed at everyone in general and looked ready to knock down anyone who dared question him. He acknowledged Bek with a grunt and afterwards ignored him completely. Bek was just as happy.

  He was on his way back across the airfield with the sun at his back when Quentin caught up with him.

  “Did you go aboard the ship?” he asked eagerly, falling into step with his cousin. He was sweating through his rumpled, stained clothes. His long hair was matted, and the skin of his hands and forearms was cut and bruised.

  “I’ve hardly been off the ship,” Bek said. He gave the other a smirk. “What have you been doing, wrestling bears?”

  Quentin laughed. “No, Walker ordered me to train with the Elven Hunters. Ard Patrinell worked with me all day. He knocked me down so many times and skinned me up so many different ways that all I can think about is how little I know.” He reached back for his sword. “This thing’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Bek.”

  Bek grinned mischievously. “Well, it’s probably only as good as its bearer, Quentin. Anyway, count your blessings. I spent all day learning how much I don’t know about airships and flying. I’d be willing to bet that there’s a lot more I don’t know about flying than you don’t know about fighting.”

  Quentin laughed and shoved him playfully, and they joked and teased each other all the way back to the palace compound as the last of the sunlight disappeared below the horizon and the twilight began to shadow the land. With the setting of the sun, a stillness enveloped the city as her people drifted homeward and the bustle and clamor of traffic faded away. In the woods through which the cousins passed close by the palace grounds and parks, the only sounds were of voices, indistinct and distant, carried in the silence from other places.

  They were approaching the pathway that led to their sleeping quarters when Bek said quietly, “Quentin? What do you think we’re really doing here?”

  They stopped, and his cousin looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Bek put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Think about it. Why are we here? Why us, with all these others that Walker’s chosen?”

  “Because Walker thinks we—”

  “I know what Walker told us.” Bek cut him short impatiently. “He told us he wanted two young, clever fellows to share his thoughts. He told us he wanted you for your magic sword and me for my keen eyes and ears or some such thing. I know what he said, and I’ve been trying to make myself believe it since we set out. But I don’t. I don’t believe it at all.”

  Quentin nodded matter-of-factly, unperturbed. Sometimes Bek just wanted to throttle him. “Are you listening to me?” he snapped.

  His cousin nodded. “Sure. You don’t believe Walker. Why not?”

  “Because, Quentin, it just doesn’t feel right.” Bek emphasized his words with chopping gestures. “Everyone selected for this expedition has years of experience exploring and fighting. They’ve been all over the Four Lands, and they know how to deal with all sorts of trouble. What do we know? Nothing. Why take two inexperienced nobodies like us?”

  “He’s taking Ahren Elessedil,” Quentin offered. “And what about the seer? Ryer Ord Star? She doesn’t look very strong.”

  Bek nodded impatiently. “I’m not talking about strength alone. I’m talking about skill and experience and talent. I’m talking about purpose! What’s ours? We’ve just spent the entire day training, for goodness’ sake! Did you see anyone else training for this trip? Are you really the only one Walker could turn to who could back him up with magic? In all the Four Lands, the only one? Given what happened in the Wolfsktaag, how much use do you think you would be to him at this point? Be honest!”

  Quentin was quiet a moment. “Not much,” he admitted grudgingly, and for the first time a hint of doubt crept into his voice.

  “What about me?” Bek pursued his argument with a vengeance. “Am I the only clever pair of eyes and ears he can call on? Am I really that useful to him that he would drop several Elven Hunters with years of experience and training behind them and a skilled Healer, as well? Are you and I all that wondrous that he just can’t afford to leave us behind, even though we know he’s pressed for space?”

  They stared at each other in the growing dark without speaking, eyes locked. Somewhere in the compound ahead, a door slammed and a voice called out a name.

  Quentin shook his head. “What are you saying, Bek?” he asked softly. “That we shouldn’t go? That we should give this whole business up?”

  Oddly enough, that wasn’t his intent. It might have been a logical suggestion, given his arguments and conclusions. It might have been what another man would have done under the circumstances, but Bek Rowe had decided he would make the voyage. He was committed. He was as determined to go as Quentin was. Maybe it had something to do with the secrets he had discovered since Walker had appeared to them in the Highlands—of his father’s identity and his own origins, of the King of the Silver River and the phoenix stone, of Truls Rohk and his cryptic warning not to trust anyone. Maybe it was just that he was too stubborn to quit when so many would know and judge him accordingly. Maybe it was his belief that he was meant to make the journey, whatever his fears or doubts, because going would determine in some important and immutable way the course of his life.

  A small voice of reason still whispered that he should tell Quentin, Yes, we should give this business up and go home. He squelched that voice with barely a second’s thought.

  “What I’m saying,” he replied instead, “is that we should be careful about what we accept at face value. Druids keep secrets and play games with ordinary men like you and me. That’s their history and tradition. They manipulate and deceive. They are tricksters, Quentin. I don’t know a
bout Walker. I don’t know much of anything about what he really intends for us. I just think we ought to be very careful. I think we …”

  He ran out of words and stood there, looking at his cousin helplessly.

  “You think we ought to look out for each other,” Quentin finished, nodding slowly. “We always have, haven’t we?”

  Bek sighed. “But maybe we need to do more of it here. And when something doesn’t sit right, like this business, I think we have to tell each other so. If we don’t, Quentin, who will?”

  “Maybe no one.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Quentin studied him in silence once more, then smiled suddenly. “You know what, Bek? If you hadn’t agreed to come on this journey, I wouldn’t have come either.”

  Bek stared at him in surprise. “Really?”

  Quentin nodded. “Because of what you’ve just said. There isn’t anyone else I would trust to watch my back or tell me the truth about things. Only you. You think I look at you like a bothersome younger brother that I let tag along because I have to. I don’t. I want you with me. I’m bigger and stronger, sure. And I’m better at some things than you. But you have a gift for figuring things out that I don’t. You get at the truth in a way I can’t. You see things I don’t even notice.”

  He paused. “What I’m trying to say is that I think of us as equals as well as brothers. I pay pretty close attention to how you feel about things, whether you realize it or not. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it will be here. I won’t accept anything I’m told without talking it over with you. You don’t have to ask me to do that. I’d do it anyway.”

  Bek felt awkward and foolish. “I guess I just needed to say what I was thinking out loud.”

  Quentin grinned. “Well, who knows? Maybe I needed to hear you say it, too. Now it’s done. Let’s go eat.”

  They went inside then, and for the rest of the night until he fell asleep Bek found himself thinking how close he was to Quentin—as a brother, a friend, and a confidant—closer than he was to anyone in the world. They had shared everything growing up, and he could not imagine it being any other way. He made a promise to himself then, the sort of promise he hadn’t made since he was a small boy filled with the sort of resolve that age tempered and time wore down. He did not know where they were going or what they would encounter in the days ahead, Quentin and he, but whatever happened he would find a way to keep his brother safe.

  NINETEEN

  Dawn broke in a bright golden blaze at the line between sky and earth on the eastern horizon, and the airfield south of Arborlon began to fill with Elves come to watch the launch of the expedition. Thousands approached, crowding down the roads and walks, slipping along the narrow forest trails and pathways, filling the spaces at the edges of the field until their eager, excited faces ringed the bluff. Organized by unit and company, a sizable contingent from the Elven army was already in place, drawn up in formation at both ends of the field, Elven Hunters in their soft green and taupe dress uniforms, Home Guard in emerald trimmed with crimson, and Black Watch standing tall and dark and forbidding like winter trees. Overhead, Elven airships that had already lifted off circled like silent phantoms, sailing on the back of a slow, soft morning wind.

  At the center of the airfield, solitary and proud, the sleek, dark airship that was the object of everyone’s attention hung just off the ground in the new light, her sails unfurled and her lines taut, straining to be free.

  Quentin on one side and Panax on the other, Bek Rowe stood watching from the bow. All about the railings fore and aft were gathered the Rovers who would crew the ship, the Elven Hunters who would defend her, and the few other members of the expedition chosen by Walker. The Druid stood with Redden Alt Mer in the pilot box, talking quietly, sharp eyes shifting left and right as he spoke, hands folded into his black robes.

  Ahren Elessedil stood alone amidships by the foremast, isolated from everyone. He was a small, slight Elf with boyish features and a quiet manner. Whereas his brother Kylen was fair and blond in the traditional manner of the Elessedils, Ahren was dusky of skin and brown of hair, closer in appearance to the great Queen Wren. He had come aboard with the other Elves, but quickly separated from them and had remained apart since. He seemed lost and uncertain of himself as he stood looking out at the crowds. Bek felt sorry for him. He was in a difficult position. Officially, he was a representative of the Elessedil family and the crown, but everyone knew that Walker had been forced to include him because Kylen had insisted on it. Rumor had it that Kylen wanted him out of the way.

  That accounted for everyone but Truls Rohk. Of the shape-shifter, there was still no sign.

  A blare of trumpets drew Bek’s eyes to where the crowd was parting to make way for the Elven King and his retinue. A long line of Home Guard marched through the gap, flanking standard bearers who bore the flags of all the Elven Kings and Queens dead and gone, personal icons sewn on brightly colored fields swirling in the breeze. When they had passed onto the airfield, the Elessedil family banner hove into view, a crimson image of the Ellcrys emblazoned on a field of green. Kylen Elessedil followed on horseback, raised high enough above the heads of the crowd so that all could see him. His wife and children rode on horses behind him followed on foot by the more distant members of his family and his personal retinue. The long column marched out of the trees and onto the airfield and took up a position directly in front of the airship’s curved bow.

  The trumpets sounded once more and went still. The crowd quieted, and Kylen Elessedil lifted his arms in greeting.

  “Citizens of Arborlon! Friends of the Elven!” His booming voice carried easily from one end of the field to the other. “We are gathered to witness and to celebrate an epochal event. A band of men and women of great courage will go forth this day on our behalf and on behalf of all free and right-thinking men and women everywhere. They sail the winds of the world in search of truths that have eluded us for thirty years. On their journey, they will attempt to discover the fate of my father’s brother’s expedition, lost those thirty years ago, of those ships and men, and of the Elfstones they carried, which are our heritage. On their journey, they will seek out treasures and magics that are rightfully ours and that can be put to the uses for which they were intended by the men and women for whom they were meant—Elves, one and all!”

  A cheer rose from the crowd, swelling quickly to a roar. Bek glanced about at the faces of those gathered close, but found no expression on any save Quentin’s, where a kind of vague amusement flickered like candlelight in the wind and was gone.

  “My brother Ahren leads this expedition on behalf of my family and our people,” Kylen continued as the cheering died away. “He is to be commended and respected for his bravery and his sense of duty. With him go some of the bravest of our Elven Hunters; our good friend from the Druids of Paranor, Walker; a complement of skilled and capable Rovers to captain and crew the ship; and a select band of others drawn from the Four Lands who will lend their talents and courage to this most important effort. Acknowledge them all, my friends! Praise them well!”

  Again, the roar went up, the banners waved, and the air was filled with sound and color, and Bek, in spite of his cynicism, found himself infused with unmistakable pride.

  Kylen Elessedil held up his hands. “We have lost a good and well-loved King in these past weeks. Treachery and cowardice have taken my father, Allardon Elessedil, from us. It was his dying wish that this expedition set forth, and I would be a poor son and subject indeed if I failed to honor his wishes. These men and women”—he gestured behind him toward the ship—“feel as I do. Everything possible has been done to assure their success and speedy return. We send them off with our good wishes, and we will not cease to think of them until they are safely home again.”

  Clever, Bek thought, to lay everything off on the old King, dead and gone. Kylen had learned something of politics already. If the expedition failed, he had made certain the blame would not be laid at his
feet. If it succeeded, he would be quick to share in the rewards and claim the credit.

  Bek shook his head at Quentin, who just shrugged and grinned ruefully.

  The crowd was cheering anew, and while the people did so, a member of the Elven High Council carried to the King a long, slender green bottle. The King accepted it, wheeled his stallion about, and walked him to just below the bow of the airship. Hands raised anew, he turned once more to the crowd.

  “Therefore, as King of the Land Elves and Sovereign Lord of the Westland, I wish this brave company success and good sailing, and I give to their ship the cherished name of one of our own, revered and loved over the years. I give to this ship the name Jerle Shannara!”

  He turned back to the airship, standing tall in the stirrups of his saddle, and swung the bottle against the metal-sheathed horns of the bow rams. The green glass shattered in a spray of bright liquid, and the air was filled with silver and gold crystals, then with rainbow colors erupting in showers that geysered fifty feet skyward and coated in a fine crystalline mist all those who stood with the King and those aboard ship. Bek, who had shielded himself automatically, brushed at his tunic sleeves and watched the mist come away in a soft, warm powder that fizzled on his hands like steam, then faded on the air.

  The crowd cheered and shouted anew, “Long live the Jerle Shannara” and “Long live Kylen Elessedil.” The cheering went on and on, rising across the open bluff and sailing off into the distant forests beyond, echoes on the wind. Trumpets blew and drums boomed, and the banners of the dead Elven Kings waved and whipped at the end of their lofted standards. The ropes that bound the Jerle Shannara were released, and the sleek black airship rose swiftly, wheeled away from the sun toward the still-dark west, and began to pick up speed. The bluff below and those assembled on it fell away, turning small and faint in the light morning haze. The cheers died and the shouts faded, and Arborlon and her people were left behind.