by Terry Brooks
The Skaar princess shook her head at once. “He would never accept me. Not at this point. And I am not going back to my homeland until the pretender who stole the position that rightfully belongs to my mother is stripped of her power. I did not survive the storm and her attempt on my life just to place myself once more within her reach. I would rather stay here, in the Four Lands, until I can decide what I need to do.”
“Why don’t we keep Ajin with us until we find Shea Ohmsford and then decide?” Tarsha said. “She is still recovering from her injuries, and I am not comfortable having her out of my sight just yet. If we are watching her, she shouldn’t cause us any trouble. She might even end up helping us, just as Drisker has suggested.”
“I don’t want to see her harmed,” Brecon Elessedil agreed, “but I’ve seen enough of the princess to know she can cause a lot of trouble—even under our supervision. She is clever and manipulative. We might be better off turning her over to my father for safekeeping. Dar, you know her better than any of us. Wouldn’t you agree?”
There was an extended silence as they all turned to look at the Blade. “I think she should go with us for now,” he answered quietly.
Brecon gave him a look that appeared to question his sanity, but Dar ignored him, his eyes on Ajin as she gave him a slow nod of agreement. He didn’t know whether to feel satisfied or dismayed by his decision to speak. He only knew it felt right.
Drisker Arc glanced from face to face and nodded. “Then it is settled. Elven prince, can you use the Seeking Stones to discover where Shea Ohmsford can be found?”
Brecon reluctantly pulled out the Elfstones. “I’ll need a description,” he said.
Tarsha gave one that was so complete and accurate that Drisker simply nodded his approval once she was finished. Brecon stepped away from the group and stood facing south.
“Watch closely for any image that appears so we can be certain I’ve found the right boy,” he said quietly.
He closed his eyes and held out the stones in his fist.
As his concentration deepened, the seconds slipped away. Nothing happened for a very long time, suggesting that either the description Tarsha had provided was flawed or the boy was dead. But Brecon Elessedil never wavered in his efforts, and Dar had to assume the prince believed there was still a chance of succeeding. The Blade shifted his feet, waiting patiently with the others for what felt like an eternity.
Then blue light abruptly exploded from Brecon’s fist, and the Elfstones came to life, engulfing his entire hand and forearm before shooting away into the distance. Not south toward Varfleet, but west toward the Elven homeland. It revealed its path with multiple glimpses of the countryside through which it traveled—across the length of the Dragon’s Teeth and out onto the Streleheim and off toward the kingdom of the Elves, a slow turn south toward the grasslands of the Tirfing before reaching the Westland border and the spire of the Pykon, and then farther south and onward toward the Wilderun to a bustling village where airships of all shapes and sizes were being constructed. Within a mass of faces and bodies, some of them clearly Rovers, a boy’s face appeared.
“You’ve found him!” Tarsha said at once.
Drisker nodded as the Elfstones settled on Shea Ohmsford’s young face, brightened with new intensity, and then went dark.
“Now all we have to hope is that when we reach him, we will discover what we are looking for,” he said and turned back for the airship, beckoning for the others to follow.
* * *
—
Far to the west in the Rover village of Aperex, Shea Ohmsford experienced the strange sensation of being watched. He was standing amid dozens of Rovers who had come down to help Rocan and his companions retrofit the giant transport they had used to ferry Annabelle to the relative safety and concealment of the Westland. Traveling to Varfleet was suddenly off the table; Rocan had made it clear that anywhere in the Southland was open to Federation eyes. No matter what sort of precautions they took to stay hidden, the risk of being seen or drawing attention from someone who would report it to Ketter Vause was just too great.
Aperex, on the other hand, was deep in country that was primarily controlled by the Elves, who had forbidden any sort of trespass from the Federation. Rovers populated this part of the world, and there would be time and seclusion enough to work on engineering the Behemoth so that she could serve as a permanent mobile platform for Annabelle.
Shea had been extremely upset when Rocan had revealed his plans for the future, still determined to return to Varfleet and resume his old life. He was especially troubled by the fact that Rocan refused to explain his change of mind other than to insist they would be safer in the Westland. But he added, too, that Shea’s former life was likely gone, and his identity too well known by Commander Zakonis for him ever to feel safe in his home city again. Better that he come live with the Rovers and continue to serve as a helper to Rocan and Tindall.
Shea was nothing if not adaptable, and he was finally persuaded to agree after extracting a promise from the Rover that he would not be put at risk again as he had been in freeing the old man, and that if he changed his mind at any point, he was free to leave. This last promise carried with it a pointed reminder that Rocan believe their relationship was, in some mysterious way, vitally important.
“Your ancestors and mine found common ground,” he kept insisting. “Fate has decreed that you and I must do the same.”
In the end, the credits Rocan had promised were an undeniable lure, and traveling to a new part of the Four Lands was intriguing. But mostly it was Rocan’s charm and the boy’s curiosity about how things would turn out that tipped the scales. Shea was young and eager to experience things beyond what he already knew, and returning to Varfleet, in the end, felt like failure.
So here he was, deep in the Westland, close to the outlaw town of Grimpen Ward and the intimidating valley of the Wilderun—not exactly places he had ever thought to go—arrived only two days ago at a Rover shipbuilding village that had already captured his imagination. It was exciting to be in Aperex; you could feel the energy of its people. The inhabitants of the bustling community were at work from dawn to dusk, constructing and repairing the airships that Rocan claimed were the best in all of the Four Lands. Highly sought after, these vessels were carefully allocated to those whom the Rovers felt most comfortable aiding—mostly the people of the Borderlands and the Elves. Not to say that the much-disliked Federation was denied Rover-crafted ships altogether. Business was business, and commerce trumped dislikes and suspicions. It was just that the Rovers were stingy with their Southland production, and this angered the Federation government from time to time—sometimes to the point of making explicit threats.
But the Rovers were used to threats. They had been threatened all their lives, and a few more threats were not enough for them to change their ways. By settling into the deep Westland, in country no one else wanted, they had staked a claim to a homeland where they felt they belonged. Shea knew this both from stories he had heard and from what he had observed since he’d arrived. These Rovers were a proud people, skilled and knowledgeable, and they felt confident in their ability to stand up to anybody.
“We are welcome here, Shea,” Rocan said when they arrived. “And we will be kept safe, so long as we obey the rule. Which is that we need to be open with those who shelter us about what we intend and why we intend it. Lying is a death sentence, and duplicity is likely to result in exile. Just be open with them and supportive of their efforts to help us. It shouldn’t be hard for a boy of your talents.”
And it wasn’t. Shea pitched right in with whatever tasks he was asked to undertake. He swiftly became part of a crew working to improve the Behemoth.
“We need to be sure Annabelle won’t fall out of the sky because her carrier lacks the safety precautions she might require,” Rocan told him. “It was one thing to carry her safely from Arishai
g. It would be another if we were continually traveling from place to place.”
Tindall was more forthcoming. “Simple enough, young man. Our efforts might require outrunning and even outfighting enemy vessels. We don’t anticipate this, but it remains a distinct possibility. Annabelle needs to be protected, no matter how far away from safety we choose to take her.”
Shea was able to worm more out of him when he asked about what sort of trips they might have to take. Shrugging, the old man advised him that finding the proper weather conditions might require them to travel very long distances into very unfriendly country. Or even out over the ocean.
The boy still didn’t think he was being told everything, but when had Rocan ever been completely forthcoming with him? A man like that told you what he thought you needed to know and nothing more. So Shea settled for the more general explanation and a fresh promise there would be no more stunts like the one that had nearly gotten him killed in Assidian Deep.
* * *
—
It was just after midday when an honor guard escorted Cor d’Amphere to Ketter Vause’s tented quarters on the southern banks of the Mermidon for their prearranged meeting. Vause had taken great care to provide an assurance of safe conduct to the Skaar king, permitting him to arrive in his own vessel with his daughter and guards, and to land in an area secured solely for his personal use. He made certain also to guarantee that their conversations would be kept private.
In truth, he would have liked nothing better than to squash this troublesome monarch like a bug and throw his treacherous daughter into Assidian Deep for the rest of her miserable existence. But it would not do to forget that a Skaar advance force of less than a thousand, led by a woman who was little more than a girl, had annihilated a vastly superior Federation force not two weeks prior—with almost no difficulty and very few casualties of its own. The Skaar were dangerous, and underestimating them would be a mistake. Plus, he could not afford to forget that there were other enemies waiting to see how this conflict played out—enemies who would love to take advantage of a weakened Federation. Chief among them were the Elves, and Vause knew better than to think the Westland folk would come to their rescue if they thought it would better serve their interests to stand aside.
So there was much to be lost should haste and misjudgment overrule caution and common sense, and the Federation Prime Minister was not about to let that happen. But he did intend to discover exactly what the Skaar king wanted of the Federation, so that he could decide if negotiation might prevent a battle.
He was straightening his robes of office when an attendant appeared to announce the Skaar king’s arrival, parting the tent flaps to allow the man to enter.
Ketter Vause surveyed the king and found himself completely underwhelmed. Cor d’Amphere was a very ordinary man in appearance, his impeccable uniform more imposing than the man himself. He wore a sour expression—one that was rife with disappointment and vaguely suggestive of something recovered from a rubbish heap. He wore no weapons, not even an ornamental blade, and looked around with an expression that suggested both confusion and uncertainty.
It will be easy enough to deal with this man, Vause thought.
The king’s gaze shifted to Vause as he stopped while still six feet away. “Prime Minister,” he said, but the way he spoke and kept his distance revealed that he was a much different man than he first appeared.
“Your Majesty,” Vause responded, hiding his distaste and irritation at his mistake. “I am pleased to have you as my guest.”
The other nodded as if this expression of appreciation was his due. He was already glancing around the Prime Minister’s sumptuously appointed tent with an expression that suggested disdain.
“Your daughter isn’t with you?” Vause continued.
“My daughter has returned home.” Cor d’Amphere returned his gaze to Vause. “She no longer commands the Skaar army.”
Vause could not yet be certain, but this might work in his favor. The daughter had already proved herself to be a dangerous adversary. He might be better off dealing with her father.
“Shall we sit?” he offered, gesturing to the chairs he had set out for them.
Cor d’Amphere shook his head. “I won’t be that long. I think we can settle matters quickly enough. My needs are simple and non-negotiable. The Skaar require a new homeland. We have chosen yours. We have a history of taking what we want, and I assure you that sooner or later that will happen here. In the past, all of Eurodia fell to us. We do not seek to occupy the entirety of the Four Lands, but we do claim the Northland for our new home—everything north of the Mermidon River to the borders of the Dwarf country east and the Elf lands west. The Trolls will be allowed to remain in their homes in the lands farthest north, which will become our protectorate. Am I clear?”
Vause fought down the fury that surged through him at the casual manner in which the demands were presented—as if the matter were already settled and no room for discussion remained. But in truth, these demands were much less than the ones he had been expecting. He was only being asked to give up a large but rather useless section of land, not the heart of the Federation domain. He felt a twinge of relief.
Which, a moment later, disappeared when the Skaar king added, “Needless to say, we may require more room later, as our population grows. But that discussion can be saved for a more appropriate time.”
A time, Vause realized instantly, that would undoubtedly arrive all too soon. The Skaar were a nation of conquerors who saw nothing wrong with taking what they wanted, believing themselves entitled. They would seem to settle for a reasonable piece of the country at first, then go on to consume everything.
“I think you need to understand something, Your Majesty,” Vause said quietly. “What you ask for now is satisfactory. But anything further will not be tolerated by the Federation or any of the other governments of the Four Lands. If you can accept that, then we can make a bargain quickly and be done with it. If not, we are prepared to resist your forced occupation of the aforenamed lands and cast you out.”
His temper had slipped, and he could hear it in his tone of voice. But if he backed down now, he would be setting a bad precedent. So he faced the other man squarely, thinking that if he took a deep breath and blew forcefully enough at this skinny blowhard, he would knock him right over. Thinking, too, that he could have him killed here and now, promises of safety notwithstanding, and might solve a whole raft of problems by doing so.
“Do you accept my offer?” Cor d’Amphere asked calmly, as if he hadn’t heard a word the other had spoken. “Aside from your pointless speculations on the future?”
Vause decided to dispense with any of the pleasantries he had been prepared to engage in—an offer of food and drink, of a night’s lodgings, of female companionship—and get the man out of his tent and back to the other side of the river without further delay.
“I will consider it and let you know,” he said.
The Skaar king took a step forward, smiling. “No need for any delay, Prime Minister. Your decision is already made. I read it in your eyes. But be warned. It would be a mistake to underestimate me. You see me enter your quarters and dismiss me as you would an insect. You see me without my daughter, which gives you false confidence. You see me without my guards and think maybe I could be disposed of and the threat of the Skaar would disappear.”
He took a step closer, and now Ketter Vause was having trouble holding his ground. Cor d’Amphere was alone, but so was he. His guards were outside. If the other drew a blade, help might not arrive in time to save his life.
“Do you think I truly came alone?” the Skaar king asked softly. “Have you forgotten what abilities we possess?”
To disappear entirely. To become invisible to other men for short periods of time. The Skaar king was suggesting he had brought guards no Federation soldier could see. He was suggesting th
at any efforts to protect against this had been in vain.
“You understand now the danger you are in. I see it in your eyes, Prime Minister.”
Vause’s mouth went dry.
“Three of my soldiers stand within a few feet of you. Should I command it, they would slay you where you stand; you would not have time even to cry out before you died.” He paused to let that sink in. “Understand—we are superior to you and your soldiers in every way that matters. We have a history of winning battles that those we fought against were certain we could not win. So think long and hard about what happens next. You have three days.”
He held the Prime Minister’s gaze for a moment longer, then wheeled away without another word and disappeared through the tent flaps.
Ketter Vause stood where the other had left him and knew, as sure as it was daylight outside his tent, an endless night had very nearly fallen inside.
THIRTEEN
SHEA OHMSFORD WAS HELPING the Rovers fit the big iron plates that were being added as reinforcement for the Behemoth’s hull when Rocan’s cousin, Sartren Longlet, appeared and said, “Rocan wants you on the Apron.”
Shea stopped what he was doing and looked up. “What for?”
Sartren, his brown face broad and friendly, broke into a grin. “Well, now, young Shea. Those who sent me did not feel it necessary to reveal that information. An oversight, I am sure, since they normally make it a point to tell me everything surrounding any request so I can judge whether or not it is worth my time to carry it out.”
“You could have shortened that answer by at least fifty words and still managed to make it funny.” Shea took in the other’s disapproving look and sighed. “All right, all right. I’m on my way.”
He started off with a smile. The two had become fast friends, spending time trading outrageous stories at the dinner table and afterward around the watch fires while drinking their evening tankards of ale. Shea liked Sartren in spite of his tendency to ramble on. He liked all the Rovers of Aperex, especially those who claimed kinship to Rocan. Although it was undeniable their number seemed to grow large enough after even five days to make him wonder if anyone in the entire village was not related to his benefactor.
