by Terry Brooks
Yet Tamis had. He looked at her for an explanation.
She smirked with rueful self-depreciation. “Luck.”
She pointed to one side. It took him a while to see that a corner of the support cloth had worked itself to the surface and was sticking up. “Bury that, and the pit will be invisible again.”
“Or move it to another place, and you create a red herring. And an edge for us.” He looked at her questioningly. “What do you think?”
She nodded slowly. “Because Patrinell will see it, too, just like I did.” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “This is what we’ve been searching for, Highlander. We make our stand here.”
They had cut away the bit of cloth and reburied it off to one side with the corner sticking up. They used a scattering of twigs and grasses to suggest that the pit might be located there. It was reasonable to assume that the wronk, using Ard Patrinell’s skills and experience, would be looking for traps and snares, especially if it found them prepared to stand and fight. If they could draw it in the wrong direction or mislead it in just the slightest, they could drop it into the pit before it knew what was happening.
It was a dangerous gamble. But it was all they had to work with.
So now they waited in the deepening night, listening to the adversary’s approach, to a sharp crackling of brush and limbs, steady and inexorable. They had considered lighting fires to give them a clear battlefield, but decided that darkness favored them more. The moon and stars appeared and faded behind a screen of clouds, providing snatches of light with which to operate. They had positioned themselves squarely behind the false pit, leaving the best and most logical path to reach them to their right, over the real pit. They stood together now, but would change position when the wronk appeared. They had worked their plan out carefully. All that remained was to test it.
It would work, Quentin told himself silently. It had to.
He heard the wronk clearly, heavy footfalls drawing closer. His skin crawled with the sound. Tamis stood right beside him, and he could hear the soft rasp of her breathing. They held their swords in front of them, blades glinting in the moonlight as the clouds broke overhead momentarily. Quentin’s head throbbed and his blood tingled with fiery sparks of magic that broke away from the Sword of Leah as it responded to his sense of danger. He felt the change in his body as he prepared to give himself over to its power. An equal mix of satisfaction and fear roiled within him. He would be transformed, and he knew now what that meant. When the magic entered him, he infused himself with its terrible fury and risked his soul.
Without it, of course, he risked his life. It was not much of a choice.
With an almost delicate grace, the wronk stepped into the clearing. Though its features were hazy and spectral in the faint light, its shape and size were unmistakable. Quentin watched it with a mix of raw fear and revulsion. It registered his presence instantly, freezing in place, casting about as if testing the wind. A glint of metal speared the darkness as a piece of the monster reflected momentarily in the starlight. The moon had disappeared back behind the clouds, and the night was thick and oppressive. Within the black wall of the trees, there was unbroken silence.
The Highlander felt Tamis tense, waiting for him to take the lead. They had agreed that he must do so, that he was the one the wronk was seeking and so could best draw it in the direction they wished it to go. Their plan was simple enough. Pretend to decoy it one way, knowing it would choose to go another. It was Ard Patrinell’s brain at work inside the wronk, so it would be Patrinell’s thinking that would direct it. It would sense a feint, a deception, and so act to avoid it. If they could take advantage of that thinking, if they could anticipate its reasoning, they could lure it into the pit. It was a poor plan at best, but it was the only plan they could come up with.
The wronk shifted again, drawing fresh shards of starlight to its metal skin, pinpricks of brightness that flashed and faded like fireflies. They heard its heavy body as it took a step forward and paused anew. Nothing of Ard Patrinell’s tortured face was visible to them, and so they could try to pretend the wronk was nothing more than a machine. But in his mind Quentin saw the Elf’s eyes anew, looking out from their prison—frantic, pleading, desperate for release. He would have banished the image if he had known how to do so, but it was so strong and pervasive that he could not manage it. It was a window not only into Patrinell’s terrible fate, but also into his own. Tamis would free her lover from his living death. Quentin would simply avoid sharing his fate.
Sweating freely, the heat forming a sheen of perspiration on his face and arms, he wondered absently how matters had come to that end. He had embarked on the journey with such hopes for something wonderful and fulfilling and life-transforming. He had wanted an adventure. What he’d gotten was a nightmare.
“Ready?” he whispered.
Tamis nodded, grim-faced. “Don’t let it take me alive,” she said suddenly. “Promise me.”
“Promise me, as well.” His heart was hammering within his chest.
“I loved him,” she whispered so quietly he barely heard her speak the words.
Quentin Leah took a deep breath and brought up his sword.
TWENTY-FIVE
Bek Ohmsford followed Truls Rohk from the shoreline without resistance. He ran with the shape-shifter deep into the forest for a long time and did not complain. But finally his efforts at keeping up failed. His strength gave out, and he collapsed at the base of a broad-limbed maple, sitting with his head between his legs, sucking in huge gulps of air.
The shape-shifter, a cloaked shadow in the deep night, wheeled back soundlessly and knelt beside him. “You went longer than most would. You’re tough, for a boy.”
They stared at each other in the darkness. Bek tried to speak and couldn’t. Whatever Grianne had done to him, escaping Black Moclips hadn’t helped. His voice was still gone. He made a series of weak, futile gestures, but the other mistook his silence for exhaustion.
“You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” Truls Rohk laughed softly. “That’s a mistake that’s been made before.” He shifted within the cloak and settled into a crouch. “I was close to dying, though. The witch set a trap I wasn’t looking for—a caull. She guessed at my purpose in circling back to wait for her and got the caull behind me. I was too anxious to get back to you to be looking out for it properly. It caught me reaching down for your knife with my back turned. I didn’t even know it was there.”
He paused. “But you saved me. All without knowing. Think of that.”
Bek shook his head in confusion.
“After I left, you had a visit from the shape-shifters who inhabit that region.”
Bek nodded. He could still remember the smell and feel of them in the night, all size and bristling hair and raspy voices, like feral beasts.
“Whatever you said to them caught their interest. They decided to wait for me, as well. When a true shape-shifter hides, no one can find it. The caull, lying in wait for me, couldn’t. Couldn’t even tell they were there. When it attacked me, they snatched it right out of the air, bound it in cords so tough it could not break free, and carried it away. Before they left, they told me that my place in this world and my life belonged to you. What do you suppose they meant?”
Bek thought back, remembering how the shape-shifters had queried him about his relationship to Truls Rohk, probing his reasoning, testing his loyalty. Would you give up your life for him? Yes, because I think he would do the same for me. His answer, it seemed, had meant something after all.
Truls Rohk grunted. “Anyway, I fell asleep when they left me. Not what I had planned, but I couldn’t help myself. It was something in their voices. When I woke, I came looking for you. But the witch took care to disguise her passage in ways I couldn’t immediately unravel. It didn’t matter. I knew she would bring you back here. I tried the airship first thing, seeing it moored in the bay. Black Moclips, the witch’s own vessel. Your smell led me right to you, locked down in that h
old. I got to you just in time, didn’t I?”
He waited a heartbeat, then reached out suddenly and snatched Bek by his tunic front. “What’s wrong with you, boy? Why don’t you say something?”
Bek wrenched himself free and pointed angrily at his neck. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth for emphasis.
“You’re injured?” the other demanded. “Something’s damaged your throat?”
Impatiently, Bek scratched the words in the dirt with a stick. The cowled head bent for a look. “You can’t speak?” Bek wrote some more. “The witch stole your voice? With magic?”
Truls Rohk rocked back on his haunches and stood up. He made a dismissive gesture. “She doesn’t have that kind of power over you. Never has. What do you think the Druid has been trying to tell you? You’re her equal, though untrained yet. You have the gift, too. I knew that from the moment we met in the Wolfsktaag, months ago.”
Bek shook his head vehemently, shouting soundlessly, bitterly in response.
“Think!” the other snapped irritably. “She’s kept you alive so far to find out what you know. Would she destroy your voice so that you could never speak again? Huh! No, she’s done what she does best. She’s played a game with your mind. She’s knocked you down and left you thinking what she wants you to think. It’s mind-altering, of a sort. You can speak, if you want. Go ahead. Try.”
Bek stared at him in disbelief, then shook his head.
“Try, boy.”
I’ve already tried! He mouthed the words angrily.
Truls Rohk pushed him hard. “Try again.”
Bek staggered backwards and righted himself. Stop it!
“Do what I say! Try again!” The shape-shifter shoved him a second time, harder than before. “Try, if you’ve got any backbone! Try, if you don’t want me to knock you down!” He shoved Bek so hard he almost sent him sprawling. “Tell me to stop! Go on, tell me!”
Flushed with rage, Bek charged the cloaked form, but Truls Rohk blocked his rush and pushed him away. “You’re afraid of her, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t try. You’re frightened! Admit it!”
He wheeled away. “I’ve no use for someone who can’t do more than follow at my heels like a dog. Get away from me! I’ll do this alone.”
Bek charged in front of him and blocked his way. Stop it! I’m coming with you!
“Then you tell me so to my face!” Truls Rohk’s voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. “Tell me right now, boy!” He shoved Bek again, harder than ever. “Tell me, or get out of my—”
Something gave way inside Bek, a visceral rending of self that had the feel of tearing flesh. It gave way before a mix of rage and humiliation and frustration that engulfed him like a swollen river slamming up against a dam built for calmer waters. His voice exploded out of him in a primal scream of such impact that it lifted Truls Rohk off his feet and sent him flying backwards. It bent the branches of trees, flattened tall grasses, shredded bark, and tore up clots of earth for a dozen yards. It began with the shriek of a hurricane’s winds as it sapped the forest silence, then layered it anew in a darker and more suffocating blanket.
Bek dropped to his knees in shock and disbelief, coughing out the final shards of noise, the sound of his voice dropping to a startled whisper.
Truls Rohk picked himself up and brushed himself off. “Shades!” he muttered. He reached out his hand to Bek and pulled him to his feet. “Was that really necessary?”
Bek laughed in spite of himself. It felt good to hear the sound again. “You were right. I could speak all along.”
“But not until I got you mad enough to make you do so.” The shape-shifter’s impatience showed in his voice. “Don’t let yourself get fooled like that again.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“You are her match, boy.”
“I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?”
The big shoulders shrugged within the concealing cloak. “Maybe you should leave her to me.”
A chill of recognition rippled down Bek’s neck. He reached out impulsively and gripped the other’s shoulder, feeling corded muscle and sinew tighten in response, feeling knots of gristle shift. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
Bek’s stomach clenched. “Don’t do it, Truls. Don’t kill her. I don’t want that. No matter what. Promise me.”
The other’s laughter was harsh and empty. “Why should I promise you that? She was quick enough to try to kill me!”
“She’s as confused about things as I was. She’s been lied to and deceived. What she believes about herself and about me isn’t even close to the truth. Doesn’t she deserve a chance to find this out? The same chance you gave me, just now?”
He kept his grip on the other’s shoulder, holding on to him as if to wring the concession he sought. But Truls Rohk didn’t try to move away. Instead, he took a step closer.
“If another were to lay hands on me the way you have, I would kill him without a thought.”
Bek did not back away even then, did not dare to move, though an inner voice was screaming at him to do so. He felt impossibly small and vulnerable. “Don’t kill her. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Huh! Shall we invite her to join us, forget her evil life, forgive the past, pretend she has no alliance with the rets? Is that your plan—to talk her into being our friend? Didn’t you try that already?”
The cowled head bent close, and Bek could hear the unpleasant rasp of the other’s breathing. “Grow up all the way, boy. This isn’t a game you can start over if you lose. If you don’t kill her, she will kill you. She’s well beyond any place where reason or truth can reach her. She’s lived a lifetime of lies and half-truths, of delusions and deceptions. Think what brought her to us. Her single, all-consuming ambition is to kill Walker. If she hasn’t succeeded in doing so already, she will try her luck soon. Even though the Druid irritates me and has brought much of this misfortune on himself, I won’t give him up to her.”
Both hands shot out suddenly and snatched hold of Bek once again. “She isn’t your sister anymore! She is the Morgawr’s tool! She is her own dark creation, as deadly as the creatures she is so fond of using, the things she makes out of nightmares! She is a monster!”
Bek went still, facing into the black void of the other’s cowl. There was no question about what would happen if Truls Rohk found Grianne. The shape-shifter would not waste a moment’s time considering the alternatives. If Bek didn’t find a way to change his mind right now, the shape-shifter would kill her—or die himself in the attempt.
Before he could think better of it, before the consequences could register fully enough to make him reconsider, he said, “Some would say the same about you. Some would say that you are a monster, as well. Would they be right? Are you any different from her?”
The hands tightened on his arms. “Watch your mouth, boy. There is all the difference in the world between us, and you know it.”
Bek took a deep, steadying breath. “No, I don’t know anything of the sort. To me, you are the same. You both hide who you are. She hides behind lies and deceptions. You hide behind your cloak and hood. How much does anyone know about either of you? How much is concealed that no one ever sees? Why does she deserve to die and you to live?”
Truls Rohk lifted him off his feet as effortlessly as he would a child, his anger a palpable thing in the silence. For an instant Bek was certain the shape-shifter would dash him to the ground.
“Show me your face, if you want me to believe in you,” he said.
“I warned you about this,” the other hissed. “I told you to let it be. Now I’m telling you for the last time. Leave it alone.” He held Bek like a rag doll. “Enough. Time for us to be going. Your recovery of your voice could be heard two miles away.”
“Show me your face. We’re not leaving until you do.”
The shape-shifter shook him so hard Bek could hear his joints crack. “You can’t stand to look on me!”
Bek
swallowed and stiffened. “If you aren’t a monster, if you’re not hiding the truth, show me your face.”
Truls Rohk gave an angry growl. “My face is not who I am!”
He lifted Bek higher then, almost over his head, as if he might fling him away. There was such power in the shape-shifter, such strength! The boy closed his eyes and hung in a black void, listening to his heartbeat.
Then he felt himself lowered back to the ground. The hands released him. He opened his eyes and found Truls Rohk towering over him, black and impenetrable. All around, the forest had turned oppressively still, as if become an unwilling, frightened witness to what was taking place.
“If you see me, if you really see me, it will change everything between us,” Truls Rohk said.
He seemed almost desperate to prevent this from happening, to change the boy’s mind. It was more than wanting to preserve their relationship as protector and ward. It was a fear that their friendship, whatever stage it had reached, would shatter like glass. Bek could understand, and yet he knew he could not back away, not if he wanted to save Grianne.
“Don’t ask again,” Truls Rohk warned.
Bek shook his head. “Show me your face.”
“All right, boy! You want to see what I look like, what I keep hidden from everyone? Then, look! See what my parents made of me! See what I am!” the other said with such venom that Bek flinched.
In a single, frenzied movement, he ripped away the cloak and stood revealed.
At first Bek saw him only as a vague shape outlined against the dark; the moon and stars were screened away by clouds, leaving the forest little more than a gathering of shadows. Truls Rohk’s cloak lay in a dark puddle on the ground, and the shape-shifter had dropped into a crouch, looking feral and dangerous. Poised neither to flee nor to strike, he seemed instead caught in a spiderweb of tree limbs that formed a backdrop behind him, pinned against the distant sky.
