Wards of Faerie

by Terry Brooks

  “It will kill her if something happens to you,” she’d told them. “If you don’t believe that’s true, you had better rethink it. You’re all that matters to her, even though you’re mostly ungrateful clods.”

  Which was true enough, Redden knew, although he didn’t much like thinking of himself that way. Whatever the case, he was pleased she was there. Railing was probably pleased, too, but not as much as he was, he told himself.

  “What does anyone know about these missing Elfstones?” he asked Railing as they watched Mirai work the controls.

  His brother shrugged. “Farshaun says no one knows anything. All of them disappeared centuries ago. Except for the seeking-Stones, and you and I know as much about them as anyone because of our family history. These other Elfstones can do different things, but no one knows what.”

  “What if they don’t do anything that helps anyone? What if they do bad things?”

  “Then the Druids lock them away, I guess.”

  “Seems like everyone’s taking a big risk without knowing why. Seems like maybe they should leave well enough alone.”

  “You heard the Ard Rhys. She says they can’t leave it to chance. If someone else finds the Stones first, they might use them the wrong way.”

  “Maybe. But it would have to be an Elf for that to happen. Only Elves can use their own magic, remember?”

  “I remember. What’s your point?”

  “That this whole thing is a mistake.”

  Railing gave him a look. “If that’s what you think, why did you agree to come?”

  Redden shrugged. “Same reason as you. It’s an adventure.”

  They flew north for the remainder of the day, staying east of the Rock Spur until they reached the fringes of Drey Wood and Elven country and then turning a few degrees west toward the Sarandanon. By sunset, they reached the shores of the Innisbore and anchored for the night. By sunrise they were flying again, this time along the ragged edge of the Breakline. The weather was changing now, the skies darkening with storm clouds and the air turning damp and hot. The landscape was bleak and colorless beneath them, the last of the forests and grasslands disappearing. The winds had picked up, and a firm hand on the controls of the airship was more critical than ever. Mirai and Farshaun and now and again another of the Rovers who had come aboard with the old man took turns, each giving the others a chance to rest when weariness took hold. The Ard Rhys stayed close to the pilot box, scanning the terrain ahead, intense and troubled as she watched everything carefully.

  Redden overheard snatches of discussion between Khyber and Farshaun regarding the whereabouts of the Speakman. He moved about and might be found in any of a dozen places, but he frequented certain of those places more often than others and Farshaun was playing the odds. The Ard Rhys would have preferred something more definite, but there was no help for it. With a nomad like the Speakman, you took your chances and hoped for the best.

  Shortly after midday they reached the first of his shelters and after setting down and taking a close look around determined that he hadn’t been there in months.

  They continued on, turning west into even less hospitable country, the terrain rocky and crisscrossed by chasms and deep gullies and riddled with strange smooth patches that Farshaun said were sinkholes.

  “Step into one of those,” he told Redden when the boy asked about them, “you might as well be stepping into quicksand. Only you disappear a whole lot quicker. Poof! Gone in less than a minute. No one knows how far down you might sink. Maybe thousands of feet.”

  In the late afternoon a squall caught up to them, and for thirty minutes it poured rain, the drops so large and icy they actually stung when they struck exposed skin. Everyone wrapped up in cloaks and hoods and hunkered down until the storm had passed. Afterward, they found ice balls on the decks, though within minutes they had melted away.

  It was nearing dusk when they reached another shelter the Speakman favored, this one a cliff face riddled with caves in which any number of creatures might dwell. Farshaun, working the controls, set the airship down on a flat close by the base of the cliffs. When she was anchored, he climbed down with the Ard Rhys, the big Troll Captain Garroneck, and the Gnome Tracker Skint. Skint prowled the flats for a time, working his way toward the cliff face, and then nodded to them. There were signs of a human presence, and they were very recent. They led upward toward the caves.

  The Speakman, if he was the one who had left the signs, could probably be found there.

  Even though it was almost dark by then, the Ard Rhys wanted to act on this information immediately. Waiting risked losing their quarry, and she didn’t want to waste any more time hunting for him. So with Farshaun, Garroneck, and Skint in tow, she went looking.

  Redden and Railing, standing at the bow of the Walker Boh, watched them set out across the flats to where a series of steep, narrow trails wound upward along the cliff face.

  “Do you think he’s up there?” Railing asked.

  Redden shrugged. “I wish they’d let us go with them.”

  “I got the feeling the Ard Rhys didn’t want us to hear whatever the Speakman had to say.”

  “I got that feeling, too.”

  “She’s worried about us.”

  “She thinks we’re young.”

  “We are young.”

  “You know what I mean. That we’re boys, not men. Still growing up and maybe not as dependable as she might like. We’re only here because Allanon’s shade said we should be. No one, her included, knows the reason the shade told her that.”

  They watched silently as the little party reached the base of the cliffs and began to climb the trails leading up to the caves. The sun was far west, approaching the horizon, a screen of mist turning it a deep gold as the eastern sky darkened with night’s approach.

  Redden sensed a presence at his elbow and found one of the Druids standing next to him, watching the searchers climb. There had been little contact between the brothers and the other Druids since they had set out, the latter keeping apart from everyone but the Ard Rhys and two men and one woman they had brought with them. Redden searched his memory for the name of the man standing next to him.

  “That Gnome might be the best Tracker alive,” the Druid offered, nodding toward the cliffs. “If anyone can find this seer, he can.”

  Redden nodded, still trying to remember the man’s name. Carrick, that was it.

  “The Ard Rhys tells us you both have use of the wishsong.” His narrow features gave him a predatory look. “Have you practiced with it much?”

  Right away, Redden didn’t like him. But he smiled anyway and nodded. “A fair amount.”

  “But not to defend yourselves or other people, I don’t suppose?”

  Railing was still looking out at the cliffs, as if none of this concerned him. But Redden could tell from his expression that he was irritated.

  “No, nothing like that,” he acknowledged. “I suppose you have to defend people all the time, though.”

  Carrick nodded. “Now and then. How old are you?”

  Railing had had enough. “I don’t see why you need to know that,” he snapped. “Do you think age has anything to do with whether or not we should be here?”

  “I do. You are young and inexperienced. This is dangerous business. I don’t think you realize how dangerous.”

  “Does anybody?” Redden asked mildly. “This is new territory for everyone, isn’t it? Even the Ard Rhys thinks so.”

  Carrick shrugged. “Less new for us than for you. I don’t pretend to think that your coming on this expedition is a good idea. You don’t seem seasoned enough. I worry that you will endanger us all with your inexperience. So try not to put yourselves in a place where that could happen. Do what you are told and stay out from underfoot.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Railing kept looking at the cliffs. “ ‘Stay out from underfoot’? I have some advice for him, too, but I know enough to keep it to myself.”

  Redden
nodded. “Maybe because you have better sense than he does.”

  Railing gave him a look to see if he was kidding.

  Khyber Elessedil climbed the steep pathway toward the cluster of caves that tunneled back into the cliff face, feeling the strain of the effort in her aching legs. The Druid Sleep might arrest aging, she thought, but it did nothing to help you stay fit and strong. She kept her silence as they advanced, following the Tracker Skint and Farshaun, Garroneck bringing up the rear. Their exposure on the open cliff face made her uneasy, but there was no choice in the matter if they were to reach whichever cave sheltered the Speakman. She needed to hear what this strange man had to say, to discover if he recognized any of the landmarks the dream had revealed. She found herself wishing—not for the first time since setting out—that she had possession of the seeking-Stones, making all of this unnecessary. If the seeking-Stones had worked for Aphenglow, even after all these centuries of revealing nothing, there was no reason to think they shouldn’t work for her.

  But they didn’t have them, and they were very fortunate even to have been shown a vision of where the missing Elfstones might be found. She must settle for that.

  The climb wore on, and the light faded. Once the sun was down, it would be pitch-black on the cliffs and any sort of progress would become very dangerous. She might summon magic to light the path, but doing so would reveal them to anyone who might be looking. She felt her frustration growing. Perhaps she should have waited until morning after all.

  They reached the first series of caves and began to wind their way along the twisting trail that led past them. Now and then, Skint would drop to his knees to study the ground or examine the rock. At several entrances he paused as if he were considering going inside. Each time, he moved on. Khyber glanced upward along the cliff face. There were more openings ahead, all still higher up.

  “This one?” she said to the Gnome at one point, pausing at a broad, high entry that seemed a perfect hiding place.

  Skint made a sour face. “You wouldn’t like what you’d find in there, Ard Rhys. Be patient. Leave this to me.”

  They trudged on, working their way back and forth past dozens of cave entrances. Not once did Skint suggest they enter one, or ask for illumination. Overhead, the clouds remained thickly massed and impenetrable. West, the sun had dropped behind the horizon, leaving little more than a thin wash of golden color.

  Finally the Tracker stopped at what appeared to Khyber to be just another cave entrance, knelt to study the ground, and then said, “Here.”

  “He’s inside?” Farshaun asked.

  Skint nodded. “Should be. Call out to him and see.”

  “Speakman!” Farshaun shouted into the cave entrance, standing close, leaning in. “Are you there? It’s Farshaun Req!”

  Silence. They waited a few minutes, and then Farshaun called out a second time. Still nothing. More time passed. It was nearly dark now, the last of the light faded away. Khyber was growing impatient.

  Then from somewhere back in the cave’s blackness, a voice whispered suddenly. “Farshaun?”

  “It’s me,” the old man answered. “I’ve brought someone who wants to speak to you. Can she come in and do so? It’s very important.”

  “I don’t like speaking to other people.” The voice was soft and whispery, the soft sound of clothing being unfolded, hardly more than that. “I won’t speak to anyone but you.”

  “You can speak to me, but she has to hear you, too. She’s a Druid and she’s searching for something you might be able to help her find. She’s had a vision.”

  “A vision?” Khyber caught a note of interest in the paper-thin voice.

  “She needs you to interpret it for her. There’s no danger in this. You know I wouldn’t bring trouble to your doorstep. Now, talk to us. Just to her and me.”

  Another long silence. Then a light flared back in the darkness, its source a mystery. “Just you and her. No one else.”

  “I promise,” Farshaun agreed at once.

  He started inside, groping his way forward with Khyber Elessedil right on his heels, leaving Skint and Garroneck behind. The strange light held steady as they advanced on it, but when they got close enough they could see it was a flameless torch of the sort favored by the people of the Old World. Immediately, it began to recede into the gloom.

  “Come this way,” the voice called back to them.

  They went deep into the cave, following a passageway that frequently branched in more than two directions. The cave was a honeycomb of tunnels, and Khyber knew that if she’d had to ferret out the Speakman on her own, it would likely have taken a very long while. If ever, she amended, because she was willing to bet there was more than a single entrance and exit, too.

  Finally, they reached a place where the light stopped moving as they caught up with it. They were in a wide space empty of everything but themselves and the light. The flameless torch was wedged into the rocks on one wall, but Khyber had to search the blackness to find the Speakman. He was sitting off to one side, obscured by gloom and shadows. She could not see his features at all and could only barely make out that he was tall and skeletally thin, his hunched-over body with its long legs and arms and oddly elongated head giving him the look of a praying mantis.

  “Sit,” he whispered to her. “Tell me of your vision.”

  She did as he asked. Seated on the cave floor, wrapped in her black robes, she recounted everything she could recall of the memory she had skived from Aphenglow. She described it all, from the peculiar landmarks to the colors she had seen and sounds she had heard. She described it all carefully, trying hard not to leave anything out save the identity of what it was she was seeking. The insect in the dark shifted its long limbs now and again, but otherwise sat quietly and said nothing.

  Even after she had finished, the Speakman remained silent. And when she started to ask him a question, Farshaun quickly held up his hand to silence her. Wait, he mouthed silently.

  The seconds ticked away, becoming minutes. Not a sound broke the deep stillness.

  And then suddenly the Speakman shifted just enough to bring his angular features into the light, his body swaying slightly as he spoke in ragged, jumbled sentence fragments.

  “Dark ways … dreams of death in death’s own realm … all swept away but one … lost to the vision …” He went still, then began to sway once more, his voice ephemeral and ghostly. “Not strong enough to weather … such deep places, all in shadow … spikes and iron plates … stairways … that don’t come out and …”

  He shuddered, his head jerking up suddenly, and Khyber Elessedil could see that his eyes had gone entirely white, the iris in each having disappeared.

  “These places exist. The landmarks you seek. All exist. I know them, can tell you where to find them, all but the last. The waterfall of light is neither here nor there but somewhere in between. You should not go there. You should not. I see a killing ground. I see dead bodies scattered everywhere. I see … something so dark it dwarfs …”

  He groaned softly; she could feel the sound rumbling in her chest, could hear its frightened shiver.

  “This is a bad place. Very bad, very far away, this place, this kiln that hammers out men’s souls and leaves them to blacken in the sun, a pit that will allow neither entry nor exit and holds evil and breeds monsters and …”

  He trailed off and went silent. Khyber and Farshaun exchanged confused glances. Neither could decipher what the Speakman was saying. Perhaps even he didn’t know, given that he appeared to be communicating while in a trance. For the moment, there was no way to find out. He was lost in a vision of his own, gone to a place where they could not reach him.

  “One!” he hissed suddenly, causing both of them to jump. “One will return! One only!”

  Then he gave a deep sigh, and his eyes regained color and focus. He shuddered as they did so, arms and legs unfolding to splay out like broken sticks.

  “Farshaun?” he whispered, as if not certain the old man was
still there.

  Farshaun rose and moved over to him, sitting once more, but much closer now. “I’m here.”

  “Tell me what I said.”

  The old man repeated most of it, Khyber listening from across the way, ready to add anything that might be left out or misstated, but staying put, not wanting to do anything to frighten the seer. That he had seen things, perhaps heard them, too, was undeniable. But she also knew he might not remember any of it. He had been deep under a spell of his own making when he spoke. It was like that sometimes with seers. What mattered was whether he could make any sense of it now.

  When Farshaun had finished, the Speakman nodded slowly, and then said, “I know the landmarks. I have seen them in my travels. Save for the waterfall, as I have already said. There is no waterfall in that country. No water of any kind. I can tell you how to get to where it might be. But it is very dangerous. Too dangerous.”

  “Can you take us there?” Khyber asked him suddenly. “Can you guide us through the worst of it?”

  The Speakman looked at her for the first time. His features were drawn and haggard, everything stretched out of shape and pinched by weather and age. He looked to be neither young nor old, but from some indeterminate middle region. He shook his head. “I travel alone.”

  “This one time?” she asked. “Can you make an exception? We need your eyes to help us find the landmarks I described and avoid the dangers you know.” She hesitated. “It is important.”

  “She speaks the truth,” Farshaun added. “You need go only as far as you want. But anything would help.”

  The Speakman looked back at him. His eyes were bright and depthless and filled with secrets. He gave them a half smile, one that reflected an irony they did not understand.

  “If I go with you,” he answered, “I won’t be coming back.”

  The old man and the Ard Rhys exchanged a quick glance. “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  He climbed to his feet, his tall, bony form hunched over in the gloom, his shadow crooked and skeletal.