Ard Rhys!
Then abruptly, everything went still. The wind died, the wailing faded, and the lake quieted once more. She kept her head lowered a moment, then lifted it cautiously. The valley was empty of movement and sound, of anything but a flicker of greenish light that emanated from the depths of the lake and reflected off the crushed stone.
Overhead, the sky was still black and empty of stars. All about the valley’s rim, the wall of mist pressed close.
She rose, battered of body and emotions, drained of strength and spirit, and walked away.
TWENTY-TWO
Penderrin Ohmsford had thought he would sneak off to see Cinnaminson again the following night and perhaps the night after that, as well, if the Skatelow was still in port. His initial assignation had infused him with such joy and excitement that he could hardly wait for the next one to take place. He knew it was wrong to give so much attention to Cinnaminson when he should be thinking about finding his missing aunt. But the latter was far away, the former all too close. He couldn’t seem to help himself; in a struggle of emotions, his sense of responsibility finished a distant second to his passion. All that mattered was that he be with Cinnaminson.
Having thought of little else all that day, he managed to slip away again the next night, only to find that her father and the other two Rovers were still aboard. He stood dockside in the shadows, watching them smoke on deck and listening to their voices. He waited a long time for them to leave, but when it became clear they had no intention of doing so, he gave up and returned to the inn.
The second night was even more frustrating. A new storm moved in, more ferocious than the one they had encountered several days earlier, drenching Anatcherae and halting all traffic for the next twenty-four hours. The rain was so bad that even on the ground visibility was reduced to almost nothing. Pen knew no one would be venturing out in weather like this, including the Rovers aboard the Skatelow. There was no point in even thinking about meeting with Cinnaminson.
So he was forced to make do with daydreams, which could not replace the real thing but which at least gave him an outlet for his frustrations. Sitting around at the Fisherman’s Lie for hours at a time, sometimes with Khyber, sometimes with Ahren and Tagwen, but mostly alone, he passed the time thinking of ways he could separate her from her father, bring her with him when he returned home, and build a life for the two of them. It was such fantasy that even he knew it didn’t bear looking at too closely. He was just a boy and she only a girl, and neither of them had any experience at falling in love. But Pen didn’t care. He knew how he felt, and that was enough.
Khyber kept him company much of the time, but she spent hours alone in her room working on her Druid disciplines and exercises, practicing movements and words, and tending to her studies. Ahren worked with her each day, but he was gone much of the time, scouting for news of their pursuers and checking on Gar Hatch’s progress with the Skatelow. Tagwen surfaced now and again, but mostly he kept to his room. He was less sociable than he had been when it had just been the two of them, and Pen thought it was due in part to his discomfort with life outside of Paranor. Tagwen was used to carrying out his duties for the Ard Rhys in the claustrophobic company of the Druids, and his time at the inn was too unstructured. What he did when he was alone was a mystery, although Pen caught him writing in a notebook on two occasions, and the Dwarf confessed to keeping a diary of their progress to help pass the time. That made as much sense to Pen as what he was doing, moping around about Cinnaminson, so he left the Dwarf alone.
Khyber, on the other hand, chided both of them mercilessly. More driven and disciplined than either, she found their lack of purpose irritating, and took every opportunity to suggest that they ought to do better with their time. Tagwen was incensed, but Pen just ignored her. He was beginning to see her as the big sister he didn’t have but had often imagined. She was pushy and insistent, and she thought everyone should see things the way she did. Having talked with her about her life, Pen understood her motivation. She had been forced to fight for everything she had, a young Elven Princess whose life had been charted out for her by her family without any consideration at all for what she wanted. It had only become worse for her after her father’s death and her brother’s ascension to the throne. Just to come visit with Ahren had required a great deal of fortitude and determination. He could not imagine what would happen to her when her brother found out she was with them.
In any case, by the third day everyone was growing impatient. Pen and his companions were still stuck inside at the inn, and Gar Hatch had given Ahren no indication as to when they were going to set sail again. The rains had subsided, but a rise in the temperature had caused a deep fog bank to settle over the Lazareen and the surrounding lakeshore, the port of Anatcherae included. Visibility continued to hamper travel, and the dockside was quiet.
By midafternoon, with their lunch finished and the prospect of another day in port looming ever closer, Ahren announced that he was going down to the waterfront to tell Hatch that whether he liked it or not they would set sail at dawn. The Rover’s reputation was that he could sail in any weather and under any conditions. It was time to prove it. The Druid was clearly displeased, his patience with Gar Hatch exhausted. Pen exchanged a knowing look with Khyber when Ahren told them to pack and be ready to leave when he returned. The boy did not think that Hatch would be given a chance to offer any more excuses. He wished, however, that he had been able to tell Ahren Elessedil what Cinnaminson had told him—that her father knew who they were, knew of their purpose, and might be making plans of his own. He could not say anything, however, without giving away the fact that he had disobeyed the Druid. He rationalized his decision to keep quiet by telling himself that Ahren already suspected Hatch of knowing the truth, which was almost the same as knowing it for a fact, so that the Druid was prepared for it anyway.
Still, it unsettled him to be keeping secrets from his friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Druid and his niece and the Dwarf; he did. It was just that once he didn’t tell them, later, he didn’t know how, and it became easier not to do so at all. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t tell them, when it became necessary. If it ever did. Maybe it never would.
So he kept what he knew about Gar Hatch to himself as Ahren Elessedil went out the door. He plopped down in a wooden chair by the window, alone for the moment, and stared out into the mist. He allowed himself to think briefly of Cinnaminson, then turned his attention for the first time in several days to the more important matter of reaching the tanequil. He was beginning to wonder not so much if he could do so, which he firmly believed he could, but if he could do so in time. His aunt was trapped inside the Forbidding, and he knew enough about what was locked away there to realize that even an Ard Rhys might have trouble staying alive. He knew she was powerful, that her magic had made her one of the most feared humans in the Four Lands. He knew, as well, that she was a survivor, that her entire life had been spent finding ways to stay alive when others either wished her dead or were actively looking for ways to make it happen. She would not be killed easily, even by the monsters that dwelled within the Forbidding.
But she was alone and friendless there and that would put her at a decided disadvantage. Sooner or later, that disadvantage would begin to tell. How many days had she been trapped in there already? At least two weeks, and that was just the beginning of the time that it would take for him to reach her. Under the best of conditions, he thought, he would need another week or two to find the tanequil. Then he had to persuade it to fashion the darkwand. Then he had to return to Paranor, get inside the Keep, and use the wand to cross over into the Forbidding.
How much time would all that require? Two months? More? Just listing the steps necessary for the rescue demonstrated how impossible the task was. She would be dead before he could reach her. Perhaps she was already dead.
He stopped himself angrily. What was he thinking? The King of the Silver River would not bother sending him if he had
no chance of success; there would be no point in making the journey. No, his aunt was alive and she would stay alive until he reached her. She would die only if he talked himself out of going on.
If he persuaded himself he should quit.
As he was trying to do now.
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He would not think like that again, he promised himself. He would do what he knew he should and continue on, right up until the moment that it became impossible for him to do so. That was what was expected of him; it was what he expected of himself.
Then Khyber appeared, sat down without a word, pulled out her folding game board, and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him. He smiled in spite of himself.
“I’ll give it a try,” he said.
Several hours passed and Ahren Elessedil did not return. As dusk approached and the shadows lengthened, rain began to fall once more, a steady, obstinate drizzle that dampened the mist but did nothing to dispel it. Pen went into the common room with Khyber and Tagwen to eat. Mindful of the need to stay anonymous, they took a table in a back corner, well away from the door and the stream of traffic entering and leaving. The Druids were still hunting them, the word still abroad that money would be paid for anyone who brought Pen to their attention. Perhaps they should have worried more about Gar Hatch’s mercenary tendencies, since Rovers were always on the lookout for an easy opportunity to increase their fortunes. But Ahren had not seemed concerned, and Khyber had insisted that because the Druid was paying Hatch a great deal more than the Rover could get by turning them in, it made better sense for Hatch to stay loyal to them.
“I don’t like it that he’s been gone so long,” Tagwen growled softly, giving Khyber a hard look. “You don’t think something might have happened to him, do you?”
She shook her head. “I think if it had, we would have heard. Word would have spread by now.”
“Then where is he?”
Pen took a long pull on his mug of ale. “He might have decided we’d get out of here quicker if he stayed around to supervise Hatch in making the necessary preparations. I don’t think he believes the Captain has done all that well on his own.”
Tagwen grunted, took a piece of bread from his plate and shoved it into his mouth in one monstrous bite. “Mmmff ummfatt wff.”
The boy cocked his head. “I didn’t quite catch that.” Khyber was shaking her head in disgust.
The Dwarf swallowed. “I said, maybe one of us should go and see.”
“That would be you,” Khyber snapped irritably, “since Pen and I are forbidden to go outside the walls of this grim little lie-down. Do you want to leave now?”
They went back to eating in silence, turning their attention to steaming plates of fresh fish that the server had brought over from the kitchen. Tagwen rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, any plans for going down to the waterfront put aside for the moment. While eating, they finished off the ale pitcher, and an impatient Khyber rose and walked to the serving bar to get another.
She was waiting for a refill when the doors to the inn banged open and Terek Molt walked into the room, trailed by half a dozen of his Gnome Hunters.
Heads turned to watch them enter, and conversations died. Pen put down his fork and knife and glanced quickly at Tagwen. The Dwarf hadn’t seen their enemy yet, but now he caught the look on the boy’s face and turned. “Oh, no,” he whispered.
They were trapped. The Gnome Hunters were already spreading out, moving through the crowded room like wraiths. Two remained stationed at the only door leading to the street. Pen thought of fleeing through the kitchen, but he didn’t know if it led outside or not. His mind raced, seeking a way of escape. Maybe Molt didn’t know they were there. He didn’t seem to. He was standing in the middle of the room, black cloak shedding water on the wooden floor, hard eyes scanning the room. It was dark back here. He might not see them.
Cows might fly, too.
When the Druid’s gaze finally settled on him, Pen went cold all the way down to his feet. There was no mistaking what he saw in that gaze. He wondered how the Druid had found them, how he had come to Anatcherae when they had been so careful to leave no trail. He glanced quickly at the serving bar and saw Khyber preparing to return to the table. She didn’t know who Molt was, having never seen him; she didn’t realize the danger they were in. He had to warn her, but there was no way for him to do so without giving her away.
It was too late anyway. Terek Molt stalked over to their table and stopped when he was still a few feet away. “You’ve led me a chase,” he said softly. “But it’s ended now. Get to your feet and come with me. Don’t cause any trouble or it will be the worse for you. I don’t much care what it takes to bring you back to Paranor.”
Tagwen shook his head stubbornly. “We’re not coming with you. Not this boy and not me. We don’t want your protection.”
The Druid’s smile was quick and hard. “I’m not offering protection, Tagwen. I’m offering you a chance to stay alive, nothing more. Don’t mistake what this is about. Where is Ahren Elessedil?”
Neither Pen nor Tagwen answered. If Terek Molt didn’t know, that meant the Elf was still free. That, in turn, meant there was a chance.
“Get to your feet,” the Druid said a second time.
“We know what you’ve done with the Ard Rhys,” Tagwen declared, raising his voice so that those around could hear him clearly. “We know what you’ll do with us, too. We’re not coming.”
There was a muttering in the room, and Terek Molt’s hard eyes grew angry. “Enough of this, little men. Get up and walk out of here or I’ll drag you out.”
A Troll roughly the size of a barn pushed away from the serving bar and took a step forward. His blunt features tightened, one hand resting on a huge mace hanging from his belt. “Leave the boy and the old man alone,” he ordered.
Terek Molt turned slowly to face him, away from the still-open doors to the inn, his concentration divided between the Troll and his quarry, so he didn’t see Ahren Elessedil step out of the night. “Stay out of this,” Molt said to the Troll.
At that point, Khyber pushed away from the bar. Carrying the pitcher of ale in both hands, she crossed the room directly toward the table at which Pen and Tagwen were sitting. Terek Molt glanced sharply at her, but she averted her eyes, as if not daring to look at him, and he started to turn back. “Get up,” he said to Pen and Tagwen.
Khyber, from less than six feet away, threw the pitcher of ale all over him.
The room exploded with shouts, its occupants leaping to their feet in a whirl of sudden movement. Chairs and tables were overturned, and glassware went crashing to the floor. The Troll had his mace free and was swinging it at Terek Molt, who rolled out of the way just in time. But when he came to his feet to strike back, Ahren’s Druid magic threw him across the room and against the wall, where he lay in a crumpled heap, screaming in fury. Gnome Hunters came at Khyber, but her hands were already lifted and weaving, and the Gnomes stumbled all over themselves in their efforts to stay upright.
“This way!” she shouted at Pen and Tagwen, and broke for the kitchen.
The boy and the Dwarf didn’t stop to ask if she knew what she was doing; they just went after her. The room was in chaos by then, its occupants surging up against one another in their efforts to get clear, most of them trying to reach the front door. The Gnome Hunters, still fighting to regain their equilibrium after Khyber’s attack, were bowled over in the rush. A moment later, the lights went out, and the room was engulfed in blackness. Pen and Tagwen were in the kitchen by then, with Khyber just ahead, flinging open the back door that led to the street. Without a backward glance, they plunged into the rain and fog and darkness.
The streets were crowded, and it was difficult to move ahead at a brisk walk, let alone a run. Pen struggled to keep Khyber in sight, Tagwen pushing up against him from behind, both of them jostling and shoving to break free of the knots of people hindering their flight. Ahren Elessedil had disappeared,
but Pen thought he must be somewhere close. Behind them, Fisherman’s Lie was still in an uproar, shouts turning to cries of pain and anger, the windows breaking out, the entire place in blackness. Pen realized they had left everything behind in their escape, but knew there was no help for it. What mattered was getting away. What counted for something was staying alive.
A burly dockworker shouldered Pen aside effortlessly. As the boy staggered, he felt something rip through his cloak, scoring his left arm. He heard the dockworker gasp and felt him clutch at his arm. As he tried to wrench free, he saw a dagger protruding from the man’s chest, the blade buried to the hilt. The man fell heavily into the boy, his dead eyes open and staring.
Pen looked around in shock and caught sight of something big scurrying along the peaks of the roofs, something cloaked and hooded and shadowy. Terek Molt, he thought at once, then realized that there hadn’t been time for the Druid to get out of the inn and come after them. The figure on the roof was much larger than Molt in any case, and it didn’t move like him. It moved like some huge insect.
It was coming down, toward the dead man and Pen.
“Penderrin!” Khyber called back to him.
He turned at the sound of her voice and began to run anew. Behind him, he heard gasps as the crowd realized what had happened to the dockworker. He didn’t glance back to see if they were looking at him. He wasn’t about to stop anyway. He wasn’t going to do anything but keep running.
They angled down a maze of narrow side streets, grunting and shoving their way clear of passersby, until they finally reached the waterfront. Pen’s arm was throbbing, and he glanced down in the light of the dockside lamps and saw blood soaking through his sleeve. The dagger had cut him from shoulder to elbow, the blade so sharp that even the heavy cloak had failed to blunt it.