“Kermadec!” he called back. “Why is it getting worse?”
“Because the mist is Druid-formed,” Khyber answered, an invisible presence somewhere behind him. “Because it isn’t real. We saw this before, Pen, when we crossed the Lazareen. The ones who track us now must have sent it through the peaks to trap us. They must know what we are trying to do!”
“Can you get rid of it, Elven girl?” Kermadec called back. “Can you counter their magic with your own?”
A long pause. “If I do, I will give us away. They will track my magic to where we are. I expect that is what they are hoping for.”
There was a long silence in the aftermath of this pronouncement, a silence filled with heavy breathing and a shuffling of feet.
“We can’t just stand out here!” Atalan snapped angrily. “They’ll find us anyway! Or the weather will. There’s snow coming.”
Cinnaminson leaned over to Pen and whispered in his ear. “I can’t see anymore. My sight is gone. The Druid magic must be affecting it.”
Pen leaned back against the rock, feeling the rough surface dig into his back. What could they do? If Cinnaminson couldn’t find the way, they were trapped. But if Khyber used her magic to spring the trap, Traunt Rowan and his Gnome Hunters would be on them in minutes. They needed to find another way. But what way? A cave in which to hide? Even a deep crevice would be sufficient. Just something …
He turned his face into the rock, peering ahead, and felt something move against his cheek. He jerked away, looking back in surprise at a greenish gray patch on the stone.
Lichen.
But it had moved. He had felt it move. He hesitated, then placed his cheek against the patch again. Again, he felt it move. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling it with his senses or his mind. It wasn’t quite one or the other. He held his cheek against it and closed his eyes.
Warm.
The lichen was expressing what it felt, and his odd magic was reading its communication. He placed his cheek against it once more, feeling the faint movement of its tiny bristles, the expression of its tiny intelligence.
Warm.
He looked around quickly. Lichen grew all over these rocks in mottled greenish gray patches. He peered into the mist. Everything looked the same to him, but maybe not to the lichen. The lichen couldn’t see, but it could feel. It was a plant. It sought the sun. That was what it was communicating to him. Warm. It was sensing the hidden sunlight.
Was there a way that he could use the lichen, a way that could help them get clear?
“Kermadec!” he said quickly, searching for the Maturen. The big man moved out of the haze past Cinnaminson. “What direction does the trail go, the one we need to follow?”
The big man bent down, his barked face as rugged as the mountains they were trapped in. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just tell me. Which way?”
“Southeast. Why?”
“And the time? What time of day is it?”
“After noon by about an hour, I would guess. What are you asking, Penderrin?”
“Then north would be that way?” He pointed, and Kermadec nodded. “And south that way?” Again, the Rock Troll nodded. Pen took a deep breath. “Let me take the lead. I think I can get us out of here. If the trail leads down at some point, back to tree level, maybe we can get below this mist. Will you let me try?”
Kermadec eased him to the front of the line, and Pen began to move forward, running his hands along the patches of lichen that grew on the rock face. The afternoon sun would be south and west of them. He needed to lead them south and east to stay on the path. It was easy at first, because the trail only led in one direction and there were no choices to be made. But it quickly grew more difficult as the number of twists and turns increased and the path split, forcing him to read the lichen’s response to his touch and then advance accordingly.
He couldn’t be sure he was going the right way, not entirely, not while he was unable to see anything of his surroundings, the mist so thick and impenetrable it was like swimming underwater at night. But at least they were moving somewhere, rather than just standing out in the open with night coming on. It was better to take the chance, he told himself. It was better to do something than nothing.
Sometimes the lichen disappeared, and he was forced to continue on blindly until he found a new patch. Sometimes he found patches in places so cold and shadowy that they were locked down inside themselves and he could read nothing from them. Sometimes he was reduced to guessing at which way they should go, unable to be certain that he was interpreting the lichen’s message clearly. It was slow, torturous work; the lichen’s form of communication was much more subtle than that of a seagull or a deer. It wasn’t a life-form of high intelligence, and what it gave to him was not much more than a tiny response to the environment that sustained it.
I can do this.
To their credit, the others in the little company left him alone. Once or twice, he thought he heard grumbling from somewhere behind, but it was always momentary and not directed at him. He never let it bother him, never let it break his concentration. Forgotten were the fears and doubts he had experienced the night before. He had something to do now, a purpose that was as much a lifeline as a duty. They were all here because of him, but now he was doing something to help. He wasn’t just a charge to whom they were committed, to whom they must offer their protection. He was a member of the company, a part of the effort to find a way to their destination.
He ran his hands carefully over the lichen, feeling its tiny movement, its soft response. Warm. Reaching toward the sun, toward the light.
Deep and still, the mist continued to blanket them, and the light faded slowly with the passing of the day. Time was slipping away. He kept moving, kept his concentration focused. Cinnaminson hadn’t spoken once since he had taken command. He understood. She couldn’t do anything to help, her inner sight rendered useless by the onslaught of Druid magic. Like the others, she was relying on him.
I can do this.
It was nearing dark when at last they emerged from the mist and found the first sparse patches of grassy earth, uneven and rocky high meadows forming cradles of life among the barren peaks of the Klu. Slowly the mist began to dissipate as they continued downhill. Then all at once it was gone, and they were standing in scrub and twilight at the edge of an alpine forest, the air clear enough for them to see one another once more.
Kermadec came over to Pen at once and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, young Penderrin. We owe you a measurable debt for this day’s work.”
The other Trolls, even Atalan, nodded their agreement, dark eyes communicating what words did not. Khyber was smiling. Even Tagwen muttered grudgingly that Pen was to be congratulated.
Cinnaminson didn’t bother with words. She simply walked up to him and hugged him so tightly that the breath left his body.
It was the best he had felt in a long time.
SEVENTEEN
When Grianne Ohmsford regained consciousness, she was surprised to discover that she was still alive. In attempting her escape from Kraal Reach, she had fully expected that if she failed, Tael Riverine would have her put to death. It was what she would have done if their positions were reversed and she were still the Ilse Witch. Lying on the stone floor of her cell in a wash of pain and despair, she found her earlier assessment of her situation reaffirmed: She was being kept alive because the demon needed her that way.
But that was a dangerous supposition, and she quickly abandoned it for a less pleasant conclusion: The Straken Lord intended to make an example of her. Some form of punishment was to be administered.
When she could sit up again, she made a quick assessment of her situation and found that not everything was as it had been. The conjure collar was in place, but now her hands were shackled behind her back and to her waist and ankles so that while she could shuffle about on her knees, she could not stand upright. She had been moved to a different cell, one in which t
he front wall had been replaced with iron bars so that a jailer could sit on a chair across from her and watch her every movement. She was still not gagged, but there was little risk in allowing that. She already knew the consequences of attempting to use the magic of the wishsong.
Nevertheless, she began thinking about doing so almost immediately because she knew what was going to happen otherwise.
Still, time passed, and nothing did happen. She was spoon-fed and given water by hand through the bars. At first, she resisted, but in the end, hunger and thirst won out. Besides, after her initial assumption regarding her fate failed to prove out, she grew increasingly curious to find out why this was so. She wasn’t being kept alive for no reason; the Straken Lord didn’t admire her pluck. Her escape was in defiance of the rules she had been instructed to obey and a challenge to the demon’s authority. She didn’t think it likely that it would forgive her for that.
But the hours passed, then the days, and neither Tael Riverine nor its underling, Hobstull, appeared. She saw no one but the guards, cloaked and hooded silhouettes in the faint light of the torches that burned in wall brackets across from where she lay. Now and then, one would rise from its sitting place to feed her or to clean the messes she made when she was forced to relieve herself, but otherwise they ignored her. She spent her time trying to get comfortable, to shift her position often enough to prevent cramping and sores. She was only partially successful. She slept fitfully and for short periods of time, and because she was locked in a windowless cell deep within the rock of Kraal Reach, she never knew for certain what time it was. After a while, it no longer mattered. Nothing did. She felt her hopes sliding away. She felt her courage failing. Her one real chance at escape had failed, and she did not expect she would get another. All that remained for her was to prepare herself for whatever fate the Straken Lord intended.
Then, when sufficient time had lapsed that she had lost all track of it, Hobstull appeared. One moment, the corridor was empty save for the guard, and the next, the Catcher was standing there, staring at her in that peculiar way, head cocked, eyes contemplative. He didn’t say or do anything. She stared back at him, as still as he was, waiting him out. A small surge of expectation gave her new strength. Finally, something was going to happen.
When he had satisfied himself, the Catcher opened the cell door and came inside. A pair of wizened Goblins stood crook-legged to either side of him, crossbows armed and pointed at her. Don’t move, the sharpened bolts advised wordlessly. She didn’t. She waited while Hobstull bent down and released the chains from her waist and ankles, leaving them in place about her wrists until he had helped her to stand. Then he released those, as well, moved her hands in front of her, and refastened the chains about her wrists. He stepped back, waiting to see how she would react, his strange eyes fixed on hers, then nodded. Taking the loose end of the chain that bound her wrists, he led her from the cell.
They went down the shadowy corridor to a set of stairs and began to climb, Hobstull leading, the Goblins trailing watchfully. Her mind raced. If they intended to kill her, she would have one final chance at escape when she got to where she was going. If they intended to punish her, she would have the same option. Perhaps she would live long enough to find out why they had kept her alive and left her alone for so long.
At the top of the stairs, she was taken down another corridor, then out through an entry warded by a heavy iron door and into a tiny courtyard walled in by buildings on four sides. The walls rose several dozen feet, leaving the courtyard bathed in cool shadows and resonant with the trapped echoes of voices that drifted in from more open places. She stood in the courtyard as Hobstull once again removed the chains from her wrists and this time left them off. The Catcher studied her in wordless appraisal, then went back through the door with the Goblins, leaving her alone.
She looked around. The walls were too smooth to be climbed. There were no doors save the one through which she had entered, and no windows at all. There were tiny slits that overlooked the courtyard from high above, too far to reach. Murder holes. She took a deep breath, walked over to one wall, and sat down against it. Overhead, clouds scudded through the gray sky like foam capping a rough sea, yellow-tinged and frothy. She saw a dark shape wing its way past, a Harpy perhaps. She smelled the decay of the land. Everything in this world felt ill used and tarnished. Everything felt as if it were dying.
Long minutes passed, and then the door to the courtyard opened again, and Tael Riverine appeared. It emerged into the pale courtyard light like a wraith risen from its midnight lair, so impenetrably black that its features were indistinguishable. It looked bigger than she remembered, but that might have been because its spikes were raised like the hackles on an angry dog, protruding everywhere in what felt to her like a warning. Stay clear. Keep away. It wore its weapons strapped on like body armor, studs and sharp edges glinting dully.
Its blue eyes fixed on her.
She climbed to her feet, unwilling to give even the appearance of weakness. It required noticeable effort to do so. “You disobeyed me,” it announced.
It gestured languidly, and instantly the familiar pain ripped through her, paralyzing her muscles and dropping her to her knees. She bent her head and clutched her body, trying to breathe.
“Disobedience is an unacceptable response to my commands,” the demon continued, and gestured again.
This time, she collapsed altogether, her agony so excruciating she lay curled in a ball, sobbing. Her mind locked down and would not let her think of anything but the pain. She pressed her face in the dirt, feeling broken and helpless.
“Get on your knees,” Tael Riverine ordered.
It took her a while to do so, but eventually she managed, still bent over at the waist, her arms wrapped protectively about her body.
“Look at me.”
She did so, lifting her head from the veil of her dark hair, trying to hide the mix of fear and suffering that washed through her as she did so.
“Apologize for your disobedience.”
“I am sorry, Master,” she whispered.
The Straken Lord nodded, cold eyes glittering. “You are only sorry you were caught. I see it in your eyes. You do not respond well to discipline. It is not in your nature to choose obedience when you can avoid doing so.”
It walked over to her, huge and forbidding, and reached down to haul her back to her feet, picking her up like a rag doll and propping her against the courtyard wall. She sagged slightly, but stayed upright, eyes locked on the demon’s.
“I would have killed another for what you did,” it said softly. “I would have taken my time doing so. I would have made the pain so unbearable that death would have come as a relief. Do you understand this?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Master.”
“But you interest me.”
It paused, and she waited for more, not yet understanding what that meant. Why would she be of any further interest? Other than the purpose she had already served in switching places with whatever creature the magic had set free from the Forbidding, what reason could the Straken Lord have for taking an interest in her?
“Do you know why you are here, inside the world of the Jarka Ruus?”
“No, Master.”
The demon gestured angrily, and again the pain ratcheted through her, inducing a wave of nausea that caused her to wretch violently as she dropped to her knees. It was on her at once, hauling her upright and slamming her against the stone wall.
“Don’t lie to me!” it hissed, fury etched on its flat features, rage mirrored in its strange eyes. “Do you think me such a fool? Speak!”
“I … won’t lie again, Master,” she gasped.
“You are intelligent. You are calculating. You are clever. You can pretend that you are not, but you will be disobeying me if you do and will be punished. Do you understand? Answer me.”
“I understand, Master.” Her stomach heaved, but she fought down the urge to empty it.
The Straken Lord
nodded patiently. “Again, now. Do you know why you are here?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Tell me.”
“I was brought here so that something that lives in this world could be transported into my own.”
“Very good. Do you know why I arranged for this?”
She took a deep, quieting breath. “No, Master.”
The demon studied her carefully, then nodded. “Not yet, you don’t. But you will, soon enough. You will understand everything, because that inquisitive mind of yours will mull it through until the answer surfaces. If not, I will tell you myself. If you stay alive long enough for me to do so.”
If you stay alive. She closed her eyes and exhaled softly. What were the odds of that? She blinked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her, shifting from place to place, contemplative, curious. She was aware of how ragged and dirty she was, unwashed and uncombed, a used-up plaything. For an instant, she saw herself as worthless, of so little value that she deserved to be discarded without further consideration.
“You are a specimen,” the Straken Lord said, as if reading her mind. “Hobstull finds you as interesting as I do. He makes more of a study of such things, so his opinion carries weight. He wishes to find out more about you, but I have forbidden him to use his knives just yet. Still, we both deserve an opportunity to see what sort of magic you wield. You do have magic, I know. It resides in you—a demon trait. His interest lies in that. He thinks you might be one of us.”
She cringed at the idea. She was nothing like them. She was human. No matter what they thought or did to make her seem otherwise, she was human. But she said nothing, keeping what she was thinking hidden away inside.
“I intend to test you, Grianne Ohmsford, Ard-Rhys-that-was, my specimen of such promise.” Its voice had turned oddly soft and soothing. “I intend to test you in a way that no one has ever been tested before. I want to see what you can do. I want to see how strong your survival instincts are.”