Ilse Witch (19 page)

Coran Leah smiled. “He told me the same thing I assume he told you—that he needed you both, that people’s lives depended on it, that the future of the Four Lands required it. He said you were old enough to make the decision for yourselves, but that I must give you the freedom to do so. I didn’t like hearing that, but I recognized the truth in what he was
saying. You are old enough, almost grown. Quentin is grown. I’ve kept you with me as long as I can.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe people’s lives do depend on it. I guess I owe it to you both to let you find out.”

Bek nodded. “We’ll be careful,” he reassured him. “We’ll look after each other.”

“I know you will. I feel better with both of you going rather than only one. Liria doesn’t think you should go at all, either of you, but that’s because she’s a mother, and that’s how mothers think.”

“Do you think Quentin’s sword really does have magic? Do you think it can do what Walker says?”

Coran sighed. “I don’t know. Our family history says so. Walker seems certain of it.”

Bek sat down across from him on the edge of his bed. “I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing by going, and I realize we don’t know everything yet, maybe not even enough to appreciate the risk we’re taking. But I promise we won’t do anything foolish.”

Coran nodded. “Be careful of those kinds of promises, Bek. Sometimes they’re hard to keep.” He paused. “There’s one thing more I have to say. It has occurred to me before, but I’ve kept it to myself. I thought about it again yesterday, when Walker reappeared on my doorstep. Here it is. I have only the Druid’s word that Holm Rowe really was your father and that he sent you here to live with me. I tried to check on this later, but no one could tell me where or when Holm had died. No one could tell me anything about him.”

Bek stared at him in surprise. “Someone else might be my real father?”

Coran Leah fixed him with his steady gaze. “You are like one of my own sons, Bek. I love you as much as I love them. I have done the very best I could to raise you in the right way. Both Liria and I have. Now that you are about to leave, I want no secrets between us.”

He stood up. “I’ll let you get back to your packing.”

He started for the door, then changed his mind and came back across the room. He put his strong arms around Bek and hugged him tightly. “Be careful, son,” he whispered.

Then he was gone again, leaving Bek to conclude that there was as much uncertainty about his past as there was about his future.

I
t was raining again by the time Hunter Predd and Walker arrived aboard Obsidian at the seaport of March Brume, some distance north of Bracken Clell on the coast of the Blue Divide. They had flown into the rain just before sunset after traveling west all day from the Highlands of Leah, and it felt as if the dark and damp had descended as one. March Brume occupied a stretch of rocky beach along a cove warded by huge cliffs to the north and a broad salt marsh to the south. A stand of deep woods backed away from the village into a shallow valley behind, and it was just to the south of that valley, on a narrow plateau, that the Roc deposited her passengers so that they might take refuge for the night in an old trapper’s shack.

March Brume was a predominately Southland community, although a smattering of Elves and Dwarves had settled there, as well. For centuries, the seaport had been famous for the construction of her sailing ships, everything from one-man skiffs to single-masted sloops to three-masted frigates. Craftsmen from all over the Four Lands came to the little village to ply their trades and offer their services. There was never a shortage of need for designers or builders, and there was always a good living to be made. Virtually everyone who lived in the seaport was engaged in the same occupation.

Then, twenty-four years ago, a man named Ezael Sterret, a Rover of notorious reputation, a sometime pirate and brigand with a streak of inventive genius, had designed and built the
first airship. It had been unwieldy, ungainly, and unreliable, but it had flown. Other efforts by other builders had followed, each increasingly more successful, and within two decades, travel had been revolutionized and the nature of shipbuilding in March Brume had been changed forever. Sailing ships were still built in the shipyards of the old seaport, but not in the same numbers as before. The majority of ships constructed now were for air travel, and the customers whose pockets were deepest and whose needs were greatest came from the Federation and Free-born army commands.

None of which had anything to do with Walker’s primary reason for choosing to come here rather than to one of a dozen other shipbuilding ports along the coast. What brought him to March Brume was the nature of the shipbuilders and designers who occupied the seaport—Rovers, a people universally disliked and distrusted, wanderers for the whole of their history, who even as mostly permanent residents still came and went from the seaport whenever the urge struck. Not only were they the most skilled and reliable of those engaged in shipbuilding and flying, but they accepted work from all quarters and they understood the importance of keeping a bargain and a confidence once engaged.

Walker was about to test the truth of this generally held belief. His instincts and his long association with Rovers persuaded him that it was his best option. His cousin, the Elven Queen Wren Elessedil, had been raised by Rovers as a child and taught the survival skills that had kept her alive when she had journeyed to the doomed island of Morrowindl to recover the lost Elven people. Rovers had aided various members of Walker’s family over the years, and he had found them tough, dependable, and resourceful. Like him, they were wanderers. Like him, they were outcasts and loners. Even living in settled communities, as many of them were doing now, they remained mostly isolated from other peoples.

This was fine with Walker. The less open and more secretive his dealings in this matter, the better. He did not think for
a moment that he could keep secret for long either his presence or his purpose. The Ilse Witch would be seeking to discover both. Sooner or later, she would succeed.

Hunter Predd managed a fire in the crumbling hearth of the old trapper’s cabin, and they slept the night in mostly dry surroundings. At dawn, Walker gave the Wing Rider orders to replace their dwindling provisions and to wait for his return from the village. He might be gone for several days, he cautioned, so the Wing Rider shouldn’t be concerned if he did not reappear right away.

The day had cleared somewhat, the rain turned to a cold, damp mist that clung to the forests and cliffs like a shroud, and the skies brightened sufficiently to permit a hazy glimpse of the sun through banks of heavy gray clouds. Walker navigated the woods until he found a trail, then the trail until it led to a road, and followed the road into the village. March Brume was a collection of sodden gray buildings, with the residences set back from the shoreline toward the woods, and the shipyards and docks set closer to the water. The sounds of building rose in a din above the crash of waves, a steady mix of hammers and saws punctuated by the hiss of steam rising from hot iron hauled from the forge and by the shouts and curses of the laborers. The village was crowded and active, residents and visitors alike clogging the streets and alleys, going about their business in the damp and gloom in remarkably cheerful fashion.

Walker, wrapped in his cloak to hide his missing arm, was not remarkable enough to draw attention. People of all sorts came and went in March Brume, and where a Rover population dominated, it was best to mind your own business.

The Druid moved unhurriedly toward the docks through the businesses at the center of town. Federation soldiers dressed in silver and black uniforms lounged about while waiting to take delivery of their orders. There were Free-born soldiers, as well, not so obvious or bold in revealing their presence, but come to March Brume for the same reason. It
was odd, the Druid thought, that they would shop at the same store as if it were the most natural thing in the world, when in any other situation they would attack each other on sight.

He found the man he was looking for in a marketplace toward the south end of the village, not far from the beginnings of the docks and building yards. He was a scarecrow dressed in brilliant but tattered scarlet robes. He was so thin that when he braced himself against the occasional gusts of wind that blew in off the water, he seemed to bend like a reed. A wisp of black beard trailed from his pointed chin, and his dark hair hung long and unkempt about his narrow face. A vivid red scar ran from hairline to chin, crossing the bridge of his broken nose like a fresh lash mark. He stood just off the path of the traffic passing the stalls, close by a fountain, head cocked in a peculiarly upward tilted fashion, as if searching for guidance from the clouded skies. One hand held forth a metal cup, and the other gestured toward passersby with a fervor that suggested you ignored him at your peril.

“Come now, don’t be shy, don’t be hesitant, don’t be afraid!” His voice was thin and high pitched, but it caught the attention. “A coin or two buys you peace of mind, pilgrim. A coin or two buys you a glimpse of your future. Be certain of your steps, friend. Take a moment to learn of the fate you might prevent, of the misstep you might take, of the downward path you might unwittingly follow. Come one, come all.”

Walker stood across the square from the man and watched silently for a time. Now and then, someone would stop, place a coin in the metal cup, and bend close to hear what the man had to say. The man always did the same thing: he took the giver’s hand in his own and held it while he talked, moving his fingers slowly over the other’s open palm, nodding all the while.

Once or twice, when the man shifted positions or moved to take a drink from the fountain’s waters, the scarlet robes
shifted to reveal that he had only one leg and wore a wooden peg for the other.

Walker held his position until the rain quickened sufficiently to drive most of the crowd elsewhere and force the man to back away under the shelter of an awning. Then he crossed the square, approached the man in the scarlet robes as if seeking to share his shelter, and stood quietly at his side.

“Perhaps you could read the future of a man who seeks to take a long and hazardous journey to an unknown land?” he queried, looking out at the rain.

The man’s gaze shifted slightly, but stayed directed skyward. “Some men have made journeys enough for five lifetimes already. Perhaps they should stay home and quit tempting fate.”

“Perhaps they have no choice.”

“Paladins of shades revealed only to them, questers of answers to secrets unknown, ever searching for what will put an end to their uncertainty.” The hands gestured helplessly. “You’ve been away for a long time, pilgrim. Up there, in your high castle, alone with your thoughts and dreams. Do you really seek to make a journey to a faraway land?”

Walker smiled faintly. “You are the forecaster of fates, Cicatrix. Not me.”

The scarred face nodded. “A teller of futures this day, a disabled soldier the next, a madman the third. Like yourself, Walker, I am a chameleon.”

“We do what we must in this world.” The Druid bent closer. “But I didn’t seek you out for any of the skills you’ve listed, formidable though they are. I require instead a small piece of information from that vast storehouse you manage—and I would keep that information from reaching other ears.”

Cicatrix reached for the Druid’s hand and took it in his own, running his fingers over the palm, keeping his ruined face directed skyward as he did so. “You intend to make a trip to an unknown land, pilgrim?” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you seek transport?”

“Of the sort that flies. Something fast and durable. Not a
warship, but able to be fitted to withstand an attack by one. Not a racer, but able to fly as if born to it. Her builder must have vision, and the ship must have heart.”

The thin man laughed softly. “You seek miracles, pilgrim. Do I seem to you the sort that can provide them?”

“In the past, you have.”

“The past comes back to haunt me, then. There lies the trouble with having to live up to another’s expectations, when those expectations are founded on questionable memories. Well.” He kept running his hands over Walker’s palm. “Your enemy in this endeavor wouldn’t happen to wear silver and black?”

Walker glanced out into the rain. “Mostly, my enemy would have eyes everywhere and kill with her song.”

Cicatrix hissed softly. “A witch with a witches’ brew, is it? Stay far from her, Walker.”

“I’ll try. Now listen carefully. I need a ship and a builder, a Captain and a crew. I need them to be strong and brave and willing to ally themselves with the Elves against all enemies.” He paused. “March Brume’s reputation will be tested in this as it has not been tested before.”

“And mine.”

“And yours.”

“If I disappoint you, I shall not see you again, pilgrim?”

“You will at least wish as much.”

Cicatrix chuckled mirthlessly. “Threats? No, not from you, Walker. You never threaten; you only reveal your concerns. A poor cripple like myself is advised to pay close attention, but not to act out of fear.” His fingers stopped moving on Walker’s hand. “Are the rewards for those who become involved reasonable, given the risks?”

“Well beyond that. The Elves will open wide the doors to their vaults.”

“Ah.” The other man nodded, head tilted strangely, gaze directed at nothing. He released Walker’s hand. “Come to the docks at the end of Verta Road after nightfall. Stand where
you can be seen. Mysteries shall unfold and secrets be revealed. Perhaps a journey shall be taken to an unknown land.”

Walker produced a pouch filled with gold coins, and Cicatrix pocketed it smoothly. He turned slowly and limped away. “Farewell, pilgrim. Good fortune to you.”

Walker spent the remainder of the day walking the docks, studying the ships under construction and the men building them, listening to talk of sailing, and garnering small amounts of information. He ate at a large, dockside tavern, where he was one of many, and pretended disinterest while keeping close watch for the Federation spies he knew to be there. The Ilse Witch would be looking for him, determined to find him. He had no illusions. She was relentless. She would attack him wherever and whenever she could, hoping to finish what she had started in Arborlon. If she could kill or disable him, the quest he sought to mount would fall apart and her own path to the map’s treasure would be left unobstructed. She did not have the map, but she probably had the castaway’s memories to guide her, and for all he knew, they would prove sufficient.