Jarka Ruus (30 page)

The others could think what they wished. She was the one who had made everything possible.

–I am here, Iridia–

She felt a surge of expectation and joy. She had waited for it, longed for it, the time when the voice took form, as it had promised it would, to give her back her place in the world. It would happen after the exile of the Ard Rhys, it had told her. Once the High Druid was gone, the voice could come out of hiding. It could take form and become for Iridia the friend and confidant she had once thought Shadea might be.

–I can be more than that, Iridia. I can be him–

Not quite willing to believe that she had heard the words correctly, she felt her heart lurch. She stood frozen in the darkness of the alcove, listening to their echo in the silence.
I can be him
. Was that possible? The voice was a chameleon, a changeling, capable of wondrous things. But could it bring back the dead? Could it make Ahren Elessedil whole again? Was the voice capable of that?

–Walk to me. In the cellars–

She left the alcove at once and proceeded to the main staircase, descending in a rush, her footfalls tiny and lost in the cavernous passage. No other Druid was abroad; most were gathered in the dining hall, the rest in their rooms or libraries. It felt to her as if she were alone in the world, free of its constraints and discriminations. She had never been well liked, never a part of anything, always alone. It was because of her childhood, where she had been set apart by her skills and the mistrust of those who recognized them. Even her parents had looked on her with growing suspicion and doubt, distancing themselves and their other children, sending her away early to study with an old woman who was said to understand such magic. The old woman did not, but living with her gave Iridia space and time to grow as she wished, to hone her talents, to gain a better understanding of what they offered. She needed no mentor to help her with this. She needed only herself.

Ten years she lived with the old woman, a crone of demands and false promises that would have eroded a less determined student. But Iridia only smiled and agreed and acquiesced to all, pretending obedience and waiting until she was alone to do what she wished. The old woman was no match for her, and when it was time, Iridia led her abusive and demanding benefactor to the well out back and pushed her in. For three days and nights, the crone screamed for help that never came.

Iridia turned down the lower hallway to the cellar doors at the north end of the Keep, knowing instinctively that was where she was meant to go, that was where the voice would be waiting. Shadows draped the heavy stones of the floors she passed across, her own the only one moving. No guards warded the passageways or walked the walls of Paranor now; the Druids alone kept watch, and theirs was a desultory, disinterested effort. In the time of the Warlock Lord, the keep would have fallen already.

At the heavy, ironbound doors leading down, the Elven sorceress paused to look back. No one was in sight; no one had followed. Shadea might have thought to try, but had not made the attempt. Just as well, Iridia thought. That would have complicated things. She wanted no one to intrude on her meeting.

–Hurry, Iridia. I am anxious–

As was she, flushed with unexpected passion. She was like a young, foolish girl, filled with wild emotion and desperate need. The voice had never failed her, and now it was going to give her the thing she desired most. It made her feel heady, as if she could dare anything, as if anything were possible. She pushed through the cellar doors in a rush, taking one of the torches from the brackets just inside, lighting it with a sweep of her fingers and a spray of magic, and started downward once more.

This time, her descent was much longer and darker, the stairwell windowless and narrow as it tunneled into the deep earth beneath the castle foundation. The air was damp and stale, smelling of long years of confinement and ageless dust. Her footsteps on the stone steps matched the sound of her breathing, quick and hurried. When this was finished, she thought, she would leave Paranor and go far away, taking Ahren with her so that they could build a life together free of everything that had gone before. It was what she would have done in the first place, had the Ard Rhys not poisoned Ahren against her. Ahren claimed Grianne had nothing to do with his dismissal of her, but Iridia knew better. His claim that he had never loved her, did not feel for her as she did for him, was a lie forged in the furnace of his anger at what
she
, who would always be the Ilse Witch, had told him. For that alone, she had deserved banishment to the Forbidding, and much worse.

At the bottom of the stairs, a rotunda formed a hub for a dozen passageways leading in different directions. Iridia chose the one from which the voice was calling, certain of its location, of its presence. Holding out the torch to chase back the darkness, she went down the passageway, a silent presence in a silent tomb. The catacombs were used infrequently, which had something to do with the past, with the history of the Keep, though Iridia had never cared enough to find out what that history was. It was the place she met with her coconspirators, but not a place she visited otherwise. It was enough that she would do so for the last time tonight.

A hundred feet down the corridor, a door stood open, the room beyond as black as pitch.

–I am here–

Iridia stepped inside, the torchlight flooding the room with its yellow glow. Her eyes searched swiftly. Four blank walls, a floor, and a ceiling. The room was empty.

“Where are you?” she asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.

–In the air, Iridia. In the ether you breathe. In darkness and in light. In all things. Close your eyes. Can you feel me–

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly. It was true. She could feel his presence. He was there, all about her. “Yes,” she whispered.

–It is time to give you what you were promised for helping me. To give you Ahren Elessedil, whole and complete again. To give you peace and love and joy. It is time, Iridia. Are you ready–

“Yes,” she breathed, tears flowing once more, gratitude flooding through her. “Oh, please.”

–Extinguish your torch and lay it on the floor–

She hesitated, not liking the prospect of being left in darkness. But her need for Ahren overcame her doubts, and she did as the voice had commanded. The torchlight went out and she was left standing in the heavy darkness.

–Close your eyes, Iridia. Stretch out your arms. I will come to you, into your embrace, no longer a voice, but a man. I will be him. For you, Iridia. Forever. Enfold me with your love and your desire. Accept me–

She would not have thought to do otherwise, though she still did not see how it could happen. But the persuasiveness of the voice was sufficient to make her believe. Again, she did as she was told. She closed her eyes and opened her arms.

Almost instantly, she felt a presence. It was only a faint sense of movement at first, a stirring of the air. Warmth followed, an infusion that spread through her like the flush of expectation she had experienced earlier. She felt a tingling, and her breath quickened at the prospect of what waited.

Then he was there, in her arms, Ahren Elessedil come back to life. Though she had never held him and did not know how it would feel, she knew at once that it was him. Her arms came about him gratefully, and she breathed in his smell and pressed her body against his. He responded at once, pliant and anxious, the part of her that was missing, the part that would make her whole.

“Ahren,” she whispered.

He moved closer still, so close that it felt as if he were a part of her. She could feel them joining, becoming one. He was melting into her, entering her, becoming a part of her physically. She started in shock, then instinctively tried to resist what was happening. But it was too late, he was already fused to her as metals in a forge locked together to form a single skeletal frame.

Then the pain surged through her, so intense that when she began screaming she could not stop. Raw and sharp, pulsing with razors and knife points, it riddled her from head to foot, and her scream turned into a shriek that lasted until her voice gave out and her mind snapped.

Then she ceased to think or feel anything.

         

It was later that evening when Shadea a'Ru passed down the corridor of the north tower on her way to her chambers and encountered Iridia coming from the opposite direction. She approached the Elven sorceress warily, remembering how they had left things in the cold chamber earlier. One hand snapped free a dirk from the sheath bound to her wrist beneath her tunic sleeve. She had endured enough of Iridia's unpredictable behavior. If there was to be a confrontation, she wanted it to be done with quickly.

The other woman came right up to her, but there was no anger or resentment or challenge of any sort in her green eyes. Her perfect features were composed, and there was an air of new determination about her.

“I behaved poorly this afternoon,” she said, coming to a stop several feet away. “I apologize.”

Shadea was immediately suspicious. She didn't like the abrupt switch. It wasn't like Iridia to forgive so readily. Not her, not anyone. Nevertheless, she nodded agreeably. “We will put it behind us.”

“That would be best for everyone,” Iridia said as she turned away.

She walked past Shadea and continued down the hallway without looking back. Shadea stayed where she was, watching until the other was out of sight, all the time wondering what was going on.

Twenty-eight

They chose not to bury Ahren Elessedil's remains, but to burn them. A wetland was a poor place to dig a grave, and they had only their long knives to attempt the task. Besides, Khyber was not happy with the idea of leaving her uncle interred in a mud flat where rains and erosion might soon uncover him and leave him food for scavengers.

Working by light provided mostly from the still-burning swamp waters, they collected deadwood, piled it high on the mud bank where he had fought and died, and placed him on it. Khyber sang a Druid funeral song, one she had learned from her uncle, one that spoke of the purpose of a life well lived and an afterlife where hopes were fulfilled and rebirth possible. She used her magic to ignite the dry wood, and soon it was burning. They stood together, watching as it consumed her uncle's body, turning it to ash and smoke.

When it was finished, they moved into the trees and slept, exhausted physically and emotionally, not bothering to mount a watch against the things that dwelled in the Slags. They shared a sense of inevitability that night, that what would happen to them was not within their control, that if their strongest member could be taken from them so abruptly, their own efforts at protecting themselves would make little difference.

They woke unharmed and in a better frame of mind, the trauma of the previous day far enough behind them that they could think about what was going to happen next. The day was typical of the Slags, all grayness and mist and sunless, fetid air. The fires of the funeral pyre and the doomed
Galaphile
were extinguished finally, and only dark smears of ash remained to mark their passing. Looking out over the bay, Pen caught sight of heavy ripples that indicated the movement of something big beneath the dark surface. Life went on.

With nothing to eat or drink, the three companions huddled down in the chilly dawn light to discuss what they would do.

“Perhaps we should think about going back,” Tagwen offered solemnly. “Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting we give up—just that we not continue on as we are. After all, we are in a rather desperate situation. We are lost, grounded, and weaponless. I know what Ahren told us to do, but it might not be the best thing. We might be better off doing what I started out to do in the first place—finding Penderrin's parents and seeking their help. With Pen's father's magic and an airship, we will have a better chance of getting to where we want to go.”

To Pen's eyes, the Dwarf looked a wreck. His clothes were hanging raggedly from his once stout frame, his face was haggard and worn, and his eyes had a jumpy, nervous look to them. The gruff, determined air he had brought with him to Patch Run had vanished in the chase across the Lazareen and through the Slags. There was more than a hint of desperation about him.

But, then, he might be describing any of them, Pen thought. He need only look at his own reflection in the waters of the bay to see that was so.

“I don't know where my parents are,” he said to the Dwarf. “I'm not sure we can find them.”

“Besides, it would take as much effort to go back as to go on,” Khyber pointed out. “At least out here we are safe from the Druids who hunt us. With the
Galaphile
destroyed, the closest enemies are eliminated. Unless we give ourselves away again, the rest can't find us once we're out of the area.”

“Oh, they can find us, don't you doubt it!” Tagwen snapped. “They are resourceful and skilled. I should know. And Shadea a'Ru is a demon. She won't give up, even with the
Galaphile
gone. Maybe
especially
with it gone, since she will blame us for its destruction. And for Terek Molt's death.”

Khyber glared at him. “Well, they won't find us right away. If we can get out of this swamp, we can find help among the Trolls. Didn't you say that Kermadec lives in the Taupo Rough country? Surely he will help us.”

“He will help us if he is still alive, but given the way things are going, I wouldn't say that's at all certain!” Tagwen was not to be placated. “I don't know how you expect to find him when you don't know where you are yourself! And you say we will be all right if we don't use the Elfstones, but if we don't use the Stones, we might not find our way out of here! And remember this—Ahren Elessedil thought he wouldn't have to use the Elfstones, either, but he did have to, didn't he?”

He was nearly in tears, the tough old Dwarf, and for a moment it appeared he would break down completely. He looked away in embarrassment and frustration, then rose and stalked down to the edge of the bay, where he stood for a time looking out into the mist. Pen and Khyber exchanged glances, but said nothing.

When Tagwen returned, he was calm again, his rough features composed and determined. “You're right,” he announced without preamble. “We should go on. Going back would be a mistake.”

“Will Kermadec help us if we can find him?” Pen asked at once.

The Dwarf nodded. “He is devoted to the Ard Rhys. He will do whatever he can to help. He is a good and brave man.”

“Then we have our plan,” Khyber declared. “But we will be careful how we go, Tagwen,” she assured the Dwarf. “We won't be careless. Uncle Ahren gave us a chance to complete this journey. We won't waste that gift.”

“Then we'd better think about moving away from here right now,” Pen declared. “If they can track us from our use of magic, they won't have much trouble finding us here. Not after the expenditure of magic used to destroy the
Galaphile
.”

Khyber stood up. “Once we're back in the trees, we won't be so easy to track.” She paused. “I just wish I knew how much farther we had to go.”

“Then why don't you find out?” Pen asked. She stared at him. “Use the Elfstones. What difference does it make if you use them now? We've already given ourselves away. Before we set out, let's see where it is that we're going. Then maybe we won't have to use the Stones again.”

“The boy is right,” Tagwen said at once. “Go ahead. Let's see where we are.”

They stood in a ragged group at the shore's edge while Khyber took out the Elfstones and balanced them in her hand. They stared at the glittering talismans for a moment, transfixed by their brightness and their promise. Without saying so, they were all thinking the same thing. So much depended on what the Stones revealed. If they were too deep in the Slags to avoid its snares and predators, then they might have to use the magic again, even if it gave them away. But if they were close to the wetland border, they might have a chance to escape undetected.

Khyber closed her fingers about the talismans and held them out in the direction of the sunrise. Long moments passed, and nothing happened.

“They're not responding,” she said. Her voice was strained and rough. “I can't make them work.”

“Don't be afraid, Khyber,” Pen said.

“I'm not afraid!” she snapped.

“Yes, you are. But don't be. I'm frightened enough for the both of us.”

She glanced over at him, saw the look on his face, and smiled in spite of herself. She dropped her arm to her side. “All right,” she said. “Let me try again.”

She took a deep, steadying breath, exhaled slowly, and held out the Stones. Her eyes closed. An instant later, the magic flared from her fist, gathered itself in a blaze of fire, and shot out into the gloom like a beast at hunt. Slicing through trees and brush and grass, through the whole of the Slags, it flared in sharp relief against a backdrop of hills leading into mountains, of green fields brightened by wildflowers, of streams and waterfalls, and of dazzling sunshine.

The picture shimmered bright and clear for a moment longer, then vanished as if it had never been, leaving them encased once more in mist and gloom. They stood looking off in the direction it had shown for a moment, savoring the memory, the promise, then looked at one another appraisingly.

“It's not all that far,” Pen declared bravely, although in truth he had no idea how far it was. “We can make it.”

“Of course, we can,” Tagwen agreed, screwing up his worn countenance into a mask of resolve.

“It can't be more than another day,” Khyber added, pocketing the Elfstones. “We can be there by sunset.”

They began walking, turning back into the trees and leaving the mist-shrouded bay and its dark memories behind. It was slow going, their passage obstructed by fallen trees, heavy brush, and endless stretches of swamp water. They had to be especially careful of the latter because many hid patches of quicksand that would have swallowed them without a trace. Pen used his magic once more, reaching out to the life of the swamp to discover what it was thinking and doing. Though he couldn't see what he was hearing for the most part, he was able to detect the presence of small birds, rodents, insects, and even a smattering of water creatures. Each told him something of what was happening around them. He was able to discover more than once dangers that threatened. He was able to tell from moods and responses between species the paths they should follow and those they should avoid.

They walked all day, yet by sunset it felt as if they hadn't gone anywhere. Everything looked exactly the same as it had hours earlier. Nor was there any apparent end in sight, the gloom and mist and wetlands stretching on endlessly in all directions. If anything, the swamp had thickened and tightened about them, stealing away a little more of the light and air, eroding their hopes that they might get clear soon.

When they stopped for the night, Pen used his compass a final time to check their direction. It seemed as if they were going the right way, but he was beginning to wonder if the compass was working. His concerns were fostered in part by the way in which the light seemed not to change in any direction, the gloom and haze so thick that it was getting harder and harder to tell which way the sun was moving through the hidden sky.

“We might be lost,” he admitted to them. “I can't be sure any more.”

“We're not lost,” Khyber insisted. “Tomorrow, we will be through.”

But Pen wasn't convinced. He took the first watch and sat brooding while the others slept, replaying the events of the past few days in his mind, a nagging concern that he couldn't identify tugging at his already dwindling confidence. Something wasn't right about the way they were looking at things, but he couldn't put his finger on it. As the darkness deepened and the minutes slipped by, he found himself going further afield with his thinking, working his way back through the entire journey, from the moment Tagwen had first appeared with news of his aunt's disappearance. Remembering how he had been forced to flee his home triggered memories of his parents and made him aware of how much he missed them and wished they were with him. He had always been an independent sort, raised to be that way, but this was the farthest he had ever been from home. It was also the most threatened he had ever felt. He knew of the dangerous creatures that dwelled in the places he visited regularly on his skiff journeys, but most of those he was encountering now were entirely new. Some of them didn't even have a name.

And just like that, he realized what was bothering him. It was his inability to account for what had become of the mysterious hunter that had chased him through the streets of Anatcherae on the night he had fled Terek Molt.

He took a long moment to think it through. His pursuer had come after him outside Fisherman's Lie, when the little company had fled into the streets to reach the safety of the
Skatelow
. A man had died right in front of him, killed by a dagger thrown from the rooftops and intended for him. During all of this, he had caught only brief glimpses of the wielder, just enough to suggest it wasn't entirely human.

What had happened to it?

It would be comforting to think that it had died aboard the
Galaphile
, consumed in the inferno that had claimed the ship, the Gnome Hunters, and Terek Molt. But Pen didn't think that was what had happened. It didn't feel right to him. The thing that had chased him through the streets wouldn't have been caught off guard like that. If it was still with Terek Molt at the time the
Galaphile
had found them, it would have been off the ship and stalking him anew. It would have survived.

It would be out there now.

In spite of the fact that he was virtually certain it wasn't, he looked around cautiously, peering into the darkness as if something might reveal itself. He even took time to read his magic's response to the sounds of the night creatures surrounding him, to the insects and birds and beasts that inhabited the swamp gloom, searching for anything that would warn him of danger. When he had satisfied himself that he was not threatened, that the hunter he feared might be lurking out there, invisible and deadly, was not, he took a deep breath and exhaled softly, feeling comforted for the moment, at least.

He sat listening, nevertheless, through the rest of his watch.

When his watch was finished, he took a long time falling asleep.

         

On waking the following morning, Pen said nothing to Khyber and Tagwen of his concerns. There was nothing to be gained by doing so. Everyone was already on edge, and adding to the tension could not help the situation. Besides, the hunter of Anatcherae's dark streets might have been a denizen of the port city rather than a tool of Terek Molt's. If the hunter had been the Druid's creature, then it stood to reason that it would have been used in tracking them down and disposing of them long since. The Druid wouldn't have confronted them himself when he had his creature to do the job for him.

It was solid reasoning, but it didn't make Pen feel any better and in the end it didn't convince him that his problems with his mysterious enemy were finished. Just because he couldn't account for its whereabouts didn't mean he was rid of it. But he kept that unsettling thought to himself, knowing that what mattered just then was getting clear of the Slags.