Straken (4 page)

She could not bear to think about it. Anyway, there was nothing she could do just yet. She could only wait. And hope.

She moved over to the provision hold, dropped through the hatchway quickly, found a shadowed place of concealment back among the spare light sheaths, and waited for sleep.

T
hey took Pen Ohmsford to a storeroom that had been converted on one side into a sleeping space and told him that he was to stay there during the flight back to Paranor. His half of the room was furnished with a hammock, a clothes chest, a bench, a small table, and a lamp. The other half was piled high with coils of radian draws, spare light sheaths, casks of water and biscuits, and several crates of tools and caulking.

“Sorry we can’t do better, but this is a warship and there isn’t much in the way of accommodations,” Traunt Rowan said.

They had sent three such airships to find him, Pen thought in response, which said more about their intentions for him than did the supposed dearth of decent accommodations. But he nodded because there wasn’t much to be gained by doing anything else. He was their prisoner whether they said so or not.

They left him then, disappearing back through the doorway into the hallway beyond and closing the heavy storeroom door behind them. Pen heard the dull
snick
of the lock, further proof of his status. He waited until their footfalls had receded into silence, then sat down on the bench to think things through.

They had not taken away the darkwand, an oversight that surprised him. Having had it snatched away once already by Pyson Wence, he had been expecting to lose it again. But neither Druid had shown any further interest in the staff. He promised he would make
them regret their carelessness, but then warned himself against making threats—even to himself—that he was in no position to carry out.

After giving it some consideration, he decided against trying to hide the staff. He could tuck it away amid all the stores, but they would notice it was missing the first time he limped about the room without it—and he would have to limp, at least for a day or two, to keep up the pretense that he was injured. No, hiding it would only call attention to it. They would find it quickly enough anyway, if they decided to look for it. It was better to just leave it lying out in plain sight and hope they paid no further attention.

He stuck it under the bench in a careless fashion and forced himself to pretend it didn’t matter.

After a time, one of the Gnome Hunters brought him a plate of food and a cup of ale. He consumed both hungrily, realizing he was starved. It had been more than a day since he had eaten, and the rush of events was all that had kept him going. He needed sleep, too. After finishing the meal, he lay down to nap and was asleep in seconds.

He woke to the sound of the lock releasing, and another tray of food was brought inside and deposited on the floor. The Gnome Hunter barely looked at him as he backed out the door and locked it. Pen peered through the cracks of the shutters securing the single window opening into the storeroom. The sky was brilliant with either a sunrise or a sunset, depending on direction. He decided, after a moment’s consideration, that it was a sunset. He had slept through an entire day.

He sat down and consumed his meal, thinking for the first time since he had been locked away of his friends back in the ruins of Stridegate. At least they were safe. Or safe from the Druids. They were still trapped by the Urdas and miles from any help. Kermadec would get them free, of course. Or Khyber, using her elemental magic to aid their efforts. But even after that it would take them a week to walk out and longer still to reach Paranor. Tagwen had meant well in promising they would come for him, but Pen knew that he couldn’t depend on it. He had given them a chance at life by agreeing to leave with the Druids, but he had not given himself much hope in return. No matter what Tagwen had promised, Pen knew he was on his own.

He thought about what that meant. Barring unexpected help
from Druids still loyal to the Ard Rhys, he had to reach his aunt’s chamber with the darkwand in hand and employ it quickly. That presupposed a lot of things that shouldn’t be presupposed, the foremost of which was that he would be able to figure out how to use the talisman. He had no idea how it worked. He had no way of knowing what he had to do to summon its magic. Did he need to do
anything
? Or could he just stand there and wait to be whisked away?

The enormity of what he was hoping for left him momentarily shaken, and before he could pull himself together sufficiently to feel at least somewhat reassured that he would find a way out of his dilemma, the storeroom door opened, and his Druid captors reappeared.

He sat on his bench and stared at them, searching their faces for some indication of what to expect. Traunt Rowan seemed tense. Pyson Wence just looked angry. They moved into the room with an unmistakable air of authority, and Pen knew that the time for procrastination was over. Taking a deep breath, forcing himself not to look down at the darkwand where it lay on the floor beneath the bench, he came to his feet.

“I’m ready to tell you what you want to know,” he said.

Best not to wait on the inevitable, he decided, and saw that his words had an instant calming effect on both, although the Gnome’s brow remained dark and his eyes skeptical. “What is it that you think we want to know, little man?” he asked softly.

“You want to know what I’m doing out here. You want to know why I made such a long journey. You want to know if it has something to do with my aunt. Isn’t that right?”

Pyson Wence started to answer, but Traunt Rowan held up one hand to silence him. His eyes fastened on Pen. “I think you prefer not to play games with us, young Pen, so I won’t play games with you. The fact that you gave yourself up to save your friends tells me something about your character. I respect that. I won’t waste any more time trying to convince you that everything in your life is going to be all right when this is over. As it happens, that isn’t my decision. But you could help yourself—and your parents—considerably by doing just exactly what you propose. Tell us what we want to know, and I will see what I can do to help you. I have some influence in this matter. Shadea a’Ru is our leader, but Pyson and I are strong in our own right.”

“Stronger than she thinks,” the Gnome added, scowling at nothing, his eyes sweeping the room as if he was worried that someone might be listening.

“Let me repeat again that we didn’t send Aphasia Wye to hunt you,” Traunt Rowan continued. “We happen to agree with you. He was a monster. We’re glad he’s dead. But you need to understand that we think your aunt is a monster, too. A monster of another sort.” He paused. “Do you know what we did with her?”

Pen nodded. “You sent her into the Forbidding.”

He saw the surprise in both men’s eyes. He knew more than they had thought he knew. “How do you know that?”

“She told me so,” he said. “She came to me in a dream and told me she was being held prisoner by Druids. She asked me to help her. I didn’t know what to think, but then Tagwen came to Patch Run and told me she had disappeared, so I decided to do what she had asked.”

“Which was?”

“To travel to the ruins of Stridegate. To seek help that could only be found there.”

Pyson Wence scowled. “What sort of help? Why would she ask help of you and not her brother?”

Pen’s thoughts raced. “I don’t know. Or, at least, I didn’t know at first. I didn’t think it was real. But I was afraid to ignore it, too.”

“So you just decided to set out on your own?”

He took a deep breath. “Tagwen came to ask my father to help him find the Ard Rhys. Tagwen thought that my father could use his magic to discover where she had gone. But my father and mother were traveling, and I was the only one home. Then that other Druid appeared, the Dwarf, on the
Galaphile
, so we ran. He chased us all the way into the Black Oaks before we lost him. Then we flew my skiff to the Westland to ask Ahren Elessedil for help, and he got us a larger airship and took us north to Anatcherae. But the
Galaphile
found us again, and tracked us across the Lazareen and into the Slags, and there was a fight, and the
Galaphile
exploded and Ahren and the Dwarf were both killed.”

He paused, trying to gauge their reaction. Did they believe any of this? He was trying to stay as close to the truth as possible without giving anything vital away.

“Terek Molt was always impatient,” Pyson Wence growled, waving
his hand dismissively. “This time it cost him more than he expected.”

“What did you do after that, Pen?” Traunt Rowan asked.

“We continued north out of the Slags. We still had the airship. We flew all the way to Taupo Rough. We met Kermadec, and he agreed to guide us to Stridegate. Then you appeared and we started running again.”

There was a long silence as the two men stared at him, weighing the truth in his story. Pen faced them squarely, meeting their eyes, willing them to believe.

“And all this time Aphasia Wye was hunting you?” the Southlander asked quietly.

Pen shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about him, at first. He appeared for the first time in Anatcherae, after we had gotten away from the Dwarf. He chased us along the docks to the ship. Then we didn’t see him until we were in the country beyond the Slags. He caught up to us again there. But we lost him. Then he appeared in the ruins. No one saw him that time but me. He crossed over to the island somehow, looking for me.”

He paused. “If you didn’t send him to find me, who did?”

Traunt Rowan pursed his lips. “Your aunt has many enemies, Pen. Not all of them are Druids.”

An answer that wasn’t an answer to the question, Pen thought.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Pyson Wence announced suddenly. “Aphasia Wye tracks you all the way to Stridegate, but twice you escape him along the way, something no one else has ever done. Then you confront him on the other side of a bridge that you say no one but you can cross, and you are able to kill him? You? A boy? Do you think we are fools?”

Pen shook his head quickly. “I didn’t kill him. The spirits did. The ones who live on the island. They are called aeriads. They tricked him, lured him to the edge of the chasm. In the dark, he was confused. He fell, and the fall killed him. It is a long way to the bottom of the chasm. There are lots of rocks and tangled roots.”

Pyson Wence was on him in a second, snatching him up by the front of his shirt and holding him pinned against the bulkhead. “Aphasia Wye could see better in the dark than most cats,” the Gnome spit. “He was a skilled hunter. Nothing would have confused
him. Nothing would have distracted him once he had the scent. Certainly not the dark! You are lying to us, little man!”

The Gnome’s fist was jammed so tightly against Pen’s throat that the boy could barely breathe, let alone talk. “It was the magic!” he finally managed to gasp.

Pyson Wence dropped him to the floor and kicked him hard. “Magic? What magic? Magic from these spirits you talk about? What sort of magic would they have that would stop Aphasia Wye? You’re making this up, boy!”

Pen was shaking his head as hard as he could in denial, both hands clutching at his injured throat. “No, it’s the truth! I didn’t know they were there when I went to Stridegate. I didn’t know anything except what my aunt told me in the dream. I was to go there and find out what I could do to help. So I went. The spirits were her means of communicating with me from within the Forbidding. She came to me on the island through them and told me that there was still a chance for her to escape so long as some of the Druids believed in her. She said that belief formed a connection to her and would help her find a way back!”

Pyson Wence kicked him harder still. “Belief in her? That’s going to get her out of the Forbidding? That’s what she told you?” He kicked Pen again, then looked over at Traunt Rowan. “Let’s kill him now and be done with it!”

The tall Southlander seemed to consider the idea, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He walked over, moved the smaller man out of the way, then reached down and helped Pen back to his feet. Steering him by his shoulders, he led the boy back to the bench and sat him down.