The Farthest Shore (5 page)

“Yes, my lord,” said Arren, with a dry throat.

“The Prince, your father, surely would not let you go into this
peril,” said the Changer somewhat sharply, and to the Archmage, “The lad is
young and not trained in wizardry.”

“I have years and spells enough for both of
us,” Sparrowhawk said in a dry voice. “Arren, what of your
father?”

“He would let me go.”

“How can you know?” asked the Summoner.

Arren did not know where he was being required to go, nor when, nor why.
He was bewildered and abashed by these grave, honest, terrible men. If he had had time
to think he could not have said anything at all. But he had no time to think; and the
Archmage had asked him, “Will you come with me?”

“When my father sent me here he said to me, ‘I fear a dark
time is coming on the world, a time of danger. So I send you rather than any other
messenger, for you can judge whether we should ask the help of the Isle of the Wise in
this matter, or offer the help of Enlad to them.’ So if I am needed, therefore I
am here.”

At that he saw the Archmage smile. There was great sweetness in the smile,
though it was brief. “Do you see?” he said to the seven mages. “Could
age or wizardry add anything to this?”

Arren felt that they looked on him approvingly then, but with a kind of
pondering or wondering look, still. The Summoner spoke, his arched brows straightened to
a frown: “I do not understand it, my lord. That you are bent on going, yes. You
have been caged here five years. But always before you were alone; you have always gone
alone. Why, now, companioned?”

“I never needed help before,” said Sparrowhawk, with an edge
of threat or irony in his voice. “And I have found a fit companion.”
There was a dangerousness about him, and the tall Summoner asked
him no more questions, though he still frowned.

But the Master Herbal, calm-eyed and dark like a wise and patient ox, rose
from his seat and stood monumental. “Go, my lord,” he said, “and take
the lad. And all our trust goes with you.”

One by one the others gave assent quietly, and by ones and twos withdrew,
until only the Summoner was left of the seven. “Sparrowhawk,” he said,
“I do not seek to question your judgment. Only I say: if you are right, if there
is imbalance and the peril of great evil, then a voyage to Wathort, or into the West
Reach, or to world’s end, will not be far enough. Where you may have to go, can
you take this companion, and is it fair to him?”

They stood apart from Arren, and the Summoner’s voice was lowered,
but the Archmage spoke openly: “It is fair.”

“You are not telling me all you know,” the Summoner said.

“If I knew, I would speak. I know nothing. I guess much.”

“Let me come with you.”

“One must guard the gates.”

“The Doorkeeper does that—”

“Not only the gates of Roke. Stay here. Stay here, and watch the
sunrise to see if it be bright, and watch at the wall of stones to see who crosses it
and where their faces are turned. There is a breach, Thorion, there is a break, a wound,
and it is this I go to seek. If I am lost, then maybe you will find it. But wait. I bid
you wait for me.” He was speaking now in the Old Speech, the language of the
Making, in which all true spells are cast and on which all the
great acts of magic depend; but very seldom is it spoken in conversation, except among
the dragons. The Summoner made no further argument or protest, but bowed his tall head
quietly both to the Archmage and to Arren and departed.

The fire crackled in the hearth. There was no other sound. Outside the
windows the fog pressed formless and dim.

The Archmage stared into the flames, seeming to have forgotten
Arren’s presence. The boy stood at some distance from the hearth, not knowing if
he should take his leave or wait to be dismissed, irresolute and somewhat desolate,
feeling again like a small figure in a dark, illimitable, confusing space.

“We’ll go first to Hort Town,” said Sparrowhawk, turning
his back to the fire. “News gathers there from all the South Reach, and we may
find a lead. Your ship still waits in the bay. Speak to the master; let him carry word
to your father. I think we should leave as soon as may be. At daybreak tomorrow. Come to
the steps by the boathouse.”

“My lord, what—” His voice stuck a moment. “What
is it you seek?”

“I don’t know, Arren.”

“Then—”

“Then how shall I seek it? Neither do I know that. Maybe it will
seek me.” He grinned a little at Arren, but his face was like iron in the grey
light of the windows.

“My lord,” Arren said, and his voice was
steady now, “it is true I come of the lineage of Morred, if any tracing of lineage
so old be true. And if I can serve you I will account it the greatest chance and honor
of my life, and there is nothing I would rather do. But I fear that you mistake me for
something more than I am.”

“Maybe,” said the Archmage.

“I have no great gifts or skills. I can fence with the short sword
and the noble sword. I can sail a boat. I know the court dances and the country dances.
I can mend a quarrel between courtiers. I can wrestle. I am a poor archer, and I am
skillful at the game of net-ball. I can sing, and play the harp and lute. And that is
all. There is no more. What use will I be to you? The Master Summoner is
right—”

“Ah, you saw that, did you? He’s jealous. He claims the
privilege of older loyalty.”

“And greater skill, my lord.”

“Then you’d rather he went with me, and you stayed
behind?”

“No! But I fear—”

“Fear what?”

Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes. “To fail you,” he
said.

The Archmage turned around again to the fire. “Sit down,
Arren,” he said, and the boy came to the stone cornerseat of the hearth. “I
did not mistake you for a wizard or a warrior or any finished thing. What you are I do
not know, though I’m glad to know that you can sail a boat. . . .
What you will be, no one
knows. But this much I do know: you are the
son of Morred and of Serriadh.”

Arren was silent. “That is true, my lord,” he said at last.
“But . . .” The Archmage said nothing, and he had to finish
his sentence: “But I am not Morred. I am only myself.”

“You take no pride in your lineage?”

“Yes, I take pride in it—because it makes me a prince; it is a
responsibility, a thing that must be lived up to—”

The Archmage nodded once, sharply. “That is what I meant. To deny
the past is to deny the future. A man does not make his destiny: he accepts it or denies
it. If the rowan’s roots are shallow, it bears no crown.” At this Arren
looked up startled, for his true name, Lebannen, meant the rowan tree. But the Archmage
had not said his name. “Your roots are deep,” he went on. “You have
strength and you must have room, room to grow. Thus I offer you, instead of a safe trip
home to Enlad, an unsafe voyage to an unknown end. You need not come. The choice is
yours. But I offer you the choice. For I am tired of safe places, and roofs, and walls
around me.” He ended abruptly, looking about him with piercing, unseeing eyes.
Arren saw the deep restlessness of the man, and it frightened him. Yet fear sharpens
exhilaration, and it was with a leap of the heart that he answered, “My lord, I
choose to go with you.”

Arren left the Great House with his heart and mind full of wonder. He told
himself that he was happy, but the word did not
seem to suit. He
told himself that the Archmage had called him strong, a man of destiny, and that he was
proud of such praise; but he was not proud. Why not? The most powerful wizard in the
world told him, “Tomorrow we sail to the edge of doom,” and he nodded his
head and came: should he not feel pride? But he did not. He felt only wonder.

He went down through the steep, wandering streets of Thwil Town, found his
ship’s master on the quays, and said to him, “I sail tomorrow with the
Archmage, to Wathort and the South Reach. Tell the Prince my father that when I am
released from this service I will come home to Berila.”

The ship’s captain looked dour. He knew how the bringer of such news
might be received by the Prince of Enlad. “I must have writing about it from your
hand, prince,” he said. Seeing the justice in that, Arren hurried off—he
felt that all must be done instantly—and found a strange little shop where he
purchased inkstone and brush and a piece of soft paper, thick as felt; then he hurried
back to the quays and sat down on the wharfside to write his parents. When he thought of
his mother holding this piece of paper, reading the letter, a distress came into him.
She was a blithe, patient woman, but Arren knew that he was the foundation of her
contentment, that she longed for his quick return. There was no way to comfort her for
his long absence. His letter was dry and brief. He signed with the sword-rune, sealed
the letter with a bit of pitch from a caulking-pot nearby, and gave it to the
ship’s
master. Then, “Wait!” he said, as if the
ship were ready to set sail that instant, and ran back up the cobbled streets to the
strange little shop. He had trouble finding it, for there was something shifty about the
streets of Thwil; it almost seemed that the turnings were different every time. He came
on the right street at last and darted into the shop under the strings of red clay beads
that ornamented its doorway. When he was buying ink and paper he had noticed, on a tray
of clasps and brooches, a silver brooch in the shape of a wild rose; and his mother was
called Rose. “I’ll buy that,” he said, in his hasty, princely way.

“Ancient silverwork of the Isle of O. I can see you are a judge of
the old crafts,” said the shopkeeper, looking at the hilt—not the handsome
sheath—of Arren’s sword. “That will be four in ivory.”

Arren paid the rather high price unquestioning; he had in his purse plenty
of the ivory counters that serve as money in the Inner Lands. The idea of a gift for his
mother pleased him; the act of buying pleased him; as he left the shop he set his hand
on the pommel of his sword, with a touch of swagger.

His father had given him that sword on the eve of his departure from
Enlad. He had received it solemnly and had worn it, as if it were a duty to wear it,
even aboard ship. He was proud of the weight of it at his hip, the weight of its great
age on his spirit. For it was the sword of Serriadh who was the son of Morred and
Elfarran; there was none older in the world except the sword of Erreth-Akbe, which was
set atop the Tower of the Kings in Havnor. The sword
of Serriadh had
never been laid away or hoarded up, but worn; yet was unworn by the centuries,
unweakened, because it had been forged with a great power of enchantment. Its history
said that it never had been drawn, nor ever could be drawn, except in the service of
life. For no purpose of blood-lust or revenge or greed, in no war for gain, would it let
itself be wielded. From it, the great treasure of his family, Arren had received his
use-name: Arrendek he had been called as a child, “the little Sword.”

He had not used the sword, nor had his father, nor his grandfather. There
had been peace in Enlad for a long time.

And now, in the street of the strange town of the Wizards’ Isle, the
sword’s handle felt strange to him when he touched it. It was awkward to his hand
and cold. Heavy, the sword hindered his walk, dragged at him. And the wonder he had felt
was still in him, but had gone cold. He went back down to the quay, and gave the brooch
to the ship’s master for his mother, and bade him farewell and a safe voyage home.
Turning away he pulled his cloak over the sheath that held the old, unyielding weapon,
the deadly thing he had inherited. He did not feel like swaggering anymore. “What
am I doing?” he said to himself as he climbed the narrow ways, not hurrying now,
to the fortress-bulk of the Great House above the town. “How is it that I’m
not going home? Why am I seeking something I don’t understand, with a man I
don’t know?”

And he had no answer to his questions.

CHAPTER 3