The Wishsong of Shannara (28 page)

They went deeper into the prisons, the light from the world without all but lost in the twist of stone and mortar. Only the torch showed them the way, burning and smoking through the blackness.

They stopped at last before an ironbound door similar to the hundreds they had passed before it. Hands twisting roughly about the metal latch, the Gnome wrenched its bolt free. With a grating screech, he brought the heavy portal open. Stythys looked back at Jair, then pulled at the leash and brought him forward into the room beyond. It was a small, cramped cell, empty save for a pile of straw bundled in one corner and a wooden bucket next to the door. A single tiny slit cut into the far wall let through a sliver of gray light from without.

The Mwellret turned, cut free the bonds that tied Jair’s hands and slipped loose the gag that bound his mouth. Roughly, he shoved the Valeman past him onto the bed of straw.

“Thiss iss yourss, Elfling,” he hissed. “Home for little peopless until you tell me of the magicss.” The crooked finger pointed back to the hunched form of the Gnome behind him. “Your jailer, Elfling. He iss mine, one who sstill obeyss. Mute he iss—doess not sspeak or hear. Ssongss of magicss usseless on him. Feedss and tendss you, he doess.” He paused. “Hurtss you, too, if you dissobeyss.”

The Gnome’s ravaged face was turned toward the Valeman as Stythys spoke, but revealed nothing of what the mind behind it thought. Jair glanced about bleakly.

“Tellss me what I musst know, Elfling,” the Mwellret whispered suddenly. “Tellss me or never leavess thiss plasse!”

The cold voice hung with a hiss in the silence of the little room as the yellow eyes bore deep into the Valeman’s. Then Stythys wheeled away and strode back through the cellroom door. The Gnome jailer turned as well, crooked hands gripping the ironbound door by its latch bolt and pulling it firmly shut.

Huddled alone in the dark, Jair listened until the sound of their footfalls had disappeared.

The minutes slipped away into hours as he sat motionless within the cell, listening to the silence and thinking of how hopeless his position had become. Smells assailed his nostrils as he sat there, rank and harsh, mingling with the sense of despair that coursed relentlessly through him. He was scared now, so scared that he could barely bring himself to think. The thought had never crossed his mind before in all the time that had passed since he had abandoned his home in Shady Vale, fleeing from the Gnomes that hunted for him, but now for the first time it did.

You are going to fail, it whispered.

He would have cried then if he could have made himself do so, but somehow the tears would not come. Perhaps he was too frightened even for that. Think about how you will escape this place, he ordered himself. There is always a way out of everything.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. What would Garet Jax do in this situation? Or even Slanter? Slanter always had a way out; Slanter was a survivor. Even Rone Leah would have been able to come up with something.

His thoughts drifted for a time, wandering through memories of what had been, sidestepping effortlessly into dreams of what might somehow yet be. All of it was fantasy, false rendering of truths twisted in the madness of his own despair to become what he would have them be.

Then at last he made himself rise and walk about his tiny prison, exploring what he could already see was there, touching the damp, cold stone, and peering at the shaft of gray that slipped through the airhole from the skies without. He journeyed all about the cell, studying to no particular purpose, waiting for his emotions to still themselves and his thoughts to settle.

Suddenly he decided to use the vision crystal. If he were to have any sense of what time remained to him, he must discover what had become of Brin.

Hurriedly, he brought the crystal and its silver chain out from their place of concealment within his tunic. He stared down at the crystal, cupped gently within his hands. He could hear the old King’s voice whispering to him, cautioning him that this would be the means by which he could follow Brin’s progress. All he need do was sing to it  . . .

Softly, he sang. At first, his voice would not come, choked with emotions that swam restlessly through him still. Yet he hardened himself against his own sense of uncertainty, and the sound of the wishsong filled the tiny room. Almost at once, the vision crystal brightened, sharp light flaring outward into the gloom and chasing the shadows before it.

He saw at once that it came from a small fire, and Brin’s face was before him, obviously studying the flames of a campfire. Her lovely face was cupped in her hands. Then she looked up and seemed to be searching. There were signs of strain and worry, and she looked almost haggard. Then she looked down again and sighed. She shuddered slightly, as if repressing a sob. All of her that Jair could see seemed to be given over to despair. Whatever had happened to her had obviously been unpleasant  . . .

Jair’s voice broke as worry for his sister flooded through him, and the image of his sister’s frowning face wavered and vanished. The Valeman stared down in stunned silence at the crystal cupped in his hands.

Where, he wondered, was Allanon? There had been no sign of him in the crystal.

Leaves in the wind, the voice of the King of the Silver River whispered in his mind. She will be lost.

Then he closed his hands tightly about the vision crystal and stared sightlessly into the darkness.

XXVII

N
ight had settled down across the forests of the Anar when Brin Ohmsford saw the lights. They winked at her like fireflies through the screen of the trees and shadows that stretched away into the dark, small, elusive, and distant.

She slowed, her arms wrapping quickly about Rone to keep him from falling as he stumbled to a halt beside her. An aching weariness wracked her body, but she forced herself to hold the highlander upright as he fell against her, his head drooping to her shoulder, his face hot and flushed with the fever.

“ . . . can’t find where  . . . lost, can’t find  . . .” he muttered incoherently and the fingers of his hand gripped her arm until it hurt.

She whispered to him, letting him hear her voice and know she was still there. Slowly the fingers relaxed their grip, and the fevered voice went silent.

Brin stared ahead at the lights. They danced through forest boughs still thick with autumn leaves, bits and pieces of brightness. Fire! She whispered the word urgently, and it pushed back against the despair and the hopelessness that had closed in about her in steadily deepening layers since the march east from the Chard Rush had begun. How long ago it all seemed now—Allanon gone, Rone so badly wounded, and she alone. She closed her eyes against the memory. She had walked all that afternoon and into the night, following the run of the Chard Rush eastward, hoping, praying that it would lead her to some other human being who could help her. She didn’t know how long or how far she had walked; she had lost track of time and distance. She only knew that somehow she had managed to keep going.

She straightened, pulling Rone upright. Ahead, the lights flickered their greeting. Please! she cried silently. Please, let it be the help I need!

She trudged ahead, Rone’s arm looped about her shoulders, his body sagging against hers as he stumbled beside her. Tree limbs and scrub brushed at her face and body, and she bent her head against them. Putting one foot before the other with wooden doggedness, she went forward. Her strength was almost gone. If there was no help to be had here  . . .

Then abruptly the screen of trees and shadows broke apart before her, and the source of the lights stood revealed. A building loomed ahead, shadowed and dark, save for slivers of yellow light that escaped from two places in its squarish bulk. Voices sounded from somewhere within, faint and indistinct.

Holding Rone close, she pushed on. As she drew nearer, the building began to come into focus. A low, squat structure with a peaked roof, it was constructed of timbers and sideboards on a stone foundation. A covered porch fronted a single storey with a garret, and a stable sat back away from the rear of the building. Two horses and a mule stood tied to a hitching post, heads lowered to crop the drying grass. Along the front of the building, a series of windows stood barred and shuttered against the night. It was through the gaps in the shutters that light thrown by oil lamps had escaped and been seen by the Valegirl.

“A little farther, Rone,” she whispered, knowing that he didn’t understand, but would respond to the sound of her voice.

When she was a dozen feet from the porch, she saw the sign that hung from the eaves of its sloping roof:
ROOKER LINE TRADING CENTER
.

The sign swayed gently in the night wind, weathered and split, the paint so badly faded into the wood that the letters were barely legible. Brin glanced up at it briefly and looked away. All that mattered was that there were people inside.

They climbed onto the porch, stumbling and tripping on the weathered boards, to sag against the door jamb. Brin groped for the handle, and the voices within suddenly went still. Then the Valegirl’s hand closed about the metal latch, and the heavy door swung open.

A dozen rough faces turned to stare at her, a mix of surprise and wariness in their eyes. Trappers, Brin saw through a haze of smoke and exhaustion—bearded and unkempt, their clothes of worn leather and animal skins. Hard-looking, they clustered in groups about a serving bar formed of wood planks laid crosswise on upended ale kegs. Animal pelts and provisions lay stacked behind the counter, and a series of small tables with stools sat before it. Oil lamps hung from low-beamed ceiling rafters and cast their harsh light against the night shadows.

With her arms wrapped about Rone, Brin stood silently in the open doorway and waited.

“They’s ghosts!” someone muttered suddenly from along the serving counter, and there was a shuffling of feet.

A tall, thin man in shirt-sleeves and apron came out from behind the counter, head shaking slowly. “If they was dead things, they’d have no need to open the door now, would they? They’d just walk right on through!”

He crossed to the middle of the room and stopped. “What’s happened to you, girl?”

Brin realized suddenly, through the haze of fatigue and pain that assailed her, how they must appear to these men. They might well have been something brought back from the dead—two worn and ragged things, their clothing damp and muddied, their faces white with exhaustion, hanging onto each other like straw-filled scarecrows. A bloodied strip of cloth had been bound about Rone’s head, but the rawness of the wound showed through. On his back, the scabbard that had once held the great broadsword lay empty. Her own face was soiled and drawn, and her dark eyes haunted. Spectral apparitions, they stood framed in the light of the open doorway, swaying unevenly against the night.

Brin tried to speak, but no words came out.

“Here, lend a hand,” the tall man called back to the others at the counter, coming forward at once to catch hold of Rone. “Come on now, lend a hand!”

A brawny woodsman came forward quickly, and the two ushered the Valegirl and the highlander to the nearest table, placing them on the low stools. Rone slumped forward with a groan, his head sagging.

“What’s happened to you?” the tall man repeated once again, helping to hold the highlander in place so he would not fall. “This one’s burning up with fever!”

Brin swallowed thickly. “We lost our horses in a fall coming down out of the mountains,” she lied. “He was sick before then, but it’s grown worse. We walked the riverbank until we found this place.

“My place,” the tall man informed her. “I’m a trader here. Jeft, draw a couple ales for these two.”

The woodsman slipped behind the counter to an ale keg and opened the spigot into two tall glasses.

“How about a free one for the rest of us, Stebb?” one of a group of hard-looking men at the far end of the counter called out.

The trader shot the man a venomous look, brushed back a patch of thinning hair atop a mostly balding pate, and turned again to Brin. “Shouldn’t be in those mountains, girl. There’s worse than fever up there.”

Brin nodded wordlessly, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. A moment later the woodsman returned with the glasses of ale. He passed one to the Valegirl, then propped Rone up long enough to see that he sipped at the other. The highlander tried to grasp the glass and gulp the harsh liquid down, choking as he did. The woodsman moved the glass away firmly.

“Let him drink!” the speaker at the end of the bar called out again.

Another laughed. “Naw, it’s wasted! Any fool can see he’s dying!”

Brin glanced up angrily. The man who had spoken saw her look and sauntered toward her, his broad face breaking into an insolent grin. The others in the group trailed after, winking knowingly and chuckling.

“Something the matter, girl?” the speaker sneered. “Afraid you  . . . ?”

Instantly Brin was on her feet, barely aware of what she was doing as she snatched her long knife from its sheath and brought it up in front of his face.

“Now, now,” the woodsman Jeft interceded quickly at her side, pushing her gently back. “No need for that, is there?”

He turned to face the speaker, standing directly before him. The woodsman was a big man, and he towered over the men who had come down from the end of the counter. The members of the group glanced at one another uncertainly.

“Sure, Jeft, no harm meant,” the offender muttered. He looked down at Rone. “Just wondered about that scabbard. Crest looks like a royal seal of some type.” His dark eyes shifted to Brin. “Where you from, girl?”

He waited a moment, but Brin refused to answer. “No matter.” He shrugged. With his friends trailing after him he moved back down the counter. Gathering close to resume their drinking, they began conversing in low tones, their backs turned. The woodsman stared after them for a moment, then knelt down beside Brin.

“Worthless bunch,” he muttered. “Camp out west of Spanning Ridge masquerading as trappers. Live by their wits and the misfortune of others.”

“Been drinking and wasting time here since morning.” The trader shook his head. “Always got the money for the ale, though.” He looked at the Valegirl. “Feeling a little better now?”

Brin smiled in response. “Much better, thank you.” She glanced down at the dagger in her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what I was  . . .”

“Hush, forget it.” The big woodsman patted her hand. “You’re exhausted.”

Beside him, Rone Leah moaned softly, his head lifting momentarily, his eyes open and staring into space. Then he slipped down again.

“I have to do something for him,” Brin insisted anxiously. “I have to find a way to break the fever. Do you have anything here that might help?”

The trader glanced at the woodsman worriedly, then shook his head. “I’ve not seen a fever as bad as this one often, girl. I have a tonic that might help. You can give it to the boy and see if it brings the fever out.” He shook his head again. “Sleep might be best, though.”

Brin nodded dumbly. She was having trouble thinking clearly, the exhaustion folding in about her as she sat staring down at the dagger. Slowly she slipped it back into its sheath. What had she been thinking she would do? She had never harmed anything in her entire life. Certainly the man from west of Spanning Ridge had been insolent, perhaps even threatening—but had there been any real danger to her? The ale burned warmly in her stomach, and a flush spread through her body. She was tired and strangely unnerved. Deep within, she felt an odd sense of loss and of slipping.

“Not much room in here for sleeping,” the trader Stebb was saying. “There’s a tack room in back of the stable I let the help use in the trapping season. You can have that. There’s a stove and bed for your friend and straw for you.”

“That would be fine,” Brin murmured and found to her astonishment that she was crying.

“Here, here.” The burly woodsman put an arm about her shoulders, blocking her away from the view of those gathered along the serving counter. “Won’t do for them to see that, girl. Got to be strong, now.”

Brin nodded wordlessly, wiped the tears away, and stood up. “I’m all right.”

“Blankets are out in the shed,” the trader announced, standing up with her. “Let’s get you settled in.”

With the aid of the woodsman, he brought Rone Leah back to his feet and walked him toward the rear of the trading center and down a short, darkened hallway that ran past a set of storage rooms. Brin shot a parting glance at the men gathered about their ale glasses before the serving counter and followed after. She didn’t much care for the looks directed back her way by the ones from west of Spanning Ridge.

A small wooden door opened out into the night at the back of the building, and the trader, the woodsman, Rone, and Brin moved toward the stable and its tack room. The trader slipped ahead, quickly lighted an oil lamp hanging from a peg on one wall, and them held wide the tack room door to admit the others. The room beyond was clean, though a bit musty, its walls hung with traces and harness. A small iron stove sat in one corner, shielded by a stone alcove. A single bed sat close beside it. A pair of shuttered windows stood against the night.

The trader and the woodsman laid the feverish highlander carefully on the bed and covered him with the blankets stacked at one end. Then they fired the iron stove until its wood was burning brightly and carried in a pallet of fresh straw for Brin. As they were about to leave, the trader placed the oil lamp on a stone ledge next to the stove and turned briefly to Brin.

“Here’s the tonic for his fever.” He passed a small, amber-colored bottle to the Valegirl. “Give him two swallows—no more. In the morning, two more.” He shook his head doubtfully. “Hope it helps, girl.”

He started through the doorway with the woodsman in tow. Then once more he turned. “There’s a latch on this door,” he declared, pausing. “Keep it drawn.”

He closed the door softly behind him. Brin walked over and drew the latch into place. From just without, she could hear the voices of the trader and the woodsman as they talked.

“A bad lot, that Spanning Ridge bunch,” the woodsman muttered.

“Bad as any,” the trader agreed.

They were silent for a moment.

“Time for me to be on my way,” the woodsman said. “Several hours back to the camp.”

“Safe journey,” the trader replied.

They started to move away, their words fading.

“You’d best watch yourself with that bunch inside, Stebb,” the woodsman advised. “Watch yourself close.”

Then the words died away completely and the two were gone.

Brin turned back to Rone within the silence of the tack room. Propping him up carefully, she forced him to take two swallows of the tonic provided by the trader. When he had taken the medicine, she laid him down again and covered him up.

Then she took a seat next to the stove, wrapped herself in her blanket, and sat back wordlessly. On the wall of the little room, cast by the solitary flame of the oil lamp, her shadow rose up before her like a dark giant.

The charred stump of still-burning log collapsed with a thud inside the stove as the ashes beneath it gave way, and Brin woke with a start. She had dozed, she realized, but didn’t know for how long. She rubbed her eyes wearily and glanced about. The tack room was dark and still, the flame of the oil lamp faint and lonely in a gathering of shadows.

She thought immediately of Allanon. It was difficult still for her to accept that the Druid was gone. An expectation lingered within her that at any moment there would come a sharp knock upon the latched door and his deep voice would call to her. Like a shadow that came and went with the passing of the light—that was the way that Rone had described him that last night before the Druid died  . . .