by Peter Harris
The early morning sun shone on their damp packs, making them steam as the three travellers set off eastward over the rim of the hollow and down a hillside covered in long grass dotted with windswept bushes. Birds were flying over the green lands below, motes of silvery white in the sun. They looked and sounded like seagulls to Shelley – almost. She thought of Earth, her home, and how she used to swim in the blue seas off Northland, seagulls wheeling overhead.
She found herself wondering if her father had any idea that this country existed. Had he tried to keep her from following the unicorn because he knew? His behaviour when the car had stopped and the white horse appeared had been very odd. She wished she could see him again, and ask him. But now he was not really her father, and she was stuck in this alien world, being led away, further and further from the portal which led back to her own world and safety, looking for a Faery refuge which even Korman had never seen, to be trained for a probably impossible task she knew almost nothing about.
‘Well, at least there’s no sign of the Thornmen,’ she thought. As if in answer, Korman’s low voice interrupted her musing:
‘We must be vigilant as we approach the Northern Spur. Keep your silver helmets on, and tell me if you see anything out of the ordinary. I see no thorn forests from here, just the pleasant Vale of Applegate. But since last night, I have been uneasy. If the Mindscouts sensed the activation of Arcratíne, they may have probed the mind of Rilke as he slept. If so, they will know we are coming.’ Shelley looked at Rilke, skipping on ahead, his silver skullcap, a spare from Korman’s pack, bouncing loose on his head. She wished she could be that young and carefree too.
‘Should we turn back, go the long way round, like you were suggesting?’ she asked.
‘No, we will try this path,’ Korman replied. ‘Time may be short. The Aghmaath are not idle on the Tor Enyása. In the night, listening by the sword, I heard rumours of evil deeds there. I fear they are tampering with the Tree, seeking to replace the lost Arcra with some other device. Barachthad alerted me to this possibility.’
‘So the Tree isn’t dead?’
‘No, I now believe it still lives. It is thousands of years old, but that is nothing to a jewel-tree. I see now that the Aghmaath will not try to cut it down. They want to use it, to travel to the other worlds of the Old Order; especially to Kor-Edartha.’
‘You mean Earth? You’re joking! What would they want to go there for?’
‘To seek for the lost Jewel of Knowledge, partly. And to convert your world – then in the end, destroy it in the Great Holocaust to the Void.’
‘Is the Jewel of Knowledge really on Earth? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘The ancient lore, written in the Ennead of Aeden, tells us that the Jewel of Knowledge was stolen by Athmad and Ewana, who came from your world, more than six thousand years ago. You do not know of such a jewel?’
‘Not by that name,’ said Shelley. ‘But we do have a story about Adam and Eve. Something about a tree of knowledge… I wonder… I thought it was just a myth. But it fits: Earth sure is a world with lots of knowledge…’ Her idea of history was getting stretched, and it made her feel giddy.
They were now in more level country where the old orchards grew, mostly overgrown with other trees and meadows of wildflowers and herbs. Shelley recognised rosemary and thyme and lemonbalm, and there were many others which Korman pointed out and told her of their uses. The air was heavy with the smell of them, and bees hummed around the flowers. It was a fine day, and their spirits were high. But Korman kept the children close about him as they went forward, and he looked about warily. Rabbits, or creatures very like rabbits, perhaps a little longer in the legs, hopped away as they came out into more open ground, with close-cropped turf between scattered trees.
Korman pointed out the fold in the land which was the southern end of Lake Avalon. Shelley wondered if this could be the Avalon of the old English legends. The story of Camelot, and the Lady of the Lake, and the wizard Merlin, flashed before her memory. ‘Maybe it’s all true! If so, Merlin could have been an ancestor of Korman’s!’ she thought. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, somehow.’
They were approaching a huge, gnarled apple tree when Shelley whispered, ‘Shh, what’s that noise?’ She crept forward, and from a hollow of the tree came a faint whimpering. ‘Wait! Let me look first. Do not put your hand in!’ Korman whispered. He approached softly, Rilke close behind. After peering in for a moment, he shot his hand into the hole. There was a high-pitched squeal followed by a frantic chattering.
‘Ow, you little…’ said Korman.
‘What is it, what is it?’ cried Rilke.
‘He bit me.’
‘Who bit you? Not another anklebiter!’ exclaimed Shelley.
‘No, this!’ replied Korman, and he lifted out a furry, whining little bundle, holding it firmly by the scruff of its neck. Growls came from Bootnip, who had woken and was peering over the edge of Korman’s pack, sniffing the air to see what creature was disturbing the peace.
‘Quiet, Bootnip! It is just a baby wurrier, as the people of the villages call them.’ He pointed to a little pile of skin and bone in the grass near the tree. ‘Look, children! There is the body of its mother. Do not go near! There could be hornets in it. They may well have stung her to death.’
Rilke, who already knew all he wanted to know about hornets, circled round behind Korman. Shelley put her hands under the little wurrier. ‘We can’t just leave her here, can we? I’ll look after her. She can be my pet.’ Korman looked dubious.
‘And mine!’ said Rilke.
‘Please, Korman! After all, you’ve got Bootnip,’ pleaded Shelley. The wurrier seemed to understand, and stretched out two little arms to Shelley. Korman hesitated, then released his grip on the baby, which leapt into Shelley’s arms. From the safety of her embrace, its little monkey face peered out at Korman, then at Rilke, looking as worried as its name suggested.
‘Be gentle with it, and it will probably not bite you!’ said Korman, sucking his hand and spitting.
‘Oh, thank you!’ said Shelley and Rilke together. Shelley looked at the bite-mark on Korman’s hand and added, ‘I hope that bite doesn’t get infected.’
‘It is very unlikely. Aeden is not like your planet, full of diseases. Our soil holds some virtue that stops that evil. Have you been even a little sick since you came here?’
‘Come to think of it, no. I’ve been feeling great all the time, physically anyway. Not to mention my eyesight…’
‘Can I hold him, please, please?’ Rilke interrupted.
‘Oh, later, when she’s feeling safer,’ said Shelley. ‘She is a girl, I’m sure of it.’
‘No, he isn’t! Let me hold him!’
They began to argue, but Korman told them, ‘Peace! We must be going again. Bring the wurrier.’
‘I’m calling her Worriette,’ said Shelley.
‘That’s a girly name,’ grumbled Rilke. The wurrier began sniffing and nosing around Shelley’s clothing, and clawing her way towards her pack. ‘She is hungry, and perhaps smells the wurriers’ favourite food,’ said Korman.
‘What’s that?’
‘Apple! That is why this is wurrier territory – because of the abandoned apple groves. Their ‘official’ name, gagavala, means “apple-eater.” And wherever there are wurriers, the apple trees will not die out, as the wurriers spread the seeds.’
Shelley took off her pack and got out some pieces of dried apple. Worriette grabbed one and began frantically gnawing it. ‘Now she will be your friend for life,’ said Korman. ‘Let me feed her too!’ cried Rilke. Shelley reluctantly gave him a piece to feed the hungry, shivering little wurrier – it was a sacrifice for her, as she was still a bit annoyed with Rilke, and did very much want a pet that was all her own - she still missed Sophie. They took turns feeding Worriette in their arms until she seemed satisfied, and began making a quiet purring noise, then fell asleep in Shelley’s arms. ‘We must go now,’ said Korman sternly, but Shelley n
oticed he was smiling. ‘Must we go? I want to play with her!’ said Rilke.
‘Don’t be selfish!’ said Shelley. ‘Can’t you see she’s asleep?’
Rilke stopped trying to prize the little bundle out of her arms, and sat down in a huff. He was still tired from his wakeful night.
‘Come now, Rilke. As we walk I will tell you the story of the wurriers,’ said Korman. Curiosity banished his tiredness, and he got up and walked at Korman’s side. ‘It is bound up with the history of Aeden,’ began Korman with a sigh. ‘They were, in a way, the cause of a great schism between the peoples. When the Jewel of Knowledge was stolen, some men tried to use what knowledge they had to grow new knowledge and have power over things, whether crystals or fire or lightning or creatures or plants. Some of them went far along this path in subtle experiments, and moulded new hybrids from the seed of animals and humans. The ancestors of the present-day gagavala were one such experiment. But some escaped into the land and ran amok, not being the timid creatures which survive today, but bold and daring raiders of orchards and gardens – and sometimes cradles.’
‘Yuck!’ said Shelley, looking down at the cute little bundle shivering in her arms.
‘This wurrier wouldn’t eat babies, would it?’ asked Rilke.
‘No, the bold, meat-eating ones – the Rogue Wurriers, the Rogavala, or Werewurriers, as they were called – were hunted to extinction, and only the small, shy, vegetarian wurriers remained, living in secret places and remaining few in number. I had thought they could even be extinct. So then the people of Aeden threw out many of their machines and their books, and the Seekers of Knowledge were banished to the hills, and made to foreswear their experiments.’
‘Barachthad! Is he one of those people?’
‘Yes, he and all the Padmaddim are descended from them, and are now almost forgotten by the folk of the villages, who consider themselves to be the only rightful inhabitants of Aeden. As you have seen, even the ancient Order and its Guardians are viewed with suspicion, and the Tor Enyása is now a forbidden place. But the Aghmaath are winning the people over with promises of deliverance, and when that does not work, by naked fear. Aeden is indeed divided, and will be conquered soon, if help does not come!’
‘And where will that help come from?’
‘We must allow ourselves to be the help we seek.’
‘That sounds like another one of your paradoxes.’
‘As do many of the principles of the Concept, at first hearing,’ smiled Korman.
The land ahead became more like a plain, short green grass mainly, cropped by the wild rabbits, with clumps of longer pampas grass and fern and scattered trees. It gently sloped down from the north-eastern shoulder of the Tor Enyása on their left towards Lake Avalon, which they could now see to their right, hazy in the distance. They were coming to the narrowest point, where Korman had feared there could be a thorn blockade. Still the way ahead looked clear.
They walked where possible in the shelter of trees and clumps of fern and pampas grass, looking always to the Tor Enyása where danger lurked. Still the only sign of the Thornmen was an occasional thorn patch, spreading over all in its path, spiderwebs in its outer branches, darkness within. Korman gave these patches a wide berth.
‘Are those thorn dens?’ asked Rilke, keeping close to Korman and eyeing the dark thickets suspiciously.
‘No, these are not the true Mother Thorns of a thorn den, in which the Aghmaath live and by which they are fed. These thorns can be cut and burned; those of the Aghmaath are much bigger, and their branches can writhe this way and that, and put out any fire kindled against them. And any living thing caught in their tendrils is held fast, animal or human alike.’
‘Ugh, do we have to know?’ said Shelley.
‘I’m not scared,’ said Rilke, who was walking between them now. ‘I’d cut my way out with my sword.’
‘I should have a sword too,’ said Shelley. ‘Then we’d cut our way out together, wouldn’t we, Rilke?’ Korman said nothing; he was looking ahead intently. There was now no sound but the swish of their boots through the grass.
‘Where have all the birds gone?’ said Shelley.
‘And the bees!’ added Rilke. He now had Worriette, and had tucked her inside the folds of his tunic. Only her little head was visible, peering out. She began whimpering. ‘There there, it’s all right,’ said Rilke, stroking the wurrier with a finger as he walked. But she kept looking tensely ahead with a fixed stare. The fur on her head started to rise and she started to make a high-pitched trilling growl. ‘The wurrier warning-cry!’ Korman muttered. The anklebiter in his pack was growling too. Korman stopped dead. He raised his staff. A disturbance in the air like a heat haze from a huge bonfire appeared in front of them, and spread to left and right. Materialising out of the haze, stretching as far as the eye could see to left and right, was a high hedge of giant, bristling thorns.
‘The way is blocked!’ cried Korman. ‘Back, quickly!’ They turned to run, but at that moment horns rang out from behind the hedge, and a thorny gate creaked open under thorny arches. Out rode a tall thin figure in black armour, with a black cloak over its shoulders. It was no human horseman, but an Aghmaath warrior, like a giant armoured stick insect, fixing them with vulture eyes. He clutched a long spear tipped with cruel thorn-barbs. Other warriors on foot appeared, on either side of the gate.
But they did not give chase. They stood, while the horseman reined in his tall bony mount – a horse, Shelley thought, but its face was covered with a mask of black iron. The rider raised his spear – Shelley noticed in the terrible clarity of that moment that it had round joints up its length as if it was made of several segments – and called in a mock-friendly tone,
‘Hail, travellers! Greetings in the name of the Void! We have been expecting you. Rilke, son, welcome! It was we who called to you as you slept last night. Shelley, why did you resist us?’ He held out a shiny red apple. To the two children the Aghmaath now looked like kind angels of light, inviting, irresistible. They began to totter toward the horseman. Mindbolts crackled from his third eye and sped towards them, writhing with seductive images of peaceful rest. Under the withering intensity of these mindbolts at such short range, the children’s helmets did little to protect them.
But Korman, shaking off the spell, leaped in front of them, deflecting the deceptive thoughtforms with his winged silver shield. He took their hands and turned to flee.
‘Stand and fight, Korman of the Withered Arm, or have you forgotten how?’ cried the horseman in a terrible voice, now transformed by hatred. Korman reluctantly turned to face him as he continued his evil speech: ‘The Lady you serve, the accursed witch who dared to defy the Void and now hangs in the Avenue of Despair, has deceived you, and withered your strength. And now she has left you with no defence, since you swore to her, in your folly, that you would not draw your sword. Even the boy, Rilke, knows better than that! Soon you will join her in the thorns, to repent at your leisure.’
Shelley looked at the hedge, remembering her vision of the Lady in the thorns, and to her horror she saw many little birds, skylarks and thrushes and wax-eyes, trapped in the prickly tendrils of the writhing branches about the thorny gates. They appeared to be alive – at least some fluttered weakly – but drugged and unable to break free. A harsh piping cry came from the depths of the hedge, and a small bird, almost the same colour as the thorns, emerged and hopped along a spiny branch towards one of the trapped thrushes, and began viciously pecking at its breast. The bird was, like the Earth shrike, a killer of other birds much larger than itself. Shelley turned away, sickened.
While she had been looking at the bird, Korman’s wrath at the horseman’s mockery had blazed. Shelley saw that he had his strong left hand on the hilt of Arcratíne. His knuckles were white, and his face was drawn as he slowly began to draw the sword he had sworn not to. He grimly intoned the battle chant of the Guardians
Hethür, Krithür, Shaktha!
Time
seemed to slow right down for Shelley as she realized what he was doing. She tried to call out, but the words seemed to take forever to come out.
Then Korman looked up, as if he had remembered something. He let go of the swordhilt. He crouched down, sheltering the children under the silver wings of his shield, and whispered,
‘Quick, Shelley, hold my hand. We will walk in Faery. Remember with me the beauty of Life. Think of the most beautiful thing you know, and Love, which is stronger than death.’ He held out his staff at the enemy, as Shelley tried thinking of the beauty of the moonbirds, and of galloping with Quickblade, and of sunrise that morning and rainbows and the flowers they had seen along the way. She screwed up her face with the mental effort, blocking out the terror in front of her. Then she saw in her mind’s eye the Lady, dressed all in blue, with a clasp in the form of a golden apple blossom. She was free from the thorns, which had sprouted beautiful crimson roses all around her.
Rilke, meanwhile, cringed under the shield, still shocked at being mentioned by name. He lay quiet as a mouse, holding the shivering wurrier under his tunic, and covered his head with his hands.
Though nothing had changed outwardly, Shelley felt a deep love sweep over her, like the peace which the Aghmaath promised, but vibrant and wholesome. Then, just as the terrible horseman gave the order to seize them and the vulture-like foot-soldiers came loping and hopping through the grass, everything went wavy, a golden mist surrounded them, and the sun shone off it, blinding their enemies. They rose up and walked in wonder and delight over green grass, and skylarks sang overhead as they went back the way they had come, leaving the dreadful hedge and the sound of pursuit far behind. The wurrier stuck her head out from under Rilke’s clothes and looked brightly around.
A little later a pack of Dagraath crossed their path, shadowy in the brightness the three walked in, but they saw nothing, sniffed this way and that, then turned back, baffled. Korman led the way, and said, ‘Thank you, Shelley! We are walking in Faery – you have revealed it to us. Behold, the magic of the Lady is stronger than the deceptions of the Aghmaath. Especially here, among her apple groves. But the Dreamcasters are working hard to undo the spell. We must be far away when it fades; as soon as we re-emerge into the waking world they will be able to track us.’
The land all about them looked greener than any green, beautiful like a dream of a perfect springtime in the mountains. ‘Like walking in a crystal world, where everything is sparkly,’ said Shelley to herself. ‘Or like a scene you see in a mirror.’ Butterflies fluttered like living jewels about the apple trees laden with ripe red fruit. Worriette, who had calmed down, went frantic trying to reach one. After some hesitation, they picked some of the apples and were refreshed, and Worriette munched happily on one as they walked. But Rilke began to lag, so Korman hoisted him onto his broad shoulders, and they pressed on until the sun began to set. Gradually the springtime feeling ebbed away with the sunlight.
‘It is fading; we are returning to Aeden as we know it,’ said Korman. ‘We are now high in the Badlands, south of Moonbird Hollow, perilously close to the Tor Enyása and the southern end of the thorny hedge, which now lies – look! – uncovered to our sight in the red sunset, stretching all the way from the mists of Lake Avalon to the ridges of the Northeastern Arm. We must cross over that arm again. But we cannot risk going back to Rilke’s pass. We will have to climb it nearer the Tor Enyása, above Baz Apédnapath, the Bottomless Canyon.’
‘Sounds like fun!’ said Shelley. She was feeling safer now than earlier in the day, in spite of their brush with the enemy. Their magical escape through Faery had given her a new confidence.
From far below, behind the now-distant hedge, came the faint sound of a gong, mournful and sinister in the twilight.
After they had made camp for the night and sat down in the cool, long grass, Korman said, ‘I will call the place where we came upon the hedge of the Aghmaath, “Thorngate”. Unless our mission succeeds, and the Jewel is replaced in the Tree of Life on the Tor Enyása, the Vale of Applegate will soon be over-run with the thorns of the Living Death, and the apple groves poisoned to bear the apples of forgetfulness, the so-called “Apples of Peace.” That is one of two reasons they are putting forth such strength at Applegate: to take the orchards to pervert them. It is a grief to me. I have fair memories of that land. Of all the lands of Aeden, only in the Vale of Applegate were the people wholly friendly to the Lady.’
‘What is the other reason?’ asked Shelley uneasily. She had decided she wanted to find out all she could about the enemy that was ruining the land she had already come to love so much.
‘To push an impassable line towards the east where the Boy Raiders live, and hem them in, and then exterminate them.’ Shelley thought of Quickblade, and burst out, ‘No! We can’t let them do that!’ then found she was blushing. Korman looked at her sadly.
‘They will do it, unless they are stopped.’
‘Then why don’t we go back and find the Boy Raiders, and join forces with them, and stop the Aghmaath? I can walk in Faery now! I bet I can help! Maybe that’s what I’m meant to do!’ She jumped to her feet as if to start there and then.
‘No, you must once more be strong and brave, and yes, patient I’m afraid, Shelley. To succeed in your mission you must be initiated as the Kortana. I believe you can only receive this initiation at Ürak Tara. So, even though the way I hoped to take you is blocked, we must still find a way to get there. Ürak Tara lies somewhere on the Northern Arm, so we must go around the whole Island of Aeden, and come at last to Ürak Tara from the other side: from the west.’
‘If it’s meant to be, why is it so hard, Korman?’
‘Struggle is all part of the Unfolding, the way things are.’
‘Well, why can’t we go and ‘struggle’ with the Boy Raiders instead of all on our own?’
‘We are not alone: we have each other, the Lady is with us, and we follow our part in the Unfolding of the Great Dance, the Ever-branching Tree of Life.’
Korman opened the little box with the single star-flower, and began to stare at the little bud. But it was tightly shut, and did not move.
‘What’s that, Korman?’ Shelley couldn’t help asking, though she felt he was trying to avoid talking about it.
‘A closed hopeflower. When you are ready, you will be able to open its petals by directing your love onto it.’ Shelley eagerly bent over the little flower, lying as if dead in Korman’s gnarled hand. She willed it to open, whispered words of love and encouragement to it. But nothing happened.
‘Open, you silly flower!’ she yelled. Korman closed the box and put it back into his robe.
‘Hush!’ he said. ‘Do you want to bring Hithrax to try also?’
Shelley flopped back on the ground, beaten. She knew she could not deviate Korman from his task, any more than a butterfly could stop a steamroller. Not because he was unthinking like the steamroller, but because he had thought it all through, battled with all his doubts and answered them, and made his vows. ‘Not to draw his sword until She says; not to stop until I’m safely delivered to Ürak Tara; not to believe I’m ready until I can open some silly flower,’ thought Shelley grumpily, but with grudging respect.
‘So, where do we head for first, when we’ve crossed this Arm?’ she finally asked, after a silence during which she knew Korman was patiently waiting for her to speak. He smiled and replied, ‘That, I think, is clear: we must take the hidden path through Baz Apédnapath, the Bottomless Canyon, which will lead us to the fortress of Baldrock, not far to the south. We will lie low at Baldrock for a time, and perhaps make contact with my brother if he is near; also any of the other Guardians who may still live there. It could even be that we will find the Tidak at Baldrock.’
Rilke, who had been dozing, woke up and exclaimed, ‘The Tidak! I’ve heard of them! They are great warriors – mother would tell me bedtime stories about them. Are they really real?’
‘Yes. At least, they were,’ said Korman.
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br /> ‘But who are they?’ asked Shelley.
‘The Tidak are a secret order of Guardians who, among other things, are sworn to defend the Kortana with their lives and obey him, or her, without question.’
‘How will that help us?’ asked Shelley, but she guessed the answer.
‘Because you are, I hope, the Kortana,’ replied Korman.
In the dead of night, as the Pale Moon of Aeden sank into a cloudbank above the badlands, Rilke awoke to the sound of chatterings and rustlings. He sat up and saw many dark shapes moving through the long grass. Worriette was edging towards them, nervous but eager.
‘Stop! Come back!’ he whispered to her, alarmed. But she had reached them, and before he could act, one of the dark shapes had approached her. It bent down and sniffed at her, then bared its teeth and spat, swiping her head with a long paw. She was knocked head over heels, and came scampering back and sprang into Rilke’s arms, quivering from head to foot. The dark shapes disappeared into the night, growling and hissing. The wurrier band had rejected Worriette. She was a human now, for good or ill.
Soon after the little wurrier had been rejected by her kind, she was asleep again, curled up beside Rilke. Then she began twitching, her paws moving as if she was trying to run, her head turning this way and that. Shelley stirred in her sleep. She found herself in a tunnel. Ahead there was a commotion of huge wurriers with horrible oversized fangs and snapping grabbing fingers, and one tiny squealing wurrier running away from them in slow motion, struggling as if it was stuck in treacle. ‘Worriette, is that you?’ she called with an effort, and immediately the wild wurriers fell back, growling and chattering in their high-pitched way. Worriette came running and leapt into her arms, shivering. From the safety of Shelley’s arms she growled fiercely at them. They shrank to normal size, turned tail and disappeared, yammering in terror. ‘There there, I’ve got you!’ she said, stroking Worriette’s furry head. Rilke came running around a bend in the cave, and nearly bumped into them. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked indignantly, panting. ‘This is my dream! I wanted to save her!’
‘You’re in my dream?’ gasped Shelley, and promptly woke up. Rilke was still fast asleep (though he was twitching slightly), and Worriette was lying in his arms with a little smile on her lips, fast asleep. ‘It must have been that “Dreamweb” Korman was telling us about!’ thought Shelley. ‘Maybe I could meet Quickblade there!’ She turned over and tried hard to go to sleep again. Of course that made her more awake than before. She tried deep breathing and counting wurriers. It took a long time, but at last she drifted into sleep.
All was dark, a thick, close sort of dark. She was standing in the same tunnel as before, but something was wrong. Worriette was nowhere to be seen. She looked at the walls as her eyes got used to the faint greenish-grey light. They seemed to be moving slightly. Then she saw what the movement was. The earth tunnel had turned into a horrible tube of writhing, interwoven branches, with spines facing this way and that. Only the floor was smooth, the bark of the spiralling thorn branches polished as if by the passage of many feet. Now she could hear the sound of those feet, tramping down the tunnel towards her. She turned to run the other way. The sound of tramping feet began to come from that direction too. She tried to scream, but no sound came.
Then she heard Korman’s voice, as if from a long way away, but clear, and unlike his waking voice it was neither old nor young. He was calling urgently, ‘Make your mind like a mirror! They are coming for your mind, not your body!’ She remembered his words to her: ‘If the Thornmen come as beings of light, you also become as it were a being of light, and they will see nothing but the thought they have projected. If they come as snakes of horror, be as a snake of horror. Reflect and be hidden; resist and they will find you,’ as clear as if he was speaking the words to her then. So she turned herself into a Mindscout, and merged with the oncoming creatures – just in time. The two bands of hunting Mindscouts met in confusion. As they conferred and did an angry roll-check, she simply melted into the tunnel wall and drifted weightless and blissful out of the thorn tunnel, out of the Dreamweb which had almost trapped her, into the calm night sky of Aeden just before dawn.
She opened her eyes and saw the pink-tinged clouds. She gazed at the peaceful dome of the night sky as it silently changed into dawn, and her heart slowly stopped pounding. But it was hurting in a different way, thinking of Quickblade, wishing she could have met him in the Dreamweb, and she wept quietly. Then she turned over and fell fast asleep. She did not stir until she heard Korman gently calling her name, and Rilke’s.
Chapter Twenty-five
The High Pass