by Terry Brooks
Pen nodded. “I don’t, Tagwen. But look at how things stand. We’re trapped here, all of us. Even without the Druids to deal with, we’re stranded in these ruins, surrounded by Urdas. I have to get out if I’m to help my aunt, and the quicker the better. It’s already been too long. If I don’t get to Paranor and use the darkwand soon, it will be too late. And now I have a way. The Druids will take me faster than I could get there on my own. I know it’s dangerous. I know what they intend for me. And for my parents. But I have to risk it.”
“You’re risking too much!” the Dwarf snapped. “You’ll get there quick enough, all right. And then what? They won’t let you into the chamber of the Ard Rhys. They won’t let you make use of that talisman. Shadea will see you for the threat you are and do away with you before you have a chance to do anything!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He looked off into the gardens, into the pale, shifting patterns of color and the dappled shadows cast by the Druids and Gnome Hunters in the firelight’s glow. “In any case, it’s the only choice that makes sense.” He turned back to Tagwen. “If I agree to go with them, will that tall Druid keep his word and let you go? Is his word any good? Is he any better than the rest of them?”
Tagwen thought about it a moment. “Traunt Rowan. He’s not as bad as the other one, Pyson Wence, and certainly not as bad as Shadea. But he joined them in the plot against your aunt.” He shook his head. “She always thought he was principled, if misguided in his antipathy toward her. He might keep his word.”
Pen nodded. “I’ll have to chance it.”
The Dwarf reached for him with both strong hands and gripped his shoulders. “Don’t do this, Penderrin,” he whispered.
Pen held his gaze. “If you were in my shoes, Tagwen, wouldn’t you? To save her from the Forbidding, to give her a chance, wouldn’t you do just what I’m doing?” Tagwen stared at him in silence. He gave the Dwarf a quick smile. “Of course you would. Don’t say anything more. I’ve already said it to myself. We knew from the beginning that we would do whatever was necessary to reach her, no matter the risk. We knew it, even if we didn’t talk about it. Nothing has changed. I have to go to Paranor. Then into the Forbidding.”
He closed his eyes against the sudden panic that the words roused in him. The enormity of what he was going to attempt was overwhelming. He was just a boy. He wasn’t gifted or skilled or anything useful. He was mostly just there when no one else was.
He took a deep breath. “Will you come after me? In case I don’t find a way to get through? In case I get locked away in the dungeons and don’t get my parents out? Will you try to do something about it?” He exhaled sharply. “Even if I do get through and find her, the Druids will be waiting for us when we get back. We’ll need help, Tagwen.”
The Dwarf tightened his grip. “We’ll come for you. No matter how long it takes us, no matter where you are. We’ll find a way to reach you. We’ll be there for you when you need us.”
Pen put his hands over those of the Dwarf’s, pressing them down into his shoulders. “Get out of here any way you can, Tagwen. Don’t stop for anything.” He hesitated. “Don’t try to reach Cinnaminson. She has to wait for me. She can’t leave until I come back for her.” He shook his head quickly, fighting back tears. “Don’t ask me to explain. Just tell me you’ll do what I’ve asked. All right?”
The Dwarf nodded. “All right.”
“I can do this,” Pen whispered, swallowing hard. “I know I can.”
Tagwen’s fingers tightened. “I know it, too. You’ve done everything else. Everything anyone could have asked of you.”
“I’ll find a way. Once I’m there, I’ll find a way.”
“There are some still loyal to your aunt,” Tagwen said. “Keep an eye out. One of them might come to your aid.”
Pen glanced down again at the darkwand. “What can I do about the staff? It’s too big to hide, but I have to take it with me. I know they won’t let me keep it, if they see it. But I can’t afford to give it over to them, either.”
From back in the shadows, the taller of the two Druids called out, “You should have said everything you intended to say by now, Pen. You should be finished and ready to honor your promise. Tell Tagwen to step back, and then you come forward to us!”
Pen stared toward the firelight, to the cluster of Troll prisoners huddled together, to the shadowy forms of the Gnome Hunters surrounding them, to the cloaked forms of the Druids. It had the look of another world, of a place and time he could barely imagine. He was still enmeshed in the world of the tanequil, of orange-tipped leaves and mottled bark, of massive limbs and roots, of a sentient being older than Man. His memories of the past two days were still so painfully fresh that they dominated his present and threatened to overwhelm his fragile determination.
He despaired.
“That’s a pretty piece of work,” Tagwen said suddenly, nodding down at the darkwand. “It might help if it wasn’t so shiny.”
He eased back on his heels and reached behind him for a handful of damp earth, then rubbed it along the length of the staff, clotting the runes, dulling the surface. He worked in the shadows, shielding his movements.
“If they take it away from you,” he said, finishing up, “tell them you found it in the ruins. Tell them you don’t know what it is. If they think it was given to you to help the Ard Rhys, you’ll never see it again. You might keep it long enough to use it if they don’t suspect what it’s for.”
Pen nodded. He stood up, one hand gripping the staff. He leaned on it once more, as if he needed its support. “Go back to them. Tell Kermadec to be ready. Khyber is still out there, somewhere. I saw her while coming back to you. She should have been here by now. She might be watching all this, and I don’t know what she will do.”
The Dwarf took a quick look around, as if thinking he might see her in the darkness, then nodded and rose, as well. Saying nothing, he returned to the Gnome Hunters and the encircled Rock Trolls, his head lowered. The Trolls watched him come, but did not rise to greet him. Pen waited until he was seated among them again, then looked over at the Druids, who were standing to one side.
“Do you promise my friends will not be harmed?” he asked again.
“Not by us or those who travel with us,” the taller Druid replied, coming forward a step. “We’ll leave them here when we depart. What happens to them after that is up to them.”
It was the best Pen could hope for. He would have liked to have found a way to get them back to Taupo Rough, but he couldn’t chance trying to make that happen. Kermadec was resourceful. He would find a way.
Pen glanced down at the darkwand. The dirt and mud that coated its length mostly hid its runes. Its smooth surface was dull. If he was lucky, they would not pay close attention to it. If they took it, he would have to find a way to get it back later.
His gaze shifted to the island of the tanequil, to the dark silent wall of the forest that concealed the sentient tree. He was leaving things unfinished here, he knew, and he might never have a chance to come back and set them right. The urge to act immediately threatened to overpower him, to turn him from his path to the Ard Rhys. He knew her so little, and Cinnaminson so well.
He took another deep, steadying breath and looked back at the waiting Druids. “I’m ready,” he called out in what he hoped was a brave voice.
Then, using the staff as a crutch, he began to walk toward them.
TWO
From deep in the shadows at the edge of the gardens, Khyber Elessedil watched the drama unfold with a mix of anger and indecision.
“Oh, no, Pen,” she whispered.
She had returned before him, seen the Druid airships hanging over the gardens like spiders from an invisible web, the Gnome Hunters ringing the captive members of her little company, the Druids watching the bridge, and she had determined that she must do something to warn the boy.
But she was too late. He appeared abruptly, incautiously revealing himself before he could think better of it and
before she could stop him. She held back then to see what would happen, thinking that she must not act too hastily, that she did not know yet what to do. She could save one—the boy or the rest of the company—but not both, not without a great deal of luck she could not depend upon. Two Druids were more than she was able to handle on her own; her skills were too rudimentary, her knowledge too shallow. She would catch them unawares, but that would not give her enough of an edge to guarantee success.
No, she must wait.
She must bide her time.
And so she did, listening to the conversation that ensued between Pen and Traunt Rowan. She could divine the nature of their maneuverings, of their hidden intentions, from what they said and how they moved. She understood what was at stake, but not how the matter would be resolved. Desperately trying to concoct a plan that would allow her to act, knowing that sooner or later she must, she waited them out. When Tagwen was allowed to confer with Pen in private, she thought that then was the time to do whatever she could, but she was unable to make herself do so. Everything she considered promised to end badly. Everything depended on help that wasn’t available. She prevaricated and waffled. Indecision froze her.
Until, finally, it was too late. Pen was coming down from the bridge to give himself up, counting on Traunt Rowan to honor his word about Tagwen and the Trolls, giving himself over to a fate he had already determined he must embrace. Anything to get to Paranor, he was thinking. She knew it without having to be told.
She watched him limp forward, leaning on his staff, his young face etched with lines of determination. He was sacrificing himself. For the Ard Rhys. For Tagwen. For Kermadec and his Rock Trolls. Even for her. He did not know where she was, only that she was out there somewhere, still free, perhaps still able to do something to help. But he wasn’t looking for that help just then. His intention was to get to Paranor and hope that help could be found there.
The staff drew her attention. She had seen it before, when he was scurrying through the woods on the island of the tanequil. But then it had looked much brighter and better kept. She had thought it was the darkwand, the talisman he had come to find. The tree would have given it to him, persuaded in a way that only he knew, a way that the King of the Silver River said he would find when it was time. If it was the talisman, in fact. If …
But it was, of course. He had muddied the surface and was using it as a crutch to disguise what it really was. He was taking a desperate chance that neither of the Druids would think it anything more than a length of old wood. He could not go to Paranor without it, and go to Paranor he must, of course. That was his intention in giving himself up.
She saw it all clearly, a conclusion about which she felt so certain that she never questioned it. Brave Pen.
Seconds later, she was moving, sliding along the edge of the trees, making her way toward the closest of the airships. She must do what she could to help him, and to help him she must go where he was going. She must get aboard the airship, travel hidden to Paranor, then disembark in secret and find him before they discovered his intentions and put an end to them. Because they would, she knew. He was not clever or strong enough to fool them all. One of them would see through him.
Within the circle of light cast by the fire, the Druids had moved forward to intercept Pen. He did not resist them as Traunt Rowan took Pen’s arm and guided him toward the Athabasca. Rowan’s actions were almost paternal. He spoke softly to the boy, walking beside him in a way that suggested good intentions. He had not bothered yet with the staff, did not seem to care much about it at all. Pen was still limping, perhaps causing the Druid to think he was indeed injured and in need of support. The other one, his sly eyes fixed on them, trailed purposefully, and Khyber did not trust anything about him. If he had been the one to make the promise to release Tagwen and the Trolls, she would have acted at once, she told herself. There would have been no hesitation.
She reached the rope ladder that dangled from the airship she had chosen—not the one Pen was boarding, unfortunately—and went up it in a rush, not bothering to look back until she was aboard. There were Gnome Hunters forward against the railing, but their attentions were occupied with the events taking place below, and they took no notice of her. She slipped into the shadow of the mainmast, then over to the shelter of a rail sling set in place to port. From there, she could see Pen being led to the ladder of the other ship, the Druids shadowing him watchfully. She watched the Gnome Hunters drift through the light toward their ships like wraiths to their haunts. She saw Tagwen’s rough features, sad and desperate, peer upward as Pen climbed the ladder. She saw Kermadec’s strong hands knot together in a promise of certain action.
She could still stop it, she told herself. She could fling Druid Fire or elemental winds all through those Gnome Hunters and knock them sprawling. She could separate Pen from those Druids, burn away the ladder from below where he climbed, and give him a chance to flee. But it would not be settled then and there, and the consequences for those Trolls too slow to reach the shadows or the weapons of which they had been stripped would be ugly.
Remember. Pen is not trying to escape. He is trying to reach Paranor. He has made up his mind.
She pictured him anew as she had seen him from across the chasm not two hours earlier. She saw the monster Traunt Rowan had named Aphasia Wye. She saw Pen prepare to do what he could to stop it, even when there appeared there was nothing he could do. Facing what must have seemed to be certain death, he had not tried to flee or hide. He had stood there to meet it.
And would have, had she not been there to give him aid.
Perhaps he was relying on her now.
Perhaps he knew she would not abandon him; that because she had saved him once, his life was her responsibility. Old legends said that this was so. She had never believed it.
But somehow, at that moment, she did.
“Are you injured?” Traunt Rowan asked pleasantly, supporting Pen under his free arm, not looking at him as he talked, moving him steadily along toward the Athabasca.
Pen shrugged. “Nothing serious.”
“Aphasia Wye?”
“I hurt it trying to get away from him.”
“But no broken bones?”
Pen shook his head.
“You’re lucky. If you hadn’t gotten away from him, broken bones would have been the least of your problems.”
The second Druid, the one Tagwen had named Pyson Wence, moved up suddenly on Pen’s other side. “How did you get away from him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He risked a quick look at Traunt Rowan, seemingly the friendlier of the two. “Not until we’re away.”
Pyson Wence seized his arm, the blunt fingers squeezing so hard he flinched. “I don’t like your tone of voice, little man,” he hissed. “What you want in this matter is of no concern to us.”
Pen shrank from him. “I want to know my friends are safe before I tell you anything.”
“Let him go, Pyson,” the taller one whispered. “Unfriendly eyes are watching. We can wait.”
The one called Pyson let him go. Pen tore away from Traunt Rowan and rubbed his injured arm. He kept his head down and his eyes averted. He didn’t want to do anything to aggravate them until the airships were aloft and his friends free. He didn’t know what to expect then, but he would have a story in place to tell them that might buy him some time.
They reached the ladder, and as he made an attempt to climb it while still holding the darkwand, Pyson Wence snatched it away and cast it aside. “You won’t be needing any crutches from here on,” he said.
Pen froze, hands on the ladder, one foot on the first rung. He couldn’t leave the talisman behind.
Then Traunt Rowan walked over and picked it up. “He might have need of it, Pyson. I’ll carry it up for him. Go on, Pen.”
Pen exhaled sharply and began to climb, taking care to favor his supposedly injured leg as he went. He did not look down at the Druids. He did not slow until he was aboard the
airship, when he turned to wait for them. They were aboard quickly, dark faces shadowed and unreadable in the faint diffusion of the now distant firelight. Below, the Gnome Hunters were moving to follow, all but those who ringed the prisoners.
Traunt Rowan moved over to Pen and handed him back his staff. “You wouldn’t consider trying to use this as a weapon, would you?” he asked with an edgy smile.
Pen shook his head.
“Good. Now let’s go below and get you settled in.”
Instantly, Pen moved over to the railing, away from everyone. “Not until I see that my friends are going to be all right,” he said. “I want to watch what happens next.”
Pyson Wence’s Gnomic features were dark with anger, but Traunt Rowan merely shrugged. “Stay where you are then.”
He turned to Wence and nodded, and the latter issued orders to the Hunters who crewed the airships. The Hunters began scurrying about the decks and up the rigging, preparing the three ships to sail. With a last, dark look at Pen, Pyson Wence moved into the pilot box to stand next to the Athabasca’s Captain, his face turned away from the boy.
Now only the few Gnomes guarding Tagwen and the Trolls remained, and one by one, weapons held at the ready, eyes fixed on the prisoners, they began to drift back toward the airships as well. Pen’s companions sat quietly and watched their captors withdraw, making no attempt to stop them. Atalan was staring up at Pen, a strange look on his fierce face, one that suggested he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Tagwen was whispering to Kermadec, his head bent close to that of the Troll, their faces dark and intense.
Pen scanned the grounds at the edges of the firelight, where the walls caught the last of the flickering yellow glow, where the shadows encroached from the woods beyond. No sign of Khyber. But she had to be there. She had to be watching.
Then the Athabasca was lifting away, the other two airships following close behind, and the ruins of Stridegate were shrinking into the darkness. His former companions came to their feet and stood close together, looking after him. Quickly, their faces turned small and indistinct, and then disappeared. The ruins faded, as well, until all that remained was the tiny dot of the fire’s heart.