by Terry Brooks
“I thought you dwelled farther back in Darklin Reach, somewhere north of Hearthstone.” It was coming back to him now, the whole of what he knew of this shade. “How do you come to be here?”
The shade rippled and changed again, and now it was his mother who confronted him, her face stern and unforgiving. “You were told not to let anything happen to your brother, and yet you did. What sort of brother does that make you, Railing? What sort of son?”
Railing ignored the insults and folded his arms defensively. “I’m wasting my time here. If you have something to tell me, just say it. Otherwise, I am returning to my bed.”
“And you think you will sleep well knowing what you have done? How you have betrayed and manipulated those who depend on you? How you hide a gift from a Faerie creature because you are afraid to reveal your possession of it? How you have become a thing much worse than what you think me to be? Oh, I seriously doubt that you will sleep well at all!”
Railing fought back against his rising anger and deliberately kept his hands at his sides and out of his pockets. “Since you seem to know me so well, you must also know that nothing you can tell me will make a difference in how I feel about myself or my brother or my friends!”
“Nothing?” A meaningful pause. “Really?”
Railing took a deep breath. “What, then?”
“You are such a disappointment to me, Railing! Such a waste of possibilities.” His mother’s voice, cold and scolding. Then the shade rippled once more and suddenly it was a faceless being, cloaked and hooded. “It is I who shall go to bed and leave you to your fate.”
“You can know nothing of fate!” Railing’s hands were clenched into fists. “Only of secrets. You are a master of trickery and deceit. My fate is in my hands.”
The Grimpond went silent then, hovering like the fog from which it had emerged, the substance of it beginning to fragment and vanish. “If you are so convinced of that, go on your way. I am done with you. I would give you help, but you spurn me. You mistrust me, yet you refuse to see that I might have knowledge you lack. Knowledge you desire, Railing Ohmsford. Knowledge you crave.”
Railing stepped back, shaking his head slowly. “No, you would trick me with your words and your pretenses. You seek to play games with me. You did this with others in my family. The histories tell us so. You were never less than deceitful, and I will not become your latest victim.”
The Grimpond came back together again abruptly. “Why not hear my words and judge for yourself? Can mere words do so much harm that even to listen would undo you? Are so you frightened of me?”
The night closed down around the boy as he pondered a response. What should he say? Should he admit his fears and be done with it? Should he deny being afraid and demand that the other give him what he was promising? Should he walk away? The silence lengthened, and the Grimpond waited.
“I want you to do what you think you should,” Railing said eventually. “If you have something to say, I will listen. If not, I will leave.”
The Grimpond chuckled softly and shimmered once more. But this time it did not change form and did not give a quick retort. Instead, it seemed to consider.
“Hear me, then,” it said finally. “I summoned you to see what you were made of, that much is true. Had you been weaker, I might have tried to teach you a lesson. But now I will simply tell you what it is I know that you do not. You have come in search of Grianne Ohmsford. You would know her fate, and if there is a chance that she might be brought back to face the Straken Lord.”
He paused, and the boy waited patiently.
“She lives, Railing Ohmsford. She lives, and she can be what you need. She can do what you expect. If you wish that of her, you should continue on with the knowledge that what you seek is possible. Yet you should be careful what you ask for—an old phrase, but a good one to remember, because all is not as it seems. There are threads that might cause the whole to unravel, like the threads of the ring you carry in your pocket.”
Railing felt a surge of excitement. His efforts would not be wasted. His chances of finding Grianne and bringing her back to face the Straken Lord—and save his brother and possibly the Four Lands—were real. He understood what the Grimpond was telling him about things not working out as he hoped, but he had known that from the first. And any chance at all was the best he could hope for.
“Is this the truth?” he asked the shade. “Are you lying in any way?”
“Not a word of what you’ve heard is a lie, but your expectations may turn my words to falsehood. This is not my doing. Remember that. Keep the memory of what I have told you clear in your mind.”
“I will.”
The Grimpond shimmered and began to recede. “Enough of this. I came to say those words and I have said them. What happens now is up to you. I will watch your progress and record your reactions to everything that happens. It will be most entertaining for me.”
The boy watched the shade trail away like a shadow lost with the light’s passing—there one moment and gone the next. It was still visible as it reached the fog and passed through.
Then it melted away in a scattering of tiny particles and was gone.
Two
The company set out again at dawn, rising to greet a sun hung low and red against the horizon, its rays like tendrils of blood stretched out across the waking land. The intensity of the crimson light against the fading night was unsettling, and the passengers and crew of Quickening ate their breakfast in silence, with uneasy looks toward the east. The haze that caused the light to take on that color was unfamiliar even to the Rovers, and superstition hovered in all their minds.
They set sail nevertheless, and by midmorning the last of the sunrise and its aftermath had vanished into a pale silvery mist, clouds screening all but streaks of the blue sky beyond. The threat of rain loomed north and west in a massing of thunderheads. Storm coming, one or two muttered to the others, just to say the words aloud. Bad one, from the looks of it.
To Railing, sitting with his back to the pilot box—distancing himself from the others—the gathering storm felt emblematic. Once again, he was keeping everything to himself, choosing not to speak of his meeting with the Grimpond, hiding away what had transpired. Now he was keeping two secrets of great import rather than one, both of which he knew he should have shared with the other members of the company. But he still could not bring himself to reveal a thing that might spell the end to their journey. Because no matter what else happened, he could not allow them to turn back.
It was a terrible place to be. He knew the decision was not his alone to make. He knew, as well, that his actions were both selfish and dangerous. He even knew that he was probably not the best one to decide what should happen in light of his brother’s plight. But nothing he had been told by either the King of the Silver River or the Grimpond had changed his commitment or eroded his determination. He was set on finding Grianne Ohmsford and using her to save his brother. The very fact that the Grimpond had told him she lived and he would reach her was enough to cement whatever cracks might have surfaced in the wall of his resolve. It did not matter that there had been an equivocation in the creature’s words, or that they were, perhaps, meant to taunt and tease. It did not matter that he had been warned twice—once by each of his unearthly visitors—that things might not turn out as he expected.
What mattered—the only thing that mattered—was that he would be given a chance at saving Redden.
He understood the risk he was taking. He knew Grianne might turn him away, might even dismiss him out of hand. But he believed he was strong enough that he could overcome such obstacles. He believed he could find a way to achieve what he had long ago decided must happen—even in the face of resistance.
His was a faith that was deep and burning. He had come this far riding its dark wings, and he would fly on its slippery back and steer it on its uncertain course until this business was over and he had gotten Redden back, safe and well once more.
That i
t might cost him his life did not matter. It was not even a possibility he dwelled on. That it might cost the lives of his companions troubled him more, but not enough to give him pause. They had come with him because they believed in what they were doing. He saw it as his mission to keep them believing.
They flew west and north into the Upper Anar, following the twisting line of the Rabb River where it wound its angular way through the forests and mountains below—a course that would take them close to where they would sheer off north in search of the town of Rampling Steep. Farshaun told him this at one point, coming over to sit beside him, worried perhaps that he was keeping himself too isolated from the rest of the company. They sat together in silence save for when the old man made the effort to engage him in conversation. But Railing had already distanced himself from discussions of this sort, finding it the easiest way to deal with the emotional fallout of his choice. Better to say nothing than to break down and spill it all.
“You do not seem yourself, boy,” Farshaun said at one point. “As if maybe you’ve left us and gone somewhere else. Is that so? What’s happening with you?”
“Nothing,” Railing answered at once. He tried a smile that didn’t work. “I just can’t stop thinking about Redden and what he’s going through. It’s very hard.”
“We know this. But you shouldn’t shut us out.”
There was nothing to say to that, and after a while the Rover got up and walked away.
Mirai didn’t come by at all that day, although she waved to him in passing once or twice. Mostly, she spent her time with Austrum—an irritation that Railing couldn’t do anything about without starting an argument. And he was determined to avoid fighting with the one true north in his life. He watched her in silence, remembering what she had told him earlier about the big Rover: that there was nothing between them.
But then Austrum reached for her hand and took it in his own and she did not pull away.
By midafternoon they were well into the Upper Anar, the Quickening benefiting from a following wind as they tacked north toward the Charnals. They had made good time all day, and their luck continued with their new heading. The approaching storm seemed to have cleared the Dragon’s Teeth and rumbled on to the western edge of the Wolfsktaag Mountains, but there it had stalled out. Farshaun had stopped long enough to let him know that they would reach Rampling Steep that day, shortly after sunset.
Railing spent the remaining hours working the rigging with the crew, suddenly in need of something to do. He tried not to look about for Mirai, unwilling to find her in the company of Austrum, but when he finally did see her she was standing not six feet away, working the lines with him. She grinned knowingly, as if able to read his thoughts and divine his intentions. Blushing, he grinned back, feeling good for no other reason than an unmistakable relief in finding her close and alone.
Darkness had set in when they spied the lights of their destination, torches and lamps in large numbers burning through the inky black, the clouds massing over the mountaintops to shadow the land about them. The first few drops of rain were beginning to fall as they descended, heralding the approach of the storm and warning of a need to secure the airship with haste.
They descended smoothly, Mirai at the helm and Farshaun and Skint acting as navigators, aiming for a small airfield that sat just outside the town. There was a handful of aircraft moored on the field—none of them ships-of-the-line or even vessels the size of Quickening. Most were dilapidated and poorly tended, and had the look of ships that hadn’t flown recently and might never fly again. No one moved about on the field as they settled down; no one appeared to greet them or aid them in their mooring.
None of this mattered to the Rovers, who were used to handling everything on their own. They scurried about the decking, hauling down the light sheaths, securing the radian draws and lowering anchors and ropes for moorage. Railing watched for the first few moments, then his gaze shifted to Rampling Steep. It was too dark to see very far, but if the numbers of lamps and torches were any indication, this wasn’t much of a town. For one thing, it was situated far up in the foothills that shadowed the mountains, and the only reason for its existence seemed to be its location—all of the passes leading into the Charnals from the west began here. Farshaun had told him that the town’s only value was as a way station for trappers, hunters, and travelers seeking guides. No one would come this way otherwise.
Looking at it now, catching glimpses of the closest buildings at the edge of the airfield, he could tell that upkeep and repairs were not a high priority for the town’s residents. Sideboards were cracked and splintered, roofs were sagging or collapsed, windows were broken out, and every other building appeared to have given up the fight years before. A few had been maintained so that they seemed able to weather a storm and keep their inhabitants warm and dry, but even those lacked pretense at being anything more than basic shelter.
Farther on, the lights were thicker and brighter, suggesting that the town center might be slightly less decrepit. When he listened closely, the boy could hear the sounds of singing and laughter.
“Morgan Leah came this way a long time ago,” Mirai said. She was standing at his elbow, looking out at the town with him. Her hair was tied back, and strands caught the distant lights in golden glints. “He was traveling with Walker Boh and the girl Quickening, among others. The company had come in search of the city of Eldwist and the Stone King, Uhl Belk, seeking the Black Elfstone.”
“I remember the story.” Railing tried not to look at her, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. “We heard it from our father when he was telling us the family history. That was in the time of Par and Coll Ohmsford. The Shadowen were abroad and hunting them.”
She said nothing for a moment, her eyes focused on the town. “You be careful when you go in there.”
He glanced over then, catching a hint of something like regret in her words. “You won’t be coming?”
She shook her head. “Skint doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He thinks I’ll attract too much attention. Farshaun agrees. Women in towns like these serve only one purpose.”
Railing nodded. “They’re probably right. It’s too risky.”
But he was still surprised. Somehow he had believed she would be going simply because they always stayed close whenever they were together. It felt odd knowing she wouldn’t be with him.
“Maybe you should go anyway,” he said, wanting her to agree. “A cloak and hood would hide …”
She gave him a quick look and walked away, not waiting to hear more. He stood looking after her, the rest of what he was going to say forgotten, the unspoken words a bitter taste in his mouth.
Moments later the company gathered on the main deck, summoned by Farshaun, who seemed to have assumed command in the absence of any involvement on Railing’s part.
“Everyone stays aboard but Skint, Railing, and myself. The three of us will go into the town and try to find the man we need. It might take us a while, so you will have to be patient. But no one,” he continued, looking specifically at Austrum and the other Rovers, “leaves the airship while we are away.”
“Not much of anywhere to go,” Austrum allowed with a grin. “I don’t think you need worry, Old Man.”
He said it affectionately, and Farshaun took it that way, giving him a grin in reply before adding, “You’ll find out just how old I am if you disobey me.”
So while the others set about finding something to do in the interim, Skint, Railing and Farshaun descended the rope ladder and set off.
They crossed the airfield through the darkness, heading for the lights of the town, picking their way over humps and ruts and clusters of rocks as they went. They reached the first of the lights—a lamp attached to what appeared to be an equipment shed but looked like little more than another ruin. They found a path there and followed it through a scattering of buildings—some of them homes, some sheds, some barns—moving steadily toward the laughter and singing. Debris was scattered
everywhere, and no one was about. A few of the better-maintained houses were dark, the shutters barred and the curtains drawn. No one else moved on the path, not until it turned into a weather-eroded roadway. Even then, the men they passed walked with their heads down and their eyes averted. Some stumbled drunkenly. Some turned aside to slip from view between the buildings. No one spoke to them. No one evinced the least interest in who they were or what they were doing.
By the time they were finally approaching the town center, the storm had caught up to them and it had begun to rain. The rain increased in intensity while they plodded up the roadway, the ground beneath their boots turning soft with mud and standing water. Ahead, the lamps burned dimly through the gloom, and the torches sizzled and sputtered.
At the first inn they reached, Skint paused. “Wait here.”
He disappeared inside and came out only moments later, beckoning them on. Railing was hungry by now, along with being cold and wet, and was impatient to reach their destination. But they slogged on past several other taverns without slowing and had almost reached the far side of the town when the Gnome Tracker motioned them through the door of a dilapidated building whose sign read PAINTED LADY. Smoky air and dim lighting greeted them; the haze was nearly as bad inside as out. The room in which they stood was big by any standard. The floor space was filled with tables and benches, and most of them were occupied. A bar against which a clutch of men leaned, drinking and joking, took up one long wall. A few heads turned, but most of the tavern’s customers ignored them. Skint stopped just inside the doorway, glanced around, then directed them to a table near the far wall. They threaded their way through the tables and bodies and arrived at their destination unchallenged. They were close to a huge fireplace with a fire blazing in the open hearth. They removed their cloaks and felt the heat begin to chase off the chill that had settled into their bones.