by Terry Brooks
They rode on through the rest of that day and most of the next. All the while it rained, leaving them wet clear through except for brief periods of dryness when they camped and were able to chase away the damp with the help of the fires Bunion always seemed to be able to construct. They passed Rhyndweir and several of the other castles of the Lords of the Greensward but did not stop to ask for shelter. Ben had no interest in seeing anyone, preferring to minimize the chance of further attacks from Rydall. Surprisingly, there were none. Since Rydall had found them in the Eastern Wastelands with the wurm, Ben had supposed he would be able to find them anywhere. Given the frequency and consistency of the attacks, he had expected another by now. On the other hand, Rydall had used up four of his promised seven challenges, so perhaps he was rethinking his strategy. Ben didn’t consider it worth his while to ponder the matter further. He was simply grateful for the respite.
He used the time to think. With his travel cloak a shield against the elements, Willow a silent wraith riding next to him, and the rain a curtain that shrouded everything in damp, gray silence, he shut himself away from his discomfort and tedium and concentrated on the puzzle of Rydall of Marnhull. He was beginning to consider possibilities he had not considered before. Some of this was prompted by his growing sense of desperation. He could feel time running out. Sooner or later Rydall was going to send a monster from which no one could save him—not the Paladin, not Strabo, not anyone. Sooner or later his defenses were not going to be strong enough, and the struggle to survive would be over. The only thing that could prevent that from happening was uncovering the secret behind Rydall, and Ben seemed to be no closer to doing that than ever. So he determined to quit thinking in predictable ways, to be more innovative, more daring. He had to stop being led around by Rydall. He had to refuse to follow the paths Marnhull’s King left open to him and start opening a few of his own. There was a net being woven about Ben Holiday, and he could sense it tightening with every new strand laid out. He had to find a way to cut through the webbing.
His thinking, however, was prompted not so much by his desperation as by his realization that there were a few loose threads in Rydall’s carefully woven net. First, there was Ben’s growing certainty that Rydall’s sending of monsters to do battle with the Paladin was part of a game that had far more to do with Ben than with Landover’s throne. Second, there was his recognition that three of the four monsters had come from the stories in his Monsters of Man & Myth book. Three created in painstaking detail from the writer’s descriptions, as if Rydall had copied the creatures directly from the book’s pages. Three, but not the fourth. No, the fourth, a wurm, had come from somewhere else.
A witch’s favorite magic, Strabo had informed him.
In Landover that meant Nightshade.
He had given no serious consideration before to the possibility that Nightshade might be involved in this. Why would he? Rydall was an outlander, a usurper of power, an interloper whose goals were directly at odds with Nightshade’s. On the other hand, no one hated Ben Holiday and his family more than the witch did. Stripped of Rydall’s obvious presence, this entire business felt very much like her work. The use of dark magic, the attack on family and friends, and the calculated effort to destroy him all smacked of Nightshade. While he had heard nothing from the witch in more than two years, he did not expect that she had forgotten her promise that she would never forgive him for what had happened to her in the Tangle Box. For what she had been made to feel for him when they had both been stripped of their identities. For what she viewed as the loss of her dignity.
What if there was no Rydall? Oh, there might be someone masquerading as Marnhull’s King, but what if Rydall himself was a fiction? No one had ever heard of Rydall or Marnhull—not the River Master, not Kallendbor, not even Strabo, who had traveled everywhere. No one could find Rydall or Marnhull. There was no trace of Mistaya, Questor Thews, or Abernathy. There was no sign of an invading army. The only physical evidence of Rydall at any time in this entire episode had been presented when Marnhull’s King and his black-cloaked companion had appeared at the gates of Sterling Silver.
So, Ben mulled, what if this whole business was an elaborate charade? Where, after all, was the one place in Landover that he hadn’t searched since Mistaya had disappeared? Where was the one place he had ignored because it wasn’t readily accessible to him and because it didn’t seem reasonable to look there? Where was the one place none of them had looked?
The Deep Fell, where Nightshade made her home.
Ben Holiday’s suspicions hardened. What had begun as a consideration of possibilities rapidly evolved into a careful sifting of facts. Nightshade as Rydall; it made as much sense as anything else he had envisioned. Or Nightshade as Rydall’s black-cloaked companion, he amended. He remembered the way the hooded rider had studied him when he had come down onto the causeway to pick up the gauntlet, the intensity of that veiled gaze. He remembered the way both riders had looked upon Mistaya when she had climbed onto the ramparts.
His chest tightened, and his stomach turned to ice.
It was late on the third day of their journey home when they came in sight of Sterling Silver. The castle materialized through the gloom like a vision brought to life from a child’s imagining, a gleaming, rain-streaked rise of spires and parapets that hardened into stone and mortar, timber and metal, pennants and flags as they closed on its island surround. They crossed the moat through a misty curtain and passed beneath the raised portcullis. Retainers scurried to take their horses and usher them inside out of the weather. Ben and Willow went wordlessly to their bedchamber, stripped off their sodden clothing, climbed into a tub of steaming water, and lay back to soak. When some of the ache and discomfort of their travel had been eased, they climbed out again, dried off, and dressed in fresh clothing.
Then Ben led Willow down to the library for a close look at his copy of Monsters of Man & Myth. It took only moments to locate it. It sat on the shelf exactly where he remembered leaving it. He pulled it out and looked at the cover. Sure enough, there was Rydall’s robot. He thumbed through the pages and in short order found a drawing of the giant. Then he found the writer’s description of the demon that could mimic any foe.
He showed the book to Willow. “You see? Exactly the same as Rydall’s monsters.”
She nodded. “But how did he do it? How did he know about this book and these particular monsters? Ben, I didn’t know about this book. I didn’t even know it was here. We’ve never talked about it, not once. How did Rydall know?”
It was true, he realized. He had never taken it down and shown it to her before. They had never discussed it. There had never been any reason to do so. He had carried it over with him through the mists, unpacked it, placed it in the library, and forgotten it.
Until now. He stood close to the sylph, staring down at the book in silence. Without, the rain continued in dreary, unchanging monotony, the sound of its falling a soft patter on the stone. Ben felt strangely lulled, as if he might fall asleep at any moment. He was more tired than he wanted to admit, but he could not afford to sleep until he had unraveled the secret of Rydall and his monsters. Not until he had found a way to bring Mistaya home.
Mistaya.
He stared at Willow in surprise. “You said you didn’t know about this book. But do you know who did? Mistaya. I caught her reading it once, paging through it. I didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt her. I don’t think she even saw me watching. She was so small, and I didn’t think she could even understand it …”
He trailed off, his mind racing. “Willow,” he said quietly, “I want you to listen to something. I want you to tell me what you think.”
Then he told her of his suspicion that Nightshade might be Rydall’s creator and that the Witch of the Deep Fell might be behind everything that had happened to them. He gave her all his reasons, laid out all the possibilities, and provided all the underpinnings of his conjecture. Willow listened intently, not interrupting, waiting for
him to finish.
“The thing is,” he concluded worriedly, “Mistaya could have told Nightshade about the book, could have described the monsters, could even have drawn a picture. She’s smart enough to have remembered. She probably understood a whole lot more than I gave her credit for.”
“But why would she do this?” Willow wanted to know instantly. “Why would she do anything to help the witch?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m guessing about all this. But she has seen the book, and if Nightshade is Rydall, then it was Nightshade who kidnapped her. And has her now.”
Willow gave him a long, steady look as she considered the possibility. “Do you remember when we talked about who else knew of the connection between the medallion and the Paladin? Only you and I, you said. But Nightshade knows, too. She was with you in the Tangle Box when you used the medallion.”
Ben took a deep breath. “You’re right. I forgot about that.”
“You said you believed magic was used to hide the medallion when the robot attacked at Rhyndweir. Nightshade possesses such magic.” Willow’s face was stricken. “Ben, we have to go to the Deep Fell.”
Ben slid his book back into its slot on the shelf. “I know. We’ll go tomorrow, first thing. It’s too late to start out again today. We’re exhausted. We need at least one night’s sleep in a dry bed.”
He moved over to her and put his arms about her waist. “But we’re definitely going,” he promised. “And if that’s where Mistaya is, we’ll get her back.”
Willow put her arms around him in response and lay her head against his shoulder. They held each other in silence, drawing comfort and strength from their joining, hardening themselves against the feelings of fear and doubt that twisted within.
Outside, the shadows lengthened toward twilight and the rain fell harder.
They ate dinner alone in the dark silence of the eating hall, two solitary figures hunched close within the candlelight where it pushed back against the gloom. They did not speak much, too tired to attempt conversation, too immersed in their own thoughts. When they were finished, they retired to their bedchamber, climbed beneath the covers, and quickly fell asleep.
It was midnight when Ben woke. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to gain his bearings. He felt a faint burning where the medallion lay against his chest, a warning that something was wrong. He sat up slowly, his ears straining for sounds in the darkness. The rain had ceased finally, but the clouds hung across the sky like a shroud, blotting out the light of moons and stars. He could hear water dripping from the eaves and battlements, soft, small splashes in the inky night. Next to him Willow’s breathing was relaxed and steady. Then he heard something scrape against the stone outside his window, a barely discernible sound, a whisper of trouble approaching. He slipped from the bed swiftly, noiselessly, feeling the medallion burn sharply now against his skin. Panic raced through him. He knew what was coming, and he was not ready for it. It was too soon. He had convinced himself that Rydall would not strike again so quickly, that he would deliberate before sending his fifth monster.
Ben glanced about the room, looking for help. Where was Bunion? He had not seen the kobold since their return. Was he anywhere close at hand? He turned back to the bed and Willow. He had to get her out of there. He had to get her to safety, away from whatever was going to happen next.
He reached down for her shoulder and shook her gently. “Willow!” he hissed. “Wake up!”
Her eyes opened instantly, a brilliant emerald even in the near black, wide and deep and filled with understanding. “Ben,” she said.
Then the room’s light shifted as a shadow filled the window, and Ben wheeled back to face it. The shadow rose into the gap and perched there, hunched down against the lesser blackness of the night, lean and sinewy and somehow terribly familiar. He could not see but could feel the shadow’s eyes upon him. He could feel the eyes taking his measure.
He did not move, knowing that if he did so, he would be dead before he could complete whatever effort he began. His hand was already closed about the medallion; as if by instinct it had reached for the only help left. He held the medallion within the clutch of his fingers, feeling the graven image of the knight riding out of his castle at sunrise, the Paladin from Sterling Silver off to do battle for his King. He felt the image and stared at the shadow in the window, seeing now that it wasn’t all smooth and taut as he had first believed but was in fact in places ragged and broken, a creature that had suffered some catastrophic misfortune and bore the injuries because there could be no healing. Bits and pieces of the shadow hung loose, as if layers of skin had been shredded. Bone jutted in cracked shards from joints no longer whole. It made no sound, but he could hear the silent wail of its inescapable pain and despair.
Then the shadow’s head shifted slightly, a tilting to one side, little more, and silver eyes gleamed catlike out of the black.
Ben’s breath caught in his throat.
It was the Ardsheal, come back from the dead.
He had no time to ponder how this could be, no chance to deliberate on what it meant. His response was instinctive and eschewed reason and hope. His fingers tightened on the medallion, and the light flared outward in spears of white brightness. Willow screamed. The Ardsheal launched itself at Ben, a black panther at its prey, quicker than thought. But the Paladin was there instantly, come out of a sudden, impossibly brilliant explosion of light that erupted in the dozen yards of space between King and assailant. The knight rose up in a surge of gleaming silver armor and weaponry, catching the Ardsheal in midair and flinging it aside. The force of the collision sent the Ardsheal slamming into the stone wall and the Paladin stumbling backward into Ben. A metal-clad elbow hammered into Ben’s head, and he collapsed on the bed next to Willow, so stunned that he was barely able to hold on to the medallion.
The Ardsheal was on its feet in a heartbeat, pulling itself upright with the smoothness of a snake, the ease of its recovery belying its ragged condition. Through a haze of pain and dizziness, Ben watched it rise, his vision blurred and his head aching from the blow. But he felt the pain and the dizziness from inside the Paladin’s armor, where his consciousness was now irrevocably lodged, there to remain until he triumphed or died. He saw Willow embracing his corporeal body, whispering frantically in his ear. He wondered for the briefest second what she was saying, remembering that he had wanted to get her clear of the room before this battle was joined. He caught a sudden glimpse of the Ardsheal’s face in the gloom, one eye gone, a gash opened from forehead to chin, skin crosshatched with cuts and lesions. He saw it tumbling out of the castle window at Rhyndweir, riding the robot to the rocks below and certain death. He wondered how it could possibly have survived.
Then the mind-set of the Paladin closed down like a visor, and all he knew were the knight’s long memories of battles fought and survived. He went down into his harder-than-iron other self, the battle-tested veteran of a thousand struggles from which only he had emerged. He withdrew into his armor and his experience, locking away what life there was beyond, shutting out the man and the woman on the bed behind him, the castle in which he now battled, the world beyond, the past and the future, all things but the here and now and the enemy that sought to destroy him.
The Ardsheal feinted right to left, testing. It was a dead thing by the look of its flat silver eyes, by the broken mix of skin and bone, by the gaping wounds that marked its body. But it lived beyond death, fed by magic that wrestled through its once-lifeless tissues and demanded of it one more task before it could rest in peace. The Paladin sensed this, knowing its enemy from knowledge innate and from some spark of Ben Holiday’s own reason and memory. He watched the wraith before him shift and shift again, snakelike, looking for an opening. He saw it for the danger it was, a creature created of magic to serve a single purpose; to hunt and destroy. He saw it as he saw so few others he faced—as an equal.
The Ardsheal came at him with lightning speed, so low that it would be hard t
o take away his legs. The Paladin dropped on the creature in an effort to pin it, his dagger digging futilely into the stone floor as the Ardsheal rolled away, ripping at the knight’s visor, twisting at it wickedly. The Paladin shook off the blow and rose to face his enemy once more. Quickness and strength, cunning and experience—the Ardsheal had them all and felt nothing beyond the magic that compelled it. It would not stop; it would not quit. It would keep coming until it could come no more.
An Ardsheal is a match for anything alive. Nothing is more dangerous. The River Master’s words.
In the shadows the Ardsheal crouched. The Paladin thought momentarily of drawing forth his broadsword, but the weapon was too cumbersome and unwieldy for this foe. Small weapons would be more effective, until an opportunity presented itself, as it must if he was to survive.
He shifted the dagger to his left hand, reaching with the right for his long knife, and the Ardsheal was on him in a flash, ripping and tearing and wrenching at armor and limbs. The Paladin stumbled back under the fury of the attack, hearing the shriek of fastenings as they tore loose, feeling metal plates threaten to give way. Forsaking the dagger, he jammed both armored hands against the creature’s chest and again flung it away. It came back at him at once, animal-wild, crazed beyond sense, a thing insane. It was impossibly strong, and its strength was aided by its lack of feeling and the rush of magic that fed it. It fought without hindrances of any kind; it battled without the complications that emotion and reason demanded. Its efforts were pure and unrestricted, its struggle single-minded. It would win or lose and still be dead either way.
For the third time the Paladin flung it away, and this time snatched free the long knife before it could recover. When it came again, he would skewer it on the blade and rip it in two. His breathing was harsh and unsteady. Though he would not acknowledge it because he could not permit himself to do so, his strength was already beginning to fail. He could not tell if it was the number of battles fought in so short a span of time or the weakened condition of the King he served, for both could play a part in determining whether he survived. He relied on himself, but he was irrevocably attached to the man who commanded his services and lent him his strength of will. If the King failed in his resolve, so might he. But such thoughts were not permitted. So he told himself only that he should end the fight quickly and not speculate further.