by Terry Brooks
The Valeman shook his head. “They would be useless to you.”
“Would they? Is their secret so dark?” Cephelo’s eyes narrowed. “Do not suppose me a fool. You are no simple Healer. That much was obvious almost from the moment we first met. Still, it matters not to me who you are—only what you have. You have the power of the Stones and I wish it.”
“Their magic is Elven.” Wil forced himself to remain calm, hoping desperately that he had not lost control of the situation. “Only one of Elven blood can wield their power.”
“You lie badly, Healer.” The big man’s voice was ugly.
“He speaks the truth,” Amberle interjected quickly, her face frightened. “If not for the Stones, he would not have even attempted this search. You have no right to ask him to give them up to you.”
“I have the right to ask whatever I choose,” Cephelo snapped, brushing her words aside with a wave of his hand. “In any case, I believe neither of you.”
“Believe what you wish.” Wil’s voice was steady. “I will not give you the Stones.”
The two men stared wordlessly at each other for a moment, the Rover’s face hard and threatening. Yet there was fear there as well—fear generated by Cephelo’s vivid memory of the power locked within the Elfstones, power that Wil Ohmsford had mastered. With great effort, he forced himself to smile.
“What will you give me then, Healer? Am I expected to do this service for nothing? Am I expected to risk lives and property without any form of recompense at all? There must be something of value that you can give me—something that has worth equal to that of the Stones you so stubbornly refuse to yield. What then? What will you give me?”
Wil tried desperately to come up with something, but there was absolutely nothing else he carried that was worth more than a few pennies. Yet just when he had decided that the situation was hopeless, Cephelo snapped his fingers sharply.
“I will make a bargain with you, Healer. You say that the Elven King will reward you if you bring to him the medicine that will cure his granddaughter. Very well. I will do what I can to help you learn something of this place you call Safehold. I will take you to one who might know the name. I will do that and nothing more. In exchange for this, you must give me half of whatever reward you receive from the Elven King. Half. Is it agreed?”
Wil thought it over a moment. A curious bargain, he decided. Rovers seldom, if ever, gave anything away without first getting something in return. What was Cephelo about?
“Are you saying that you will help me learn the location of Safehold …”
“If I can.”
“… but you will not come with me to find it?”
Cephelo shrugged. “I have no wish to risk my life unnecessarily. Finding the medicine and conveying it to the Elven King’s granddaughter is your problem. My part of the bargain is merely to help you on your way.” He paused. “Do not, however, presume that once gone you are therefore free of me. Any attempt to cheat me of what you owe would end very badly for you.”
The Valeman frowned. “How will you know whether or not I am successful if you do not come with me?”
Cephelo laughed. “Healer, I am a Rover—I will know! I will know all that happens to you, believe me.”
His smile was so wolfish that for an instant Wil was certain that there was another meaning to his words. Something was wrong; he could sense it. Yet they needed help from somewhere in finding their way through the Wilderun—help that would permit him to forgo any use of the Elfstones. If Cephelo were to give them that help, it might mean the difference between success and failure in finding the Bloodfire before the Demons found them.
“Is it agreed?” Cephelo asked again.
Wil shook his head. He would test the Rover. “One half is too much. I will give you a third.”
“A third!” Cephelo’s face darkened momentarily, then relaxed. “Very well. I am a reasonable man. A third.”
That had been entirely too easy, Wil thought. He glanced at Amberle, seeing in her eyes the same mistrust that flickered in his own. But the Elven girl said nothing. She was leaving the decision to him.
“Come, come, Elfling,” Cephelo pressed. “Do not be all day about it.”
The Valeman nodded. “All right. It is agreed.”
“Good.” The Rover stood up immediately. “We will leave at once since our business here is ended. But you are to remain within the wagon for a time. It would not do to have you seen again in Grimpen Ward. Once we are into the deep forest, you may come out.”
He smiled broadly, dipped the wide-brimmed hat in parting and passed back through the entry. The door closed softly behind him and locked. Wil and Amberle sat staring at each other.
“I don’t trust him,” Amberle whispered.
Wil nodded. “Not at all.”
Moments later, the wagon lurched forward and began to roll and their journey into the Wilderun was under way once more.
37
The old man hummed softly to himself as he sat in the cane-backed rocker and stared out into the darkening forest. Far to the west beyond the wall of trees that locked tightly about the clearing in which he sat, beyond the valley of the Wilderun and the mountains that ringed it, the sun slipped beneath the earth’s horizon and the day’s light faded into dusk. It was the old man’s favorite time of day, the midday heat cooling into evening shadow, the sunset coloring the far skyline crimson and purple, then deepening into blue night. From atop the ridge line, where the woodland trees broke apart enough to permit glimpses of sky, moon, and stars through a screen of limbs and trunks, the air smelled clean for a time, freed of the damp and mustiness that clung to it through the swelter of the day, and the leaves of the forest whispered in a soft, slow nighttime wind. It was as if, for those few moments, the Wilderun were like any other country, and a man might look upon it as an old and intimate friend.
The old man looked often upon the valley that way, more now than at any other time of the day or night perhaps, but always with that same sense of deep and abiding loyalty. Few others could ever feel as he, but few others knew the valley as he had come to know it. Oh, it was treacherous—hard and filled with dangers to snare and destroy a man. There were creatures within the Wilderun the like of which could be found in no other place this side of a midnight campfire legend, told with hushed whispers and frightened looks. There was death here, death that came with the passing of every hour, harsh, cruel, and certain. It was a land of hunter and hunted, each living creature a bit of both, and the old man had seen the best and worst of each in the sixty years that he had made the valley his home.
He drummed his fingers on the rocker’s arms and thought back dreamily. It was sixty years since he had first come to the Wilderun—a long time, yet barely gone. This had been his home for all those years, and it was a home that a man could respect—not simply another place with houses and people all crowded close, safe, secure, and senselessly dull, but a place of solitude and depth, of challenge and heart, a place to which only a few would ever come because only those few would ever belong. A few like himself, he thought, and now only he remained of those who had once come into the valley. All the rest were gone, claimed by the wilderness, buried somewhere deep within her earth. Of course there were those fools that huddled like frightened dogs within the ragged shacks of Grimpen Ward, cheating and robbing each other and any other fool that might venture into their midst. But the valley was not theirs and never would be, for they had no understanding of what the valley was about nor any wish to learn. They might as well be locked within the closet of some castle for all it meant to any claim that they were its lords and ladies.
Crazy, they called him—those fools in Grimpen Ward. Crazy to live in this wilderness, an old man alone. He grinned crookedly at the thought. Madness peculiar to its owner, perhaps; but he would choose his own over theirs.
“Drifter,” he called gruffly, and the monstrous black dog that stretched at his feet came awake and rose, a giant animal that had the l
ook of both wolf and bear, its massive body bristling with hair, its muzzle yawning wide.
“Hey, you.” The old man grunted, and the dog came over, dropping its great head onto its master’s lap, waiting for its ears to be scratched.
The old man obliged. Somewhere in the growing dark, a scream sounded, quick and piercing, to linger in the sudden stillness as a fading echo, then die. Drifter looked up quickly. The old man nodded. Swamp cat. A big one. Something had crossed its path and paid the price.
His gaze wandered idly, picking out familiar shapes and forms in the half-light. Behind him sat the hut in which he lived, a small but solid structure, built of logs and shingles caulked with mortar. A shed and well sat just back of the hut, and a fenced closure that held his mule, and a workbench and lumber. He liked to whittle and carve, liked it well enough that much of his day was spent shaping and honing the wood he took from the great trees about the clearing into odds and ends that it pleased him to look upon. Worthless, he supposed, to everyone but himself, but then he didn’t care much about anyone else, so that was all right. He saw little enough of people and little enough was more than enough, and he didn’t look to give them reasons to seek him out. Drifter was all the company he needed. And those worthless cats that wandered about looking for new places to sleep and table scraps, as if they were no better than common scavengers. And the mule, a dumb but dependable creature.
He stretched and rose. The sun was down and the night sky was laced with stars and moonlight. It was time to fix something to eat for himself and the dog. He looked momentarily toward the tripod and kettle which sat atop a small cooking fire several yards in front of him. Yesterday’s soup, and precious little of that—enough, maybe, for one more meal.
He moved toward the fire, shaking his head. He was a smallish man, old and bent, his stick-thin frame clothed in a ragged shirt and half-pants. White hair ringed his bald head in a thin fringe of snow that ran down the length of a roundish jaw to a beard spotted with soot and bits of sawdust. Brown, wrinkled skin covered his tough old body like leather, and his eyes were barely visible through lids that pouched and drooped. He walked with a sort of hunching motion, as if he had just come awake and, finding his muscles cramped with sleep, was attempting to work out the stiffness.
He halted beside the kettle and stared down into it, trying to decide what he might do to improve the appeal of its contents. It was at that moment that he heard the approach of the horses and wagon, distant still, lost in the dark somewhere up the trail from his hut, winding uncertainly toward him. He turned and stared into the night, waiting. At his side, Drifter growled in an unfriendly manner, and the old man gave him a warning cuff. The minutes slipped away, and the sounds drew closer. Finally a line of shadows emerged from the dusk, winding down over the crest of the rise fronting the clearing—a single wagon with horses in trace and half-a-dozen riders in tow. The old man’s mood soured the moment he saw the wagon. He knew it well enough, knew it to be Rover, knew it to belong to that rogue Cephelo. He spat to one side with distaste and thought seriously about loosing Drifter on the bunch of them.
The riders and wagon halted just inside the fringes of the clearing. Cephelo’s dark form dismounted and came forward. When he reached the old man, the Rover’s wide-brimmed hat swept down in greeting.
“Well met, Hebel. Good evening to you.”
The old man snorted. “Cephelo. What do you want?”
Cephelo looked shocked. “Hebel, Hebel, this is no greeting for two who have done as much for one another as we. This is no greeting for men who have shared the hardships and misfortunes of humankind. Hello, now.”
The Rover took the old man’s hand and shook it firmly. Hebel neither resisted nor aided the effort.
“Ah, you look well.” Cephelo smiled disarmingly. “The high country is good for the aches and pains of age, I imagine.”
“Aches and pains of age, is it?” Hebel spat and wrinkled his nose. “What are you selling, Cephelo—some cure-all for the infirm?”
Cephelo glanced back at those who had come with him and shrugged apologetically. “You are most unkind, Hebel, most unkind.”
The old man followed his gaze. “What have you done with the rest of your pack? Have they taken up with some other thief?”
This time the Rover’s face darkened slightly. “I have sent them on ahead. They follow the main roadway east to await my coining in the Tirfing. I am here with these few on a matter of some importance. Might we talk a bit?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Hebel pointed out. “Talk all you want.”
“And share your fire?”
Hebel shrugged. “I don’t have the food to feed you all—wouldn’t if I did. Maybe you brought something with you, huh?”
Cephelo gave an exaggerated sigh. “We did. Tonight you shall share our dinner.”
He called back to the others. The riders dismounted and began caring for the horses. An old woman had been driving the wagon in the company of a young couple. She climbed down now, removed provisions and cookware from the rear of the wagon, and shuffled wordlessly to the cooking fire. The two who sat with her hesitated momentarily, then came forward at Cephelo’s invitation. They were joined by a slim, dark-haired girl who had been one of the riders.
Hebel turned away wordlessly and reseated himself in the rocker. There was something peculiar about the two who had come down off the wagon seat, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was. They looked like Rovers and yet at the same time they didn’t. He watched them approach with Cephelo and the dark-haired girl. All four seated themselves on the grass about the old man—the dark-haired girl slipping suggestively close to the young man and giving him a bold wink.
“My daughter, Eretria.” Cephelo shot the girl an irritated look as he introduced her. “These two are Elves.”
“I’m not blind,” Hebel snapped, recognizing now why they appeared to be something more than Rovers. “What are they doing with you?”
“We have undertaken a quest,” the Rover announced.
Hebel leaned forward. “A quest? With you?” He glanced at the young man, his aged face wrinkling. “You seem like a bright sort. What made you decide to take up with him?”
“He requires a guide through this miserable country,” Cephelo answered for him—rather too quickly, Hebel thought. “Why is it, Hebel, that you insist on making this forsaken wilderness your home? One day I’ll pass by and find your bones, old man, and all because you were too stubborn to take your worthless hide to safer regions.”
“Much you’d care,” Hebel grunted. “For a man such as myself, this land is as safe as any other. I know it, know what walks and breathes and hunts it, know how to keep my distance and when to show my teeth. I’ll outlive you, Rover—mark my words on that.” He pushed back in the rocker, watching Drifter’s dark shadow settle in behind him. “What do you want with me?”
Cephelo shrugged. “A bit of talk, just as I’ve said.”
Hebel laughed hoarsely. “A bit of talk? Come now, Cephelo—what do you want? Don’t waste my time—there isn’t that much of it left.”
“For myself, nothing. For these young Elflings, something of the knowledge stored in that balding old pate. It has taken me a great deal of effort to reach you up here, but there are causes that merit special …”
Hebel had heard enough. “What are you cooking over there?” He allowed himself to be distracted by the smell of the food simmering in the cooking kettle. “What’s in there?”
“How should I know?” Cephelo snapped, irritated by the old man’s seeming inattention.
“Beef, I think. Beef and vegetables.” Hebel rubbed his weathered hands. “I think we should eat before we talk. Got some of that Rover ale with you, Cephelo?”
So they ate plates of stew, day-old bread, dried fruit, and nuts, with glasses of ale to wash it all down. Not much was said while they ate, though a considerable number of glances were exchanged, and those glances told Hebel a good deal more about th
e situation than whatever words his visitors might have spoken. The Elves, he decided, were there because they had run out of choices in the matter. They cared nothing more for Cephelo and his band than he did. Cephelo, of course, was there because there was something in all of this for him, but what that might be would undoubtedly be kept carefully concealed. It was the dark-haired girl, the Rover’s daughter, who puzzled him most. The way she looked at that Elf lad told him something of what she was about, yet there was more to her than that, more than she was willing to let on. The old man grew increasingly curious as to what it might be.
At last the food was gone and the ale was drunk. Hebel produced a long pipe, struck flint and tinder to its contents, and puffed a broad wreath of smoke into the night air. Cephelo tried again.
“This young Elf and his sister need your help. They have already come a long way, but they won’t be able to go any further if you don’t give them that help. I told them, of course, that you would.”
The old man snorted. He knew this game. “Don’t like Elves. They think they’re too good for this country, for people like me.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t like Rovers either, as you well know. Like them even less than Elves.”
Eretria smirked. “There seems to be a lot you don’t like.”
“Shut your mouth!” Cephelo snapped, his face darkening. Eretria went still and Hebel saw the anger in her eyes.
He chuckled softly. “I don’t blame you, girl.” He looked at Cephelo. “What will you give me if I help the Elflings, Rover? An even trade now, if you want what I know.”
Cephelo glowered. “Do not try my patience too severely, Hebel.”
“Ha! Will you cut my throat? See what words you find then! Now speak again—what will you give me?”
“Clothes, bedding, leather, silk—I don’t care.” The Rover brushed aside the question stiffly.
“I got all that.” Hebel spat.
Cephelo controlled himself only with a monumental effort. “Well, what is it that you want, then? Speak up, old man!”