She shook her head quickly. “I am not a Druid,” she said. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’re as good as. The same as, really.” He leaned forward in challenge. “Explain to me how you differ from Walker. Tell me what he has done in his life that you have not done in yours. Show me where the road you have traveled branches from his.”
She regarded him silently, but her eyes were angry now. “You seem intent on provoking me.”
“Do I? Let me tell you a story, Grianne. While I was on my way to Arborlon, I traveled with Quentin through the Silver River country. While I slept, I had a vision. The vision was of a young girl who appeared to me, then transformed into a monster, a thing so hideous I could barely manage to look upon it. That young girl was you at six years of age and the thing you transformed into seemed very like the Mwellrets you command. I believe in visions, in portents of things to come, in foreshadowings of the future. That was one. I was being shown your past and your future. I was being told that it was up to me to change your destiny, to prevent that transformation from happening.”
“You take a lot on yourself then. You presume more than you should.”
He shook his head. “Do I? I didn’t go looking for this. I didn’t even understand what I was being shown. Not until I learned who I was. Not until I found you. But I think now that if I don’t find a way to convince you of the truth, no one else will, and that vision will come to pass.”
“I have nothing in common with Mwellrets or Druids,” she sneered. “You are a boy with a too vivid imagination and no brains. You trust blindly in the wrong people and assume your truths should be mine, when they are nothing but deceptions. I am tired of listening to you. Don’t say anything more to me. Not a word.”
“I will say what I like!” he snapped back at her. Inside, he was shaking. She could be volatile, dangerous, but caution no longer served a purpose. “You are surrounded by obsequious followers and liars of all sorts. You have separated yourself from the truth for so long that you wouldn’t recognize it if it jumped up in front of you. Why don’t you admit that you’re not sure about me? Why don’t you at least confess that?”
Her face darkened. “Keep still.”
“Let me go with you to find Walker. Let him help you. What can it hurt to talk with him? Just listen to what he has to say. If you would take five minutes to think—”
“Enough!” she screamed.
He leapt to his feet. “Enough of what? The truth? I’m your brother, Grianne! I’m Bek! Stop trying to deny it! Stop twisting everything around!”
She was on her feet, as well, rigid with fury. He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. “Do you want me to tell you what really happened to our parents? Do you want me to tell you what’s been done to you? Do you want me to speak the words out loud, so that you can hear how they sound? You’re so blind you can’t—”
She screamed again, only this time there were no words, only sound that rent the air like razors. The wishsong’s magic seared his throat, twisting and tightening until he was gasping for air. He threw up his hands in a belated effort to protect himself as he stumbled backwards and fell. The unexpected force and suddenness of her attack left him dazed and crumpled on the ground, his eyes tearing, his breath coming in deep, rasping gulps.
She loomed over him, robes drawn close, her pale face twisted with disgust. Then her hand reached down to touch his neck and everything went black.
When he was asleep and breathing normally again, she straightened his arms and legs and covered him with his tattered cloak. Such a fool. She had warned him not to say anything more, but he had continued to press her. She had reacted almost without thinking, losing control of herself and lashing out in anger. She felt vaguely ashamed for doing so. It didn’t matter what the provocation was; she should have been able to keep the magic in check. She should have been able to avoid attacking him that way. She easily might have killed him. It wouldn’t have taken all that much to do so. The power of the wishsong was immense. Should she choose it, she could use her magic to wither one of the huge old oaks that sheltered their camp, to shred it to pulp and bark and sap, to reduce it to the earth from which it had grown. How much less difficult it would be to do the same with this boy.
“I warned you,” she hissed at his sleeping form, still inwardly seething at herself.
She straightened and walked away, stopping at the edge of the clearing and peering off into the dark. She brushed back the long dark hair from her face and folded her arms into her robes. Perhaps it was just as well that she had reacted as she did. What she had done now was what she had intended to do anyway once they reached the bay where Black Moclips lay at anchor—to take away his voice and render him harmless. She could not afford to leave him with the Mwellrets otherwise. She would take his sword, as well, the blade he claimed was the Sword of Shannara. He would be locked in the hold and kept there until she finished her business with the Druid.
She glanced over her shoulder to where he lay sleeping, then quickly away again. She had meant to tell him what she was going to do before she did it, to reassure him that it was temporary, a few days and no more. She had meant to tell him she would restore his voice when she saw him again, that she would negate the magic that held it bound. She would still tell him tomorrow when he woke, but the effect would be different from what she had planned.
It irritated her that she felt the need to justify herself to him. It wasn’t as if she owed him anything, as if he mattered to her in even the slightest way. But try as she might, she could not dismiss him as nothing more than a boy the Druid had somehow subverted to use against her. She knew that such an explanation was too simplistic. He was more than that; his magic was real. He was perhaps as strong-minded as she was, and there was at least some truth to what he was saying. She wouldn’t admit it to him, but she could sense it. Her problem was in deciding how much. Where did the lies end and the truth begin? What was the Druid trying to accomplish by sending him to her? For he had sent the boy, however they might have found each other. He had sent the boy as surely as she had sent Ryer Ord Star to spy on him.
Was it possible he really was Bek?
She stopped breathing momentarily, the thought suspended before her like an exotic creature. Was it possible after all? He could still be Bek and be lying about their parents. He could still be an unwitting dupe. He could be mistaken without realizing it.
But how had the Druid found him, when she had thought him dead? How had the Druid known who he was? Had the Druid gone back into the rubble and searched him out? Had the Druid decided to make use of Bek in his schemes because he had lost the use of her?
Her lips tightened. Everyone was used in this life. She thought about the Morgawr, her mentor all these years, her teacher in the fine art of magic’s use. She knew enough of him, of what he was, to know that he could not be trusted, to accept that he was every bit as devious as the Druid. She knew he had used her. She knew he kept things from her that he believed enabled him to maintain his hold over her. It was just the way of things. She manipulated and deceived, too. The boy was right about that. She was not so different from the Morgawr, and the Morgawr was very like the Druid.
But would the Morgawr have lied to her about her parents? How could she have such strong memories of the Druid and his dark-cloaked servants descending on her home that final dawn if he had? That didn’t feel right to her. It didn’t seem possible. The Druid had wanted her to come with him to Paranor. She remembered his visits to her father, his conversations and dark warnings. No, he had orphaned her and stolen her away as she believed.
Yet the boy who thought himself her brother was right. She had ended up a Druid anyway, in another place, in another form. She could not say she was any different from Walker, any better or worse. She could not point to where their lives were that much different. In escaping him, she had allowed the Morgawr to turn her into a mirror image of her enemy. Her use of magic and her efforts at accumulating power were very much t
he same as his. If he had done bad things in their pursuit, so had she.
Thinking about all of that, accepting the truth of it, made her even angrier with herself. But there was no place for anger in her efforts to accomplish the tasks that she had undertaken. She must find the magic concealed in Castledown, gain possession of it, and return to her ship. She must decide what to do with the boy and his unsettling accusations. She must settle matters once and for all with both the Druid and the Morgawr.
She never once doubted that she was capable of all that or that she could carry out her plans in the manner she intended.
But, like it or not, she was beginning to question her reasoning for doing so.
Miles to the east and south, well clear of the inlet opening into the Squirm and its ice fields and beyond the cliffs that warded the eastern approach from the Blue Divide, the Jerle Shannara lay at anchor. She was berthed in a forested cove nestled among a dozen others in lowlands miles from where she had deposited Walker and those others who had gone ashore in search of Castledown. The Jerle Shannara was sheltered from the wintry weather that swept the coast, concealed from prying eyes while she underwent repairs.
Seated on a bench at the ship’s stern and facing out toward the cove’s narrow opening, Rue Meridian could only just glimpse the distant waters of the Blue Divide. She wore loose-fitting trousers and tunic, red-orange scarves wrapped about her throat and forehead, and soft, worn ankle boots. A blanket warded her against the chill. Restless and bored, she scuffed one boot across the decking and pondered her dissatisfaction for the hundredth time. It was almost a week since Big Red had brought the airship overland after its near catastrophic encounter with the Squirm, charting a course back to the coast that avoided glaciers and mountains and obscuring mist. A longer, more circuitous route than the one that led through the Squirm and up the river channel, it was by far the safer. Regaining the coast, the Rovers cruised in search of the Wing Riders, whom they quickly found and who in turn led to the sheltering bay. Since then, Rovers and Wing Riders had been engaged in repairing the damaged vessel while Rue had lain belowdecks, healing from her wounds and sleeping undisturbed.
Endless processes both, she fumed to herself in silence. She glanced down at her leg, where she had incurred the deepest and most serious injury in her battle with the Mwellrets. Stitches and poultices had begun to heal it nicely, but the wound wasn’t closed entirely and she still couldn’t walk without pain. The knife wound to her arm had healed more quickly, and the claw marks on her back and sides were little more than the beginnings of scars she would never lose. She guessed that meant she was two for three, but the leg wound kept her from doing much and the inactivity was beginning to grate on her.
It would have helped if the repairs to the ship had gone more quickly and they were sailing back the way they had come in search of their abandoned friends and shipmates. But the damage to the Jerle Shannara had been more extensive than anyone had realized at first glance. It was not just the shattered spars and shredded light sheaths and cracked mainmast that had crippled the ship. Two of the parse tubes together with their diapson crystals had been torn free and lost overboard. A dozen radian draws were frayed beyond repair. The nature of the damage precluded simple replacement; it required reworking the entire system that allowed the ship to fly. Spanner Frew was equal to the task, but it was taking too much time.
She watched the burly shipwright bent over the left fore hooding, directing the set of the existing tube and crystal, realigning the left midship draw that now ran to that emplacement, as well. It was the second of three that were involved in the realignment. No one knew how well the new configuration would work, so that meant testing it out before they ventured inland and risked a further encounter with Black Moclips and the Ilse Witch.
Every time she thought of the witch, she was consumed by a white-hot anger. It wasn’t the damage to the ship or the imprisonment of the Rovers that fueled it. It wasn’t even the unavoidable loss of contact with Walker’s company. It was the death of Furl Hawken for which she most blamed the witch, because if not for the witch’s seizure of the Jerle Shannara and her imprisonment of the Rover crew, it would never have happened.
Somehow, someway, she had promised herself, the Ilse Witch would be made to pay for Hawk’s death. It was something she had vowed while she lay belowdecks, still too weak even to sit up, unable to stop thinking about what she had witnessed. There would be a reckoning for Hawk, and Little Red wanted to be the one to bring it about.
The day was dragging on toward midafternoon, the sky a mass of thick gray clouds, the sun screened away, the air raw with cold. At least they were sufficiently sheltered by the landfall to be protected from the bitter wind and sleet blowing with such ferocity along the coast. She marveled at the oddness of the weather there, so different on the coast than inland, so unexplainably in contrast. Only Shrikes and gulls and the like could make homes in the cliffs of the coastal waters. Humans could never live here in any comfort. She wondered if humans lived inland. She wondered if there were humans anywhere at all.
“Afternoon,” a voice growled, snapping her out of her reverie.
She turned to find Hunter Predd standing a few feet away, his wiry frame wrapped in a heavy cloak, his weathered features ruddy and bemused. She smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was somewhere else. Good afternoon to you.”
He moved a step closer, looking out toward the ocean. “There’s a big storm coming on, a bad one. Saw it building out there while flying in with the last of the hemp and reed. It might lock us down for a few days.”
“We’re locked down anyway until the ship can fly again. What’s it looking like now, two or three more days at least before we can get under way again?”
“At least.”
“Are you foraging for materials still?”
He shook his head and ran one gnarled hand through his windblown hair. “No, we’re done. It’s up to Black Beard and the others to make it all work now.”
She gestured him over. “Sit down. Talk with me. I’m sick of talking with myself.”
She made room for him on the bench, swinging her legs off and placing her feet carefully on the decking. She winced in spite of herself at the pain the effort brought on.
The sharp eyes darted toward her. “Still a little tender, I guess.”
“Do all Wing Riders possess such acute powers of observation?”
He chuckled softly. “Feelings seem a little tender, too.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, looking down at her legs, her boots, the decking. Time passed. She felt a great void in her heart, a place opening up where opportunity slipped away while she sat doing nothing.
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “How long has it been since we left them? More than a week anyway, isn’t it? Too long, Wing Rider. Way too long.”
He nodded, his brow furrowing. He started to say something, then stopped, as if deciding that anything he had to say was unnecessary. He clasped his hands about one knee and rocked back slightly in his cloak, grizzled head shaking.
“You can’t favor this delay any more than I do,” she said. “You must want to do something about it, too.”
He nodded. “I’ve been considering it.”
“If we could just find out if they are all right, if they would be safe enough until the ship could reach them …”
She didn’t finish, waiting on him to do so for her. He looked off into the distance instead, as if trying to spy them through the mist and cold. Then he nodded once more. “I could take a look for them. I could leave now, in fact. Should leave now, because once the storm comes in, it won’t be so easy to fly out.”
She leaned forward eagerly, red hair fanning out about her shoulders. “I have the coordinates Big Red mapped out from our journey in. We won’t have any trouble following them back.”
He looked at her in surprise. “We?”
“I’m going with you.”
He shook his head. “Your brother won’t let yo
u go and you know it. He’ll put a stop to it before you finish telling him what you intend.”
She gave it a moment, then reached up with one finger and touched her temple. “Think about what you just said, Hunter Predd,” she advised softly. “When was the last time my brother told me what to do, would you guess?”
He smiled in rueful understanding. “Well, he won’t like it, anyway.”
She smiled back. “It won’t be the first time he’s had to deal with this sort of disappointment. Nor the last, I’d wager.”
“You and me?” he asked, arching one eyebrow.
“You and me.”
“I won’t ask if you’re up to it.”
“Best not.”
“I won’t ask what you intend once we get there either, even though I’d be willing to bet it goes beyond a quick flyover.”
She nodded without answering.
He sighed deeply. “It will feel good to be back in the air, good to be doing what we were trained to do, Obsidian and me.” He rubbed his callused hands together. “We’ll leave Po Kelles and Niciannon to run whatever errands your brother and the others need until they catch up to us. Maybe our leaving will inspire them to work faster on the repairs.”
“Maybe. My brother hates to miss out on anything. Going inland for a look around was his idea in the first place.”
“And now you’ve stolen it.” He shook his head, smiled ruefully. “How soon can you be ready?”
She rose gingerly and unwrapped herself from the blanket. Underneath, throwing knives were strapped in place about her waist.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “How soon can you saddle your bird?”
EIGHTEEN
They flew west off the coast and inland aboard Obsidian, settled comfortably upon the riding harness strapped to the Roc’s feathered back, Hunter Predd at the reins and Rue Meridian seated just behind him. The Rover wore her flying leathers, black like her brother’s and molded to her body from constant use. Beneath, her wounds were carefully bound and padded, and the leathers served as light armor to protect them from the rougher abuses she might suffer on her journey. For weapons, she bore a brace of throwing knives about her waist, another tucked into her boot, a long knife strapped to her good thigh, and bow and arrows slung across her back. A great cloak and hood wrapped her against the cold and wind, but even so she found herself ducking her chin and hunching her shoulders to stay warm.