Ilse Witch

17

Four days after departing the Wolfsktaag Mountains, Bek Rowe, his cousin Quentin Leah, and the Dwarf Panax arrived at the Valley of Rhenn.

Bek had heard stories of the valley his entire life, and as the trio rode their horses slowly out of the plains and down its broad, grassy corridor, he found himself remembering them anew. There, more than a thousand years ago, the Elves and their King, Jerle Shannara, stood against the hordes of the Warlock Lord in three days of ferocious fighting that culminated in the renegade Druid’s defeat. There, more than five hundred years ago, the Legion Free Corps rode to the aid of the Elven people when they were beset by the demon hordes freed from the Forbidding. There, less than 150 years ago, the Elf Queen Wren Elessedil commanded the Free-born allies in their defense against the Federation armies of Rimmer Dall, breaking the back of the Federation occupation and destroying the cult of the Shadowen.

Bek glanced upward at the steepening valley slopes and sharp ridgelines. So many critical battles had been fought and pivotal confrontations had taken place within only a few miles of that gateway to the Elven homeland. But as he looked at it, quiet and serene and bathed in sunshine, there was nothing to indicate that anything of importance had ever happened there.

Once, Bek heard a man remark to Coran that this ground was sacred, that the blood of those who had given up their lives to preserve freedom in the Four Lands had made it so. It was a fine and noble thought, Coran Leah replied, but it would mean more if the sacrifice of those countless dead had bought the survivors something more permanent.

The boy thought about that as he rode through the midday silence. The valley narrowed to a defile at its western end, a natural fortress of cliff walls and twisting passes through which all traffic gained entry into the Westland forests leading to Arborlon. It had served as a first line of defense for the Elves each time their homeland was invaded. Bek had never been here, but he knew its history. Remembering his father’s words, he was surprised at how different it felt being here rather than picturing it in his mind. All the events and the tumult faded in the vast quiet, the open spaces, the scent of wildflowers, the soft cool breeze, and the warm sun, masked as if they had never taken place. The past was only an imagining here. He could barely put a face to it, barely envision how it must have been. He wondered if the Elves ever thought of it as he did now, if it was ever for them a reminder of how transitory victories in battle so often were.

He wondered if the journey he was making now would feel any different to him when it was finished. He wondered if he would accomplish anything lasting.

His travel west had been uneventful. All four days had passed without incident. The Highland cousins and the Dwarf had come down out of the Wolfsktaag after their encounter with Truls Rohk, spent what remained of the night and the early morning hours sleeping at Panax’s cabin, then packed their gear, collected their horses, and set out for Arborlon at midday. They traveled light, choosing to forgo pack animals and supplies, foraging on the way. There were countless settlements scattered across the Borderlands, and they had little difficulty obtaining what they needed. Their passage west was straightforward and unobstructed. They crossed the Rabb Plains above the Silver River, followed the north shore of the Rainbow Lake below the Runne, bypassed Varfleet and Tyrsis through Callahorn’s hill country to the flats above the Tirfing, then angled north along the Mermidon River toward the Valley of Rhenn. They traveled steadily, but without haste, the days clear and sunny and pleasant, the nights cool and still.

Not once did they catch sight of or hear from Truls Rohk. Panax said they wouldn’t, and he turned out to be right.

Their encounter with the shadowy, formidable Truls had left both Bek and Quentin shaken, and it wasn’t until the next day, when they were well away from Depo Bent and the Wolfsktaag, that they had felt comfortable enough to pursue the subject. By then, Panax was ready to tell them the rest of what he knew.

“Of course, he’s a man, just like you or me,” he replied to Bek’s inevitable question regarding what sort of creature Truls Rohk really was. “Well, not just like you or me, I guess, or anyone else I’ve ever come across. But he’s a man, not some beast or wraith. He was a Southlander once, before he went into the mountains to live. He came out of the border country below Varfleet, somewhere in the Runne. His people were trappers, poor migrants who lived close to the bone. He told me this once, long time ago. Never spoke of it again, though. Especially not the part about the fire.”

They were somewhere out on the Rabb by then, chasing the sun west, the daylight beginning to fade to twilight. Neither cousin spoke as the Dwarf paused in his narration to gather his thoughts.

“When he was about twelve, I guess, there was a fire. The boy was sleeping with the men in a makeshift shelter of dried skins and it caught fire. The others got out, but the boy ran the wrong way and got tangled up in the tent folds and couldn’t get free. The fire burned him so badly he was unrecognizable afterwards. They thought he was going to die; I think they thought it would be better if he did. But they did what they could for him, and it turned out to be just enough. He says he was a big lad in any case, very strong even then, and some part of him fought back against the pain and misery and kept him alive.

“So he lived, but he was disfigured so badly even his family couldn’t stand to look at him. I can’t imagine what that must have been like. He says he couldn’t look at himself. He kept away from everyone after that, trapping and hunting in the woods, avoiding other people, other places. When he was old enough to manage it, he set out on his own, intending to live apart from everyone. He was bitter and ashamed, and he says that what he really wanted was to die. He went east into the Wolfsktaag, having heard the stories of what lived there, thinking no other man would try living in such a place, so he could at least be alone for whatever time he had left.

“But something happened to him in those mountains—he won’t say what, won’t talk about it. It changed his way of thinking. He decided he wanted to live. He decided he wanted to be healed. He went to the Stors for medicines and balms, for whatever treatments they could offer, then began some sort of self-healing ritual. He won’t talk about that, either. I don’t know whether it worked or not. He says it did, but he still hides himself in that cloak and hood. I’ve never seen him clearly. Not his face, not any part of his body. I don’t think anyone has.”

“But there’s something else about him,” Bek interjected quickly. “You say he’s human, that he’s a man underneath, a man like you and me, but he doesn’t seem so. He doesn’t seem like any man I’ve ever come across.”

“No,” Panax agreed, “he doesn’t. And for good reason. I say he’s a man like you and me mostly so you don’t think he was born anything else. But he’s become something more, and it’s difficult to say just what that something is. A little of it, I know, I understand. He’s found a way of assimilating with the things that live in the Wolfsktaag, a way of becoming like they are. He’s able to shape-shift; I know that for a fact. He can take on the look and feel of animals and spirit creatures; he can become like they are—or, when he chooses, like the things that frighten them. That’s what he did back there with those ur’wolves. That’s why they ran from him. He’s like some force of nature you don’t want to cross; he’s able to become anything he needs to become to kill you. He’s big and strong and quick and fast to begin with; the shape-shifting only enhances that. He’s feral and he’s instinctive; he knows how to fit in where you and I would only know enough to want to run. He’s at home in those mountains. He’s at home in places other men never will be. That’s why the Druid wants him along. Truls Rohk will get past obstacles no one else would dare even to challenge. He’ll solve problems that would leave others scratching their heads.”

“How did Walker meet him?” Quentin asked.

“Heard about him, I believe, rumors mostly, then tracked him down. He’s the only man I know who could do that.” Panax smiled. “I’m not sure he really did track Truls, only that he got close enough to attract his attention. There might not be anyone alive who can track Truls Rohk. But Walker found him somehow and talked him into coming with him on a journey. I’m not sure where they went that first time, but they formed some kind of a bond. Afterwards, Truls was more than willing to go with the Druid.”

He shook his head. “Still, you never know. No one really has his ear. He likes me, trusts me, as much as he likes or trusts anyone, but he doesn’t let me get too close.”

“He’s scary,” Bek offered quietly. “It’s more than how he hides himself or appears like a ghost out of nowhere or shape-shifts. It’s more than knowing what’s happened to him, too. It’s how he looks right through you and makes you feel like he sees things you don’t.”

“He was right about me and the sword,” Quentin agreed. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just fighting to keep the magic under control, to keep those wolves at bay. If he hadn’t come along, they probably would have had us.”

Truls Rohk had seen or recognized something about Bek, as well, but had chosen to keep it to himself. Bek wasn’t able to stop thinking about it. Trust no one, the shape-shifter had said, until you learn to see things better. It was an admonition that revealed Truls Rohk had gained an insight into him that he himself had not yet experienced. All the way down from the Wolfsktaag and on the journey across the Borderlands to Arborlon, he found himself remembering how it had been to have the shape-shifter looking at him, studying him, penetrating beyond what he could see. It was an old Druid trait, Bek knew. Allanon had been famous for the way his eyes looked right through you. There was something of that in Walker, as well. Truls Rohk was not a Druid, but when he looked at you, you felt as if you were being flayed alive.

The discussion of the shape-shifter pretty much died away after the first night, since Panax seemed to have exhausted his store of knowledge and Quentin and Bek chose to keep their thoughts to themselves. Conversation turned to other matters, particularly the journey ahead, of which the Dwarf was now part but knew little. He had been drafted into the cause because Walker had insisted he join them if Truls Rohk agreed to come. So Bek and Quentin filled Panax in on what little they knew, and the three spent much of their time tossing back and forth their ideas about exactly where they might be going and what they might be looking for.

The Dwarf was blunt in his assessment. “There is no treasure big or rich enough to interest a Druid. A Druid cares only for magic. Walker seeks a talisman or spell or some such. He goes in search of something so powerful that to let it fall into the hands of the Ilse Witch or anyone else would be suicide.”

It was a compelling and believable assessment, but no one could think of anything that dangerous. There had been magic in the world since the new races had been born out of the Great Wars, reinvented by the need to survive. Much of it had been potent, and all of it had either been tamed or banished by the Druids. That there might be a new magic, undiscovered all these years and now released solely by chance, felt wrong. Magic didn’t exist in a vacuum. It wouldn’t just appear. Someone had conjured it, perfected it, and set it loose.

“Which is why Walker is taking people like you, Highlander, with your magic sword, and Truls Rohk,” Panax insisted bluntly. “Magic to counter magic, linked to men who can wield it successfully.”

This did nothing to explain why Bek was going, or Panax either, for that matter, but at least Panax was a seasoned hunter and skilled tracker; Bek was untrained at anything. Now and again, his hand would stray to the smooth hard surface of the phoenix stone, and he would remember his encounter with the King of the Silver River. Now and again, he would remember that perhaps he was not his father’s son. Each time, of course, he would question everything he thought he knew and understood. Each time, he would feel Truls Rohk’s eyes looking at him in the Eastland night.

Elven Hunters met them at the far end of the valley and escorted them back through the woods to Arborlon. An escort was unusual for visitors, but it was clear from the moment they gave their names to the watch that they were expected. The road to the city was broad and open, and the ride through the afternoon hours was pleasant. It was still light when they arrived at the city, coming out of the shadow of the trees onto a stretch of old growth that thinned and opened through a sprawl of buildings onto a wide bluff. Arborlon was much bigger and busier than Leah, with shops and residences spreading away for as far as the eye could see, traffic on the roads thick and steady, and people from all the races visible at every turn. Arborlon was a crossroads for commerce, a trading center for virtually every form of goods. Absent were the great forges and factories of the deep Southland and of the Rock Trolls north, but their products were in evidence everywhere, brought west for warehousing and shipping to the Elven people living farther in. Caravans of goods passed them going in and coming out, bound for or sent from those less accessible regions—the Sarandanon west, the Wilderun south, and the Troll nations north.

Quentin glanced about with a broad smile. “This is what we came for, Bek. Isn’t it all grand and wonderful—just what you imagined?”

Bek kept his thoughts to himself, not trusting them to words. Mostly he wondered how a people who had just lost a King to assassination could carry on with so little evidence of remorse—though he had to admit he couldn’t think of how they should otherwise behave. Life went on, no matter the magnitude of the events that influenced it. He shouldn’t expect more.

They passed through the city proper and turned south into a series of parks and gardens to reach what were clearly the Elessedil palace grounds. It was late by then, the light failing quickly, the torches on street poles and building entries lit against the encroaching gloom. The crowds of people they had passed earlier had been left behind. Home Guard materialized out of the shadows, the King’s own protectors and the heart of the Elven army, stoic, silent, and sharp-eyed. They took the travelers’ horses away, and the Dwarf and cousins were led down a pathway bordered by white oak and tall grasses to an open-air pavilion somewhere back from the palace buildings and overlooking the bluffs east. High-backed benches were clustered about the pavilion, and pitchers of ale and cold water sat on trays beside metal tankards and glasses.

The Home Guard who had escorted them from the road gestured toward the benches and refreshments and left.

Alone, the pavilion empty except for them, the surrounding grounds deserted, they stood waiting. After a few minutes, Panax moved to one of the benches, took out his carving knife and a piece of wood, and began to whittle. Quentin looked at Bek, shrugged, and walked over to help himself to a tankard of ale.

Bek stayed where he was, glancing about warily. He was thinking of how the Ilse Witch had orchestrated the death of an Elven King not far from that spot. It did not give him a good feeling to think that killing someone in the heart of the Elven capital city was so easy, since all of them were now eligible targets.

“What are you doing?” Quentin asked, sauntering over to join him, tankard of ale in hand. He wore the Sword of Leah strapped across his back as if it was something he had been doing all his life instead of for less than a week.

“Nothing,” Bek replied. Already Quentin was evidencing the sort of changes that would affect them both in the end, growing beyond himself, shaking loose from his life. It was what his cousin had come to do, but Bek was still struggling with the idea. “I was just wondering if Walker is here yet.”

“Well, you look as if you expect Truls Rohk to appear again, maybe come right out of the earth.”

“Don’t be too quick to discount the possibility,” Panax muttered from the bench.

Quentin was looking around, as well, after that, but it was Bek who spied the two figures coming up the walk from the palace. At first neither cousin could make out the faces in the gloom, catching only momentary glimpses as they passed through each halo of torchlight on their approach. It wasn’t until they had reached the pavilion and come out of the shadows completely that Bek and Quentin recognized the short, wiry figure in the lead.

“Hunter Predd,” Quentin said, walking forward to offer his hand.

“Well met, Highlander,” the other replied, a faint smile creasing his weathered features. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Quentin. “Made the journey out of Leah safely, I see.”

“Never a moment’s concern.”

“That old sword strapped to your back reveal any secrets on the way?”

Quentin flushed. “One or two. You don’t forget a thing, do you?”

Bek shook the Wing Rider’s hand, as well, feeling a little of his earlier uneasiness fade with the other’s appearance. “Is Walker here?” he asked.

Hunter Predd nodded. “He’s here. Everyone’s here that’s going. You’re the last to arrive.”

Panax rose from his bench and wandered over, and they introduced him to the Wing Rider. Then Hunter Predd turned to his companion, a tall, powerfully built Elf of indeterminate age, with close-cropped gray hair and pale blue eyes. “This is Ard Patrinell,” the Wing Rider said. “Walker wanted you to meet him. He’s been placed in command of the Elven Hunters who will go with us.”

They clasped hands with the Elf, who nodded without speaking. Bek thought that if ever anyone looked the part of a warrior, it was this man. Scars crisscrossed his blunt features and muscular body, thin white lines and rough pink welts against his sun-browned skin, a testament to battles fought and survived. Power radiated from even his smallest movements. His grip when shaking hands was deliberately soft, but Bek could feel the iron behind it. Even the way he carried himself suggested someone who was always ready, always just a fraction of a second away from swift reaction.

“You’re a Captain of the Home Guard,” Panax declared, pointing to the scarlet patch on the Elf’s dress jacket.

Ard Patrinell shook his head. “I was. I’m not anymore.”

“They don’t keep you on as Captain of the Home Guard if the King is assassinated on your watch,” Hunter Predd observed bluntly.

Panax nodded matter-of-factly. “Someone has to bear the blame for a King’s death, even when there’s no blame to be found. Keeps everyone thinking something useful’s been done.” He spat into the dark. “So, Ard Patrinell, you look a seasoned sort. Have you fought on the Prekkendorran?”

Again, the Elf shook his head. “I fought in the Federation Wars, but not there. I was at Klepach and Barrengrote fifteen years ago, when I was still an Elven Hunter, not yet a Home Guard.” If Patrinell was irritated by the Dwarf’s questions, he didn’t show it.

For his part, Bek was wondering how a failed Captain of the Home Guard could end up being given responsibility for the security and safety of Walker’s expedition. Was his removal only ceremonial, made necessary because of the King’s death? Or was something else at work?

There was an enormous calm in Ard Patrinell’s face, as if nothing could shake his confidence or disrupt his thinking. He had the look of someone who had seen and weathered a great deal and understood that loss of control was a soldier’s worst enemy. If he had failed the King, he did not carry the burden of that failure openly. Bek judged him a man who understood better than most the value of patience and endurance.

“What remains to be done before we leave?” Quentin asked suddenly, changing the subject.

“Impatient to be off, Highlander?” Hunter Predd chided. “It won’t be long now. We’ve got an airship and a Captain and crew to speed us on our way. We’re gathering supplies and equipment. Loading is already under way. Our Captain of the Home Guard has selected a dozen Elven Hunters to accompany us.”

“We’re ready then,” Quentin declared eagerly, his grin broadening with expectation.

“Not quite.” The Wing Rider seemed reluctant to continue, but unable to think of a way not to. He glanced out at the encroaching night, as if his explanation might be found somewhere in the gloom. “There’s still a few adjustments to be made to the terms of our going, a couple of small controversies to be resolved.”

Panax frowned. “What might these small controversies be, Hunter Predd?”

The Wing Rider shrugged rather too casually, Bek thought. “For one thing, Walker feels we have too many members assigned to the expedition. Space and supplies won’t support them all. He wants to reduce by as many as four or five the number that will go.”

“Our new King, on the other hand,” Ard Patrinell added softly, “wants to add one more.”

“What you are asking is not only unreasonable, it is impossible,” Walker repeated patiently, stymied by Kylen Elessedil’s intransigence on the matter, but fully aware of its source. “Thirty is all we can carry. The size of the ship will allow for no more. As it is, I have to find a way to cut the number who expect to go.”

“Cut that number to twenty-nine, then add one back in,” the Elven King replied with a shrug. “The problem is solved.”

They stood in what had been Allardon Elessedil’s private study, the one in which he had perused the castaway’s map for the first time, but more to the point the one in which he had conducted business with those with whom he did not want to be seen on matters he did not wish to discuss openly. When the Elven King desired a public audience or a demonstration of authority, he held court in the throne room or the chambers of the Elven High Council. Allardon Elessedil had been a believer in protocol and ceremony, and he had employed each in careful and judicious measure. His son, it appeared, was inclined to do the same. Walker rated courtesy and deference, but only in private and only to the extent to which the old King had obligated his son before dying.

Kylen Elessedil understood what must be done regarding the matter of Kael Elessedil and the Elves who had disappeared with him. There was to be a search, and the Druid was to command it. The Elves were to assign funds for the purchase of a ship and crew, secure supplies and equipment for the journey, and provide a command of Elven Hunters to ensure the ship’s safety. It was the command of a dying King, and his son was not about to challenge it as his first official act of office.

This did not mean, however, that he viewed the idea of a search for ships and men gone thirty years as a sane one, the appearance of the castaway, the Elessedil bracelet, and the map notwithstanding. Kylen was not his father. He was a very different sort. Allardon Elessedil had been tentative, careful, and unambitious in his life’s goals. His son was reckless and determined to leave his mark. The past meant little to Kylen Elessedil. It was the present and, to an even greater extent, the future that mattered to him. He was an impassioned youth who believed without reservation that the Federation must be destroyed and the Free-born made victorious. Nothing less would guarantee Elven security. He had spent the last six months fighting aboard airships over the Prekkendorran and had returned only because his father was dead and he was next in line for the throne. He did not particularly want to be King, except to the extent that it furthered his efforts to crush the Federation. Imbued with the fever of his commitment to a victory over his enemies, he wanted only to remain on the front in command of his men. In short, he would have preferred it if his father had stayed alive.

As it was, eager to return to the battle, he was chafing already at the delay his coronation had occasioned. But he would not go, Walker knew, until this matter of the search for Kael Elessedil was resolved and, even more important, until he was certain the Elven High Council was settled on the terms of his succession. This last, Walker was beginning to understand, was at the source of his insistence on adding his younger brother’s name to the ship’s roster.

Kylen Elessedil stopped pacing and faced the Druid squarely. “Ahren is almost a man, nearly fully grown. He has been trained by the man I personally selected to command your Elven Hunters on this expedition. My father arranged for my brother’s training five years ago. Perhaps he foresaw the need for it better than you or I.”

“Perhaps he believed it should continue until Ahren is older, as well,” Walker offered mildly, holding the other’s gaze. “Your brother is too young and too unseasoned for a journey like this. He lacks the experience needed to justify including him. Better men will be asked to remain behind as it is.”

The Elven King dismissed the argument with a grunt. “That’s a judgment you cannot make. Is Ahren less a man than this cabin boy you insist on including? Bek Rowe? What does he have to offer? Is he to be left behind?”

Walker held his temper. “Your father left it to me to make the decision about who would go and who would stay. I have chosen carefully, and there are good reasons for my choices. What is at issue is not why I should take Bek Rowe, but why I should take Ahren Elessedil.”

The Elf King took a moment to walk over to a window and look out into the night. “I don’t have to support you in this matter at all, Druid. I don’t have to honor my father’s wishes if I deem them wrongheaded or if I decide circumstances have changed. You are pressing your luck with me.”

He turned back to Walker, waiting.

“There is a great deal at stake in this matter,” Walker replied softly. “Enough at stake that I will find a way to make this voyage, with your blessing and assistance or without. I would remind you that your father died for this.”

“My father died because of this!”

“Your father believed me when I told him that what the Elven people stood to gain from completing this voyage successfully was of enormous importance.”

“Yet you refuse to tell me what that something is!”

“Because I am not yet certain myself.” Walker walked over to the King’s desk and rested the tips of his fingers on its polished surface. “It is a magic that may yield us many things, but I will have to discover what form that magic will take. But think, Elven King! If it is important enough for the Ilse Witch to kill your father and your uncle as well, important enough for her to try to kill me and to stall this expedition at all costs, isn’t it important enough for you?”

The young King folded his arms defensively. “Perhaps your concerns in this matter are overstated. Perhaps they are not as important as you would have me believe. I do not see the future of the Westland Elves tied to a magic that may not even exist, may not be able to be traced if it does, and may not even be useful if found. I see it tied to a war being waged with the Federation. The enemy I can see is a more recognizable threat than the one I can imagine.”

Walker shook his head. “Why are we arguing? We have covered this ground before, and there is nothing to be gained by covering it again. I am committed to this journey. You have determined that your father’s wishes should be followed regarding any support from the Elves. What we are arguing about is the inclusion on this expedition of a youth who is untested and inexperienced. Shall I tell you why I think you want me to take him?”

Kylen Elessedil hesitated, but Walker began speaking anyway.

“He is your younger brother and next in line for the throne. You are not close. You are the children of different mothers. If you were to be killed in the fighting on the Prekkendorran, he would be named Regent, if not King. You wish to secure the throne for your children instead. But your oldest boy is only ten. Your brother, if available, would be named his protector. That worries you. To protect your son and heir to the throne, you would send your brother with me, on a journey that will consume months and perhaps years. That removes your brother as a possible successor, either as King or Regent. It removes him as a threat.”

He spoke calmly, without malice or accusation. When he was finished, Kylen Elessedil stared at him for a long time, as if weighing carefully his response.

“You are awfully bold to speak those words to me,” he said finally.

Walker nodded. “I am only telling you this so that I may better understand your thinking on the matter. If Ahren Elessedil is to go with me, I would like to know why.”

The young King smiled. “My father never liked you. He respected you, but he never liked you. Were you this bold with him?”

“More so, I would guess.”

“But it never helped you, did it? He never agreed to support you in your bid for an independent Druid Council, convened anew at Paranor. I know. He told me.”

Walker waited.

“You risk all that now by challenging me. Part of your bargain with my father was his agreement to support a new Council of Druids on your successful return. You’ve worked twenty-five years for that end. Would you give it all up now?”

Still Walker waited, silent within his black robes.

Kylen Elessedil stared at him a moment more, then judging that nothing further was to be gained, said, “Ahren will accompany you as my personal representative. I cannot go, so he will go in my place. This is an Elven expedition, and its goals and concerns are peculiarly Elven in nature. Kael Elessedil’s disappearance must be explained. The Elfstones, if they can be found, must be returned. Any magic that exists must be claimed. These are Elven matters. Whatever happens, there must be an Elessedil in attendance. That is why my brother is going, and that is the end of the matter.”

It was a firm decision, one rendered and dismissed for good. Walker could see that nothing was to be gained by arguing further. Whatever his convictions and concerns on the subject of Ahren Elessedil, Walker knew when it was time to back off. “So be it,” he acknowledged, and turned the discussion to other matters.

It was after midnight when Quentin shook Bek awake from the sleep that had claimed him an hour before. With no further word from Walker on the fate of the expedition and its members, they had retired from the palace gardens and been shown to their sleeping quarters by another of the silent Home Guard. Panax was snoring in another room. Ard Patrinell and Hunter Predd had disappeared.

“Bek, wake up!” Quentin urged, pulling on his shoulder.

Bek, still catching up on sleep lost during their journey west out of the Wolfsktaag, dragged himself out of his cottony slumber and opened his eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“Hunter Predd just returned from the palace, where he’s spoken with Walker.” Quentin’s eyes were bright and his voice excited. “I heard him come in and went to see what he’d learned. He said to tell you good-bye for now. He’s been sent to the coast to recruit two more Wing Riders from the Hove. The decision’s been made. We leave in two days!”

“Two days,” Bek repeated, not yet fully awake.

“Yes, cousin, but you didn’t hear me clearly. I said we are going, you and I!” Quentin laughed gleefully. “Walker kept us both! He’s leaving behind three of the Home Guard and taking only a single Healer. I don’t know, maybe there was someone else left off the list, as well. But he kept us! That’s what matters! We’re going, Bek!”

Afterwards, Quentin fell into bed and off to sleep so quickly that Bek, now awake, was unable to measure the time lapse between the two. It seemed somehow inevitable that he should be going. Even when Hunter Predd had warned that there were too many chosen for the voyage and some would be left behind, it had never occurred to him that he would be one of them. It was logical that he would be, of course. He was the youngest and the least skilled. On the face of things, he was the most expendable. But something in the Druid’s insistence that he come, coupled with his encounters with the King of the Silver River and Truls Rohk, had convinced him that his selection was no afterthought and was tied inextricably to secrets of the past and to resolution of events yet to be determined. Bek was there because it was necessary for him to be so, and his life was about to change forever.

It was what Quentin had wanted for them both. But Bek Rowe was inclined to wonder if one day soon they would have cause to remember the danger of getting what you wish for.