Ilse Witch

29

Anchored well offshore and forty feet above the water, the company of the Jerle Shannara spent the night in the tree-sheltered bay. Taking no chances, Walker set a full watch—one man forward, one aft, and one in the pilot box—using Rovers so that the Elven Hunters could get a full night’s sleep and be fresh for the morning’s search. Even so, the Druid suspected that sleep was an elusive quantity that night. He slept little himself, and while pacing the corridors and decks he encountered, at one time or another, almost everyone else doing the same. Anticipation kept them all on edge and restless, and even the absence of wind and surf did nothing to ease their discomfort.

Dawn arrived in a flare of golden light that burst through the trees and across the horizon, brightening a clear blue sky and heralding a weather-perfect day. The members of the company were up and moving about almost instantly, grateful for any excuse to quit pretending that sleep might somehow come. Breakfast was consumed and weapons and provisions were gathered up. The search party gathered on deck in the early light, grim-faced and resolved, no one saying much, everyone waiting for the order to depart. Walker did not give it at once. He spent a long time conversing with Redden Alt Mer and Rue Meridian, then with Spanner Frew. They walked the length and breadth of the airship while they spoke, one or the other gesturing now and then at the ship or the surrounding forest. Bek watched them from where he sat cross-legged against the port railing, running through a list of what he carried, checking it off mentally against the list he had prepared last night. He bore virtually no weapons—a dagger and a sling—and he was less than comfortable with having only those for protection. But Walker had insisted they were all he would need or could carry, and no amount of protesting on his part had changed the Druid’s mind.

“This would be a good day for hunting,” Quentin, who was seated beside him, his gear at his feet, observed.

Bek nodded. Quentin carried a short sword at his belt, a bow and arrows over his shoulder, and the Sword of Leah strapped across his back in the Highland style. Bek supposed that if they encountered anything really dangerous, he could rely on his cousin to come to his aid.

“Do you suppose they have boar here?”

“What difference does it make?” Bek found the small talk irritating and unnecessary.

“I was just wondering.” Quentin seemed unperturbed. “It just feels a little like home to me.”

Ashamed of his disgruntled attitude, Bek forced a smile. “They have lots of boar here, and you couldn’t track a one of them without me.”

“Do tell.” Quentin arched one eyebrow. “Will I see some proof of your prowess one day soon? Or will I have to go on taking your word for it for the rest of my life?”

He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. Quentin seemed loose and easy on the outside, but Bek knew he was as anxious as the rest of them where it couldn’t be seen. The banter was a time-honored way around it, a method of dealing with it that both instinctively relied on. They had used it before, on hunts where the game they tracked was dangerous, like boar or bear, and the risk of injury was severe. It moved them a step away from thinking about what might happen if something went wrong, and it helped to prevent the kind of gradual paralysis that could steal over someone like a sickness and surface when it was too late to find an antidote.

Bek glanced across the decking to where the Elven Hunters clustered around Ard Patrinell, talking in their low, soft voices as they exchanged comments and banter of their own. Ahren Elessedil stood a little apart from them, staring off into the trees, where night’s shadows still folded through the gaps in thick layers and the silence was deep and steady. Nothing of his newfound maturity was in evidence this morning. He looked like a little boy, frightened and lost, stiff with recognition of what might happen to him and fighting a losing battle against the growing certainty that it would. He carried a short sword and bow and arrows, but from the look on his face he might as well have been carrying Bek’s weapons.

Bek watched him a moment, thinking about how Ahren must feel, about the responsibility he bore as nominal leader of the expedition, then made a quick decision and climbed to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he told Quentin.

He crossed to Ahren and greeted him with a broad grin. “Another day, another adventure,” he offered brightly. “At least Ard Patrinell gave you a real sword and an ash bow.”

Ahren started at the sound of Bek’s voice, but managed to recover a little of his lost composure. “What do you mean?”

“Look what Walker gave me.” Bek gestured at his dagger and sling. “Any small birds or squirrels that come after me, I’m ready for them.”

Ahren smiled nervously. “I wish I could say the same. I can barely make my legs move. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Quentin would say you haven’t hunted enough wild boar. Look, I came over to ask a favor. I want you to keep this for me.”

Before he could think better of it, he took off the phoenix stone and its necklace and placed them about Ahren’s neck. It was an impulsive act, one he might have reconsidered if he had allowed himself time to think about it. The Elf looked down at the stone, then back at Bek questioningly.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Ahren,” Bek admitted. Then he told his friend a revised version of his encounter with the King of the Silver River and the gift of the phoenix stone, leaving out the parts about his sister and the spirit creature’s hints of the stone’s real purpose. “So I do have a little magic after all. But I’ve been keeping it a secret from everyone.” He shrugged. “Even Quentin doesn’t know about it.”

“I can’t take this from you!” Ahren declared vehemently, reaching up to remove the stone and necklace.

Bek stopped him, seizing his hands. “Yes, you can. I want you to have it.”

“But it isn’t mine! It wasn’t given to me; it was given to you! By a Faerie creature at that!” His voice softened. “It isn’t right, Bek. It doesn’t belong to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t belong to me, either. Not really. Consider it a loan. You can give it back to me later. Look, fair is fair. I have Quentin to protect me, and he has a talisman to help him do the job. You have Ard Patrinell, but he doesn’t have any magic. The Elfstones might turn up along the way, but for now, you need something else. Why not take this?”

Bek could tell that the Elf wanted to accept the gift, a talisman of real magic that would give him fresh confidence and a renewed sense of purpose. Just now, Ahren needed those things more than he did. But the Elven prince was proud, and he would not take something from Bek if he thought it was a charity that would put his friend at risk.

“I can’t,” he repeated dully.

“Could you take it if I told you that Walker has given me another magic to use, something else with which I can protect myself?” Bek kept the truth behind the lie masked in a look of complete sincerity.

Ahren shook his head doubtfully. “What magic?”

“I can’t tell you. Walker won’t let me. I’m not even supposed to tell you I have the magic. Just trust me. I wouldn’t give you the phoenix stone if it was the only real protection I had, would I?”

Which was true enough. The fact that he possessed the magic of the wishsong gave him some reassurance that by handing over the phoenix stone, he wasn’t leaving himself entirely defenseless. Anyway, the stone hadn’t been of much use to him; perhaps it would help his friend.

“Please, Ahren. Keep it. Look, if you promise to use it to help me if you see that I’m in trouble, that will be repayment enough. And I’ll do the same for you with my magic. Quentin and I already have an agreement to look out for each other. You and I can have one, too.”

He waited, holding Ahren’s uncertain gaze. Finally, the other boy nodded. “All right. But just for a while, Bek.” He ran his fingers over the stone. “It’s warm, like it’s heating from the inside out. And so smooth.” He glanced down at it a moment, then back at Bek. “I think it really is magic. But maybe we won’t have to find out. Maybe we won’t have to use it at all.”

Bek smiled agreeably, not believing his reassurances for a single moment. “Maybe not.”

“Thanks, Bek. Thanks very much.”

Bek was on his way back to Quentin when Walker stopped him amidships and turned him gently aside. “That was very foolish,” he said, not unkindly. “Well intentioned, but not particularly well advised.”

Bek faced the Druid squarely, the set of his jaw revealing his attitude on the matter. “Ahren has nothing with which to protect himself. No magic of his own, Walker. He is my friend, and I don’t see anything wrong with giving him something that might help keep him alive.”

The dark face looked away. “You weren’t listening to me as closely as I hoped when I said that magic wasn’t necessarily the key to survival here. Instincts and courage and a clear head are what will keep us alive.”

Bek stood his ground. “Well, maybe having the phoenix stone will help him find those particular attributes. What’s bothering you, Walker?”

The Druid shook his head. “So many things I don’t know where to start. But in this case, your rashness gives me pause. Giving up magic entrusted to you by the King of the Silver River may cost you more than you realize. The magic of the phoenix stone wasn’t intended as a defense. The King of the Silver River would know, as I do, that you possess the magic of the wishsong. The stone is for something else, most likely something to do with your sister. Mark me well, Bek, and retrieve it as soon as you reasonably can. Promise me.”

Only partially convinced, the boy nodded without enthusiasm. Too much of what the Druid had told him during their travels was suspect. This was no exception. No one could know the future or what it would require of a man. Not a spirit creature. Not even a seer like Ryer Ord Star. The best anyone could do was reveal glimpses out of context, and those could deceive.

“Meanwhile,” Walker said, interrupting his thoughts, “I am giving you this to carry.”

He reached beneath his black robes and produced the Sword of Shannara. It was sheathed in a soft leather scabbard, but the carving of the fist and the raised torch on the pommel were unmistakable.

Bek took it from the Druid and held it out before him, staring at it. “Do you think I will need it?”

The Druid’s smile was unexpectedly bitter. “I think we will need whatever strengths we can call upon once we are off this airship. A talisman belongs in the hands of a bearer who can wield it. In the case of the Sword of Shannara, that bearer is you.”

Bek thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right, I’ll carry it. Not because I am afraid for myself, but because maybe I can be of some use to the others. That’s the reason I went with Truls Rohk into the ruins on Mephitic. That’s the reason I agreed to use the sword at the Squirm. I came on this journey because I believed what you told me the night we met—that I could do something to help. I still believe it. I’m a part of this company, even if I don’t know for sure yet what that part might be.”

Walker bent to him. “Each of us has a part to play and all of us are still discovering what that part is. None of us is superfluous. Everyone is necessary. You are right to look out for your friends.”

He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But remember that we can do little to look out for others if we forget to look out for ourselves. In the future, don’t be too quick to discount what might be required to do that. It isn’t always apparent beforehand. It isn’t always possible to anticipate what is needed.”

Bek had the distinct impression that Walker was talking about something besides the phoenix stone. But it was clear from his words that he had no intention of saying what it was. By now, the boy was used to veiled references and hidden meanings from the Druid, so he felt no real urgency to pursue the matter. Walker would tell him when he was ready and not before.

“Ahren and I made a pact to stick together,” he said instead. “So the phoenix stone won’t be far away. I can get it back from him anytime I choose.”

Walker straightened, a distant look in his dark eyes. “Time to be going, Bek. Whatever happens, remember what I said about the magic.”

He called out sharply to those waiting and beckoned them to follow.

Redden Alt Mer brought up the anchors and eased the Jerle Shannara across the still waters of the bay to a broad stretch of open shoreline. Using rope ladders, the search party descended from the airship, seventeen-strong—Walker, Bek, Quentin Leah, Panax, Ryer Ord Star, Joad Rish, Ahren Elessedil, Ard Patrinell, and nine Elven Hunters. From there, they gathered up their weapons and supplies and stood together as the airship lifted off and sailed back along the channel that had brought her in. They watched until she was out of sight, then on Walker’s command, they set out.

The Druid placed Ard Patrinell in charge, giving over to the Elf the responsibility for protecting the company. The Captain of the Home Guard sent a young woman named Tamis, a tracker, ahead some fifty yards to scout the way in and placed an Elven Hunter to either side to guard their flanks. The rest of the company he grouped by twos, placing Walker in the vanguard and Panax in the rear, with Elven Hunters warding them both. Quentin was given responsibility for the center of the formation and those who were not trained fighters, Joad Rish and Ryer Ord Star and Bek in particular.

Walker glanced at the boy from time to time as they proceeded, trying to take his measure, to judge how Bek felt about himself now that he knew so much more. It was difficult to do. Bek seemed to have adapted well enough to his increased responsibility for use of the magic of the wishsong and the Sword of Shannara. But Bek was a complex personality, not easily read, and it remained to be seen how he would react to the demands that his heritage might require of him down the road. As of now, he had only scratched the surface of what he could or would in all probability be asked to do. The boy simply didn’t understand yet how enmeshed in all this he was and what that was likely to mean to him. Nor was there any easy or safe way to tell him.

Like it or not, Bek would grow increasingly difficult to manage. He was independent to begin with, but what control the Druid had maintained over him to date was mostly the result of what he knew that the boy didn’t. Now that advantage was pretty much gone, and in the process Bek had grown distrustful of him. As matters stood, the boy was as likely to do what he felt like as what Walker suggested, and choices of that sort could prove fatal.

The Druid was reminded once again how far he had strayed from his vow to avoid falling into a Druid’s manipulative ways. He could not escape the fact that he was becoming more like Allanon with the passing of every day. All of his good intentions and promises had come to nothing. It was a sobering conclusion, and it induced a deep and profound sadness. He could argue that at least he was aware of his failings, but what good was that if he was unable to correct them? He could justify everything and still feel as if he had betrayed himself utterly.

The company pressed deeper into the woods, climbing from the bay’s coastline into the surrounding hills, burrowing deeper into the sun-speckled shadows and thickening woods. The ground was rough and uneven, crisscrossed by ravines and gullies, blocked entirely in places by deadfall and heavy brush. A handful of times they found their way blocked by cuts too deep and wide to cross. Twice they encountered clumps of trees that appeared to have been dropped by a storm, twisted masses of deadwood that ran for a quarter of a mile. Each time they had to back away from one approach and try another. Each time they were forced to change direction, and with each change it grew increasingly difficult to determine exactly where they were.

Walker carried a compass he had borrowed from Redden Alt Mer, but even so it was impossible to maintain a straight line of approach. The best the Druid could manage was to plot a course from where they had come, which was of dubious value. But the day stayed bright and warm, the sun a cheerful presence in the blue sky, and the sounds of birdsong comforting and reassuring. Nothing threatened from the shadows. Nothing dangerous appeared or gave sign of its presence. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in a forested wilderness that could easily have been their own.

Even so, Walker was wary. Despite appearances, he knew what waited for them somewhere along the way. He would have preferred to have Truls Rohk foraging ahead to ward their approach, but there was no help for that. The Elven Hunters would have to do. They were well trained and able, but no one was as good at staying hidden as the shape-shifter. He wondered where the other was, if he had escaped detection aboard the airship of the Ilse Witch, if he was accomplishing something important. He shook his head at the thought. Whatever Truls was doing, it couldn’t be as important as what he could be doing here.

Morning came and went, and still they trekked on through the forest without finding anything. The castaway’s map had brought them to the bay and pointed them inland and that was as much direction as they were going to get. On the map, a dotted line led to an X that said Castledown. There was no explanation of what Castledown was. There was no description of how they might recognize it. Walker had to assume that its identity would be self-evident when they came across it. It wasn’t the biggest assumption he had made in this business by any means, so he wasn’t uncomfortable following it.

It was late in the afternoon when his faith was rewarded. They topped a steep rise through a heavily wooded draw and discovered all three Elven scouts clustered together waiting for them. Her pixie face solemn and expectant, Tamis pointed ahead.

It was hardly necessary for her to do so. The hillside before them fell away into a broad, deep valley that easily ran ten miles from end to end and another five across. Trees carpeted the slopes and ridges, a soft green ring in the afternoon sunlight. But across the entire valley floor, all ten miles wide and five miles deep of it, sprawled the ruins of a city. Not a city from the present, Walker realized at once. Even from where they stood, still a half mile away, that much was apparent. The buildings were low and flat, not tall like those of Eldwist had been in the land of the Stone King. Some were damaged, their surfaces cracked and broken, their edges ragged and sharp. Holes opened through walls to reveal twisted, burned-out interiors. Debris lay scattered everywhere, some of it rusted and pitted by weather, some of it overgrown with lichen and moss. There was a uniformity to the ruins that indicated clearly that no one had lived here for a very long time.

But what struck the Druid immediately about the city, even more so than its immense size, was that virtually everything was made of metal. Walls, roofs, and floors all gleamed with patches of metallic brightness. Even bits and pieces of the streets and passageways reflected the sun. As far as the eye could see, the ruins were composed of sheets and slabs and struts of metal. Scrub grasses and brush had fought their way up through gaps in the fittings like pods of sea life breaching in an open sea. Isolated groves of trees grew in tangled thickets that might have been parks, carefully tended once perhaps, gone wild now. Even in its present state, crumbling and deteriorated since the Great Wars had reduced it to an abandoned wreck, the nature of its once sleek, smooth condition was evident.

“Shades!” Panax hissed at his elbow, thinking perhaps of the ruins his people had once mined in the aftermath of the holocaust.

Walker nodded to himself. The ruins of Castledown were gigantic. He had never imagined something of this size could exist. How many people had there been in the world if this was an example of the massiveness of their cities? He knew from the Druid histories that the number had been large, much larger than now. But there had been thousands of cities then, not hundreds. How many of them had been this huge? Walker found himself suddenly overwhelmed by the images, the numbers, and the possibilities. He wondered exactly what it was they were going to find. For the first time, he found himself wondering if they were up to it.

Then it struck him suddenly that perhaps he had made an incorrect assumption. The more he stared at the ruins, the more unlikely it seemed that it had been built to house people. The look of the buildings was all wrong. Low and wide and flat, vast spaces with high windows and broad entrances, sprawling foundations with no personal spaces, they seemed better suited for something else. For warehousing, perhaps. For factories and construction yards.

For housing machines.

He glanced at those around him. All looked awestruck, staring at the city as if trying to comprehend its purpose, as if working to make it seem real. Then he noticed Ryer Ord Star. She stood apart from the others as she always did, but she was shaking, her eyes cast down and her fingers knotted tightly in the folds of her clothing. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, and she was crying soundlessly. Walker moved next to her, placed his arm on her shoulders, and drew her slender body close.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

She glanced up at him momentarily, then shook her head and melted against him once more, burying her face in his robes. He held her quietly until she stilled—it took a few minutes, no more—then stepped away from her and ordered Ard Patrinell to move out.

They descended the valley slope to its floor, stopping in a wooded clearing a hundred yards back from the edge of the ruins to make camp for the night. By now the sun was brushing the valley rim west and would be down in another hour. It was too late to attempt any exploration of the city today. Walker felt confident that they had located Castledown and that what they had come to find was hidden somewhere within. How difficult it would be to uncover what he sought remained to be seen, but he preferred that their first foray be undertaken in daylight.

Alone, while the others set camp and prepared dinner, he walked to the edge of the city. He stood there in the waning light staring into the shadowed ruins, down long, broad avenues, through gaps in the metal walls, along rooflines long since reshaped by time and the ravages of a conflict he was grateful he had not been alive to see. The races of the present thought of a Druid’s magic as powerful, but real power was unknown to them. Real power was born of science. He found himself wondering what it might have been like to live in those distant times, before the Old World was destroyed. How would it have felt to have power that could destroy entire cities? What sort of havoc would it play with your soul to be able to snuff out thousands of lives at a touch? It made him shiver to imagine it. It made him feel frightened and sick inside.

Perhaps that was what Ryer Ord Star was feeling. Perhaps that was why she cried.

Thinking of her triggered a memory of her vision of the islands and their protectors. It was what she had said after speaking of the keys that surfaced unexpectedly in his thoughts. He had almost forgotten it, dismissed it out of hand as obvious. I see this in a haze of shadow that tracks you everywhere and seeks to place itself about you like a shroud. He had believed her words referred to the Ilse Witch and her relentless pursuit of him.

But looking into the ruins of Castledown and feeling the presence of the thing that waited there like an itch against his skin, he knew he had been mistaken.