The Talismans of Shannara

Chapter Eight

It was nearing midafternoon of the day following the separation of Par and Damson when Morgan Leah at last came in sight of the borderland city of Varfleet. The summer was drifting toward autumn now, and the days were long and slow and filled with heat that arrived with the sun and lingered on until well after dark. The Highlander stood on a rise north of the city and looked down at the jumble of buildings and crooked streets and thought that nothing would ever be the same for him again.

It had been more than two weeks since he had parted company with Walker Boh—the Dark Uncle gone in search of Paranor, the Black Elfstone his key to the gates of time and distance that locked away the castle of the Druids, and the Highlander come looking for Padishar Creel and the Ohmsford brothers.

Two weeks. Morgan sighed. He should have reached Varfleet in two days, even afoot. But then nothing much seemed to work out the way he expected it these days.

What had befallen him was ironic considering what he had survived during the weeks immediately preceding. On leaving Walker, he had followed the Dragon’s Teeth south along the western edge of the Rabb. He reached the lower branch of its namesake river by sunset of his second day out and made camp close-by, intent on crossing at sunrise and completing his journey the next day. The plains were sweltering and dusty, and there were pockets of the same sickness that marked the Four Lands everywhere, patches of blight where everything was poisoned. He thought that he had avoided these, that he had kept well clear in his passing. But when he woke at dawn on that third morning he was hot and feverish and so dizzy that he could barely walk. He drank some water and lay down again, hoping the sickness would pass. But by midday he was barely able to sit up. He forced himself to his feet, recognizing then how sick he was, knowing it was necessary that he find help immediately. His stomach was cramping so badly he could not straighten up, and his throat was on fire. He did not feel strong enough to cross the river, so instead he wandered upstream onto the plains. He was hallucinating when he came upon a farmhouse settled in a shady grove of elm. He staggered to the door, barely able to move or even speak, and collapsed when it opened.

For seven days he slept, drifting in and out of consciousness just long enough to eat and drink the small portions of food and water he was offered by whoever it was who had taken him in. He did not see any faces, and the voices he heard were indistinct. He was delirious at times, thrashing and crying out, reliving the horrors of Eldwist and Uhl Belk, seeing over and over again the stricken face of Quickening as she lay dying, feeling again the anguish he had experienced as he stood helplessly by. Sometimes he saw Par and Coll Ohmsford as they called to him from a great distance, and always he found that try as he might he could not reach them. There were dark things in his dreams as well, faceless shadows that came at him unexpectedly and from behind, presences without names, unmistakable nevertheless for who and what they were. He ran from them, hid from them, tried desperately to fight back against them—but always they stayed just out of his reach, threatening in ways he could not identify but could only imagine.

His fever broke at the end of the first week. When at last he was able to open his eyes and focus on the young couple who had cared for him, he saw in their faces an obvious relief and realized how close he had come to not waking at all. His sickness had left him drained of strength, and for several days after he had to be fed by hand. He managed to stay awake for short periods and to speak a little when he did. The young wife with the straw-blond hair and the pale blue eyes looked after him while her husband worked in the fields, and she smiled with concern when she told him that his dreams must have been bad ones. She gave him soup and bread with water and a small ration of ale. He accepted it gratefully and thanked her repeatedly for looking after him. Sometimes her husband would appear, standing next to her and looking down at him, bluff and red-faced from the sun, with kind eyes and a broad smile. He mentioned once that Morgan’s sword was safely put aside, that it had not been lost. Apparently that had been part of the nightmares as well.

At the end of the two weeks Morgan was taking his meals with them at their dinner table, growing stronger daily, close to returning to normal. His memories lingered, however—the feeling of pain and nausea, the sense of helplessness, the fear that the sickness was the door to the darkness that would come at the end of his life. The memories stayed, for Morgan had come close to dying too often in the past few weeks to be able to put them aside easily. He was marked by what he had experienced and endured as surely as if scarred in battle, and even the farmer and his wife could see in his eyes and face what had been done to him. They never asked for an explanation, but they could see.

He offered to pay them for their care and predictably they refused. When he said good-bye to them seventeen days later, he slipped half of what money remained to him into the pocket of the wife’s worn apron when she wasn’t looking. They watched after him as parents might a child until he was out of sight.

And so not only was his arrival at Varfleet and his search for Padishar and Par and Coll considerably delayed, but he was left as well with a renewed sense of his own mortality. Morgan Leah had come down out of Eldwist and the Charnals still grappling with Quickening’s death, devastated by the loss he felt with her passing, in awe of her strength in carrying out her father’s wish that she give up her own life in order that the land should be restored. An elemental that had become more human than her father had anticipated, she remained for Morgan an enigma for which he did not believe he would ever find a resolution. Coupled with this realization was the undeniable pride and strength he had found in helping to defeat Uhl Belk and in regaining anew the magic of the Sword of Leah. When the Sword had been made whole again, somehow so had he. Quickening had given him that. In the loss of Quickening, Morgan realized, he had somehow found himself. The contradictions between what had been lost and gained had warred within him as he traveled south with Walker and Horner Dees, a conflict that would never be entirely settled, and it was not until the sickness had overtaken him that their raging was forced to give way to the more basic need of finding a way to stay alive.

Now, staring down at the city, come back out of several nightmare worlds, out of the lives he had expended in those worlds, so distant that they might have been lived by someone else, Morgan reflected that he stood at the beginning of yet another life. He found himself wondering if those who had known him in the old life would ever recognize now who he was.

He entered Varfleet as just another traveler come down out of the north, a Southlander weathered and seasoned from troubles that were his own business, and he was pretty much ignored by the people of the city, who, after all, had troubles of their own to worry about. He passed through the poorer sections where families lived in makeshift shelters and children begged in the streets, conscious again of how little the ill-named Federation Protectorate had done to help anyone in Callahorn. He passed into the city proper, where the smells of cooking and sewage mingled unpleasantly, the merchants hawked their wares in strident voices from carts and shopfronts, and the tradesmen serviced the needs of those who could afford the price. Federation soldiers patrolled the streets, a threatening presence wherever they went, looking as uncomfortable as the people they were charged with policing. If you stripped away the weapons and uniforms, the Highlander thought darkly, it would be hard to tell who was who.

He found a clothing shop and used most of his remaining money to buy pants, a tunic, a well-made forest cloak, and some new boots. His own clothing was frayed and soiled and worn beyond help, and he left it all behind in the shop when he departed, taking only his weapons. He asked for directions to the Whistledown, not certain even now what it was, and was told by the shopkeeper that it was a tavern that could be found at the center of the city on Wyvern Split.

Making his way through the crowds and the midday heat, Morgan recalled anew the instructions that Padishar Creel had given him weeks ago. He was to go to the Whistledown and show the hawk ring to a woman named Matty Roh. She would know how to find Padishar. Morgan fingered the hawk ring where it was buried in his pocket, safely tucked away for the time he would need it. He mused on how often he had doubted that such a time would come. The rough outline of the hawk emblem pressed against his skin as he twisted it about, bringing back memories of the outlaw chief. He wondered if Padishar Creel had been forced to come back from the dead as often as he had these past few weeks. The possibility brought a bitter smile to his lips.

He found Wyvern Split and turned down its length toward a square ringed by taverns, inns, and pleasure houses. Not a very attractive part of the city, but a busy one. He shifted the Sword of Leah from where it was draped across his back, adjusting the straps, feeling sad and weary and at the same time buoyed—an odd mix, but somehow a proper one. Sickness and loss had worn him down, but surviving both had strengthened his resolve. There was not much out there, he believed, that he could not get through. He needed that conviction. For weeks he had watched his friends and companions slip away, some lost to fortune, some to the machinations of others. He had seen his own plans repeatedly altered, his course turned aside time and again to serve a higher—or at least a different—purpose. He had done what he had believed right in each case, and he had no reason to second-guess himself. But he was tired of having his life rearranged like furniture in a room where each time he turned to look everything was in a different place. He had honored Steff’s dying wish and gone back to Culhaven to rescue Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. He had given himself then to Quickening and her journey to Eldwist. Now it was time to do what he had been promising himself he would do since escaping Tyrsis and the Pit. It was time to find Par and Coll, to give them what protection he could, to see to it that he stayed with them until...

He gave a mental shrug. Well, until they no longer needed him, he guessed—whenever that might be.

And where were they now? he wondered for what must have been the hundredth time. What had become of them since their own escape?

Thinking of them made him uneasy. It always did. Too much time had passed since he had left them. The danger of the Shadowen was too great for the Valemen to have been left out there alone. He hoped Padishar had found them by now. He hoped that they’d had an easier time of things than he had.

But he wouldn’t have cared to place a bet on it.

He arrived at the square and saw the Whistledown off to the left in the far corner. A weather-beaten wooden sign carved with a flute and a foaming tankard over the name announced its location. It was a slat-boarded building like all the others clustered about it, sharing a common wall with the ones on either side, looming three stories against the skyline, with curtained windows on the second and third floors where there were either living quarters for the owners and their families or sleeping rooms for hire. The square was thronged with people coming and going from this place to that, more than a few meandering from tavern to tavern, some so drunk they could hardly stand. Morgan avoided them, moving aside to let those he encountered pass, smelling the sweat and dirt of their bodies and the stench of the streets. Wyvern Split, he thought, was a cesspool.

He reached the Whistledown’s open doors, stepped through, and was surprised to find that the inside of the ale house bore an entirely different look. Although it was plain and sparsely furnished, the floors were scrubbed clean, the wood trim on the serving bar was polished to a high sheen, the tables and chairs and stools were neatly arranged, and the smell of cedar chips and lacquer was everywhere. Ale casks gleamed in their racks against the wall behind the serving counter, and there were glass doors and metal trim on the tankard cupboard. A pair of heavy swinging doors at the end of the serving counter hung closed. A massive stone fireplace dominated the wall to the left of the counter, and a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors took up most of the wall to the right. Serving bowls and cleaning cloths were stacked on the counter itself.

But it was something else that caught Morgan’s eye and held it something so obviously out of place that he had to take a second look to be certain he was not mistaken about what he was seeing.

There were bunches of wildflowers arranged in large vases on shelves bracketing the ale casks and tankard cupboard.

Flowers—here, of all places! He shook his head.

The swinging doors opened and a boy with a broom pushed through. He was tall and lean with short-cropped black hair and fine, almost delicate features. He moved with fluid grace as he swept down the length of the serving counter, almost as if dancing, working the broom in front of him, lost in thought. He whistled softly, unaware yet of Morgan.

Morgan shifted his stance enough to announce that he was there, and the boy looked up at once.

“We’re closed,” he said. Cobalt eyes fixed on the Highlander, a frank, almost challenging stare. “We open at dusk.”

Morgan stared back. The boy’s face was smooth and hairless, and his hands were long and thin. The clothes he wore were loose and shapeless, hanging on him as if on sticks, belted at his narrow waist and tied at his ankles. He wore shoes instead of boots, low-cut, stitched leather things that molded to his feet.

“Is this the Whistledown?” Morgan asked, deciding he had better make sure.

The boy nodded. “Come back later. Go take a bath first.”

Morgan blinked. Take a bath? “I’m looking for someone,” he said, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the other’s steady gaze.

The boy shrugged. “I can’t help you. There’s no one here but me. Try across the street.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for just anyone...” Morgan began.

But the boy was already turning away, working the broom back up the floor against the counter. “We’re closed,” he repeated, as if that settled the matter.

Morgan started forward, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. “Wait a minute.” He reached for the other’s shoulder. “Hold on a minute. Did you say you were the only one...?”

The boy wheeled about smoothly as Morgan touched him, the broom came up, and the blunt end jabbed the Highlander hard below the rib cage. Morgan doubled over, paralyzed, then dropped to one knee, gasping.

The boy came up beside him and bent close. “We’re closed, I told you. You should pay better attention.” He helped Morgan to his feet, surprisingly strong for being so lean, and guided him to the door. “Come back later when we open.”

And the next thing Morgan knew he was back outside on the street, leaning against the slat-board wall of the building, arms clasped about his body as if he were in danger of falling apart—which was not too far off the mark in terms of how he felt. He took several deep breaths and waited for the ache in his chest to subside.

This is ridiculous, he thought angrily. A boy!

He managed to straighten finally, rubbed at his chest, adjusted the shoulder straps of his sword where they had begun to chafe, and walked back through the Whistledown’s doors.

The boy, who was sweeping behind the counter now, did not look pleased to see him. “What seems to be your problem?” he asked Morgan pointedly.

The Highlander walked to the counter and glared. “What seems to be my problem? I didn’t have a problem until I came in here. Don’t you think you were a little quick with that broom?”

The boy shrugged. “I asked you to leave and you didn’t. What do you expect?”

“How about a little help? I told you I was looking for someone.”

The boy sighed wearily. “Everyone is looking for someone—especially the people who come in here.” His voice was low and smooth, an odd mix. “They come in here to drink and to feel better. They come in here to find company. Fine. But they have to do it when we’re open. And we’re not open. Is that plain enough for you?”

Morgan felt his temper begin to slip. He shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s plain to me. What’s plain to me is that you don’t have any manners. Someone ought to box your ears.”

The boy set the broom down and put his slim hands on the counter. “Well, it won’t be you who does it. Now turn around and go back out that door. And forget what I said before. Don’t come back later. Don’t come back at all.”

For a moment Morgan considered reaching over the counter, taking hold of the boy by the scruff of his neck, and pulling him across. But the memory of that broom handle was too recent to encourage precipitous action, and besides, the boy didn’t look the least bit afraid of him.

Keeping his anger in check, he folded his arms across his chest and held his ground. “Is there anyone else here that I can talk to besides you?” he asked.

The boy shook his head.

“The owner, maybe?”

The boy shook his head.

“No?” Morgan decided to take a chance. “Is the owner’s name Matty Roh?”

There was a flicker of recognition in the cobalt eyes, there for an instant and then gone. “No.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “But you know who Matty Roh is, don’t you?” He made it a statement of fact.

The boy’s gaze was steady. “I’m tired of talking to you.”

Morgan ignored him. “Matty Roh. That’s who I came here to find. And I came a long way. Which is why I need a bath, as you so rudely pointed out. Matty Roh. Not some nameless companion for some unmentionable purpose, thanks just the same.” His voice was taking on a sharper edge. “Matty Roh. You know the name; you know who she is. So if you want to be rid of me, just tell me how to find her and I’ll be on my way.”

He waited, arms folded, feet planted. The boy’s expression never changed; his gaze never moved off Morgan. But his hands slipped down behind the serving counter and came up again holding a thin-bladed sword. The way they held it suggested a certain familiarity.

“Now, what’s this?” Morgan asked quietly. “Am I really that unwelcome?”

The boy was as still as stone. “Who are you? What do you want with Matty Roh?”

Morgan shook his head. “That’s between her and me.” Then he added, “I’ll tell you this much. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need to speak with her.”

The boy studied him for a long time, gaze level and fixed, body still. He stood behind the serving counter like a statue, and Morgan had the uneasy feeling that he was poised between fleeing and attacking. Morgan watched the eyes and the hands for a hint of which way the boy would go, but there was no movement at all. From outside, the sounds of the street drifted in through the open doors and hung shrill and intrusive in the silence.

“I’m Matty Roh,” the boy said.

Morgan Leah stared. He almost laughed aloud, almost said something about how ridiculous that was. But something in the boy’s voice stopped him. He took a closer look at the other—the fine, delicate features, the slim hands, the lean body concealed beneath the loose-fitting clothing, the way he held himself. He remembered how the boy had moved. None of it seemed quite right for a boy. But for a girl...

He nodded slowly. “Matty Roh,” he said, his surprise still evident. “I thought you were a... that you were...”

The girl nodded. “That’s what you were supposed to think.” Her hand did not move off the sword. “What do you want with me?”

For a moment Morgan did not respond, still grappling with the idea that he had mistaken a girl for a boy. Worse, that he had let her make him look like such a fool. But you mustered the defenses available to you when you lived in a place like Wyvern Split. The girl was clever. He had to admit her disguise was a good one.

He reached into his tunic pocket and drew forth the ring with the hawk emblem and held it out. “Recognize this?”

She took a quick look at the ring, and her hand tightened on the sword. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Morgan Leah,” he said. “We both know who gave me the ring. He told me to come to you when I needed to find him.”

“I know who you are,” she declared. Her gaze stayed level, appraising. “Do you still carry a broken sword, Morgan Leah?”

An image of Quickening as she lay dying flashed in his mind. “No,” he said quietly. “It was made whole again.” He pushed back the pain the memory brought and forced himself to reach over his shoulder and touch the sword’s hilt. “Do you want to have a look?”

She shook her head no. “I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time. But it’s difficult to know who to trust. The Federation has spies everywhere—Seekers more often than not.”

She picked up her own sword and slipped it back under the counter. For a moment she didn’t appear to know what to do next. Then she said, “Would you like something to eat?”

He said he would, and she took him through the swinging doors in back into a kitchen where she seated him at a small table, scooped some stew into a serving bowl from a kettle hung over a cooking fire in the hearth, cut off several slices of bread, poured ale into a mug, and brought it all over to where he waited. He ate and drank eagerly, hungrier than he had been in days. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table, and he touched them experimentally. She watched him in silence, the same serious expression on her face, studying him with that frank, curious gaze. The kitchen was surprisingly cool, with a breeze blowing in through the open back door and venting up the chimney of the fireplace. Sounds from the streets continued to drift in, but the Highlander and the girl ignored them.

“It took you a long time to get here,” she said when he had finished his meal. She carried his dishes to a sink and began to wash them. “He expected you sooner than this.”

“Where is he now?” Morgan asked. They were taking great pains to avoid saying Padishar Creel’s name—as if mention of it might alert the Federation spies set at watch.

“Where did he say he would be?” she countered.

Still testing, Morgan thought. “At Firerim Reach. Tell me something. You’re being pretty careful about me. How am I supposed to know I can trust you? How do I know you really are Matty Roh?”

She finished with the dishes, set them to dry on the counter, and turned to face him. “You don’t. But you came looking for me. I didn’t come looking for you. So you have to take your chances.”

He rose. “That’s not very reassuring.”

She shrugged. “It isn’t meant to be. It isn’t my job to reassure you. It’s my job to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

“And are you sure?”

She stared at him. “More or less.”

Her stare was impenetrable. He shook his head. “When do you think you might know?”

“Soon.”

“And what if you decide I’m lying? What if you decide I’m someone else?”

She came forward until she was directly across the table from him, until the blue of her eyes was so brilliant that it seemed to swallow all the light.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out the answer to that question,” she said. She held his gaze challengingly. “The Whistledown stays open until midnight. When it closes, we’ll talk about what happens next.”

As she turned away, he could have sworn she almost smiled.