Jarka Ruus (15 page)

And all that didn't even touch on the times she had disguised herself as an Elven Hunter to go off on dangerous forays into country so wild that if her father had been alive, she would have been locked in her rooms for a month when she was brought back.

But he wasn't alive, by then; he was dead, killed on the Prekkendorran. Her brother was King, and he was still intimidated by her. He gave her a lecture that would have scorched paint in a rainstorm before turning his mind to less troublesome concerns, but a lecture was nothing to her.

She brushed back her thick, unruly hair. Sometimes she thought she should just cut it all off and be done with it, but her mother would have reacted to that much the same way she would have reacted if Khyber had announced she was going to marry a Troll. There was no point in antagonizing her mother, who was her sole source of support and confidence.

She finished off her cheese and bread, watching her uncle surreptitiously. It was hard to know what he was thinking. His expression never really changed, the result of his Druid discipline, which taught that emotions must be contained if magic was to be successfully wielded. She wanted to tell him what she had done when he was in a good mood. But how could she know? She grimaced. She recognized what she was doing. She was procrastinating. She should just tell him. Right here. Right now.

Nevertheless, she did not. She finished her glass of ale, rose, and began to clear the table of plates and glasses. It was one of the small services she could perform on her visits, and she liked doing something for her uncle that no one else would. He lived alone, and some said he did so because he preferred it that way. He had been in love a long time ago with a seer on the
Jerle Shannara
, though he had never said as much when speaking of her. He had been only a boy himself in those days, younger even than she was now, and much more sheltered. The seer had been killed on the voyage, and Khyber was fairly sure he had never gotten over it. She had done something important for him, something that had helped him grow into the man he was, although once again he never said exactly what that something was.

Since then, there had been only one other woman—a sorceress, who had loved him desperately. Khyber had seen them together, and it was frightening how determined the other woman was that Ahren Elessedil should be hers. But he had decided otherwise and never spoke of her now. Apparently, she was as exiled from his life as he was from Arborlon's.

“Have you ever thought about returning to Paranor?” she asked impulsively, pausing on her way into the house with the dishes.

He looked at her. “Now and then. But I think I belong here, in the Westland. Paranor is a place for study and Druid politics. Neither is for me. What are you really asking, Khyber?”

She made a face. “Nothing. I just wondered if you ever missed the company of other Druids, the ones who still remain at Paranor.”

“You mean her,” he said, his smile sad and ironic. He was too quick, she thought. He could read her mind. “No,” he said. “That's done.”

“I just think it would help if you had someone living here with you. Someone to help you. So you wouldn't be lonely.”

It sounded stupid, even to her. He laughed. “Well, it wouldn't be her, in any case. She isn't the kind to help others when she has herself to worry about. Why are you so eager to see me partnered? I don't see you looking around for someone to marry.”

She stalked into the house without replying, thinking that her good intentions were wasted on her uncle. He was right about her, of course, but that was beside the point. She was too young to marry, and he would soon be too old and too set in his ways. In fact, he already was, she decided. There was no room in his life for anything but his work. She didn't know why she thought that it might be otherwise. He would live alone until he died, and she might as well accept it. She would just have to do the best she could for him on her visits and hope he got by the rest of the time.

She had just returned for the rest of the dishes when she heard a shout from the other end of the village, and Elves came running out of their houses and workshops, looking skyward.

“An airship,” Ahren said, getting to his feet at once.

No airships ever came to Emberen. It was too small and too isolated. There was only one road, and much of the year it was sodden and rutted and virtually impassable by wagon or cart. Khyber always came on horseback, knowing that she could be assured of getting in and out again that way. Flying vessels in that part of the world were rare. Some of the Elves who lived in the village had never even seen one.

She followed Ahren down the road and through the village toward the sound of the shouting, joining the flow of the crowd and trying to make out the ship through the heavy canopy of limbs. She had no idea where it might find a place to land in woods as heavy as those surrounding Emberen, but she supposed there must be a large enough clearing somewhere nearby. Ahren was striding ahead, gray Druid robes whipping about his ankles, and she thought from the purposeful nature of his walk that he was concerned that whoever had taken the trouble to fly an airship to Emberen might not have their best interests at heart. A rush of excitement flooded through her at the prospect of whom it might be. Maybe the routine of her studies was about to take an unexpected, but rather more interesting turn.

The crowd reached the end of the road and turned down a pathway that led into the trees. Overhead, she caught a glimpse of movement. The airship appeared momentarily and was gone again, circling the trees. It wasn't very big—a skiff at best.

She broke into a narrow clearing just as the airship started down, a slow looping motion that brought it in line with a narrow opening in the forest canopy. She could see it clearly by then, a small skiff of the sort favored by Southlanders who did their flying across the inland lakes. Even though it was coming down at a precipitous decline, she didn't think that its power had failed. Nevertheless, given the tightness of the space, the pilot was taking a dangerous risk. Whoever was flying had better be pretty good or the airship would end up in pieces in the trees.

“They're landing!” someone belatedly cried out in surprise.

As the pilot continued to maneuver toward the slot, the Elves scattered back into the trees, pointing and shouting. Khyber stood her ground, not wanting to miss the details of the landing. She had flown on airships, but never seen one landed in a space so small. She wanted to see how it was done. She wanted to see if the pilot could do it.

She got more than she bargained for. It appeared the craft would touch down before it reached her, but at the last minute it lurched drunkenly, skipped across the forest floor, and came right at her. If Ahren hadn't yanked her out of the way and thrown her down, she might have been struck by the pieces of metal that broke loose and flew wildly in all directions. The little skiff slammed into the ground, tore open huge ruts with its pontoons, and came to a halt not twenty feet from where she crouched.

Ahren released his grip on her arm and stood her back up. “You need to pay better attention, Khyber,” he said quietly.

She rubbed her arm and shrugged carelessly. “Sorry, Uncle Ahren. I just wanted to watch.”

The Elves began to filter out of the trees for a look at the airship's occupants, one of whom, a boy who was younger than she was, stood on the skiff's deck, surveying the damage and shaking his head. She stared. Was he the one who had been flying the skiff? This boy? Then a second head popped up from one of the storage holds in the starboard pontoon, a Dwarf who looked as if he didn't know whether to strangle the boy or embrace him.

“Is that Tagwen?” Ahren whispered in disbelief. “Shades, I think it is. What is he doing here?”

With Khyber right beside him, he hurried forward to find out.

Thirteen

Penderrin Ohmsford hauled himself out of the pilot box, brushed off his rumpled clothes, and surveyed the little skiff with no small sense of satisfaction. Another vessel would have broken apart on impact, coming in as fast and as hard as she had. That they were down safely at all was a miracle, but he had survived tougher landings and had never really been in doubt about the outcome.

Tagwen did not share that reaction. The Dwarf was incensed as he climbed out of the storage bin into which he had fallen, and pointed a shaking finger at the boy.

“What's the matter with you? Are you trying to kill us? I thought you said you could fly this thing! Didn't you tell me you could? Why your aunt thinks you are so good at flying escapes me! I could have done a better job myself!”

His beard was matted with leaves and twigs and dirt clots, and a rather large leaf stuck out of his hair like a feather, but he failed to notice, the full weight of his attention given over to Pen.

Pen shrugged. “We're down and we're safe, and we're walking away,” he pointed out. “I think that ought to be good enough.”

“Well, it isn't good enough!” Tagwen snapped.

“Well, why not?”

“Because we should be dead! This time we were lucky! What about next time? What about the time after that? I'm supposed to be able to depend on you! I said I would come with you in search of the Ard Rhys, but I didn't say I would commit suicide!”

“I don't see why you're so angry!” Pen snapped, made angry himself by the other's irascible behavior.

“Tagwen, is that you? As I live and breathe, it is! Well met!”

The shout came from one side, drawing their attention and putting an end to their arguing. The speaker was an Elf about the same age as Pen's father, but with a more careworn face and with an even slighter build. A girl walked beside him, darker complected and more intense. Her eyes were riveted on Pen, and he had the feeling that she was making up her mind about him before she even knew who he was. Then she smiled when she saw him looking back at her, a disarming, warm grin that made him regret his hasty conclusion.

“Tagwen!” the speaker exclaimed again, reaching up to take the Dwarf's hand. “What are you doing out here? And on an airship?”

“Desperate times require desperate acts,” Tagwen advised philosophically. He extended his own hand, and they shook. “I must say, flying with this boy is as desperate as I care to get.” He paused, glancing over at Pen ruefully. “Although I will admit, in all fairness, that he has saved my life several times on our journey.”

He reached out a hand and guided Pen to the forefront. “Penderrin Ohmsford, this is Ahren Elessedil. You might have heard your father speak of him.”

“Ah, young Pen!” the Elf greeted enthusiastically, shaking his hand, as well. “I haven't seen you since you were too tiny to walk. You probably don't remember me.”

“My father does indeed speak of you all the time,” Pen agreed. “My mother, as well.”

“They were good friends to me on our voyage west, Pen. If not for your father's help, I would not have returned.” He gestured toward the girl. “This is my niece, Khyber, my brother's daughter. She visits from Arborlon.”

“Hello again, Khyber.” Tagwen nodded to her. “You have grown up.”

“Not all that far,” she replied, her eyes staying on Pen. “That was a spectacular landing,” she said. “I didn't think you were going to make it down.”

Tagwen went crimson again, the disapproving frown returning to his bluff features, so Pen jumped down from the decking with a mumbled thanks and quickly added, “Tagwen's right. I was lucky.”

“I think it was more than that,” she said. “How long have you been flying airships?”

“Enough about airships!” the Dwarf huffed, noticing for the first time the debris in his beard and brushing it clean with furious strokes. “We have other things to talk about.” He lowered his voice. “Prince Ahren, can we go somewhere more private?”

Elves were gathered all around by then, come out of the trees to take a closer look at the airship and its occupants. Children were already scurrying around the pontoons and under the decking, making small excited noises amid squeals of delight. A few of the braver ones were even trying to climb aboard while their parents pulled them back.

“My cottage is just up the road, Tagwen,” Ahren Elessedil said. “We can clean you up and give you something to eat and drink. Khyber makes the best mango black tea in the Westland, a secret she won't share even with me.” He gave the girl a wink. “Leave the skiff. She'll be all right where she is. She's an object of curiosity, but the villagers won't harm her.”

“I don't care whether they harm her or not!” Tagwen groused. “I've had more than enough of her for one day, thanks very much!”

They walked back through the village, Ahren Elessedil leading with Tagwen at his side, Pen following with Khyber. No one said very much, respecting the Dwarf's wishes that they wait until they were in private to talk. Pen was thinking that even though Tagwen had insisted the Elven Prince-turned-Druid could help them in their search for the Ard Rhys, Ahren didn't look up to it. If anything, he looked too soft and frail for the physical demands of such an endeavor. A strong wind might blow him away, the boy thought. But looks were misleading. Ahren Elessedil had survived the voyage of the
Jerle Shannara
when more than twenty others had not, and he wasn't a Druid then. Tagwen had warned Pen not to judge Ahren too quickly, that what was visible on the surface was not necessarily representative of the man inside. Pen hoped he was right.

“Your father is Bek Ohmsford?” Khyber Elessedil asked him.

He nodded. “Do you know the story from your uncle?”

“All of it. It is the most famous story of this generation. My family doesn't much care for it because they hold your aunt responsible for my grandfather's assassination and Uncle Ahren responsible for helping her escape them and found the new Druid order at Paranor. My brother is the worst. I don't agree with any of them. That's why I'm here. I am training with my uncle to be a Druid. In secret.”

“Your family doesn't know?”

She shook her head. “They think I come here only to visit, so they leave me alone. They don't know the truth.”

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “My parents don't know where I am. They think I am still back in Patch Run.”

“What will they do when they find out you're not?”

He smiled. “Track me down. They can do it, too. But they won't find out for a while. They're off in the Anar on an expedition, guiding customers hunting and fishing. They won't get back for weeks. So they won't know.”

She smiled back. “Looks like we have something in common.”

They reached Ahren's cottage, where the Druid provided Pen and Tagwen with fresh clothes, a bucket of water, and cloths with which to wash up. The pair did so, and returned to find that Khyber had prepared the promised black tea and set out some cheese and bread, as well. Since neither had eaten since early morning, when they had set out from somewhere below the Mermidon, they devoured the food hungrily and drank down the entire pot of tea.

When they were finished, Tagwen rocked back in his seat, glanced across the table at Ahren to be certain he was listening, and said, “I'll tell you why we've come now, but it might not be something you want to share with Khyber.” He gave her a pointed look. “No offense is meant, young lady, but the truth is you might be better off not knowing what we have to say. There is some danger involved.”

The girl looked at her uncle, who shrugged. “I am not much good at keeping secrets from Khyber,” he said, smiling. “In any case, she would have it out of me before the sun was down. If you don't mind, I'll let her stay to hear your story.”

Tagwen nodded. “She can quit listening when she decides she doesn't want to hear any more. I'll leave it at that.”

Leaning forward, arms resting on the tabletop, bearded face scrunched up so that he looked as if he was about to undertake the most difficult task of his life, he began his story. He related the events surrounding the disappearance of the Ard Rhys, the dismissal of Kermadec and his Rock Trolls, his own decision to seek help from Grianne's brother, his arrival at Patch Run and meeting with Pen, and their subsequent flight from Terek Molt and the crew of the Druid airship
Galaphile
. He ended with the unexpected appearance of the King of the Silver River, come out of nowhere to save them from Terek Molt and to tell them of what they must do.

The longer Tagwen's story went on, the more ridiculous it sounded to Pen and the more foolish he felt for coming even that far. What the King of the Silver River expected him to do—even if you accepted that it really was the King of the Silver River and not some malevolent shade—was patently impossible. For a boy with no practical magic to go alone into the Forbidding was so arrogant and pigheaded that no right-thinking person would even consider it. Pen didn't have to know the particulars of what lay behind the Faerie magic that closed away the creatures of the Forbidding to know that he had virtually no chance of surviving a journey inside. He might be able to find and secure the darkwand from the tanequil—though that was debatable, as well—but he saw no way he could reasonably expect to rescue the Ard Rhys once he had done so.

By the time Tagwen had concluded, Pen could not bring himself to look at Ahren Elessedil. He imagined himself in the other's shoes, thinking that he would dismiss this whole business in a heartbeat. The Dwarf had been so certain Ahren would help them, but looking at it now, Pen couldn't see any reason why.

He glanced over at the Druid in spite of himself and found the other staring back.

“This is a terrible responsibility you have been given, Penderrin,” Ahren Elessedil said quietly. “I am surprised you found the courage to accept it.”

Pen stared. It was not what he had expected the Druid to say. “I was just thinking that it might have been a good idea to think it through a little more.”

“Are you worried that you acted in haste? Or that you might have been tricked in some way because it all sounds so incredible?” The Elf nodded. “I remember feeling that way more than once during my time on the
Jerle Shannara
. I don't think you can avoid such feelings. Maybe second-guessing what you choose to do in difficult situations is necessary if you are to find peace of mind. Blind acceptance of what you believe to be the dictates of fate and circumstance is dangerous.”

“Do you think it really was the King of the Silver River?” Pen asked impulsively.

The Druid pursed his lips. “Your father met him years ago, on his way to Arborlon. He told me of the meeting later; he described it. Not so much how the King of the Silver River looked—that wouldn't matter anyway because he can change his appearance. He described how it happened and how it made him feel. Your experience sounds as if it was the same. Yes, Pen, I think it was him.”

He glanced at Khyber, who was staring at Pen with rapt attention. “Khyber believes it was, don't you, Khyber?”

She nodded at once. “I believe it all. But what are we going to do about it, Uncle Ahren? Sorry, what are
you
going to do about it?” she corrected herself.

“I told the boy to come here,” Tagwen confessed, straightening. “It's my fault we have involved you in this. But I know how you feel about the Ard Rhys, and I couldn't think of anyone else to turn to. I don't think we can do this on our own. We managed to get this far on grit and luck.” He grimaced. “I can't imagine how we will get all the way into the Charnals alone.”

“But we can if we have to,” Pen added quickly.

Tagwen shot him a withering glance. “You have more confidence in what we can accomplish than I do, Penderrin.”

Ahren Elessedil smiled ruefully. “Confidence isn't to be discouraged, Tagwen. Nor overrated, Penderrin. Remember—we seek a balance in all things.”

“But you will help them, won't you?” Khyber pressed eagerly.

“Of course, I will help. The Ard Rhys has been both mentor and friend to me; I would never abandon her or those who feel about her as I do.” He paused, looking again at Tagwen. “But much of what you have told me is troublesome. I think there is still a great deal about this business that we don't know. Shadea a'Ru, Terek Molt, and those others are dangerous, but they lack sufficient power to imprison the Ard Rhys within the Forbidding. It took the magic of an entire Elven nation to create the Forbidding in the first place. Nothing passes through the barrier except when the Ellcrys fails. She doesn't do so now, so far as I know.”

He glanced at Khyber for confirmation. “She was well when I departed Arborlon a week ago,” she said.

“She wouldn't have declined so precipitously without our hearing about it,” Ahren continued. “No, some other force is at work here—something hidden from us. We may not find out what it is until we reach the Ard Rhys, but we must be wary of it.”

He paused. “A more immediate problem is that those who have worked against the Ard Rhys will be searching for Pen. They will not stop simply because he has escaped them once. Perhaps they realize that he has the potential to help her. Perhaps they are simply looking to tie up loose ends. The King of the Silver River helped you escape once, Pen, but he will not be able to help you a second time. You are beyond his reach now.”

“They were searching for my father when they came to Patch Run,” Pen pointed out. “Maybe they will forget about me and go after him.”

The Druid shook his head. “They will keep looking. Eventually, they will find you. So we must act quickly. Do you have any idea at all where in the Charnals the tanequil can be found?”

Pen shook his head. “Only what the King of the Silver River told us—that it grows on an island beyond the ruins of a city called Stridegate and that Urdas and Trolls might help us find the way. Nothing more than that.”