Ilse Witch

9

Bek Rowe crept through the tall grasses at the edge of a clearing just below a heavily wooded line of hills, listening to the sound of the boar as it rooted in the tangle of thicket across the way. He paused as the wind shifted, mindful of staying downwind of his quarry, listening to its movements, judging its progress. Somewhere to his left, Quentin Leah waited in the deep woods. Time was running out for them; the sun was descending toward the western horizon, and only another hour of good light remained. They had been hunting the boar all day, trailing it through the rough up-country scrub and deep woods, waiting for a chance to bring it down. Their chances of doing so were negligible under the best of conditions; boar hunting afoot with bow and arrow was risky and difficult. But as with most things that interested them, it was the challenge that mattered.

The soft scent of new leaves and fresh grasses mixed with the pungent smell of earth and wood, and Bek took a deep breath to steady himself. He could not see the boar, and the boar, having exceptionally poor eyesight, certainly could not see him. But the boar’s sense of smell was the sharper, and once he got a whiff of Bek, he might do anything. Boars were short-tempered and fierce, and what they didn’t understand they were as likely to attack as to flee.

The wind shifted again, and Bek dropped into a hurried crouch. The boar had begun moving his way, grunts and coughs marking his progress. A boy still, though approaching manhood rapidly, Bek was small and wiry, but made up for his size with agility and speed and surprising strength. Quentin, who was five years his senior and already considered grown, was always telling people that they shouldn’t be fooled, that Bek was a lot tougher than he looked. If there was a fight, the Highlander would insist, he wanted Bek Rowe at his back. It was an overstatement, of course, but it always made Bek feel good. Especially since it was his cousin saying it, and nobody would even think of challenging Quentin Leah.

Putting an arrow to his bow in readiness, Bek crept forward once again. He was close enough to the boar to smell it, not a pleasant experience, but it meant he would likely have a shot at it soon. He drifted right, following the boar’s sounds, wondering if Quentin was still up on the forested slope or had come down to approach from the boar’s rear. Shadows stretched from the trees at Bek’s back, lengthening into the clearing like elongated fingers as the day waned. A bristly dark form moved in the grasses ahead—the boar coming into view—and Bek froze where he was. Slowly, he brought up his bow, nocked his arrow, and drew back the string.

But in the next instant a huge shadow passed overhead, sliding across the clearing like liquid night. The boar, startled by its appearance, bolted away in a tearing of earth and a cacophony of squeals. Bek straightened and sighted, but all he caught was a quick glimpse of the boar’s ridged back as it disappeared into the thicket and then into the woods beyond. In seconds, the clearing was empty and quiet again.

“Shades!” Bek muttered, lowering his bow and brushing back his close-cropped dark hair. He stood up and looked across the empty clearing toward the woods. “Quentin?”

The tall Highlander emerged from the trees. “Did you see it?”

“I got a glimpse of its backside after that shadow spooked it. Did you see what that was?”

Quentin was already wandering down into the clearing and through the heavy grasses. “Some kind of bird, wasn’t it?”

“No birds around here are that big.” Bek watched him come, glancing away long enough to scan the empty skies. He shouldered his bow and shoved his arrow back into its quiver. “Birds that big live on the coast.”

“Maybe it’s lost.” Quentin shrugged nonchalantly. He slipped in a patch of mud and muttered a few choice words as he righted himself. “Maybe we should go back to hunting grouse.”

Bek laughed. “Maybe we should go back to hunting earthworms and stick to fishing.”

Quentin reached him with a flourish of bow and arrows, arms widespread as he dropped both in disgust. “All day, and what do we have to show for it? An empty meadow. You’d think we could have gotten off at least one shot between us. That boar was making enough noise to wake the dead. It wasn’t as if we couldn’t find it, for cat’s sake!”

Then he grinned cheerfully. “At least we’ve got that grouse from yesterday to ease our hunger and a cold aleskin to soothe our wounded pride. Best part of hunting, Bek lad. Eating and drinking at the end of the day!”

Bek smiled in response, and after Quentin retrieved his castoff weapons, they swung into step beside each other and headed back toward their camp. Quentin was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore his red hair long and tied back in the manner of Highlanders. Bek, his lowland cousin, had never adopted the Highland style, though he had lived with Quentin and his family for most of his life. That his origins were cloudy had fostered a strong streak of independence in him. He might not know who he was, but he knew who he wasn’t.

His father had been a distant cousin of Coran Leah, Quentin’s father, but had lived in the Silver River country. Bek remembered little more than a shadowy figure with a dark, strong face. He died when Bek was still tiny, barely two years of age. He contracted a fatal disease and, knowing he was dying, brought Bek to his cousin Coran to raise. There was no one else to turn to. Bek’s mother was gone, and there were no siblings, no aunts and uncles, no one closer than Coran. Coran Leah told Bek later, when he was older, that Bek’s father had done a great favor for him once, and he had never thought twice about taking Bek in to repay the favor.

All of which was to say that although Bek had been raised a Highlander, he wasn’t really one and had never been persuaded to think of himself in those terms. Quentin told him it was the right attitude. Why try to be something you know you’re not? If you have to pretend to be something, be something no one else is. Bek liked the idea, but he hadn’t a clue what that something else might be. Since he never talked of the matter with anyone but Quentin, he kept his thoughts to himself. Sooner or later, he imagined, probably when it mattered enough that he must do something, he would figure it out.

“I’m starved,” Quentin announced as they walked through the deep woods. “Hungry enough to eat that boar all by myself, should it choose to fall dead at my feet just now!”

His broad, strong face was cheerful and open, a reflection of his personality. With Quentin Leah, what you saw was what you got. There was no dissembling, no pretense, and no guile. Quentin was the sort who came right at you, speaking his mind and venting his emotions openly. Bek was more inclined to tread carefully in his use of words and displays of temperament, a part of him always an outsider and accustomed to the value of an outsider’s caution. Not Quentin. He opened himself up and laid himself bare, and if you liked him, fine, and if you didn’t, that was all right, too.

“Are you sure about that bird?” Bek asked him, thinking back to that huge shadow, still puzzled by its appearance.

Quentin shrugged. “I only caught a glimpse of it, not enough to be certain of anything much. Like you said, it looked like one of those big coastal birds, black and sleek and fierce.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’d like to ride one of those someday.”

Bek snorted. “You’d like to do lots of things. Everything, if you could manage it.”

Quentin nodded. “True. But some things more than others. This one, I’d like to do more.”

“I’d just settle for another crack at the boar.” Bek brushed a hanging limb away as he ducked beneath. “Another two seconds …”

“Forget it!” Quentin grabbed Bek’s shoulders playfully. “We’ll go out again tomorrow. We have all the rest of the week. We’ll find one sooner or later. How can we fail?”

Well, Bek wanted to say, because boars are quicker, faster, and stronger, and much better at hiding than we are at finding them. But he let the matter drop, because the truth was that if they’d bagged the boar today, they’d have had to figure out what to do with the rest of the week. Bek didn’t even want to speculate on what Quentin might have come up with if that had happened.

Shadows were layering the woodlands in ever-darkening pools, the light failing quickly as the sun slipped below the horizon and the night began its silent advance. Serpentine trailers of mist already had begun to appear in the valleys and ravines, those darker, cooler havens were the sun had been absent longer and the dampness was rooted deeper. Crickets were beginning to chirp and night birds to call. Bek hunched his shoulders against a chilly breeze come up off the Rappahalladran. Maybe he would suggest they fish tomorrow as a change of pace. It wasn’t as exciting or demanding as boar hunting, but the chances of success were greater.

Besides, he mused, he could nap in the afternoon sun when he was fishing. He could dream and indulge his imagination and take small journeys in his mind. He could spend a little time thinking about his future, which was a good exercise since he really didn’t have one figured out yet.

“There it is again,” Quentin announced almost casually, pointing ahead through the trees.

Bek looked, and as sharp as his eyes were, he didn’t see anything. “There what is again?” he asked.

“That bird I saw, the one that flew over the meadow. A Roc—that’s what it’s called. It was right above the ridge for a moment, then dropped away.”

“Rocs don’t travel inland,” Bek pointed out once more. Not unless they’re in thrall to a Wing Rider, he thought. That was different. But what would a Wing Rider be doing out here? “This late-afternoon light plays tricks with your eyes,” he added.

Quentin didn’t seem to hear him. “That’s close to where we’re camped, Bek. I hope it doesn’t raid our stash.”

They descended the slope they were on, crossed the valley below, and began to climb toward the crest of the next hill, on which their camp was set. They’d quit talking to each other, concentrating on the climb, eyes beginning to search the deepening shadows more carefully. The sun was below the horizon, and twilight cloaked the forest in a gloom that shifted and teased with small movements. A day’s-end silence had descended, a hush that gave the odd impression that everything living in the woods was waiting to see who would make the first sound. Though not conscious of the effort, both Bek and his cousin began to walk more softly.

When it got dark in the Highland forests, it got very dark, especially when the moon wasn’t up, as on this night, and there was only starlight to illuminate the shadows. Bek found himself growing uneasy for reasons he couldn’t define, his instincts telling him that something was wrong even when his eyes could not discover what it was. They reached their camp without incident but, as if possessed of a single mind, stopped at the edge of the clearing and peered about in silence.

After a moment, Quentin touched his cousin’s shoulder and shrugged. Nothing looked out of place. Bek nodded. They entered the clearing, walked to where their stash was strung up in a tree, found it undisturbed, checked their camping gear where it was bundled in the crotch of a broad-rooted maple, and found it intact, as well. They dragged out their bedrolls and laid them out next to the cold fire pit they’d dug on their arrival two days earlier. Then they released the rope that secured their provisions and lowered them to the ground. Quentin began sorting foodstuffs and cooking implements in preparation for making their dinner. Bek produced tinder to strike a flame to the wood set in place that morning for the evening’s meal.

Somewhere close, out in the darkness, a night bird cried shrilly as it flew in search of prey or a mate. Bek looked up, studied the shadows again, and then lit the fire. Once the wood was burning, he walked to the edge of the clearing and bent down to gather more.

When he straightened up again, he found himself face-to-face with a black-cloaked stranger. The stranger was no more than two feet away, right on top of him really, and Bek hadn’t heard his approach at all. The boy froze, arms wrapped about the load of deadwood, his heart in his throat. All sorts of messages screamed at him from his brain, but he couldn’t make himself respond to any of them.

“Bek Rowe?” the stranger asked softly.

Bek nodded. The stranger’s cowl concealed his face, but his deep, rough voice was somehow reassuring. Bek’s panic lessened just a hair.

Something about the unexpected encounter caught Quentin Leah’s notice. He walked out of the firelight and peered into the darkness where Bek and the stranger stood facing each other. “Bek? Are you all right?” He came closer. “Who’s there?”

“Quentin Leah?” the stranger asked him.

The Highlander continued to advance, but his hand had dropped to the long knife at his waist. “Who are you?”

The stranger let the Highlander come up beside Bek. “I’m called Walker,” he answered. “Do you know of me?”

“The Druid?” Quentin’s hand was still on the handle of his long knife.

“The same.” His bearded face came into the light as he pulled back the cowl of his cloak. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?” Quentin sounded openly skeptical, and frown lines creased his brow. “From us?”

“Well, from you in particular, but since Bek is here, as well, I’ll ask it of you both.” He glanced past them to the fire. “Can we sit while we talk? Do you have something to eat? I’ve come a long way today.”

As if arrived at a truce, they left the darkness and moved into the light, taking seats on the ground around the fire. Bek studied the Druid carefully, trying to take his measure. Physically, he was forbidding—tall and dark-featured, with long black hair and beard, and a narrow, angular face that was seamed by sun and weather. He looked neither young nor old, but somewhere in between. His right arm was missing from just above the elbow, leaving only a stump within a pinned-up tunic sleeve. Even so, he radiated power and self-assurance, and his strange eyes registered an unmistakable warning to stand clear. Although he said he had come to find them, he did not seem particularly interested now that he had. His gaze was directed toward the darkness beyond the fire, as if he was watching for something.

But it was his history that intrigued Bek more than his appearance, and the boy found himself digging through his memory for bits and pieces of what he knew. The Druid lived in the Keep at ancient Paranor with the ghosts of his ancestors and companions dead and gone. He was rumored to be Allanon’s successor and direct descendant. It was said he had been alive in the time of Quentin’s great-great-grandfather, Morgan Leah, and the most famous of all the Elf Queens, Wren Elessedil, and that he had fought with them in the war against the Shadowen. If that was true, then the Druid was more than 130 years old. No one else from that time was still alive, and it seemed strange and vaguely chilling that the Druid should have survived what no ordinary man could.

Bek knew a lot about the Druids. He had made it his business to know about them because of their long-standing connection to the Leah family. There had been a Leah involved in almost every great Druid undertaking since the time of the Warlock Lord. Most people were frightened of the Druids and their legacy of magic, but the Highlanders had always been their advocates. Without the Druids, they believed, the people of the Four Lands would be living much different lives at a cost they would not have cared to pay.

“You said you came far today?” Quentin broke the momentary silence. “Where did you come from?”

Walker’s dark gaze shifted. “The Dragon’s Teeth originally. Then from Leah.”

“That was your Roc,” Bek blurted out, suddenly able to speak again.

Walker glanced at him. “Not mine. Obsidian belongs to a Wing Rider named Hunter Predd. He should be along in a minute. He’s bedding down his bird first.” He paused. “You saw us, did you?”

“Saw your shadow, actually,” Quentin said as he worked on laying out strips of smoked fish in a pan. He had coated them with flour and seasonings, and was adding a bit of ale for flavor. “We were boar hunting.”

The Druid nodded. “Your father told me so.”

Quentin looked up quickly. “My father?”

Walker stretched his legs and braced himself with his good arm as he leaned back. “We know each other. Tell me, did you have any luck with the boar?”

Quentin went back to his fish, shaking his head to himself. “No, he was frightened off by you. The Roc’s shadow spooked him.”

“Well, my apologies for that. On the other hand, getting you back here to speak with me was of more consequence than seeing you bag that boar.”

Bek stared. Was he saying that he had spooked the boar deliberately, that the Roc’s passing hadn’t been by chance? He glanced quickly at Quentin to catch his cousin’s reaction, but Quentin’s attention had shifted at the sound of someone else’s approach.

“Ah, here is our friend, the Wing Rider,” Walker said, rising.

Hunter Predd trooped into the firelight, a lean, wiry Elf with gnarled hands and sharp eyes. He nodded to the Highlander and his cousin as they were introduced. He took a seat across from the Druid. Walker spent a few minutes talking about Wing Riders and Rocs, explaining their importance to the Elves of the Westland, then asked Quentin for news of his family. The conversation continued as the Highlander prepared the fish, some fry bread, and a clutch of greens. All the while, Bek watched Walker carefully, wondering what the meeting was all about, what sort of favor the Druid could want of them, how he knew Coran Leah, what he was doing with a Wing Rider, and on and on.

They had eaten their meal, washed it down with cold stream water, and cleaned up the dishes before Walker provided Bek with the answers he was seeking.

“I want you to come with me on a journey,” the Druid began, sipping at the ale Quentin had poured into his cup. “Both of you. It will be long and dangerous. It may be months before we return, maybe longer. We have to travel across the Blue Divide to a land none of us has ever seen. When we get there, we have to find a treasure. We have a map, and we have instructions written on the map about what we need to do to find this treasure. But someone else is after it, as well, someone very dangerous, and she will do everything she can to prevent us from reaching it first.”

There were no preliminaries, no buildups, and no small talk to lead into all this. The explanation was casual; they might have been talking about taking a rafting trip down the Rappahalladran. Bek Rowe had never ventured outside the Highlands, and now someone had appeared who wanted him to travel halfway around the world. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

Hunter Predd was the first to speak. “She?” he asked curiously.

Walker nodded. “Our nemesis is a very powerful sorceress who calls herself the Ilse Witch. She is the protégé of a warlock known as the Morgawr. The names derive from a language used in the world of Faerie, most of it lost. Hers means singer. His means wraith or something like it. They reside in the Westland, down in the Wilderun, and seldom venture far from there. How the Ilse Witch found out about the map and our journey, I don’t know. But she is responsible for the death of at least two people because of it.” He paused. “Do you know of her?”

Bek and Quentin glanced at each other blankly, but the Wing Rider was shaking his head in dismay. “Enough to keep clear,” he snapped.

“We don’t have that option.” Walker crossed his legs in front of him and leaned forward. “One of the dead men is Allardon Elessedil, the Elven King. If the Ilse Witch was willing to kill him to prevent us from seeking out the treasure described by the map, she will certainly not hesitate to kill us, as well. Forewarned is forearmed, I’m afraid.”

His eyes shifted to Quentin and Bek. “The other dead man is the map’s bearer, a castaway Hunter found floating in the Blue Divide a little more than a week ago. The hunt I’m proposing begins with him. He was Allardon Elessedil’s older brother, Kael, one of a company of Elves that undertook a search similar to ours thirty years ago. All of them disappeared. No trace of them or their ships was ever found. The map our castaway carried suggests their search might have yielded something of great importance. It is up to us to find out what that something is.”

“So you intend to sail all the way across the Blue Divide to search out this treasure?” Quentin asked dubiously.

“Not sail, Highlander,” the Druid replied. “Fly.”

There was a moment’s silence. The wood burning in the fire pit crackled sharply. “On Rocs?” Quentin pressed.

“On an airship.”

The silence resumed. Even Hunter Predd seemed surprised. “But why do you want us to come?” Bek asked finally.

“Several reasons.” Walker fixed the boy with his dark gaze. “Bear with me for a moment. Aside from the three of you, I have told this to no one. Most of it, I have determined only very recently, and I am still in the process of deciphering quite a bit more. I need to have someone with whom I can discuss my thinking, someone I can trust and in whom I can confide. I need someone of sharp mind and willing spirit, of ability and courage. Hunter Predd is one such. I think you and your cousin are two more.”

Bek felt his excitement growing by leaps and bounds. He leaned forward in response to the Druid’s words.

“Hunter’s usefulness is obvious,” Walker continued. “He is a seasoned veteran of the skies, and I intend to take a small number of Wing Riders as escorts for our airship. Hunter will be their leader, if he agrees to accept the position. But in doing so, he needs to be confident that he can anticipate my thinking and respond as circumstances and events dictate.”

He was still looking straight at Bek. “Quentin’s purpose is obvious, as well, although he doesn’t realize it yet. Quentin is a Leah, the oldest of his father’s sons, and heir to a powerful magic. There is no one else I can recruit for this journey who will have such a magic to lend to our cause. Once, we might have relied upon the use of Elfstones, but those in the possession of the Elves were lost with Kael Elessedil. The Ilse Witch will have allies she can turn to who possess magic of their own. Moreover, we are certain to encounter other forms of magic during our quest. It will be difficult for anyone to stand alone against them all. Quentin must support me.”

The Highlander looked as if the Druid had lost his mind. “You can’t mean that old sword, the one my father gave me several years back when I crossed into manhood? That old relic is symbolic and nothing more! The Sword of Leah, handed down for generations, carried by my great-great-grandfather Morgan against the Federation when he fought for the liberation of the Dwarves in the wake of the Shadowen defeat—everyone knows the tale, but … but …”

He seemed to run out of words, shaking his head in disbelief and turning to Bek for support.

But it was Walker who spoke first. “You are familiar with the weapon, Quentin. You’ve held it in your hands, haven’t you? When you took it out of its scabbard to examine it, you must have noticed that it was in perfect condition. The weapon is centuries old. How do you account for that if it is not infused with magic?”

“But it doesn’t do anything!” Quentin exclaimed in exasperation.

“Because you tried to summon the magic, and failed?”

The Highlander sighed. “It feels foolish to admit it. But I knew the stories, and I just wanted to see if there was any truth to them. Honestly, I admire the weapon. Its balance and weight are exceptional. And it does look as if it is new.” He paused, his broad, open Highlander face suffused with a mix of doubt and cautious expectation. “Is it really magic?”

Walker nodded. “But its magic does not respond to whim; it responds to need. It cannot be called forth simply out of curiosity. There must be a threat to the bearer. The magic originated with Allanon and the shades of the Druids who preceded him in life. No magic of theirs would be wild or arbitrary. The Sword of Leah has value, Highlander, but you will discover that only when you are threatened by the dark things you must help protect against.”

Quentin Leah kicked at the earth with the heel of his boot. “If I go with you, I’ll get my chance to discover this, won’t I?”

The Druid stared at him without answering.

“Thought so.” Quentin studied his boot a moment, then glanced at Bek. “A real adventure, cousin. Something more challenging than boar hunting. What do you think?”

For a moment, Bek didn’t respond. He didn’t know what he thought about any of it. Quentin was more trusting, more willing to accept what he was told, particularly when what it offered was what he was seeking. For several years he had asked for permission to join the Free-born and fight against the Federation, but his father had forbidden it. Quentin’s obligations were to his family and his home. As the oldest son, he was expected to help in the raising and training of his younger siblings and of Bek. Quentin wanted to travel the whole of the Four Lands, to see what else was out there. So far, he had not been allowed to go much farther than the borders of the Highlands.

Now, all at once, he was being offered a chance to experience what had been denied him for so long. Bek was excited, too. But he was not so willing as his cousin to jump into the adventure with both feet.

“Bek is probably wondering why I’m asking him to come, as well,” Walker said suddenly, his gaze fixed once more on the boy.

Bek nodded. “I guess I am.”

“I’ll tell you then.” The Druid hunched forward once more. “I need you for an entirely different reason than Hunter or Quentin. It has to do with who you are and how you think. You have displayed a healthy dose of skepticism about what you are hearing. That’s good. You should. You like to think things through carefully before giving credence to them. You like to measure and balance. For what I require of you, such an attitude is essential. I need a cabin boy on this journey, Bek, someone who can be anywhere and everywhere without questions being asked, someone whose presence is taken for granted, but who hears and sees everything. I need someone to keep watch for me, someone to investigate when it is called for and to report back on things I might have missed. I need an extra pair of hands and eyes. A boy like you has the intelligence and instincts to know when and how to put those hands and eyes to work.”

Bek frowned. “You’ve only just met me; how can you be so sure of all this?”

The Druid pursed his lips reprovingly. “It is my business to know, Bek. Do you think I’m wrong about you?”

“You could be. What if you are?”

The Druid’s smile was slow and easy. “Why don’t we find out?”

He looked away. “One more thing,” he said, speaking to all of them now. “When we begin this voyage, we shall do so with certain expectations regarding the character of those chosen to go. Over time, those expectations will change. Circumstances and events will touch all of us in ways we cannot foresee. Our company will number close to forty. I would like to believe that all would persevere and endure; they will not. Some will prove out, but some will fail us when we have need of them most. It is in the nature of things. The Ilse Witch will continue to try to stop us from leaving and, when that fails, to prevent us from reaching our goal. Moreover, she may not prove to be the most dangerous enemy we encounter. So we must learn to rely on ourselves and on those we discover we can depend upon. It is a formidable responsibility to shoulder, but I have great confidence in all three of you.”

He leaned back, his dark face unreadable. “So, then. Are you with me? Will you come?”

Hunter Predd spoke first. “I’ve been with you from the start, Walker. I guess maybe I’ll stick around for the finish. As for how dependable or trustworthy I’ll turn out to be, all I can say is that I will do my best. One thing I do know—I can find the Wing Riders you need for this expedition.”

Walker nodded. “I can ask no more.” He looked at the cousins. “And you?”

Quentin and Bek exchanged a hurried glance. “What do you say, Bek?” Quentin asked. “Let’s do it. Let’s go.”

Bek shook his head. “I don’t know. Your father might not want us to—”

“I’ve spoken to him already,” Walker interrupted smoothly. “You have his permission to come if you wish to do so. Both of you. But the choice is yours, and yours alone.”

In that instant, Bek Rowe could see the future he had been searching for as clearly as if he had already lived it. It wasn’t so much the specific events he would experience or the challenges he would face or the creatures and places he would encounter. These could be imagined, but not yet firmly grasped. It was the changes he would undergo on such a voyage that were discernible and thereby both intimidating and frightening. Many of them would be profound and lasting, affecting his life irrevocably. Bek could feel these changes as if they were layers of skin peeled back one at a time to demonstrate his growth. So much would happen on a journey like this one, and no one who returned—for he was honest enough with himself to accept that some would not—would ever be the same.

“Bek?” Quentin pressed softly.

He had come from nowhere to be where he was, an outsider accepted into a Highland home, a traveler simply by having come from another place and family. Life was a journey of sorts, and he could travel it by staying put or by going out. For Quentin, the choice had always been easy. For Bek, it was less so, but perhaps just as inevitable.

He looked at the Druid called Walker and nodded. “All right. I’ll go.”