racked with pain. The wail tightened like a vise around his head, crushing his

ineffectual defenses. In the pilot box, in a futile effort to keep the sound at

bay, Cinnaminson doubled over, her hands clapped over her ears. Gar Hatch was

howling in fury, fighting to remain in control of the airship but losing the

battle.

 

"Do something!" Khyber screamed at everyone and no one in particular, her eyes

squeezed shut, her face twisted.

 

Like the legendary Sirens, the shades were driving the humans aboard the

Skatelow mad. Their voices would paralyze the sailors, strip them of their

sanity, and leave them catatonic. Already, Pen could feel himself losing

control, his efforts at protecting his hearing and his mind failing. If he had

the wishsong, he thought, he might have a way to fight back. But he had no

defense against this, no magic to combat it. Nor did any of them, except perhaps

. . .

 

He glanced quickly at Ahren Elessedil. The Druid was standing rigid and

white-faced against the onslaught, hands weaving, lips moving, calling on his

magic to save them. It was a terrible choice he was making, Pen knew. Using

magic would give them away to the Galaphile in an instant. It would lead Terek

Molt and his Gnome Hunters right to them. But what other choice did they have?

The boy dropped to his knees, fighting to keep from screaming, the wailing so

frenzied and wild that the deck planking was vibrating.

 

Then abruptly, everything went perfectly still, and they were enfolded in a

silence so deep and vast that it felt as if they were packed in cotton wadding

and buried in the ground. Around them, the mist continued to swirl and the

shades to fly, but the wailing was no longer heard.

 

Pen got to his feet hesitantly, watching as the others did the same.

 

"We're safe, but we've given ourselves away," Ahren said quietly. He looked

drained of strength, his face drawn and worn.

 

"Maybe they didn't come after us," Khyber offered.

 

Her uncle did not respond. Instead, he moved away from them, crossing the deck

to the pilot box. After a moment's hesitation, Pen and Khyber followed. Gar

Hatch turned at their approach, his hard face twisting with anger. "This is your

doing, Druid!" he snapped. "Get below and stay there!"

 

"Cinnaminson," Ahren Elessedil said to the girl, ignoring her father. She swung

toward the sound of his voice, her pale face damp with mist, her blind eyes

wide. "We have to hide. Can you find a place for us to do so?"

 

"Don't answer him!" Gar Hatch roared. He swung down out of the pilot box and

advanced on the Druid. "Let her be! She's blind, in case you hadn't noticed! How

do you expect her to help?"

 

Ahren stopped, one hand coming up in a warding gesture. "Don't come any closer,

Captain," he said. Gar Hatch stopped, shaking with rage. "Let's not pretend we

don't both know what she can and can't do. She's your eyes in this muck. She can

see better than either of us. If she can't, then send her below and steer this

ship yourself! Because a Druid warship tracks us, and if you don't find a way

off this lake, and find it quickly, it will be on top of us!"

 

Gar Hatch came forward another step, his fists knotted. "I should never have

brought you aboard! I should never have agreed to help you! I do, and look what

it costs me! You take my daughter, you take my ship, and you will probably cost

me my life!"

 

Ahren stood his ground. "Don't be stupid. I take nothing from you but your

services, and I paid for those. Among them, like it or not, is your daughter's

talent. Now give her your permission to find a place for us to hide before it is

too late!"

 

Hatch started to say something, then his eyes widened in shock as the huge,

ironclad rams of the Galaphile surged out of the fog bank.

 

"Cinnaminson!" he shouted, leaping into the pilot box and seizing the controls.

 

He dropped the nose of the Skatelow so hard and so fast that Pen and his

companions slid forward into the side of the pilot box, grabbing onto railings

and ropes and anything else that would catch them. The airship plummeted, then

leveled out and shot forward into the haze, all in seconds. As quick as that,

they were alone again, the Galaphile vanished back into the fog.

 

"Which way?" Gar Hatch demanded of his daughter.

 

Her voice steady, Cinnaminson centered herself on the console, both hands

gripping the railing, and began to give her father instructions, calling out

headings. Pen, Khyber, and Ahren Elessedil righted themselves and snapped their

safety harnesses in place, keeping close to the pilot box to watch what was

happening. Gar Hatch ignored them, speaking only to his daughter, listening to

her replies and making the necessary adjustments in the setting of the

Skatelow's course.

 

Pen looked over his shoulder, then skyward, searching the mist for the

Galaphile. She was nowhere to be seen. But she was close at hand. He sensed her,

massive and deadly, an implacable hunter in search of her prey. He felt her bulk

pressing down through the haze, looking to crush him over the Lazareen the way

she would have crushed him over the Rainbow Lake almost three weeks ago.

 

He was aware suddenly that the shades had vanished, gone back into the shroud of

mist and gloom they had swum through moments earlier, sunk down into the waters

of the Lazareen.

 

"Why didn't the dead go after Terek Molt?" he asked Ahren suddenly. "Why didn't

they attack the Galaphile, too?"

 

The Druid glanced over. "Because Molt protects his vessel with Druid magic,

something he can afford to do and we cannot." He paused, hands knuckle-white

about the pilot box railing, droplets of water beaded on his narrow Elven

features. "Besides, Penderrin, he may have summoned the dead in the first place.

He has that power."

 

"Shades," the boy whispered, and the word was like a prayer.

 

They sailed ahead in silence, an island once more in the mist and fog, a rabbit

in flight from a fox. All eyes searched the gloom for the Galaphile, while

Cinnaminson called out course headings and Gar Hatch made the airship respond.

The wind picked up again, set loose as they reached the Lazareen's center, and

the haze began to dissipate. Below, the lake waters were choppy and dark, the

sound of their waves clear in the fog's silence.

 

Ahren Elessedil leaned over the pilot box railing. "Where do we sail?" he asked

Gar Hatch.

 

"The Slags," the big man answered dully. "There's plenty of places to hide in

there, places we will never be found. We just need to clear the lake."

 

Pen touched the Druid's arm and looked at him questioningly.

 

"Wetlands," the Druid said. "Miles and miles of them, stretching all along the

northeastern shoreline. Swamp and flood plain, cypress and cedar. A tangle of

old growth and grasses blanketed with mist and filled with quicksand that can

swallow whole ships. Dangerous, even if you know what you're doing." He nodded

toward Hatch. "He's made the right choice."

 

She has, Pen corrected silently. For it was Cinnaminson who set their course,

through whose mind's eye they sought their way and in whose hands they placed

their trust.

 

The mist continued to thin, the sky above opening to a canopy of stars, the lake

below silver-tipped and shimmering. Their cover would be gone in a few minutes,

and Pen saw no sign of the shore. The mist still hung in thick curtains in the

distance, so he assumed the shore was there. But it was a long way off, and the

wind was in their face, slowing their passage.

 

Rain began to fall, sweeping across the decking in a cold, black wash, and

quickly they were soaked through. It poured for a time, thunder booming in the

distance, and then just as suddenly it stopped again. At the same moment, the

wind died to nothing.

 

"Twenty degrees starboard," Cinnaminson told her father. "We'll find better

speed on that heading. Oh," she gasped suddenly, "behind us, Papa!"

 

They all swung about in response and found the Galaphile emerging from the

remnants of the fog bank, dark and menacing in the moonlight, sails furled and

lashed, the warship flying on the power of her diapson crystals. She was moving

fast, surging through the night, bearing down on them like a tidal wave.

 

Gar Hatch threw the thruster levers all the way forward and yelled to his Rover

crewmen to drop the mainsail. Pen saw the reason for it at once; the mainsail

was a drag on the ship in that windless air and would be of less help if the

wind resumed from the east. The Skatelow was better off flying on stored power,

as well, though she could not begin to match the speed of the Galaphile. Still,

she was the smaller, lighter craft and, if she was lucky, might be able to

outmaneuver her pursuer.

 

The chase was under way in earnest; the fog that had offered concealment only

moments earlier all but vanished. Pen did not care for what he saw as he watched

the Galaphile draw closer. As fast as she was coming, the Skatelow could not

outrun her. The Lazareen stretched away in all directions, vast and unchanging,

and there was no sign of the shoreline they so desperately needed to reach.

Clever maneuvers would get them only so far. Cinnaminson was still calling out

tacks and headings, and Gar Hatch worked the controls frantically in response,

trying to catch a bit of stray wind here, to skip off a gust of sudden air

there. But neither could do anything to change their situation. The Galaphile

continued to close steadily.

 

Then a fresh rainsquall washed over them, and Ahren Elessedil, seeing his

chance, stepped away from the railing, arms raised skyward, and called on his

magic to change the squall's direction, sending it whipping toward the Druid

warship. It caught the Galaphile head-on, but by then it had changed into sleet

so thick and heavy that it enveloped the bigger ship and swallowed it whole.

Clinging to the Galaphile in a white swirling mass, it coated the decking and

masts with ice, turning the airship to a bone-bleached corpse.

 

Now the Skatelow began to pull away. Burdened by the weight of the ice that had

formed, the Galaphile was foundering. Pen saw flashes of red fire sweeping her

masts and spars, Druid magic attempting to burn away the frigid coating. The

fire had an eerie look to it, flaring from within the storm cloud like dragon

eyes, like embers in a forge.

Ahead, the fog bank drew nearer.

 

Ahren collapsed next to Pen and Khyber, his lean face drawn and pale, his eyes

haunted. He was close to exhaustion. "Find us a place to hide, Cinnaminson," he

breathed softly.

"Find it quickly."

 

Pressed against the pilot box wall, rain-soaked and cold, Pen peered in at the

girl. She stood rigid and unmoving at the forward railing, her face lifted. She

was speaking so low that Pen could not make out the words, but Gar Hatch was

listening intently, bent close to her, his burly form hunched down within his

cloak. He had dropped the Skatelow so close to the Lazareen that she was almost

skimming the surface. Pen heard the chop of the lake waters, steady and rough.

The wind was back, whipping about them from first one direction and then the

other, sweeping down out of the Charnals, cold and bleak.

 

Then they were sliding into the mist again, its gray shroud wrapping about and

closing them away. Everything disappeared, vanished in an instant.

 

"Starboard five degrees, Papa," Cinnaminson called out sharply. "Altitude,

quickly!"

 

Blinded by the murky haze, Pen could only hear tree branches scrape the

underside of the hull as the Skatelow nosed upward again-a shrieking, a rending

of wood, then silence once more. The airship leveled off. Pen was gripping the

pilot box railing so hard his hands hurt. Khyber was crouched right beside him,

her eyes tightly closed, her breathing quick and hurried.

 

"There, Papa!" Cinnaminson cried out suddenly. "Ahead of us, an inlet! Bring her

down quickly!"

 

The Skatelow dipped abruptly, and Pen experienced a momentary sensation of

falling, then the airship steadied and settled. Again there was contact, but

softer, a rustling of damp grasses and reeds rather than a scraping of tree

limbs. He smelled the fetid wetland waters and the stink of swamp gas rising to

meet them; he heard a quick scattering of wings.

 

Then the Skatelow settled with a small splash and a lurch, sliding through water

and mist and darkness, and everything went still.

 

* * *

 

"I was so frightened," she whispered to him, her blind gaze settling on his

face, her head held just so, as if she were seeing him with her milky eyes

instead of her mind.

 

"You didn't look frightened," he whispered back. He squeezed her hands. "You

looked calmer than any of us."

 

"I don't know how I looked. I only know how I felt. I kept thinking that all it

would take was one mistake for us to be caught. Especially when that warship

appeared and was chasing us."

 

Pen glanced skyward, finding only mist and gloom, no sign of the Galaphile or

anything else. Around them, the waters of the wetlands lapped softly against the

hull of the Skatelow. Even though he couldn't see them, he heard the rustle of

the limbs from the big trees that Cinnaminson told him were all about them. For

anyone to find the Skatelow there, they would have to land right on top of it.

From above, even if the air were clear instead of like soup, they were

invisible. Their concealment was perfect and complete.

 

Two hours had passed since their landing, and in that time the others had gone

to sleep, save for the Rover who kept watch from the bow. Pen stood with

Cinnaminson in the pilot box, looking out into the haze, barely able to see the

man who stood only twenty yards away. Before that night, the boy would not have

been allowed on deck at all. But maybe the rules were no longer so important to

Gar Hatch since he and Ahren Elessedil knew each other's secrets and neither was

fooling the other about how things stood. Pen didn't think the Rover Captain's

opinion of him had changed; he didn't think Hatch wanted him around his

daughter. But maybe he had decided to put up with it for the time being, since

their time together was growing short. Whatever the case, Pen would take what he

could get.

 

"What are you thinking?" she asked him, brushing damp strands of her sandy blond

hair away from her face.

 

"That your father is generous to allow us to be on deck alone like this. Perhaps

he thinks better of me now."

 

"Now that he knows who you are and who's hunting you? Oh, yes. I expect he would

like to be best friends. I expect he wants to invite you home to live with him."

She gave him a smirk.

 

Pen sighed. "I deserved that."

 

She leaned close. "Listen to me, Penderrin." She put her lips right up against

his ear, her words a whisper. "He may have given you away in Anatcherae. I don't

know that he did, but he may have. He is a good man, but he panics when he's

frightened. I've seen it before. He loses his perspective. He misplaces his

common sense."

 

"If he betrayed us to Terek Molt . . ."

 

"He did so because he was afraid," she finished for him. "If he is backed into a

corner, he will not always do the sensible thing. That might have happened here.

I wasn't with him on the waterfront, and I didn't see whom he talked to. That

Druid might have found him and forced him to talk. You know they can. They can

tell if you are lying. My father might have given you up to save his family and

his ship."

 

"And for the money they are offering."

 

She backed away a few inches so that he could see her face again. "What matters

now is that if he has done it once, he might try to do it again. Even out here.

I don't want that to happen. I want you to stay safe."

 

He closed his eyes. "And I want you to come with me," he whispered, still

feeling the softness of her mouth against his face.

 

"I want you to come now, not later. Tell me you will, Cinnaminson. I don't want

to leave you behind."

 

She lowered her head and let it rest on his shoulder. "Do you love me,

Penderrin?"

 

"Yes," he said. He hadn't used the word before, even to himself, even in the

silence of his mind. Low. He hadn't allowed himself to define what he was

feeling. But as much as it was possible for him to do so, still young and

inexperienced, he was willing to try. "I do love you," he said.

 

She burrowed her face in his neck. "I wanted to hear you say it. I wanted you to

speak the words."

 

"You have to come with me," he insisted again. "I won't leave you behind."

 

She shook her head. "We're children, Pen."

 

"No," he said. "Not anymore."

 

He could sense her weighing her response. A dark certainty swept through him,

and he closed his eyes against what he knew was coming. He was such a fool. He

was asking her to leave her father, the man who had raised and cared for her,

the strongest presence in her life. Why would she do that? Worse, he was asking

her to accompany him to a place where no one in her right mind would go. She

didn't know that, but he did. He knew how dangerous it was going to be.

 

"I'm sorry, Cinnaminson," he said quickly. "I don't know what I was thinking. I

don't have the right to ask you to come with me. I was being selfish. You have

to stay with your father for now. What we decided before was right-that when it

was time, I would come for you. But this isn't the time. This is too sudden."

 

She lifted her head from his shoulder and faced him, her expression filled with

wonder. In the dim light and with the mist damp and glistening against her skin,

she looked so young. How old was she? He hadn't even thought to ask.

 

"You told me in Anatcherae that you would come for me and take me with you

whenever I was ready to go," she said. "Is that still true. Do you love me

enough to do that?"

 

"Yes," he said.

 

"Then I want you to take me with you when we get to where we are going. I want

you to take me now."

 

He stared at her in disbelief. "Now? But I thought-"

 

"It's time, Pen. My father will understand. I will make him understand. I have

served him long enough. I don't want to be his navigator anymore. I want a

different life. I have been looking for that life for a long time. I think I

have found it. I want to be with you.

 

She reached out and touched his face, tracing its ridges and planes. "You said

you love me. I love you, too."

 

She hugged him then, long and hard. He closed his eyes, feeling her warmth seep

through him. He loved her desperately, and he did not think for a moment that

his age or his inexperience had blinded him to what that meant. He had no idea

how he could protect her when he could barely manage to protect himself, but he

would find a way.

 

"It will be all right," he whispered to her.

 

But he knew that he spoke the words mostly to reassure himself.

 

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

At daybreak, Pen and his companions got a better look at the Slags, and it

wasn't encouraging. The wetlands had the look of a monstrous jungle, an

impenetrable tangle of trees, vines, reeds, and swamp grasses, all rising out of

a mix of algae-skinned waterways that stretched away as far as the eye could

see. The eye couldn't see all that far, of course, since the mist of the

previous night did not dissipate with the sun's rising, but continued to layer

the Slags in a heavy gray blanket. Swirling in and out of the undergrowth like a

living thing, snaking its way through the twisted dark limbs of the trees and

across the spiky carpet of grasses, it formed a wall that promised that any form

of travel that didn't involve flying would be slow and dangerous.

 

Ahren Elessedil took one good look at the morass surrounding the Skatelow,

glanced up at a ceiling of clouds and mist hung so low that it scraped the

airship's mast tip, and shook his head. No one would find them in this, he was

thinking. But they might never find their way out again, either.

 

"Here's how we go," Gar Hatch said, seeing the look on his face. It was warmer

in the Slags, and the Rover was bare-chested and shiny with the mist's dampness.

His muscles rippled as he climbed out of the pilot box and stood facing the Elf.

"It isn't as bad as it looks, first off. Bad enough, though, that it warrants

caution if we stay on the water, and that's what we'll mostly do. We'll drop the

mast, lighten our load as best we can, and work our way east through the

channels, except where flying is the only way through. It's slow, but it's sure.

That big warship won't ever find us down here."

 

Pen wasn't so sure, but Gar Hatch was Captain and no one was going to

second-guess him in that situation. So they all pitched in to help take down the

mainmast, laying it out along the decking, folding up the sails and spars and

tucking them away, and tossing overboard the extra supplies they could afford to

let go. It took most of the morning to accomplish this, and they worked as

silently as they could manage; sounds carry long distances in places like that.

 

But they saw no sign of the Galaphile, and by midday they were sailing along the

connecting waterways and across the flooded lowlands, easing through tight

channels bracketed by gnarled trunks and beneath bowers of limbs and vines

intertwined so thickly that they formed dark tunnels. Three times they were

forced to take to the air, lifting off gently, opening the parse tubes just

enough to skate the treetops to the next open space, then landing and continuing

on. It was slow going, as Hatch had promised, but they made steady time, and the

journey progressed without incident.

 

It might have been otherwise, had the Rover Captain not been familiar with the

waters. Twice he brought the airship to a standstill in waters that ran deeper

than most, and in the distance Pen watched massive shapes slide just beneath the

surface, stirring ripples that spread outward in great concentric circles. Once,

something huge surfaced just behind a screen of trees and brush, thrashing with

such force that several of the trees toppled and the waters churned and rocked

with the force of its movement. Yet nothing came close to the airship, for Hatch

seemed to know when to stop and wait and when to go on.

 

By nightfall, they were deep in the wetlands, though much farther east than when

they had started out, and there was still no sign of their pursuit. When asked

of their progress, Hatch replied that they were a little more than halfway

through. By the next night, if their luck continued to hold, they would reach

the far side.

 

That couldn't happen any too soon for Pen. He was already sick of the Slags, of

the smell and taste of the air, of the grayness of the light, unfriendly and

wearing, of the sickness he felt lurking in the fetid waters, waiting to infect

whoever was unfortunate enough to breathe it in. This was no place for people of

any persuasion. Even on an airship, Pen felt vulnerable.

 

But perhaps his anticipation of what was going to happen when it was time to

leave the Skatelow was working on him, as well. Taking Cinnaminson from her

father was not going to be pleasant. He did not for a moment doubt that he could

do it, did not once question that he could do whatever was necessary. But

thinking about it made him uneasy. Gar Hatch was a dangerous man, and Pen did

not underestimate him. He thought that Cinnaminson's fears about what might have

happened in Anatcherae were well founded. Gar Hatch probably did betray them to

Terek Molt. He probably thought they would never live to reach the Skatelow to

finish this voyage and that was why he was so distressed when Ahren Elessedil

reappeared and ordered him to set sail. It wasn't unfinished repairs or stocking

of supplies that had upset him; it was the fact that he had been forced to go at

all.

 

What would he do when he found out that his daughter, his most valuable asset in

his business, was leaving him to go with Pen? He would do something. The boy was

certain of it.

 

On the other hand, Pen hadn't done much to help matters along from his end,

either. He hadn't said a word to his three companions about what he and

Cinnaminson had agreed upon. He didn't know how. Certainly, Tagwen and Khyber

would never support him. The Dwarf would do nothing that would jeopardize their

efforts to reach the Ard Rhys, and the Elven girl already thought his

involvement with Cinnaminson was a big mistake. Only Ahren Elessedil was likely

to demonstrate any compassion, any willingness to grant his request. But he

didn't know how best to approach the Druid. So he had delayed all day, thinking

each time he considered speaking that he would do so later.

 

Well, later was here. It was nightfall, dinner behind them by now, and the next

day was all the time he had left. He couldn't wait much longer; he couldn't

chance being turned down with no further opportunity to press his demand.

 

But before he could act on his thinking, Gar Hatch wandered over in the twilight

and said, "I'd like to speak with you a moment, young Penderrin. Alone."

 

He took the boy up into the pilot box, separating him from the others. Pen

forced himself to stay calm, to not glance over at Ahren and Khyber, to resist

the urge to check how close they were if he needed rescuing. He knew what was

coming. He had not thought Cinnaminson would be so quick to tell her father, but

then there was no reason why she should wait. He wished fleetingly, however,

that she had told him she had done so.

 

Standing before Pen, the misty light so bad by now that the boy could barely

make out his features, Gar Hatch shook his bearded head slowly.

 

"My girl tells me she's leaving the ship," he said softly. "Leaving with you. Is

this so?"

 

Pen had given no thought at all to what he would say when this moment happened,

and now he was speechless. He forced himself to look into the other's hard eyes.

"It is."

 

"She says you love her. True?"

 

"Yes. I do."

 

The big man regarded him silently for a moment, as if deciding whether to toss

him overboard. "You're sure about this, are you, Penderrin? You're awfully young

and you don't know my girl very well yet. It might be better to wait on this."

 

Pen took a deep breath. "I think we know each other well enough. I know we're

young, but we aren't children. We're ready."

 

Another long moment of silence followed. The big man studied him carefully, and

Pen felt the weight of his gaze. He wanted to say something more, but he

couldn't think of anything that would make it any easier. So he kept still.

 

"Well," the other said finally, "it seems you've made up your minds, the two of

you. I don't think I can stop you without causing hard feelings, and I'm not one

for doing that. I think it's a mistake, Penderrin, but if you have decided to

try it, then I won't stand in your way. You seem a good lad. I know Cinnaminson

has grown weary of life on the Skatelow. She wants more for herself, a different

way of life. She's entitled. Do you think you can take care of her as well as I

have?"

 

Pen nodded. "I will do my best. I think we will take care of each other."

 

Hatch grunted. "Easier said than done, lad. If you fail her, I'll come looking

for you. You know that, don't you?"

 

"I won't fail her."

 

"I don't care who your family is or what sort of magic they can call on to use

against poor men like myself," he continued, ignoring Pen. "I'll come looking

for you, and you can be sure I will find you."

 

Pen didn't care for the threat, but he supposed it was the Rover Captain's way

of venting his disappointment at what was happening. Besides, he didn't think

there would ever be cause for the big man to act on it.

 

"I understand," he replied.

 

"Best that you do. I won't say I'm the least bit happy about this. I'm not. I

won't say I think it will work out for you. I don't. But I will give you your

chance with her, Penderrin, and hold you to your word. I just hope I won't ever

have cause to regret doing so."

 

"You wont."

 

"Go on, then." The big man gestured toward Ahren and Khyber, who stood talking

at the port railing. "Go back to your friends. We have a full day of sailing

tomorrow, and you want to be rested for it."

 

Pen left the pilot box in a state of some confusion. He had not expected Gar

Hatch to be so accommodating, and it bothered him. He hadn't lodged more than a

mild protest, hadn't tried to talk Pen out of it, hadn't even gone to Ahren

Elessedil to voice his disapproval. Perhaps Cinnaminson had persuaded him not to

do any of those things, but that didn't seem likely to Pen. Maybe, he thought

suddenly, Hatch was waiting for the Druid to put an end to their plans. Maybe he

knew how unreceptive Pen's companions would be and was waiting for them to put a

stop to things.

 

But that didn't feel right, either. Gar Hatch wasn't the sort to count on

someone else to solve his problems. That kind of behavior wasn't a part of the

Rover ethic, and certainly not in keeping with the big man's personality.

 

Pen looked around for Cinnaminson, but didn't see her. She would be up on deck

later, perhaps, but since they were not flying that night, she might be asleep.

Pen glanced at Ahren and Khyber. He should tell the Druid now what was

happening, give him some time to think about it before he responded. But just as

he started over, Tagwen appeared from belowdecks to join them, grumbling about

sleeping in tight, airless spaces that rocked and swayed. The boy took a moment

longer to consider what he should do and decided to wait. First thing in the

morning, he would speak with Ahren Elessedil. That would be soon enough. He

would be persuasive, he told himself. The Druid would agree.

 

Feeling a little tired and oddly out of sorts, he took Gar Hatch's advice and

went down to his cabin to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He awoke to shouting, to what was obviously an alarm. Bounding up instantly,

still half-asleep, he tried to orient himself. Across the way, Tagwen was

looking similarly disoriented, staring blankly into space from his hammock, eyes

bleary and unfocused. The shouting died into harsh whispers that were audible

nevertheless, even from belowdecks. Boots thudded across the planking from one

railing to the other, then stopped. Silence descended, deep and unexpected. Pen

could not decide what was happening and worried that by the time he did, it

would be too late to matter. With a hushed plea to Tagwen to follow as quickly

as he could, he pulled on his boots and went out the cabin door.

 

The corridor was empty as he hurried down its short length to the ladder leading

up and climbed swiftly toward the light, straining to hear something more. When

he pushed open the hatch, he found the dawn had arrived with a deep, heavy fog

that crawled through the trees and over the decks of the Skatelow. At first he

didn't see anyone, then found Gar Hatch, the two Rover crewmen, Ahren Elessedil

and Khyber standing at the bow, peering everywhere at once, and he hurried over

to join them.

 

"One of the crewmen caught a glimpse of the Galaphile just moments ago, right

overhead, flying north," the Druid whispered. "He called out a warning, which

might have given us away. We're waiting to see if she comes back around."

 

They stood in a knot, scanning the misty gray, watching for movement. Long

minutes passed, and nothing appeared.

 

"There's a channel just ahead that tunnels through these trees," Gar Hatch said

quietly. "It goes on for several miles through heavy foliage. Once we get in

there, we can't be seen from the sky. It's our best chance to lose them."

 

They pulled up the fore and aft anchors and set out. Breakfast was forgotten.

All that mattered was getting the ship under cover. Everyone but Cinnaminson was

on deck now. Pen thought to go look for her, but decided it would be wrong to

leave in the midst of the crisis. He might be needed; Hatch might require help

piloting the craft. He stayed close, watching as the Rover Captain took the

Skatelow through a series of connecting lakes spiked with grasses and studded

with dead tree trunks, easing her carefully along, all the while with one eye on

the brume-thickened sky. The Rover crewmen moved forward, taking readings with

weighted lines, hand-signaling warnings when shallows or submerged logs appeared

in front of them. No one said a word.

 

The channel appeared without warning, a black hole through an interwoven network

of limbs and gnarled trunks. It had the look of a giant's hungry maw as they

sailed into it, and the temperature dropped immediately once they were inside.

Pen shivered.

 

Overhead, he caught small glimpses of sky, but mostly the dark canopy of limbs

was all that was visible. The channel was wide enough to allow passage, though

the Skatelow wouldn't have been able to get through if her mast had been up. As

it was, the Rover crewmen had to use poles to push her away from the tangle of

tree roots that grew on either side and keep her centered in the deeper water.

It was too dark for Pen to see exactly what they were doing, but he was certain

they could not have done it without Hatch. He seemed to know what was needed at

every turn, and kept them moving ahead smoothly.

 

Still Cinnaminson didn't appear. Pen glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, but

there was no sign of her. He began to worry anew.

Ahead, the tunnel opened back into the light.

 

Gar Hatch called him into the pilot box. "Take the helm, young Penderrin. I need

to be at the bow for this."

 

Pen did as he was told. Hatch went forward to stand with his men, the three of

them using poles to ease the Skatelow along the channel, pointing her toward the

opening. Now and again, he would signal the boy to swing the rudder to starboard

or port.

 

They were almost through when there was a scraping sound and a violent lurch.

Pen was thrown backwards into the railing, and for an instant he thought that

whatever had happened, he had done something wrong. But as he stood up and

hurried forward, he realized he hadn't done anything he hadn't been told to do.

 

Gar Hatch was peering over the side of the airship into the murky waters,

shaking his head. "That one's new," he muttered to no one in particular, then

pointed out the massive log that the airship had run up on. He glanced up at the

canopy of trees. "Too tight a fit to try to fly her. We'll have to float her off

and pull her through by hand."

 

Hatch went back up into the pilot box, advising Pen that he would take the

controls. There was no admonition in his voice, so Pen didn't argue. Together

with Tagwen, Ahren Elessedil, and the two crewmen, Pen climbed down onto the

tangled knot of tree roots and moved forward of the airship's bow. Using ropes

lashed about iron cleats, they began to pull the Skatelow ahead, easing her over

the fallen trunk. Eventually the airship gained just enough lift from Gar

Hatch's skilled handling to break free of the log and begin crawling along the

swamp's green surface once more.

 

It was backbreaking work. Bugs of all sorts swarmed about their faces, clouding

their vision, and the root tangle on which they were forced to stand was slick

with moss and damp with mist and offered uncertain footing. All of them went

down at one point or another, skidding and sliding into the swamp water,

fighting to keep from going under. But, slowly, they maneuvered the Skatelow

down the last few yards of the channel, easing her toward the open bay, where

the light brightened and the brume thinned.

 

"Move back!" Gar Hatch shouted abruptly. "Release the ropes!" Pen, Tagwen, and

Ahren Elessedil did as they were ordered and watched the airship sail by, the

hull momentarily blocking from view the Rover crewmen who were working across

the way. When Pen glanced over again in the wake of the ship's passing, the

crewmen were gone.

 

It took the boy a second to realize what was happening. "Ahren!" he shouted in

warning.

 

"We've been tricked!" He was too late. The Skatelow began to pick up speed,

moving into the center of the bay. Then Khyber Elessedil came flying over the

side and landed in the murky waters with a huge splash. The faces of the crewmen

appeared, and they waved tauntingly at the men on shore. Tagwen was shouting at

Ahren Elessedil to do something, but the Druid only stood there, shaking his

head, grim-faced and angry. There was nothing he could do, Pen realized, without

using magic that would alert the Galaphile.

 

Slowly, the Skatelow began to lift away, to rise into the mist, to disappear. In

seconds, she was gone.

 

At the center of the lake, Khyber Elessedil pounded at the water in frustration.

 

 

TWENTY-FIVE

 

No one said anything for a few moments, Pen, Tagwen, and Ahren Elessedil

standing together at the edge of the bay like statues, staring with a mix of

disbelief and frustration at the point where the Skatelow had disappeared into

the mist.

 

"I knew we couldn't trust that man," Tagwen muttered finally.

 

At the center of the bay, Khyber Elessedil had given up pounding the water and

was swimming toward them. Her strokes cleaved the greenish waters smoothly and

easily.

 

"You can't trust Rovers," Tagwen went on bitterly. "Not any of them. Don't know

why we thought we could trust Hatch."

 

"We didn't trust him," Ahren Elessedil pointed out. "We just didn't watch him

closely enough. We let him outsmart us."

 

This is my fault, Pen thought. I caused this. Gar Hatch didn't abandon them

because of anything the others had done or even because of the Galaphile and the

Druids. He had abandoned them so that Pen couldn't take Cinnaminson away from

him. That was why he had been so accommodating. That was why he didn't argue the

matter more strongly. He didn't care what either Pen or his daughter intended.

He was going to put a stop to it in any case.

 

Khyber reached the edge of the bay and stood up with some difficulty, water

cascading off her drenched clothes. Anger radiated from her like heat from a

forge as she stalked ashore to join them. "Why did he do that?" she snapped

furiously. "What was the point of abandoning us now when we were so close to

leaving him anyway?"

 

"It's because of me," Pen said at once, and they all turned to look at him. "I'm

responsible."

 

He revealed to them what he and Cinnaminson had decided, how she had told her

father, and what her father had obviously decided to do about it. He apologized

over and over for not confiding in them and admitted that, by deciding to take

the girl off the airship, he was thinking of himself and not of them or even of

what they had come to do. He was embarrassed and disappointed, and it was all he

could do to get through it without breaking down.

 

Khyber glared at him when he was finished. "You are an idiot, Penderrin

Ohmsford."

 

Pen bit back his angry reply, thinking that he had better just take whatever

they had to say to him and be done with it.

 

"That doesn't help us, Khyber," her uncle said softly. "Pen loves this girl and

he was trying to help her. I don't think we can fault him for his good

intentions. He might have handled it better, but at the time he did the best he

could. It's easy to second-guess him now."

 

"You might want to ask yourself what Hatch will do to her now that he knows what

she intended and no outsiders are about to interfere," Tagwen said to Pen.

 

Pen had already thought of that, and he didn't like the conclusion he had

reached. Gar Hatch would not be happy with his daughter and would not trust her

again anytime soon. He would make a virtual prisoner of her, and once again, it

was his fault.

 

Khyber stalked away. She stopped a short distance off and stood looking out at

the bay with her hands on her hips, then wheeled back suddenly. "Sorry I snapped

at you, Pen. Gar Hatch is a sneak and a coward to do this. But the matter isn't

finished. We'll see him again, somewhere down the road. He'll be the one who

goes over the side of that airship the next time, I promise you!"

 

"Meanwhile, what are we supposed to do?" Tagwen asked, looking from one face to

the next. "How do we get out of here?"

 

Ahren Elessedil glanced around thoughtfully, then shrugged. "We walk."

 

"Walk!" Tagwen was aghast. "We can't walk out of here! You've seen this morass,

this pit of vipers and swamp rats! If something doesn't eat us, we'll be sucked

down in the quicksand! Besides, it will take us days, and that's only if we

don't get lost, which we will!"

 

The Druid nodded. "The alternative is to use magic. I could summon a Roc to

carry us out. But if I do that, I will give us away to Terek Molt. He will reach

us long before any help does."

 

Tagwen scrunched up his face and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm just

saying I don't think we can walk out of here, no matter how determined we are."

 

"There might be another way," Pen interjected quickly. "One that's a little

quicker and safer."

 

Ahren Elessedil turned to him, surprise mirrored in his blue eyes. "All right,

Pen, let's hear what it is."

 

"I hope it's a better idea than his last one," Tagwen grumbled before Pen could

speak, and set his jaw firmly as he prepared to pass judgment.

 

* * *

 

He showed them how to build the raft, using heavier logs for the hull, slender

limbs for the cradle, and reeds for binding. It needed to be only big enough to

support the four of them, so a platform measuring ten feet by ten feet was

adequate. The materials were easy enough to find, even in the Slags, though not

so easy to shape, mostly because they lacked the requisite tools and had to make

do with long knives. On more than one occasion Pen had built similar rafts

before and knew something about how to construct them so that they wouldn't fall

apart midjourney. Working in pairs, they gathered the logs and limbs for the

platform and carried them to a flat piece of earth on which they could lay them

out and lash them together.

 

They worked through the morning, and by midday they were finished. The raft was

crude, but it was strong enough to support them and light enough to allow for

portage. Most important, it floated. They had no supplies, nothing but the

clothes they wore and the weapons they carried, so after crafting poles to push

their vessel through the swamp, they set out.

 

It was slow going, even with the raft to carry them, the swamp a morass of

weed-choked bays and log jammed channels that they were forced to backtrack

through and portage around repeatedly. Even so, they made much better progress

than they would have afoot. For just the second time since they had set out, he

was able to make practical use of his magic, to intuit from the sounds and

movements of the plants, birds, and animals around them the dangers that lay

waiting. Calling out directions to the other three as they worked the poles, he

concentrated on keeping them clear of submerged debris that might have damaged

their craft and well away from the more dangerous creatures that lived in the

Slags- some of them huge and aggressive. By staying close to the shoreline and

out of the deeper water, they were able to avoid any confrontations, and Pen was

able to tell himself that he was making at least partial amends for his part in

contributing to the fix they were in.

 

By nightfall, they were exhausted and still deep in the Slags. Pen's pocket

compass had kept them on the right heading, of that much he was certain, but how

much actual progress they had made was debatable. Since none of them knew

exactly where they were, it was impossible to judge how far they still had to

go. Nothing about the wetland had changed, the mist was thick and unbroken, the

waterways extended off in all directions, and the undergrowth was identical to

what they had left behind six hours earlier.

 

There was nothing to eat or drink, so after agreeing to split the watch into

four shifts they went to sleep, hungry and thirsty and frustrated.

 

During the night, it rained. Pen, who was on watch at the time, used his cloak

to catch enough drinking water that they were able to satisfy at least one need.

After the rain stopped and the water was consumed, Khyber and Tagwen went back

to sleep, but Ahren Elessedil chose to sit up with the boy.

 

"Are you worried about Cinnaminson?" Ahren asked when they were settled down

together at the edge of the raft, their backs to the sleepers, their cloaks

wrapped about them. It was surprisingly cold at night in the Slags.

 

The boy stared out into the dark without answering. Then he sighed. "I can't do

anything to help her. I can help us, but not her. She's smart and she's capable,

but her father is too much for her. He sees her as a valuable possession,

something he almost lost. I don't know what he will do."

 

The Druid folded himself deeper into his robes. "I don't think he will do

anything. I think he believes he made an example of us, so she won't cross him

again. He doesn't think we will get out of here alive, Pen. Or if we do, that we

will escape the Galaphile."

 

Pen pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his chin between them. "Maybe

he's right."

 

"Oh?"

 

"It's just that we're not getting anywhere." The boy tightened his hands into

fists and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We aren't any closer to helping Aunt

Grianne than we were when we started out. How long can she stay alive inside the

Forbidding? How much time does she have?"

 

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. "A lot more than anyone else I can think of.

She's a survivor, Pen. She can endure more hardships than most. It doesn't

matter where she is or what she is up against, she will find a way to stay

alive. Don't lose heart. Remember who she is."

 

The boy shook his head. "What if she has to go back to being who she was? What

if that's the only way she can survive? I listened to my parents talk about what

she was like, when they thought I wasn't listening. She shouldn't have to be

made to do those kinds of things again."

 

The Druid gave him a thin smile. "I don't think that's what has you worried."

 

The boy frowned. "What do you mean?"

 

"I don't think you are worried about whether we will reach the Ard Rhys in time

to be of help. I think you are worried about whether you will be able to do what

is needed when the time comes. I think you are worried about failing."

 

Pen was instantly furious, but he kept his tongue in check as he looked out

again into the mist and gloom, thinking it through, weighing the Druid's words.

Slowly, he felt his anger soften.

 

"You're right," he admitted finally. "I don't think I can save her. I don't see

how I can manage it. I'm not strong or talented enough. I don't have magic like

my father. I'm nothing special. I'm just ordinary." He looked at the Druid.

"What am I going to do if that isn't enough?"

 

Ahren Elessedil pursed his lips. "I was your age when I sailed on the Jerle

Shannara. Just a boy. My brother sent me because he was secretly hoping I

wouldn't come back. Ostensibly, I was sent to regain possession of the

Elfstones, but mostly I was sent with the expectation that I would be killed.

But I wasn't, and when I found the Elfstones, I was able to use them. I didn't

think such a thing was possible. I ran from my first battle, so frightened I

barely knew what I was doing. I hid until someone found me, someone who was able

to tell me what I am telling you-that you will do your best and your best might

surprise you."

 

"But you just said you had the Elfstones to rely on. I don't."

 

"But you do have magic. Don't underrate it. You don't know how important it

might turn out to be. But that isn't what will make the difference when it

matters. It is the strength of your heart. It is your determination."

 

He leaned forward. "Remember this, Penderrin. You are the one who was chosen to

save the Ard Rhys. That was not a mistake. The King of the Silver River sees the

future better than anyone, better even than the shades of the Druids. He would

not have come to you if you were not the right person to undertake this quest."

 

Pen searched Ahren's eyes uncertainly. "I wish I could believe that."

 

"I wished the same thing twenty years ago. But you have to take it on faith. You

have to believe that it will happen. You have to make it come true. No one can

do it for you."

 

Pen nodded. Words of wisdom, well meant, but he didn't find them helpful. All he

could think about was how ill equipped he was to rescue anyone from a place like

the Forbidding.

 

"I still think it would have been better to send you," he said quietly. "I still

don't understand why the King of the Silver River decided on me."

 

"Because he knows more about you than you know yourself," the Druid answered. He

rose and stretched. "The watch is mine now. Go to sleep. You need to rest, to be

ready to help us again tomorrow. We aren't out of danger yet. We are depending

on you."

 

Pen moved away without comment, sliding to one side, joining Khyber and Tagwen

at the other end of the raft, where both were sleeping fitfully. He lay down and

pulled his cloak closer, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He didn't

sleep right away, but stared out into the misty gloom, the swirling of the haze

hypnotic and suggestive of other things. His thoughts drifted to the events that

had brought him to that place and time and then to Ahren Elessedil's encouraging

words. That he should believe so strongly in Pen was surprising, especially

after how badly the boy had handled the matter of Cinnaminson and Gar Hatch. But

Pen could tell when someone was lying to him, and he did not sense falsehood in

the other's words. The Druid saw him as the rescuer he had been charged with

being. Pen would find a way, he believed, even if the boy did not yet know what

that way was.

 

Pen breathed deeply, feeling a calmness settle through him. Weariness played a

part in that, but there was peace, as well.

 

If my father was here, he would have spoken those same words to me, he thought.

 

There was comfort in knowing that. He closed his eyes and slept.

 

* * *

 

They woke to a dawn shrouded in mist and gloom, their bodies aching with the

cold and damp. Once again, there was nothing to eat or drink, so they put their

hunger and thirst aside and set out. As they poled through the murky waters,

stands of swamp grass clutched at them with anxious tendrils. Everywhere,

shadows stretched across the water and through the trees, snakes they didn't

want to wake. No one spoke. Chilled by the swamp's gray emptiness, they

retreated inside themselves. Their determination kept them going. Somewhere up

ahead was an end to the morass, and there was only one way to reach it.

 

At midday they were confronted by a huge stretch of open water surrounded by

vine-draped trees and clogged by heavy swamp grass. Islands dotted the lake,

grassy hummocks littered with rotting logs. Overhead, mist swirled like thick

soup in a kettle, sunlight weakened by its oily mix, just a hazy wash that

spilled like gossamer through the heavy branches of the trees.

 

They stopped poling and stared out across the marshy, ragged expanse. The

islands jutted from the water like reptile eyes. Pen looked at Ahren Elessedil

and shook his head. He didn't like the feel of the lake and did not care to try

to cross it. Ripples at its center hinted at the presence of things best

avoided.

 

"Follow the lakeshore," the Druid said, glancing at the sky. "Stay under the

cover of the trees. Watch the surface of the water for movement."

 

They chose to veer left, where the shallows were not as densely clogged with

grasses and deadwood. Poling along some twenty feet offshore, Pen kept one eye

on the broad expanse of the lake, scanning for ripples. He knew the others were

depending on his instincts to keep them safe. Out on the open water, trailers of

mist skimmed the viscous surface. A sudden squall came and went like a ghost.

The air felt heavy and thick, and condensation dripped from the trees in a slow,

steady rhythm. Within the shadowy interior of the woods surrounding the lake,

the silence was deep and oppressive.

 

At the lake's center, something huge lifted in a shadowy parting of waters and

was gone again, silent as smoke. Pen glanced at Khyber, who was poling next to

him on the raft. He saw the fierce concentration in her eyes waver.

 

They had gone some distance when the shoreline receded into a deep bay overhung

with vines that dipped all the way to the water's dark surface. Cautiously, they

maneuvered under the canopy, sliding through the still waters with barely a

whisper of movement, eyes searching. The hairs on the back of Pen's neck

prickled in warning. Something felt wrong. Then he realized what it was. He

wasn't hearing anything from the life around him, not a sound, not a single

movement, nothing.

 

A vine brushed against his face, sliding away almost reluctantly, leaving a

glistening trail of slime on his skin. He wiped the sticky stuff from his face,

grimacing, and glanced upward. A huge mass of similar vines was writhing and

twisting directly overhead. Not quite sure what he was looking at, he stared in

disbelief, then in fear.

 

"Ahren," he whispered.

 

Too late. The vines dropped down like snakes to encircle them, a cascade of long

arms and supple fingers, tentacles of all sizes and shapes, attacking with such

ferocity and purpose that they had no time even to think of reaching for their

weapons. His arms pinned to his sides, Pen was swept off the raft and into the

air. Tagwen flew past him, similarly wrapped about. The boy looked up and saw so

many of the vines entwined in the forest canopy that it felt as if he were being

drawn into a basket of snakes.

 

Then he saw something else, something much worse. Within the masses of tentacles

were mouths, huge beaked maws that clacked and snapped and pulsed with life.

Like squids, he thought, waiting to feed. It had taken only seconds for the

vines to immobilize him, only seconds more for them to lift him toward the

waiting mouths, all of it so quick he barely had time to comprehend what was

happening. Now he fought like a wild man, kicking and screaming, determined to

break free. But the vines held him securely, and slowly, inexorably, they drew

him toward the waiting mouths.

 

Then spears of fire thrust into the beaks and tentacles from below, their flames

a brilliant azure, burning through the shadows and gloom. The vines shuddered

violently, shaking Pen with such force that he lost all sense of which way was

up. An instant later, they released him altogether, dropping him stunned and

disoriented into the swamp. He struck with an impact that jarred his bones and

knocked the breath from his body, and he was underwater almost instantly,

fighting to right himself, to reach air again.

 

He broke the surface with a gasp, thrashing against a clutch of weeds, seeing

scythes of blue fire slash through the canopy in broad sweeps, smelling wood and

plants burn, hearing the hiss and crackle of their destruction, tasting smoke

and ash on the air. Overhead, the canopy was alive with twisting vines, some of

them aflame, others batting wildly at burning neighbors. He saw Ahren Elessedil

standing on the raft, both hands thrust skyward, his elemental magic the source

of the fire, summoned from the ether and released from his fingers in jagged

darts.

 

"Pen!" someone yelled.

 

Khyber had surfaced next to the raft and was hanging on one end, trying to

balance the uneven platform so that her uncle could defend them. The swamp

waters had turned choppy and rough, and it was all the Druid could do to keep

from being tossed overboard. Pen swam to their aid, seizing the end of the raft

opposite the Elven girl, the vines whipping all about him.

 

An instant later, Tagwen dropped out of the canopy, his bearded face a mask of

confusion and terror as he plunged into the murky waters and then surfaced next

to Pen.

 

"Push us out into the bay!" Ahren Elessedil shouted, dropping to one knee as his

tiny platform tilted precariously.

 

Kicking strongly, Pen and Khyber propelled the raft toward open water, fighting

to get clear of the deadly trap. Tagwen hung on tenaciously, and Ahren continued

to send shards of fire into the clutching vines, which were still trying to get

at him but were unable to break past his defenses. Smoke billowed and roiled in

heavy clouds, mingling with swamp mist to form an impenetrable curtain. From

somewhere distant, the frightened cries of water birds rose.

 

When at last they were far enough from the vines to pause in their efforts, Pen

and Khyber crawled onto the raft beside Ahren Elessedil, pulled Tagwen up after

them, and collapsed, gasping for breath. For several long seconds, no one said

anything, their eyes fixed on the smoky mass of tree vines now some distance

off.

 

"We were lucky," Pen said finally.

 

"Don't be stupid!" Khyber snapped in reply. "Look what we've done! We've given

ourselves away!"

 

Pen stared at her, recognition setting in. She was right. He had forgotten what

Ahren Elessedil had said about how using magic would reveal their presence to

those who hunted them. Ahren had saved them, but he had betrayed them, as well.

Terek Molt would know exactly where they were. The Galaphile would track them to

the bay.

 

"What can we do?" he asked in dismay.

 

Khyber turned to her uncle. "How much time do we have, Uncle Ahren?"

 

The Druid shook his head. "Not much. They will come for us quickly." He climbed

to his knees and looked around. Everything was clouded with smoke. "If they are

close, we won't even have time to get off this bay."

 

"We can hide!" Pen suggested hurriedly, glancing skyward for movement, for any

sign of their pursuers. "Perhaps on one of the islands. We can sink the raft . .

."

 

Ahren shook his head. "No, Penderrin. We need to go ashore and find a place to

make a stand. We need space in which to move and solid ground on which to do

it." He handed the boy one of the two remaining poles. "Try to get us ashore,

Pen. Choose a direction. Do the best you can, but do it quickly."

 

With Ahren working on the opposite side, Pen began poling toward shore once

more, farther down from where the vines still thrashed and burned, farther along

in the direction they had been heading. They made good time, borne on the crest

of a tide stirred by their battle with the vines, a tide that swept them east.

But Pen sensed that however swiftly they moved, it wasn't going to be swift

enough.

 

This is all my fault, he kept thinking. Again.

 

The haze continued thick and unbroken, layering the surface of the water in a

roiling blanket that stank of burning wood and leaves. Slowly, the bay went

quiet again, the waters turning slate black and oily once more, a dark

reflection of the shadows creeping in from the shoreline. Pen poled furiously,

thinking that if they could just reach a safe place to land, they might lose

themselves in the trees. It would not be easy to find them in this jungle, this

swamp, this morass, not even for Terek Molt. All they needed to do was gain the

shore.

 

They did so, finally. They beached on a mud bank fronting a thick stand of

cypress, tangled all about with vines and banked with heavy grasses. They pulled

their raft ashore, hauled it back into the trees, and set out walking. The

silence of the Slags closed about them, deep and pervasive, an intrusive and

brooding companion. Pen could hear the sound of his breathing. He could feel the

pumping of his heart.

 

Still there was no sign of their pursuit.

 

We're going to escape them after all, he thought in sudden relief.

 

They walked for several hours, well past midday and deep into the afternoon. The

shoreline snaked in and out of the trees, and they stayed at its edge, keeping a

sharp eye out for more of the deadly vines and any sign of movement on the bay

waters. They did not talk, their efforts concentrated on putting one foot in

front of the other, Ahren Elessedil setting a pace that even Pen, who was

accustomed to long treks, found difficult to match.

 

It was late in the afternoon, the shadows of twilight beginning to lengthen out

of the west, when they found the eastern end of the lake. It swung south in a

broad curve, the ground lifting to a wall of old growth through which dozens of

waterways opened. Pen searched the gloom ahead without finding anything

reassuring, then took a moment to read his compass, affirming what Ahren, with

his Druidic senses, had already determined. They were on course, but not yet

clear of the swamp.

 

Then sudden brightness flared behind them, dispersing the mist and brightening

the gloom as if dawn had broken. They wheeled back as one, shielding their eyes.

It looked as if the swamp were boiling from a volcanic eruption, its waters

churning, steaming with an intense heat. The dark prow of an airship nosed

through the fading haze like a great lumbering bear, slowly settling toward the

waters of the bay, black nose sniffing the air. Pen fought to keep from shaking

with the chill that swept through him.

 

The Galaphile had found them.

 

 

TWENTY-SIX

 

The huge curved horns of the Galaphile's bow swung slowly about to point like a

compass needle toward the four who stood frozen on the muddy shoreline. There

was no mistaking that she had found what she was searching for. Through the

fading screen of mist and twilight's deepening shadows, the vessel settled onto

the reed-choked surface of the bay, not fifty yards away, and slowly began to

advance. Her sails were furled and her masts and spars as bare and black as

charred bones. She had the stark, blasted look of a specter.

 

"What do we do?" Khyber hissed.

 

"We can run," Pen answered at once, already poised to do so. "There's still time

to gain the trees, get deep into the woods, split up if we have to . . ."

 

He trailed off hopelessly. It was pointless to talk about running away. Ahren

had already said that it was too late to hide, so running would not help,

either. The Galaphile had already found them once; even if they ran, it would

have no trouble doing so again. Terek Molt would track them down like rabbits.

They were going to have to make a stand, even without an airship in which to

maneuver or weapons with which to fight. Ahren Elessedil's Druid magic and

whatever resources the rest of them could muster were going to have to be

enough.

 

What other choice do we have? Pen thought in despair.

 

The Galaphile had come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline, advanced as close

to the mud bank as her draft would allow. Atop her decks, dark figures moved,

taking up positions along the railing. Gnome Hunters. Pen saw the glittering

surfaces of their blades. Perhaps the Gnome Hunters simply meant to kill them,

having no need to do otherwise.

 

"Do you see how she shimmers?" Ahren Elessedil asked them suddenly. His voice

was eerily calm. "The ship, about her hull and rigging? Do you see?"

 

Pen looked with the others. At first, he couldn't make it out, but then slowly

his eyes adjusted to the heavy twilight and he saw a sort of glow that pulsed

all about the warship, an aura of glistening dampness.

 

"What is it?" Khyber whispered, brushing back her mop of dark hair, twisting

loose strands of it in her fingers.

 

"Magic," her uncle answered softly. "Terek Molt is sheathing the Galaphile in

magic to protect her from an attack. He is wary of what we did to him last time,

of another storm, of the elements I can summon to disrupt his efforts."

 

The Druid exhaled slowly. "He has made a mistake. He has given us a chance."

 

A rope ladder was lowered over the side of the airship, one end dropping through

a railing gap and into the water. A solitary figure began to descend. Even from

a distance and through the heavy gloom, there was no doubt about who it was.

Pen glanced up again at the cloaked figures lining the Galaphile's railing. All

their weapons were pointed at himself and his companions.

 

"Khyber," Ahren Elessedil called softly.

 

When she looked over, he passed her something, a quick exchange that was barely

noticeable. Pen caught a glimpse of the small pouch as her hand opened just far

enough to permit her to see that it was the Elfstones she had been given. Her

quick intake of breath was audible.

 

"Listen carefully," her uncle said without looking at her, his eyes fixed on

Terek Molt, who was almost to the water now. "When I tell you, use the Elfstones

against the Galaphile. Do as you have been taught. Open your mind, summon their

power, and direct it at the airship."

 

Khyber was already shaking her head, her Elven features taut with dismay. "It

won't work, Uncle Ahren! The magic is only good against other magic-magic that

threatens the holder of the stones! You taught me that yourself! The Galaphile

is an airship, wood and iron only!"

 

"She is," the Druid agreed. "But thanks to Terek Molt, the magic that sheathes

her is not. It is his magic, Druid magic. Trust me, Khyber. It is our only

chance. I am skilled, but Terek Molt was trained as a warrior Druid and is more

powerful than I am. Do as I say. Watch for my signal. Do not reveal that you

have the Elfstones before then. Do nothing to demonstrate that you are a danger

to him. If you do, if you give yourself away too early, even to help me, we are

finished."

 

Pen glanced at Khyber. The Elven girl's eyes glittered with fear. "I've never

even tried to use the Elfstones," she said. "I don't know what it takes to

summon the magic. What if I can't do so now?"

 

Ahren Elessedil smiled. "You can and you will, Khyber. You have the training and

the resolve. Do not doubt yourself. Be brave. Trust the magic and your

instincts. That will be enough."

 

Terek Molt stepped down off the ladder and into the shallow water, turning to

face them. His black robes billowed out behind him as he approached, his blocky

form squared toward Ahren Elessedil. He radiated confidence and disdain, the set

of his dark form signaling his intent in a way that was unmistakable.

 

"Move to one side, Khyber," Ahren said quietly, his voice taking on an edge.

"Remember what I said. Watch for my signal. Pen, Tagwen, back out of the way."

 

The boy and the Dwarf retreated at once, happy to put as much distance as

possible between themselves and Terek Molt. The warrior Druid's chiseled face

glanced in their direction, a slight lifting of his chin the only indication

that he noticed them at all. But even that small movement was enough to let Pen

see the rage that was reflected in the flat, cold eyes.

 

When he was twenty feet from the Elf, he stopped. "Give up the boy. He belongs

to us now. You can keep the old man and the girl as compensation for your

trouble. Take them and go."

 

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. "I don't think I care to take you up on your

offer. I think we will all stay together."

 

Terek Molt nodded. "Then you will all come with me. Either way, it makes no

difference."

 

"Ultimatums are the last resort of desperate men."

 

"Don't play games with me, outcast."

 

"What has happened to you, Terek Molt, that you would betray the Ard Rhys and

the order this way? You were a good man once."

 

The Dwarf's face darkened. "I am a better man than you, Ahren Elessedil. I am no

cat's paw, underling fool in league with a monster. I am no tool at the beck and

call of a witch!"

 

"Are you not?"

 

"I'll say this once, Ahren Elessedil. I got tired of the Ard Rhys- of her

disruptive presence and her self-centered ways. I got tired of watching her fail

time and again at the simplest of tasks. She was never right for the position.

She should never have assumed it. Others are better suited to lead the Druid

Council to the places it needs to go. Others, who do not share her history."

 

"A full council vote might have been a better way to go. At least that approach

would have lent a semblance of respectability to your efforts and not painted

all of you as betrayers and cowards. Perhaps enough others on the Druid Council

might have agreed with you that all this would not have been necessary." The

Elven Prince paused. "Perhaps it still might be so, were someone of character to

pursue it."

 

He made it sound so reasonable, as if treachery could be undone and made right,

as if the conversation was between two old friends who were discussing a thorny

issue that each hoped to resolve. "Is it too late to bring her back?" he asked

the other.

 

The Dwarf's face darkened. "Why bring her back when she is safely out of the

way? What does it matter to you, in any case? You have been gone from the

council and her life for years. You are an outcast from your own people. Is that

why you think so highly of her-because she is like you?"

 

"I think better of Grianne Ohmsford than I do of Shadea a'Ru," the Elf replied.

 

"You can tell her so yourself, once we are returned to Paranor." Terek Molt came

forward another step, black cloak billowing. One hand lifted and a gloved finger

pointed.

"Enough talk. I have chased you for as long as I care to; I am weary of the

aggravation. You might have gotten away from me if those Rovers hadn't stranded

you in this swamp and then betrayed you to us. Does that surprise you? We caught

up with them early yesterday, trying to slip past us in their pathetic little

vessel. That Captain was quick enough to tell us everything once he saw how

things stood. So we knew where you were, and it was just a matter of waiting for

you to show yourselves. Using magic was a mistake. It led us right to you."

 

Ahren nodded. "Unavoidable. What have you done with the Skatelow and her crew?"

 

The Dwarf spit to one side. "Rover vermin. I sent them on their way, back to

where they came from. I had no need of them once they gave you up. They'll be

halfway home by now and better off than those who so foolishly sought to use

their services." He looked past the other now to Pen. "I am done talking. Bring

the boy. No more arguments. No further delays."

 

Ahren Elessedil's hands had been tucked within his cloak. Now he brought them

out again, balled into fists and bright with his magic's blue glow. Terek Molt

stiffened, but did not give ground. "Do not be a fool," he said quietly.

 

"I don't think Pen should go with you," Ahren Elessedil said. "I think you

intend him harm, whether you admit to it or not. Druids are meant to protect,

and protect him I shall. You have forgotten your teachings, Terek Molt. If you

take one step nearer, I shall help you remember them."

 

The Dwarf shook his head slowly. His gloved hands flared with magic of his own.

"You are no match for me, Elessedil. If you test me, you will be found wanting.

You will be destroyed. Step aside. Give the boy to me and be done with this."

 

They faced each other across the short stretch of mud and shallow water, two

identically cloaked forms born of the same order but gone on separate paths. Elf

and Dwarf, faces hard as stone, eyes locked as if bound together by iron

threads, poised in a manner that suggested there would be no backing down and no

quarter given. Pen found himself tensed and ready, as well, but he did not know

what he would do when doing something became necessary. He could not think of

anything that would help, any difference he could make. Yet he knew he would

try.

 

"Your ship," Ahren Elessedil said suddenly to Terek Molt, and nodded in the

direction of the Galaphile.

 

The Dwarf turned to look, did so without thinking, and in that instant Ahren

attacked, raising both hands and dispatching the elemental magic that he

commanded in a burst of Druid fire. But it was not the other man he targeted; it

was the warship, his elemental magic striking the vessel with such force that it

was rocked from bow to stern. The infuriated Dwarf struck back instantly, his

own fire hammering into the Druid. Ahren Elessedil had just enough time to throw

up a shield before the other's magic knocked him completely off his feet and

sent him sprawling in the mud.

 

It was a terrible blow, yet Ahren Elessedil was up again immediately, fighting

off the warrior Druid's second thrust, steadying his defenses. Now arrows and

darts cast down by the Gnome Hunters who were gathered at the railing of the

Galaphile began to rain on the beleaguered Elf. Pen and Tagwen threw themselves

out of the way as a few stray missiles nearly skewered them, then began crawling

toward the protective shelter of the trees. Khyber screamed in rage, bringing up

her own small Druid-enhanced magic to protect herself, and crouched down close

by Ahren, poised to strike but still waiting on her uncle's command.

 

Ahren Elessedil was fighting for his life, down on his knees with his hands

extended and his palms facing out, as if in a futile effort to ward off what was

happening. His protective shield was eroding under the onslaught of Terek Molt's

attack, melting like ice under searing heat. Yet once again, he chose to strike

not at the Dwarf, but at the warship, diverting precious power from his

defenses. Pen could not understand what the Elf was thinking. Ahren already knew

that the ship was protected, that it was a waste of time and effort to try to

damage her. Why was he persisting in this method of attack?

 

 

Yet suddenly, improbably, the Galaphile began to shudder, massive hull and

ram-shaped pontoons rocking as if caught in a storm instead of resting in

shallow water. Something of what Ahren was doing was making a difference, after

all. Terek Molt seemed to sense it, as well, and redoubled his efforts. Druid

fire exploded out of his fingers and into the Elf, staggering him, crumpling his

shield. Pen heard Ahren call out to Khyber, the signal for which she had been

waiting, and immediately she had the Elfstones in hand, arms outthrust.

Brilliant blue light built about her fist, widening in a sphere that caused the

boy to shield his eyes.

 

Then the magic exploded from her clenched fingers in a massive rush that swept

over the Galaphile like a tidal wave. For a single instant the Druid warship was

lit like a star, blazing with light, and then it burst into flames. It didn't

catch fire in just one place or even a dozen. It caught fire everywhere at once,

transformed into a giant torch. With a monstrous whoosh it detonated in a

fireball that rose hundreds of feet into the misty swamp sky, carrying with it

the Gnome Hunters, bearing away a twisting, writhing Terek Molt, as well, the

latter sucked into the vortex. A roar erupted from the conflagration, burning

with such fury that it scorched Pen and Tagwen a hundred yards away, sweeping

through the whole of the Slags.

 

In seconds, the Galaphile and all who had sailed her were gone.

 

* * *

 

Pen looked up from where he lay flattened against the mud and scorched grasses.

Smoke rising from his blackened form, Ahren Elessedil lay sprawled on his back

at the shoreline. Khyber knelt in shock some yards away, her arms lowered, the

power of the Elfstones gone dormant once more. Her head drooped, as if she had

taken a blow, and the boy could see her eyes blinking rapidly. She was shaking

all over.

 

He forced himself to his feet. "Tagwen," he called over to the Dwarf, finding

him through eyes half-blinded by smoke and ash. Tagwen looked up at him from

where he was huddled in a muddied depression, his eyes wide and scared. "Get up.

We have to help them."

 

The boy staggered across the flats, head lowered against the heat of the

still-fiery bay. Flames and ash-smeared waters were all that remained of

Galaphile. Pen glanced at the charred mix, baffled and awed by what had taken

place, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of it.

 

He reached Khyber and knelt beside her. He touched her shoulder. "Khyber," he

said softly.

 

She did not look up or stop shaking, so he put his lips to her ear, whispering,

"Khyber, it's all right, it's over. Look at me. I need to know you can hear me.

You're all right."

 

"So much power," she whispered suddenly. She stopped shaking then, her body

going perfectly still. A long sigh escaped her lips. She lifted her head and

looked out across the fiery surface of the wetlands. "I couldn't stop it, Pen.

Once it started, I couldn't stop it."

 

"I know," he said, understanding now something of what had transpired. "It's all

over."

 

He helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together to where Tagwen knelt

beside Ahren Elessedil. Pen knew at a glance that the Druid was dying. A handful

of arrows and darts had pierced him, and his body was blackened and smoking from

the explosion. But his eyes were open and calm, and he watched their approach

with a steady gaze.

 

Khyber gasped as she saw him, then dropped to her knees and began to cry, her

hands clasped helplessly in her lap, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

 

The Druid reached out with one charred hand and touched her wrist. "Terek Molt

tied his magic to the Galaphile," he whispered, his voice dry and cracked with

pain. "To protect her. When I attacked, he strengthened the connection until he

was too committed to withdraw it. The Elfstones couldn't tell the difference. To

them, the Galaphile was a weapon, an extension of Molt. So it consumed them

both."

 

"I could have helped you!"

 

"No, Khyber." He coughed and blood flecked his burned lips. "He couldn't be

allowed to know that you had the Elfstones. Otherwise, he would have destroyed

you."

 

"Instead, he destroyed you!" She was crying so hard that she could barely make

herself understood.

 

The ruined face tilted slightly in response. "I misjudged the extent of my

invulnerability. Still, it is a reasonable trade." He swallowed thickly. "The

Elfstones are yours now. Use them with caution. Your command of their power . .

." He trailed off, the words catching in this throat. "You've seen the nature of

your abilities. Strong. Your heart, mind, body-very powerful. But the Stones are

more powerful still. Be wary. They will rule you if you are not careful. There

is danger in using them. Remember."

 

She lifted her tear-streaked face and looked over at Pen. "We have to help him!"

 

She was almost hysterical. Pen was frightened, unable to think of what to say to

her. There was nothing they could do. Surely she could see that. But she looked

so wild that he was afraid she might try something anyway, something dangerous.

 

Ahren Elessedil's hand tightened on her wrist. "No, Khyber," he said. He waited

until she looked back at him, until she met his terrible burned gaze. "There is

nothing to be done. It is finished for me. I'm sorry."

 

His eyes shifted slowly to Pen. "Penderrin. Twenty years ago, when I sailed on

the Jerle Shannara with your father, a young girl gave up her life for me. She

did so because she believed I was meant to do something important. I would like

to think this is part of what she saved me for. Make something good come out of

this. Do what you were sent here to do. Find the Ard Rhys and bring her back."

 

He took several sharp, rattling breaths, his eyes holding the boy's as he

struggled to speak. "Ahren?" Pen whispered.

 

"Promise me."

 

The Druid's eyes became fixed and staring, and he quit breathing. Pen could not

look away, finding in that terrible gaze strength of purpose he would not have

believed possible. He reached out and touched the Druid's charred face, then

closed those dead eyes and sat back again. He looked over at Khyber, who was

crying silently into her hands, then at Tagwen.

 

"I never thought anything like this would happen," the Dwarf said quietly. "I

thought he would be the one to get us safely through."

 

Pen nodded, looking out over the burning lake at the flames licking at the

twilight darkness, staining sky and earth the color of blood. The surface of the

water burned silently, steadily, a fiery mirror reflected against a backdrop of

shadow-striped trees. Smoke mingled with mist and mist with clouds, and

everything was hazy and surreal. The world had an alien feel to it, as if

nothing the boy was seeing was familiar.

 

"What are we going to do?" Tagwen asked softly. He shook his head slowly, as if

there were no answer to his question.

 

Penderrin Ohmsford looked over again at Khyber. She was no longer crying. Her

head was lifted and her dark features were a mask of resolve. He could tell from

the way she was looking back at him that there would be no more tears.

 

The boy turned to the Dwarf. "We're going to do what he asked of us," he said.

"We're going to go on."

 

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

 

Shadea a'Ru stalked from the Druid Council without sparing even a glance back at

those fools who expected it, her eyes directed straight ahead. She would not

give them the satisfaction. She would give them nothing. She was seething with

rage and frustration, but she would not let even a hint of it escape. Let them

suspect what they wished about her true feelings; their suspicions were the

least of her problems.

 

Her stride lengthening, she shouldered past the few grouped by the doors leading

out, using her size and weight to brush them aside, and turned down the hallway

toward the stairs leading up to her rooms. It was a kindness she bestowed on

them, leaving so abruptly. Had she hesitated longer, she might have killed one

of them.

 

Surely that would have been more satisfying than anything else that had

happened.

 

She had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince the Council of the

necessity of taking a stand on the war between the Federation and the Free-born.

She had insisted that no progress in the efforts of the Druid order could be

made until the war was concluded. It was inevitable, she argued, that the

Federation, superior in men and materials, would emerge as the eventual victor.

Better that it happen now, so that the rebuilding could begin, so that the work

of the Druids could commence in earnest. Callahorn was Southland territory in

any event, inhabited mostly by members of the Race of Man and naturally aligned

with the interests of the Federation. Let them have it. Make that the condition

to ending the war. The Free-born were a rebel outfit at best, consumed by their

foolish insistence on keeping Callahorn for themselves. Remove the tacit support

of the Druids and the rebels would collapse.

 

She did not tell the Council, of course, that she had made a bargain with Sen

Dunsidan to help him secure control over the Borderlands. She did not tell them

that Federation control of the Callahorn was the price of his support of her and

her efforts to expand the authority and influence of the order. That wasn't

something they needed to know. It was enough that she was proposing a

reasonable, commonsense solution to a problem that had plagued the order since

the day of its inception.

 

But the Council had balked at adopting her proposal, its members led in their

opposition by that snake Gerant Cera, who had insisted that a thorough study of

the consequences of such drastic action was needed first. The matter was not as

simple as the Ard Rhys was trying to make it seem, his argument went. Elven

interests would be impacted by the outcome of the FederationFree-born war in a

significant way, as well. Once he had mentioned the Elves, it was only moments

before the Dwarves were insisting that their interests were important too. Soon,

everyone was arguing. Clever of him. Without repudiating the suggestion

outright, he had managed to defer any action on it until a later date, all with

an eye toward his own special interests, she was certain.

 

Very well. He had won this day, but there would be another- although not

necessarily for him. He was becoming something of a nuisance, one that she would

have to deal with soon. If he could not be brought into line, he would have to

be removed.

 

For the moment, she had more pressing concerns. Sen Dunsidan would arrive in

three days, and he would expect to hear that she had secured the Council's

approval for Federation occupation of Callahorn along with its open repudiation

of Free-born claims to the land. He would be expecting a joint announcement of