After a time, he regained sufficient presence of mind to wonder if any of the creepers had followed him. He forced himself to lift his head, to wipe away his tears, and to look around. He was alone. He kept careful watch after that, still huddled in that same corner, still wrapped in a ball of arms and legs, still haunted by the image of Joad Rish in his final moments.
Don’t let that happen to me, he kept repeating in his mind, as if by thinking it he could somehow save himself.
But now he knew he had to do more than huddle in his corner and hope he would never be found. He had to try to get out of there. It had been long enough that he thought he might have a chance. The attack had ended long ago. There had been no sound or movement anywhere in all that time. The smoke had faded, and the sun had risen. It was bright and clear outside, and he should be able to see anything that threatened. It would take him several hours to work his way back through the city and longer still to retrace his steps to the bay where he could wait for the return of the Jerle Shannara. He thought he could make it.
More to the point, he knew that he must.
It took him a long time, but he finally managed to uncurl himself and get to his feet. He stood motionless in the shadows of his corner and scanned the warehouse from end to end for signs of life. When he was satisfied it was safe to do so, he started for the nearest opening, a broad gap in the west wall that offered the most direct route back through the city. He felt parched and light-headed, and his hands were shaking. To calm himself, he reached up for the phoenix stone, remembering suddenly that it was there, hanging about his neck. He did not know whether it would work if he was threatened, but it reassured him to know he had something he could fall back on, even if he was uncertain it would be of any use.
He wondered suddenly, dismally, what had become of Bek. His friend Bek, who had done so much to encourage and support him on their voyage out of Arborlon. Was he dead with all the others? Were any of them alive back there? He knew he should go back and find out. He knew, as well, that he couldn’t.
Brave Elven Prince! he chided himself in fury and sadness. Your brother was right about you!
He reached the opening and stepped out into the daylight. The ruins stretched away in all directions in sprawling sameness, stark and empty. He waited a moment to see if anyone would appear, if there was anything to be heard. But the city seemed empty and lifeless, a jumble of stone and metal and encroaching weeds and scrub. Not even a bird flew overhead in the cloudless blue sky.
He began to walk, slowly at first, almost gingerly, trying not to make any noise, still on the verge of panic, fighting to keep himself together. He had no weapons save for a long knife belted at his waist and the phoenix stone. If he was attacked, his only real defense was to run. The knowledge that it was all he could rely on wasn’t very reassuring, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wished he had his sword back, that he hadn’t thrown it down when he fled. But then he wished a lot of other things, as well, that couldn’t be. Instinct kept him moving when his conscience whispered that he didn’t deserve even to be alive.
He’d gone only a few steps when tears filled his eyes once more. How proud he had been of himself that he was chosen to go on the expedition. How certain he had been that it would give him the chance he needed to prove himself. A Prince of the Realm, destined perhaps to be a King—it would all be made so clear on the journey. Even Ard Patrinell had believed it, had taught him to believe it while teaching him how to survive those who did not. Yet what had he done for his friend and mentor when it mattered? He had run like a coward, fled in a rush of panic and despair, abandoned his friends and his principles and all his hopes for what might be.
You are despicable!
He kept walking, wiping the tears from his eyes, swallowing his sobs, thinking that he must be brave now, that he must try to regain some small measure of self-worth. He was alive when others were not, and he must try to make something of that gift. He did not know how he would do that or why it would matter after what had happened, but he knew he must at least try.
The sun beat down on him, and soon he was sweating freely. He blinked against the brightness and moved into the shadows, staying close to sheltering walls to gain a measure of coolness. He thought he was going the right way, but could not be sure. He did not see anything that looked familiar—or perhaps it was just that everything looked the same. At least there were no creepers about. In the wake of his passage, nothing moved.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he caught sight of something that did. He caught only a glimpse of it, a flicker of movement, no more, and then it was gone. He pressed himself back into the shadows and went still, waiting to see if he would spot it again. He did so, only seconds later, another glimpse, but enough to tell him more. It was someone human, slender and robed, sliding along the walls as he had been doing, a little off to one side of where he stood. He debated what to do. His impulse was to flee or hide, anything to avoid an encounter. But then he realized that it might be a member of the company, someone as lost as he was and looking for a way out of their shared nightmare. He let the other person come closer, trying to make out who it was, barely breathing in case he was making a mistake.
Then the other stepped into a patch of bright sunlight, and he saw her face clearly.
“Ryer Ord Star!” he called to her, keeping his voice low and guarded, still mindful of the things that might be hunting him.
She turned toward him instantly, hesitated, saw him standing back in the shadows, and moved over to him. He was surprised at how calm she looked, her face composed and her violet eyes untroubled. She had always looked somewhat ethereal, but just then she seemed oddly distant, as well—as if she were seeing beyond him to another place, as if in her mind she were already there.
She reached for his hand and took it in her own, surprising him. “Elven Prince, you are alive,” she whispered. There was genuine relief in her voice, and it made him ashamed to know that she thought better of him than he deserved. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she continued urgently, her grip on his hand tight. “It is very dangerous. Where are the others?”
He took a quick breath to steady himself. “Dead, I think. I’m not really sure.”
She glanced around quickly, her long, silver hair shimmering in bright waves. “There are Mwellrets back that way, a large company of them.” She pointed from where she had come. “I think they might be following me.”
“Mwellrets?” he repeated in confusion.
“From Black Moclips. They’ve come ashore to hunt us down, all of us that remain. The Ilse Witch came with them, but she’s gone now. She found us in a clearing where the Elven Tracker left us—”
“You mean Tamis?” he interrupted excitedly. “Is Tamis with you?”
“She was, but she left to find help. Bek was with me, too, but when the Ilse Witch found us, there was a confrontation between them. I’m not sure what happened, but Bek disappeared and she went after him. In the confusion, I slipped away. But the Mwellrets will have missed me by now and be searching. That was what the witch told them they were to do—to find all of us who weren’t dead and make us prisoners, then take us to Black Moclips and hold us there until she returned.”
Ahren stared at her. Accepting that the Ilse Witch had somehow made it through the Squirm and come down the channel to the cove, what was all this about a confrontation with Bek? Why would she be hunting him?