There was movement in the doorway behind him, and he turned. The guard who had left reappeared and with him was Caerid Lock.
“Bremen,” the Elf greeted solemnly, and came up to offer his hand.
Caerid Lock was a slight, dark-complected man with intense eyes and a careworn face. His Elven features marked him distinctly, his brows slanted upward, his ears pointed, his face so narrow he seemed gaunt. He wore gray like the others, but the torch on his breast was gripped in a fist and there were crimson bars on both shoulders. His hair and beard were cut short and both were shot through with gray. He was one of a few who had remained friends with Bremen when the Druid was dismissed from the Council. He had been Captain of the Druid Guard for more than fifteen years, and there was not a better man anywhere for the job. An Elven Hunter with a lifetime of service, Caerid Lock was a thorough professional. The Druids had chosen well in determining who would protect them. More to the point, for Bremen’s purpose, he was a man they might listen to if a request was proffered.
“Caerid, well met,” the Druid replied, accepting the other’s hand. “Are you well?”
“As well as some I know. You’ve aged a few years since leaving us. The lines are in your face.”
“You see the mirror of your own, I’d guess.”
“Perhaps. Still traveling the world, are you?”
“In the good company of my friend, Kinson Ravenlock,” he introduced the other.
The Elf took the Borderman’s hand and measure by equal turns, but said nothing. Kinson was equally remote.
“I need your help, Caerid,” Bremen advised, turning solemn. “I must speak with Athabasca and the Council.”
Athabasca was High Druid, an imposing man of firm belief and unyielding opinion who had never much cared for Bremen. He was a member of the Council when the old man was dismissed, though he was not yet High Druid. That had come later, and then only through the complex workings of internal politics that Bremen so hated. Still, Athabasca was leader, for better or worse, and any chance of success in breaching these walls would necessarily hinge on him.
Caerid Lock smiled ruefully. “Why not ask me for something difficult? You know that Paranor and the Council both are forbidden to you. You cannot even enter these walls, let alone speak with the High Druid.”
“I can if he orders it,” Bremen said simply.
The other nodded. Sharp eyes narrowed. “I see. You want me to speak to him on your behalf.”
Bremen nodded. Caerid’s tight smile disappeared. “He doesn’t like you,” he pointed out quietly. “That hasn’t changed in your absence.”
“He doesn’t have to like me to talk with me. What I have to tell him is more important than personal feelings. I will be brief. Once he has heard me out, I will be on my way again.” He paused. “I don’t think I am asking too much, do you?”
Caerid Lock shook his head. “No.” He glanced at Kinson. “I will do what I can.”
He went back inside, leaving the old man and the Borderman to contemplate the walls and gates of the Keep. Their warders stood firmly in place, barring all entry. Bremen regarded them solemnly for a moment, then glanced toward the sun. The day was beginning to grow warm already. He looked at Kinson, then walked over to where the shadows provided a greater measure of shade and sat down on a stone outcropping. Kinson followed, but refused to sit. There was an impatient look in his dark eyes. He wanted this matter to be finished. He was ready to move on.
Bremen smiled inwardly. How like his friend. Kinson’s solution to everything was to move on. He had lived his whole life that way. It was only now, since they had met, that he had begun to see that nothing is ever solved if it isn’t faced. It wasn’t that Kinson wasn’t capable of standing up to life. He simply dealt with unpleasantness by leaving it behind, by outdistancing it, and it was true that things could be handled that way. It was just that there was never any permanent resolution.
Yes, Kinson had grown since those early days. He was a stronger man in ways that could not be readily measured. But Bremen knew that old habits died hard, and for Kinson Ravenlock the urge to walk away from the unpleasant and the difficult was always there.
“This is a waste of our time,” the Borderman muttered, as if to give credence to his thoughts.
“Patience, Kinson,” Bremen counseled softly.
“Patience? Why? They won’t let you in. And if they do, they won’t listen to you. They don’t want to hear what you have to say. These are not the Druids of old, Bremen.”
Bremen nodded. Kinson was right in that. But there was no help for it. The Druids of today were the only Druids there were, and some of them were not so bad. Some would still make worthy allies. Kinson would prefer they deal with matters on their own, but the enemy they faced was too formidable to be overcome without help. The Druids were needed. While they had abandoned their practice of direct involvement in the affairs of the Races, they were still regarded with a certain deference and respect. That would prove useful in uniting the Four Lands against their common enemy.
The morning wore on toward midday. Caerid Lock did not reappear. Kinson paced for a time, then finally sat down next to Bremen, frustration mirrored on his lean face. He sat wrapped in silence, wearing his darkest look.
Bremen sighed inwardly. Kinson had been with him a long time. Bremen had handpicked him from among a number of candidates for the task of ferreting out the truth about the Warlock Lord. Kinson had been the right choice. He was the best Tracker the old man had ever known. He was smart and brave and clever.
He was never reckless, always reasoned. They had grown so close that Kinson was like a son to him. He was certainly his closest friend.
But he could not be the one thing Bremen needed him to be. He could not be the Druid’s successor. Bremen was old and failing, though he hid it well enough from those who might suspect. When he was gone, there would be no one left to continue his work.
There would be no one to advance the study of magic so necessary to the evolution of the Races, no one to prod the recalcitrant Druids of Paranor into reconsidering their involvement with the Four Lands, and no one to stand against the Warlock Lord. Once, he had hoped that Kinson Ravenlock might be that man. The Borderman might still be, he supposed, but it did not seem likely.
Kinson lacked the necessary patience. He disdained any pretense of diplomacy. He had no time for those who could not grasp truths he felt were obvious. Experience was the only teacher he had ever respected. He was an iconoclast and a persistent loner. None of these characteristics would serve him well as a Druid, but it seemed impossible that he could ever be any different from the way he was.
Bremen glanced over at his friend, suddenly unhappy with his analysis. It was not fair to judge Kinson so. It was enough that the Borderman was as devoted as he was, enough that he would stand with him to the death if it was required. Kinson was the best of friends and allies, and it was wrong to expect more of him.
It was just that his need for a successor was so desperate! He was old, and time was slipping away too quickly.
He took his eyes from Kinson and looked off into the distant trees as if to measure what little remained.
It was past midday when Caerid Lock finally reappeared. He stalked out of the shadows of the doorway with barely a glance at the guards or Kinson and came directly to Bremen. The Druid climbed to his feet to greet him, his joints and his muscles cramped.
“Athabasca will speak with you,” the Captain of the Druid Guard advised, grim-faced.
Bremen nodded. “You must have worked hard to persuade him. I am in your debt, Caerid.”
The Elf grunted noncommittally. “I would not be so sure. Athabasca has his own reasons for agreeing to this meeting, I think.“ He turned to Kinson. ”I am sorry, but I could not gain entrance for you.”