“There,” he said, when he was finished. “They have killed me for nothing. See this through, Walker. Promise me.”
“He’s bleeding to death,” the Healer announced. “I have to take him to my surgery and remove the arrow at once.”
Walker lifted the Elven King as if he weighed nothing, cradling him in the crook of his good left arm and with the stump of his right, and carried him from the plains. All the while, he talked to him, telling him to stay strong, not to give up, to fight for his life, for it had worth and meaning beyond what he knew. Surrounded by Home Guard, he bore the King as he might a sleeping child, holding him gently within his arms, head cushioned against his shoulder.
Several times, the King spoke, but the words were so soft that only Walker could hear them. Each time the Druid replied firmly, “You have my promise. Rest, now.”
But sometimes even a Druid’s exhortations are not enough. By the time they reached the surgery, Allardon Elessedil was dead.
7
It took Walker until well after noon to secure a copy of the young scribe’s notes and carry it to Ebben Bonner, who was First Minister of the Elven High Council and nominal leader of the Elves pending the formal succession of Allardon Elessedil’s eldest son. There, in an extraordinary concession to the circumstances surrounding the King’s death, the First Minister approved Walker’s request to depart for Bracken Clell so that he might act on the terms of the dead King’s agreement. Walker successfully argued that there was reason to believe that the mind-altered Elves who were behind the death of Allardon Elessedil had been sent by someone intent on preventing an expedition to retrace the route detailed on the castaway’s map. It was entirely too coincidental that the attack had come just as King and Druid had agreed to mount such an expedition, especially since it was their first meeting in twenty-three years. Certainly the King had believed it was more than coincidence or he would not have spent the last moments of his life dictating instructions for carrying out the expedition to his scribe. Clearly, someone had found out about the map and the treasure it revealed. It took a leap of faith to accept that there was a connection between the King’s death and the map’s appearance, but it would be better to make that leap than do nothing. Walker was concerned that if the King’s enemies were bold enough to strike in the Elven capital city, they would be equally quick to strike in Bracken Clell. The castaway who was under care in the healing center would be at great risk. Perhaps Walker could still reach him in time. Perhaps he could discover yet if he was Kael Elessedil.
He recruited Hunter Predd and Obsidian for the journey. The Wing Rider was anxious to depart the chaos unfolding around him and frankly curious to know more about where this business of the castaway and the map was leading. With barely a word of encouragement from Walker or question of his own, he had Obsidian saddled and ready for flight. They rose into the afternoon sun while the people of Arborlon were still trying to come to terms with the news of their King’s death. Some were just learning, returned from journeys of their own or preoccupied with the demands and difficulties of their own lives. Some still didn’t believe it was true. Walker wasn’t sure what he believed. The suddenness of the King’s death was shocking. Walker was no less affected than the Elves. To not have seen or spoken to the man in so many years and then to watch him die, on their first morning, was difficult to accept. It was bad enough that he had been hostile toward the King in their final meeting and almost intolerable that he had all but wished him dead. He did not feel guilt for his behavior, but he did feel shame.
Allardon Elessedil already lay in state, awaiting his funeral and burial. Messengers had been sent to his children, east to the front where Kylen fought with the Free-born, north into the wilderness where Ahren hunted. Across the length and breadth of the Four Lands, word of the Elven King’s death had gone out.
But Walker could give no further thought to any of it. His concern now was for the safety of the castaway and the initial preparations for the voyage chronicled on the map he carried within his robes. He strongly believed that whoever arranged for the King’s assassination had done so to keep him from underwriting the voyage. Until a new King sat upon the throne, the Elven High Council would be unlikely to do much more than tread water. What saved Walker from being blocked entirely was the old King’s quick action in recording, almost literally with his last breath, the agreement they had struck regarding the map so that the Druid could act on it without having to wait around.
And, if the Druid’s suspicions were correct, whoever had recruited the Elven assassins had probably determined to make the voyage, as well.
Steady and unflagging, Obsidian flew his master and Walker south for the remainder of the afternoon over the dense tangle of Drey Wood and the watery mire of the Matted Brakes. As sunset neared, they passed the Pykon’s solitary spires and crossed the silver thread of the Rill Song into the deep woods that fronted the Rock Spur. The light was beginning to fail badly as Hunter Predd guided his mount to a good-size clearing. There, he sent the Roc back into the trees to roost, while he and the Druid made camp. They lit a fire in a shallow pit, laid out their bedrolls on a carpet of soft needles beneath an ancient pine, and cooked their meal. Druid and Wing Rider, they sat as if a part of the forest shadows, dark figures in the deepening gloom, eating in silence and listening to the sounds of the night.
“Strange day,” the Elf remarked, sipping at the ale he shared with his traveling companion. “Makes you wonder about the way life works. Makes you wonder why anyone would want to be King.”
Walker nodded, straight-backed within his black robes, eyes distant. “The Wing Hove must have thought the same thing a long time ago.”
“It’s true. It’s one reason we have a council to make our laws and decisions for us, not just one man.” The Wing Rider shook his head. “Killed by his own people. He wasn’t a bad man, Walker. Why would they do it?”
Walker’s gaze fixed on him. “They didn’t. I saw their eyes. Whatever their motives in acting against the King, they were not the men they had been even a few days ago. They had been mind-altered in some permanent way. They were meant to attack the King, to kill him however they could manage it, and then to die.”
Hunter Predd frowned. “How could a man be made to do that?”
“Magic.”
“Elven?”
Walker shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. If they had lived, I might have been able to tell. Dead, they could give me nothing.”
“Who were they? Not gardeners, surely?”
“No one could identify them. Elves, but not of Arborlon. Hard men, who had led hard lives, from the look of their hands and faces. They would have killed other men before this.”
“Still.”
“Still, they would have needed some incentive to kill an Elven King. Whoever recruited them provided that incentive using magic.” Walker held the other’s gaze. “I’m sorry to drag you out again so suddenly, but there wasn’t time to wait. I think our castaway is in danger. And it won’t stop there. I’m going to need you to fly me a few more places in the next week or two, Hunter Predd. I’m going to need your help.”
The Wing Rider drained the rest of the ale from his cup and poured himself another serving from the skin pouch beside him. “Tell you the truth, I was ready to leave anyway. Not just because of the King’s dying, but because cities and me don’t much agree. A few days are more than enough. I’m better off flying, whatever the risk.”