The Druid gave him a wry smile. “Nevertheless, it appears you are knee-deep in something more than you bargained for when you decided to carry that map and bracelet to Arborlon.”
The Elf nodded. “That’s fine. I want to see where all this is going.” He grinned suddenly. “Wouldn’t it be a shame if I didn’t give myself the chance?”
They slept undisturbed and by sunrise were winging their way south once more. The weather had changed during the night, with heavy clouds rolling inland off the coast and blanketing the skies from horizon to horizon. The air was warm and still, smelling of new rain, and in the distance, farther west, the sound of thunder echoed ominously. Shadows draped the land they passed over, a cloaking of movement and light that whispered in their thoughts of secrets and concealments not meant to be revealed.
Walker was already beginning to suspect the identity of the enemy who was trying to undermine his efforts. There were few in the Four Lands who could command magic strong enough to alter minds—fewer still with a sufficient number of well-placed eyes to know what was happening from Bracken Clell to Arborlon. He was afraid that he had acted too slowly in this matter, though he accepted at the same time that he could not have acted any faster. He was only one man, and his adversary, if his suspicions were correct, commanded a small army.
Obsidian flew them through the jagged defiles and down the deep canyons of the Rock Spur Mountains, angling to keep low enough for cover, high enough to clear the ridges. They passed over the dark bowl of the Wilderun, home to castoffs and outcasts who had come from everywhere to that final refuge. At its center, the Hollows was a pool of shadows, dark and forbidding, a quagmire that might swallow them up should they fly too low. Beyond, at the south end of the wilderness, they passed through the deeper maze of the Irrybis Mountains and came in sight of the Blue Divide.
Rain had begun to fall in a slow drizzle, soon soaking their clothing through, and it was approaching nightfall when they arrived at the seaport of Bracken Clell. In darkness unbroken by the light of moon or stars, they proceeded slowly along muddied, rain-slicked pathways, hooded and cloaked, wraiths in the night.
“Not much farther,” the Wing Rider advised from the darkness of his cowl, when the lights of the seaport came in view.
They came to the healing center where Hunter had left the castaway less than a week earlier. They mounted the steps of the covered porch, shaking the rain from their cloaks, and knocked on the door. Waiting, they could hear a low murmur of voices from inside and see shadows move across the lighted, curtained windows.
The door opened on a lean, graying Elf with kind, tired eyes and a questioning look. He smiled on seeing Hunter Predd and extended his hand to invite them in.
“My friend, Dorne,” the Wing Rider said to Walker. “This man,” he advised the Healer in turn, gesturing in a deliberately offhanded way toward the Druid, “is an emissary sent by Allardon Elessedil to have a look at our castaway.”
He offered no further explanation and said nothing of the King’s death. The healer seemed to accept this. He shook Walker’s hand solemnly. “I have some bad news for you. I did my best, but it wasn’t enough. The man Hunter left in my care is dead. He died in his sleep several days ago.”
Walker took the news calmly. He was not surprised. It merely confirmed his suspicions. Whoever had sent the assassins to kill Allardon Elessedil had disposed of the castaway, as well. “Have you buried him?”
“No.” The Healer shook his head quickly. “I’ve put him in the cold house, waiting to see what news Hunter brought from Arborlon.”
“And his room? The room in which he died? Is it occupied?”
“Vacant. We’ve cleaned it, but it services no new patient yet.” The Healer glanced from face to face. “Come in by the fire and dry off. I’ll have some hot soup brought. It’s turning nasty out there.”
He placed them in chairs before the fire burning in the great room, took their cloaks, and gave them blankets with which to dry. Assistants to the Healer came and went in pursuit of their tasks, glancing over at the travelers, but saying nothing. Walker paid them no attention, his thoughts on the dead man. All chance was lost to learn anything from him in life. Could he find a way to learn something from him in death?
The Healer returned with bowls of soup and cups of ale, gave them a moment to begin eating, then pulled up a chair beside them. He seemed tired and nervous, but both were to be expected. Walker sensed no dissembling or bad intention in him; he was not an evil man.
The Healer asked after their journey, and they exchanged small talk with him as they ate. Outside, the rain was falling harder, the sound of the drops on the roof and windowpanes a constant, dull thrum. Lights burning in the windows of the surrounding houses turned watery and blurred through the gloom.
“The man you cared for, Dorne—did he ever communicate with anyone?” Walker asked finally.
The Healer shook his head. “No one.”
“Did anyone ever come to see him, even for a few moments?”
“No, never.”
“Did his condition change in any way before he died?”
“No.”
“Was there anything different about him after he died?”
The Healer thought about it for a moment. “Well, I may be reading more into this than I should, but he seemed somehow at peace.” He shrugged. “But death is a form of release from suffering, and this man was suffering greatly.”
Walker considered the matter silently for a moment. In the hearth, the burning wood snapped and popped in the flames. “Has anyone else died in the village in the past two days, unexpectedly perhaps?”
The Healer’s eyes widened. “Yes, as a matter of fact. A man who worked for me as an attendant—not in healing, but in caretaking—was found dead in the woods not far from his cottage. It was lucky he was found at all, really. A remote spot, not often visited. A snake bit him, a very poisonous variety—unusual for around here, really. Something you might better expect to find in the Wilderun.”
Walker put aside his bowl and cup and stood up. “Could you show me the room in which the man died?” he asked the Healer. “Hunter, finish your dinner. I can do this alone.”
He followed Dorne down a hallway to a room at the rear of the healing center. Then he sent Dorne back out to keep Hunter company, saying he would be along shortly. The Healer tried to give him a light for the wall candles, but Walker said the darkness was better suited for what he intended.
When he was alone, he stood in the middle of the room, cloaked in its gloom, listening to the sound of the rain and watching the movement of the shadows. He closed his eyes after a time, tasting the air, smelling it, making himself a part of his surroundings. He let his thoughts settle within him and his body relax. Down the hall, he could hear the soft murmur of voices. Carefully, he shut them out.
Time slipped away. Slowly, he began to find fragments of what he was looking for, the leavings and discards of a powerful magic employed not long ago. They came to him in different ways, some as small sounds, some as flickers of movement that reached him even behind his closed eyelids, and some as scents of the magic’s wielder. There was not enough to form an entire image, but enough to determine small truths that could allow him to make educated guesses.
He opened his eyes finally, satisfied. Magic’s use could never be disguised entirely from those who knew how to look for it. A residue always remained to testify.
He went back out into the main room, where Hunter Predd and Dorne were visiting. Both looked up quickly at his appearance. “Can you take me to the cold house?” he asked the Healer. “I need to see the castaway’s body.”