Walker glanced at him. “Not mine. Obsidian belongs to a Wing Rider named Hunter Predd. He should be along in a minute. He’s bedding down his bird first.” He paused. “You saw us, did you?”
“Saw your shadow, actually,” Quentin said as he worked on laying out strips of smoked fish in a pan. He had coated them with flour and seasonings, and was adding a bit of ale for flavor. “We were boar hunting.”
The Druid nodded. “Your father told me so.”
Quentin looked up quickly. “My father?”
Walker stretched his legs and braced himself with his good arm as he leaned back. “We know each other. Tell me, did you have any luck with the boar?”
Quentin went back to his fish, shaking his head to himself. “No, he was frightened off by you. The Roc’s shadow spooked him.”
“Well, my apologies for that. On the other hand, getting you back here to speak with me was of more consequence than seeing you bag that boar.”
Bek stared. Was he saying that he had spooked the boar deliberately, that the Roc’s passing hadn’t been by chance? He glanced quickly at Quentin to catch his cousin’s reaction, but Quentin’s attention had shifted at the sound of someone else’s approach.
“Ah, here is our friend, the Wing Rider,” Walker said, rising.
Hunter Predd trooped into the firelight, a lean, wiry Elf with gnarled hands and sharp eyes. He nodded to the Highlander and his cousin as they were introduced. He took a seat across from the Druid. Walker spent a few minutes talking about Wing Riders and Rocs, explaining their importance to the Elves of the Westland, then asked Quentin for news of his family. The conversation continued as the Highlander prepared the fish, some fry bread, and a clutch of greens. All the while, Bek watched Walker carefully, wondering what the meeting was all about, what sort of favor the Druid could want of them, how he knew Coran Leah, what he was doing with a Wing Rider, and on and on.
They had eaten their meal, washed it down with cold stream water, and cleaned up the dishes before Walker provided Bek with the answers he was seeking.
“I want you to come with me on a journey,” the Druid began, sipping at the ale Quentin had poured into his cup. “Both of you. It will be long and dangerous. It may be months before we return, maybe longer. We have to travel across the Blue Divide to a land none of us has ever seen. When we get there, we have to find a treasure. We have a map, and we have instructions written on the map about what we need to do to find this treasure. But someone else is after it, as well, someone very dangerous, and she will do everything she can to prevent us from reaching it first.”
There were no preliminaries, no buildups, and no small talk to lead into all this. The explanation was casual; they might have been talking about taking a rafting trip down the Rappahalladran. Bek Rowe had never ventured outside the Highlands, and now someone had appeared who wanted him to travel halfway around the world. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
Hunter Predd was the first to speak. “She?” he asked curiously.
Walker nodded. “Our nemesis is a very powerful sorceress who calls herself the Ilse Witch. She is the protégé of a warlock known as the Morgawr. The names derive from a language used in the world of Faerie, most of it lost. Hers means singer. His means wraith or something like it. They reside in the Westland, down in the Wilderun, and seldom venture far from there. How the Ilse Witch found out about the map and our journey, I don’t know. But she is responsible for the death of at least two people because of it.” He paused. “Do you know of her?”
Bek and Quentin glanced at each other blankly, but the Wing Rider was shaking his head in dismay. “Enough to keep clear,” he snapped.
“We don’t have that option.” Walker crossed his legs in front of him and leaned forward. “One of the dead men is Allardon Elessedil, the Elven King. If the Ilse Witch was willing to kill him to prevent us from seeking out the treasure described by the map, she will certainly not hesitate to kill us, as well. Forewarned is forearmed, I’m afraid.”
His eyes shifted to Quentin and Bek. “The other dead man is the map’s bearer, a castaway Hunter found floating in the Blue Divide a little more than a week ago. The hunt I’m proposing begins with him. He was Allardon Elessedil’s older brother, Kael, one of a company of Elves that undertook a search similar to ours thirty years ago. All of them disappeared. No trace of them or their ships was ever found. The map our castaway carried suggests their search might have yielded something of great importance. It is up to us to find out what that something is.”
“So you intend to sail all the way across the Blue Divide to search out this treasure?” Quentin asked dubiously.
“Not sail, Highlander,” the Druid replied. “Fly.”
There was a moment’s silence. The wood burning in the fire pit crackled sharply. “On Rocs?” Quentin pressed.
“On an airship.”
The silence resumed. Even Hunter Predd seemed surprised. “But why do you want us to come?” Bek asked finally.
“Several reasons.” Walker fixed the boy with his dark gaze. “Bear with me for a moment. Aside from the three of you, I have told this to no one. Most of it, I have determined only very recently, and I am still in the process of deciphering quite a bit more. I need to have someone with whom I can discuss my thinking, someone I can trust and in whom I can confide. I need someone of sharp mind and willing spirit, of ability and courage. Hunter Predd is one such. I think you and your cousin are two more.”
Bek felt his excitement growing by leaps and bounds. He leaned forward in response to the Druid’s words.
“Hunter’s usefulness is obvious,” Walker continued. “He is a seasoned veteran of the skies, and I intend to take a small number of Wing Riders as escorts for our airship. Hunter will be their leader, if he agrees to accept the position. But in doing so, he needs to be confident that he can anticipate my thinking and respond as circumstances and events dictate.”
He was still looking straight at Bek. “Quentin’s purpose is obvious, as well, although he doesn’t realize it yet. Quentin is a Leah, the oldest of his father’s sons, and heir to a powerful magic. There is no one else I can recruit for this journey who will have such a magic to lend to our cause. Once, we might have relied upon the use of Elfstones, but those in the possession of the Elves were lost with Kael Elessedil. The Ilse Witch will have allies she can turn to who possess magic of their own. Moreover, we are certain to encounter other forms of magic during our quest. It will be difficult for anyone to stand alone against them all. Quentin must support me.”
The Highlander looked as if the Druid had lost his mind. “You can’t mean that old sword, the one my father gave me several years back when I crossed into manhood? That old relic is symbolic and nothing more! The Sword of Leah, handed down for generations, carried by my great-great-grandfather Morgan against the Federation when he fought for the liberation of the Dwarves in the wake of the Shadowen defeat—everyone knows the tale, but … but …”
He seemed to run out of words, shaking his head in disbelief and turning to Bek for support.
But it was Walker who spoke first. “You are familiar with the weapon, Quentin. You’ve held it in your hands, haven’t you? When you took it out of its scabbard to examine it, you must have noticed that it was in perfect condition. The weapon is centuries old. How do you account for that if it is not infused with magic?”
“But it doesn’t do anything!” Quentin exclaimed in exasperation.
“Because you tried to summon the magic, and failed?”
The Highlander sighed. “It feels foolish to admit it. But I knew the stories, and I just wanted to see if there was any truth to them. Honestly, I admire the weapon. Its balance and weight are exceptional. And it does look as if it is new.” He paused, his broad, open Highlander face suffused with a mix of doubt and cautious expectation. “Is it really magic?”