But by the approach of nightfall, they had navigated the lowlands without incident and moved into the forbidding darkness of the Black Oaks. The road here was less uneven and better traveled, the way open and clear as they rode into a steadily lengthening maze of shadows. With twilight’s fall, they stopped within a clearing and made camp for the night. A fire was built, a meal prepared and eaten, and bedding laid out. The cousins joked and laughed and told stories for a time, then rolled into their blankets and fell asleep.
Sleep lasted until just after midnight, when it began to rain so hard that the clearing was flooded in a matter of minutes. Bek and Quentin snatched up their gear and retreated to the shelter of a large conifer, covering themselves with their travel cloaks as they sat beneath a canopy of feathery branches and watched the rain sweep through unabated.
By morning they were stiff and sore and not very well rested, but they resumed their travels without complaint. In other circumstances, they would have come better equipped, but neither had wanted the burden of pack animals and supplies, and so they were traveling light. A few nights of damp and cold were tolerable in the course of a week’s passage if it meant shaving a few days off their traveling time. They ate a cold breakfast, then rode all morning through the Black Oaks, and by afternoon the rain had abated and they had reached the Battlemound. Here they turned south, unwilling to chance crossing through any part of the Mist Marsh, content to detour below the swamp and come out to the east, where they would turn north again and ride until they reached the Silver River.
By sunset, they had succeeded in accomplishing their goal, avoiding Sirens and other pitfalls, keeping to the roadway until it meandered off south, then sticking to the open ground of the lowlands as the terrain changed back to forests and low hills and they could see the glittering ribbon of the river ahead. Finding shelter in a grove of cottonwood and beech, they made camp on its banks, the ground sufficiently dry that they could lay out their bedding and build a fire. They watered and fed the horses and rubbed them down. Then they made dinner for themselves and, after eating it, sat facing out toward the river and the night, sipping cups of ale as they talked.
“I wish we knew more about Truls Rohk,” Bek ventured after the conversation had been going on for a time. “Why do you think Walker told us so little about him?”
Quentin contemplated the star-filled sky thoughtfully. “Well, he told us where to go to find him. He said all we had to do was ask and he would be there. Seems like enough to me.”
“It might be enough for you, but not for me. It doesn’t tell us anything about why we’re looking for him. How come he’s so important?” Bek was not about to be appeased. “If we’re to persuade him to come with us to Arborlon, shouldn’t we know why he’s needed? What if he doesn’t want to come? What are we supposed to do then?”
Quentin grinned cheerfully. “Pack up and go on. It isn’t our problem if he chooses to stay behind.” He grimaced. “See, there you go again, Bek, worrying when there isn’t any reason for it.”
“So you’re fond of telling me. So I’ll tell you something else that’s worrying me. I don’t trust Walker.”
They stared at each other in the darkness without speaking, the fire beginning to burn down, the sounds of the night lifting out of the sudden silence. “What do you mean?” Quentin asked slowly. “You think he’s lying to us?”
“No.” Bek shook his head emphatically. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here. No, I don’t think he’s that sort. But I do think he knows something he’s not telling us. Maybe a lot of somethings. Think about it, Quentin. How did he know about you and the Sword of Leah? He knew you had it before he even talked to us. How did he find out? Has he been keeping an eye on you all these years, waiting for a chance to summon you on a quest? How did he manage to convince your father to let us go with him, when your father wouldn’t even consider your request to fight for the Free-born?”
He stopped abruptly. He wanted to tell Quentin what Coran had said about his parentage. He wanted to ask Quentin why he thought Coran hadn’t said a word about it until the Druid appeared. He wanted to ask his cousin if he had any idea how the Druid had ended up ferrying him to the Leah doorstep in the first place, not a task a Druid would normally undertake.
But he was not prepared to talk about any of this just yet; he was still mulling it over, trying to decide how he felt about it before sharing what he knew.
“I think you’re right,” Quentin said suddenly, surprising him. “I think the Druid’s keeping secrets from us, not the least of which is where we’re going and why. But I’ve listened to you expound on Druids and their history often enough to know that this is normal behavior for them. They know things we don’t, and they keep the information mostly to themselves. Why should that trouble you? Why not just let things unfold in the way they’re intended rather than worry about it? Look at me. I’m carrying a sword that’s supposed to be magic. I’m supposed to trust blindly in a weapon that’s never shown a moment’s inclination to be more than what it seems.”
“That’s different,” Bek insisted.
“No, it isn’t.” Quentin laughed and rocked back onto his elbows, stretching out his long legs. “It’s all the same thing. You can live your life worrying about what you don’t know, or you can accept your limitations and make the best of it. Secrets don’t harm you, Bek. It’s fussing about them that does you in.”
Bek gave him a disbelieving look. “That’s entirely wrong. Secrets can do a great deal of harm.”
“All right, let me approach it another way.” Quentin drained off his ale and sat forward again. “How much can you accomplish worrying about secrets that may not exist? Especially when you have no idea what they are?”
“I know. I know.” Bek sighed. “But at least I’m prepared for the fact that some nasty surprises might lie ahead. At least I’m ready for what I think is going to happen down the road.
And by keeping an eye on Walker, I won’t be caught off guard by his shadings of the truth and purposeful omissions.”
“Great. You’re prepared and you won’t be fooled. Me, too, believe it or not—even if I don’t worry about it as much as you.” Quentin looked off into the darkness, where a shooting star streaked across the firmament and disappeared. “But you can’t prepare against everything, Bek, and you can’t save yourself from being fooled now and then. The fact is, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, sometimes your efforts fall short.”
Bek looked at him and said nothing. True enough, he was thinking, but he didn’t care for the implications.
He slept undisturbed by rain and cold that night, the skies clear and the air warm, and he did not dream or toss. Even so, he woke in the deep sleep hours of early morning, bathed in starlight and infused by a feeling of uneasiness. The fire had burned itself out and lay cold and gray. Beside him, Quentin was snoring, wrapped in his blankets. Bek did not know how long he had been asleep, but the moon was down and the forest about him was silent and black.
He rose without thinking, looking around cautiously as he did so, trying to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. There seemed to be no reason for it. He pulled on his great cloak, wrapping himself tightly against a sudden chill, and walked down to the banks of the Silver River. The river was swollen with spring rains and snowmelt off the Runne Mountains, but its progress this night was sluggish and steady and its surface clear of debris. As he stood there, a night bird swooped down and glided into the trees, a silent, purposeful shadow. He started at the unexpected movement, then quieted once more. Carefully, he studied the glittering surface of the waters, searching for what troubled him, then shifted his attention to the far bank and the shadowed trees. Still nothing. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Perhaps he had been mistaken.