Traunt Rowan shook his head. «Not until Shadea is done with him. I don’t want to have to explain to her why we failed to keep him alive long enough for her to question him.» He smiled at Pen. «This isn’t going to work out the way you wanted, Pen. Not for you or your parents. You shouldn’t have tried to be so clever. You’re only a boy, and boys always think themselves much more clever than they really are.»
Pen was having trouble breathing. He knew he should say or do something, but he had no idea what it should be. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart completely.
Traunt Rowan watched him a moment longer, then shrugged. «Cat got your tongue?» He hefted the staff and tossed it to Pyson Wence. «What do you make of it, Pyson? Can you read the markings? Elfish, I think. Very old.»
The Gnome studied the runes a moment, then shook his head impatiently. «Nothing I’ve ever seen. We might find something on it back at Paranor, in the books. What difference does it make?»
« I don’t know. Pen, do you?» Traunt Rowan looked at him. «Anything about these markings look familiar? No?» He pursed his lips. «Maybe we should see if they’re even real.»
He took the staff out of Pyson’s hands, dropped it carelessly to the floor, and pointed at it. Blue fire exploded from his fingers, engulfing the darkwand. Pen gasped in spite of himself, leapt to his feet, and tried to snatch the darkwand back. Almost casually, Traunt Rowan backhanded him into the wall so hard that he almost blacked out. On the floor, the darkwand jumped at the touch of the searing fire, but to his surprise refused to burn. The Druid tried again, the fire flashing from his fingers in a fresh wave, licking at and engulfing the wood. But again, nothing happened. When the fire ceased, the wood was left untouched.
Pyson Wence snatched up the darkwand and smashed it against the bulkhead, but the staff bounced away unmarked and unbroken.
« Magic, of a very powerful kind,” Traunt Rowan declared softly, looking down at a dazed Pen. «Is this meant for the Ard Rhys, Pen? 1 have a feeling it is. A talisman of some sort, to be used to free her.»
Pen tried to keep his expression blank, his feelings from showing on his face or reflecting in his eyes. He tried to pretend he didn’t feel anything, that nothing that was happening mattered. But pain ratcheted through him as he slumped on the bench, his head throbbing with the blow he had taken, and his hopes for achieving anything of what he had set out to accomplish vanished.
« He doesn’t want to talk now, but he will soon enough,” Pyson Wence hissed. «Do you hear me, little man?»
Traunt Rowan stepped forward and yanked Pen off the bench, holding him up so that they were face–to–face. «He hears you, Pyson.» He bent so close to the boy that their noses were almost touching. «Are you worried for your parents, Pen?» he whispered. «1 worried for mine, too, but it wasn’t enough to save them. You think Grianne Ohmsford is worth giving up your life for, but she isn’t. She killed my parents, and in a way she will end up killing yours, as well, won’t she? She is a monster, Pen. She always was and she always will be. Except that now she’s where she belongs—with the other monsters.»
He let go of the boy, shoving him back onto the bench. «You think about it while we fly to Paranor. You think about how much she really means to you.»
He stepped back, flushed with the heat of his words. Then he turned and walked from the room, taking the staff and Pyson Wence with him.
In the ensuing silence, Pen was left alone to consider the fate that awaited him.
« What do you think you are doing?» a voice called out from behind Khyber, causing her to turn abruptly to face the speaker.
It was the sunset of the following day, and the light was weak and tinged with twilight, so she could not make him out clearly, other than to identify him as one of the Gnome crew. Of course, he couldn’t make her out, either, so she was able to act before he could determine who she was. A quick movement of her fingers caused him to hear an unexpected noise, a sound he recognized as dangerous. When he was looking the other way, she brushed the air about her to create a screen of mist and walked away.
It was one of the small skills she had learned from Ahren Elessedil while aboard theSkatelow all those weeks ago. A lifetime ago, she thought. It made her sad, remembering. It made her wish she could change things, even though she knew she couldn’t.
She glanced back at the Gnome Hunter, who was looking around in confusion, trying to figure out what had happened. It was the first time anyone had challenged her, but she had been prepared for the possibility. Still, she would have to be more careful. One sighting might go unreported. A second was more likely to draw attention.
They were flying south along the spine of the Charnals, come out of the Klu now and gone down below the Lazareen. Ahead, the bleak wasteland of the Skull Kingdom was a dark smudge against the extended green of the landscape stretching toward the southwest, where the light was a dim reddish gold band along the horizon. In another day, perhaps as early as the next evening, they would reach Paranor. The Druid warships were swift, and they flew unhindered and unconcerned through that dangerous country. Few enemies would dare to attack even a single Druid warship, let alone three.
She scanned the countryside below for a moment, then started for the starboard aft hatchway. The decks were mostly deserted, the crew below eating dinner, the night watch not yet come topside. Only the pilot and two crewmen were in view, and they were mostly passing time until they could eat and sleep.
She was at the hatchway when she saw the flash of light from theAthabasca, which was flying just ahead and to port. The light was sudden and intense, and it came from somewhere in the hold, below–decks, flaring out through cracks in the shutters, slivers of brilliance against the black. She recognized it as magic right away; it was too sharp–edged for firelight. She stared momentarily in shock, then watched it flash a
second time.
But that was all. She waited, but it didn’t come again. She listened for some indication of what had caused it, but heard nothing. She tried to read its origins using her own magic, probing the space between the vessels, but the air currents caused by the airships’ movements swept away all traces.
Was it Pen?
She had no way of knowing. She wouldn’t be able to tell anything until they landed at Paranor—perhaps not even then. She stared out at the dark bulk of theAthabasca. The ship was only a hundred yards away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles.
Disconsolate and frustrated, she dropped her gaze and slipped through the hatchway to try to get some sleep.
Four
Rue Meridian sat with her back against the cell’s far wall, facing the locked door. Her prison, like Bek’s, was deep beneath the walls and buildings of the Druid’s Keep. There was only the single door. The door was solid metal, save for a flap at its bottom, which permitted her jailers to slide a tray of food inside without opening the door, and a series of slits at eye level, which let in slivers of torchlight from the hallway beyond. Within her cell were a wooden bed frame and mattress, a blanket, a slop bucket, and a broom. The broom was a mystery. Was she supposed to sweep up the cell when it got too dusty? Was she supposed to knock down cobwebs?
Since she had been shut away, she had not been allowed out. Not once, even for a moment. Nor had anyone come inside. She had heard the guards moving in the hallway, and she had looked out in an effort to see them once or twice. But the guards kept out of her line of sight and spoke in low enough tones that they were out of hearing, as well. They had not spoken to her through the door. Other than delivering her food and allowing her to slide the bucket out for emptying now and then, they had paid no attention to her at all. As far as she could determine, in the minds of her captors she had ceased to exist.