The Valeman nodded. Keltset had produced from a leather belt strapped about his waist an iron medallion with a cross embedded in a circle, held it up for all to see, then hung it about his neck in a dramatic display that had stunned all assembled and thereby gained them their freedom.
“Do you remember what that medallion was called?”
“The Black Irix,” Shea answered.
Panamon Creel leaned back in his seat. “It was lost with Keltset when the walls of that mountain passageway collapsed on him. I intend to find it and bring it out.”
Shea stared. “From under a collapsed mountain?”
“No, from wherever Kestra Chule has hidden it.”
The Valeman considered. “Back up a bit. Who is Kestra Chule?”
“A buyer and seller of stolen goods.”
“He has the Black Irix?”
“He does.”
“How did he manage that? How do you even know about this?”
Panamon Creel shrugged. “As to the first, I don’t know. I don’t even know how he found out where it was, let alone how he managed to dig it out. As to the second, I am a thief, as you have pointed out to me a time or two in the past. It is my job to know about such things.”
“So you intend to steal it back from him? Why go to all that trouble for a piece of iron, no matter what it represents?”
“Because,” the other said slowly, drawing out the word, “the Black Irix is immensely valuable. There are perhaps a dozen known Irixes in existence, and most of those are in the hands of the Trolls. You cannot overestimate what a collector would pay to get his hands on one. But it is valuable, as well, because the materials used to make it are extremely rare. You might think it is only a piece of iron, but you would be wrong. An Irix is hammered out from a mix of metals, some used for strength and some to provide special value. Auridium is the most precious of those metals. Do you know of it?”
Shea shook his head. He had never heard of auridium.
“It is so valuable that there is only one known source. It is deep in the Eastland and mined by Dwarves, who trade half of what they acquire to the Trolls in exchange for a wagonful of high–quality weapons. That exchange has been going on for a long time. In any case, half an ounce goes into the making of every Irix. That alone would buy you a small kingdom.”
He exaggerated, but Shea got the point. “So you want to recover the Irix from Kestra Chule. Why don’t you just do so? What do you want with me?”
“As I said,” Panamon replied, “Chule has hidden it.”
“So how does …,” Shea began and then stopped. “Oh, I see. You want me to come with you and use the Elfstones to find it.”
“Because of the conditions under which I will be exercising my particular skills, it would be helpful to know where exactly the Irix is hidden in advance of extracting it. You could tell me that. Or, more to the point, your special Stones could. I am asking this as a favor to someone who has done much for you in the past.”
Shea gave him a look. “Someone whose life you saved on more than one occasion. You forgot that part.”
The other man shrugged. “I was holding it in reserve, in case further persuasion proved necessary.”
“The problem with this request is that I have sworn to one and all–myself included–that I would not take part in another quest, no matter what. I have promised not to leave the Vale again. And after recovering from my sickness, I reaffirmed that vow.”
“Are you saying you will not go with me? Even knowing how much you owe me?”
“I am saying I have made a vow and now you are asking me to break it.”
“For a very good reason.”
“A very good reason for you. But not necessarily for me.”
Panamon sighed. “Shea, consider. You told me you were so sick you almost died, and that you found yourself blessed by your recovery. Of what use is all that if you spend the rest of your life hunkered down in Shady Vale, never venturing farther than its borders, never taking another chance on anything, never risking even once the possibility you might do someone a great service?”
Panamon held up his hand quickly to forestall the Valeman’s next response. “And I am not talking about myself. I am talking about those who loved and cared for Keltset, and who would be made glad beyond words if we were able to recover his Black Irix and return it to them. Does that count for nothing?”
Shea tightened his lips, thinking. “What do you get out of this? Wait! You are planning on returning it, aren’t you? You don’t intend to sell it yourself?”
Panamon looked shocked. “No, I don’t intend to sell it myself! What kind of creature do you think I am? This is Keltset we’re talking about. He saved our lives, and mine more than once! I’m doing this for him. I don’t want Kestra Chule to make his fortune on the death of my friend! I intend that he not make a single coin, and that the Irix go back to Keltset’s people where it belongs!”
“You’re telling me the truth? You’re giving it back?”
“What would you do?”
“What I would do isn’t necessarily what you would do.”
“Don’t play games with this.” Panamon was flushed, angry. “Just answer the question! What would you do?”
They were shouting at each other now, and upon realizing it they went quiet at once. Panamon picked up his tankard and drained it. Then he passed it across the table to Shea who took it without a word, carried it back behind the serving counter one more time, refilled it, and returned.
As he sat down again, he found himself remembering what Flick had said about the woodswoman’s prediction. He hadn’t believed it possible that it would come true. He had thought it funny that it would cause Flick to be so concerned.
Well, he wasn’t laughing now.
“I would do what you are doing,” he said quietly. “How soon do we leave?”
* * *
It was the sort of decision you made quickly. There wasn’t much to think about when you came right down to it. You could make all the promises or vows you wanted, but ultimately everything hinged on the answer to a single question. How much did you owe someone who stood by you when you needed it and by doing so saved your life? If it didn’t matter to you, you turned them down when they asked for your help. If it counted for something, you didn’t.
No matter the doubts or inconveniences attached to making this trip with Panamon Creel, Shea felt honor–bound to go. He tried to explain that to Flick later that same evening when his brother returned from the miller’s, but his efforts were futile. Flick was having none of it. Shea was deliberately and foolishly placing himself in harm’s way out of a misguided sense of loyalty to a man of questionable character–although admittedly one who had helped him in the past. Was Shea forgetting that Panamon had tried to steal the Elfstones from him? Was he forgetting that Panamon’s mission–no matter its claimed virtues–was essentially another theft? Was he forgetting that the thief had a tendency not to be entirely forthcoming with what he knew and tended to shade the truth of whatever he did tell?
“What about the fact that you only just got your health back?” he demanded as a last resort. “You almost died, Shea! Now you are going on a trip that could very well finish the job. Shades, you don’t even know where you’re going!”
They were standing out back by the woodshed, shouting at each other, while inside the patrons of the inn drank and laughed and talked loud enough that they could not hear a word of the argument taking place out back.