“Time to say goodbye,” Horner Dees announced without preliminaries and stuck out his hand to Morgan.
Morgan stared. There had been no talk of his leaving until now. “You’re not coming on with us?”
The old Tracker snorted. “I’m lucky to be alive, Highlander. Now you want me to come south? How far do you expect me to push things?”
Morgan stammered. “I didn’t mean...”
“Fact is, I shouldn’t have gone with you the first time.” The other cut him short with a wave of one big hand. “It was the girl who talked me into it. Couldn’t say no to her. And maybe it was the sense of having left something behind when I fled the Stone King and his monsters ten years ago. I had to go back to find it again. So here I am, the only man to have escaped Eldwist and Uhl Belk twice. Seems to me that’s enough for one old man.”
“You would be welcome to come with us, Horner Dees,” Walker Boh assured him, taking Morgan’s part. “You’re not as old as you pretend and twice as able. The Highlander and his friends can use your experience.”
“Yes, Horner,” Morgan agreed hurriedly. “What about the Shadowen? We need you to help fight them. Come with us.”
But the old Tracker shook his bearish head stubbornly. “Highlander, I’ll miss you. I owe you my life. I look at you and see the son I might have had under other circumstances. Now isn’t that something to admit? But I’ve had enough excitement in my life and I’m not anxious for any more. I need the dark quiet of the ale houses. I need the comforts of my own place.” He stuck out his hand once again. “Who’s to say that won’t change though? So. Some other time, maybe?”
Morgan clasped the hand in his own. “Any time, Horner.” Then, forsaking the hand, he embraced the old man. Horner Dees hugged him back.
The journey went swiftly after that, time slipping away almost magically, the days and nights passing like quicksilver. Walker and Morgan came down out of the Charnals into the foothills south and turned west along their threshold toward the Rabb. They forded the north branch of the river and the land opened into grasslands that stretched away toward the distant peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth. The days were long and hot, the sun burning out of cloudless skies as the intemperate weather of the mountains was left behind. Sunrise came early, and daylight stayed late, and even the nights were warm and bright. The pair encountered few travelers and no Federation patrols. The land grew increasingly infected by the Shadowen sickness, dark patches that hinted at the spread of the disease, but there was no sign of the carriers.
At week’s end, the Dark Uncle and the Highlander reached the south entrance to the Jannisson Pass. It was nearing noon, and the pass stretched away through the juncture of the cliffs of the Dragon’s Teeth and the Charnals, a broad empty corridor leading north to the Streleheim. It was here that Padishar Creel had hoped to rally the forces of the Southland Movement, the Dwarf Resistance, and the Trolls of Axhind and his Kelktic Rock in an effort to confront and destroy the armies of the Federation. The wind blew gently across the flats and down through the pass, and no one stirred.
Morgan Leah cast about wearily, a resigned look on his face. Walker stood silently beside him for a moment, then put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Where to now, Highlander?” he asked softly.
Morgan shrugged and smiled bravely. “South, I suppose, to Varfleet. I’ll try to make contact with Padishar, hope that he’s found Par and Coll. If that fails, I’ll go looking for the Valemen on my own.” He paused, studying the other’s hard, pale face. “I guess I know where you’re going.”
Walker nodded. “To find Paranor.”
Morgan took a deep breath. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, Walker.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I could come with you, if you’d like.”
“No, Highlander, you’ve done enough for others. It is time to do something for yourself.”
Morgan nodded. “Well, I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have the magic of the Sword of Leah again. I might be of some use.”
Walker’s fingers tightened on the other’s shoulder and then dropped away. “I don’t think anyone can help me where I’m going. I think I have to help myself as best I can. The Elfstone will likely be my best protection.” He sighed. “Strange how things work out. If not for Quickening, neither of us would be doing what he is or even be who he is, would he? She’s given us both a new purpose, a new face, maybe even a new strength. Don’t forget what she gave up for you, Morgan. She loved you. I think that in whatever way she is able she always will.”
“I know.”
“Horner Dees said you saved his life. You saved my life as well. If you hadn’t used the sword, even broken as it was, Uhl Belk would have killed me. I think Par and Coll Ohmsford could ask for no better protector. Go after them. See that they are well. Help them in any way you can.”
“I will.”
They clasped hands and held tight for a moment, eyes locked.
“Be careful, Walker,” Morgan said.
Walker’s smile was faint and ironic. “Until we meet again, Morgan Leah.”
Then Walker turned and walked into the pass, angling through sunlight into shadow as the rocks closed about. He did not look back.
For the remainder of the day and the whole of the one following Walker Boh traveled west across the Streleheim, skirting the dark, ancient forests that lay south, cradled by the peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth. On the third day he turned down, moving into the shadowed woods, leaving the plains and the sunshine behind. The trees were massive, towering sentinels set at watch like soldiers waiting to be sent forth into battle, thick trunks grown close in camaraderie, and limbs canopied against the light. These were the forests that for centuries past had sheltered the Druid’s Keep against the world beyond. In the time of Shea Ohmsford there had been wolves set at watch. Even after, there had been a wall of thorns that none could penetrate but Allanon himself. The wolves were gone now, the wall of thorns as well, and even the Keep itself. Only the trees remained, wrapped in a deep, pervasive silence.
Walker navigated the trails as if he were a shadow, passing soundlessly through the sea of trunks, across the carpet of dead needles, lost in the roil of his increasing indecision. His thoughts of what he was about to do were jumbled and rough-edged, and whispers of uncertainty that he had thought safely put to rest had risen to haunt him once again. All his life he had fought to escape Brin Ohmsford’s legacy; now he was rushing willingly to embrace it. His decision to do so had been long in coming and repeatedly questioned. It had resulted from an odd mix of circumstance, conscience, and deliberation. He had given it as much thought as he was capable of giving and he was convinced that he had chosen right. But the prospect of its consequences was terrifying nevertheless, and the closer he came to discovering them, the deeper grew his misgivings.
By the time he arrived at the heart of the forests and the bluff on which Paranor had once rested, he was in utter turmoil. He stood for a long time staring upward at the few stone blocks that remained of what had once been the outbuildings, at the streaking of red light across the bluff’s crest where the sunset cast its heated, withering glow. In the shimmer of the dying light he could imagine it was possible to see Paranor rise up against the coming night, its parapets sharply defined and its towers piercing the sky’s azure crown like spears. He could feel the immensity of the Keep’s presence, the sullen bulk of its stone. He could touch the life of its magic, waiting to be reborn.