“Do you know what he said then?” Morgan interrupted, gray eyes finding Par’s, a hint of the mischievousness in them.
“He said,” Coll took control again of the conversation, “Wait here, this is no task for you; I will bring him back—as if we were children playing at a grown-up’s game!“
“But he was as good as his word,” Morgan noted.
Coll sighed. “Well, true enough,” he admitted grudgingly.
Walker Boh was gone a full day and night, but when he returned to Hearthstone, where Coll and his companions were indeed waiting, he had Par with him. Par had been infected by the touch of the Werebeasts and was near death. The only hope for him, Walker insisted, lay at Storlock, the community of Gnome healers. The Stors had experience in dealing with afflictions of the mind and spirit and could combat the Werebeast’s poison.
They set out at once, the five of them less the cat, who had been left behind. They pushed west out of Hearthstone and the Wilderun, following the Chard Rush upriver to the Wolfsktaag, crossing through the Pass of Jade, and finally reaching the village of the Stors. It had taken them two days, traveling almost constantly. Par would have died if not for Walker, who had used an odd sort of magic that none of them had understood to prevent the poison from spreading and to keep Par sleeping and calm. At times, Par had thrashed and cried out, waking feverish and spitting blood—once in the middle of a ferocious storm they had encountered in the Pass of Jade—but Walker had been there to soothe him, to touch him, to say something that let him sleep once more.
“Even so, we’ve been in Storlock for almost three days and this is the first time you’ve been awake,” Coll finished. He paused, eyes lowering. “It was very close, Par.”
Par nodded, saying nothing. Even without being able to remember anything clearly, he had a definite sense of just how close it had been. “Where is Walker?” he asked finally.
“We don’t know,” Morgan answered with a shrug. “We haven’t seen him since we arrived. He just disappeared.”
“Gone back to the Wilderun, I suppose,” Coll added, a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“Now, Coll,” Morgan soothed.
Coll held up his hands. “I know, Morgan—I shouldn’t judge. He was there to help when we needed him. He saved Par’s life. I’m grateful for that.”
“Besides, I think he’s still around,” Morgan said quietly. When the other two looked inquiringly at him, he simply shrugged.
Par told them then what had befallen him after his capture by the Spider Gnomes. He was still reasoning out a good part of it, so he hesitated from time to time in his telling. He was convinced that the Spider Gnomes had been sent specifically to find him, otherwise they would have taken Coll as well. The Shadowen had sent them, that girl-child. Yet how had it known who he was or where he could be found?
The little room was silent as they thought. “The magic,” Morgan suggested finally. “They all seem interested in the magic. This one must have sensed it as well.”
“All the way from Toffer Ridge?” Par shook his head doubtfully.
“And why not go after Morgan as well?” Coll asked suddenly. “After all, he commands the magic of the Sword of Leah.”
“No, no, that’s not the sort of magic they care about,” Morgan replied quickly, it’s Par’s sort of magic that interests them, draws them—magic that’s a part of the body or spirit.“
“Or maybe it’s simply Par,” Coll finished darkly.
They let the thought hang a moment in the silence. “The Shadowen tried to come into me,” Par said finally, then explained it to them in more detail, it wanted to merge with me, to be a part of me. It kept saying, “hug me, hug me” —as if it were a lost child or something.“
“Hardly that,” Coll disputed quickly.
“More leech than lost child,” Morgan agreed.
“But what are they?” Par pressed, bits and pieces of his dreams coming back to him, flashes of insight that lacked meaning. “Where is it that they come from and what is it that they want?”
“Us,” Morgan said quietly.
“You,” Coll said.
They talked a bit longer, mulling over what little they knew of Shadowen and their interest in magic, then Coll and Morgan rose. Time for Par to rest again, they insisted. He was still sick, still weak, and he needed to get his strength back.
The Hadeshorn, Par remembered suddenly! How much time did they have before the new moon?
Coll sighed. “Four days—if you still insist on going.”
Morgan grinned from behind him. “We’ll be close by if you need us. Good to see you well again, Par.”
He slipped out the door. “It is good,” Coll agreed and gripped his brother’s hand tightly.
When they were gone, Par lay with his eyes open for a time, letting his thoughts nudge and push one another. Questions whispered at him, asking for answers he didn’t have. He had been chased and harried from Varfleet to the Rainbow Lake, from Culhaven to Hearthstone, by the Federation and the Shadowen, by things that he had only heard about and some he hadn’t even known existed. He was tired and confused; he had almost lost his life. Everything centered on his magic, and yet his magic had been virtually useless to him. He was constantly running from one thing and toward another without really understanding much of either. He felt helpless.
And despite the presence of his brother and his friends, he felt oddly alone.
His last thought before he fell asleep was that, in a way he didn’t yet comprehend, he was.
He slept fitfully, but without dreaming, waking often amid stirrings of dissatisfaction and wariness that darted through the corridors of his mind like harried rats. Each time he came awake it was still night, until the last time when it was almost dawn, the sky beyond the curtained window brightening faintly, the room in which he lay still and gauzy. A white-robed Stor passed briefly through the room, appearing from out of the shadows like a ghost to pause at his bedside and touch his wrist and forehead with hands that were surprisingly warm before turning and disappearing back the way he had come. Par slept soundly after that, drifting far down within himself and floating undisturbed in a sea of black warmth.
When he woke again, it was raining. His eyes blinked open and he stared fixedly into the grayness of his room. He could hear the sound of the raindrops beating on the windows and roof, a steady drip and splash in the stillness. There was daylight yet; he could see it through the part in the curtains. Thunder rolled in the distance, echoing in long, uneven peals.
Gingerly, he hoisted himself up on one elbow. He saw a fire burning in a small stove that he hadn’t even noticed the previous night, tucked back in the shadows. It gave a solid warmth to the room that wrapped and cradled him and made him feel secure. There was tea by his bedside and tiny cakes. He pushed himself up the rest of the way, propping himself against the headboard of his bed with his pillows and pulling the cakes and tea to him. He was famished, and he devoured the cakes in seconds. Then he drank a small portion of the tea, which had gone cold in the sitting, but was wonderful in any case.
He was midway through his third cup when the door opened soundlessly and Walker Boh appeared. His uncle paused momentarily on seeing him awake, then closed the door softly and came over the stand at his bedside. He was dressed in forest green—tunic and pants belted tight, soft leather boots unlaced and muddied, long travel cloak spotted with rain. There was rain on his bearded face as well, and his dark hair was damp against his skin.
He pushed the travel cloak back across his shoulders. “Feeling better?” he asked quietly.
Par nodded. “Much.” He set his cup aside. “I understand I have you to thank for that. You saved me from the Werebeasts. You brought me back to Hearthstone. It was your idea to bring me to Storlock. Coll and Morgan tell me that you even used magic to see to it that I stayed alive long enough to complete the journey.”