“Been drinking and wasting time here since morning.” The trader shook his head. “Always got the money for the ale, though.” He looked at the Valegirl. “Feeling a little better now?”
Brin smiled in response. “Much better, thank you.” She glanced down at the dagger in her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what I was…”
“Hush, forget it.” The big woodsman patted her hand. “You’re exhausted.”
Beside him, Rone Leah moaned softly, his head lifting momentarily, his eyes open and staring into space. Then he slipped down again.
“I have to do something for him,” Brin insisted anxiously. “I have to find a way to break the fever. Do you have anything here that might help?”
The trader glanced at the woodsman worriedly, then shook his head. “I’ve not seen a fever as bad as this one often, girl. I have a tonic that might help. You can give it to the boy and see if it brings the fever out.” He shook his head again. “Sleep might be best, though.”
Brin nodded dumbly. She was having trouble thinking clearly, the exhaustion folding in about her as she sat staring down at the dagger. Slowly she slipped it back into its sheath. What had she been thinking she would do? She had never harmed anything in her entire life. Certainly the man from west of Spanning Ridge had been insolent, perhaps even threatening—but had there been any real danger to her? The ale burned warmly in her stomach, and a flush spread through her body. She was tired and strangely unnerved. Deep within, she felt an odd sense of loss and of slipping.
“Not much room in here for sleeping,” the trader Stebb was saying. “There’s a tack room in back of the stable I let the help use in the trapping season. You can have that. There’s a stove and bed for your friend and straw for you.”
“That would be fine,” Brin murmured and found to her astonishment that she was crying.
“Here, here.” The burly woodsman put an arm about her shoulders, blocking her away from the view of those gathered along the serving counter. “Won’t do for them to see that, girl. Got to be strong, now.”
Brin nodded wordlessly, wiped the tears away, and stood up. “I’m all right.”
“Blankets are out in the shed,” the trader announced, standing up with her. “Let’s get you settled in.”
With the aid of the woodsman, he brought Rone Leah back to his feet and walked him toward the rear of the trading center and down a short, darkened hallway that ran past a set of storage rooms. Brin shot a parting glance at the men gathered about their ale glasses before the serving counter and followed after. She didn’t much care for the looks directed back her way by the ones from west of Spanning Ridge.
A small wooden door opened out into the night at the back of the building, and the trader, the woodsman, Rone, and Brin moved toward the stable and its tack room. The trader slipped ahead, quickly lighted an oil lamp hanging from a peg on one wall, and then held wide the tack room door to admit the others. The room beyond was clean, though a bit musty, its walls hung with traces and harness. A small iron stove sat in one corner, shielded by a stone alcove. A single bed sat close beside it. A pair of shuttered windows stood against the night.
The trader and the woodsman laid the feverish highlander carefully on the bed and covered him with the blankets stacked at one end. Then they fired the iron stove until its wood was burning brightly and carried in a pallet of fresh straw for Brin.
As they were about to leave, the trader placed the oil lamp on a stone ledge next to the stove and turned briefly to Brin.
“Here’s the tonic for his fever.” He passed a small, amber-colored bottle to the Valegirl. “Give him two swallows—no more. In the morning, two more.” He shook his head doubtfully. “Hope it helps, girl.”
He started through the doorway with the woodsman in tow. Then once more he turned. “There’s a latch on this door,” he declared, pausing. “Keep it drawn.”
He closed the door softly behind him. Brin walked over and drew the latch into place. From just without, she could hear the voices of the trader and the woodsman as they talked.
“A bad lot, that Spanning Ridge bunch,” the woodsman muttered.
“Bad as any,” the trader agreed.
They were silent for a moment.
“Time for me to be on my way,” the woodsman said. “Several hours back to the camp.”
“Safe journey,” the trader replied.
They started to move away, their words fading.
“You’d best watch yourself that that bunch inside, Stebb,” the woodsman advised. “Watch yourself close.”
Then the words died away completely and the two were gone.
Brin turned back to Rone within the silence of the tack room. Propping him up carefully, she forced him to take two swallows of the tonic provided by the trader. When he had taken the medicine, she laid him down again and covered him up.
Then she took a seat next to the stove, wrapped herself in her blanket, and sat back wordlessly. On the wall of the little room, cast by the solitary flame of the oil lamp, her shadow rose up before her like a dark giant.
The charred stump of still-burning log collapsed with a thud inside the stove as the ashes beneath it gave way, and Brin woke with a start. She had dozed, she realized, but didn’t know for how long. She rubbed her eyes wearily and glanced about. The tack room was dark and still, the flame of the oil lamp faint and lonely in a gathering of shadows.
She thought immediately of Allanon. It was difficult still for her to accept that the Druid was gone. An expectation lingered within her that at any moment there would come a sharp knock upon the latched door and his deep voice would call to her. Like a shadow that came and went with the passing of the light—that was the way that Rone had described him that last night before the Druid died…
She caught herself sharply, strangely ashamed that she had allowed herself to even think the word. But Allanon had died, passing from the world of mortal men as all must, going from the Four Lands in the arms of his father—perhaps to where Bremen kept watch. She thought about that possibility for a moment. Could it be that he had indeed gone to be with his father? She remembered his words to her. “When your quest is done, Brin, you will find me here.” Did that mean that he, too, had locked himself into a limbo existence between the worlds of life and death?
There were tears in her eyes, and she wiped them hurriedly away. She could not permit herself tears. Allanon was gone, and she was alone.
Rone Leah stirred restlessly beneath the heavy blankets, his breathing harsh and uneven. She rose slowly and moved to where he lay. The lean, sunburned face was hot, dry, and drawn tight against the fever that ravaged his body. He shivered momentarily as she watched, as if suddenly chill, then went taut. Words whispered on his lips, their meaning lost.
What am I to do with him? the Valegirl asked herself helplessly. Would that I had my father’s skill. I have given him the tonic provided by the trader. I have wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm. But none of it seems to be helping. What else am I to do?
It was the Jachyra’s poison that was infecting him, she knew. Allanon had said that the poison attacked not just the body, but the spirit as well. It had killed the Druid—and while his wounds had been so much worse than Rone’s, still he was Allanon and much the stronger of the two. Even the lesser damage suffered by the highlander was proving to be more than his body could fight.
She sank down next to his bed, her hand closing gently about his. Her protector. She smiled sadly—who would now protect him?
Memories slipped like quicksilver through her mind, jumbled and confused. They had gone through so much to reach this lonely, desperate night, she and Rone Leah. And at what terrible cost. Paranor was gone. Allanon was dead. Even the Sword of Leah, the one real piece of magic they possessed between them, was gone. All that was left was the wishsong.