He felt Damson’s shoulder brush up against his arm and turned to face her. The emerald eyes were thoughtful. “He may be right about you,” she observed quietly. “You may be a madman.”
He shrugged. “You backed me up.”
“I want Padishar free. You seem to be the only one with a plan.” She arched one eyebrow. “Tell me the truth—is there any more to this scheme than what you’ve revealed?”
He smiled. “Not much. I hope to be able to improvise as I go along.”
She didn’t say anything, just studied him a moment, then took his arm and steered him out along the bluff face. They walked without saying anything for a long time, crossing from the edge of the trees to the cliffs and back again, breathing the scent of wildflowers and grasses on the wind that skipped down off the ridges of the peaks beyond. The wind was warm and soothing, like silk against Morgan’s skin. He lifted his face to it. It made him want to close his eyes and disappear into it.
“Tell me about your sword,” she said suddenly, her voice very quiet. Her gaze was steady despite the sudden shifting of his eyes away from her. “Tell me how it was healed—and why you hurt so much, Morgan. Because you do in some way, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Tell me. I want to hear.”
He believed her, and he discovered all at once that he did want to talk about it after all. He let himself be pulled down onto a flat-surfaced rock. Sitting next to her in the darkness, both of them facing out toward the cliffs, he began to speak.
“There was a girl named Quickening,” he said, the words thick and unwieldy sounding as he spoke them. He paused and took a deep, steadying breath. “I loved her very much.”
He hoped she didn’t see the tears that came to his eyes.
He spent the night rolled into a blanket at the edge of the trees, body wedged within the roots of an ancient elm, head cradled by his rolled-up travel cloak. The makeshift bedding proved less than satisfactory, and he woke stiff and sore. As he shook the leaves and dust out of the cloak he realized that he had not seen Matty Roh since the night before, that he hadn’t actually seen her even at dinner, although he had been pretty preoccupied with his plan for rescuing Padishar—his great and wonderful plan that on reflection in the pale first light of dawn appeared pretty makeshift and decidedly lacking in common sense. Last night it had seemed pretty good. This morning it just looked desperate.
But he was committed to it now. Chandos would have already begun preparations for the journey back to Tyrsis. There was nothing to be gained by second-guessing.
He stretched and headed for the little stream that ran down out of the rocks behind him some distance back in the trees. The cold water would help to unclog his brain, chase the sleep from his eyes. He had talked with Damson Rhee until well after midnight. He had told her everything about Quickening and the journey north to Eldwist. She had listened without saying much, and somehow it had brought them closer together. He found himself liking her more, found himself trusting her. The suspicions that had been there earlier had faded. He began to understand why Par Ohmsford and Padishar Creel had gone back for her after the Federation had taken her prisoner. He thought that he would have done the same.
Nevertheless, there was something she wasn’t telling him about her relationship with the Valeman and the leader of the free-born. It was neither a deception nor a lie; it was simply an omission. She had been quick enough to acknowledge that she was in love with Par, but there was something else, something that predated her feelings for the Valeman, that formed the backbone for everything that had led to her own involvement in trying to recover the Sword of Shannara from the Pit. Morgan wasn’t sure what it was, but it was there in the fabric of her tale, in the way she spoke of the two men, in the strength of her conviction that she must help them. Once or twice Morgan had almost been able to put his finger on what it was that she was keeping to herself, but each time the truth skittered just out of reach.
In any case, he felt better for having told someone about Quickening, for having given some release to the feelings he had kept bottled up inside since his return. He’d slept well after that, a dreamless rest cradled in the crook of that old tree, able to let go a little of the pain that had dogged him for so many weeks.
He heard the sound of the stream ahead, a small rippling against the silence. He crossed a clearing, pushed through a screen of brush, and found himself staring at Matty Roh.
She sat across from him at the edge of the stream, her pants rolled up and her bare feet dangling in the water. The moment he appeared she jerked away, reaching for her boots. Her feet came out of the water in a flash of white skin, disappearing into the shadow of her body almost immediately. But for just an instant he had a clear view of them, hideously scarred, the toes missing or so badly deformed that they were almost unrecognizable. Her black hair shivered in the light with the urgency of her movements as she turned her face away from him.
“Don’t look at me,” she whispered harshly.
Embarrassed, he turned away at once. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t know you were here.”
He hesitated, then started away, following the stream toward the rocks, the picture of her feet uncomfortably clear in his mind.
“You don’t have to leave,” she called after him, and he stopped. “I... I just need a minute.”
He waited, looking out into the trees, hearing voices now from just beyond where he stood, a snatch of laughter here, a quick murmur there.
“All right,” she said, and he turned back again. She was standing by the stream with her pants rolled down and her boots on. “I’m sorry I snapped at you like that.”
He shrugged and walked over to her. “Well, I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m still a little bit asleep, I guess.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She looked embarrassed as well.
He knelt by the stream and splashed water on his face and hands, used soap to wash himself, and rubbed himself dry again on a soft cloth. He could have used a bath, but didn’t want to take the time. He was conscious of the girl watching him as he worked, a silent shadow at his side.
He finished and rocked back on his heels, breathing deeply the morning air. He could smell wildflowers and grasses.
“You’re leaving for Tyrsis to rescue Padishar,” she said suddenly. “I want to go with you.”
He looked up at her in surprise. “How did you know about the rescue?”
She shrugged. “Doing what I’ve trained myself to do—keeping my eyes and ears open. Can I come?”
He stood up and faced her. Her eyes were level with his. He was surprised all over again at how tall she was. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I’m tired of standing about, of doing nothing more than listening in on other people’s conversations.” Her gaze was steady and determined. “Remember our conversation on the trail? I said I was waiting for something to happen? Well, it has. I want to go with you.”
He wasn’t sure he understood and didn’t know what to say in any case. It was bad enough that Damson Rhee had to go back with them. But Matty Roh as well? On a journey as dangerous as this one would undoubtedly be?
She stepped back a pace, measuring him. “I would hate to think that you were stupid enough to be worried about me,” she said bluntly. “The fact of the matter is I can take care of myself a lot better than you can. I’ve been doing it for a much longer time. You might remember how things went back at the Whistledown when you tried to grab me.”
“That doesn’t count!” he snapped defensively. “I wasn’t ready—”
“No, you weren’t,” she cut him short. “And that is the difference between us, Highlander. You aren’t trained to be ready, and I am.” She stepped close again. “I’ll tell you something else. I’m a better swordsman than anyone this side of Padishar Creel—and maybe as good as he is. If you don’t believe me, ask Chandos.”