A shiver of excitement and anticipation ran through me. I wondered… could the Pattern do the same? Once mastered, would it make Dad—and me!—the undisputed rulers of both Shadows and Chaos?
I swallowed hard. No wonder King Uthor wanted us dead. He feared not only the Pattern and its powers, but what we might become if we mastered it.
And he had good reason to fear. If I had the ability to strike, I would have used the Pattern against him without a second's hesitation.
I had missed part of what Blaise was saying and forced my attention back to her.
“—can you blame them?” she said. “Those Pattern storms killed hundreds and destroyed a dozen keeps! The Pattern is a menace and must be destroyed for everyone's safety!”
Half amused, I smiled down at her. She suddenly seemed almost childlike, prattling on about insignificant details in the mistaken belief they might somehow be important.
“Forget about getting rid of the Shadows,” I said. “I told you, it isn't possible now.”
“King Uthor will destroy them. And the Pattern.”
“He can try.”
She snorted. “Do you really think you can stand against the king?”
“If necessary. I'm not going to roll over and give up.”
Blaise shook her head wonderingly. “You're either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave.”
I grinned. “Maybe a bit of both. Now, about Thellops…”
She rubbed Dad's forehead gently. “It doesn't make sense. If Thellops wanted Dad dead, why not kill him outright? Why make him crazy?”
“Maybe Dad escaped. Or maybe Dad won… we have no idea what happened. Or Maybe Thellops thought madness was a better punishment.”
She shook her head. “Maybe… but it doesn't feel right. I think there's another answer. Something that hasn't occurred to either of us yet.”
I had to agree. None of it quite fit. Somehow, I had the feeling we had missed an important detail or two.
Blaise stifled a small yawn. “Anyway, it's best to do nothing if you don't know what the problem is. You might make it worse.”
“I don't think it can get much worse.”
“I'd say death is worse. Dad is still alive.”
“True.” She had me there.
“Wait and see if Dad recovers his senses,” she said. “Then you can ask him why he keeps saying 'Thellops.' Maybe he's dreaming of old friends.”
“I don't think Thellops is a friend.” I had to smile. “Dad wanted to kill me. And he put a lot of effort into it. Old friends don't generally go around trying to murder each other.”
“It could be something you said or did to Dad.” Blaise yawned again. “It's nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. Speaking of which…”
“No!” I raised my hand as if I planned to slap her again, and her eyes flew open.
“All right, all right!” she snarled, eyes narrowing to slits. “I'm awake now! Honestly, Oberon, you can't go around hitting people. The next time you try, I'll break your arm!”
“Promises, promises.” I smiled and shrugged. “As I said, you have to stay awake. I can only carry one unconscious relative at a time.”
“I'm not going to fall asleep.”
“Uh-huh. Not with me on watch, anyway.”
I studied her face carefully; her eyelids already drooped. What could be causing her sleepiness? Our proximity to the Pattern?
Maybe she would feel better if we moved farther away from it. It was worth a try.
“Come on, let's get moving. We'll find a place where you can rest safely.”
“All right.” She climbed unsteadily to her feet. “What about Dad?”
“If you can walk, I'll carry hi—”
“I will walk.” She sounded determined.
“All right. Follow me. Shout if you can't keep up. I'll slow down.”
“Don't worry about me, brother dear.”
“Fair enough.”
Picking Dad up, I started for the forest at a brisk pace. A clear destination filled my mind. As I walked, I let my imagination soar, and the landscape around us began to flow and change: a hint of pink around the sun, bunches of white flowers at the curve in the path, a covered bridge spanning a creek. A tame fawn paced us, nuzzling our pockets for treats.
Blaise laughed in delight. I glanced back and smiled. We didn't have enough laughter in our lives.
Then, letting my stride lengthen, we left the deer loping through the underbrush, playing hide-and-seek in the bushes with rabbits, skunks, and other forest creatures.
Forest, to grasslands, to gently rolling hills lush with ripening wheat and rye, and on through pastures of fat cows and rotund sheep. Here and there prosperous-looking farmers worked the fields with sons. All waved and drawled the friendliest of welcomes. Two boys came running, carrying packs. They both eyed our father curiously. Neither asked why I had a tied-up old man in my arms; that would have been rude, and they weren't the prying types… a restful Shadow indeed. We needed calm natives who wouldn't try to kill us or betray us…
“May we offer you a drink, sir?” they asked. “Or a sandwich, ma'am?”
“No, thanks.” I paused and looked back as my sister caught up. “Blaise?”
“A drink would be lovely,” Blaise said. She brushed a dangling strand of hair off her forehead. Without makeup, with her hair in disarray, she had a harder edge to her face. I remembered the strength behind her punch and wondered not for the first time if I had somehow underestimated her.
“Here.” The oldest of the two fumbled a clay jar from their pack and poured water into a cup held by his brother. They both handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She drank deeply, coughed, gasped, and handed it back quickly.
“Good?” I asked with a grin.
“It was… water.” She gave a horrified shudder.
“More?” Both boys grinned up at her, thinking she had enjoyed it.
“I'm fine now.”
They looked at me again. “Sir? Perhaps for the old gentleman?”
“We're both fine,” I said. I glanced up the road and frowned. There would be an inn just ahead, beyond the grove of trees over the hill… a rambling old inn with a railed porch around the front. Dad could rest easily there. A brilliant physician lived on an estate not far beyond. He could help us.
It had to be so. My vision made sure of it.
Chapter 7
Sure enough, the small town came into view when we topped the hill. As places go, it was nothing fancy, perhaps two dozen buildings, but a sprawling old inn sat facing us. Smoke drifted lazily from a pair of tall brick chimneys, carrying smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Three gray-bearded old men sat on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling away at wooden blocks. As we approached, they all looked up and called cheery good-mornings.
“Somethin' wrong with that fellow?” one of them asked me idly. He stared without concern at our father's bruised face and bound wrists.
“He has seizures,” I said. It came out sounding more exhausted than convincing; it had been a long day. “I tied him up to keep him from hurting himself. That last seizure almost killed him.”
“Ayah.” Nodding sagely, he settled back into his chair and began rocking slowly once more. “You'll be wanting Doc Hand, then.”
“Not Young Doc Hand,” said the second old-timer, still whittling. “The one you need is Old Doc Hand.”
“Ayah,” said the third whittler. “Old Doc Hand, he's the best for seizures, sure enough. He lives over the short hills, nearer to Haddoxville than to Barleyton, at Manor-on-Edge.”
“Thanks,” I said. Old Doc Hand would be our man.