Which was true enough, Redden knew, although he didn’t much like thinking of himself that way. Whatever the case, he was pleased she was there. Railing was probably pleased, too, but not as much as he was, he told himself.
“What does anyone know about these missing Elfstones?” he asked Railing as they watched Mirai work the controls.
His brother shrugged. “Farshaun says no one knows anything. All of them disappeared centuries ago. Except for the seeking-Stones, and you and I know as much about them as anyone because of our family history. These other Elfstones can do different things, but no one knows what.”
“What if they don’t do anything that helps anyone? What if they do bad things?”
“Then the Druids lock them away, I guess.”
“Seems like everyone’s taking a big risk without knowing why. Seems like maybe they should leave well enough alone.”
“You heard the Ard Rhys. She says they can’t leave it to chance. If someone else finds the Stones first, they might use them the wrong way.”
“Maybe. But it would have to be an Elf for that to happen. Only Elves can use their own magic, remember?”
“I remember. What’s your point?”
“That this whole thing is a mistake.”
Railing gave him a look. “If that’s what you think, why did you agree to come?”
Redden shrugged. “Same reason as you. It’s an adventure.”
They flew north for the remainder of the day, staying east of the Rock Spur until they reached the fringes of Drey Wood and Elven country and then turning a few degrees west toward the Sarandanon. By sunset, they reached the shores of the Innisbore and anchored for the night. By sunrise they were flying again, this time along the ragged edge of the Breakline. The weather was changing now, the skies darkening with storm clouds and the air turning damp and hot. The landscape was bleak and colorless beneath them, the last of the forests and grasslands disappearing. The winds had picked up, and a firm hand on the controls of the airship was more critical than ever. Mirai and Farshaun and now and again another of the Rovers who had come aboard with the old man took turns, each giving the others a chance to rest when weariness took hold. The Ard Rhys stayed close to the pilot box, scanning the terrain ahead, intense and troubled as she watched everything carefully.
Redden overheard snatches of discussion between Khyber and Farshaun regarding the whereabouts of the Speakman. He moved about and might be found in any of a dozen places, but he frequented certain of those places more often than others and Farshaun was playing the odds. The Ard Rhys would have preferred something more definite, but there was no help for it. With a nomad like the Speakman, you took your chances and hoped for the best.
Shortly after midday they reached the first of his shelters and after setting down and taking a close look around determined that he hadn’t been there in months.
They continued on, turning west into even less hospitable country, the terrain rocky and crisscrossed by chasms and deep gullies and riddled with strange smooth patches that Farshaun said were sinkholes.
“Step into one of those,” he told Redden when the boy asked about them, “you might as well be stepping into quicksand. Only you disappear a whole lot quicker. Poof! Gone in less than a minute. No one knows how far down you might sink. Maybe thousands of feet.”
In the late afternoon a squall caught up to them, and for thirty minutes it poured rain, the drops so large and icy they actually stung when they struck exposed skin. Everyone wrapped up in cloaks and hoods and hunkered down until the storm had passed. Afterward, they found ice balls on the decks, though within minutes they had melted away.
It was nearing dusk when they reached another shelter the Speakman favored, this one a cliff face riddled with caves in which any number of creatures might dwell. Farshaun, working the controls, set the airship down on a flat close by the base of the cliffs. When she was anchored, he climbed down with the Ard Rhys, the big Troll Captain Garroneck, and the Gnome Tracker Skint. Skint prowled the flats for a time, working his way toward the cliff face, and then nodded to them. There were signs of a human presence, and they were very recent. They led upward toward the caves.
The Speakman, if he was the one who had left the signs, could probably be found there.
Even though it was almost dark by then, the Ard Rhys wanted to act on this information immediately. Waiting risked losing their quarry, and she didn’t want to waste any more time hunting for him. So with Farshaun, Garroneck, and Skint in tow, she went looking.
Redden and Railing, standing at the bow of the Walker Boh, watched them set out across the flats to where a series of steep, narrow trails wound upward along the cliff face.
“Do you think he’s up there?” Railing asked.
Redden shrugged. “I wish they’d let us go with them.”
“I got the feeling the Ard Rhys didn’t want us to hear whatever the Speakman had to say.”
“I got that feeling, too.”
“She’s worried about us.”
“She thinks we’re young.”
“We are young.”
“You know what I mean. That we’re boys, not men. Still growing up and maybe not as dependable as she might like. We’re only here because Allanon’s shade said we should be. No one, her included, knows the reason the shade told her that.”
They watched silently as the little party reached the base of the cliffs and began to climb the trails leading up to the caves. The sun was far west, approaching the horizon, a screen of mist turning it a deep gold as the eastern sky darkened with night’s approach.
Redden sensed a presence at his elbow and found one of the Druids standing next to him, watching the searchers climb. There had been little contact between the brothers and the other Druids since they had set out, the latter keeping apart from everyone but the Ard Rhys and two men and one woman they had brought with them. Redden searched his memory for the name of the man standing next to him.
“That Gnome might be the best Tracker alive,” the Druid offered, nodding toward the cliffs. “If anyone can find this seer, he can.”
Redden nodded, still trying to remember the man’s name. Carrick, that was it.
“The Ard Rhys tells us you both have use of the wishsong.” His narrow features gave him a predatory look. “Have you practiced with it much?”
Right away, Redden didn’t like him. But he smiled anyway and nodded. “A fair amount.”
“But not to defend yourselves or other people, I don’t suppose?”
Railing was still looking out at the cliffs, as if none of this concerned him. But Redden could tell from his expression that he was irritated.
“No, nothing like that,” he acknowledged. “I suppose you have to defend people all the time, though.”
Carrick nodded. “Now and then. How old are you?”
Railing had had enough. “I don’t see why you need to know that,” he snapped. “Do you think age has anything to do with whether or not we should be here?”
“I do. You are young and inexperienced. This is dangerous business. I don’t think you realize how dangerous.”
“Does anybody?” Redden asked mildly. “This is new territory for everyone, isn’t it? Even the Ard Rhys thinks so.”
Carrick shrugged. “Less new for us than for you. I don’t pretend to think that your coming on this expedition is a good idea. You don’t seem seasoned enough. I worry that you will endanger us all with your inexperience. So try not to put yourselves in a place where that could happen. Do what you are told and stay out from underfoot.”
He turned and walked away.
Railing kept looking at the cliffs. “ ‘Stay out from underfoot’? I have some advice for him, too, but I know enough to keep it to myself.”
Redden nodded. “Maybe because you have better sense than he does.”
Railing gave him a look to see if he was kidding.