Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus
«You don't want to go into the Skull Kingdom alone," Tagwen said, shaking his head for emphasis. «It's too dangerous up there. You've said so yourself, many times.»
The Maturen nodded. «Then I won't go alone. I'll take some one with me, someone who's a match for spirits and dark magic. But what about you, Bristle Beard? You can't go back inside, either.
Shadea will have you in irons, as well, as soon as she thinks of it. Or worse. You're in some danger, too.»
Tagwen stared at him. He hadn't considered the possibility of anything happening to himself. But he remembered the looks cast his way by some of the Druids he had passed. Anyone capable of making the Ard Rhys disappear wouldn't have much trouble doing the same with him. It might be convenient if he did, given the fact that he was likely to raise a considerable fuss if they tried to name a new Ard Rhys.
Which, he supposed, was exactly what Shadea a'Ru was trying to do right that minute. He was dismayed at the prospect. He could do nothing to prevent it.
«I'll go with you," he said, not much liking the idea of visiting the Skull Kingdom but liking less the idea of staying on alone at Paranor.
Kermadec shook his head. «I have a better idea. The Ard Rhys has a brother living at a way station called Patch Run on the Rainbow Lake. The family operates an airship service that hires out to fly expeditions into remote regions of the Four Lands. He and his Rover wife are airship pilots.»
«I know," Tagwen interrupted, «The Ard Rhys told me about them. His name is Bek.»
«The point is, the brother has the use of magic, too. He and his sister are pretty close, even though they don't see all that much of each other these days. Someone ought to tell him what's happened. He might be able to use his magic to find her.»
Tagwen nodded doubtfully. «It's worth a try, I guess. Even if she shows up in the meantime, maybe he can talk some sense into her about what's happening at Paranor. We don't seem to be able to.»
The big Troll reached down and placed his hands on the Dwarf's sturdy shoulders. «Don't be gloomy, old friend. The Ard Rhys has a lot of experience at staying alive.»
Tagwen nodded, wondering if that was what matters had come to, that his mistress was fighting for her life.
«Let's find her," the Maturen said quietly. «Let's bring her safely home.»
* * *
Shadea had dismissed the Trolls standing guard at the door of the Ard Rhys' bedchamber and was conducting a thorough search of the rooms, just in case anything incriminating or useful was lying about, when Iridia Eleri appeared. The Elven sorceress's cold, perfect features radiated triumph, and she gave her coconspirator a satisfied nod.
«We have approached them all and won them over, or at least the larger part of them," Iridia said. «Most have committed to supporting you as temporary Ard Rhys until this matter can be sorted out. Almost all are suspicious of the Trolls, wondering how they could have kept adequate watch and still let this happen. There is enough confusion and doubt that they are ready to blame anyone at whom a willing finger points.» She glanced around. «Have you found anything?»
Shadea shook her head. «Tagwen took her notes when he left to convey my message to Kermadec. I didn't see him do so or I would have stopped him. He may have taken more than that, but it doesn't matter. We have what we want. Neither he nor the Troll will be back inside.»
«Don't be too sure.» Iridia's strange eyes had a hard look to them, as if her thoughts were of darker things still. «The Trolls have withdrawn from the Keep and massed at the gates, taking up watch. It looks like they are expecting trouble, but intend to hold their place for as long as they can.»
Shadea a'Ru nodded slowly, staring back at Iridia, thinking that nothing was easy, not even now. «We'll let them be for the moment. After I've been named Ard Rhys, I'll deal with them myself.»
«Kermadec isn't with them. I don't know where he's gone. Tagwen has disappeared, as well. We might want to think about finding them.» Iridia stepped close, her voice dropping to a near whisper. «We might want to think about another possible hindrance to our plans. Her brother, the one who lives below the Rainbow Lake—if he finds out what has happened, he might decide to do something about it. He has her magic and strong ties with the Rovers. He could cause a lot of trouble for us.»
Sen Dunsidan had said the same thing. For a moment Shadea wondered at the coincidence, then dismissed it as nothing more. It was a logical consideration for all of them, one she might have been too quick to dismiss before.
«Do we know where her brother can be found?» Iridia nodded. «A way station called Patch Run.» Shadea took her arm and smiled. «Let's send someone to tell him ourselves.»
SEVEN
Penderrin Ohmsford came out of his crouch in the forward compartment of the cat–28's starboard pontoon, rocked back on his heels, and surveyed his handiwork. He had just finished resplicing both sets of radian draws off the single mast to stacked sets of parse tubes mounted fore and aft on both pontoons, giving the small sailing vessel almost double the power of anything flying in her class. The stacked tubes were his own design, conceived late one night as he lay thinking about what he might do to make her faster. He was always thinking about ways to improve her, his passion for airships and flying easily a match for that of the other members of his family, and when your uncle was Redden Alt Mer, that was saying something.
«He had built the cat two years earlier at the beginning of his apprenticeship with his father. It was the first major project he had undertaken on his own. It was a rite–of–passage experience that demonstrated he should no longer be considered a boy, although he was still only in his teens. The vessel he chose to construct was a twenty–eight–foot catamaran—thus the cat–28 designation.
It was a racing vessel, not a fighting ship, its decking mostly sloped and its gunwales low, its pontoons only slightly curved and lacking rams, and its sleeping compartment set into the decking right below the pilot box and barely large enough to lie down in. Its single mast was rigged with a mainsail and a jib, and all of its spares and gear were stored in holds in the pontoons.
It was a fast ship to begin with, but Penderrin was not the sort to take something as it was and leave it alone. Even with his parents' larger airships, the ones outfitted for long–term expeditions and rough weather, he was always experimenting with ways to make them better. He had been living around airships all his life, and working on them had become second nature. He wished his parents would let him fly more, would give him a chance at the larger ships, especially Swift Sure, their favorite, the one they were on now, somewhere out in the Wolfsktaag Mountains. But like all parents, they seemed convinced that it was better to bring him along slowly and to make certain he was old enough before he was allowed to do the things he had learned to do years earlier.
His full name was Penderrin, but everyone called him Pen except for his mother, who insisted on calling him Penderrin because it was the name she had chosen and she liked the sound of it. And his uncle, who called him Little Red, for reasons that had something to do with his mother and their early years together. Pen's long hair was a dusky auburn, a mix between his mother's flaming red tresses and his father's dark ones, so he supposed Little Red was an apt nickname, even if it irritated him to be called something his mother was once called. But he liked his uncle, who his mother had told him to call Big Red, so he was willing to put up with a few things he wouldn't have tolerated otherwise. At least his uncle let him do some of the things his parents wouldn't, including piloting the big airships that flew the Blue Divide. His blue eyes brightened. In another couple of months, he would get a chance to visit Big Red in the coastal town of March Brume and fly with him again. It was something he was looking forward to.
He stood up and surveyed the cat–28 one more time, making sure everything was as it should be. For now, he would have to satisfy himself with flying his single–mast, small to be sure, but quick and sturdy, and best of all, his. He would test her out in the morning to make certain the splicings were done properly and the controls for feeding the ambient light down through the radian draws operating as they should. It was tricky business, splitting off draws to channel energy to more than one parse tube, but he had mastered the art sufficiently that he felt confident this latest effort would work.
He glanced at the late afternoon sky, noting that the heavy mist lying over the Rainbow Lake had thickened with the approach of storm clouds out of the north. The sun had disappeared entirely, not even visible as the hazy ball it had been earlier. Nightfall was approaching and the light was failing fast. There would be no sunset that day. If the storm didn't blow through that night, visibility would be down to nothing by morning and he would have to find something to do besides test out his splicing. «Rat droppings," he muttered. He didn't like waiting for anything. He finished putting his tools back into their box and jumped down off the cat–28. It was in dry dock, tethered close to the ground and out of the water until he was ready to take her out for her test run. If a storm was coming, he had to make ready for it, although the cat was secure enough and Steady Right, the other big expedition airship, was anchored in a sheltered part of the cove. With his parents gone east, he was responsible for taking care of the airships and equipment until they returned, which wasn't likely to happen for at least another two months. It was all familiar territory to him, though. He had looked after things since he was twelve, and he knew what was needed in almost any situation. What he missed when his parents were away was being out there with them. It reminded him that they still thought of him as a boy.
He carried the toolbox into the work shed and shut and barred the double doors. He was average in size and appearance, neither big nor small, his most striking feature his long auburn hair, which he kept tied back with brightly colored scarves in the Rover fashion. But the commonness of his physical makeup hid an extraordinary determination and an insatiable curiosity. Pen Ohmsford made it a point to find out about things that others simply accepted or ignored and then to learn everything he could and not forget it. Knowledge was power in any world, whether you were fifteen or fifty. The more he knew, the more he could accomplish, and Pen was heavily committed to accomplishing something important.
In his family, you almost had to be—especially if you didn't have the wishsong to fall back on.
He regretted its absence sometimes, but his regret was always momentary. After all, his mother didn't have any magic either; she was beautiful and talented enough that it probably didn't matter. His father rarely used his magic, though he had been born with it and been forced to rely on it extensively before Pen was born.
But his aunt? Well, his aunt, of course, was the Ard Rhys, Grianne Ohmsford, whose use of magic was legendary and who had used it almost every day of her life since the time she had become the Ilse Witch. She was so closely defined by her magic that the two were virtually inseparable.
He knew the stories. All of them. His parents weren't the sort to try to hide secrets about themselves or anyone else in the family, so they talked to him freely about his aunt. He knew what she had been and why. He understood the anger and antipathy her name invoked in many quarters. His uncle Redden would barely give her the time of day, although he had grudgingly admitted once to Pen that if not for her, the remnants of the crew of the Jerle Shannara, including himself and Pen's parents, would never have returned alive. His parents were more charitable, if cautious. His father, in particular, clearly loved his sister and thought her misunderstood. But they had chosen different paths in life, and he rarely saw her.
