Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus
By nightfall, they were exhausted and still deep in the Slags. Pen's pocket compass had kept them on the right heading, of that much he was certain, but how much actual progress they had made was debatable. Since none of them knew exactly where they were, it was impossible to judge how far they still had to go. Nothing about the wetland had changed, the mist was thick and unbroken, the waterways extended off in all directions, and the undergrowth was identical to what they had left behind six hours earlier.
There was nothing to eat or drink, so after agreeing to split the watch into four shifts they went to sleep, hungry and thirsty and frustrated.
During the night, it rained. Pen, who was on watch at the time, used his cloak to catch enough drinking water that they were able to satisfy at least one need. After the rain stopped and the water was consumed, Khyber and Tagwen went back to sleep, but Ahren Elessedil chose to sit up with the boy.
«Are you worried about Cinnaminson?» Ahren asked when they were settled down together at the edge of the raft, their backs to the sleepers, their cloaks wrapped about them. It was surprisingly cold at night in the Slags.
The boy stared out into the dark without answering. Then he sighed. «I can't do anything to help her. I can help us, but not her. She's smart and she's capable, but her father is too much for her. He sees her as a valuable possession, something he almost lost. I don't know what he will do.»
The Druid folded himself deeper into his robes. «I don't think he will do anything. I think he believes he made an example of us, so she won't cross him again. He doesn't think we will get out of here alive, Pen. Or if we do, that we will escape the Galaphile.»
Pen pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his chin between them. «Maybe he's right.»
«Oh?»
«It's just that we're not getting anywhere.» The boy tightened his hands into fists and lowered his voice to a whisper. «We aren't any closer to helping Aunt Grianne than we were when we started out. How long can she stay alive inside the Forbidding? How much time does she have?»
Ahren Elessedil shook his head. «A lot more than anyone else I can think of. She's a survivor, Pen. She can endure more hardships than most. It doesn't matter where she is or what she is up against, she will find a way to stay alive. Don't lose heart. Remember who she is.»
The boy shook his head. «What if she has to go back to being who she was? What if that's the only way she can survive? I listened to my parents talk about what she was like, when they thought I wasn't listening. She shouldn't have to be made to do those kinds of things again.»
The Druid gave him a thin smile. «I don't think that's what has you worried.»
The boy frowned. «What do you mean?»
«I don't think you are worried about whether we will reach the Ard Rhys in time to be of help. I think you are worried about whether you will be able to do what is needed when the time comes. I think you are worried about failing.»
Pen was instantly furious, but he kept his tongue in check as he looked out again into the mist and gloom, thinking it through, weighing the Druid's words. Slowly, he felt his anger soften.
«You're right," he admitted finally. «I don't think I can save her. I don't see how I can manage it. I'm not strong or talented enough. I don't have magic like my father. I'm nothing special. I'm just ordinary.» He looked at the Druid. «What am I going to do if that isn't enough?»
Ahren Elessedil pursed his lips. «I was your age when I sailed on the Jerle Shannara. Just a boy. My brother sent me because he was secretly hoping I wouldn't come back. Ostensibly, I was sent to regain possession of the Elfstones, but mostly I was sent with the expectation that I would be killed. But I wasn't, and when I found the Elfstones, I was able to use them. I didn't think such a thing was possible. I ran from my first battle, so frightened I barely knew what I was doing. I hid until someone found me, someone who was able to tell me what I am telling you—that you will do your best and your best might surprise you.»
«But you just said you had the Elfstones to rely on. I don't.»
«But you do have magic. Don't underrate it. You don't know how important it might turn out to be. But that isn't what will make the difference when it matters. It is the strength of your heart. It is your determination.»
He leaned forward. «Remember this, Penderrin. You are the one who was chosen to save the Ard Rhys. That was not a mistake. The King of the Silver River sees the future better than anyone, better even than the shades of the Druids. He would not have come to you if you were not the right person to undertake this quest.»
Pen searched Ahren's eyes uncertainly. «I wish I could believe that.»
«I wished the same thing twenty years ago. But you have to take it on faith. You have to believe that it will happen. You have to make it come true. No one can do it for you.»
Pen nodded. Words of wisdom, well meant, but he didn't find them helpful. All he could think about was how ill equipped he was to rescue anyone from a place like the Forbidding.
«I still think it would have been better to send you," he said quietly. «I still don't understand why the King of the Silver River decided on me.»
«Because he knows more about you than you know yourself," the Druid answered. He rose and stretched. «The watch is mine now. Go to sleep. You need to rest, to be ready to help us again tomorrow. We aren't out of danger yet. We are depending on you.»
Pen moved away without comment, sliding to one side, joining Khyber and Tagwen at the other end of the raft, where both were sleeping fitfully. He lay down and pulled his cloak closer, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He didn't sleep right away, but stared out into the misty gloom, the swirling of the haze hypnotic and suggestive of other things. His thoughts drifted to the events that had brought him to that place and time and then to Ahren Elessedil's encouraging words. That he should believe so strongly in Pen was surprising, especially after how badly the boy had handled the matter of Cinnaminson and Gar Hatch. But Pen could tell when someone was lying to him, and he did not sense falsehood in the other's words. The Druid saw him as the rescuer he had been charged with being. Pen would find a way, he believed, even if the boy did not yet know what that way was.
Pen breathed deeply, feeling a calmness settle through him. Weariness played a part in that, but there was peace, as well.
If my father was here, he would have spoken those same words to me, he thought.
There was comfort in knowing that. He closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
They woke to a dawn shrouded in mist and gloom, their bodies aching with the cold and damp. Once again, there was nothing to eat or drink, so they put their hunger and thirst aside and set out. As they poled through the murky waters, stands of swamp grass clutched at them with anxious tendrils. Everywhere, shadows stretched across the water and through the trees, snakes they didn't want to wake. No one spoke. Chilled by the swamp's gray emptiness, they retreated inside themselves. Their determination kept them going. Somewhere up ahead was an end to the morass, and there was only one way to reach it.
At midday they were confronted by a huge stretch of open water surrounded by vine–draped trees and clogged by heavy swamp grass. Islands dotted the lake, grassy hummocks littered with rotting logs. Overhead, mist swirled like thick soup in a kettle, sunlight weakened by its oily mix, just a hazy wash that spilled like gossamer through the heavy branches of the trees.
They stopped poling and stared out across the marshy, ragged expanse. The islands jutted from the water like reptile eyes. Pen looked at Ahren Elessedil and shook his head. He didn't like the feel of the lake and did not care to try to cross it. Ripples at its center hinted at the presence of things best avoided.
«Follow the lakeshore," the Druid said, glancing at the sky. «Stay under the cover of the trees. Watch the surface of the water for movement.»
They chose to veer left, where the shallows were not as densely clogged with grasses and deadwood. Poling along some twenty feet offshore, Pen kept one eye on the broad expanse of the lake, scanning for ripples. He knew the others were depending on his instincts to keep them safe. Out on the open water, trailers of mist skimmed the viscous surface. A sudden squall came and went like a ghost. The air felt heavy and thick, and condensation dripped from the trees in a slow, steady rhythm. Within the shadowy interior of the woods surrounding the lake, the silence was deep and oppressive.
At the lake's center, something huge lifted in a shadowy parting of waters and was gone again, silent as smoke. Pen glanced at Khyber, who was poling next to him on the raft. He saw the fierce concentration in her eyes waver.
They had gone some distance when the shoreline receded into a deep bay overhung with vines that dipped all the way to the water's dark surface. Cautiously, they maneuvered under the canopy, sliding through the still waters with barely a whisper of movement, eyes searching. The hairs on the back of Pen's neck prickled in warning. Something felt wrong. Then he realized what it was. He wasn't hearing anything from the life around him, not a sound, not a single movement, nothing.
A vine brushed against his face, sliding away almost reluctantly, leaving a glistening trail of slime on his skin. He wiped the sticky stuff from his face, grimacing, and glanced upward. A huge mass of similar vines was writhing and twisting directly overhead. Not quite sure what he was looking at, he stared in disbelief, then in fear.
«Ahren," he whispered.
Too late. The vines dropped down like snakes to encircle them, a cascade of long arms and supple fingers, tentacles of all sizes and shapes, attacking with such ferocity and purpose that they had no time even to think of reaching for their weapons. His arms pinned to his sides, Pen was swept off the raft and into the air. Tagwen flew past him, similarly wrapped about. The boy looked up and saw so many of the vines entwined in the forest canopy that it felt as if he were being drawn into a basket of snakes.
Then he saw something else, something much worse. Within the masses of tentacles were mouths, huge beaked maws that clacked and snapped and pulsed with life. Like squids, he thought, waiting to feed. It had taken only seconds for the vines to immobilize him, only seconds more for them to lift him toward the waiting mouths, all of it so quick he barely had time to comprehend what was happening. Now he fought like a wild man, kicking and screaming, determined to break free. But the vines held him securely, and slowly, inexorably, they drew him toward the waiting mouths.
Then spears of fire thrust into the beaks and tentacles from below, their flames a brilliant azure, burning through the shadows and gloom. The vines shuddered violently, shaking Pen with such force that he lost all sense of which way was up. An instant later, they released him altogether, dropping him stunned and disoriented into the swamp. He struck with an impact that jarred his bones and knocked the breath from his body, and he was underwater almost instantly, fighting to right himself, to reach air again.
He broke the surface with a gasp, thrashing against a clutch of weeds, seeing scythes of blue fire slash through the canopy in broad sweeps, smelling wood and plants burn, hearing the hiss and crackle of their destruction, tasting smoke and ash on the air. Overhead, the canopy was alive with twisting vines, some of them aflame, others batting wildly at burning neighbors. He saw Ahren Elessedil standing on the raft, both hands thrust skyward, his elemental magic the source of the fire, summoned from the ether and released from his fingers in jagged darts.
