rewoven or lengthened to accommodate others. Passage over allows passage back, but there can be no deviations. There can be no exceptions.»
Pen was not at all sure why the other was making such a point of this, but he thought it was in reference to something very specific, something that the old man did not want to reveal in greater detail. That was in keeping with what he knew to be true about the ways of the ancients, the Faerie creatures who were the first people. They spoke in riddles and always held something back. It was in their nature, very much as it was in the nature of the Druids, and that would never change.
What should he do?
He looked into the eyes of the old man, then at Tagwen's rough face, and then off into the night, where possibilities were still shaping themselves and dreams still held sway. He had never been put in a position where so much depended on a decision and the decision must be made so quickly.
Then, almost without thinking about it, he put aside his objections and concerns as secondary to his aunt's needs. He stood staring down at the wooden deck of the pilot box for a moment, measuring the depth of his commitment. It all came down to the same thing, he supposed. If their positions were reversed, would his aunt do for him what he was being asked to do for her? Even without knowing her any better than he did, he was certain of the answer.
«All right,' he said softly, «I'll go.»
He looked up again. The King of the Silver River nodded. «And you will come back again, Penderrin. I see it in your eyes, just as I saw it more than twenty years ago in your father's.»
Pen took a deep breath, thinking that what was mirrored in his eyes was probably more on the order of bewilderment. So much had happened so quickly, and he was not sure yet that he understood it all or even that he ever would. He wished he had more confidence in himself, but he supposed you got that only by testing yourself against your doubts.
«Where has my aunt been imprisoned?» he asked the old man suddenly. «Where do I have to go to find her?»
The King of the Silver River went very still then, so still that at first it seemed as if he had been turned to stone and could not speak. He took a long time to consider the boy's question, his ancient face a mask of conflicting emotions. The silence deepened and turned brittle with suspense.
The longer Pen waited for a response, the more certain he became that he would wish he hadn't asked.
He was not mistaken.
* * *
When the King of the Silver River had gone, Penderrin slept, exhausted by the day's ordeal. He woke again to sunshine and blue sky, to soft breezes blowing off the Rainbow Lake, and to birdsong and crickets. Tagwen was already hard at work, clearing away the debris from their landing. Pen joined the Dwarf in his efforts, neither of them saying much as they labored. They cut away the mast, then found a suitable tree from which to fashion a new one. It took them most of the day to shape it, then set it in place. By the time it was firmly attached to the cat, the sun had gone west and the shadows were lengthening.
They ate dinner on the deck of the airship, a patched–together meal of foodstuffs left aboard from an earlier outing, fresh water and foraged greens. Fish would have helped, but they would have had to eat it raw since neither was willing to risk a fire. They had not seen the Galaphile since the previous night, and they believed themselves safe from it there in the lands of the King of the Silver River, but there was no point in taking chances.
Dinner was almost finished before Pen spoke about the previous night. By then, he had spent the better part of the day thinking it through, repeating the words of the King of the Silver River in his mind, trying to make them seem real.
«Did it all happen the way I think it did, Tagwen?» Pen asked finally, almost afraid of what he was going to hear. «I didn't imagine it?»
«Not unless I imagined it, too,' the Dwarf replied.
«Then I agreed to go find my aunt?»
«And me with you.»
Pen shook his head helplessly. «What have I done? I'm not up to this. I don't even know where to make a start.»
Tagwen laughed softly. «I've been giving it some thought, since I saw how dazed you were last night. One of us needed to keep a clear head. You may have the means to secure this darkwand, but I have the means to look out for us. I think I know what we need to do first.»
«You do?» Pen didn't bother to hide his surprise. «What?»
The Dwarf grinned and pointed toward the setting sun. «We go west, Penderrin, to the Elven village of Emberen.»
TEN
She awoke to the sound of weasel voices, raspy and sly, the words indistinguishable one from the other. The voices giggled and snickered, little taunts intended to disparage her, to make her feel vulnerable and weak. She listened to them from within layers of cotton that wrapped about her like a chrysalis. The voices hissed with laughter. She was a nameless corpse, they whispered, an empty shell from which the life had been leeched away, a body consigned to the earth's dark breast for burial.
She fought against a sudden stab of panic. She was Grianne Ohmsford, she told herself in an act of reassurance. She was alive and well. She was only dreaming. She was asleep in her bed, and she remembered …
She drew a sharp, frightened breath, and her certainties were gone as quickly as the voices, disappeared like smoke.
Something had happened.
Still wrapped in cotton that filled her head and mouth, that bound up her thoughts and clogged her reason, she tried to move her arms and legs. She could do so, but only with great effort. She was terribly weak and her body was responding as if she had slept not for one night but for a hundred. She brought one hand to her breast and found she was still wearing her nightclothes, but no blankets covered her. The air smelled stale and dead, and she could not feel even the smallest trace of a breeze. Yet where she slept within the towers of Paranor, there was always a breeze and the air smelled of the trees, fresh and green.
Where was she?
The softness of her sleeping pad and comforter were gone. She felt hard ground beneath her bare arms; she smelled the earth. Her panic returned, threatening to overwhelm her, but she forced it down. She had no patience for it and no intention of giving it power over her. She was not harmed; she was still whole. Deep breaths, one after the other, calmed and steadied her.
She opened her eyes, peeling back the layers of deep sleep into which she had sunk, squinting into hazy gray light. It was night still. She was staring at a darkened sky that domed overhead in a vast leaden canopy. Yet something was wrong. The sky was cloudless, but empty of moon and stars. Nor was the sun in evidence. The world was cast in the sullen tones of a storm's approach, shrouded in layers of silence, in hushed tones of expectation.
It must be twilight, she decided. She had slept longer than she thought. The sun was down, the moon not yet up, and the stars not yet out—that would explain the strange sky.
The weasel voices were gone, a figment of her imagination. She listened for them and heard nothing, either in her mind or in the real world. But there was no birdsong either, or buzzing of insects, or rustle of wind in the trees, or ripple of water in a stream, or any sound at all save the pounding of her heart.
It took her a while, but she finally forced herself to move, rolling to her side and then into a sitting position, wrapping her arms about her drawn–up knees to keep herself in place. Slowly, her vision sharpened from a watery haze to clarity, and the spinning that had begun when she levered herself upright faded.
