lake's waters spit in response to the sound, and the greenish light that radiated from beneath pulsed with energy.
— To serve the needs of the one who brought you here
«What needs are those?»
— You ask the wrong question. Ask the right one–Her mind worked furiously, thinking it through. «Why am I inside the Forbidding?» she asked finally.
Again, the laughter, but cool and soft this time, barely a whisper on the wind.
— That is better, little Straken. You are inside the Forbidding so that the one who brought you here could get out–She caught her breath. Get out? Someone had gotten out? An exchange, she thought. Of course. The power that had imprisoned her belonged to the thing that sought to escape, not to someone from her own world. Something powerful had wanted out, something clever enough to manipulate those it needed in the Four Lands, and it had found a way through her.
The shade's voice cut through her thoughts, commanding her attention.
— Heed me. You understand some, but not all. Here is the truth you must embrace, if you are to survive long enough to learn the rest. You cannot cast off your true self. You gain power through acceptance of your destiny. Bury your emotions with your foolish ambitions for the Druid Council. Become who you were meant to be, Ilse Witch. Your magic can make you powerful, even here. Your skills can give you domination. Use both. Wield them as weapons and destroy any that challenge you. If not, you will be destroyed, in turn
«I am not the Ilse Witch,' she replied.
— Nor am I, then, the Warlock Lord. I have watched you grow. You were powerful once. You disdained that power for foolish reasons. Had you stayed strong, you would not have been sent here like this. But you have grown weak. Death's cold hand is on you. Your time grows short–The shade threw out one hand, and a wind howled across the lake, whipping at its robes and sending Grianne to her knees. The lesser shades scattered once more, disappearing into the darkness, lost. The lake boiled anew, spitting and rumbling, a cauldron of discontent, and the Warlock Lord began to retreat back toward its center, burning eyes still fixed on her. She tried to stand again, but the wind beat her down, and it was all she could do to meet that terrible gaze from her kneeling position. So much hatred in those featureless orbs—not for her alone, but for everything that lived. Even in death and from the netherworld, it sought release.
«I am Ard Rhys!» she screamed at it in frustration.
The shade did not respond. It reached the center of the lake and sank from sight, its black form vanishing with the quickness of a shadow exposed to light, gone in an instant, leaving only the lake and the sound of the wailing. Waterspouts exploded into the night, and Grianne backed away on her knees, buffeted by the relentless force of the wind. As she backed away, she fell, tearing her clothing and scraping her knees on the rocks. Shadows fell across her, cast by things she couldn't see. She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and pulled her hood tight against her ears.
I am Ard Rhys!
Then abruptly, everything went still. The wind died, the wailing faded, and the lake quieted once more. She kept her head lowered a moment, then lifted it cautiously. The valley was empty of movement and sound, of anything but a flicker of greenish light that emanated from the depths of the lake and reflected off the crushed stone.
Overhead, the sky was still black and empty of stars. All about the valley's rim, the wall of mist pressed close. She rose, battered of body and emotions, drained of strength and spirit, and walked away.
TWENTY–TWO
Penderrin Ohmsford had thought he would sneak off to see Cinnaminson again the following night and perhaps the night after that, as well, if the Skatelow was still in port. His initial assignation had infused him with such joy and excitement that he could hardly wait for the next one to take place. He knew it was wrong to give so much attention to Cinnaminson when he should be thinking about finding his missing aunt. But the latter was far away, the former all too close. He couldn't seem to help himself; in a struggle of emotions, his sense of responsibility finished a distant second to his passion. All that mattered was that he be with Cinnaminson.
Having thought of little else all that day, he managed to slip away again the next night, only to find that her father and the other two Rovers were still aboard. He stood dockside in the shadows, watching them smoke on deck and listening to their voices. He waited a long time for them to leave, but when it became clear they had no intention of doing so, he gave up and returned to the inn.
The second night was even more frustrating. A new storm moved in, more ferocious than the one they had encountered several days earlier, drenching Anatcherae and halting all traffic for the next twenty–four hours. The rain was so bad that even on the ground visibility was reduced to almost nothing. Pen knew no one would be venturing out in weather like this, including the Rovers aboard the Skatelow. There was no point in even thinking about meeting with Cinnaminson.
So he was forced to make do with daydreams, which could not replace the real thing but which at least gave him an outlet for his frustrations. Sitting around at the Fisherman's Lie for hours at a time, sometimes with Khyber, sometimes with Ahren and Tagwen, but mostly alone, he passed the time thinking of ways he could separate her from her father, bring her with him when he returned home, and build a life for the two of them. It was such fantasy that even he knew it didn't bear looking at too closely. He was just a boy and she only a girl, and neither of them had any experience at falling in love. But Pen didn't care. He knew how he felt, and that was enough.
Khyber kept him company much of the time, but she spent hours alone in her room working on her Druid disciplines and exercises, practicing movements and words, and tending to her studies. Ahren worked with her each day, but he was gone much of the time, scouting for news of their pursuers and checking on Gar Hatch's progress with the Skatelow. Tagwen surfaced now and again, but mostly he kept to his room. He was less sociable than he had been when it had just been the two of them, and Pen thought it was due in part to his discomfort with life outside of Paranor. Tagwen was used to carrying out his duties for the Ard Rhys in the claustrophobic company of the Druids, and his time at the inn was too unstructured. What he did when he was alone was a mystery, although Pen caught him writing in a notebook on two occasions, and the Dwarf confessed to keeping a diary of their progress to help pass the time. That made as much sense to Pen as what he was doing, moping around about Cinnaminson, so he left the Dwarf alone.
Khyber, on the other hand, chided both of them mercilessly. More driven and disciplined than either, she found their lack of purpose irritating, and took every opportunity to suggest that they ought to do better with their time. Tagwen was incensed, but Pen just ignored her. He was beginning to see her as the big sister he didn't have but had often imagined. She was pushy and insistent, and she thought everyone should see things the way she did. Having talked with her about her life, Pen understood her motivation. She had been forced to fight for everything she had, a young Elven Princess whose life had been charted out for her by her family without any consideration at all for what she wanted. It had only become worse for her after her father's death and her brother's ascension to the throne. Just to come visit with Ahren had required a great deal of fortitude and determination. He could not imagine what would happen to her when her brother found out she was with them.
In any case, by the third day everyone was growing impatient. Pen and his companions were still stuck inside at the inn, and Gar Hatch had given Ahren no indication as to when they were going to set sail again. The rains had subsided, but a rise in the temperature had caused a deep fog bank to settle over the Lazareen and the surrounding lakeshore, the port of Anatcherae included. Visibility continued to hamper travel, and the dockside was quiet.
By midafternoon, with their lunch finished and the prospect of another day in port looming ever closer, Ahren announced that he was going down to the waterfront to tell Hatch that whether he liked it or not they would set sail at dawn. The Rover's reputation was that he could sail in any weather and under any conditions. It was time to prove it. The Druid was clearly displeased, his patience with Gar Hatch exhausted. Pen exchanged a knowing look with Khyber when Ahren told them to pack and be ready to leave when he returned. The boy did not
