When the Borderman had gone, the old man and the girl moved back into the trees and set camp. They ate their meal cold, not wishing to chance a fire with the Northland army so close and Skull Bearers certain to be at hunt. Their journey and the heat of the day had drained them of energy, and they talked only briefly before Bremen assumed watch and Mareth slept.
The time passed slowly, the night darkening, the fires of the enemy camp growing brighter in the distance, the skies opening in a flood of stars. There was no moon this night; it was either new or so far south it could not be spied beyond the screen of trees that backed along the bluff. Bremen found his thoughts straying to other times and places, to his days at Paranor, now forever lost, to his introductions to Tay Trefenwyd and Risca, to his recruitment of Kinson Ravenlock, to his search for the truth about Brona. He thought of Paranor’s long history, and he wondered if the Druid Council would ever convene again. From where, he asked himself, would new Druids come, now that the old were destroyed?
The knowledge lost with their passing was irreplaceable. Some of it had been transferred to the Druid Histories, but not all. Though turned moribund and reclusive, those who had become Druids were the brightest of several generations of the people of the Four Lands. Who would take their place?
It was a pointless argument, given the fact that there was no reason to believe that anyone would be left alive to assemble a new Druid Council if he should fail in his effort to destroy the Warlock Lord. Worse, it made him consider anew the fact that he still lacked anyone to succeed him. He glanced at the sleeping Mareth and wondered momentarily if perhaps she might consider the position. She had grown close to him since leaving Paranor, and she was a genuine talent. The magic she possessed was incredibly powerful, and she had a deep appreciation for its possibilities. But there was nothing to guarantee that she would ever be able to master her lethal magic, and if she could not do so she was useless. Druids must have discipline and control before all things.
Mareth was fighting to acquire both.
He looked back across the grasslands of the Rabb, then let his hand stray to his side, where it came to rest on the sword. Still such a mystery, he lamented. What was he required to do in order to discover the solution? He would travel to the Hadeshorn to ask help from the Druids, but there was no guarantee they would give it. On his last visit, they had refused even to appear to him. Why should it be any different now? Would the presence of the sword persuade them to rise from their netherworld confines? Would they be intrigued enough to show themselves? Would they choose to respond to his summons because they had been human once themselves and could appreciate humanity’s need?
He closed his eyes and rubbed at them wearily. When he opened them again, one of the enemy watch fires was moving toward him. He blinked in disbelief, certain he must be imagining it. But the fire came on, a small, flickering brightness in the vast darkness of the plains, wending its way closer. It seemed to float.
As it neared, he rose in spite of himself, trying to decide what he should do. Oddly, he did not feel threatened, only curious.
Then the light settled and took shape, and he could see that it was carried by a small boy. The boy was smooth-faced and his clear blue eyes were inquisitive. He smiled in greeting as he approached, holding the light aloft. Bremen blinked anew. The light was like nothing he had ever seen. It burned no flame, but shone out of a glass and metal casing, as if powered by a miniature star.
“Greetings, Bremen,” the boy said softly.
“Greetings,” Bremen replied.
“You look weary. Your journey has required much of you. But you have accomplished much, so perhaps the sacrifice was a fail trade.” The blue eyes shone. “I am the King of the Silver River Do you know of me?”
Bremen nodded. He had heard of this faerie creature, the last of his kind, a being said to reside close to the Rainbow Lake and along the near stretch of the river for which he was named. It was said he had survived for thousands of years, that he had been one of the first beings created by the Word. It was said that his vision and his magic were by equal measures ancient and far-reaching He appeared on occasion to travelers in need, often as a boy sometimes as an old man.
“You sit within the fringe of my gardens,” the boy said. His hand gestured in a slow sweep. “If you look closely, you can see them.”
Bremen did look, and suddenly the bluff and the plains faded away and he found himself seated in gardens thick with flowering trees and vines, the air fragrant with their smells, the whisper of boughs a soft singing against the silky black of the night.
The vision faded. “I have come to give you rest and reassurance,” said the boy. “This night at least, you shall sleep in peace No watch will be necessary. Your journey has taken you a long way from Paranor, and it is far from over. You will be challenged at every turn, but if you walk carefully and heed your instincts, you will survive to destroy the Warlock Lord.”
“Do you know what I must do?” Bremen asked quickly. “Can you tell me?”
The boy smiled. “You must do what you think best. That is the nature of the future. It is not given to us already cast. It is given as a set of possibilities, and we must choose which of these we would make happen and then try to see it done. You go now to the Hadeshorn. You carry the sword to the spirits of the Druids dead and gone. Does that choice seem wrong to you?”
It did not. It seemed right. “But I am not certain,” the old man confessed.
“Let me see the sword,” the boy asked gently.
The Druid lifted it for the boy to inspect. The boy reached out as if he might take hold of it, then stayed his hand when it was almost touching, and instead passed his fingers down the length of the blade and drew his hand clear again.
“You will know what you must do when you are there,” he said.
“You will know what is required.”
To his surprise, Bremen understood. “At the Hadeshorn.”
“There, and afterward, at Arborlon, where all is changed and a new beginning is made. You will know.”
“Can you tell me of my friends, of what has become...?”
“The Ballindarrochs are destroyed and there is a new King of the Elves. Seek him for the answers to your questions.”
“What of Tay Trefenwyd? What of the Black Elfstone?”
But the boy had risen, carrying with him the strange light.
“Sleep, Bremen. Morning comes soon enough.”
A great weariness settled over the old man. Though he wanted to do so, he could not make himself rise to follow. There were still questions he wished to ask, but he could not make himself speak the words. It was as if a weight were pulling at him, huge and insistent. He slid to the ground, wrapped in his cloak, his eyes heavy, his breathing slow.
The boy’s hand wove through the air. “Sleep, that you may find the strength you need to go on.”
The boy and the light receded into the dark, growing steadily smaller. Bremen tried to follow their progress, but could not stay awake. His breathing deepened and his eyes closed.
When the boy and the light disappeared, he slept.
At dawn, Kinson Ravenlock returned. He walked out of u blanket of morning fog that hung thick and damp across the Rabb, the air having cooled during the night. Behind him, the army of the Warlock Lord was stirring, a sluggish beast preparing to move on. He stretched wearily as he reached the old man and the girl, finding them awake and waiting for him, looking as if they had slept surprisingly well. He glanced at them in turn, wondering at the fresh resolve he found in their eyes, at the renewal of then determination. He dropped his weapons and accepted the cold breakfast and ale that he was offered, seating himself gratefully beneath the shady boughs of a small stand of oaks.