It was depressing really, but Paxon tried not to feel that way. Instead, he told himself that today marked the beginning of a journey that would at last lead him to the ever–elusive Arcannen and perhaps to a confrontation that would at last put an end to that chapter of his life.
He almost glanced over his shoulder to where Avelene sat writing in front of the pilot box, but in the end managed to refrain from doing so. It would be nice if he could find in her face what he was feeling, but he knew that was asking too much. Yesterday she had come to him to tell him how much she was looking forward to another trip with him, but within moments her demeanor had changed and she had departed abruptly with no explanation. This morning she had boarded with a closed–off attitude that suggested she was in no mood to discuss much of anything, and he had left it that way. He was himself conflicted about her presence. In spite of Isaturin’s reassurances, he was not persuaded that she was as ready for another encounter with Arcannen as he was. There was a reticence to her, a tightening down, that suggested she was still haunted by memories of how Arcannen had locked her in that black cylinder and left her to die. Her behavior suggested that the trauma she had endured–presumably banished with her release–might return, given provocation. This worried him. He needed her to be strong and steady if they were to deal successfully with Arcannen. The sorcerer would exploit any weakness he found in either of them. Doubts and fears could not be allowed.
He wished she was more willing to talk so he could take her measure and decide how badly damaged she was, but she had shown no interest in conversation. Instead, she had gone straight to the spot she occupied now, opened the packet she was carrying, and begun writing. All around her, preparations for lifting off had been under way, the Druid Guard working the lines and sails, the big Trolls tightening down radian draws and light sheaths, yet she had acted as if none of it had anything to do with her.
She had offered him a perfunctory greeting and then dismissed him with a shifting of her gaze to her work.
It irritated him no end, and suddenly he decided enough was enough. She would speak with him whether she liked it or not.
He walked back to where she was sitting in front of the pilot box and sat down beside her, watching the smooth movement of her quill across the paper mounted on the writing board as the shaved tip dipped into the inkwell, transported its gathered contents to the white parchment, began to form fresh words and symbols, and then repeated the process time and again.
Finally, she looked up. “What is it?”
“Perhaps we should talk.”
She studied him a moment, then set aside her writing materials, capped the inkwell, and looked back at him. “What would you like to talk about, Paxon?”
“About what we are doing. What we are going to do. How we are going to do it. Do you have a plan?”
“Of course I have a plan. I am leader of this expedition, am I not? I am the one who will speak to the Federation Prime Minister. I am the one who will ascertain why it is he asked for us to come–for you to come, in particular.”
“Is that what you are writing out? What you intend to say?”
A wash of heavy mist coasted across the decking, and for a moment she disappeared into it as if a ghost. It was so unexpected that it caused Paxon’s nerves to jangle. “Avelene?”
She reappeared as the mist cleared. “What you want to know is whether or not I can handle another meeting with Arcannen. Why don’t you just come right out and ask me instead of going to all the trouble of working up to it?”
She sounded calm enough as she confronted him, but he could sense an undertone of anger and frustration nevertheless. “All right, I’m asking.”
She gave him a bitter smile. “Sorry. You don’t have the right to ask. Isaturin selected me for this mission. You are my protector, not my equal. You have no standing to question me.”
He saw that she was not going to make this easy. “Where we are both at risk if either of us fails, I have every right to make certain you are well. You suffered a horrendous experience, one that might easily have unhinged another person. I was impressed by how you handled it. I do not seek to question your selection as lead in this business. You are clearly the better choice to make a presentation to the Prime Minister. Nor do I suggest I am your equal in standing or that I am in any way a full member of the Druid Order.”
“But still you doubt me,” she said slowly. “Among my other skills as a student and practitioner of magic is the ability to sense other people’s hidden feelings. Not always, but now and then. Yours were so strong last night when I came to see you that there was no mistaking how you felt about me. You think it possible I am unable to carry out this mission. You worry I am weak and vulnerable. If you had your way, you would not let me come. Do you deny it?”
He stared at her. “No. Although the way you characterize my feelings is not entirely accurate. My fears are for you, not for myself. I worry that you have not had time to heal properly. I worry that if confronted by a sorcerer with the experience and power of Arcannen, you will be overmatched. I worry that I will be overmatched, for that matter. I cannot help it; it is in the nature of who I am. Would you not worry if our positions were reversed?”
She glared at him. “I have something to prove here. To myself, but to Isaturin and to you, as well. I accept that. I don’t intend to be cowed by one experience, no matter how nasty it was. I was caught by surprise, but that won’t happen again. I am confident in my training and my skills. Arcannen will not overmatch me when I confront him. And I will confront him. I want it to happen as badly as you do. And don’t try to tell me that’s not how you feel. You do. It radiates off you.”
“So what do you want to do?”
She paused. “Let’s just start over. I am sufficiently healed now. I am able to do whatever is needed. Just like you. So let’s not speak of it again.”
He nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s not.”
Her disposition improved then, although it did not quite reach the level of warmth. But she did relate how she intended to approach their interview with the Federation Prime Minister and what she believed he might be seeking. Given the ongoing threat from within the Southland government structure to any existing Prime Minister–not to mention most lesser Ministers of the Coalition Council, as well–they could suppose that Arcannen might have become a threat in a way that the Druids did not yet understand. Since the Druid search for the sorcerer was still active, it made sense for the Prime Minister to use the order in any way that would benefit him.
“He was close friends with Aphenglow Elessedil during her last years as Ard Rhys, but he does not enjoy the same closeness with Isaturin who, quite frankly, distrusts him,” she said. “So he will keep to himself as much as possible of what he knows and intends. Our job will be to worm it out of him any way we can while we have the chance.”
Paxon nodded. “I imagine you can manage that.”
“Not just me. You, as well. You are not to sit idly by if you see a chance to push him a little. I want you to engage him in conversation, argumentative or not, when and if it feels right to do so. I trust your judgment. Don’t be afraid to exercise it. Don’t ignore opportunities that present themselves.”
So they talked about it further, and then she went back to her writing and he returned to the bow to watch the land ahead as it passed beneath them. They would reach Arishaig by nightfall in this fast clipper, and after a good night’s sleep they would be given an audience with the Prime Minister in the morning. Paxon had never met the man, although he had heard Aphenglow speak of him. A good man, by all accounts. But a cautious man, as well–one who did not trust easily and who understood the value of subterfuge and duplicity in politics. If you were his friend, he would not betray you. All others were subject to the whims of his assessment in any given situation.