Bearers of the Black Staff - Terry Brooks [21]
“Don’t look at them,” he whispered to her, bending close. “Look at me, if you have to look at someone.”
They saw Trow, who beckoned them forward to chairs directly opposite the council table. Several members of the council were already gathered, chatting with one another until they caught sight of him; then conversation ceased momentarily as they stared. Pan didn’t like how that made him feel. He already sensed an undercurrent of discontent from those gathered. He kept reminding himself he was only the messenger, and the message was not his own.
But Panterra Qu was no fool. He knew this was not going to make any difference, that the message was going to become his the moment he voiced it.
Prue gripped his arm and hung on to it as he made his way forward. They sat down next to Trow, who nodded without speaking and looked away. Panterra felt a pang of disappointment in the Tracker leader. He should have been more supportive; he should have tried to do more for the men and women he led. It seemed to Pan that he had decided to do nothing, that he had made a conscious choice to distance himself from this entire business.
He looked around for Aislinne, but there was no sign of her. The only ally he might find at this gathering, and she wasn’t even there. He wanted to ask Trow where she was, but he resisted the impulse.
A little more time passed as other members of the community pushed into the packed hall, their voices raising the volume in the already noisy room. Panterra tried not to listen; he tried to calm himself in the way his mother had taught him—by thinking of other things. He fixed his eyes on the great hearth and its roaring fire, blazing up from behind the huddled council members, and let himself disappear into the flames. He tried thinking of his family when he was young, of the happiness he had enjoyed growing up. When that didn’t work, he tried thinking of the woods and the mountains, of his life as a Tracker.
He was still working at staying calm and centered in his thoughts when Pogue Kray entered the hall from a side door and took his seat at the center of the council table. He was a big, burly man with a blacksmith’s arms and shoulders, his movements slow and ponderous. Once, he had been a formidable figure, all muscle and hard planes. But his belly had taken over as his predominant feature, and now he looked settled and soft. His bluff face was black-bearded and sun-scorched, and he had the look of someone eternally dissatisfied with life’s lot.
He was trailed by the Seraphic, Skeal Eile, wrapped in his white robes, his strong face held high and proud as he kept his eyes on a place just above the faces of all who turned to study him, unaffected by and distanced from their prying looks. He remained standing, placing himself just behind and to the right of Pogue Kray.
The council leader rapped his huge hand on the hard surface of the table and signaled for attention. Slowly but surely, the hall quieted to silence.
“This room will come to order and remain so,” the big man declared, sweeping the chamber with his black gaze. “The business of the council will not be interrupted by voices speaking out of turn or by ill-advised demonstrations. Should any of this come to pass, my keepers of the peace will act swiftly. Is that understood?”
Apparently, it was. No one said anything.
“Very well.” Kray was satisfied. “We are here at the request of one of Trow Ravenlock’s Trackers, who has asked to give us his report personally. Is that Tracker present and ready?”
He looked at Trow, who got to his feet. “He is, Council Leader.”
“Then let him speak.”
All eyes fixed on Panterra as he rose. He glanced about quickly, but there was still no sign of Aislinne. He didn’t hesitate further; he started talking at once—before he had a chance to lose his courage—relating the events of the previous day. He kept his eyes on Pogue Kray as he spoke and did not