Bearers of the Black Staff - Terry Brooks [95]
“This feels wrong,” he said at one point, but his companion ignored him.
A little later, the Troll spoke softly and motioned to one side. Taureq Siq and his son stood watching them, their Troll faces impassive, their ridged bodies statues against the moving backdrop of the camp. Neither attempted words or gestures, but simply observed as Panterra and his minder passed by. Again Panterra felt something tug at him in warning, a chance missed, a mistake made, a hidden regret that later would become obvious to him. He tried to think what it could be, to see it behind its concealment, but nothing would come to him.
Then they were through the camp and outside its perimeters, walking away from all the activity, the eyes, the pointing, the whispers and shouts that trailed after.
From the guilt and from Prue.
Panterra knew she would not want him to think this way, but a voice inside his head kept whispering that he could not pretend he didn’t see the truth of things: that he was abandoning her, that he was leaving her to a fate he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
That he would never see her again.
THEY WALKED EAST FOR ALMOST A MILE without speaking, the darkness ahead growing stronger and deeper as the light faded away. Panterra walked without thinking about what he was doing, beginning to ponder instead how he was going to explain himself to those he had left behind, how he could possibly justify his actions. It didn’t matter to him what necessity required or common sense dictated or anything else that had to do with cause and effect. Seeking reason where there was no reason to be found was the last refuge of those who had acted inappropriately; that was what appeared to him to be true here. Nothing could explain leaving Prue. Nothing could make up for losing her.
Arik Sarn seemed to recognize what he was going through. The Troll walked apart and did not attempt to engage him in conversation. The trek occupied their efforts and kept them from needing to do more than to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, eating up the distance and time that remained between them and the mountains they were heading for.
Once, Panterra stopped completely, turned and looked back. “I can’t do this,” he said, as much to himself as to his companion.
He stood there in the ensuing silence, considering his options, weighing his chances if he turned around now and crept back under cover of darkness, sought out the tent in which Prue was imprisoned, broke apart her chains and set her free. It was possible, he thought. It was something he could do, an action he could take and complete.
He thought about it for a long time. Then reason intruded and prevailed.
The boy and the Troll walked on again.
They were still within sight of the camp as they climbed a rise through a scattering of large boulders and deep depressions when a cloaked form stepped from concealment and blocked their way. Panterra started wildly and Arik Sarn produced a short sword with serrated edges as if conjuring it out of thin air, but the appearance of a black staff carved through with runes froze both in place.
“Late for a twilight stroll, young Panterra,” the newcomer offered mildly. “Or have you secured your freedom? Is your unexpected companion friend or foe?”
Sider Ament! Pan practically fell over himself with relief.
“I thought I would have to come get you on my own, but you’ve saved me the trouble,” the Gray Man continued. “Your would-be rescuers and like-minded fools are back up in the rocks, waiting for us. We should join them.” He gave Arik Sarn a sharp look. “What’s become of Prue Liss?”
Panterra started to speak, couldn’t, gestured back over his shoulder at the Troll camp and shook his head.
“Like that, is it?” Sider Ament walked over and put an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll have to go get her back then, won’t we? But first you must tell me everything. Both of you. Come now.”
And turning away, he led them up into the rocks and out of view.
NINETEEN
IT WAS A WEARY AND DISPIRITED LITTLE