High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [105]
He waited until it was dark and Tagwen was asleep before slipping out of his bed. He crossed the room in his bare feet, boots in hand, and went through the door without a sound. Instead of leaving by the inn’s front entrance, he went out the back, taking the rear stairs to the street. Cloaked and hooded, he went quickly toward the waterfront. The night air was clear and sharp, turned cold after sunset, and the sky was bright with stars. It was close to midnight, but the streets were still bustling with activity, the denizens of the ale houses and pleasure dens just beginning their night’s fun. Many were sailors, come from all over, a mix of travelers passing through. None of them looked at him. None spoke.
He was taking a chance, risking everything. He was neither happy nor sad about it, felt neither guilt nor satisfaction. Such things didn’t matter to a boy who thought he was in love. What mattered was that Cinnaminson was waiting, and the thought of her drove every other consideration from his mind. His excitement gave him courage and determination. It gave him a sense of invulnerability. Whatever happened, he was a match for it. His certainty was so complete that he never stopped to question whether his bravado might be playing him false. On that night, there was no place in his heart for rational thinking.
He reached the waterfront and began working his way down the docks. New ships had arrived, some of them bigger than anything he had ever seen. He looked closely for the Galaphile as he went, but did not see her. Nor did he see Terek Molt or any other Druids. Loading and unloading went on about him, unceasing, unending, and all seemed as it should.
When he reached the Skatelow, he moved into the shadows across from her, staying well back from the light. There was no sign of life aboard. Even the storm lamps were extinguished. The boarding ladder was pulled up, signaling that visitors were unwelcome. On the piers to either side, similarly darkened ships lay at rest, sleeping birds awaiting the dawn.
Pen eased along the wall of the warehouse that fronted the slip, then moved just to the edge of the light that pooled down from the lamps hung over the entrance doors. He stood there, undecided, searching the contours of the Skatelow for signs of life.
Then he saw her. She appeared all at once, beckoning to him, knowing somehow that he was there. He took a chance, his throat tightening with anticipation. He stepped into the light, crossed the dock to the mooring slip, and stopped just below where she stood.
“Cinnaminson,” he said.
Her blind gaze shifted and her hair shimmered in the moonlight. “Wait,” she whispered. She moved at once to the ladder and dropped it over the side. “Come up. They’re all in town at the ale houses and won’t be back before dawn. We’re alone.”
He did as she said, climbing the ladder and hauling himself aboard. He stood on the decking in front of her, and she reached to take his hands. “I knew you would come,” she said.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
She released his hands and pulled the ladder back aboard. “Sit with me over here, out of the light. If they come, they need me to lower the ladder to let them aboard. By then, you can be over the side.”
She led him to the far side of the pilot box, where the shadows were deepest, and they sat down with their shoulders touching and their backs to the low wall. Her milky eyes turned to find him.
“Let’s not tell each other any lies tonight,” she whispered. “Let’s tell each other only truths.”
He nodded. “All right. Who goes first?”
“I do. It was my idea.” She leaned close. “Papa knows who you are, Penderrin Ohmsford. He knew Ahren Elessedil was a Druid after what happened during the flit attack, and he found out the rest from asking around the docks. He didn’t give you away, or let on that you were passengers on the Skatelow, but he knows.”
Her smooth features were tight with trepidation and uncertainty, her chin lifted as if to take a blow. Pen touched her cheek. “Ahren told us this might happen.