Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [105]
Mostly he wondered how a people who had just lost a King to assassination could carry on with so little evidence of remorse—though he had to admit he couldn’t think of how they should otherwise behave. Life went on, no matter the magnitude of the events that influenced it. He shouldn’t expect more.
They passed through the city proper and turned south into a series of parks and gardens to reach what were clearly the Elessedil palace grounds. It was late by then, the light failing quickly, the torches on street poles and building entries lit against the encroaching gloom. The crowds of people they had passed earlier had been left behind. Home Guard materialized out of the shadows, the King’s own protectors and the heart of the Elven army, stoic, silent, and sharp-eyed. They took the travelers’ horses away, and the Dwarf and cousins were led down a pathway bordered by white oak and tall grasses to an open-air pavilion somewhere back from the palace buildings and overlooking the bluffs east. High-backed benches were clustered about the pavilion, and pitchers of ale and cold water sat on trays beside metal tankards and glasses.
The Home Guard who had escorted them from the road gestured toward the benches and refreshments and left.
Alone, the pavilion empty except for them, the surrounding grounds deserted, they stood waiting. After a few minutes, Panax moved to one of the benches, took out his carving knife and a piece of wood, and began to whittle. Quentin looked at Bek, shrugged, and walked over to help himself to a tankard of ale.
Bek stayed where he was, glancing about warily. He was thinking of how the Ilse Witch had orchestrated the death of an Elven King not far from that spot. It did not give him a good feeling to think that killing someone in the heart of the Elven capital city was so easy, since all of them were now eligible targets.
“What are you doing?” Quentin asked, sauntering over to join him, tankard of ale in hand. He wore the Sword of Leah strapped across his back as if it was something he had been doing all his life instead of for less than a week.
“Nothing,” Bek replied. Already Quentin was evidencing the sort of changes that would affect them both in the end, growing beyond himself, shaking loose from his life. It was what his cousin had come to do, but Bek was still struggling with the idea. “I was just wondering if Walker is here yet.”
“Well, you look as if you expect Truls Rohk to appear again, maybe come right out of the earth.”
“Don’t be too quick to discount the possibility,” Panax muttered from the bench.
Quentin was looking around, as well, after that, but it was Bek who spied the two figures coming up the walk from the palace. At first neither cousin could make out the faces in the gloom, catching only momentary glimpses as they passed through each halo of torchlight on their approach. It wasn’t until they had reached the pavilion and come out of the shadows completely that Bek and Quentin recognized the short, wiry figure in the lead.
“Hunter Predd,” Quentin said, walking forward to offer his hand.
“Well met, Highlander,” the other replied, a faint smile creasing his weathered features. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Quentin. “Made the journey out of Leah safely, I see.”
“Never a moment’s concern.”
“That old sword strapped to your back reveal any secrets on the way?”
Quentin flushed. “One or two. You don’t forget a thing, do you?”
Bek shook the Wing Rider’s hand, as well, feeling a little of his earlier uneasiness fade with the other’s appearance. “Is Walker here?” he asked.
Hunter Predd nodded. “He’s here. Everyone’s here that’s going. You’re the last to arrive.”
Panax rose from his bench and wandered over, and they introduced him to the Wing Rider. Then Hunter Predd turned to his companion, a tall, powerfully built Elf of indeterminate age, with close-cropped gray hair and pale blue eyes. ‘This is Ard Patrinell,“ the Wing Rider said. ”Walker wanted you to meet him. He’s been placed in command of the Elven Hunters who will go with us.“
They clasped hands with the