Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [45]
“He didn’t die in his sleep, did he? Not of natural causes. Someone helped end his life.”
The Druid paused. “Someone did. How did you know that?”
The Wing Rider shrugged, his whipcord-tough body lengthening as he stretched. “Dome is a talented Healer and a careful man. The castaway had survived days at sea before I found him. He should have survived a couple more in a Healer’s bed.” He glanced at Walker questioningly. “Our assassins’ employer?”
The Druid nodded. “I would guess so. Magic was used to kill the man, to steal his life. Not so different from what was done to those men sent to kill Allardon Elessedil.”
For a moment the Wing Rider was silent, sipping at his cup of ale and looking off into the distance. Then he said, “Do you know yet who your enemy is?”
My enemy. Implacable and deadly. Walker’s smile was ironic. “I’ll know better by tonight.”
The Wing Rider cleaned and packed their gear, made certain his mount was fed and watered sufficiently, then motioned Walker back aboard. They flew east across the Rainbow Lake, passing below the mouth of the Mermidon and the broad, rumpled humps of the Runne Mountains. A handful of fishing boats floated on the lake below but, absorbed in their work, the fishermen did not glance up. The day wore on, the sun dropped toward the western horizon, and the light began to fade. The moon brightened in the skies ahead, and a single star appeared close by. Shadows lengthened across the land below, stretching out like fingers to claim it for nighttime’s coming.
It was twilight by the time they started up the south end of the Rabb Plains for the Dragon’s Teeth. By then, the huge jagged peaks were dark and shadowy and stripped of definition, a forbidding wall that stretched all the way across the northern skyline. The temperature was dropping, and Walker pulled his cloak closer about his body for warmth. Hunter Predd seemed unaffected. Walker marveled at how little the Wing Rider seemed to mind the weather, aware of, but untroubled by it. He supposed that to be a Wing Rider, one had to be so.
It was fully dark when they reached the foothills leading up to where he would go this night. Guided by the light of moon and stars, Obsidian landed on an open rise, safely away from rocks and brush that might hide enemies or hinder a quick escape. After seeing to the needs of the Roc, the Wing Rider and the Druid set camp, built a fire, and cooked and ate their dinner. In the distance, they could hear the hunting cries of night herons and the strident wail of wolves. Moonlight bathed the plains south and east, and through the pale brightening, furtive shadows moved.
“I’ve been thinking about the castaway,” Hunter Predd declared after a period of silence. They were almost finished with their meal, and he was digging at the hard ground with the heel of his boot, sitting back from the fire with his cup of ale. “How could a blind man have escaped his captors unaided?”
Walker looked up.
“How could he have made his way from wherever he was imprisoned to come back across the Divide to us?” The Wing Rider’s frown deepened. “Assuming he was returning from the voyage Kael Elessedil made thirty years ago, he’d have had to travel a long way. A blind man couldn’t have managed it without help.”
“No,” Walker agreed, “he couldn’t.”
The Elf hunched forward. “Something else’s been bothering me. How did he get his hands on the map? Unless he drew it himself, he either stole it or it was given to him. If he drew it himself, he must have done so before he was blinded. How did he hide it from his captors? If someone else drew it, they must have given it to him. Either way, he must have had help. Even to escape. What became of that other person?”
Walker nodded approvingly. “You’ve asked all the right questions, Hunter