Ilse Witch (34 page)

Quentin on one side and Panax on the other, Bek Rowe stood watching from the bow. All about the railings fore and aft were gathered the Rovers who would crew the ship, the Elven Hunters who would defend her, and the few other members of the expedition chosen by Walker. The Druid stood with Redden Alt Mer in the pilot box, talking quietly,
sharp eyes shifting left and right as he spoke, hands folded into his black robes.

Ahren Elessedil stood alone amidships by the foremast, isolated from everyone. He was a small, slight Elf with boyish features and a quiet manner. Whereas his brother Kylen was fair and blond in the traditional manner of the Elessedils, Ahren was dusky of skin and brown of hair, closer in appearance to the great Queen Wren. He had come aboard with the other Elves, but quickly separated from them and had remained apart since. He seemed lost and uncertain of himself as he stood looking out at the crowds. Bek felt sorry for him. He was in a difficult position. Officially, he was a representative of the Elessedil family and the crown, but everyone knew that Walker had been forced to include him because Kylen had insisted on it. Rumor had it that Kylen wanted him out of the way.

That accounted for everyone but Truls Rohk. Of the shape-shifter, there was still no sign.

A blare of trumpets drew Bek’s eyes to where the crowd was parting to make way for the Elven King and his retinue. A long line of Home Guard marched through the gap, flanking standard bearers who bore the flags of all the Elven Kings and Queens dead and gone, personal icons sewn on brightly colored fields swirling in the breeze. When they had passed onto the airfield, the Elessedil family banner hove into view, a crimson image of the Ellcrys emblazoned on a field of green. Kylen Elessedil followed on horseback, raised high enough above the heads of the crowd so that all could see him. His wife and children rode on horses behind him followed on foot by the more distant members of his family and his personal retinue. The long column marched out of the trees and onto the airfield and took up a position directly in front of the airship’s curved bow.

The trumpets sounded once more and went still. The crowd quieted, and Kylen Elessedil lifted his arms in greeting.

“Citizens of Arborlon! Friends of the Elven!” His booming
voice carried easily from one end of the field to the other. “We are gathered to witness and to celebrate an epochal event. A band of men and women of great courage will go forth this day on our behalf and on behalf of all free and right-thinking men and women everywhere. They sail the winds of the world in search of truths that have eluded us for thirty years. On their journey, they will attempt to discover the fate of my father’s brother’s expedition, lost those thirty years ago, of those ships and men, and of the Elfstones they carried, which are our heritage. On their journey, they will seek out treasures and magics that are rightfully ours and that can be put to the uses for which they were intended by the men and women for whom they were meant—Elves, one and all!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, swelling quickly to a roar. Bek glanced about at the faces of those gathered close, but found no expression on any save Quentin’s, where a kind of vague amusement flickered like candlelight in the wind and was gone.

“My brother Ahren leads this expedition on behalf of my family and our people,” Kylen continued as the cheering died away. “He is to be commended and respected for his bravery and his sense of duty. With him go some of the bravest of our Elven Hunters; our good friend from the Druids of Paranor, Walker; a complement of skilled and capable Rovers to captain and crew the ship; and a select band of others drawn from the Four Lands who will lend their talents and courage to this most important effort. Acknowledge them all, my friends! Praise them well!”

Again, the roar went up, the banners waved, and the air was filled with sound and color, and Bek, in spite of his cynicism, found himself infused with unmistakable pride.

Kylen Elessedil held up his hands. “We have lost a good and well-loved King in these past weeks. Treachery and cowardice have taken my father, Allardon Elessedil, from us. It was his dying wish that this expedition set forth, and I would be a poor son and subject indeed if I failed to honor his
wishes. These men and women”—he gestured behind him toward the ship—“feel as I do. Everything possible has been done to assure their success and speedy return. We send them off with our good wishes, and we will not cease to think of them until they are safely home again.”

Clever, Bek thought, to lay everything off on the old King, dead and gone. Kylen had learned something of politics already. If the expedition failed, he had made certain the blame would not be laid at his feet. If it succeeded, he would be quick to share in the rewards and claim the credit.

Bek shook his head at Quentin, who just shrugged and grinned ruefully.

The crowd was cheering anew, and while the people did so, a member of the Elven High Council carried to the King a long, slender green bottle. The King accepted it, wheeled his stallion about, and walked him to just below the bow of the airship. Hands raised anew, he turned once more to the crowd.

“Therefore, as King of the Land Elves and Sovereign Lord of the Westland, I wish this brave company success and good sailing, and I give to their ship the cherished name of one of our own, revered and loved over the years. I give to this ship the name
Jerle Shannara!”

He turned back to the airship, standing tall in the stirrups of his saddle, and swung the bottle against the metal-sheathed horns of the bow rams. The green glass shattered in a spray of bright liquid, and the air was filled with silver and gold crystals, then with rainbow colors erupting in showers that geysered fifty feet skyward and coated in a fine crystalline mist all those who stood with the King and those aboard ship. Bek, who had shielded himself automatically, brushed at his tunic sleeves and watched the mist come away in a soft, warm powder that fizzled on his hands like steam, then faded on the air.

The crowd cheered and shouted anew, “Long live the
Jerle Shannara”
and “Long live Kylen Elessedil.” The cheering
went on and on, rising across the open bluff and sailing off into the distant forests beyond, echoes on the wind. Trumpets blew and drums boomed, and the banners of the dead Elven Kings waved and whipped at the end of their lofted standards. The ropes that bound the
Jerle Shannara
were released, and the sleek black airship rose swiftly, wheeled away from the sun toward the still-dark west, and began to pick up speed. The bluff below and those assembled on it fell away, turning small and faint in the light morning haze. The cheers died and the shouts faded, and Arborlon and her people were left behind.

That first day passed quickly for Bek, though not as quickly as he would have liked. It started out well enough, with Redden Alt Mer bringing the boy into the pilot box to stand next to him while he conducted a series of flight tests on the
Jerle Shannara
, taking her through various maneuvers intended to check her responses and timing. The Rover even let the boy steer the great ship at one point, talking him through the basics of handling the rudder and line controls. Bek repeated once more what he had learned the previous day about the components of the airship and their functions.

All this helped take his mind off the motion of the ship as it rocked and swayed on the back of the wind, but it wasn’t enough to save him. In the end, his stomach lurched and knotted with deliberate and recognizable intent. Redden Alt Mer saw the look on his face and pointed him toward the bucket that sat at the foot of the box.

“Let her go, lad,” he advised with an understanding smile. “It happens to the best of us.”

Bek doubted that, but there was nothing he could do to save himself. He spent the next few hours wishing he were dead and imagining that if the weather was even the least bit severe, he would be. He noted between heaves that the frail young seer, Ryer Ord Star, looked equally distressed where she sat alone at the aft railing with her own bucket in hand,
and that even the stalwart Panax had gone green around the gills.

No one else seemed to be affected, not even Quentin, who was engaged in combat practice with the Elven Hunters in a wide space on the foredeck, working his way through a series of blows and parries, advances and retreats, urged on by the immutable Ard Patrinell. Most of the others aboard, he was told later by Big Red, had sailed airships before and so were accustomed to their motion. Bek would never have believed that so little movement could make anyone feel so sick, but, his safety line securely in place, he forced himself to stay upright and interested in what was happening about him, and by midafternoon he was no longer struggling.

Walker came by once or twice to inquire after him. The Druid’s dark face and somber demeanor never changed when he did so, and nothing in his words suggested reproval or disappointment. He simply asked both the boy and the ship’s Captain how the former’s training was coming and seemed satisfied with their answers. He was there and gone so quickly that Bek wasn’t entirely sure Walker had noticed how ill “the boy” was—although it seemed impossible to imagine he hadn’t.

In any case, Bek got through the experience and was grateful when later in the day the Elven Healer Joad Rish gave him a root to chew that would aid in staving off further attacks. He tried a little, found it bitter and dry, but quickly decided that any price was worth keeping his stomach settled.

It was nearing sunset, his flying lessons complete for the day and his equilibrium restored, when Ahren Elessedil approached Bek. He was standing at the portside railing looking out at the sweep of the countryside below, the land a vast, sprawling checkerboard of green and brown, the sun sliding westward into the horizon, when the young Elf came up to stand beside him.

“Are you feeling better now?” Ahren asked solicitously.

Bek nodded. “Although I thought I was going to turn myself inside out for a while there.”

The other smiled. “You did well for your first time. Better than me. I was sent up when I was twelve to learn about airships. On my father’s orders. He believed his children should be schooled often and early in the world’s mechanics. I was not a very strong boy, and the flying didn’t agree with me at all. I was up for two weeks and sick every day. The Captain of the ship never said a word, but I was humiliated. I just never got the hang of any of it.”

“I was surprised at how quickly I got sick.”

“I think it builds up inside you, so that by the time you realize how badly you feel, it seems like it’s happening all at once.” The Elf paused and turned toward him. “I’m Ahren Elessedil.”

Bek shook the other’s hand. “Bek Rowe.”

“The Druid brought you with him, didn’t he? You and the Highlander? That says you are someone special. Can you work magic?”

There it was again. Bek smiled ruefully. “Quentin has a sword that can work magic, although he doesn’t know how to use it very well yet. I can’t do anything.” He thought about the phoenix stone, but kept the thought to himself. “Can you?”

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. “Everyone knows why I’m here. My brother doesn’t want me anywhere near Arborlon. He’s worried that if something happens to him, I’ll be placed on the throne ahead of his own children because they’re too young to rule. It’s an odd concern, don’t you think? If you’re dead, what does any of it matter?” He seemed sad and distant as he spoke. “My father would probably agree with me. He didn’t think all that much about succession and order of rule, and I guess I don’t either. Kylen does. He’s been training for it all his life, so it matters to him. We don’t like each other very much. I suppose it’s better that I’m out here, on this airship, on this expedition, than back in Arborlon. At least we’re out of each other’s hair.”

Bek nodded and said nothing.

“Did you know that my father and Walker didn’t like each other?” Ahren asked, looking at him sharply. Bek shook his head no. “They had a terrible fight some years ago about establishing a Druid Council at Paranor. Walker wanted Father’s help, and Father wouldn’t give it. They didn’t speak for years and years. It’s odd that they agreed on this expedition when they couldn’t agree on anything else, don’t you think?”

Bek furrowed his brow.

“But maybe they found more in the way of common ground on the issue of this expedition than they did on the issue of a Druid Council.” Ahren didn’t wait for his reply. “There’s some sort of Elven magic involved, and both would have wanted possession of that. I think the truth of the matter is that they needed each other. There is this map that only Walker can read, and there is the cost of the airship and crew that only Father could manage. And he would have agreed to provide the Elven Hunters to keep us all safe. If anyone can manage to do so. My uncle carried Elfstones, and that wasn’t enough to save him.”

He was being so forthright about matters that Bek was encouraged to ask a question he otherwise would not have asked. “Ard Patrinell was removed as Captain of the Home Guard when your father was killed. If he’s out of favor with your brother and the High Council, why has he been sent to command the Elven Hunters on this expedition?”

Ahren grinned. “You don’t understand how these things work, Bek. It is because he is out of favor that he’s been sent with us. Kylen wants him out of Arborlon almost as much as he wants me out. Ard is my friend and protector. He trained me personally at my father’s express command. Everything I know about fighting and battle tactics, I learned from him. Kylen doesn’t trust him. My father’s death gave my brother the perfect excuse to strip Ard of his command, and this expedition offered him a way to remove both Ard and me from the city.”

He gave Bek a cool look of appraisal. “You seem pretty smart, Bek. So let me tell you something. My brother doesn’t think we’re coming back—any of us. Maybe, deep down inside where he hides his darkest secrets, he even hopes it. He’s supporting this expedition because he can’t think of a way out of it. He’s doing this because Father decreed it as he lay dying, and a newly crowned King can’t afford to ignore that sort of deathbed admonition. Besides, in a single stroke of good fortune he manages to get rid of me, Ard Patrinell, and the Druid, none of whom he has any particular use or liking for. If we don’t come back, that solves his problem for good, doesn’t it?”