Terry Brooks - Witch Wraith

Challa Nand glanced over. “Then try not to forget any of it,” he said, and moved away.

The morning slogged on, with everyone’s attention on the darkening skies. To the north, lightning flashed in jagged streaks—bursts of brightness followed by deep rolls of thunder and then long periods of silence. The wind came up an hour past sunrise, hard and quick, given to sudden bursts strong enough to knock you off your feet if you weren’t paying attention. It howled down the canyons and through the peaks, ripping at lone stands of blasted trees and jagged rock. It slammed against the hull of the Quickening with such force that it repeatedly knocked them off course and forced them to stay well clear of cliffs against which they otherwise might have been smashed.

Before long, Austrum relinquished the helm to Railing, moving out of the pilot box and back down onto the deck. As handed over control of the ship, he gave Railing a look and a quick nod. How much did he know? Did it matter? Railing nodded back, but kept his expression neutral.

Railing soon found that his arms were aching after only an hour of holding the airship steady. The concentration necessary to withstand the force of the blow required forgetting about everything else, and he was grateful to do so. Skint was forward, monitoring their progress from the bow. Challa Nand stood next to him in the pilot box, listening to the Gnome Tracker’s warnings before suggesting adjustments. His huge presence was a comfort as he pointed out favorable avenues of passage, gaps that might better serve them, heights and depths they might more easily travel. He seemed to know a great deal about flying airships, particularly in these mountains, and Railing paid attention to his advice. They would make it through this patch of bad weather, he kept telling himself. They would find a way.

Shortly after, the storm struck—a curtain of black rain that left them all but blind. Railing could no longer either see or hear Skint from where he crouched at the bow. Steady, steady, Challa Nand would say every few minutes. And Railing would respond.

Austrum relieved him not long after, telling him to rest. Railing didn’t argue. It was barely three hours after sunrise, and yet it felt like they had been flying all day. Worse, the sun hadn’t showed itself since dawn, and the light was so bad you could only see a few yards ahead. Challa Nand seemed to see farther than the rest of them, his eyes sharp enough to pick out the cliffs that hemmed them in. They might have tried taking the airship higher, but once above the peaks the winds were blowing fiercely, threatening to shred the sails and bring the ship down completely.

Woostra had long since gone below, so airsick he could barely stand. He was forced to occupy the space alone since by now everyone else was well enough to stay topside, including the previously injured sailor, Aleppo. The Rovers and Mirai were working the lines and monitoring the power of the diapson crystals, ready to change them out if needed. Railing watched them through the rain and gloom for a few minutes, then worked his way forward to the bow and dropped down beside Skint.

“Do you have any idea at all where we are?” he asked.

The Gnome shrugged. “Somewhere in the Charnals? Of course, I’m just guessing.”

“How are we going to get through this? I can’t see anything beyond the end of my arm.”

“Challa Nand knows where we are and how to get to where we are going. He told me this morning we’re about two hours out from the Klu. We just have to ride out the worst of this storm and hope there isn’t another one waiting up ahead.” He glanced over at Railing and grinned. “Admit it—this is sort of fun, isn’t it?”

Railing stared at him, and then realized he was right. In a reckless, bone-jarring sort of way, it was fun. He grinned back. “As long as you’re an airman or a crazy Gnome Tracker, maybe so.”

Skint laughed, then took Railing down into the hold for a drink of ale. Sitting near the keg that held the amber liquid, they sipped from cups, sodden and bedraggled in the near dark.

“You look a wreck,” Skint offered, raising his cup and clinking it with Railing’s.

“Your health,” the boy responded.

They drank and leaned back against the bulkhead. “Sorry about Farshaun,” the Gnome said after a minute. His wizened face was solemn. “He was a good man. I liked him. He had iron in him.”

“That he had.” Railing looked off into the gloom, thinking of what Farshaun had said to him about Mirai on his deathbed.

That girl, she’s worth a dozen of you or me. She’s got grit and determination that hasn’t even been scratched. She’s got heart. And she loves you.

He believed it all except for the last, even though it was the last he most wanted to believe. He didn’t feel like she loved him, not really. Not even after last night. But he loved her; there was no disputing that. Now, more than ever. But in a different, more complex way. He loved her intensely and completely enough that he wanted her to love him back in the same way.

“You seem a little less distant today,” Skint said suddenly. “You were keeping pretty much to yourself after we left Arborlon. Something was bothering you. Did you get past that?”

Railing nodded. “I think maybe I did.”

He meant it. He could tell that he was different—his attitude, his temperament—ever since he had opened up to Mirai and confessed the secrets he had been keeping. It hadn’t changed the reality of how things might play out when they reached their destination. It hadn’t changed the wrongness of what he had done to the others. But it had allowed him to breathe again. Keeping his meetings with the King of the Silver River and the Grimpond to himself had suffocated him. Sharing it with Mirai had been the right thing to do, and he felt stronger for having done so.

He sipped at his ale, working hard not to spill it as the airship lurched side-to-side and bucked against the force of the winds.

“If I get through this in one piece,” Skint said suddenly, “I’m going back into the Eastland mountains and I’m never coming out again.”

“We’ll get through,” Railing answered at once, and he meant it.

Skint got to his feet, put down his cup, and started for the ladder. “You’ll be the one to make it happen, if anyone can,” he called back.

Railing stayed where he was just long enough to finish his ale and then followed him up.

On deck, he joined Mirai and the Rovers in working the lines, taking his place among them. He said nothing to the Highland girl, although they exchanged a brief glance. He was thinking—even in the teeth of this monster storm with winds lashing them and rains drenching them and the whole world around them gone as black as night—that they were going to get through. He was going to get through. And he would find a way to make certain the others got through with him. He would find Grianne Ohmsford, and he would persuade her to come back to help them, no matter what it took. He was strong enough for this. He was the one with the wishsong magic; even Challa Nand, that huge, seemingly indestructible Troll, had said they would need his magic before this was done. They all knew what he was capable of, and he didn’t have the right to doubt himself when they depended on him like that. There wasn’t room for doubt. There was only room for belief in himself and determination to make what was needed happen.

But reality has a way of demonstrating the limits of self-belief and determination, and shortly thereafter, one of the Rovers was caught by a sudden gust of wind that blew him sideways and right over the railing. His safety line jerked taut, keeping him from dropping into the void, and Austrum and Railing, who were working on either side of him, rushed to pull him back aboard.