Terry Brooks: Witch Wraith

What mattered—the only thing that mattered—was that he would be given a chance at saving Redden.

He understood the risk he was taking. He knew Grianne might turn him away, might even dismiss him out of hand. But he believed he was strong enough that he could overcome such obstacles. He believed he could find a way to achieve what he had long ago decided must happen—even in the face of resistance.

His was a faith that was deep and burning. He had come this far riding its dark wings, and he would fly on its slippery back and steer it on its uncertain course until this business was over and he had gotten Redden back, safe and well once more.

That it might cost him his life did not matter. It was not even a possibility he dwelled on. That it might cost the lives of his companions troubled him more, but not enough to give him pause. They had come with him because they believed in what they were doing. He saw it as his mission to keep them believing.

They flew west and north into the Upper Anar, following the twisting line of the Rabb River where it wound its angular way through the forests and mountains below—a course that would take them close to where they would sheer off north in search of the town of Rampling Steep. Farshaun told him this at one point, coming over to sit beside him, worried perhaps that he was keeping himself too isolated from the rest of the company. They sat together in silence save for when the old man made the effort to engage him in conversation. But Railing had already distanced himself from discussions of this sort, finding it the easiest way to deal with the emotional fallout of his choice. Better to say nothing than to break down and spill it all.

“You do not seem yourself, boy,” Farshaun said at one point. “As if maybe you’ve left us and gone somewhere else. Is that so? What’s happening with you?”

“Nothing,” Railing answered at once. He tried a smile that didn’t work. “I just can’t stop thinking about Redden and what he’s going through. It’s very hard.”

“We know this. But you shouldn’t shut us out.”

There was nothing to say to that, and after a while the Rover got up and walked away.

Mirai didn’t come by at all that day, although she waved to him in passing once or twice. Mostly, she spent her time with Austrum—an irritation that Railing couldn’t do anything about without starting an argument. And he was determined to avoid fighting with the one true north in his life. He watched her in silence, remembering what she had told him earlier about the big Rover: that there was nothing between them.

But then Austrum reached for her hand and took it in his own and she did not pull away.

By midafternoon they were well into the Upper Anar, the Quickening benefiting from a following wind as they tacked north toward the Charnals. They had made good time all day, and their luck continued with their new heading. The approaching storm seemed to have cleared the Dragon’s Teeth and rumbled on to the western edge of the Wolfsktaag Mountains, but there it had stalled out. Farshaun had stopped long enough to let him know that they would reach Rampling Steep that day, shortly after sunset.

Railing spent the remaining hours working the rigging with the crew, suddenly in need of something to do. He tried not to look about for Mirai, unwilling to find her in the company of Austrum, but when he finally did see her she was standing not six feet away, working the lines with him. She grinned knowingly, as if able to read his thoughts and divine his intentions. Blushing, he grinned back, feeling good for no other reason than an unmistakable relief in finding her close and alone.

Darkness had set in when they spied the lights of their destination, torches and lamps in large numbers burning through the inky black, the clouds massing over the mountaintops to shadow the land about them. The first few drops of rain were beginning to fall as they descended, heralding the approach of the storm and warning of a need to secure the airship with haste.

They descended smoothly, Mirai at the helm and Farshaun and Skint acting as navigators, aiming for a small airfield that sat just outside the town. There was a handful of aircraft moored on the field—none of them ships-of-the-line or even vessels the size of Quickening . Most were dilapidated and poorly tended, and had the look of ships that hadn’t flown recently and might never fly again. No one moved about on the field as they settled down; no one appeared to greet them or aid them in their mooring.

None of this mattered to the Rovers, who were used to handling everything on their own. They scurried about the decking, hauling down the light sheaths, securing the radian draws and lowering anchors and ropes for moorage. Railing watched for the first few moments, then his gaze shifted to Rampling Steep. It was too dark to see very far, but if the numbers of lamps and torches were any indication, this wasn’t much of a town. For one thing, it was situated far up in the foothills that shadowed the mountains, and the only reason for its existence seemed to be its location—all of the passes leading into the Charnals from the west began here. Farshaun had told him that the town’s only value was as a way station for trappers, hunters, and travelers seeking guides. No one would come this way otherwise.

Looking at it now, catching glimpses of the closest buildings at the edge of the airfield, he could tell that upkeep and repairs were not a high priority for the town’s residents. Sideboards were cracked and splintered, roofs were sagging or collapsed, windows were broken out, and every other building appeared to have given up the fight years before. A few had been maintained so that they seemed able to weather a storm and keep their inhabitants warm and dry, but even those lacked pretense at being anything more than basic shelter.

Farther on, the lights were thicker and brighter, suggesting that the town center might be slightly less decrepit. When he listened closely, the boy could hear the sounds of singing and laughter.

“Morgan Leah came this way a long time ago,” Mirai said. She was standing at his elbow, looking out at the town with him. Her hair was tied back, and strands caught the distant lights in golden glints. “He was traveling with Walker Boh and the girl Quickening, among others. The company had come in search of the city of Eldwist and the Stone King, Uhl Belk, seeking the Black Elfstone.”

“I remember the story.” Railing tried not to look at her, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. “We heard it from our father when he was telling us the family history. That was in the time of Par and Coll Ohmsford. The Shadowen were abroad and hunting them.”

She said nothing for a moment, her eyes focused on the town. “You be careful when you go in there.”

He glanced over then, catching a hint of something like regret in her words. “You won’t be coming?”

She shook her head. “Skint doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He thinks I’ll attract too much attention. Farshaun agrees. Women in towns like these serve only one purpose.”

Railing nodded. “They’re probably right. It’s too risky.”

But he was still surprised. Somehow he had believed she would be going simply because they always stayed close whenever they were together. It felt odd knowing she wouldn’t be with him.

“Maybe you should go anyway,” he said, wanting her to agree. “A cloak and hood would hide …”

She gave him a quick look and walked away, not waiting to hear more. He stood looking after her, the rest of what he was going to say forgotten, the unspoken words a bitter taste in his mouth.

Moments later the company gathered on the main deck, summoned by Farshaun, who seemed to have assumed command in the absence of any involvement on Railing’s part.