Terry Brooks - Ilse Witch

All of which was to say that although Bek had been raised a Highlander, he wasn’t really one and had never been persuaded to think of himself in those terms. Quentin told him it was the right attitude. Why try to be something you know you’re not? If you have to pretend to be something, be something no one else is. Bek liked the idea, but he hadn’t a clue what that something else might be. Since he never talked of the matter with anyone but Quentin, he kept his thoughts to himself. Sooner or later, he imagined, probably when it mattered enough that he must do something, he would figure it out.

“I’m starved,” Quentin announced as they walked through the deep woods. “Hungry enough to eat that boar all by myself, should it choose to fall dead at my feet just now!”

His broad, strong face was cheerful and open, a reflection of his personality. With Quentin Leah, what you saw was what you got. There was no dissembling, no pretense, and no guile. Quentin was the sort who came right at you, speaking his mind and venting his emotions openly. Bek was more inclined to tread carefully in his use of words and displays of temperament, a part of him always an outsider and accustomed to the value of an outsider’s caution. Not Quentin. He opened himself up and laid himself bare, and if you liked him, fine, and if you didn’t, that was all right, too.

“Are you sure about that bird?” Bek asked him, thinking back to that huge shadow, still puzzled by its appearance.

Quentin shrugged. “I only caught a glimpse of it, not enough to be certain of anything much. Like you said, it looked like one of those big coastal birds, black and sleek and fierce.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’d like to ride one of those someday.”

Bek snorted. “You’d like to do lots of things. Everything, if you could manage it.”

Quentin nodded. “True. But some things more than others. This one, I’d like to do more.”

“I’d just settle for another crack at the boar.” Bek brushed a hanging limb away as he ducked beneath. “Another two seconds …”

“Forget it!” Quentin grabbed Bek’s shoulders playfully. “We’ll go out again tomorrow. We have all the rest of the week. We’ll find one sooner or later. How can we fail?”

Well, Bek wanted to say, because boars are quicker, faster, and stronger, and much better at hiding than we are at finding them. But he let the matter drop, because the truth was that if they’d bagged the boar today, they’d have had to figure out what to do with the rest of the week. Bek didn’t even want to speculate on what Quentin might have come up with if that had happened.

Shadows were layering the woodlands in ever-darkening pools, the light failing quickly as the sun slipped below the horizon and the night began its silent advance. Serpentine trailers of mist already had begun to appear in the valleys and ravines, those darker, cooler havens were the sun had been absent longer and the dampness was rooted deeper. Crickets were beginning to chirp and night birds to call. Bek hunched his shoulders against a chilly breeze come up off the Rappahalladran. Maybe he would suggest they fish tomorrow as a change of pace. It wasn’t as exciting or demanding as boar hunting, but the chances of success were greater.

Besides, he mused, he could nap in the afternoon sun when he was fishing. He could dream and indulge his imagination and take small journeys in his mind. He could spend a little time thinking about his future, which was a good exercise since he really didn’t have one figured out yet.

“There it is again,” Quentin announced almost casually, pointing ahead through the trees.

Bek looked, and as sharp as his eyes were, he didn’t see anything. “There what is again?” he asked.

“That bird I saw, the one that flew over the meadow. A Roc—that’s what it’s called. It was right above the ridge for a moment, then dropped away.”

“Rocs don’t travel inland,” Bek pointed out once more. Not unless they’re in thrall to a Wing Rider, he thought. That was different. But what would a Wing Rider be doing out here? “This late-afternoon light plays tricks with your eyes,” he added.

Quentin didn’t seem to hear him. “That’s close to where we’re camped, Bek. I hope it doesn’t raid our stash.”

They descended the slope they were on, crossed the valley below, and began to climb toward the crest of the next hill, on which their camp was set. They’d quit talking to each other, concentrating on the climb, eyes beginning to search the deepening shadows more carefully. The sun was below the horizon, and twilight cloaked the forest in a gloom that shifted and teased with small movements. A day’s-end silence had descended, a hush that gave the odd impression that everything living in the woods was waiting to see who would make the first sound. Though not conscious of the effort, both Bek and his cousin began to walk more softly.

When it got dark in the Highland forests, it got very dark, especially when the moon wasn’t up, as on this night, and there was only starlight to illuminate the shadows. Bek found himself growing uneasy for reasons he couldn’t define, his instincts telling him that something was wrong even when his eyes could not discover what it was. They reached their camp without incident but, as if possessed of a single mind, stopped at the edge of the clearing and peered about in silence.

After a moment, Quentin touched his cousin’s shoulder and shrugged. Nothing looked out of place. Bek nodded. They entered the clearing, walked to where their stash was strung up in a tree, found it undisturbed, checked their camping gear where it was bundled in the crotch of a broad-rooted maple, and found it intact, as well. They dragged out their bedrolls and laid them out next to the cold fire pit they’d dug on their arrival two days earlier. Then they released the rope that secured their provisions and lowered them to the ground. Quentin began sorting foodstuffs and cooking implements in preparation for making their dinner. Bek produced tinder to strike a flame to the wood set in place that morning for the evening’s meal.

Somewhere close, out in the darkness, a night bird cried shrilly as it flew in search of prey or a mate. Bek looked up, studied the shadows again, and then lit the fire. Once the wood was burning, he walked to the edge of the clearing and bent down to gather more.

When he straightened up again, he found himself face-to-face with a black-cloaked stranger. The stranger was no more than two feet away, right on top of him really, and Bek hadn’t heard his approach at all. The boy froze, arms wrapped about the load of deadwood, his heart in his throat. All sorts of messages screamed at him from his brain, but he couldn’t make himself respond to any of them.

“Bek Rowe?” the stranger asked softly.

Bek nodded. The stranger’s cowl concealed his face, but his deep, rough voice was somehow reassuring. Bek’s panic lessened just a hair.

Something about the unexpected encounter caught Quentin Leah’s notice. He walked out of the firelight and peered into the darkness where Bek and the stranger stood facing each other. “Bek? Are you all right?” He came closer. “Who’s there?”

“Quentin Leah?” the stranger asked him.

The Highlander continued to advance, but his hand had dropped to the long knife at his waist. “Who are you?”

The stranger let the Highlander come up beside Bek. “I’m called Walker,” he answered. “Do you know of me?”

“The Druid?” Quentin’s hand was still on the handle of his long knife.

“The same.” His bearded face came into the light as he pulled back the cowl of his cloak. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?” Quentin sounded openly skeptical, and frown lines creased his brow. “From us?”