“I can manage. I have a Straken’s magic, Weka Dart. I need you to go. If you don’t, I may die of this sickness. Don’t argue with me. Pick up what you need and go. Now!”
Weka Dart released his grip on Drisker and climbed to his feet. “If something happens to you, my mistress will never forgive me.” He shook his grizzled head, his distress evident. “I cannot believe I am doing this! I know I shouldn’t. Something terrible will happen to you if I go. Probably before I am a mile away.”
The Druid swallowed hard. “Your concerns are unnecessary. Just leave me your food and water; I won’t be able to find anything on my own. Then go. No more arguing. I’ll be all right.”
He had no way of knowing how this could possibly be true, but he felt certain he could not recover from his sickness without a Healer. Grianne Ohmsford had those skills, and even as the Ilse Witch she would know how to employ them. He watched in silence as Weka Dart stripped off his waterskin and food sack and set them next to him.
Then, without another word, the Ulk Bog rushed out into the curtains of rain and was swallowed from view.
Drisker stared after him, as if by doing so he could hasten his efforts to bring help. But soon enough he felt the weariness and aching return, and saw the need for taking protective measures before he lapsed into unconsciousness again. Doing nothing was not an option if he wanted to avoid being eaten while he slept. He must use magic to protect himself as best he could. He was already much too weak to be as effective with his defenses as he would have liked. But he had enough strength and sufficient skill to create at least a small barrier between himself and the world surrounding him.
He dragged himself into a sitting position, facing out into the rain. He was tucked back into his concave shelter in the jumble of rocks, with enough of a covering over his head that it kept the rain off, as certain as he could be that any attack would have to come from the front. If he could manage to form a shield that stretched from left to right and from the ground up to the top of the shelter, he would be completely enclosed. In fact, he would be sealed in, which meant he would be trapped. But he tried not to think of it that way. What mattered was that, for anything to get at him, it would have to scratch and claw its way through a screen of magic.
Braced against the rocks, he summoned the magic that would form his shield. It required a tremendous effort even to bring it alive. He didn’t stop to rest; he simply pressed on, afraid if he hesitated he would not be able to continue. Calling out words in the Ancient Elfish language from which the magic was created, and making accompanying gestures that enabled and strengthened it, he began construction of his shield and stretched it across his shelter’s opening. Twice, his grip on the edges slipped and he was forced to start over. Once, he almost lost the entire shield to a powerful gust of wind. Protection of the magnitude he required demanded substance as well as presence, and the weight of it bore down on him as he fought to set it in place.
The minutes passed. An hour slipped by, and still he worked. Sweat was pouring off him, and the aching of his body no longer had definable limits. Worse still, he was fighting hard not to pass out. Black spots had begun to appear before his eyes, and the world was shifting around him. He knew he was losing the battle to stay conscious. If he didn’t finish quickly, he wouldn’t finish at all—and there was every reason to believe the entire shield would collapse and everything he had tried to do would be irretrievably lost.
But he couldn’t manage it. He was too tired and too hampered by his sickness to construct what was needed. He had tried his best, but for once his best was not going to be enough. He thought about Grianne and her hopes of escaping the Forbidding. He thought about Tarsha and Tavo, wondering if they were alive and if they could bring Clizia Porse to bay without him. And he worried about those who had gone to Skaarsland, and how everyone in the Four Lands would be caught up in a cataclysmic war between nations if they were not successful.
He might have blacked out for a moment. He was never sure afterward. But when the moment was finished, so was the protective shield he had thought beyond his reach. He stared at its shimmer against the curtain of rain. He traced its outlines along the edges of the rocks and across the ground in front of him—solid everywhere with no gaps, no signs of loosening, and no indication of any flaws.
He leaned back against the rocks and tightened his cloak around him. Beyond his shelter, the rain continued. There were no signs of it ceasing and no indication of any breaks in the weather.
He closed his eyes in exhaustion and went to sleep sitting up.
* * *
—
Far to the south, beyond the lower borders of the Pashanon and nearing the last stretch of country before arriving at Kraal Reach, Weka Dart smiled to himself, pleased he had gotten this far so fast. He had run most of the way, heedless of weather and terrain, of dangers seen and hidden. He had covered the distance in half the time another would, driven by his commitment to see the stricken man he had left behind rescued before one of the larger predators could get to him. His mistress would be pleased that he had come so quickly. She would be proud of his efforts and come at once to this man she had asked him to find and bring back.
He fought to see through the continuing downpour, every inch of his journey a sodden mist-and-rain-clogged nightmare. He was soaked through by now, but steady movement kept him warm enough and he was energized by his progress. His thoughts of his mistress—of the Straken Queen, Grianne Ohmsford—drove him on. He wondered momentarily if the Druid had been right about her need to leave and return to the world from which she had been snatched. Could he blame her for wanting to be herself again, for wanting to become Grianne Ohmsford once more? As the Ilse Witch, she was no longer physically attractive or completely in control of her emotions. Her unwarranted outbursts and uncontrollable rages were becoming more frequent, and there was no one who hadn’t felt her wrath of late. Himself included.
Worse, there were rumors of an impending effort to remove her as Straken Queen.
Permanently.
Scrunching up his wizened features at the thought of losing her for whatever cause, he ran on.
* * *
—
Drisker Arc was dreaming. He had fallen asleep and had not woken even once in the hours that followed. It was night again by now, and the darkness helped comfort him. The rains still fell, but not with the same intensity as earlier. The heavy weather was passing, with a hint of clearing skies evident to the west. By morning, everything would be as it had been before the storm—if you discounted all the standing water and muddy flats and runoffs. But that was all hours away yet, and the Druid was aware of none of it.
In his dream, he was seated at a small fire across from Tarsha Kaynin. He had no idea how this had happened—how they had somehow found each other—but he knew she was alive, and that gave him hope. He stared at her raptly, but even though she was talking he could not manage to hear what she was saying. He tried hard to listen, watching the movement of her mouth and noting her gestures, but he remained in a soundless vacuum.