have been anything or anyone, good or evil, life or death.
Speak to me, he thought, frightened.
But the figure merely stood there, draped in shadow, silent
and immobile. It seemed to be waiting.
Then Par stepped forward and pushed back the cowl that hid
the other, emboldened by some inner strength he did not know
he possessed. He drew the cowl free and the face beneath was
as sharp as if etched in bright sunlight. He knew it instantly. He
had sung of it a thousand times. It was as familiar to him as his
own.
The face was Allanon’s.
IV
When he came awake the next morning, Par decided
not to say anything to Coil about his dream, hi the
first place, he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t
be sure if the dream had occurred on its own or because he had
been thinking so hard about having it-and even then he had no
way of knowing if it was the real thing. In the second place,
telling Coil would just start him off again on how foolish it was
for Par to keep thinking about something he obviously wasn’t
going to do anything about. Was he? Then, if Par was honest
with him, they would fight about the advisability of going off
into the Dragon’s Teeth in search of the Hadeshom and a three-
hundred-year-dead Druid. Better just to let the matter rest.
They ate a cold breakfast of wild berries and some stream
water, lucky to have that. The rains had stopped, but the sky
was overcast, and the day was gray and threatening. The wind
had returned, rather strong out of the northwest, and tree limbs
bent and leaves rustled wildly against its thrust. They packed
up their gear, boarded the skiff, and pushed off onto the river.
The Mermidon was heavily swollen, and the skiff tossed and
twisted roughly as it carried them south. Debris choked the
waters, and they kept the oars at hand to push off any large
pieces that threatened damage to the boat. The cliffs of the Runne
loomed daddy on either’side, wrapped in trailers of mist and
low-hanging clouds. It was cold in their shadow, and the broth-
ers felt their hands and feet grow quickly numb.
They pulled into shore and rested when they could, but it
accomplished little. There was nothing to eat and no way to get
warm without taking time to build a fire. By early afternoon, it
was raining again. It grew quickly colder in the rainfall, the wind
picked up, and it became dangerous to continue on the river.
When they found a small cove in the shelter of a stand of old
pine, they quickly maneuvered the skiff ashore and set camp for
the night.
They managed a fire, ate the fish Coil caught and tried their
best to dry out beneath the canvas with rain blowing in from
every side. They slept poorly, cold and uncomfortable, the wind
blowing down the canyon of the mountains and the river chum-
ing against its banks. That night, Par didn’t dream at all.
Morning brought a much-needed change in the weather. The
storm moved east, the skies cleared and filled with bright sun-
light, and the air warmed once more. The brothers dried out
their clothing as their craft bore them south, and by midday it
was balmy enough to strip off tunics and boots and enjoy the
feel of the sun on their skin.
“As the saying goes, things always get better after a storm,”
Coil declared in satisfaction. “There’ll be good weather now,
Par-you watch. Another three days and we’ll be home.”
Par smiled and said nothing.
The day wore on, turning lazy, and the summer smells of
trees and flowers began to fill the air again.
They sailed beneath Southwatch, its black granite bulk jutting
skyward out of the mountain rock at the edge of the river, silent
and inscrutable. Even from as far away as it was, the tower
looked forbidding, its stone grainy and opaque, so dark that it
seemed to absorb the light. There were all sorts of rumors about
Southwatch. Some said it was alive, that it fed upon the earth in