reluctant to give his name to us as well.”
Steff shrugged. “Names are often kept secret in these times.
But the way in which he managed your escape from me Seek-
ers-well, that sounds like the man I have been hearing about.
They say he would dare anything where the Federation is con-
cerned.”
‘ ‘He was certainly bold enough that night,” Par agreed, smil-
ing.
They talked a bit longer of the stranger, the outlaw bands m
both Southland and Easdand, and the way in which the Four
Lands festered like an open sore under Federation rule. They
never did get back to the subject of Walker Boh, but Par was
content with where they had left it. He had his mind made up
where his uncle was concerned. It did not matter how fright-
ening Walker Boh appeared to others, to Steff or anyone else;
he would remain for Par the same man he had been when the
Valeman was a boy until something happened to change his
mind-and he had a curious feeling that nothing would.
Their talk dwindled finally, interrupted by frequent yawns
and distracted looks, and one by one they began to roll into their
blankets. Par offered to build the fire up one final time before
they went to sleep and walked to the edge of the trees in search
of deadwood. He was in the process of gathering some pieces
of an old cedar that had been blown down by the winds last
winter when he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Teel.
She seemed to materialize right in front of him, her masked face
intent, her eyes quite steady as she looked at him.
“Can you make the magic for me?” she asked quietly.
Par stared. He had never heard her speak, not once, not a
single time since he had encountered her that first night in
Granny Elise’s kitchen. As far as he had been able to determine,
she couldn’t. She had traveled with them as if she were Steff’s
faithful dog, obedient to him, watchful of them, unquestioning
and aloof. She had sat there all evening listening and not speak-
ing, keeping what she knew and what she thought carefully to
herself. Now, this.
“Can you make the images?” she pressed. Her voice was
low and rough. ‘ ‘Just one or two, so I can see them? I would
like it very much if you could.”
He saw her eyes then, where he hadn’t seen them before. They
were a curious azure, the way the sky had been that day so high
up in the mountains, clear and depthless. He was startled by
how bright they were, and he remembered suddenly that her
hair was a honey color beneath the covering hood, behind the
concealing mask. She had seemed rather unpleasant before in
the way in which she chose to distance herself from them, but
now, standing here amid the silence and shadows, she just
seemed small.
“What images would you like to see?” he asked her.
She thought for a moment. “I would like to see what Cul-
haven was like in the days of Allanon.”
He started to tell her he wasn’t sure what Culhaven had been
like that long ago, then caught himself and nodded. “I can try,”
he said.
He sang softly to her, alone in the trees, reaching out with
the magic of the wishsong to fill her mind with images of the
village as it might have looked three hundred years ago. He sang
of the Silver River, of the Meade Gardens, of the cottages and
homes all carefully tended and kept, of life in the home city of
the Dwarves before the war with the Federation. When he was
finished, she studied him expressionlessly for a moment, then
turned without a word and disappeared back into the night.
Par stared after her in confusion for a moment, then shrugged,
finished picking up the deadwood and went off to sleep.
They struck out again at dawn, working their way along the
upper stretches of the Wolfsktaag where the forests thinned and
the sky hovered close. It was another warm, bright day filled
with good smells and a sense of endless possibilities. Breezes