With SLOW, cautious steps, moving through the vast, empty
hallways as if the walls might hear him coming, as if his inten
tions could be divined, he proceeded toward the center of the
Keep. Shadows hung about him in colorless folds, a sleep-shroud
that cloaked his thoughts. He buried himself in the sanctuary of
his mind, drawing his determination and strength of will about
him in protective layers, summoning from deep within the re-
solve that would give him a chance at life.
For the truth of things was that he had no real idea what
would happen when he confronted the Druid watchdog and
called upon the Black Elfstone’s magic to subdue it. Cogline was
right; there would be pain and the process would be more com-
plex and difficult than he wanted to admit. There would be a
struggle, and he might not emerge the victor. He wished he had
some better idea of what it was he faced. But there was no point
in wishing for what could never be, for what had never been.
The Druid ways had been secretive forever.
He turned down the main hallway, heading now to the doors
that opened into the Keep-and to the well in which the watch-
dog slumbered. Or perhaps simply laired, for it seemed to the
Dark Uncle that the magic was awake and watching, following
him with its eyes as he moved through the castle, trailing along
in a ripple of changing light, an invisible presence. Allanon’s
shade was there as well, a tightening at his back, a cramping of
the muscles in his shoulders where the great hands gripped. He
was held fast already, he thought to himself. He was propelled
to this confrontation as much as if he were deadwood carried
on the crest of a river in flood, and he could not turn aside
from it.
Speak to me, Allanon, he pleaded silently. Tell me what to do.
But no answer came.
The doors of empty rooms and the dark tunnels of other
halls and corridors came and went. He felt again the ache of his
missing arm and wished that he were whole again, if only for
the moment of this confrontation. He gripped the Black Elfstone
tightly in his good hand, feeling its smooth facets and sharp
edges press reassuringly against his flesh. He could summon the
power within, but he could not predict what it would do. Destroy
you, the thought came unbidden. He breathed slowly, deeply,
to calm himself. He tried to remember the passage on the Stones
usage from the Druid History, but his memory suddenly failed
him. He tried to remember what he had read in all the pages of
all those books and could not. Everything was melting away
within, lost in the rush of fear and doubt that surged through
him, anxious and threatening. Don’t give way to it, he admon-
ished himself. Remember who you are, what has been promised
you, what you have told yourself will happen.
The words were dead leaves caught in a strong wind.
Ahead, a broad alcove opened into the stone of the walls,
arched and shadowed so deeply that it was as black as night.
There, a set of tall iron doors stood closed.
The entry to the well of the Druid’s Keep.
Walker Boh came up to the doors and stopped. All around
him he could hear a whispering of voices, taunting, teasing in
the manner of the Grimpond, telling him to go back, urging him
to go on, a maddening whirl of conflicting exhortations. Mem-
ories stirred from somewhere within-but they were not his
own. He could feel their movement along his spine, a reaching
out of fingers that coiled and tightened. Before him, he could
see a trace of wicked green light probe at the cracks and crevices
of the door frame. Beyond, he could sense movement.
In that instant, he almost bolted. Had he been able to do so,
he would have thrown down the Black Elfstone and run for his
life, the whole of his resolve and purpose abandoned. His fear
was manifest; it was so palpable that it seemed he could reach
out and touch it. It did not wear the face he had expected. His