But his words to her were false, for he did not understand her vision beyond what was immediately apparent. The black holes were the islands they sought. On each, something dark and dangerous awaited. The keys he would find did not look like the keys with which he was familiar. The haze of shadow that followed after and sought to wrap about him was the Ilse Witch.
Of the eyes and mouths and spirits, he had no opinion. Had she seen them in order of appearance? Were they manifestations of real dangers or metaphors for something else? He had gone to her again, just before making this descent, asking her to repeat what she had seen, everything. He had hoped she might reveal something new, something she had forgotten in the rush of last night’s telling. But her description of the dream remained unchanged. Nor had there been a new vision from which to draw. So he could not know what waited on the island, and he must look for any of the three dangers she had foreseen until one revealed itself.
Taking the Highlander with him was a risk. But Quentin Leah possessed the only other true magic of those accompanying him, save Truls Rohk, and he must have someone at his back while he sought out the first of the three keys. Quentin was young and inexperienced, but the Sword of Leah was a powerful weapon, and Quentin had trained for almost two weeks now with Ard Patrinell, whom Walker believed to be the finest swordsman he had ever seen. No mention had been made of Patrinell’s great skill by the other Elves, but Walker had watched him spar for days now with the Highlander and could tell it was there. Quentin was a quick study, and already he was showing signs that one day he might be a match for the Elf. It was enough to persuade the Druid to take a chance on him.
It could be argued that Truls Rohk was a more logical choice for this than Quentin, but it would have meant waiting until nightfall. Walker did not like the look of the storm approaching, and he felt it better in any case to keep the shapeshifter’s presence a secret for a little longer.
The basket bumped against the surface of the island, and the Druid and the Highlander scrambled out. The latter had his sword held ready, gripped in both hands, blade upward. “Stay close to me, Quentin,” Walker ordered. “Do not stray. Watch my back and your own, as well.”
They hastened across the flats in a low crouch, eyes watchful. The surface was rocky and slick with dampness and moss. Up close, the deep furrows were even more mysterious, worn into the rock like open irrigation runnels, not straight and even, but twisty and irregular, some of them as deep as four feet, their strange network laid all across the island. Walker cast about for boltholes in the rock in which something might burrow and hide, but there was nothing to be seen, only the exposed rock and the shallow ponds.
They continued on, Walker searching now for a trace of the key, a hint of its presence in the solid rock and shifting seawaters that lay all about. Where would such a key be hidden? If it was infused with magic, he should detect its presence quickly. If not, their search would take longer—time, perhaps, they did not have.
He glanced about warily. The island lay still and unmoving save for the soft wave of sea grasses buffeted by the approaching storm winds.
Suddenly Walker sensed something unfamiliar, not the magic he had anticipated, but an object that nevertheless had a living presence—though not one he could identify. It was over to his left, within a jumble of broken rock that formed a pocket on the high ground close to the southern tip of the island. The Druid swung toward it at once, working his way along the lip of one of the odd gullies, staying where he could see what lay about him. Pressed close to the darkrobed leader, Quentin Leah followed, his sword gleaming in the sunlight.
Then the sun slipped behind a bank of heavy clouds, and the island of Flay Creech was cloaked in shadow.