“You said you came far today?” Quentin broke the momentary silence. “Where did you come from?”
Walker’s dark gaze shifted. “The Dragon’s Teeth originally.
Then from Leah.”
“That was your Roc,” Bek blurted out, suddenly able to speak again.
Walker glanced at him. “Not mine. Obsidian belongs to a Wing Rider named Hunter Predd. He should be along in a minute. He’s bedding down his bird first.” He paused. “You saw us, did you?”
“Saw your shadow, actually,” Quentin said as he worked on laying out strips of smoked fish in a pan. He had coated them with flour and seasonings, and was adding a bit of ale for flavor. “We were boar hunting.”
The Druid nodded. “Your father told me so.”
Quentin looked up quickly. “My father?”
Walker stretched his legs and braced himself with his good arm as he leaned back. “We know each other. Tell me, did you have any luck with the boar?”
Quentin went back to his fish, shaking his head to himself. “No, he was frightened off by you. The Roc’s shadow spooked him.”
“Well, my apologies for that. On the other hand, getting you back here to speak with me was of more consequence than seeing you bag that boar.”
Bek stared. Was he saying that he had spooked the boar deliberately, that the Roc’s passing hadn’t been by chance? He glanced quickly at Quentin to catch his cousin’s reaction, but Quentin’s attention had shifted at the sound of someone else’s approach.
“Ah, here is our friend, the Wing Rider,” Walker said, rising.
Hunter Predd trooped into the firelight, a lean, wiry Elf with gnarled hands and sharp eyes. He nodded to the Highlander and his cousin as they were introduced. He took a seat across from the Druid. Walker spent a few minutes talking about Wing Riders and Rocs, explaining their importance to the Elves of the Westland, then asked Quentin for news of his family. The conversation continued as the Highlander prepared the fish, some fry bread, and a clutch of greens. All the while, Bek watched Walker carefully, wondering what the meeting was all about, what sort of favor the Druid could want of them, how he knew Coran Leah, what he was doing with a Wing Rider, and on and on.
They had eaten their meal, washed it down with cold stream water, and cleaned up the dishes before Walker provided Bek with the answers he was seeking.
“I want you to come with me on a journey,” the Druid began, sipping at the ale Quentin had poured into his cup. “Both of you. It will be long and dangerous. It may be months before we return, maybe longer. We have to travel across the Blue Divide to a land none of us has ever seen. When we get there, we have to find a treasure. We have a map, and we have instructions written on the map about what we need to do to find this treasure. But someone else is after it, as well, someone very dangerous, and she will do everything she can to prevent us from reaching it first.”
There were no preliminaries, no buildups, and no small talk to lead into all this. The explanation was casual; they might have been talking about taking a rafting trip down the Rappahalladran. Bek Rowe had never ventured outside the Highlands, and now someone had appeared who wanted him to travel halfway around the world. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
Hunter Predd was the first to speak. “She?” he asked curiously.
Walker nodded. “Our nemesis is a very powerful sorceress who
calls herself the Ilse Witch. She is the protégé of a warlock known as the Morgawr. The names derive from a language used in the world of Faerie, most of it lost. Hers means singer. His means wraith or something like it. They reside in the Westland, down in the Wilderun, and seldom venture far from there. How the Ilse Witch found out about the map and our journey, I don’t know. But she is responsible for the death of at least two people because of it.” He paused. “Do you know of her?”