Ben blinked. “You speak of her as if she were alive.”
The owlish face nodded. “So she is, High Lord — as alive as you or I.”
“But she’s dying?”
“Slowly and painfully.”
“And that is where you want me to live — in a dying castle?”
Questor smiled. “You must. You are the only one who can heal her.” He took Ben’s arm and propelled him ahead. “Come along now, High Lord. You will find her quite pleasant on the inside, where her heart is still warm and her life still strong. Things are not really so bad as they might seem. Come, now. You will find her very much a home. Come.”
They descended the ridgeline through the meadow to where the waters of the lake lapped softly against a bank of marshy grasses. Weeds grew in thick tufts where the shoreline had eroded and stagnant pools had formed. Frogs croaked and insects hummed, and the lake smelled faintly fishy.
There was a long boat with a curved prow and knight’s head, low gunwales, and rudderless stem pulled up upon the banks. Questor motioned, and they climbed aboard. Ben moved to a forward seat while Questor sat in the stem. They had just settled themselves when the boat began to move. It lurched free of the lake shore and slipped quietly into its waters. Ben looked about curiously. He could discover no source of propulsion for the boat.
“The touch of your hands lends it direction,” Questor said suddenly.
Ben stared down at his hands as they gripped the gunnels. “My hands?”
“The boat, like the castle, is alive. It is called a lake skimmer. It responds to the touch of those it serves. You are now foremost of those. Will it to carry you and it shall do so.”
“Where shall I will it to carry me?”
Questor laughed gently. “Why, to the front door, High Lord.”
Ben gripped the gunnels and conveyed the thought silently. The lake skimmer sped swiftly across the dark waters, leaving a white swale in the wake of its passing.
“Slowly, High Lord, slowly,” Questor admonished. “You convey your thoughts too urgently.”
Ben relaxed his grip and his thoughts, and the lake skimmer slowed. It was exciting, having use of this small magic. He let his fingers brush softly across the smooth wood of the gunwales. It was warm and vibrant. It had the feel of a living thing.
“Questor?” He turned back to the wizard. The sense of life in the lake skimmer bothered him, but he kept his hands in place. “What was it you said before about my healing the castle?”
The fingers of one hand came up to rub the owlish face. “Sterling Silver, like Landover, is in need of a King. The castle fails without one. Your presence within the castle renews her life. When you make her your home, that life will be fully sustained once more.”
Ben glanced ahead to the spectral apparition with its dark towers and battlements, its discolored stone walls and vacant eyes. “What if I don’t want to make her my home?”
“Oh, I think you will,” the wizard replied enigmatically.
Think whatever you want, Ben thought without saying it. His eyes stayed on the approaching castle, on the mist and shadows that shrouded it. He expected at any moment to see something with fangs appear at the windows of the highest tower and to see bats circling watchfully.
He saw, however, nothing.
The lake skimmer grounded gently on the island banks, and Ben and Questor disembarked. An arched entry with raised portcullis stood before them, an open invitation to be swallowed whole. Ben shifted the duffel from one hand to the other, hesitating. If anything, the castle looked worse close up that it had from the ridge crest.
“Questor, I’m not sure about…”
“Come, High Lord,” the wizard interrupted, again taking his arm, again propelling him ahead. “You cannot see anything worthwhile from out here. Besides, the others will be waiting.”
Ben stumbled forward, eyes shifting nervously upward long the parapets and towers; the stone was damp and the corners and crevices a maze of spider webs. “Others? What others?”
“Why, the others who stand in service to the throne — your staff, High Lord. Not all have left the service of the King.”