He looked up again for Dirk, but the cat was already trotting away, scattering the fearful gnomes before him. “Best hurry, High Lord,” he called back. “The Deep Fell is no place to be looking for oneself after nightfall.”
Ben climbed slowly to his feet, not only more confused than ever but also frightened now as well. “Why do I ask that damn cat anything?” he muttered in frustration. But he already knew the answer to that question, of course. He shook his head at matters in general and hastened after.
By midaftemoon, they had reached the Deep Fell.
It was unchanged and unchanging — a dark, impenetrable smudge on an otherwise brightly sunlit expanse of forestland, hunched down against the earth in the manner of a creature in hiding, tensed to flee or strike. Shadows and mist played hide and seek in its sprawling depths, crawling with slow, irregular movements over trees and swamp and murk. Nothing else could be seen. What life forms there were lay in wait, pawns in a hard and vicious game of survival that rewarded only the quick and the strong. Sounds were muted and colors shaded gray. Only death was at home within the Deep Fell, and only death was immutable. Ben and his companions could sense that truth. Standing at the hollows rim, they stared downward into its darkness and thought their separate thoughts.
“Well, we might as well get at it,” Ben muttered finally. He was remembering the last time he had come into the Deep Fell and the terrifying illusions that Nightshade had created to keep him out — the illusions of endless swamp, lizards, and worse. He was thinking of his encounter with the witch — an encounter that had almost cost him his life. He was not looking forward to a repeat performance.
“Well,” he said again, the word trailing off into silence.
No one was paying any attention to him. Dirk sat next to him, eyes lidded and sleepy-looking as he basked in a small patch of sunlight and watched the movement of the mists in the Deep Fell. Fillip and Sot stood a good dozen yards left, well away from the cat and the hollows. They were whispering in small, anxious voices.
He shook his head. “Fillip. Sot.”
The G’home Gnomes cringed away, pretending not to hear him.
“Get over here!” he snapped irritably, his patience with gnomes and cats in general exhausted.
The gnomes came sheepishly, tentatively, edging forward with uneasy looks at Dirk, who as usual paid them no heed. When they were as close as they were going to get without being dragged, Ben knelt down to face them, his eyes finding theirs.
“Are you certain that Nightshade is down there?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, High Lord.”
“She is, High Lord.”
Ben nodded. “Then I want you to be careful,” he told them quietly. This was no time for impatience or anger, and he suppressed both. “I want you to be very careful, all right? I don’t want you to do anything that will place you in any real danger. Just go down there and look around. I need to know if Willow is there — or even if she’s been there earlier. That’s first. Find out any way you can.”
He paused, and the wide brown eyes of the gnomes shifted uneasily. He waited a moment, captured them again with his own. “There is a bridle made out of spun gold,” he continued. “Nightshade has it hidden down there somewhere. I need that bridle. I want you to see if you can find it. If you can, I want you to steal it.”
The brown eyes widened suddenly to the size of saucers. “No, it’s all right, don’t be afraid,” Ben soothed quickly. “You don’t have to steal it if the witch is anywhere about — only if she’s not or if you can take it without her knowing. Just do what you can. I’ll protect you.”
That was probably the worst lie he had told in his entire life; he didn’t really have any way to protect them. But he had to do something to reassure them or they would simply bolt at the first opportunity. They might do that anyway, but he was hoping the majesty of his office would hold them in thrall just long enough to get this job done.