He sneezed, shook himself furiously, and showered everyone with water. “Sorry,” he muttered, sounding not the least so.
Questor sniffed. “I trust you feel better now?”
Ben decided to head off any further squabbling. “Abernathy is right. We should have listened to him. But we didn’t, and what’s done is done. We have to put all that behind us. At least we’re back together again.”
“A lot of good that’s going to do us!” Abernathy snapped, still miffed.
“Well, it might do us some good.” Ben tried his best to sound positive. “The six of us together might be able to accomplish something more than I could alone.”
“The six of us?” Abernathy eyed the G’home Gnomes with disdain. “You count two more than I, High Lord. In any case, I am still not convinced that you really are the High Lord. Questor Thews is much too quick to believe. We have already been fooled once; it is possible that we are being fooled again. How do we know that this isn’t just another charade? How do we know that this isn’t another of Meeks’ tricks?”
Ben thought about it a moment. “You don’t, I guess. You have to take my word for it. You have to trust me — and trust your instincts.” He sighed. “Do you think Meeks could fool both Strabo and Nightshade that badly? Do you think I would be hanging about claiming to be High Lord if I really weren’t?” He paused. “Do you think I would still be wearing this?”
He reached down inside his tunic front and produced the tarnished medallion. The image of Meeks gleamed wetly, caught in a flash of distant lightning.
“Why are you still wearing it?” Questor asked quietly.
Ben shook his head. “I’m afraid to get rid of it. If Meeks is right and throwing off the medallion will finish me, then who would be left to warn Willow? She doesn’t know any of what’s happened. She doesn’t know that the dreams were sent by Meeks or the danger she’s in. I care too much for her, Questor. I can’t abandon her. I can’t take the chance that she’ll fall into the same trap I did and have no one to help her out.”
They were all silent for a moment, studying him.
“No, High Lord — you can’t,” Questor agreed finally. The wizard looked over at Abernathy. “The real Ben Holiday wouldn’t even think of such a thing, would he?” he asked pointedly. “Not the real Ben Holiday.”
Abernathy considered the possibility silently for a moment, then sighed. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” He glanced at Bunion, who nodded his monkey face approvingly. “Very well. The others accept you as High Lord; I shall do so as well.”
“I appreciate that,” Ben assured his scribe.
“But I still think that you are no better off with four of us…” He glanced once more at the G’home Gnomes. “…or six of us — or however many of us can be counted on — than you were by yourself! What is it that six of us are supposed to do that you could not do alone?”
The others looked at him expectantly. He stared past them into the haze of rain and darkness, drew his legs up to his chest to ward off the growing chill, and tried to come up with something. “Find Willow,” he said finally. “Protect her.”
They stared at him voicelessly.
“Look. The third dream is the key to everything that’s happened, and the bridle is the key to the dream. Willow has the bridle now — we know that. Strabo gave it to her. She has it, but what will she do with it?”
“What, Mighty High Lord?” asked Fillip eagerly.
“Yes, what?” echoed Sot.
“She will take it to you, High Lord,” Questor answered quickly. Then he paused. “Or at least to the one she believes to be you.”
“That’s right, Questor,” Ben whispered. “That’s what the dream told her she must do and that’s what she’ll do. She’ll take the bridle to me. But I won’t be me. I’ll be Meeks. Or he’ll be Meeks — the one she’ll run to. And then what happens to her?”