But the Master Herbal, calm-eyed and dark like a wise and patient ox, rose from his seat and stood monumental. “Go, my lord,” he said, “and take the lad. And all our trust goes with you.”
One by one the others gave assent quietly, and by ones and twos withdrew, until only the Summoner was left of the seven. “Sparrowhawk,” he said, “I do not seek to question your judgment. Only I say: If you are right, if there is imbalance and the peril of great evil, then a voyage to Wathort, or into the West Reach, or to world’s end, will not be far enough. Where you may have to go, can you take this companion, and is it fair to him?”
They stood apart from Arren, and the Summoner’s voice was lowered, but the Archmage spoke openly: “It is fair.”
“You are not telling me all you know,” the Summoner said.
“If I knew, I would speak. I know nothing. I guess much.”
“Let me come with you:
“One must guard the gates.”
“The Doorkeeper does that-“
“Not only the gates of Roke. Stay here. Stay here, and watch the sunrise to see if it be bright, and watch at the wall of stones to see who crosses it and where their faces are turned. There is a breach, Thorion, there is a break, a wound, and it is this I go to seek. If I am lost, then maybe you will find it. But wait. I bid you wait for me.” He was speaking now in the Old Speech, the language of the Making, in which all true spells are cast and on which all the great acts of magic depend; but very seldom is it spoken in conversation, except among the dragons. The Summoner made no further argument or protest, but bowed his tall head quietly both to the Archmage and to Arren and departed.
The fire crackled in the hearth. There was no other sound. Outside the windows the fog pressed formless and dim.
The Archmage stared into the flames, seeming to have forgotten Arren’s presence. The boy stood at some distance from the hearth, not knowing if he should take his leave or wait to be dismissed, irresolute and somewhat desolate, feeling again like a small figure in a dark, illimitable, confusing space.
“We’ll go first to Hort Town,” said Sparrowhawk, turning his back to the fire. “News gathers there from all the South Reach, and we may find a lead. Your ship still waits in the bay. Speak to the master; let him carry word to your father. I think we should leave as soon as may be. At daybreak tomorrow. Come to the steps by the boathouse.”
“My lord, what-“ His voice stuck a moment. “What is it you seek?”
“I don’t know, Arren.”
“Then-“
“Then how shall I seek it? Neither do I know that. Maybe it will seek me.” He grinned a little at Arren, but his face was like iron in the grey light of the windows.
“My lord,” Arren said, and his voice was steady now, “it is true I come of the lineage of Morred, if any tracing of lineage so old be true. And if I can serve you I will account it the greatest chance and honor of my life, and there is nothing I would rather do. But I fear that you mistake me for something more than I am. “
“Maybe,” said the Archmage.
“I have no great gifts or skills. I can fence with the short sword and the noble sword. I can sail a boat. I know the court dances and the country dances. I can mend a quarrel between courtiers. I can wrestle. I am a poor archer, and I am skillful at the game of net-ball. I can sing, and play the harp and lute. And that is all. There is no more. What use will I be to you? The Master Summoner is right-“
“Ah, you saw that, did you? He’s jealous. He claims the privilege of older loyalty.”
“And greater skill, my lord.”
“Then you’d rather he went with me, and you stayed behind?”
“No! But I fear-“