It was true, he realized. He had never taken it down and shown it to her before. They had never discussed it. There had never been any reason to do so. He had carried it over with him through the mists, unpacked it, placed it in the library, and forgotten it.
Until now. He stood close to the sylph, staring down at the book in silence. Without, the rain continued in dreary, unchanging monotony, the sound of its falling a soft patter on the stone. Ben felt strangely lulled, as if he might fall asleep at any moment He was more tired than he wanted to admit, but he could not afford to sleep until he had unraveled the secret of Rydall and his monsters. Not until he had found a way to bring Mistaya home. Mistaya.
He stared at Willow in surprise. “You said you didn’t know about this book. But do you know who did? Mistaya. I caught her reading it once, paging through it. I didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt her. I don’t think she even saw me watching. She was so small, and I didn’t think she could even understand it…”
He trailed off, his mind racing. “Willow,” he said quietly, “I want you to listen to something. I want you to tell me what you think.”
Then he told her of his suspicion that Nightshade might be Rydall’s creator and that the Witch of the Deep Fell might be behind everything that had happened to them. He gave her all his reasons, laid out all the possibilities, and provided all the underpinnings of his conjecture. Willow listened intently, not interrupting, waiting for him to finish.
“The thing is,” he concluded worriedly, “Mistaya could have told Nightshade about the book, could have described the monsters, could even have drawn a picture. She’s smart enough to have remembered. She probably understood a whole lot more than I gave her credit for.”
“But why would she do this?” Willow wanted to know instantly. “Why would she do anything to help the witch?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m guessing about all this. But she has seen the book, and if Nightshade is Rydall, then it was Nightshade who kidnapped her. And has her now.”
Willow gave him a long, steady look as she considered the possibility. “Do you remember when we talked about who else knew of the connection between the medallion and the Paladin? Only you and I, you said. But Nightshade knows, too. She was with you in the Tangle Box when you used the medallion.”
Ben took a deep breath. “You’re right. I forgot about that.”
“You said you believed magic was used to hide the medallion when the robot attacked at Rhyndweir. Nightshade possesses such magic.” Willow’s face was stricken. “Ben, we have to go to the Deep Fell.”
Ben slid his book back into its slot on the shelf. “I know. We’ll go tomorrow, first thing. It’s too late to start out again today. We’re exhausted. We need at least one night’s sleep in a dry bed.”
He moved over to her and put his arms about her waist. “But we’re definitely going,” he promised. “And if that’s where Mistaya is, we’ll get her back.”
Willow put her arms around him in response and lay her head against his shoulder. They held each other in silence, drawing comfort and strength from their joining, hardening themselves against the feelings of fear and doubt that twisted within.
Outside, the shadows lengthened toward twilight and the rain fell harder.
They ate dinner alone in the dark silence of the eating hall, two solitary figures hunched close within the candlelight where it pushed back against the gloom. They did not speak much, too tired to attempt conversation, too immersed in their own thoughts. When they were finished, they retired to their bedchamber, climbed beneath the covers, and quickly fell asleep.
It was midnight when Ben woke. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to gain his bearings. He felt a faint burning where the medallion lay against his chest, a warning that something was wrong. He sat up slowly, his ears straining for sounds in the darkness. The rain had ceased finally, but the clouds hung across the sky like a shroud, blotting out the light of moons and stars. He could hear water dripping from the eaves and battlements, soft, small splashes in the inky night. Next to him Willow’s breathing was relaxed and steady.
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