A crow with red eyes appeared out of the retreating night to the west and circled lazily overhead, unseen.
What was it he was missing? Ben wondered. Surely there was something he had overlooked, or mistaken, or failed to recognize—something that would lead him to Rydall. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Assume for the moment that Rydall was lying about who and what he was and where he came from. It was a fair enough assumption given Rydall’s disposition toward game playing. Invent the rules of a game, put them in play, and wait to see what would happen—that seemed to fit with what he knew of Rydall. The question he had asked himself earlier and then not gotten back to for an answer was, Why was Rydall doing all this? It had been the River Master’s question as well.
Why was Marnhull’s King sending monsters to challenge Ben instead of simply demanding his life in exchange for Mistaya’s? Why was he spending so much time challenging the Paladin to individual duels when he could just as easily have marched his army into Landover and taken it by force? To avoid bloodshed and loss of life? That didn’t seem likely.
In fact—and admittedly this was a stretch—Ben was beginning to question if Rydall had any real interest in Landover at all.
Because the truth was that this entire business was beginning to feel very personal. Ben couldn’t put his finger on why, but he definitely sensed it. It was something about those monsters, the nature of their magic, and the manner of their attack. Something. The confrontation between Rydall and himself looked to have more to do with the two of them than with Landover. Landover seemed almost an excuse, a pawn to be played and then discarded. Rydall didn’t appear to be in any hurry to complete his conquest. No time limits had been imposed regarding the passing of the throne, and no mention had been made of when a transition was expected to take place. All that seemed to matter was the contest.
Why was Rydall wasting so much time if all he wanted was to persuade Ben to give up the throne? Wouldn’t Ben do that anyway if it meant getting Mistaya back safely?
Wouldn’t he?
He looked quickly at Willow, a pang of guilt lancing through him as he hesitated with his answer. She was staring back at him, but no condemnation or suspicion registered in her green eyes, only concern and sadness and, behind it all, unfailing love. He was suddenly ashamed. He knew the answer, didn’t he? When his wife in his old world, Annie, and their unborn child had died, he had thought he would never recover; they were gone, and he could not get them back again. Now he had Willow and Mistaya, and he could not bear losing them as well. He would give up anything to keep them.
Midmorning had arrived, and the Wastelands were hazy-bright and sweltering.
Ben turned to Willow. “Another mile or so and we’ll stop and rest,” he told her. “And we’ll talk things out a bit.”
She nodded and said nothing. They rode slowly on.
Overhead, the crow with red eyes wheeled back the way it had come and was gone.
Nightshade flew quickly to the draw through which Holiday and his companions would pass, holding the struggling wurm firmly in her beak. She could barely keep her rage in check. She had waited all night for him to come to her, believing he must, certain that the dragon would offer no help and send him away. Instead, the beast had gone hunting for him—hunting, like some tame dog!–and Holiday had not come back as expected but had camped within the confines of the Fire Springs, a place she could not safely penetrate even with her formidable magic. So she had been forced to wait, to spend the entire night in the Wastelands keeping watch over her prize.
As if in response to her anger, the wurm wrapped itself around her beak and tried to bite her.
She laughed to herself as she watched its tiny teeth gnash. It had been a regular earthworm once, fat and sleek and indolent. Now it was her creature and would undertake the task she had set for it, becoming Rydall’s fourth monster.