Erisha had stopped in front of him, apparently listening, making sure that it was safe. Satisfied, she took his arm and pulled him ahead. They went slowly, passing through rooms lit by tiny candles that gave just enough light to permit them to find their way without falling over the furniture. Once or twice, Erisha stopped and listened anew before proceeding. They reached a door that opened onto the stairway that led to the library housing the Elven histories and started down. Erisha was carrying a smokeless torch now to light their way. The air grew cooler and the silence deeper. They went down several flights until they reached the bottom level and stood in a small anteroom with a worktable and several chairs. A pair of doors were set into earthen walls shored up with beams and siding.
Erisha walked to the door on the right and opened it carefully, thrusting the torch inside for a quick look. Satisfied, she turned back to Kirisin and beckoned him forward. They entered the room, which was filled with shelves and cabinets crammed with books and papers, all marked by printed labels and numbers. Erisha moved to the back of the room, casting about as she went, searching. She stopped finally and pointed to a set of books that were ancient and dust-covered, bound in leather and labeled in gilt. She took down the first two volumes and passed one to him.
“These are the histories,” she whispered. “Do you want to carry them outside to the table?”
He shook his head. “Let’s stay in here.”
Together, they sat cross-legged on the wooden slat floor, placed the torch between them, opened the books, and began to read.
It was a long, slow process. The order in which the contents of the books had been recorded was confusing; it didn’t seem to be chronological or by subject. The writing on the pages was small and cramped, and many of the words were unfamiliar. Kirisin quickly decided it would take too long to read everything and suggested to Erisha that they search for key words such as Ellcrys and Elfstones, stopping to read the text when they found either. They did so and were able to turn the pages more quickly, but still found only infrequent mention of either word.
Worse, they did not once come across even the smallest reference to the Loden.
They finished the first two books and moved on to the next pair.
Time was slipping away. Kirisin found himself glancing at Erisha, who was absorbed in her reading and paying no attention to him. He was surprised that she had come around so completely, but gratified, too. He was thinking better of her already.
If they found something and she acted on it, he might even be willing to reassess . . .
“Looking for something?” a voice growled from out of the darkness of the doorway.
Kirisin felt his heart stop. He met Erisha’s frightened gaze as her head jerked up, and he could not look away.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
HANDS SHOOK HAWK’S shoulders hard and brought him awake with a start.
“Wake up, Bird-Man,” he heard Panther say.
He blinked his sleep-fogged eyes, trying to focus. It took him a moment to orient himself. He was still on the floor of the common room where he had fallen asleep last night. He could hear voices in the background, hushed and filled with wonder. He sensed joy emanating from their rise and fall.
“Hey!” Panther shook him again, and this time he looked up into the other’s eyes. A faint, ironic smile greeted him. “Better come see what your dog is up to.”
Cheney. He sat up quickly—too quickly—and everything started spinning. He sat with his head between his legs for a moment, waiting for things to quit moving.
“You worse off than that animal,” Panther snorted derisively.
“Maybe you got some of what he don’t. Get up, will you? You want to miss it?”
Hawk blinked, the spinning stopped, and he looked at Panther.
“Miss what?” he asked.
“Over there,” the other said, pointing.
The remaining Ghosts were crowded around Cheney, who was on his feet and lapping water from a bowl. He looked a bit ragged around the edges, but his wounds from yesterday’s battle had all but disappeared.
Owl wheeled, dark eyes intense. “How did this happen?” she asked, a mix of amazement and deep suspicion mirrored on her face. “We all saw it. He was dying, Hawk.”
Hawk shook his head. He was as confused as she was, although for different reasons. He knew what had happened, knew the part he had played in it, but didn’t understand how it could possibly be.
“That dog, that’s a devil dog,” Panther murmured, looking over at Cheney, his brow furrowed. “Ain’t no way he should be walking around. He was all tore up, couldn’t hardly draw a breath. Now he’s moving like he’s just the same as always.” He shook his head. “Yeah, he’s a devil dog, all right.”
Candle glanced up from where she knelt beside Cheney, saw that Hawk was awake, and rushed over to give him a big hug. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.
Hawk guessed it was. He guessed it was a miracle of sorts, although he thought it was something else, too—something more personal and more mysterious, perhaps, than even a miracle. He wanted to understand, but at the same time he was afraid of what he might learn. Cheney had indeed been dying, so far gone that he barely knew that it was Hawk who cradled his big head, his eyes glazed and his breathing harsh and ragged. There was nothing anyone could do for him, nothing that could save him, and yet. ..
Yet Hawk had saved him.
How had he done that?