Ilse Witch

Walker. Even Hunter Predd, who seldom ventured off the coast of the Blue Divide, knew something of him. He was purported to be the last of the Druids. A dark figure in the history of the Four Lands, he was said to have lived for more than 150 years and to still be young. He had fought against the Shadowen in the time of Wren Elessedil. He had disappeared afterwards for decades, then resurfaced some thirty years ago. The rest of what the Wing Rider knew was even more shadowy. There was talk of Walker being a sorcerer possessed of great magic. There was talk that he had tried and failed to establish a coven. It was said he wandered the Four Lands still, gathering information and soliciting disciples. Everyone feared and mistrusted him.

Except, it seemed, Allardon Elessedil, who insisted that there was nothing to fear or mistrust, that Walker was a historian and academician, and that the Druid, of all men, might possess the ability to decipher the drawings and words on the map.

After thinking it over, Hunter Predd accepted the charge to take the map east, not out of duty or concern or anything remotely connected to his feelings for the Elf King, which in general bordered on disinterest. He accepted the charge because the King promised him that in reward for his efforts, he would bestow upon the Wing Hove possession of an island just below and west of the Irrybis that the Wing Riders had long coveted. Fair enough, Hunter decided on hearing the offer. Opportunity had knocked, the prize was a worthwhile one, and the risks were not prohibitive.

In truth, he did not see all that much in the way of risk no matter how closely he looked at the matter. There was the very good possibility that the Elf King wasn’t telling him everything; in fact, Hunter Predd was almost certain of it. That was the way rulers and politicians operated. But there was nothing to be gained by sending him off to die, either. Clearly, Allardon Elessedil wanted to know what information the map concealed—especially if the castaway on whom it had been found was his brother. A Druid might be able to learn that, if he was as well schooled as the Elf King believed. Hunter Predd did not know of any Wing Riders who’d had personal dealings with this one. Nor had he heard any of his people speak harshly of the Druids. Balancing the risks and rewards as he understood them, which was really the best he could manage, he was inclined to take his chances.

So off he went, flying Obsidian out of Arborlon at midday and traveling east toward the Streleheim. He crossed the plains without incident and flew into the Dragon’s Teeth well above Callahorn, choosing a narrow, twisting gap in the jagged peaks that would have been impassable on foot but offered just enough space for the Roc to maneuver. He navigated his way through the mountains quickly and was soon soaring above the treetops of Paranor. Once over the woodlands, he took Obsidian down to a small lake for a cold drink and a rest. As he waited on his bird, he looked out across the lake to where the trees locked together in a dark wall, a twisted and forbidding mass. He felt sorry, as he always did, for those who were forced to live their lives on the ground.

It was nearing sunset when the Druid’s Keep came in sight. It wasn’t all that hard to find from the air. It sat on a promontory deep in the woodlands, its spires and battlements etched in sharp relief by the setting sun against the horizon. The fortress could be seen for miles, stone walls and peaked roofs jutting skyward, a dark and massive presence. Allardon Elessedil h1ad described the Keep in detail to Hunter Predd before he left, but the Wing Rider would have known it anyway. It couldn’t be anything other than what it was, a place where dark rumors could take flight, a haunt for the last of a coven so mistrusted and feared that even their shades were warded against.

Hunter Predd guided Obsidian to a smooth landing close by the base of the promontory on which the Keep rested. Shadows layered the surrounding land, sliding from the ancient trees as the sun lowered west, stretching out into strange, unrecognizable shapes. Lifting out of the woods, out of the shadows, rising above it all, silent and frozen in time, only the Keep was still bathed in sunlight. The Wing Rider regarded it doubtfully. It would be easier to fly Obsidian to the top of the rise than to leave him here and walk up himself, but he was loath to risk landing so close to the walls. Here, at least, the trees offered a protective perch and there was room for a swift escape. For a Wing Rider, his mount’s safety was always foremost in his mind.

He did not hobble or hood the great bird; Rocs were trained to stay where they were put and come when they were called. Leaving Obsidian at the base of the rise and the edge of the trees, Hunter Predd began the short walk up. He arrived at the towering walls as the sunlight slid away completely, leaving the Keep bathed in shadows. He stared upward, searching for signs of life. Finding none, he walked to the closest gate, which was closed and barred. There were smaller doors set on either side. He tried them, but they were locked. He stepped back again and looked up at the walls once more.

“Hello, inside!” he shouted.

There was no response. The echo of his voice faded into silence. He waited patiently. It was growing increasingly dark. He glanced around. If he didn’t rouse someone soon, he would have to retreat back down the rise and make camp for the night.