The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

They could do nothing about their situation that night, so they hunkered down to wait for morning. The cat couldn’t fly until there was power for the diapson crystals, and there wouldn’t be power for the crystals until there was light from which to draw it. Even then, the problem wasn’t solved, because they needed to rig the mainsail and radian draws to absorb the ambient light into the crystals, and they couldn’t do that on any kind of permanent basis without a mast. They couldn’t replace the mast until it was light enough to see to go into the Black Oaks—a whole other kind of problem—to find a tree suitable for the purpose. Then they had to cut down the tree, haul it back to the airship, shape it, attach the iron clips and stays that would hold it and the rigging in place, and put it up.

Pen, sunk down in a funk that defied his best efforts to dispel it, estimated conservatively that such an operation might take as long as three days. In the meantime, they were grounded in one of the most dangerous places in the entire Southland.

Nor could they do much to ease their physical discomfort. Soaked through and chilled to the bone, they might have welcomed even a little warmth. But a fire was out of the question while the Galaphile was hunting them, and Pen could not use the diapson crystals to generate even the smallest amount of heat because all their stored power was exhausted. He had not had time to pack the right provisions for this experience, so the best they could do for shelter was to strip off their wet clothes, crawl into the sleeping space under the pilothouse, and wrap up in spare sails to try to stay warm.

But only one of them could do this at a time because the other needed to stay topside and keep watch. Even Tagwen saw the wisdom in that. The Galaphile was of obvious concern, but the creatures that lived in the Black Oaks offered a more immediate threat. Gray wolves ran in packs large enough to challenge even a moor cat. The swamps were filled with snakes and dragon beasts. There were rumors of even larger, more dangerous things, some in the Black Oaks, some out in the Mist Marsh bordering it to the northeast. While they had weapons with which to defend themselves, neither Pen nor Tagwen was particularly anxious to test them out.

Things could be worse, Pen thought darkly as they sat staring at each other and the night, but not by much and not in any way he could immediately identify.

“Is there any food?” Tagwen asked glumly.

They were sitting inside the pilot box, talking about what they would do when morning came. The sky was clearing, the first stars and a hint of moonlight visible now through the broken clouds. Pen knew it was well after midnight, the beginning of a new day.

Wordlessly, he retrieved the pack of dried stores he had snatched up on his way out of the work shed and handed it to the Dwarf. Tagwen rummaged around inside and produced some dried beef and a rather sorry-looking hunk of cheese. He split both and handed half to the boy. Pen accepted his meal wordlessly and began to eat.

What was he doing out in the middle of nowhere, completely disabled? How had he ever let this happen?

“We should get some sleep,” he said wearily.

“I’ll keep watch,” Tagwen offered, working his knife across the cheese rind. “I’m more rested than you are, after that storm.”

Pen didn’t argue; he was exhausted. “All right.” He yawned.

“I don’t sleep much anyway,” Tagwen continued. “I used to stay awake for hours sometimes while your aunt was sleeping, just sitting there with her. I was always there for her when she was sick. I liked doing that—just sitting there. It made me feel I was doing something to help her, something besides keeping her affairs organized.”

“What is she like?” Pen asked suddenly.

The Dwarf looked at him. “You’ve spent time with her.”

“Not very much. Not enough to know her well. She doesn’t let you know her well. She keeps you at a distance.”

“She does that even to me. I can tell you that she lives with her past more than most. She’s haunted by it, Penderrin. She hates who she was and what she did as the Ilse Witch. She would do anything to take it all back and start over. I don’t think anyone understands that. The Druids mostly think she hasn’t changed all that much, that once you have the kind of magic she does, you don’t regret anything. They think she’s the same underneath, that she just masks it from them.”