The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(39)

“What do you think causes the beast to change?” Paxon asked Starks as they sat in one of the two taverns the town had to offer, drinking from tankards of ale and mulling things over. “You said you believed it was spontaneous. But wouldn’t something have to happen to trigger a reaction that severe?”

“You would think so,” Starks agreed. His black robes were rumpled and sweat-stained, and his face was streaked with dust. “But I don’t know what it is yet.”

Paxon knew he was as grimy as the Druid, and he wanted to take a bath before eating anything—assuming they could find food somewhere. But mostly he wanted to know more about the girl, Iantha.

“Do you think we could go back there tonight?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“The miller’s?” Starks shrugged. “I suppose. It will be dark, though. Are you hoping to catch the creature in mid-change?”

Paxon shook his head no. “I just want to talk to the girl again. I’m worried about her.”

“She does seem a bit frail. She said he is afraid for her? Why would that be?”

“That’s one of my questions.” Paxon leaned back in his chair. “Do you think you can decoy him away for a few minutes when we go back?”

They talked about how to do so, already decided that waiting around until tomorrow was a waste of time and that going tonight made better sense. There was no guarantee the creature killing the villagers would delay doing so again, so the quicker they got to the bottom of this, the better.

“I still don’t understand the nature of the magic involved,” Paxon said a bit later. “If it isn’t a talisman, how are we supposed to recover it? Killing the creature won’t give it to us, will it?”

Starks shrugged. “I don’t know. The Ard Rhys made it plain enough that the killings were to be stopped, no matter what. I have accepted those marching orders and put aside any consideration of recovering magic until afterward. There are all kinds of magic, Paxon. This is a new one, although I would guess that somewhere in the Druid Histories there is a record of one similar. Magic doesn’t live in a vacuum; it always has a traceable source.”

They finished their ale and then thought to ask the tavern owner if they could get dinner. He said that the answer was usually no but his wife was making a roast and for a reasonable price they might share it. Both Starks and Paxon were quick to agree, even though the price asked was considerably more than a meal would normally cost.

So they remained at the tavern through dinner, and then set out for the miller’s place. They rode through the twilight toward the purple-and-gray foothills, turned off on the trail that paralleled the river, and arrived just before nightfall at the mill. The air was cool and windless, and the night birds were still. In the darkness before them, bats flew in sudden bursts from the trees and eaves of the house.

Just before they started to dismount, Paxon turned to Starks. “Do you think there is a possibility Crombie Joh might be this creature?”

Starks gave him a careful look. “I think anyone and everyone might be this creature. Remember that.”

They walked up to the veranda, and Joh appeared in the doorway before they reached it. “Kind of late for a visit, isn’t it?” he asked.

“We’re trying to make the best use of our time,” Starks said vaguely, greeting him with a handshake. “A few more things came to mind. I thought we could walk down to the mill to talk about them. Paxon can stay here with your daughter, just to be sure she’s kept safe and sound while you’re gone.”

The miller frowned. “She could go with us. She should, I think.”

“It might be best if she stays behind. What I have to tell you is not fit for young ears. It will remind her of the very things you’ve already said she needs to forget.”

“Did I say that? Well, I suppose I did.” He looked discomfited. “All right. If this doesn’t take too long.”

“I’ll wait here on the porch,” Paxon announced, already moving over to seat himself. “Unless you think she needs me to come in.”

“No, no, you’re fine where you are.” The big man hesitated, then started walking. “Just for a few minutes, though.”

Paxon sat alone in the darkness, conscious of the weight of his sword where it pressed against his back, a comforting presence. His eyes were sufficiently adjusted to the darkness by now that he could see almost everything clearly in the mix of light from the quarter moon and stars. He could hear the steady rippling of the river as it flowed past the cottage some thirty feet away, its movement casting a silvery sheen in the moonlight.

Not a minute had passed before Iantha came through the door and sat down beside him.

“You came back,” she said. Her eyes were huge in the darkness, her fine dark hair like a veil where it spilled over her face.

“I was worried about you. I didn’t like what you had to say about your father. Why wouldn’t he want you to have friends?”

“He’s just trying to protect me. But I suppose it could be something else.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything more. “Are you afraid of him?”

She stared at him. “What an odd question. No, I’m not afraid of him. He’s my father. I’m just worried about him.”

“Why?”