There was a stunned silence followed by an outcry. The room was suddenly divided between old and young.
Ranald thrust out his specter and roared, “Silence!”
But for the scrape of a chair, all was still.
“Are you finished?” Ranald’s voice was level, betraying nothing.
“Nay, there is more,” If the moment was dangerous, Fulcruchen chose to ignore it. “I practice the Old Way, Jah’s way, and I sense, no, I know that your father’s soul is at stake.”
A muscle ticked on the left side of the King’s face.
“I didn’t ask for this knowledge,” continued Fulcruchen. “It was given to me. Rand the Rash battles fire but soon fire will burn him out. Then comes the darkness, that textured darkness, that separates mind from memory, spirit from sight. Once I dreamt it and woke to my own screams. I say go to the Gibbor and offer a treaty in exchanged for a lifting of the anathema. Your father can tarry no longer in the Deep.” In a conciliatory gesture, Fulcruchen lifted up his hands. “If you go in peace, you need fear no danger.”
“What if the Gibbor refuses peace?”
“The war continues as before. You’ve lost nothing.”
“Only my pride.” A short answer but not bitter. “Leave me now. All of you.” The room was filled with sounds of the scrap and bump of chairs. “I will consider your proposal, Lord Fulcruchen.”
Less than a fortnight later, Ranald journeyed in the direction of High North. With him was a small retinue of horsemen and archers. He left his men at the base of Ron Jonna and rode alone to the designated bluff. A stick with a rag tied around it was thrust in the ground to indicate he was at the right spot. The clearing was deserted. There was no one in sight nor could he hear approaching sounds. The Warrior King kicked idly at the marker, then stopped, recognizing the scrap of material as a weathered glove. Uneasily, he remembered the story of Creath. Was this the Seer’s idea of a joke? Was he lost as well?
