The Farthest Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

gone
     alone. Why, now, companioned?”
    “I never needed help before,” said Sparrowhawk, with an edge
     of threat or irony in his voice. “And I have found a fit companion.”There was a dangerousness about him, and the tall Summoner asked
     him no more questions, though he still frowned.
    But the Master Herbal, calm-eyed and dark like a wise and patient ox, rose
     from his seat and stood monumental. “Go, my lord,” he said, “and take
     the lad. And all our trust goes with you.”
    One by one the others gave assent quietly, and by ones and twos withdrew,
     until only the Summoner was left of the seven. “Sparrowhawk,” he said,
     “I do not seek to question your judgment. Only I say: if you are right, if there
     is imbalance and the peril of great evil, then a voyage to Wathort, or into the West
     Reach, or to world’s end, will not be far enough. Where you may have to go, can
     you take this companion, and is it fair to him?”
    They stood apart from Arren, and the Summoner’s voice was lowered,
     but the Archmage spoke openly: “It is fair.”
    “You are not telling me all you know,” the Summoner said.
    “If I knew, I would speak. I know nothing. I guess much.”
    “Let me come with you.”
    “One must guard the gates.”
    “The Doorkeeper does that—”
    “Not only the gates of Roke. Stay here. Stay here, and watch the
     sunrise to see if it be bright, and watch at the wall of stones to see who crosses it
     and where their faces are turned. There is a breach, Thorion, there is a break, a wound,
     and it is this I go to seek. If I am lost, then maybe you will find it. But wait. I bid
     you wait for me.” He was speaking now in the Old Speech, the language of theMaking, in which all true spells are cast and on which all the
     great acts of magic depend; but very seldom is it spoken in conversation, except among
     the dragons. The Summoner made no further argument or protest, but bowed his tall head
     quietly both to the Archmage and to Arren and departed.
    The fire crackled in the hearth. There was no other sound. Outside the
     windows the fog pressed formless and dim.
    The Archmage stared into the flames, seeming to have forgotten
     Arren’s presence. The boy stood at some distance from the hearth, not knowing if
     he should take his leave or wait to be dismissed, irresolute and somewhat desolate,
     feeling again like a small figure in a dark, illimitable, confusing space.
    “We’ll go first to Hort Town,” said Sparrowhawk, turning
     his back to the fire. “News gathers there from all the South Reach, and we may
     find a lead. Your ship still waits in the bay. Speak to the master; let him carry word
     to your father. I think we should leave as soon as may be. At daybreak tomorrow. Come to
     the steps by the boathouse.”
    “My lord, what—” His voice stuck a moment. “What
     is it you seek?”
    “I don’t know, Arren.”
    “Then—”
    “Then how shall I seek it? Neither do I know that. Maybe it will
     seek me.” He grinned a little at Arren, but his face was like iron in the grey
     light of the windows.
    “My lord,” Arren said, and his voice was
     steady now, “it is true I come of the lineage of Morred, if any tracing of lineage
     so old be true. And if I can serve you I will account it the greatest chance and honor
     of my life, and there is nothing I would rather do. But I fear that you mistake me for
     something more than I am.”
    “Maybe,” said the Archmage.
    “I have no great gifts or skills. I can fence with the short sword
     and the noble sword. I can sail a boat. I know the court dances and the country dances.
     I can mend a quarrel between courtiers. I can wrestle. I am a poor archer, and I am
     skillful at the game of net-ball. I can sing, and play the harp and lute. And that is
     all. There is no more. What use will I be to you? The Master Summoner is
     right—”
    “Ah, you saw that, did you? He’s jealous. He claims the
     privilege of older