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ignored because it wasn t readily accessible to him and because it didn t seem reasonable to look there?
Where was the one place none of them had looked?
The Deep Fell, where Nightshade made her home. Ben Holiday s suspicions hardened. What had begun
as a consideration of possibilities rapidly evolved into a careful sifting of facts. Nightshade as Rydall; it
made as much sense as anything else he had envisioned. Or Nightshade as Rydall s black-cloaked
companion, he amended. He remembered the way the hooded rider had studied him when he had come
down onto the causeway to pick up the gauntlet, the intensity of that veiled gaze. He remembered the
way both riders had looked upon Mistaya when she had climbed onto the ramparts. His chest tightened,
and his stomach turned to ice. It was late on the third day of their journey home when they came in sight
of Sterling Silver. The castle materialized through the gloom like a vision brought to life from a child s
imagining, a gleaming, rain-streaked rise of spires and parapets that hardened into stone and mortar,
timber and metal, pennants and flags as they closed on its island surround. They crossed the moat
through a misty curtain and passed beneath the raised portcullis. Retainers scurried to take their horses
and usher them inside out of the weather. Ben and Willow went wordlessly to their bedchamber, stripped
off their sodden clothing, climbed into a tub of steaming water, and lay back to soak. When some of the
ache and discomfort of their travel had been eased, they climbed out again, dried off, and dressed in
fresh clothing.
Then Ben led Willow down to the library for a close look at his copy of Monsters of Man & Myth. It
took only moments to locate it. It sat on the shelf exactly where he remembered leaving it. He pulled it
out and looked at the cover. Sure enough, there was Rydall s robot. He thumbed through the pages and
in short order found a drawing of the giant. Then he found the writer s description of the demon that
could mimic any foe.
He showed the book to Willow. You see? Exactly the same as Rydall s monsters.
She nodded. But how did he do it? How did he know about this book and these particular monsters?
Ben, I didn t know about this book. I didn t even know it was here. We ve never talked about it, not
once. How did Rydall know?
It was true, he realized. He had never taken it down and shown it to her before. They had never
discussed it. There had never been any reason to do so. He had carried it over with him through the
mists, unpacked it, placed it in the library, and forgotten it.
Until now. He stood close to the sylph, staring down at the book in silence. Without, the rain continued
in dreary, unchanging monotony, the sound of its falling a soft patter on the stone. Ben felt strangely lulled,
as if he might fall asleep at any moment He was more tired than he wanted to admit, but he could not
afford to sleep until he had unraveled the secret of Rydall and his monsters. Not until he had found a way
to bring Mistaya home. Mistaya.
He stared at Willow in surprise. You said you didn t know about this book. But do you know who
did? Mistaya. I caught her reading it once, paging through it. I didn t say anything, didn t interrupt her. I
don t think she even saw me watching. She was so small, and I didn t think she could even understand
it...
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He trailed off, his mind racing. Willow, he said quietly, I want you to listen to something. I want you
to tell me what you think.
Then he told her of his suspicion that Nightshade might be Rydall s creator and that the Witch of the
Deep Fell might be behind everything that had happened to them. He gave her all his reasons, laid out all
the possibilities, and provided all the underpinnings of his conjecture. Willow listened intently, not
interrupting, waiting for him to finish.
The thing is, he concluded worriedly, Mistaya could have told Nightshade about the book, could
have described the monsters, could even have drawn a picture. She s smart enough to have
remembered. She probably understood a whole lot more than I gave her credit for.
But why would she do this? Willow wanted to know instantly. Why would she do anything to help the
witch?
Ben shook his head. I don t know. I m guessing about all this. But she has seen the book, and if
Nightshade is Rydall, then it was Nightshade who kidnapped her. And has her now.
Willow gave him a long, steady look as she considered the possibility. Do you remember when we
talked about who else knew of the connection between the medallion and the Paladin? Only you and I,
you said. But Nightshade knows, too. She was with you in the Tangle Box when you used the
medallion.
Ben took a deep breath. You re right. I forgot about that.
You said you believed magic was used to hide the medallion when the robot attacked at Rhyndweir.
Nightshade possesses such magic. Willow s face was stricken. Ben, we have to go to the Deep Fell.
Ben slid his book back into its slot on the shelf. I know. We ll go tomorrow, first thing. It s too late to
start out again today. We re exhausted. We need at least one night s sleep in a dry bed.
He moved over to her and put his arms about her waist. But we re definitely going, he promised. And
if that s where Mistaya is, we ll get her back.
Willow put her arms around him in response and lay her head against his shoulder. They held each other
in silence, drawing comfort and strength from their joining, hardening themselves against the feelings of
fear and doubt that twisted within.
Outside, the shadows lengthened toward twilight and the rain fell harder.
They ate dinner alone in the dark silence of the eating hall, two solitary figures hunched close within the
candlelight where it pushed back against the gloom. They did not speak much, too tired to attempt
conversation, too immersed in their own thoughts. When they were finished, they retired to their
bedchamber, climbed beneath the covers, and quickly fell asleep.
It was midnight when Ben woke. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to gain his bearings. He felt a faint
burning where the medallion lay against his chest, a warning that something was wrong. He sat up slowly,
his ears straining for sounds in the darkness. The rain had ceased finally, but the clouds hung across the
sky like a shroud, blotting out the light of moons and stars. He could hear water dripping from the eaves
and battlements, soft, small splashes in the inky night. Next to him Willow s breathing was relaxed and
steady.
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Then he heard something scrape against the stone outside his window, a barely discernible sound, a
whisper of trouble approaching. He slipped from the bed swiftly, noiselessly, feeling the medallion burn
sharply now against his skin. Panic raced through him. He knew what was coming, and he was not ready
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