by Terry Brooks
She frowned. “I’ve never heard of a forest imp.”
“Well, there aren’t many of us, and we don’t tend to mix with other creatures. We stay where we belong, mostly—here in the deep woods. There are only six or eight of us in this stretch.”
“And where do forest imps come from?”
“Far, far away. From a place called Morrowindl, a volcanic island out in the Blue Divide. We lived there for centuries but then some of us came back with Elves who were rescued from an explosion along with the city of Arborlon.”
She stared at him. She had no knowledge of any of this. Did she even want to know? She decided not. “What do forest imps do?” she asked instead.
“Oh, pretty much whatever we want. We have no limits to our capabilities, you know. Even the Druid admires us.”
“You’ve been friends a long time?”
“Long enough to get to know each other pretty well. He’s not like other people.”
“I don’t suppose he is.”
“I suspect you are not like the rest of your people, either, little sister. I think your magic makes you very special. I have watched you using it under his guidance. I have seen what you can do. You are very talented.”
So. Another pair of eyes has been watching. How many more are there that I don’t know about?
“Thank you,” she said. “You seem to have a lot of free time.”
“Nothing but,” he said, and his rumble of laughter filled the forest and sent birds and animals alike scattering in all directions.
When they finally reached the cottage, they found it in ruins, a charred and still-smoking heap of timbers and ashes. Tarsha stood looking, a deep sadness stealing through her as she thought of the Druid’s face on seeing what had been done to his home.
“You can’t stay here,” the little man said, glancing over.
“I have to wait for Drisker,” she answered. “I have to tell him what’s happened.”
“He might not be back for quite a while and possibly not until after that. His journey took him far to the north. Come with me. I have a place. I will leave him a sign so he will know where to look for you. Come.”
She hesitated, but then grudgingly followed, the books still in her arms. She didn’t trust leaving them out in the open. She wanted to give them to Drisker herself. She wanted to show him she had been able to save something that mattered.
They walked into the trees again, this time in a different direction, one that eventually took them into a part of the forest to which she had never been. Here the trees were giants, their limbs heavy and broad, their trunks soaring hundreds of feet into the air. The sun was visible but only just, and the light that managed to work its way through the canopy was diffuse and pale. The air smelled of damp and rotting things, as if although still living this part of the forest was in the process of dying, too. There were huge nurse logs and splintered remains of fallen trunks clogging the forest floor, and the forest imp and the girl had to pick their way through the debris. It was difficult for Tarsha, but the imp seemed to find it easy and his movements were quick and sure as he led her on.
Something else was odd, she realized after a time. There were no birds here—no singing and no signs of flight. She didn’t notice any ground animals, either. It was as if they had entered another world. She felt a slight sense of worry nudging at her, but there was nothing to suggest that the forest imp meant her any harm. Could a friend of Drisker Arc’s be a danger to her? She didn’t see how. So she continued on, telling herself it was all right, that she just needed to be a little cautious.
A little more than an hour later, they had reached a glade shadowed by giant conifers that ringed the space in perfect symmetry. The light was brighter and the air less fetid, and Tarsha felt a sense of reassurance. Without slowing, the forest imp went to one of the trees, reached down, and opened a trapdoor covered with moss and grasses.
“I live here,” he advised.
At his beckoning, she went down a set of wooden stairs into a wide, spacious underground chamber framed by tree roots and wooden beams used for shoring up the earth. There was a table and four chairs, a cooking stove, an unmade bed with colorful quilts and pillows, a dresser with drawers partially opened and stuffed with clothes, a work area with benches and cabinetry, and the most wondrous golden chandelier she had ever seen. It hung from a beam at the center of the room, arms gracefully spreading, curious glass bulbs at their tips giving off just enough light to brighten the room.
“Do you like it?” he asked eagerly.
“Of course. It’s beautiful.” She could not take her eyes off it. “Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it. I made it.”
Then he snapped his fingers, and the glass bulbs brightened further, illuminating the entire chamber from wall to wall. Tarsha smiled in surprise. “So maybe you do know a little of magic,” she said.
“A little. Let’s eat something. You must be hungry by now.”
He trundled over to the kitchen area, removed some meat and cheese from cold storage along with a pitcher of ale, found some bread and fruit, and brought all of it over to set before her. While she continued to gaze around the room, he laid it all out, pouring the ale into two tankards. They ate and drank and talked until the meal was consumed. By then Tarsha could barely keep her eyes open, holding her head up with one hand and running her fingers through her white-blond hair as she felt a deep weariness overtake her.
“Come with me,” said the forest imp.
Taking her hand, he led her to the bed and, in spite of her protestations, insisted she lie down and try to sleep. She was exhausted from her ordeal, he said. Anyone would be. Better she be refreshed and awake when the Druid returned.
She did as he suggested, already feeling it was impossible to do anything else—and the minute she laid her head on the pillow he had provided, sleep claimed her.
TWELVE
It was on the eighth day after leaving for the north that Drisker Arc returned. He flew the two-man flit into Emberen two hours after midday and stabled her with the storage manager before starting the walk home. His thoughts were of the enemy army on its march south out of Troll country toward the Borderlands and the continuing mystery of its hidden intent. That it was an invader come to claim new territory seemed apparent. But who this invader was and where it was going ultimately remained uncertain.
Which left him wishing he knew a great deal more about what was happening than he did.
These invaders had been fortunate in their successes so far because they had been dealing with Trolls, who saw things mostly in straightforward terms of strength versus strength, and had stood little chance against an enemy that utilized skilled military tactics. And quite possibly used some form of magic, as well. But others they would encounter if they continued south would be less vulnerable. Others would be more experienced and would possess better weapons. Others would confront them with greater numbers. It would take more than clever tactics and basic magic to bring them down.
He wrestled with what he was going to do about what he had learned. He had to do something, but the most obvious choice was the one he wanted least to make. To go to the Druids and share what he had learned. To go to them and warn them and hope they would listen to him. To brace Ober Balronen, now High Druid, at Paranor, where he had once held the same position, and risk the sting and shame of being turned away.
He was not at all sure he could do it.
He was less sure still that he could not.
The walk calmed him, banishing the thoughts that had plagued him all the way home from the shores of the Lazareen, bringing him fully back to himself. The familiar smells of the forest, the flashes of color from swooping birds, the buzzing of insects, and the skittish movement of small animals in the underbrush all served to remind him of what mattered—his home and his privacy, his escape from the stresses of his former life, and a reassurance that he was free of the constant feeling that he was serving no purpose as
a Druid leader. The dark memories of those years had not faded, and he did not think they ever would. Here was where he belonged. The good feelings of his retreat engendered in him by his walk home only served as a welcome reminder.
And suddenly he was standing at the edge of the clearing where his cottage home had once been, staring at the still-smoking rubble, and everything was swept away in a moment.
At first, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Nothing remained of what had been there eight days earlier, the whole of it reduced by fire to ashes and debris. He started forward and then stopped again. He needed to make it feel real, yet at the same time wanted it not to be. Because if it was real, then everything that mattered to him was gone.
He wondered suddenly of the girl. Tarsha Kaynin. Where was she? He looked around the clearing, hoping the answer would reveal itself but knowing it would not. He continued forward, scanning the ground out of habit, searching for signs that would tell him who had done this. He circled the rubble twice, eyes cast downward. He found the tracks soon enough, dozens of them. Whoever they were, they had come in force and attacked from all sides. One or two and maybe even more had died in the attack, their blood still staining the ground. But there were no bodies, discarded weapons, or telltale leavings. The attackers had gone back to wherever they had come from without leaving any clue as to their origins.
Of Tarsha, there was no trace at all.
Flinc appeared out of the trees, shambling toward him in that oddly sliding fashion, grizzled countenance wreathed in lines of sadness. One gnarled hand gripped a heavy canvas sack.
“There were more than a dozen,” he advised, shaking his head mournfully. “They came last night—searching for you, I would guess. They found you missing and burned your home in retribution. There was nothing I could do.”
Drisker eyed the forest imp coldly. “Apparently not. And the girl?”
The little man shrugged. “Dead. They killed her in the first few minutes. I am not sure she even woke before it was over. I tried to warn her, but I was too slow. I did manage to rescue these.”
He passed the sack to Drisker, who opened it and pulled out his two most precious books of magic. A small consolation in a desolate moment, but he should have been grateful. “My thanks.”
“It was nothing. A small attempt at redeeming myself when I could do so little else.” The imp looked immensely pleased, his attempt at humility pathetic. “I have always done what I could for you. You know that.”
Drisker felt a surge of rage. “And frequently done what you shouldn’t have, too.”
He watched Flinc’s expression change, saw his gaze shift and his body recoil. It confirmed the Druid’s suspicions. That something was not right with all this. That the imp was playing games.
“Do you want to tell me what really happened?” he asked quietly, his voice chilly with menace.
Flinc quickly tried to recover. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t understand many things,” Drisker interrupted. “Particularly the fine art of lying and making it seem like truth. Let me ask you. How is it that you managed to retrieve these books and yet not wake Tarsha in time to get her out of the house?”
The forest imp stared at him, wide-eyed, openmouthed.
“How is it that you managed to retrieve my books from a house filled with assassins without them seeing you?” Drisker gave him a dark look. “Have you learned how to make yourself invisible long enough to accomplish such amazing things?”
“You besmirch me when all I did was try to help—”
“Besmirch, is it?” Drisker interrupted none-too-gently. “Such a big word for such a little man. Let us pretend you never told me this wildly improbable story. Let us presume that what you intended to tell me has to do with your fascination with beautiful and precious things. Such as Tarsha Kaynin. What then might you have to say about her supposed death? What might you choose to tell me of her present whereabouts? Or should I simply go find her myself?”
Flinc stared at him a moment longer and then stamped his foot in rage. “You always know! How do you do that?” The forest imp threw up his stubby arms. “How can you manage to see through me so easily? You aren’t Faerie! You have no innate skills!”
The Druid’s smile was cutting. “There is an old saying, friend Flinc. One that has survived even the destruction of the Old World. ‘It takes one to know one.’ Sound familiar to you?”
And he gave the forest imp a knowing wink.
—
He found her shortly afterward in Flinc’s underground lair, curled up in the imp’s bed, sound asleep. It was the sort of sleep he recognized instantly as one induced by strong drugs. Administered, no doubt, through ingestion of food or drink laced with one thing or another. He glanced back at Flinc who stood silently in a far corner of the chamber, his bright eyes filled with frustration and fear.
Drisker shook his head. “I am disappointed in you. It was bad enough to come home to find my house destroyed and my possessions gone. It was even worse to learn that Tarsha was dead. It would have made some difference in my displeasure if you had told me the truth and let me know she was alive and well. What was your plan? Did you intend to keep her prisoner? Did you think I would not find out?”
The forest imp straightened. “I thought she would be better off with me. I thought the remaining assassins would return for you and sooner or later they would find her and she would be killed. I had no plan other than to save her.”
The Druid felt a stab of guilt. It was not an altogether misguided piece of reasoning. It was still wrong, but it did not lack merit. “It was not your place to make such a decision,” he said finally. “It was hers.”
He reached down, scooped Tarsha Kaynin off the bed, and cradled her in his arms. “I will take her now. I think it best if you remain here.”
When he reached the stairs leading up, he paused. “I am going to forget this ever happened. I will not tell her what you did or what you intended. But you would be wise not to try anything like this again, Flinc.”
He left the forest imp in his underground lair and went back to the village of Emberen with Tarsha in his arms and took rooms for them at a small inn. Leaving her to sleep, he went down to the carpenter’s place of business and asked how long it would take to rebuild his cottage. The answer given back was a bit vague but suggested it would be several months at least. Drisker gave him the job and asked that he get started as soon as possible. Then he returned to the inn to sleep.
When he woke the next morning, the sun had already risen and the girl was sitting at his bedside. He nodded in greeting, rising to a sitting position. “I thought I locked that door.”
She looked vaguely chagrined but not enough to suggest any real regret. “I was worried about you. I was sure you had seen your home, and I knew you would be upset. I thought I should make certain you were all right.” She paused, brushing back several loose strands of her white-gold hair. “Locks do not mean much to me,” she added.
“I can see that. Another hidden talent, I guess. Or did your magic open them?”
She shook her head. “Picks. I sometimes had to let myself into my brother’s rooms when he locked himself in and was…when he needed me.”
The Druid nodded. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. As are you, it appears. So we can examine the situation with some possibility of clarity. Can you tell me what happened?”
She did so in detail, giving him a clear picture of how she had awakened, how she found the intruders circling the cottage, how she got out and encountered the moor cat.
“Is he yours?” she asked.
“One doesn’t keep moor cats as pets. They come and go as they please. Fade prefers my company and sometimes keeps watch over things.”
“Things like me, for instance. His name is Fade?”
“Her name is Fade. Female moor cats are actually bigger than the males. Fade, in particular, is very large. Did she frighten you?”
“Within an inch
of my life.” She paused. “How did I get here, anyway? To this inn? The last thing I remember is being in the forest imp’s underground home, trying to stay awake.”
She was surprisingly calm about it, considering the shock she must have experienced on waking in an entirely different place than the one she had fallen asleep in. But Tarsha Kaynin was not one to panic easily.
“I found you and brought you here,” he said. “I’ll look for other lodgings later today. I’m told it will be awhile before my cottage is rebuilt.”
She nodded, her expression speculative. “Can I ask you something? More?”
He gave her a look. “Can I stop you?”
“This is rather personal.”
“I should not be surprised.”
“About me, not you.”
He hesitated. “All right. Ask anyway.”
“That forest imp. Flinc. I’ve been thinking. Something about that whole business doesn’t feel right. Fade led me away from the cottage, but then Flinc found me and took me to his home to wait for your return. He said he wanted to protect me. Was he telling the truth?”
He hesitated and then gave her a small nod. “He probably saw it that way.”
“But then I fell asleep and didn’t wake up again until you brought me here. I never sleep like that. No dreams, no sense of drifting. I was so sound asleep I could barely make myself move even after I awoke here.” She shook her head. “I think maybe he gave me something.”
“He might have. He might have thought it would help.”
Drisker had promised Flinc he would not tell Tarsha of the forest imp’s intentions, and he did not see a reason to break that promise. But if Tarsha guessed the truth, he would not deny it. She was already looking at him doubtfully, as if realizing he was hiding something and trying to see what it was. He kept his expression neutral and waited to see where she was taking this.
“He seemed nice enough, but sort of strange, too,” she continued. “I can’t explain it, but I think he might have had something else in mind when he took me.”
