The Black Elfstone

by Terry Brooks

  His face tightened. “Are you hurt in some way?” Suddenly he was afraid he had missed the obvious. “Is there anything wrong? Are you having bad memories of something?”

  She gave him a long, searching look. “Only of those men and what they tried to do to me. But you mean something else, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. She was too sharp by half. He would have to watch out for that. “Not really.” He didn’t want to answer her question until he’d had time to think about it more. A small suspicion had taken root and he shoved it to the back of his mind. “Would you like something to eat?”

  They went downstairs to the public rooms and took a table. Breakfast was hearty, and both were full long before the food was gone and the tea Drisker had ordered drunk. Tarsha said little as they ate and Drisker, while observing her closely, let her be.

  “It was brave of you, Tarsha,” he said finally, as they sat together after the plates had been cleared, “to take the time to save my books. That was quick thinking. Those books are very important to me. We have a history together. I would hate to lose them.”

  She couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “I wish I could have saved more.”

  “You were smart not to try. Those men would have killed you without a second thought if they found you. You were right to get out quickly.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Enemies of the worst kind. The fact that they burned my home suggests they wanted to be sure I was dead. I imagine they thought I was inside.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that they thought that at all. They got into the house and searched it before they set it afire. Unless they thought you were hiding in it somewhere, they knew you were gone.”

  “And they burned it anyway? That’s odd. Now I really do wonder who they were.”

  “The forest imp didn’t seem to know, either.” She looked away and then back. “Does he have a name? He kept dodging the question when I asked him. Doesn’t he want people to know who he is?”

  The Druid thought about his answer, not wanting to say too much. “His name is Flinc. He likes playing games. He likes keeping people off balance. He is an imp, after all. There’s a bit of trickery in all of them.”

  She looked at him. “I’ve never heard of forest imps.”

  “Few have. There aren’t all that many.”

  “So he said. But is he right about being a Faerie creature?”

  Drisker shrugged. “Maybe. He says that’s what he is and there are none to disprove it. I let him have that distinction. If he wants to call himself a forest imp, then I guess there’s no harm in it.”

  “Does he have magic?”

  “Of a sort. He isn’t a practitioner but he has some natural ability. He can do small tricks and enact subterfuges now and then. His skills are limited, but his knowledge is extensive. He has lived a long time, and he knows a fair amount about the Old World.”

  “He seems to like you.”

  Drisker’s smile was wan. “I suppose so. In his way.”

  He left her at the inn and went out into the village. After asking around, he found a cottage that was vacant and rented it from an old man who didn’t much like him but was willing to take his money all the same. Their negotiations were swift and chilly, and it was clear to Drisker that the other found the entire transaction distasteful. The cottage was a two-bedroom single-story with less space than his own, but adequate for his needs. He paid the old man and left.

  He found Tarsha waiting on his return, and together they walked to their new lodgings and settled in. He took note that while they passed a number of Emberen’s residents on their way—all of whom looked them over carefully—none chose to speak. He was certain Tarsha noticed it, too, although she did not comment. She seemed to be inured to this sort of suspicious scrutiny, and he suspected that she had endured much the same where her brother was concerned. You could always tell when people disapproved of you.

  Again, Drisker left her and spent the remainder of the day questioning any residents of the village who would talk to him in a civil manner, seeing if he could find out anything more about the men who had burned down his home. He was assiduous in his efforts, but in the end he found out exactly nothing. No one had seen the men. No one had seen whatever aircraft they had arrived in. No one had heard anything the night of the attack.

  He returned no wiser than when he had left and found that in his absence Tarsha had purchased food and ale and prepared dinner. They ate together in silence, save for right at the beginning of the meal when Tarsha asked him what he was going to do about the men who had escaped Fade.

  His shrug was a brisk dismissal. “I’m working on it.”

  What he thought about as they ate was that he was going to have to shift his attention from what to do about the invaders coming down from the north to the more personal threat posed by these men hunting him. He did not think he could afford to wait around for them to try to kill him again.

  After the girl went to bed, he sat alone in the darkness of the living room and continued to think about it until he dropped off to sleep.

  —

  Sometime after midnight, the assassins who had come for him before returned.

  It was a possibility he had considered and dismissed. He did not think it likely they would come after him a second time so quickly. Having burned down his home and survived an encounter with Fade, they would lie low for a time. That he had underestimated either their determination or their desperation to be rid of him was abundantly apparent. He was not ready for them, but he was also not where they expected him to be, which was probably what saved him. They smashed his bedroom window and riddled his bed with darts and short spears from less than a dozen feet away, and by the time they realized their mistake he was awake.

  Seconds later he went after them.

  He burst through the front door with his magic alive and crackling at his fingertips, forming a protective shield of pure blue light. The men at his window—a quick count revealed three in all—wheeled back to face him, and seven others rushed out of the trees. Because he was so close to Emberen, there was no help to be found from Fade, who seldom left the deep woods. Nor was Flinc anywhere in evidence, although this came as no surprise. It was highly improbable he would have chosen to intervene, in any case.

  Drisker attempted to defend himself against both assaults, his Druid magic a blaze of blue light that exploded in sharp bursts amid the black-garbed assassins. In the midst of this struggle, Tarsha Kaynin flew through the door, her body wreathed in brilliant white light and shards of silver. Her wishsong was a death wail, unbound and hungry, and it sent Drisker’s assailants flying like straw men. They were not expecting her, and it was their undoing. Even though their numbers were superior and they were experienced killers, they were overwhelmed. Of the ten they began with, three were dead in the first thirty seconds.

  Faced with such ferocity, the rest broke and ran, too frightened now to continue their attack. Drisker went after them. He did not hold back as he did so, did not think for a moment to spare these cowards who came in the darkness and sought to kill him while he slept. By the time he was done with them, they were all dead, and he was spent to the point of exhaustion.

  But he had to know who they were. He strode purposefully down off the porch and bent to examine the dead one by one, and his suspicions as to the nature of the men he was dealing with were confirmed. On the wrist of each was a marking he recognized—a pair of closed eyes, bleeding through the lids. These men were members of an assassins’ guild called Orsis, which operated out of the Borderlands city of Varfleet. High priced and highly skilled at their work, they had found themselves a bit overmatched in this instance.

  Now that he knew who those seeking to kill him were, he wanted to know who had hired them.

  He searched for footprints to see if any had managed to escape him. None had. He took a moment longer to be sure and then turned back. This batch had been dispatched, but others would come.

/>   Tarsha ran up to him. “Do you recognize them?” she asked at once.

  He gave her a look. “What made you charge out of the house like that? You didn’t stop to think about it, did you?”

  She reddened, hearing the reproof in his voice. “I was just trying to help. There wasn’t time for thinking.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a none-too-gentle squeeze. “If you find yourself in this situation again, pause before you act. Precipitous action is a two-edged sword. Be wary of it.”

  He started to move away, but she caught hold of him. “Just wait a minute. I don’t feel too good about this, either. I killed three human beings. How do you think that makes me feel? I’ve never hurt anyone! I’ve never used my magic that way!”

  “I’m sure that’s true. I’m sorry you got involved. But you should have stayed inside.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t have tried to help you?”

  “I’m saying you need to be more careful.”

  “Oh, I see. Better to be cautious than save your life!”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then”

  He paused, sighed. “What it makes you feel after you’ve killed someone? I wanted to spare you that feeling. Doesn’t matter your good intentions or the rightness of it. It feels terrible afterward, nevertheless. It feels as if a part of you has been stolen away. I don’t want you hurt. Physically or emotionally.”

  She released him. Her expression was unreadable. If she was bothered by what he said, she wasn’t showing it. “What are you going to do about the ones who got away?” she demanded abruptly. “They’ve come twice now; they’ll come again, won’t they?”

  His reply was brief. “This is Orsis we are dealing with—an assassins’ guild. Their reputation is well known. Once they take a contract, they do not give up until it is fulfilled. However long it takes, however many men they must employ, they will keep coming until I am dispatched.”

  She stared at him. “How do you put a stop to it?”

  His eyes turned to flint. “They’ve had two chances at me now and botched them both. Instead of waiting around to see if they botch a third, I think I should pay them a visit.”

  He leaned close. “Do you want to come with me? You seem eager enough for a fight.”

  She nodded at once.

  “Then let’s find them, you and I, and put an end to this!”

  THIRTEEN

  As Tavo Kaynin stood in the open doorway and looked outside, the day seemed very quiet to him. It was midday at the start of a sleepy, windless afternoon. The sun was a bright orb in a cloudless autumn sky, and all around him the deciduous trees were beginning to turn, their riotous colors a stark contrast to the deep evergreen of the conifers. Far in the distance, hawks flew loops and circles seeking prey on the forest floor, but closer to where he watched there were no birds and no birdsong in evidence.

  He liked the quiet. It was so much better than the screaming.

  He knew he should probably leave, but something held him fast. Not fear, not shock or rage—all those had dissipated in the wake of the killing. He was calm now and at peace. Perhaps that was what kept him there, rooted in place, looking out over the surrounding forest. It had taken a lot to bring him here, a lot to persuade him that this was the right thing to do. Much of his thinking had been so jumbled, so confused over the past few years. But now he felt clearheaded and oddly lighthearted. Those feelings were the result of his efforts at setting things right. He felt so much better now that he had put an end to the source of his problems.

  But had he? He wasn’t sure. Not entirely.

  She was still free, after all. She was still out there, somewhere.

  He took a moment to glance over his shoulder, and the shock of what he saw caused him to turn away immediately. The inside of the cottage was covered in blood. It was everywhere—on the floor and walls, on the furniture, in some places even on the ceiling. Who knew there was so much blood in a human being? Well, two human beings actually, but still. Where did it all fit? He grinned at the idea of blood “fitting” into someone. It just did, of course. Obviously.

  He looked down at himself. A lot of the blood was on him. A whole lot of the blood. It had dried to crusty brownish stains on some parts of his clothing but was still bright red and slick on others. After all, he had taken his time with it, made the purging ritualistic so as to free himself, because otherwise there would be no release for him. How long had it taken for them to die? He couldn’t be sure. It seemed as if it had taken forever, but he knew that wasn’t an accurate approximation. It might have taken an hour; he didn’t think it could have been much more than that.

  It was their fault. They shouldn’t have abandoned him. They should have cared enough about him to discover what was happening to him, what was being done to him. Instead, when confronted with the truth, they had insisted they didn’t know. Parents, claiming not to know. But they had known where he was, hadn’t they? Known from the first day they had taken him there and left him to his fate.

  And they thought it was enough simply to believe he was in good hands without making any real effort to find out? Well, they knew the truth now. They had died hearing him scream it in their ears. Had heard him describe what his uncle had done to him, what games they had played and what things he had endured. They had heard how his uncle had tried once too often to force him to comply, once too often to bend Tavo to his will.

  It had been simple enough to kill his uncle, once he had made up his mind to do so. But killing his parents had demanded more of him. Much more.

  Their struggle had been a hard one. He hadn’t expected that. He thought they would let it happen willingly, that they would recognize the need for it just as he did. He thought they would accept their complicity in his terrible emotional distress, in his rampant confusion. But they accepted nothing, right up to the end. They fought him as hard as they could, trying to stop him from what he knew he must do. They hurled themselves at him over and over, flinging their shattered bodies at him as if they had any chance of saving themselves when they must have realized they did not.

  They called his name. They wailed it. They screamed it.

  He walked back into the cottage and looked at them one more time, needing to make sure they were dead. But there was little doubt. There was hardly anything left of them. They were bloodied lumps on the cottage floor, barely recognizable as human. Although he had stopped thinking of them as human a long time ago, such was his disdain for them.

  So much blood.

  He had not come home to kill them. He had come home to make them come to terms with what they had done to him. But then he had discovered that she had gone (he could no longer stand to speak her name, even in his mind) and had demanded that they tell him where. Foolishly, they had prevaricated and dissembled. They had lied outright. They had told him to go back to where he had come from and to stay there until she returned. As if that would ever happen. He had put an end to the man to whom they had entrusted him. That monster. Why would they have put him with such a creature? That he should have been forced to suffer what he had gone through at the hands of that animal was beyond forgiveness. A member of the family? A trusted uncle? A good place for him to be? So many lies! It had brought about their doom. All of them had paid for what had been done to him.

  He studied what remained of his work dispassionately, playing back the details of his homecoming in his mind. Their faces when he had appeared at the door, a mix of surprise and fear. Their efforts to save each other, so pitiful and so hopeless. Their cries as they begged him to stop, pleaded with him to think what he was doing. Their feeble hand motions and twisting bodies when their voices were gone and their lives were leaking away.

  Their last, desperate gasps for breath.

  The man and the woman who claimed to be his parents but never really were. Not in any way that mattered. Not in a way that might have helped him escape or at least cope with the demons that
tormented him every single day of his life.

  He relived their struggles to escape him. The man had attacked him. Come at him with a knife right there at the end, fought to reach him when he was so broken he could do no more than lurch like a puppet with its strings severed. Come at him as if he actually thought he could hurt him with his puny blade. It was pathetic and hopeless, and he had decided in that moment to finish things. So he had flayed the man alive, his power so great it would allow even this. And while both the man and the woman screamed at him for mercy, he rendered the man unrecognizable and turned his attention to the woman.

  Her death had been worse, but then she was supposed to be the one who would always protect him.

  Well, enough was enough. Their lives were over, and that was as it should be. They had their chances to try to help him, to understand what he was going through, to find a way to make it better. But they had been frightened and powerless in the wake of his gift.

  Only she could have helped. She had the gift, too, after all. She had the use of it, understood its shape and form and knew how to manage it. She had even tried to help him for a time, working with him to master it, to keep it in check when its dark shadow enveloped him and stole away his reason and drove him toward insanity. It was a miracle he had survived its power and kept himself whole. It was a miracle that the insanity that threatened almost daily to claim him had not managed to do so. Such insanity eventually claimed others, yet he had survived it.

  He frowned, finding something wrong with his reasoning. But its flaw would not make itself clear. She would have known had she bothered to stay with him instead of running off. His sister; his lifeline.

  For a moment tears of rage consumed him. Her treachery was anathema. Her betrayal unsupportable. Unforgivable. For all she claimed to want to help him, in the end she had abandoned him just as their parents had. Just as everyone had who might have made a difference. Now he was adrift and in the grip of his so-called gift. It was instead a curse, and there was nothing he could do but accept his fate and learn to live with it.