The Magic Kingdom of Landover Volume 2

by Terry Brooks

  The River Master took them to within six feet of the figure and stopped. He lifted his arm and beckoned. The figure raised its hands in response and lowered the hood. It was a creature of indeterminate sex and origin, its skin wood-color, its mouth, nose, and eyes slits on its flat, nearly featureless face. There was a glimmer of light behind the eyes but nothing more. It was of average size and build, but its body was all smooth and lean and sleek and hard beneath the cloak.

  Ben glanced at Willow. There was recognition in her eyes and something he hadn’t seen for a long time. There was fear.

  “This is an Ardsheal,” the River Master said to Ben. “It is an elemental. It does not need food or drink or sleep. It requires nothing to survive. It was created by the magic of the once-fairy for a single purpose: to protect you. Willow knows. An Ardsheal is a match for anything alive. Nothing is more dangerous.”

  Ben nodded in response, not certain what to say. He was not expecting this gift. He was not certain he wanted it. He glanced at the Ardsheal. It made no response. It seemed comatose. “This creature will protect me?” he repeated.

  “To the death,” the River Master said.

  “An Ardsheal is very dangerous, Father,” Willow observed softly.

  “Only to its enemies. Not to you. Not to the High Lord. It will serve as it is directed. In the absence of specific direction, it will do the one thing it has been set to do—it will protect you.” He looked at Willow curiously. “You are frightened of them still?”

  She nodded, a strange look on her face. “Yes.”

  Ben was thinking and missed the look. “Why have you chosen to give me this?” he asked finally. “I mean, the Ardsheal as opposed to another form of magic?”

  “A good question.” The River Master turned to face him, the Ardsheal now become his shadow. “Rydall expects the Paladin to defend you. He must have reason to believe that at some point it will fail to do so adequately. Perhaps that will happen. The Ardsheal will be there if it does. You defend yourself against an enemy you neither know nor understand. You require a defense your enemy does not expect in return. The Ardsheal will be that defense. Take it. It will give you a measure of reassurance. It will give you time to look for Mistaya, time for all of us to look.”

  He came forward a step, chiseled face bent close. “You are needed alive, High Lord Ben Holiday. If you die, there is a good chance your daughter will die with you. She serves only a single purpose: to draw you on. Once that purpose is served, what reason do you have for believing that she will be allowed to go on living? Consider carefully for a moment the nature of your enemy.”

  Ben held the River Master’s gaze and did as he was bidden.

  “He is right,” Willow said quietly, almost reluctantly.

  Ben found himself in immediate agreement. It did not require a great deal of thought to recognize the value of a second protector. Perhaps it would give him an edge against Rydall’s creatures. If it saved him even once from having to call up the Paladin, it would have served a valuable purpose.

  “I will accept your gift,” he said finally. “Thank you.”

  The River Master nodded in satisfaction. “A good decision. Now come to dinner.”

  The feast was a sumptuous, extravagant affair, very much in keeping with the nature of celebrations among the once-fairy. There were tables laden with food, pitchers of iced ale, garlands of flowers, children and adults dressed in bright clothing, and music and dancing everywhere. The River Master placed Ben and Willow at the head of his table, announced their presence to those assembled, welcomed them to the lake country, and toasted them on behalf of the once-fairy. All evening, while the celebration wore on, the people of Elderew came up to greet them personally, some bearing small gifts, some offering good wishes. It made Ben and Willow smile and helped them relax. For a few hours they forgot about Rydall of Marnhull and the misery he had caused them. They ate and drank and laughed with the once-fairy, caught up in the merriment and feasting, soothed by the cool breezes that blew out of the trees and by the warmth of the people surrounding them.

  At midnight they retired to a small guest house provided for their lodging. They fell into bed, exhausted but smiling, lying together, holding each other against a return of the fears and doubts they had managed to put aside, falling asleep finally as exhaustion overtook them.

  Sometime afterward, several hours before morning, Ben woke, extracted himself from Willow’s arms, rose, and walked to the window. The world without was lit by a single half-moon and stars that peeked down through a scattering of low-slung clouds and interlocked tree limbs. He stared out into the darkness, looking for the Ardsheal, wondering if it was there. He had not seen it since the River Master had presented it to him. It had been real enough then but now seemed somehow to be an imagining conjured in a dream.

  An Ardsheal is very dangerous, Father, Willow had said.

  He saw it then, back within the trees, another of the night’s shadows. He would not have seen it at all except that it moved just enough when he was looking so that he would know it was there, standing guard, keeping watch.

  Why was Willow so frightened of it? Was that a good thing or bad, given its purpose?

  He didn’t know. He put both questions in the cupboard in his mind that held all his unanswered questions and went back to bed. Tomorrow he would try to find out. He pressed himself tight against Willow’s body, wrapped his arms around her, and lay awake holding her for a very long time before he slept.

  NIGHTSHADE’S TALE

  Mistaya’s days in the Deep Fell slipped by so quickly that she was barely aware of their passing. Enthralled by her lessons on the use of magic, caught up in the exploration of her newly revealed powers, and consumed by the intensity of Nightshade’s demands, she gave little notice to any expenditure of time. It might have been only days since she had arrived; it might have been weeks. In truth, it didn’t matter. What mattered was what she was doing and the progress she was making in doing it. In that she was delighted, if never satisfied. She had learned a great deal; she had not yet learned enough.

  She almost never thought of her parents and home. They were an extraneous and inconsequential consideration for her. Once she had determined that they knew where she was and that therefore she had no need to worry, she had dismissed them completely. Her growing trust in Nightshade and her enthusiasm for her studies made it easy for her to do so. In the beginning she had not been sure that it was all right for her to be here. She had not been sure her parents really did know where she was. But Nightshade’s reassurances and her own desire to believe soon convinced her that her fears were misplaced and that all was well. Nightshade had said she could leave when she wished, so it was easy enough to discover whether the witch was lying. That was proof enough for Mistaya that she was being told the truth. Besides, her growing mastery of her magic would help her father in his battle against Rydall, and that provided an extra incentive for her to stay. Her father needed her; she must not fail him.

  Time’s passage was also affected by where she was. The Deep Fell had a tendency to blur day into night, light into darkness, then into now, making all seem very much alike. The Deep Fell’s thick jungle canopy kept everything beneath it gray and misty. Sunlight did not penetrate. The moon and stars were never seen. Temperatures seldom changed more than marginally, and the look of Mistaya’s surroundings was constant and unremarkable. What color and brightness were to be found came solely from her magic, from the wonders she performed and the marvels she uncovered. Nightshade gave her new insight with each lesson, turning the focus of Mistaya’s attention inward so that she saw only what she created and almost nothing of the world about.

  Nightshade was an effective teacher, endlessly patient with her pupil, praising and correcting by turns, offering small insights where needed, never disparaging or condemning a failed effort. It seemed to Mistaya that in the beginning Nightshade was interested primarily in results, but as her involvement in uncovering the girl’s latent magic
increased, the witch became more and more caught up in the mechanics of how the magic was performed. It seemed to surprise the witch as much as the girl; it also served to draw them closer.

  And they were remarkably close by now, so close that Mistaya was beginning to think of Nightshade as a second mother. This did not seem odd to her. No one would ever replace her real mother, of course, but there was no reason why she could not have more than one, each fulfilling certain functions in her life. Nightshade was a strong presence, and her command of magic and revelation of its secrets were powerful inducements to the girl. Mistaya was very young and easily impressed. Nightshade had rescued her from Rydall. She had brought her to the Deep Fell to keep her safe. She was training her in the magic arts so that she could help her father. She was proving herself a good friend and a wise counselor. Mistaya could not have asked for more.

  Yet there were still times when she experienced small twinges of doubt. Most of them were inspired by the appearance of Haltwhistle, who came to her in secret each night. While she no longer agonized over her parents or even Questor Thews and Abernathy, she was reminded by the continued presence of the mud puppy that there was another life waiting for her beyond the confines of the Deep Fell. Try though she might, she could not make the memories of that life go away, and while Haltwhistle never said or did anything to interfere, she knew somehow that he was there to make certain she did not forget. It was disconcerting to have to endure this, but she was mindful of the Earth Mother’s warning of the dangers she would face and the promise given that the mud puppy would help protect her if she kept him by her side by remembering to call him once each day. So she conducted a balancing act, immersing herself in Nightshade’s teachings by day while each night suffering small glimpses of what she had left behind.

  Haltwhistle never gave her away. It was a risky thing she was doing, keeping the mud puppy’s presence a secret. Nightshade would not approve, though was it really the witch’s place to give that approval? Now and again Mistaya thought she could see Haltwhistle watching her while she worked, concealed by the mist and gray, hidden back in the jungle. Small bits and pieces of him would appear: eyes one time, feet the next, ears or nose another. At night he came at her smallest whisper, sitting just out of reach in the misty dark, barely more substantial than the haze out of which he materialized. Good old Haltwhistle, she would say. And smile when his tail thumped.

  Doubt surfaced at other times as well, though, when its coming had nothing to do with Haltwhistle. The most troublesome was Nightshade’s insistence on creating monsters. At first there were only the two, and Mistaya accepted the task as a natural part of her learning experience. After all, creating the unusual was at the heart of her endeavors. Together the girl and the witch had turned stones to liquid metal, flowers to butterflies, and dust motes to rainbows. They had made tiny insects speak and mice fly. Mistaya had even discovered a way to sing so that the sound of her voice filled the air with colors. Creating monsters wasn’t all that different, she decided. She had been told she would be asked to do things she did not understand and to accept it without question. So she did. Try to imagine things against which there is no defense, Nightshade encouraged. Mistaya began with creatures she had read about in a book her father had brought with him from his old world, a book she had found tucked back in his personal library, all but forgotten. The title was something about mythology or myths or some such. The book was intriguing for its subject matter and the strangeness of its language, and Mistaya had mastered it quickly and then had set it aside. But her memory of its creatures had remained with her. The giant who took his power from the earth. The changeling who could duplicate anyone or anything. She built her first two monsters based on those. They were not even monsters, really, only things that evidenced inhuman powers.

  Nightshade had seemed happy enough with her efforts until today. Today she announced, rather abruptly, that she desired Mistaya to create a third monster, this one less human and more powerful than the original two. For the first time since she had arrived, Mistaya questioned a command. What was the purpose of creating a third monster? What was the reason for this exercise, since she had performed it twice already? For just a moment she thought that Nightshade was going to be angry. There was a darkening of her strange eyes and a tightening of the tendons along her slender neck. Then she turned away momentarily, her face lost from view, and just as quickly turned back again.

  “Mistaya, listen to me,” she said. She was calm, poised, still. “I hoped to spare you this, but it seems I cannot. Your father is already under attack from Rydall and his wizard. Creatures are being sent against him, and he is being forced to use the magic of Questor Thews and the Paladin to survive. Thus far he has been successful. But Rydall’s wizard will summon ever greater forces. Eventually your father may not be able to defend himself. Then it will be up to you. The best defense against one monster is another. That is the purpose of this exercise.”

  Nightshade’s logic won out over Mistaya’s doubt. So the girl worked hard at her creation all that day. Sunset approached, and she was exhausted. Nightshade’s coaching had taken her far in the use of her magic, and some of what she did frightened her. Some of what she envisioned and brought to life was truly terrifying. But Nightshade was quick to sweep it all up, to gather it into the closet of first efforts, and to close it safely away. Mistaya was relieved. She did not want to see any of it again.

  Now she sat alone in front of a small cooking fire—the only light the Witch of the Deep Fell permitted after dark—rolling dough into bread to fry with vegetables. Parsnip had taught her how. She cooked mostly for herself since Nightshade ate less than Haltwhistle. In truth, Nightshade rarely lingered once the day’s lessons were complete, disappearing back into whatever place she occupied when she wanted to be alone. Sometimes she stayed close, just out of sight; Mistaya could feel her presence when she did that. The closer they became, the more aware the girl was of the witch. It was as if something in their shared use of magic brought them closer physically as well as emotionally, as if ties were being formed that allowed the girl to know more of what the other was about. She could not read Nightshade’s thoughts or know her mind, but she could sense her presence and movements. Mistaya wondered if it was the same for Nightshade, and knew somehow it was not.

  On this night the witch did not retire as usual, but came instead to sit with Mistaya before the fire. In silence she watched the girl work, watched her knead and roll the dough, form it into patties, wash and peel the vegetables, and place all of it in a pan with oil to cook. She continued to watch after Mistaya removed the meal from the fire and ate it. She sat as still as stone, looking over as if what she was observing were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. Mistaya let her sit. She knew that when Nightshade was ready to speak, she would do so. She knew as well that Nightshade had something to say.

  It wasn’t until the pan and dishes were washed and put away in the large wooden chest that sat out in the middle of the clearing as if it belonged there that the witch finally said, “I am pleased with you, Mistaya. I am encouraged by your progress.”

  The girl looked up. “Thank you.”

  “Today’s effort was especially good. What you created was quite wonderful. Are you as satisfied with it as I am?”

  “Yes,” Mistaya lied.

  Nightshade’s cold white face lifted to the haze as if searching for stars and then lowered again to the fire. “I will tell you the truth. I was not certain you were equal to the task I set for you. I was afraid that you might not be able to master the magic.”

  Her eyes shifted, fixing on the girl. “It was clear to me from the first that your magic was strong. It was clear that your potential for using it was virtually limitless. But possession of the magic is never enough. There are intangibles that limit the user’s success. Desire is one. Determination. Focus and a sense of purpose. Magic is like a great cat. You can harness and direct its energy, but you must never look away, and you must ne
ver let it see fear in your eyes.”

  “I am not afraid of the magic,” Mistaya declared firmly. “It belongs to me. It feels like an old friend.”

  Nightshade gave her a brief, small smile. “Yes, I can see that. You treat it as you might a friend. You are comfortable with it yet do not regard it lightly. Your sense of balance is very good.” She paused. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

  Mistaya blinked. “I do?”

  Nightshade looked through and past her into some distant place. “Very much so. It seems odd to contemplate now, but I was your age once. I was a girl discovering her latent talents. I was a novice in search of a life, in quest of my limits as a witch. I was younger than you when I first discovered I possessed magic. It was a long time ago.”

  She trailed off, still looking away into the darkness. Mistaya shifted closer. “Tell me about it,” she encouraged.

  Nightshade shrugged. “The past is gone.”

  “But I would like to hear. I want to know how you felt. It might help me understand myself. Please, tell me.”

  The strange red eyes shifted back into the present, fixing on the girl. They penetrated with such ferocity that for a moment Mistaya was frightened. Then the glare changed to something worn and faded.

  “I was born in the fairy mists,” the Witch of the Deep Fell began, her tall, spare form as still as moon shadows on a windless night. She brushed at her raven hair with her slender fingers. “Like you, I inherited the blood of more than one world. Like you, I inherited the gift. My mother was a sorceress come out of one of the worlds that border on Landover, a world where magic is feared. She was very powerful, and she could cross back and forth between worlds through the mists. She was not a fairy creature, but she could walk among them comfortably. One day, while she was crossing between worlds, she met my father. My father was a changeling, a creature who had no true form but adopted whatever form he chose to suit his needs. He saw my mother and fell in love with her. He made himself into something that attracted her. A wolf, all black hair and teeth. In the end he seduced her and made her his own.”