by Terry Brooks
Somewhere halfway through her effort, Fade appeared again—at first no more than a pair of gleaming eyes that she recognized immediately, then the rest of the big moor cat materializing as she lay down on the other side of Tavo’s grave and listened. It was comforting to have Fade there—a reassuring presence in the darkness, an audience of one that would never judge or attempt to interrupt, reassuring in her steadfastness.
When Tarsha had said everything she thought needed saying, she sat silently in the darkness once more, wondering how long she had been speaking, how much of the night was gone. The moon had set and the stars had changed their positions in the sky, but there was no sign of morning yet. She felt at peace from having told her story. Sleep overtook her, and she nodded off.
When she jerked awake, aware suddenly of what was happening, Fade was gone. Yawning, she rose and went into the cottage, and she slept undisturbed for the remainder of the night.
* * *
—
The next morning when she rose, the sun was already climbing the sky toward midday, and the air was warm and welcoming. She washed and dressed, fixed a breakfast of cakes and cured meat on a small, fire-heated griddle, served the cakes and cured meat with sliced apples and cold water, and ate on the porch. She took her time, thinking through what she had decided to do once her meal was consumed.
Then she cleaned her dishes, tidied up the cottage, and went out into the day to keep her promise to craft a headstone for her brother. She found the materials and tools she needed and for several hours worked to craft her marker. Then, deciding she needed a break, she set off on another mission.
She had promised she would go after Clizia in order to settle accounts, and she would. But first she must attempt to find Drisker. Yes, Clizia had the scrye orb, which would allow her contact with the Druid, but gaining possession of the latter required tracking down the former, and she knew from sad experience this might be much harder and require more time than making a different choice. Finding Drisker was more important than settling scores with the witch, and she thought she knew a better way to do this that did not require the orb.
The books of magic would not be far, she told herself. At one time she had thought they might have been hidden in the cottage, but on reflection she realized the cottage was still being built when Drisker had departed for the last time. The site of his former residence was too unlikely, as well. Nothing remained but burned timbers, ashes, and scorched earth. So what did that leave? Would Drisker have given them to someone to keep watch over while he was away? She could think of no one—the airfield manager included—who would be a good choice. Just having such books in your possession was an invitation to an unpleasant end, should those searching discover you had them. No, Drisker would have been far more clever. He would have been careful to choose someone so unlikely, no one would ever expect it.
Someone like Flinc.
Once Drisker had retrieved the stolen books from the forest imp, he might have carried them right back and charged the imp with their care. He might have warned Flinc that they would be sought by enemies and Flinc must find a way to make sure they were sufficiently concealed.
But Flinc was dead. So if her speculation was true, where would he have hidden the books? Could they be somewhere in the forest imp’s underground lair? It was a long shot, but it was possible.
She walked into the trees, making her way through to the deeper forest. As she progressed farther in, the light began to darken and the sounds of the forest dwellers began to change. Yet she did not feel intimidated or in danger. By now, she was sufficiently familiar with this patch of woods that she felt certain there was no threat she could not handle. She kept a close watch on her surroundings but pushed steadily on.
There was a chance—well, more than a chance—that she was mistaken about what had become of the books. But this was her first best guess about where they might have been hidden. It was also true that she might be wrong about how they got there. Drisker might not have taken them back; Flinc might have stolen them once again. It was not out of the question. Flinc was a Faerie creature, after all, his behavior mercurial and unpredictable.
But he would have had to steal back the books in the little time that remained following Drisker’s departure for Paranor and Clizia’s arrival in Emberen. After that, his days had been numbered.
Thinking of Flinc forever gone made Tarsha sad all over again. So many had died in this struggle with the rogue Druid. So many had given everything, Tavo included.
She wondered suddenly if she might find Clizia Porse waiting, settled down in the forest imp’s underground home—having come looking for the books, as well, and having found them.
She slowed her pace at the prospect, but quickly decided that this was so unlikely as to be nearly impossible and picked up her pace once more. She would be careful, nevertheless. She just needed a starting point to begin her search for Drisker, to discover what had happened to him. The books of magic might provide her with a way to obtain this information. If they didn’t or if she failed to find and retrieve them, she had no idea what she would do,
As she was nearing Flinc’s underground home, she used her magic to seek out other life-forms in the area. She detected the usual small animals and birds and one thing more, but for some reason she could not get a clear read on the nature of this other life-form—neither size nor shape nor species. It was just something that was alive and nearby.
Worried now, she stopped where she was. What if it was Clizia? But Clizia believed her dead. And she wouldn’t go to this extent to hide herself from anyone else. Nor had she set any wards against intruders, which she surely would have done if she was concerned about being discovered.
No, this was something else.
Tarsha moved ahead once more, albeit more cautiously. When she reached the clearing where the tunnel leading down into Flinc’s home was located, she paused for a closer look. All was back as it had been before Clizia’s attack; the tunnel entry had been either repaired or replaced.
But who would have done that?
She walked out into the clearing and stood looking at the concealment to the tunnel entry, reaffirming that she was not mistaken, that everything was back to where it had been.
Then she sensed a presence behind her and froze.
“Welcome home, Tarsha of the beautiful eyes,” a familiar voice said.
She turned to face the speaker and felt something fall away inside.
FOUR
At first, after Clizia’s trap was sprung, Drisker Arc fell into blackness for an endless stretch of time. There was nothing to see—and no sound, no tastes or smells, no feeling, no anything. Drisker folded into a ball and hung on, waiting for something more to reveal itself. He was not at all sure what sort of trap he had stumbled into. He was certain it had been designed to ensnare him, but other than that he couldn’t be sure of its purpose. He managed to summon sufficient magic to enclose himself in a protective shield so that he would not be helpless when the falling ended, but other than this single act he could manage nothing.
The end came when his descent slowed and then stopped altogether. He was still cocooned away, still unaware of where he was, still a prisoner with no means available to free himself.
He waited patiently, keeping control over himself with steady and purposeful determination.
Eventually, he realized the blackness was giving way to a semblance of daylight. As his surroundings began to take shape, he saw that he was in a thick patch of woods, its trees old and shaggy and witch-bent, with limbs stretching so far skyward he could not tell where they ended. The ground around him was a mix of brush and grasses, thickly grown but not lush. Rather, everything had a haggard and badly worn air that suggested a place where life had been forced to fight hard for survival. As his senses heightened, he could smell rot and decay. He could see blackened patches on the trees and brush; he
could smell and taste the parts that were slowly being eaten away by the corrosion.
He searched for movement in the twilight darkness, but found none. If anything lived here, it was either in hiding or out of view.
He was infuriated he had allowed this to happen. It had been a foolish choice to go after Clizia alone, but he had thought it was best to catch up to the rogue Druid at once. Tarsha and Tavo were both down, but while both were stunned, neither seemed seriously injured and he didn’t think it necessary to wait for them to recover. So, impulsively, he had determined he would do what was needed on his own.
Had he not made this choice—which, in retrospect, was likely the most foolish of his entire life—he might have lost Clizia but would not be wherever it was he found himself now. He should have helped his companions and gone after her later. Now everything and everyone was at risk.
He found himself worrying about the fate of his sibling companions. Having disposed of him, Clizia would have gone back either to take them prisoner or to kill them. If she succeeded in doing either, he would have to place the blame squarely on his own shoulders, and he would spend the rest of his life—whatever life he had left—blaming himself for what had happened.
Yet both Kaynins possessed the considerable magic of the wishsong to aid them, and both were resourceful. He had to hope this was sufficient to see them through any confrontation that took place. Tarsha, in particular, was smart enough to find a way to protect them, and would not tend toward rash behavior of the sort he had just exhibited. With Tavo beside her, she should be more than a match for Clizia Porse.
At least, that was what he told himself.
The light had brightened further, and his surroundings were coming into sharper focus. He could see mountains and hills through breaks in the trees. He could just spy the thread of a distant river, flowing sluggishly across a barren plain. What was troubling was that everything was pretty much the same color, wherever he looked—a dismal, flat, ashen gray. Sky, horizon, landmarks, the air itself, all were marked by gloom that…
No! It wasn’t possible. Even Clizia couldn’t do that! He stared into the distance some more, then dropped the magic that shielded him and climbed to his feet to look more closely. He felt his throat tighten. Maybe she couldn’t, but somehow she had. With the aid of magic that should have been beyond her command, she had dispatched him to the one place from which he couldn’t escape.
The Forbidding.
He felt everything drop away—any chance of finding a way out, all possibility of rescue, even the hope of extending his life beyond the short, brutal span that now seemed to be his destiny. Created in the time of Faerie by the creatures of light to imprison those they believed to be servants of the dark, the Forbidding was a place of no return. Once locked away, you were there until you died. Grianne Ohmsford alone had managed to escape, and then only with the help of her nephew, Penderrin. The Druid Histories had recorded it all. Drisker had never thought he would need to know more about it in his lifetime.
Now to find himself imprisoned like this—to find himself trapped in a cage with no door and no lock or key—left him devastated. He sat down slowly, trying to compose his scattered thoughts and rioting emotions.
Trying just to think straight.
He could not expect help from Tarsha Kaynin. She wouldn’t know—couldn’t know—where he was. Even if she were to somehow discover what had happened, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to free him. None of those who had gone to Skaarsland could be of any help, either.
Then he remembered something else. When Grianne had first been sent into this prison by means of a powerful magic called a triagenel—and while the power of the Forbidding was still strong and undeniable—something already imprisoned within had to be sent into the Four Lands to take her place. A switch had to be made for the magic to work. So what sort of demon had Clizia released from the Forbidding to make room for him? Whatever had been released, he was in no position to do anything about it. It was all he could do to come to terms with his own situation. He was not yet reconciled to what had been done to him, but he knew enough about the danger he was in to want to settle his mind and focus on determining what he was going to do to stay alive. If nothing had begun hunting him already, it was only a matter of time.
And likely there would be more than one.
If only he knew where everything was and could orient himself. If only he knew which way to go now that he was trapped here.
He knew the landscape of the Forbidding closely mirrored his own world—and aside from an absence of any real color, the terrain would approximate what he knew of the Four Lands. Grianne, according to her entries in the Druid Histories describing her imprisonment, had been taken to a fortress that was situated somewhere in this world close to where Tyrsis would have been in his. She had been taken there to service the whims of the Straken Lord and live out her life as his slave. In the end, that hadn’t worked out so well for the demon, which she subsequently escaped and later killed. But going to that fortress might be a reasonable starting point for Drisker.
Then another thought occurred to him, this one the most troubling yet.
Hadn’t Grianne Ohmsford been sent back to the Forbidding a second time, and wasn’t she still imprisoned here as a result?
The thought was sudden and unexpected, and Drisker found himself thinking back to his initial summoning of Allanon at the Hadeshorn, when Grianne—reverted now to the Ilse Witch—had come to him instead. She had told him she still lived and was still imprisoned and had come to him using the passageways of the dead. If he wanted her help in finding a way to save the Four Lands, she would give it to him, but only if he agreed to free her from the Forbidding. It had occurred to him then that keeping his end of the bargain might mean coming into the demon prison himself—perhaps even exchanging himself for her to keep his word. But now that he was here, he could find her and perhaps they could discover a way to escape together.
He was abruptly energized by the idea. Then, just as quickly, a further thought occurred. What if Clizia had already freed the Ilse Witch? What if she had already accomplished what he had promised, and it was Grianne for whom he had been swapped?
The thought was so chilling that, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. What if it was Clizia’s intent that she and the Ilse Witch should be allies, rulers over the Four Lands from atop a new Druid order?
But he immediately decided that this conclusion presumed a lot. In the first place, how was Clizia to know that Grianne Ohmsford was still alive? And even if she were capable of making such a determination, an alliance between them was unlikely. Two such powerful Druids would never accept each other as equals. Neither would ever trust the other.
Drisker leaned against one of the ancient trees while trying to regain his composure. It was not an easy feat to accomplish. In truth, he was still shaken to his core by the raft of possibilities. He had gone from disbelief to belief back to disbelief in minutes, and he still wasn’t sure of what to do. Nor was he sure what his betrayer might have already done while he was trapped here. He needed to find out, and he couldn’t do it standing around bemoaning his fate.
He had to start moving right away.
* * *
—
Eyes watched the Druid as he departed the patch of woods and set out toward the river that flowed south through the broad grasslands valley. There were more than one pair fixed on him, and they watched with varying degrees of interest. Some saw him as food, some as sport, and some as a puzzle. But all were thinking of finding out more. They hid within the shadows of the land in which they were trapped, all of them sad and angry and bored. But mostly they were skilled at staying alive. They hunted and they fought and they waited for opportunity of any kind.
This newcomer, this human creature, offered just such an opportunity.
One by one—and, in some cases, in pairs a
nd packs—they began to track him.
* * *
—
Drisker walked for hours, and the look of the Forbidding never changed. It remained barren and weather-blasted and hazy gray—a monochromatic ruin of what Drisker knew from the Druid Histories to be nothing more than a dismal approximation of his own world, conjured through the use of Faerie magic thousands of years ago. There was nothing reassuring or pleasing about any of it, and it served only to remind the Druid of the grimness of his situation. Vast stretches and broad heights encircled him, all offering endless opportunities for concealment. That there were things hiding in wait, if not coming after him directly, was certain. The Druid Histories written hundreds of years ago by Grianne Ohmsford had made that clear enough.
So while he preferred not to reveal his presence to those who could detect the use of magic, he saw no way to avoid it. He needed to wrap himself in shielding to protect against attacks and search his surroundings to make sure he was not walking into a perilous situation. It soon proved a worthwhile effort. Right away, he found denizens of the Forbidding hiding close at hand—some large, some small, but all watching. He could not know what sorts of creatures he might encounter, or understand the nature of the threat they posed, but at least he could know they were there. Even from reading the entries in the Histories, he knew there would be dangers unknown to the writer.
He was going to have to be prepared for everything, because it would not be long before he was tested.
And as it happened, the testing began much more quickly than he had expected.
He was just cresting a low rise when he encountered a pack of Furies. He knew what they were instantly. Grianne had nearly lost her life to them, saving herself by assimilating into their pack and assuming their feral behavior, making them think she was one of them while nearly losing her humanity in the process. The pack was perhaps twenty strong—small in size for Furies, who frequently traveled in groups of more than a hundred. Furies were catlike creatures weighing maybe fifty pounds each, lean and rawboned beneath a light covering of hair: an obscene approximation of house pets. Their hunting behavior never varied; they always worked in packs to bring down prey. Or to kill for sport, which they did often.
