by Terry Brooks
Flinc offered her his bed, but she refused. She would not take advantage of his hospitality that way, she told him. She would sleep on the floor instead, rolled up in blankets that he provided her. What she did not say was that the very thought of being back in that bed sent shivers up her spine. Maybe it was the memories of him having kept her in it before, when he had drugged her. Better that she avoid reliving them even if they were only memories now and safely in the past.
They worked all through the next morning on the books, and they were more than halfway through when the forest imp suggested they go for a walk to clear their heads. Tarsha was quick to agree, anxious for a break from all the reading and ready for a little sunlight. She was troubled by the fact they had not yet found anything useful in their search, and she wanted to postpone the prospect of having failed for as long as possible.
To her surprise, the day was indeed filled with sunshine and the woods were alive with birdsong and late-winter flowers growing in small, bright patches. They made their way along trails and now and then off them, for Flinc was entirely familiar with the forest and in no danger of getting lost. Tarsha found herself thinking of her brother as she walked, remembering their times in the forests of Backing Fell, working with the magic of the wishsong, attempting to discover what it could do. She had done so alone at first, the magic still a closely held secret. But later, when Tavo had discovered it existed in himself as well, she had worked to help him master it.
She wondered if she had helped or hurt him by doing so. The magic had never worked in the right way for him, and he had never learned how to manage it as she did. She experienced a deep uncertainty as she remembered. How much responsibility did she bear for what had happened to her brother? Perhaps she should have seen the inevitable result even then. Perhaps she could have divined how it would all end and done something more to prevent it from happening. She didn’t like to think so, but she had been a realist for so much of her life that she couldn’t deny the possibility.
“Have we walked long enough?” she asked, suddenly impatient with her lack of progress. “I think we should get back to work.”
Without a word, Flinc swung off the settled path and took them through the forest in a different direction. Tarsha didn’t have the least idea of where they were or where they were going, but the forest imp seemed to know his way instinctively.
“Something occurs to me,” Flinc said abruptly. “I noticed several places in the russ’hai’s book where he made marginal notes—references to something he called the Druid Histories. Does this mean something to you?”
Indeed, it did. “What it means is that I might have to go to Paranor. I had forgotten the Druid Histories. Each High Druid recorded, in his or her own time, information about the events and magics involved in their service. So things that were not particular to Drisker’s books might appear in the more comprehensive Histories.”
“I will show you when we are back at my home,” the imp offered, looking pleased.
Tarsha nodded. The trouble was, if she had to go to Paranor, she did not know how to get inside. You had to be a Druid or be invited in by a Druid in order to enter. The Guardian of the Keep waited for those who lacked proper status, and she had no wish to encounter that particular creature. Clizia Porse had discovered what could happen if you contravened this rule—and she was a Druid.
Tarsha could think of no reason she would be allowed in, or allowed to find the Druid Histories, which were locked away—let alone be able to understand them sufficiently to find the help she was looking for.
Once back at Flinc’s home, they settled side by side at the table while he paged through the book he had been studying to show her the writings in the margins. Tarsha remembered seeing similar notes in her book as well, but hers was the newer of the two and possessed fewer entries—a consequence, she thought, of all the earliest recordings having been entered in Flinc’s older copy.
As Flint had said, there were passing references to the Druid Histories in both books, but none that gave her any further information.
Nor was there anything that specifically referred to a magic that could help her find someone who was missing. Or at least, not anything new. There was mention of the scrye waters and the scrye orbs—both of which she was familiar with—but nothing else.
She thought at first, when considering the possibility of returning to Paranor, that she could locate Drisker by using the scrye waters. But then she recalled that it only showed uses of magic within the Four Lands, not the identity of those who used it, so she didn’t see much chance of any help there.
What she really needed was a scrye orb of the sort both Drisker and Clizia possessed. Then, perhaps, she could summon Drisker and speak with him as he had done with Clizia. But to obtain a scrye orb, she had to find Clizia and take or steal hers away. Her hatred of the witch was sufficient to drive her to try, but reason suggested she should think twice. Clizia had bested her and Tavo and Drisker together, so how would she manage such a feat alone? And if she failed, what would become of Drisker then? No one but Tarsha and Clizia knew what had happened to him. And even Tarsha wasn’t sure. If she died, the only person who wished to restore him to the Four Lands would be gone.
The urge to act on any of these possibilities was maddeningly tantalizing, but none of them offered a reasonable path to finding the Druid. Enraged as she was at what Clizia Porse had done to Tavo, she knew she could not abandon the Druid. She had to help him before she could think of revenge on the witch.
Tarsha and Flinc went back to studying their respective books, and the hours passed away and the day with it. By nightfall, they were just finishing the final pages when the forest imp—apparently paging ahead in expectation of finishing and wanting to see how much was left—gave a puzzled grunt.
“What in haist’s name is this?” he muttered, almost to himself.
Tarsha set down her book and moved to the other side of the table to peer over his shoulder. She was surprised, when she bent down, to find how small he seemed. Earlier, she had thought him much larger. But you couldn’t just grow and shrink at will.
Or could you, if you were a Faerie creature?
“See?” he asked, pointing to the margin of the page he was reading.
This time, it wasn’t writing he had discovered; it was a drawing. It was right at the end of the book and didn’t seem to refer to anything on the page. It appeared to be a sort of box with a series of small circles at its center, several dozen in number. Most of the circles were blank, but eight of them had numbers written inside, going from one to eight in random fashion. She stared at it in confusion, in part because there was something familiar about it. She read through the writing on the page, but it was something about nature’s secrets and concealments, and she could not make a connection.
“What is it?” Flinc asked her.
“Don’t know,” she replied. “But there is something…”
She continued to ponder, but she couldn’t make the connection. After a time, they went back to work. It took them less than an hour to finish, and the end result was discouraging. Two long days of reading Drisker’s books had yielded nothing of use.
So they put the books aside and made themselves a dinner of cold meat, cheeses, bread, and root vegetables and ate at the little table, adding glasses of ale because Flinc thought they deserved it. Neither said much while they ate, disappointed and tired.
“What will you do now?” the forest imp asked at one point, but Tarsha only shook her head, too discouraged to do anything more. All her hopes and expectations were exhausted. What will you do now? She had no idea.
Halfway through the meal, she began to cry as she was thinking of all those she had lost, especially Tavo. Her crying was silent and evidenced only by the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Flinc said nothing, but politely kept his head lowered and continued to eat. She was grateful for thi
s. She was disinterested in expressions of sadness and comfort, and disdainful of sympathy. She was stronger than this.
She wiped her eyes and put on her best stone-faced expression.
“I’m tired, Flinc,” she said, rising. “I’m going to sleep. Thank you for helping me read through the books. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Maybe we can find another way.”
She found her blankets, spread them out, lay down and rolled herself up, and was asleep almost at once.
* * *
—
But she was awake again sometime after midnight.
She had been dreaming fitfully, but she remembered nothing of the dream on waking. She sat up abruptly, a different memory crowding to the forefront of her mind. It was so urgent, so demanding, that she found its source instantly and was rolling out of her blankets even as she called for Flinc.
The forest imp was beside her while she was still struggling to free herself from her wrappings, crying, “What’s wrong, what’s happened? Are you all right?”
“The drawing in the book!” she gasped. “The one with all the little circles and numbers—I know what it is! I’ve seen it before. Down in the hidden passageway that leads underground from outside the walls of the Keep to its cellars. It’s part of a border of bolts that fastens the doors in place to the rock walls. But it’s more than that, too. It’s the way into the Keep. If the tips of the bolts on the correct plate are touched in the numbered order, the doors will open.”
“You’re sure about this?” Flinc looked doubtful. “It’s easy to confuse such things…”
“No! I was there. I saw Drisker open the doors. I watched him. I paid enough attention to know which plate he was using. I didn’t remember the sequence, but now I have it!”
She was so excited she was practically vibrating. Flinc watched her for a moment, then slowly sat on the floor and rubbed his bristled head with both hands. His hair, which was always poking straight up or out, didn’t look any different for his having slept. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“So you’re going there. To Paranor.”
She nodded at once. “I’ll leave in the morning. I could leave right now, as awake as I am, but I want to make the journey in the daylight.”
“A wise decision. Will you go alone?”
“Unless you’d rather go with me…”
Flinc smiled. “I think you know the answer. A homebody doesn’t care for travel.”
“Then I’ll go alone. I’ll copy the drawing and leave the books with you. Just be careful while I’m gone. Clizia Porse is still out there.”
His smile brightened further. “So, I think, is Drisker Arc.”
She nodded in agreement and fervently hoped he was right.
SEVEN
When Drisker Arc woke again, his surroundings were unchanged. Barren, blasted, empty countryside for as far as the eye could see—which wasn’t far. Heavy rain fell with such force it formed a curtain that effectively obscured everything beyond a stone’s throw. The sound of the downpour was a thunderous hammering as sheets of rain impacted against rocks and earth. The gloom persisted, and even after only a few days in the Forbidding, the Druid knew that time had already lost purpose. It could be either day or night, the difference so minimal as to render one indistinguishable from the other.
Weka Dart was hovering over him, the anxiety impossible to mistake. “Straken?” he asked tentatively. “Can you hear me?”
Drisker nodded, finding the question an odd one. Then the heat of his fever reasserted itself as if a furnace had been ignited inside him, and the aching and waves of nausea returned. He remembered waking earlier, so sick he could not manage more than a few moments of awareness before he was unconscious again. Now he was awake once more, but for how long?
“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered.
The Ulk Bog was suddenly frantic. “I don’t know! I can’t tell! I have no healing skills, and I haven’t seen anyone sick like this before. You are all spotted! Like an Isgrint! The spots are everywhere on your body. Has this happened before?”
Drisker shook his head. “Do you have something to help with the aching and the nausea? Any medicine at all?”
“Nothing. I carry no medicines or ointments. I don’t get sick. Ulk Bogs are very healthy.”
Good for you, Drisker thought wearily, ready to go back to sleep. But he forced himself to remain awake. An Isgrint? What is an Isgrint? His mind spun with confusion as waves of raw stomach-churning revolt threatened to overwhelm him. But he held fast to his determination not to give in.
“You have to get me to your mistress,” he whispered. “She will know how to heal me, if anyone does. We have to leave. Now.”
But Weka Dart held him down the minute he tried to rise, and he was so drained of strength he could not break free. “Straken, you are too weak to go anywhere. We have at least a day’s journey ahead of us, and the rain makes the walking harder and the way more dangerous.”
Drisker knew he was right; there was nothing he could do to help them against any sort of threat. Even if he could get to his feet and somehow manage to stumble through the treacherous terrain, he probably wouldn’t last for more than a couple of miles. Even fighting to get free of the hands holding him down caused his head to spin and his gorge to rise anew.
He closed his eyes. “Then you have to go alone. You have to get word to your mistress so she can come for me. Can you do that?”
The Ulk Bog shook his head at once. “Do not ask it of me, I beg you. I cannot leave you alone. You cannot defend yourself while you are this sick. You would have no protection without me.”
“I can manage. I have a Straken’s magic, Weka Dart. I need you to go. If you don’t, I may die of this sickness. Don’t argue with me. Pick up what you need and go. Now!”
Weka Dart released his grip on Drisker and climbed to his feet. “If something happens to you, my mistress will never forgive me.” He shook his grizzled head, his distress evident. “I cannot believe I am doing this! I know I shouldn’t. Something terrible will happen to you if I go. Probably before I am a mile away.”
The Druid swallowed hard. “Your concerns are unnecessary. Just leave me your food and water; I won’t be able to find anything on my own. Then go. No more arguing. I’ll be all right.”
He had no way of knowing how this could possibly be true, but he felt certain he could not recover from his sickness without a Healer. Grianne Ohmsford had those skills, and even as the Ilse Witch she would know how to employ them. He watched in silence as Weka Dart stripped off his waterskin and food sack and set them next to him.
Then, without another word, the Ulk Bog rushed out into the curtains of rain and was swallowed from view.
Drisker stared after him, as if by doing so he could hasten his efforts to bring help. But soon enough he felt the weariness and aching return, and saw the need for taking protective measures before he lapsed into unconsciousness again. Doing nothing was not an option if he wanted to avoid being eaten while he slept. He must use magic to protect himself as best he could. He was already much too weak to be as effective with his defenses as he would have liked. But he had enough strength and sufficient skill to create at least a small barrier between himself and the world surrounding him.
He dragged himself into a sitting position, facing out into the rain. He was tucked back into his concave shelter in the jumble of rocks, with enough of a covering over his head that it kept the rain off, as certain as he could be that any attack would have to come from the front. If he could manage to form a shield that stretched from left to right and from the ground up to the top of the shelter, he would be completely enclosed. In fact, he would be sealed in, which meant he would be trapped. But he tried not to think of it that way. What mattered was that, for anything to get at him, it would have to scratch and claw its way through a screen of magic.
>
Braced against the rocks, he summoned the magic that would form his shield. It required a tremendous effort even to bring it alive. He didn’t stop to rest; he simply pressed on, afraid if he hesitated he would not be able to continue. Calling out words in the Ancient Elfish language from which the magic was created, and making accompanying gestures that enabled and strengthened it, he began construction of his shield and stretched it across his shelter’s opening. Twice, his grip on the edges slipped and he was forced to start over. Once, he almost lost the entire shield to a powerful gust of wind. Protection of the magnitude he required demanded substance as well as presence, and the weight of it bore down on him as he fought to set it in place.
The minutes passed. An hour slipped by, and still he worked. Sweat was pouring off him, and the aching of his body no longer had definable limits. Worse still, he was fighting hard not to pass out. Black spots had begun to appear before his eyes, and the world was shifting around him. He knew he was losing the battle to stay conscious. If he didn’t finish quickly, he wouldn’t finish at all—and there was every reason to believe the entire shield would collapse and everything he had tried to do would be irretrievably lost.
But he couldn’t manage it. He was too tired and too hampered by his sickness to construct what was needed. He had tried his best, but for once his best was not going to be enough. He thought about Grianne and her hopes of escaping the Forbidding. He thought about Tarsha and Tavo, wondering if they were alive and if they could bring Clizia Porse to bay without him. And he worried about those who had gone to Skaarsland, and how everyone in the Four Lands would be caught up in a cataclysmic war between nations if they were not successful.
