The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  “I understand. I can promise you if she comes here, we will see her imprisoned. And if we decide that she is responsible for what happened to Ketter Vause, then she will be executed. You do think she arranged to have the Prime Minister killed, don’t you? It sounds that way to me.”

  Tarsha hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, it is enough that she tried to kill him once before, whether she was successful or not. That alone is cause enough for eliminating her. The decision might not be mine, but I will do what I can to encourage it.”

  Belladrin paused, looking thoughtful. “I have an idea. Since you seem so certain Clizia Porse is coming here to kill the Prime Minister, why don’t you stay with us for a time and see if she does? That way you would be here to help us. If she has magic, as you say, then your own magic might be more of a match for her than anything the Federation can use to stop her.”

  Tarsha liked the idea immediately. She had nowhere else to look for Clizia, and waiting for the witch to come to her made sense. At least it was worth a try. She could always change her mind later.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the offer. If you can find room for me, I’ll give it a try. I do think she is coming.”

  After all, they were both seeking to achieve the same result.

  * * *

  —

  Once Tarsha Kaynin had been escorted to private quarters in a tent nearby, Belladrin sat thinking through what she had just learned and how it might impact her own situation. Clizia Porse was a problem she did not need. The rogue Druid might well return, seeking to kill Ketter Vause, but once she discovered Vause was already dead, where would she turn next?

  Belladrin realized, of course, that Tarsha was also a potential threat. If she found out who Belladrin really was and what she and Cor d’Amphere were planning, she would try to prevent it from happening. But this was a threat more easily dealt with. Her suggestion that Tarsha stay was made mostly in the interests of self-preservation. Keep those who offered a potential threat close enough at hand that you could stop them from interfering.

  She wondered suddenly if she should send warning to Cor d’Amphere of the danger he was facing if Clizia arrived, so he could have adequate time to decide how much danger she presented both to him and to his plans for the Federation. If she was seeking an alliance once again, Belladrin could only hope that the king would remember how those other alliances had ended. Perhaps she could suggest that it might be in his best interests to avoid any sort of new agreement with this dangerous and unpredictable woman.

  But then she hesitated. Trying to tell Cor d’Amphere what to do in any situation—no matter how tactful or careful she was—was tricky. Best to not even consider that option.

  Besides, she was beginning to question the whole plan to remove the Federation as a threat to the Skaar. She had questioned it privately from the beginning and then in an oblique fashion to the king. But it was clear he had made up his mind. Fine for him—but not so fine for her. She was sick of living with her guilt—first for what she had done for so many years, and now for what she was about to do. She was riddled with questions about where her life was going, and she wanted out of this trap. She wanted to be free of Cor d’Amphere and his demands.

  Maybe now she was being shown a path to achieve this.

  And maybe she should take it.

  EIGHTEEN

  After leaving Tarsha and Paranor, Drisker Arc woke to find himself back in his bedchamber in the dungeon-like depths of Kraal Reach, alone and exhausted anew. Reaching out to his young student—even in a dream—had drained him of the last of his newly regained strength. How long he’d slept was anyone’s guess, but his dream had left him troubled. His memory of it was vague, tugging at him in that non-specific way the remnants of dreams do while leaving him unsure of the particulars. He was left lethargic and confused when his sleep finally relinquished its hold on him. Gradually, he became aware of the by-now-familiar smell of the fortress interior, the touch of chill in the air in his unheated quarters, and the absence of sound from anywhere in the surrounding rooms beyond his sight.

  He lay where he was for a long time, waiting to wake fully, replaying in his still-sluggish mind memories of the events he had witnessed while in Paranor—of Tarsha trapped in the chamber that housed the Druid Histories, of helping her escape, and of her attempt to relate by handwritten note what she could not convey by speaking. She had discovered in the Histories something she believed might help him escape the Forbidding and return to the Four Lands.

  The black staff called the darkwand.

  Despite the fact that he himself could not wield it, it still seemed to be his best hope. But he wondered what she must surely be wondering, too: If Grianne knew the staff was here in the Forbidding, why hadn’t she found it and escaped centuries ago? Why did she need him to help her?

  It was at this moment that he became aware of another presence—someone or something not within his view but waiting at his back, silent and patient. Who it was would remain a mystery until he turned over to look, but he was not ready to do that yet. Nor did he finally decide, after some debate, if he was even willing to look.

  “Why don’t you come around to the other side of the bed so I can see who you are?” he asked quietly.

  No response.

  “I present no danger, so why would you hide yourself now that I am awake?” he continued. “Is there a reason you choose to remain unseen?”

  A shuffling of feet answered him, and a small, gnarled figure slowly materialized from out of the pervasive gloom. Hunched over and wrapped in ragged clothing, it took its time appearing, leaving Drisker uncertain of its identity until it was standing directly in front of him, not three feet away.

  “Weka Dart,” Drisker greeted the creature, raising himself on one elbow. He took in the damaged face and the absence of a large part of the Ulk Bog’s left arm. “I am very sorry for what happened to you. You saved my life, and I am sad it cost you an arm.”

  The Ulk Bog’s eyes glistened with tears, and his head dropped into shadow. “I am fine. My arm will grow back.” He seemed to require a moment to master himself. “I made a promise to my mistress and I kept it. I know the value of honor in a world where there is little. Do you know this now, too, Straken?”

  Where is this going? “Honor has value in any world and in all lives. It defines who and what we are, be it human or Ulk Bog.”

  “Then you will demonstrate your gratitude for what I have done for you, and honor my sacrifice, by promising you will not take my mistress away with you when you go.”

  “You would have my word on this?”

  “I would. She is everything to me! I am nothing without her!”

  Drisker sat up so that the two—the seven-foot-tall Druid seated and the considerably shorter Ulk Bog standing—were face-to-face. A few moments passed as the former considered his response.

  “I will give you the only promise I know I can keep,” Drisker said finally. “I must find a way back into the Four Lands—into my homeland—but I do not require your Straken Queen to accompany me when I do. But she is her own person and entitled to her own decision. She will make whatever choice she feels she must, Weka Dart, and nothing I say is likely to change that.”

  “You can try. You can persuade her. You are a Straken, just as she is. She will value whatever you tell her. She will listen to you.”

  “You overestimate my influence. There is no reason for her to listen to me about anything.”

  “She talks about you as if you are important. I think she will listen to you. You just don’t want to help.”

  He was sounding petulant now. Drisker shook his head. “I mean what I told you. She has no reason to listen to me.”

  The Ulk Bog’s face crumpled. “Will you do nothing, then?”

  Drisker sighed. “Understand something, Weka Dart. She
came to me in the Four Lands and asked for my help. I did not offer it first. This idea of returning is hers, not mine.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Perhaps you should consider her interests before your own. What if she thinks she might be better off returning to the Four Lands? What if she really wants to leave?”

  “But she left once and came back, didn’t she? She could have stayed where she was, but they didn’t want her there. Why would she go back again to people who do not want her?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. Maybe some who live in the Four Lands don’t want her back, but she might want to go back for herself. For her own reasons that have nothing to do with anyone else.” Drisker was sinking under the weight of this pointless argument. “Maybe the demons of the Forbidding don’t want her, either. Maybe she knows that. Even if you want her here, maybe others don’t.”

  “Don’t say that!” Weka Dart exclaimed in a burst of anger. “Everyone loves her!”

  Doubtful, Drisker thought. “No one is loved by everyone. You just want her to stay because you are her friend. But sometimes you have to let go of the people you care about. Sometimes you have to understand what they want and need.”

  “That’s enough!” a familiar voice growled from the doorway, and Grianne Ohmsford walked into the room. “Weka Dart. There shall be no more of this talk. The Druid is right: I am the only one who decides what is best for me. You know this. You also know I am not without my share of enemies. There are many who would be delighted to see me gone. Now get out!”

  The little Ulk Bog shrank from her and scurried from the room without looking back.

  “He tries,” the Straken Queen murmured. “And he does care. But in this world, neither is sufficient.”

  * * *

  —

  Once Weka had gone, Grianne Ohmsford stepped all the way into the chamber and walked over to Drisker’s bed. “You seem rested enough, so it’s time we talked.”

  Drisker nodded. “Let me guess: I owe you for saving my life. I gave you my word I would help you escape the Forbidding if you helped me try to prevent the Skaar invasion. You kept your promise; now I have to find a way to keep mine. Does that sound about right?”

  “Drisker, Drisker,” she murmured, in an almost teasing way. “Yes, such are indeed the terms of our bargain, but we must promise each other something. We must promise to be completely honest with the other. It will be hard, but we must persevere. No deceptions, no holding back, no half-truths, and no lies. For we have larger concerns that demand our attention now, and I cannot have you hiding things from me, as you are doing now.”

  “Hiding things? Hiding what?”

  She gave him a look. “Please do not play games with me. I know when magic is being used in my own home. Even if it is happening while you sleep.”

  He realized at once what he had missed. “You know I have been in contact with someone.”

  He made it a statement of fact, and she nodded slowly. “I know you wish to find a way out of here, now that you are as trapped as I am. I can only hope you are keeping your word and trying to find a way out for me as well. If you know someone you think can help us, someone back in the Four Lands, tell me who it is.”

  There was no point in dissembling. “A young woman named Tarsha Kaynin. My student.”

  “Tell me what she told you. Has she been able to help you? Did she find something useful?”

  So Drisker told her everything about Tarsha’s visit to the Keep and her search of the Druid records. Or almost everything. He did not reveal what he had learned about Tarsha during his encounter with the Shade of Allanon, who had demanded Drisker ordain the girl as his successor. That, he kept to himself as information Grianne did not need. Already, he was breaking his promise to her by omitting something he knew that she did not, but then there were limits to everything—even the extent to which one could keep one’s word.

  He had just reached the crux of what Tarsha had uncovered when she stopped him in midsentence. “This girl, Tarsha. I remember her from when I came to you at the Hadeshorn. She was born with the wishsong. She must have real magic for you to take such an interest in her, and you clearly have great faith in her abilities. So what is it about her that you are not telling me? Is there something special that you see in her, beyond her magic?”

  He smiled in spite of himself. There was little that could be kept from this woman. “There might be. I am not yet sure.”

  “But you suspect?”

  He shook his head. “None of it impacts the rest of what I have to tell you. In fact, letting me finish will allow you to better understand why she is so important to both of us. Did I already mention she was an Ohmsford descendant?”

  He knew he had not, but she must have guessed as much from knowing she had the use of the wishsong.

  “This has a bearing on what you are telling me? This will provide us with a way…” Then she stopped and smiled. “Ah. She has uncovered my hidden writings in the Histories, hasn’t she? She knows about the darkwand.”

  She moved over to the side of the bed and sat down next to Drisker, almost as if they were companions now, as if they shared something so private and sacred that all barriers between them had been removed. “Clever girl. What does she know? Tell me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure what she knows other than what I told you. We are only able to reach each other in dreams, and even then we can’t seem to communicate by speaking. When we try to talk, neither of us can hear the other. We can see each other and use gestures and such, but it limits us. She managed to tell me where she was and what she was trying to do, so I was able to help her gain access to the Druid Histories. She also held up a note she wrote, letting me know the darkwand was inside the Forbidding and that you can use it because you have Ohmsford blood.”

  He paused, drawing a deep breath. “If we can locate this talisman and if you really can use it, then perhaps we have a way to escape this prison.”

  She nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”

  “Then why haven’t you searched for it yourself? You knew it was still here, inside the Forbidding, and—as an Ohmsford—you have the power to wield it.”

  “Presumably. But Penderrin was the only one to ever make use of it, so I can’t be sure. And finding the wand has thus far proved impossible—at least for me.”

  She leaned in, her ancient face a map of crevices and crosshatching—the map of her long, hard, vicious life—but also a reflection of something more that glittered from beneath her brows. Drisker was struck by what he saw: a mix of softness and deep regret, of kindness once prevalent and now reduced to almost nothing. There was a humanity deep within her that had been all but stripped away by her trials.

  “I forgot about the darkwand,” she confessed quietly. “Truly forgot, in the days of tranquility and peace I found with Mother Tanequil during my life as an aeriad. There was no reason to remember! The part of me that had been the Ilse Witch had vanished during my days with the other aeriads, while in service to our mistress. There had been so much pain and regret in my life until then, and I welcomed a chance to let it all fall away from me. I did not want to hold on to it, and so I made the decision not to.”

  She gave a deep, weight-releasing sort of sigh. “When I was returned to the Forbidding—even though I had been dragged back into service as the Ilse Witch so that I might face and destroy the Straken Lord—I still gave no thought to the darkwand. Not at first. I was consumed by grief and regret and rage at being sent back to a place I despised. I was forced to discover anew the struggle required to survive in this demon-infested spot. I was one of them, after all. I suppose I still am, but a small part of me remembers what I was before and wants it back.”

  “But the darkwand? How long did it take you to remember?”

  “It did not happen as you might expect. I had been here for years before m
y attention was drawn to the staff once more—and maybe longer; time flows strangely in this world. But here, Drisker Arc, as in our own land, there are machinations and scheming on an epic scale. More than one demon would like my title, and more than I care to think about would like to see me dead. Enemies on all sides beset me. Now and then, they act against me, and I cast them down without remorse—because I have resolved to survive and I am still stronger than them all. But new candidates always arise, and new power centers form. So the struggle to see me ousted and dispatched continues.”

  She paused, her eyes shifting away to focus on something he could not see, consumed by memories that clearly haunted her.

  “There is a new species of demon in the Forbidding,” she said at last. “They are called the Chule. In this place, evolution happens much more swiftly, and with less regard for the laws of nature, than in the Four Lands. The Chule are bipeds—a form of humanoid, but strong and savage beyond anything of similar breeding in our world. They have existed for about a hundred of our years. Their present lord is Vendra Trax, and he has long coveted my place. He would make himself Straken King in an instant, if he could, but he still lacks my strength and my skill with magic. He lacks my cunning, as well. But he grows stronger as I grow weaker, so one day soon he will have his way.”

  She shrugged, her face a mask of dark resolve. “Not that I much care at this point. I tire of this life, this world, and the injustices I have suffered. I want only to be allowed to die in my old world, in the arms of Mother Tanequil—in the only place I was ever happy.”

  Her focus drifted again, and Drisker gave her the space she sought, saying nothing. “But we were discussing the darkwand,” she continued after a few moments. “When I was first banished into the Forbidding, a demon called the Moric changed places with me, entering the Four Lands, where he came to disguise himself as the Federation Prime Minister. After Penderrin brought me out, he had to redress the balance and send the Moric back, for which purpose he used the darkwand again. The Moric was transported—carrying with him the darkwand—back into the Forbidding, where he belonged. But a dragon was waiting, and the darkwand offered the Moric no protection; he was consumed. I am not sure precisely what happened to the staff after that—though I have searched high and low—but through circumstances to which I am not privy, it was ultimately brought to the Chule and Ansa Trax, Vendra’s granduncle, in the mistaken belief he would understand it and be able to make use of it. But Ansa could do neither, because only an Ohmsford can summon and employ its magic.”