The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  “Step away!” Grianne repeated.

  This time, the witch did as she was told, staring in disbelief, stunned by what was happening. Tarsha looked from one to the other with a deep sense of wonder at how quickly things had turned around.

  “Rise, Tarsha Kaynin, and face me.” Tarsha climbed back to her feet and stood waiting. “Are you strong enough to face this creature and give account of yourself? If not, say so now.”

  Tarsha did not need to think about it. This was all she wanted—a chance to face Clizia Porse, one-on-one. This was what she needed to do to avenge her brother, what she had been seeking from the moment she had held his lifeless form in her arms on the cliffs of Cleeg Hold. She owed this to Tavo. She owed it to Drisker and so many others. She owed it to herself.

  But Clizia had ideas of her own. She made a frantic gesture at the Jachyra, which had been momentarily forgotten, and two words broke from her lips in a piercing shriek as her skeletal arm thrust at her enemy.

  “Kill her!”

  Instantly the demon launched itself at Grianne. All this time, it had been waiting, held in check while its mistress toyed with its original prey. Now it was eager to release the bloodlust that raged inside it.

  Tarsha flinched in horror. Do not let this happen!

  But Grianne just waited patiently as the Jachyra came for her. Only when it was close did she release her wishsong—her voice a weapon of such power that it could almost be seen as it left her lips, the magic crystallizing the air and turning it into millions of razor-sharp fragments that flew into the Jachyra much as a flash rip’s discharge might have.

  Tarsha gasped at what happened next. Grianne’s magic stopped the Jachyra in its tracks, lifted it off the ground, and held it pinned there. Her magic was sustained and fury-driven and more inexorable than what any living creature could possibly withstand. For heart-stopping seconds the Jachyra hung helplessly, writhing and braying in dismay. And then it simply exploded into pieces and was gone.

  * * *

  —

  In the aftermath of the Jachyra’s demise, Grianne Ohmsord sank to the ground and stayed there, slumped over, the black staff lying next to her. It did not appear as if she had been injured, only that the strength had been leached from her body and left her drained. Tarsha rushed to her side and knelt next to her. Immediately Grianne’s hand rose, and she placed her fingers against the girl’s lips in what was clearly meant to be a warning.

  “Say nothing,” she whispered. Her eyes locked on Tarsha’s. “That took more out of me than I had expected, thanks to the magic I had to expend to escape the Forbidding.” Her smile was tight and bitter. “I am not what I once was.”

  Tarsha shifted her body to block Grianne’s words from Clizia Porse. Again, those piercing eyes found her own. “You must face your enemy on your own, Tarsha Kaynin. Drisker had faith in you, and I, too, believe you can do this. I am not going to be able to protect you further. I need time to recover, and there is no time left.”

  The girl glanced behind her to where Clizia stood watching. The witch’s ancient face still reflected her shock at the ease with which Grianne had dispatched her pet, but the shock was fading, replaced by cunning. She had realized what was happening to her enemy and was seeing a path to victory. She would be quick to recognize that only Tarsha now stood in her way.

  Grianne’s hand felt light as it slipped over Tarsha’s. “Be strong. Be what the Druid saw you to be. Save us both.”

  Tarsha rose and turned to face Clizia, resolved anew to end this once and for all. She was strengthened by her determination and by her trust in her heritage. She was the bearer of the wishsong, the heir to the Ohmsford legacy, and the child of a history that stretched backward in time almost three thousand years.

  “Things not working out quite the way you had hoped?” the witch teased. “Lost your champion, did you?”

  Tarsha took a deep breath and shook her head. “I am my own champion.”

  The depth of meaning in her words, the boldness of her claim, did not escape Clizia. A hesitation—a tiny hint of uncertainty—surfaced in her expression. “If you wish, you may beg me for forgiveness, and I will grant it. It is not yet too late for you to join me in rebuilding the Druid order.”

  Tarsha Kaynin dismissed the offer out of hand. She was remembering how Tavo had died, how merciless the witch had been once she disabled her brother and had him lying at her feet. She remembered how Clizia had betrayed the Druid order and allowed all of them to die as a result. She recalled how her enemy’s Druid magic—power gone wrong and turned dark—had been used to send Drisker Arc into limbo, leaving him trapped inside Paranor. And then been used again to see him banished from the Four Lands to be trapped inside the Forbidding. She was thinking of all the harm this evil old woman had done—and all of it to serve her own self-interests, with no concern at all for the cost to others.

  She hated Clizia Porse, and she was not going to let her live any longer. No more machinations and cruel manipulations of others’ lives. No further time spent spreading hatred and misery among the peoples of the Four Lands.

  It ended here. It ended now. It ended with her.

  Clizia must have sensed at much, because she instantly launched an attack that slammed into Tarsha and would have destroyed her instantly had she not been prepared. But prepared she was, shields already raised and defenses already formed. The attack shattered against her protective wall, and Tarsha stood unharmed.

  In spite of itching to launch a counterattack, she stood waiting—baiting, challenging the witch, demonstrating her confidence in herself and her certainty that Clizia was no longer a threat. Clizia attacked again, this time with iron shards and wooden barbs that filled the air with singing death. They sped toward the girl, propelled by a deathwind, driven by the old woman’s hatred and frustration.

  The projectiles struck the defensive wall Tarsha had formed and were absorbed instantly. She felt their force, experienced their sting, and still she did not falter. It was almost as if her body welcomed the magic into her, converting it for her own use, finding it not threatening but sustaining. Tarsha had crossed a line she could not identify and had not realized was there, but it revealed in no uncertain terms that she was no longer the student of the magic she had been born with, but its mistress.

  And perhaps more revealing even than that, she was indeed the equal of Clizia Porse.

  Still, the battle was not over, the victory not yet secured. Clizia remained dangerous—perhaps more so in her growing desperation. Seeing that the direct attacks were failing to work, she turned to something else.

  “Little witch!” she screamed—perhaps in simple fury but perhaps in an effort to tighten her own resolve. “You think yourself a match for me? You are nothing but the failed dream of a failed wizard and your own worthless hopes!”

  Words and gestures ensued—frantic arm waving and weaving hands and expressions that promised terrible pain. It was almost comical, and hard to credit that it would amount to anything more than hot air and wasted effort. But within seconds Tarsha felt something working. It started as a nudging from somewhere deep inside and quickly began to spread all through her. She fought back, but she could not slow the process down. Quickly, it overwhelmed her defenses and became so painful she screamed in response. It was as if hot irons were pressing against her body from within. She felt herself begin to burn all over, intolerable pain ratcheting through her until all her efforts at resistance were overcome.

  She dropped to her knees. She was dying; she could feel it. She was drowning in pain, consumed from the inside out, her organs eaten away, her blood vessels bursting, her life sliding into an abyss from which there was no return.

  She could hear the sound of Clizia’s voice, laughing and taunting. She could feel the witch’s hands wrenching at her heart and lungs, trying to yank them free of her body. Everything was spinning about—
the whole of the world whirling madly—and she was beginning to fall.

  Then an understanding came to her, and she grabbed hold of it and held on tight.

  Do not fight that which threatens to steal all hope; embrace it and make it your own.

  Drisker’s words, spoken long ago, back when he was first training her and had told her that sometimes what you couldn’t overcome by force you could co-opt with acceptance. This was one such time; she was certain of it. Clizia could not have gotten inside of her, could not have broken through her defenses so easily. This was an illusion only, planted by the witch and allowed free rein by Tarsha’s own mind.

  Clizia, I am finished with you!

  Tarsha opened herself fully to the burning, the iron, the pain, and let herself move through and past it. And there, at the end, was Clizia Porse, poised to strike a killing blow, prepared to send her to join her brother in the netherworld.

  Gathering herself in response, she struck the witch first, her own magic white-hot and deadly accurate. A single, iron-wrapped lance of wishsong power, formed and dispatched so swiftly it was on top of Clizia before she knew it was coming. She saw the danger in the last moments of her life, and then the lance penetrated—piercing her, shredding her, stealing away her last breath, her last heartbeat, her final thought, her life.

  She died on her feet, and the magic infecting Tarsha fell away.

  Tarsha dropped to one knee, head bent, breathing rapidly as Grianne knelt beside her. One slender arm came about her body, and the girl was aware suddenly that she was shaking all over. The arm tightened reassuringly. “It’s finished,” the other woman whispered.

  Tarsha shook her head doubtfully, not yet able to accept that it really was, still caught up in the battle she had fought.

  “Listen to me, Tarsha Kaynin.” Grianne drew her up so that she met the other’s steady gaze. “You fought the battle you were born to fight, and you prevailed. Clizia Porse is gone, and she is not coming back. But there is more that you must see.”

  Tarsha flinched, feeling a sudden surge of dread fill her. “What is it?”

  But Grianne merely helped her to her feet and guided her away from the battle site and into the trees. She saw almost at once the body lying amid the grasses, wrapped in a gray robe, carefully covered.

  “Your friend—your mentor and protector, Drisker Arc. We fought side by side to escape the Forbidding, but the effort cost him his life. He is gone.”

  Tarsha Kaynin stared at the old woman, wanting to deny what she was hearing, to tell her she was mistaken, but what she saw in those ancient eyes told her it was true.

  It seemed as if the world collapsed on her then—as if she were suddenly buried beneath everything she had experienced since she had first gone to the Druid all those weeks ago. She moved woodenly to kneel beside the still form, to reach out tentatively and touch it. Then the tears came in a flood, hot and unwelcome, and she began to cry as if she would never stop.

  THIRTY-NINE

  When Tarsha had cried herself out, Grianne raised her to her feet once more and positioned her so they were facing each other directly. “He died at the hand of an Ulk Bog, a demon who thought Drisker had betrayed him, even though he was only trying to help. We were all trying to escape the Forbidding. Drisker found the darkwand; he saved me, Tarsha. He freed me when I thought nothing ever would. I could not save his life, but I brought him back with me anyway. Back to the Four Lands, back to where he belonged. He asked me to come to you, to help you stand against Clizia Porse.”

  She smiled, and suddenly she was a younger woman, a less worn and world-weary creature, and Tarsha thought she could see something of the girl she had once been.

  “But you never needed me to help you. You only needed yourself.” She took Tarsha’s hands in her own. “I had always believed the darkwand would permit only the Druid and myself to cross back. As an Ohmsford, I could access passage. As my charge, the Druid could accompany me. The Ulk Bog could not, because he was a prisoner of the Forbidding and could never be set free. Nor was I entirely certain about Drisker, yet I was determined to try. And I succeeded.”

  “I always thought he would return,” Tarsha said. “I always believed he would find a way.”

  “He was strong,” Grianne agreed, “but it was his time. He knew it. I regret I could not save him. I regret I could not save the unfortunate creature who killed him; Weka Dart was loyal to me for so long; but reason failed him, and madness drove him to take the Druid’s life. My wishsong has saved others who were badly injured, but it failed me this time. The Druid’s injuries were too grievous, and my magic was already engaged with the darkwand and could not be turned. Yet I had made him a promise. If he failed to come back to you, I would find you and protect you in his place. I decided he should come with me, even if his life was over. He deserved that much from me.”

  Tarsha was weeping again. “He did so much for me. He tried to save my brother. He did save me. He cared for the Four Lands, and he was the sole reason so much of what went wrong was set right again. I wish he could be here to see the rest made right, as well.”

  The other woman nodded. “He may be seeing it anyway, from where he now dwells. One day, he might come to you to speak about it. Until then, honor his memory.”

  They rose and walked together to see to Fade and Flinc. A bit of joy surfaced inside Tarsha when she found both beginning to stir. The moor cat’s injuries were not so severe they could not be treated with the wishsong’s magic, so Grianne acted immediately to do so. The forest imp, too, was sitting up by then, looking thoroughly befuddled as he caught sight of her. “I remember you,” he said to Grianne. “You probably don’t remember me, but we crossed paths a long time ago—so long ago I can’t remember exactly when it was. Yet here you are. How is that possible?”

  They sat together then and Grianne explained again what had befallen Drisker Arc. She described how Drisker had gone with her to retrieve the darkwand, and how together they had come back to find it at Kraal Reach. She described his death at the hands of Weka Dart. She took her time and did not rush her explanation. It seemed to Tarsha that she gave them what peace of mind and solace she could.

  By the time she had finished, Fade was sleeping next to her, exhausted. The magic of the wishsong seemed to have helped her, and the depth of her sleep was a clear indication she was healing. Flinc was gone. He had slipped away, and Tarsha hadn’t even noticed. He had not explained how he and the Ilse Witch had crossed paths, but she knew he would do so one day.

  Because Grianne had brought Drisker’s body back with her, the two women decided to bury him next to Tavo. As they finished, the day was waning, the sun sliding west into the trees, casting their long shadows across the graves of Drisker and her brother. Tarsha wasn’t sure if it was right, but she thought she would stay here for a while. She would grieve and wait for news of the Behemoth and her friends. She would try to heal, although at that moment she wasn’t at all sure she ever would.

  “Do something for me, please,” the older woman asked. “Find the Stiehl. Then retrieve the darkwand from where I left it and search what remains of Clizia Porse for any other talismans of magic. Bring them all to me.”

  Tarsha did so, finding a scrye orb in the witch’s pocket, but nothing else of note. She carried it all back to Grianne and laid it at her feet. The old woman glanced at the objects, then reached into her pocket and brought out a second scrye orb. “I took it from Drisker Arc, after he was gone.”

  Tarsha said nothing for a moment and then sat down beside her. “What will you do with them?” she asked.

  A slow smile lit the other’s seamed features. “Nothing. I will ask you to keep them here. Hide them where you think best, and when the time is right—and you will know when it is—bring them out again. But they cannot stay with me. Now then, I need to ask a favor of you,” she said.

  Tarsha smiled back. “Wha
tever I can do, I will. I owe you my life. Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to take me home.”

  Grianne saw the confusion in the girl’s eyes as she tried to make sense of what she was being asked. What home could Grianne mean? Surely not the Forbidding she had finally managed to escape. Her only real home had been lost when she was stolen as a child and made into the Ilse Witch. Since then, Grianne had never really had a home. But she had found peace and purpose in another place and life—in the mountains of the Klu and the valley of the Inkrim, in the company of the aeriads and in service to the strange entity known as Mother Tanequil.

  It was there, she told the girl, that she wished to return. Back to that life and the joy it had given her. Back to the only comfort and tranquility she had ever known. Take her there, and Tarsha would be granting her a favor of such immense proportions there were no words to adequately describe what it would mean.

  After a few days’ rest, during which they talked to each other at length and kept company with the recovering Fade and the enigmatic Flinc, they boarded Tarsha’s two-man and set out for the distant north. The day mirrored their mood and their expectations—bright and cheerful and welcoming. Grianne felt a mix of excitement and intense anticipation she had not known for longer than she could remember. Here was the goal she had set for herself when wrongly swept back into the Forbidding by the Ellcrys all those years ago. Here was the dream that had never died but lived on as a live coal within ashes of despair, burning with hope.