Bearers of the Black Staff

by Terry Brooks

  Leaders are all the same, however; they might profess otherwise, but they do not wish to give up their positions or their power. His predecessor had tried to ease him aside and, failing that, to eliminate him. The assassins who served the sect were always waiting for an opportunity, like jackals prowling at the edge of the pack for the weak and the injured. His predecessor mistook him for a victim and sent an assassin to make an example of him. The attempt failed, and the man ended up a victim himself. It caused Skeal Eile a certain amount of regret because he was not a bad man, he told himself, only a committed one. He understood what so many others did not—that he had been born to lead the faithful and that obstacles to his leadership needed to be removed. What was one life compared with the importance of the teachings of the sect?

  So he became their leader, donning the mantle he had been born to wear. He was generous and helpful to all who embraced him; he was a teacher and a giver of hope. He possessed magic, but he kept that mostly to himself and only now and then revealed glimpses of his talent. His voice was strong and ubiquitous, and he was both expected and welcomed at all council meetings and gatherings. Even those who did not subscribe directly to the teachings of the sect respected his power and his ability. They might not accept him as their leader, but they understood that his dominance was unquestionable. In turn, he did not insist on their loyalty, only on their recognition of his place.

  His influence began to reach beyond Glensk Wood to the surrounding villages, until soon he had solidified his place as Seraphic to the sect throughout the valley. It was enough for now, although his plans were grander and more far reaching and would in time elevate the place of the Children of the Hawk to one of unquestionable dominance.

  It was the right thing for everyone, he knew. It was way the Hawk himself would have wanted it—the way he would expect to find things on his return. Disruption or denial of this truth was the great heresy of his time, and Skeal Eile could not abide it.

  There had been some who had committed that heresy over the years, some who could not accept the truths embedded in the sect’s teachings. Skeal Eile had dealt with each of them as need required. Some he had managed to convince of the error of their ways, and had turned them about. Some he had marginalized or simply destroyed by discovering their unpleasant secrets and revealing them to all. Some he had driven out through threats and intimidation.

  Some he had been forced to eliminate in a more permanent fashion, their presence alone an abomination. These unfortunates had committed heresy that was beyond redemption, had spewed out poison that would infect others if left untreated. For those few, the assassins were required.

  But even the assassins were not always sufficient to right matters. Witness their failure with the boy and the girl.

  The mystery of that failure troubled him. He had heard that the two possessed special talent, although he had never witnessed it himself. He did not think they enjoyed the use of magic, as he did, but he could not be certain. Somehow they had managed to overcome and kill a skilled assassin, this boy and girl. He could not shake the feeling that Aislinne Kray was a part of what had happened, that somehow she had intervened in the matter. But even she was no match for a trained killer. Besides, she was mostly a bothersome presence. Her husband was the one that mattered, and he was firmly committed to the sect and its teachings and bonded to Skeal Eile, in particular. That didn’t mean he didn’t love his wife enough to turn it all around if something should happen to her. Pogue Kray knew it had happened to others who had defied the sect, and he had made it plain to the Seraphic that he would not allow it to happen to her. So the troublesome Aislinne had been tolerated up until now, although that might have to change.

  This was not so when it came to Sider Ament, but Eile had never been able to get his hands on the Gray Man. A loner who seldom came down off the valley rim and never into open view, he was an elusive target. Someday, maybe. Eile looked forward to putting an end to that man. But for now he, too, had to be tolerated.

  Not so the boy and the girl.

  Yet he must be careful here. He must be creative in his efforts to resolve the matter. Something out of the ordinary was required if he didn’t want to experience still another failure.

  He was well back in the trees now, on the outskirts of the village. It was deeply wooded here, the path nearly nonexistent, the underbrush thick and tangled. He slipped through openings that few could find even in daylight, the way clear to him, as it would not be to others. Ahead, a small cabin appeared through the undergrowth, a dilapidated structure with a sagging porch and blacked-out windows that gave it the look of a dead thing. But there would be eyes watching. There always were.

  Yet the eyes of the old man who met him at the door when he stepped up on the porch were as milky and blind as a cave bat’s, staring blankly at a point some six inches over Skeal Eile’s head.

  “Who’s that?” the old man asked in a whisper.

  “Tell him I’m here,” the Seraphic ordered, ignoring the question.

  “Ah, it’s you!” the old man exclaimed in delight. He cackled and turned away. “Always a pleasure to see you. Always a joy! I’ll send him right out. Just one minute.”

  Off he went, back into the darkened interior of the cabin. Skeal Eile did not try to follow. He had never been inside the cabin and had no wish to enter it now. He had a strong suspicion that he wouldn’t like it much in there. Not given what he knew of the occupants.

  He waited a full five minutes for Bonnasaint to appear. By then, he was standing out in the tiny yard, studying the weeds and the bare ground and thinking of other things. The boy materialized silently, emerging from the darkness of the cabin interior, pausing momentarily in the doorway as if to take stock of things and then stepping down to confront the Seraphic.

  “Your Eminence,” the boy greeted, bowing deeply. “How may I help you?”

  There wasn’t a hint of irony in the other’s voice, only a clear expression of abiding respect. Skeal Eile had always liked that about the boy. Even when they’d first met and the boy was only twelve, that respect was evident. Now Bonnasaint was more than twenty, and their relationship was unchanged. Skeal Eile still thought of him as a boy because he looked barely older than one, his skin fair and unblemished, his features fine, his face beardless, and his limbs slender and supple. There was nothing of the man physically evident in the boy, but get below the skin and you found a creature that was very, very old indeed.

  “I require your services,” the Seraphic said quietly, casting a quick glance at the cabin.

  “He knows better than to listen in,” Bonnasaint advised, offering up a dazzling smile.

  “I trust no one, not your father, not even you.”

  “Not even me?” The smile disappeared. “I am hurt.”

  “You are never hurt. You are as cold and hard as the stones of the mountains. That is why you are my favorite.”

  “It has been a while since you came to see me, Eminence. I thought that perhaps I had fallen from favor.”

  “I only come to you when I have a problem lesser men cannot solve. I have one now.”

  The dazzling smile returned. The boyish face brightened. “Please enlighten me.”

  Skeal Eile stepped close to him. “A boy and a girl. I want them to disappear.”

  ELEVEN

  PANTERRA AND PRUE WOKE TO A MORNING FROSTY with cold, the ground crystalline white and the lakes of the Eldemere shedding mist and dampness in the soft glow of the sun’s first light. The echo of birdcalls was sharp and ghostly, sounding out of the silence in forlorn reverberation across the wider expanse of the lakes before disappearing into the dark maze of the surrounding woods. Mist clung in thick blankets to the mountaintops. The air was sharp and clear, and you could see the details of clefts in the rocks of snow-cropped defiles that were miles away.

  The boy and the girl didn’t bother with breakfast, not yet awake enough to need or enjoy food. Instead, they packed up their gear and set out walking among the
meres, gathering their still sleep-fogged thoughts for the trek ahead.

  The sun rose, the air warmed, and the morning changed its look and feel as first light turned to full sunrise and the silence of sleep gave way to the noises of waking. Breezes gusted across the meres and through the leaves of the trees in steady rustlings, the still waters of the meres began to lap against the shores, and the birdcalls were joined by animal scurrying and voices, distant and indistinct, suddenly become audible.

  “Elves,” Panterra observed, referring to the voices, the first word either of them had spoken since waking.

  Prue nodded agreement, but didn’t reply.

  They walked on, traversing the whole of the Eldemere, stopping once at midday, when hunger got the better of them, to eat a lunch of bread, cheese, dried fruits, and cold water before continuing on. They passed no one on the way, although they were now well into the territory of the Elves and could expect an encounter at any point.

  But it was not until they reached the far eastern edge of the meres and came in sight of the forested bluff on which Arborlon had been settled that they saw their first Elf. A boy who was a little younger than Prue stepped out of the trees as they neared the switchbacked road leading up to the bluff and stared at them.

  “Good day,” Prue greeted him, giving a smile that would have melted ice.

  The boy frowned, his already slanted brows slanting further, his narrow features narrowing further. “This is Elf country,” he declared, as if in rebuke to their presence.

  “Good. Then we are in the right place.”

  “Humans aren’t welcome.”

  “We aren’t entirely human.”

  “You look human to me.”

  “Well, you aren’t very old and you haven’t see all that much of the world, so you wouldn’t know.” She gave him a fresh smile for good measure. “What’s your name?”

  “Xac,” he said, his look indicating that he was still wary of any trick they might be planning.

  “I’m Prue,” she answered. “Do you know the Orullian family?”

  The boy nodded, confused now. “What do you mean, you aren’t entirely human? I’ve never heard of that.”

  “See, now you’ve learned something new. Your education is improved. Can you take us where we need to go? That way, people will know we are being carefully watched and won’t make any trouble.”

  “I don’t know,” Xac answered, still suspicious. “If you’re not entirely human, what are you, then?”

  Prue thought about it a moment. “Tell you what. Come with us to the Orullians and you can find out from them.”

  The boy studied her carefully for a few long moments. “All right,” he said finally.

  So with the boy Xac leading the way, they crossed out of the Eldemere and through hills covered in tall grasses and scattered clumps of rock to the road leading up to the bluff. They began to see other Elves in the trees and on the hills around them, coming and going about their business. Most spared them a glance and not much more, assuming they were with the boy, which was what Prue had intended. Visitors in the company of one of their own did not draw as much attention. Panterra, watching Prue continue her conversation with Xac, could not help but admire her way with people. She had an uncanny ability to win them over, all without any hint of her intentions. Only fifteen, and already she was more practiced at it than most of the adults he knew. Maybe, he decided, it was because she was more grown-up than so many of those same adults.

  They climbed the switchbacks that led to the top of the bluffs, angling up steep stairs embedded amid rugged clusters of rocks and thick stands of trees and warded by stone walls and iron gates. The Elves called it the Elfitch, and it was intended to form a series of protective barriers against anyone trying to ascend the heights without permission. Ordinarily, this wasn’t a problem. Sentries kept watch over visitors from posts overlooking the western approach, and if anything dangerous appeared an armed force of Elven Hunters would respond in moments. Panterra couldn’t say when that had last happened—quite possibly not in his lifetime. But the argument went that the Elfitch was always meant to be a deterrent rather than a defense.

  Even now, there would be eyes on them ascending the roadway. But since Xac was accompanying them and they only numbered two, there was little reason for concern.

  When they reached the top of the Elfitch and turned onto the Carolan heights, they began to see a larger number of Elves going about their business. Now heads began to turn and gazes to focus. The presence of humans in Arborlon was rare, the result of isolating themselves from the other Races. Lizards and Spiders were frequent visitors, smaller in population and eager to make alliances. Elves were more willing to accommodate them than Men. Men couldn’t seem to help wanting to attach conditions to their friendship, while Elves simply asked that you honor their ways and respect their place in the world. Men were the most numerous of the peoples residing in the valley, yet the most difficult to be around. Panterra found that both strange and unfortunate, but that was the way of things.

  Some of it, he knew, had to do with the practices of the Children of the Hawk. But much of it was tied to a history that over the centuries had shaped the thinking of the Race of Men to such an extent that it was virtually impossible to change. Because Mankind had always been the dominant Race, the reasoning went, it was predestined that it always should be. Other Races were inferior, not of the same intelligence and ability or of the same high moral makeup or possessed of humans’ innate appreciation of life’s purpose. The excuses went on and on, and Panterra had heard them all, most often from members of the sect, but sometimes from those who ought to know better. It was the sort of thinking generated by hidden fears and doubts, by a nagging sense that maybe you weren’t as special as you had been told and would like to think.

  Neither Pan nor Prue—for they had discussed it many times when they were alone in the high country—had any use for that sort of rationalization. Nor was either particularly concerned with Man’s insistence on establishing some order of dominance among the Races. It was enough if you knew where you stood with any individual from any Race, and the pecking order would have to sort itself out over time and through trial by fire. Everyone was trying to do the best they could, and success was predicated on things like determination and strength of character and even luck. It had always been so, and they kept clear of those who thought otherwise.

  Of course, the Elves were not immune to this sort of oneupmanship, but they were less vocal about it and less inclined to make it known at every opportunity. Some among them believed that theirs was the dominant Race and always had been. They were the oldest of the Races and the most talented. They had been given the gift of magic, and they had used it to great effect until they had lost it through neglect and indecision. That their numbers were less than those of humans because they procreated so much more slowly was of little consequence in the larger scheme of things. What mattered was that they alone had found ways to survive since the time of Faerie. Some even believed that it had been a mistake to come out of hiding during the Great Wars, that if they had stayed hidden the other Races—Man, in particular—would have destroyed themselves, and the Elves would have been the better for it.

  The upshot of all this was that neither Men nor Elves had a whole lot of use for the other and kept apart to the extent that it was possible, each casting a wary eye for the other to cause trouble. Only a handful of individuals within each Race understood that they were all rowing in the same boat and all likely to stand or fall on how willing they were to unite in the face of dangers that eclipsed their own petty squabbles.

  But that sort of danger hadn’t appeared until now, Panterra knew. So a testing of each Race was close at hand.

  Pan flashed momentarily on all of this in response to the looks cast at him by some of the Elves they passed. He knew that his worldview wasn’t particularly sophisticated or experienced. He was not schooled in reading and writing, and he owned no books himself. He h
ad learned to read signs rather than books because teaching himself to be a Tracker was what really mattered to him. He was ignorant of many things, but he was not stupid. He was a keen observer, and he was well traveled throughout the valleys, so he understood a few things about the way the Races related to one another and had thought at length about what that meant. What you knew about people mostly came from coming in contact with them, he reasoned. If your instincts and your senses didn’t lie to you, if your reasoning was sound, then you could draw your own conclusions about the human condition. All you needed to do was to pay attention to what was going on around you. That was what he had done.

  His thoughts on the matter were only momentary and then they were gone as swiftly as they had come, and he moved on to what was always a fresh appreciation of the place to which they had journeyed.

  Arborlon was an impressive city by any measure, the more so for being the largest and oldest of the centers of habitation in the safehold. Arborlon had been built in a time before Mankind itself was born, in the time of Faerie and magic, before humans and all their offspring. Built and rebuilt over the centuries, encapsulated by the magic of the Loden Elfstone so that it and its inhabitants might be preserved against the greatest of evils and moved when moving was the only option available, it was the only city of its kind still in existence. There were rumors of others, of cities vast and wondrous, all reduced to ruins and rubble, empty of life, testaments to what had come and gone in other times. But Arborlon was the real thing, a city of the most distant past, built by the oldest of Races, alive and well after all this time.