by Terry Brooks
Down he went in a crumpled heap and lay there.
She approached him cautiously. There was no movement. She toed him gingerly, ready for him to spring up and attack anew. But he failed to respond. Still using her boot, she rolled him over. His head was bent awkwardly to one side, loose and unhinged.
His neck was broken.
Shades, she thought, appalled at what she had done.
She picked up the knife he had been carrying, which was lying to one side. It was a Southland weapon, forged in one of the Borderland Cities, probably in Varfleet where they did such skilled work with blades. She knelt next to him, still watchful, ready to respond if he moved. But when she pulled back the black hood that concealed his features, his eyes were fixed and staring. She studied his features, trying to place him.
She had never seen him before.
A search of his clothing turned up nothing that revealed who he was or where he had come from. He was a Man, not an Elf, and she felt a small ripple of gratitude for that. She did not want to think that there were Elves this anxious to see her dead.
Was killing her the dead man’s idea, or did he serve another?
She remembered there had been two of them last night …
She turned to look for the backpack, scanning the ground where she had dropped it, but it was gone. So, she thought: one man to attack her and one to steal the bag. A small variation on last night’s attack, and this time they’d had better success.
She glanced out into the darkness and down the pathway, but there was nothing to see. The second attacker would be far away by now. He would not stop until he was safe and could examine the contents of her bag at his leisure. She wished she could be there to see his face when he opened it and found it stuffed with old maps and a couple of books on the care and feeding of hogs.
She smiled in spite of herself. She knew a trick or two. She had been expecting the attack and had left nothing to chance. The diary was back at the palace, down in one of the storerooms, safely tucked away where only she could find it. After last night’s assault, she wasn’t about to take foolish chances.
What she could not decide was how her attackers knew about the diary in the first place. How could anyone have found out about it in so short a time?
Whatever the answer to her question, it was clear that someone wanted it as badly as she did and would kill to get it. Using an assassin as skilled as the dead man was a clear indication of their determination. It changed her thinking measurably. She was no longer equivocating about what she must do.
She went back to the assassin, knelt beside him, and spoke a Druid grace to give him peace and forgiveness. Even the worst of the dead deserved that much.
Then she rose and went to find her sister to say good-bye.
It was time to return to Paranor.
4
WITHIN THE JAGGED RING OF THE DRAGON’S TEETH, FADING daylight turned scarlet splashed across the canopy of the Forbidden Forest all the way to the spires of Paranor. The Druid’s Keep rose stark and solitary out of an ocean of trees, its ancient stones blackened by time and weather—a vast sprawling complex in the midst of a wilderness. At the helm of the Wend-A-Way, Aphenglow eased off the thrusters, bringing the craft almost to a halt, creeping forward so that she could consider what she had left behind. It had been a long time since she had been home to Paranor, and she felt the need to prepare herself for her return.
She had left at sunrise, awake before Arlingfant so that they could say their good-byes. Her sister had asked again to come with her, to join her as a Druid and leave her life as a Chosen behind. She had cried, which had caused Aphenglow to cry, as well. But in the end Aphenglow only kissed her sister, hugged her close, and promised she would be back to see her again soon. “Take care of Mother,” she whispered before breaking away.
It all seemed very long ago now that she was coming up on Paranor and the life she had chosen for herself. She felt excited as she watched the details of the towers and walls come into focus, the places she had always favored revealing themselves one by one, the secrets she had discovered finding fresh purchase in her memories. The history of the Druids was intriguing and compelling, but it was the structure of the Keep itself that left her breathless. Sometimes she thought back to the days of Galaphile and the first Druids and wondered how they had managed to construct such a massive and complex edifice in a time when so little in the way of machinery and skill had been available.
As she neared, she saw the dim shapes of the Trolls who served as the Druid Guard at watch on the walls. Dark-clad and imposing, they were the protectors of the order. They were walking the battlements, lighting the torches with nightfall’s approach. Garroneck, Captain of the Guard, disdained the use of the flameless lamps present throughout the Keep’s interior. Fire was more dramatic and forbidding, and it was his task to keep those who were not invited away. Aphenglow could picture his blunt features and fierce expression as he explained the reason for this. The Keep had been assaulted only a handful of times since its construction, and it had fallen only once, when it had been betrayed. The big Troll did not intend to see it happen a second time, not while he was in command of the guard.
She closed off all but the parse tubes aft, and then walked forward and drew down the jib and mainsails on her skimmer and stowed them away. She would coast in and use the wing sails to steer the little ship. Measuring less than sixty feet, it could be flown by a single person, assuming one knew what to do. Aphenglow was an experienced flier, capable of commanding even a ship-of-the-line, and she had done so with the Walker Boh on several occasions. The only Druid who was her equal when it came to flying was Bombax, but then he was her equal in almost everything.
Readied for landing, she worked the thrusters in tandem and allowed the skimmer to settle slowly within the interior walls of the Keep, down into the courtyard that had been converted in Grianne Ohmsford’s time to a landing platform where the ships could be anchored just off the ground or docked for servicing. All the other ships were visible save Arrow, so it was likely all but one of the other Druids were in residence.
She brought Wend-A-Way down carefully, the landing platform blazing to life with hastily lit torches; the Troll guard had seen her approach and recognized her vessel. Garroneck was already waiting, standing off to one side, huge arms crossed over his chest until he raised one in a casual gesture of greeting. Very like him. Never any show of impatience or excitement, everything measured and steady. In all the time she had known him—which covered the entire period of her Druid tenure—she had never seen him make a rash or foolish decision or lose his temper with anyone who did.
She lowered the skimmer anchor, which Garroneck came forward to secure, dropped the rope ladder over the side, shouldered her backpack, and climbed down to greet him.
“It’s been a long time, Aphenglow,” he rumbled, his great hands swallowing hers. “Are you well?”
“Well enough,” she answered. “How are things here?”
“Steady sailing, favorable winds. We do what’s needed and then some. The Ard Rhys still sleeps. Is that about to change?”
Perceptive, as always. “Perhaps. I’ll need to speak with the others first. Who’s missing?”
A short growl that might have been laughter. “Who else but that impetuous Borderman. He comes and goes like the weather, never entirely predictable. I think he’s gone to Arishaig to test the political winds.”
Bombax. He would. “Has something happened?” She started for the doorway, taking Garroneck’s arm to keep him close.
The big shoulders dropped slightly and his head inclined until it was close. She was tall enough that it didn’t take much. “Rumor has it the Federation is getting a new Prime Minister.”
“Nothing unusual about that. They have a new Prime Minister almost weekly.”
“Very unstable government. You would think with so much territory to govern and so much responsibility to bear it would be otherwise. But that’s not the way they do
things in the city-states.”
They passed into the tower and started down the stairs, still keeping side by side.
“So what does this matter to us?” she asked.
“We might be at risk.”
“That’s old news. We are already at risk.”
“We might be at greater risk.” He shrugged. “Let the others explain. They are better able than a simple Captain of the Druid Guard.”
She smiled in spite of herself. They both knew he was astute enough to appreciate the political situation in any corner of the Four Lands. But he was also deferential toward the members of the Druid order and would never have presumed to tell them what to think.
Garroneck left her at the door to her chambers and walked off to advise the others that she had returned. But she hadn’t gotten much farther than throwing her backpack on the bed and washing her face and hands when Seersha appeared in the door.
“The despised and disinherited Elven girl returns,” she greeted, a welcoming smile spreading over her broad features. “Are you forgiven yet for your poor choice in occupation and friends?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. I remain a pariah.” She reached out and hugged the other woman, kissed her cheeks, and backed her off for a closer look. “What’s this? You look tired.”
Seersha shrugged. “Working late on elementals. There’s magic waiting to be unlocked if I could just decipher the language.”
She was a big woman, wide rather than tall and solid in the way of Dwarves, but average in height and weight. Her hair was cut short against her head, and her neck and arms were tattooed with Dwarf symbols. She wore traditional black robes, but they were striped with crimson and gold about the shoulders and down the back. One eye was gone, the result of a childhood accident, and she wore a patch over the socket that adhered to the skin and bone without need for a cord. Seersha was not like anyone Aphenglow had ever known, and it was those differences that drew the Elven woman to her.
“Are you here because you’ve finished with your search of the records?” her friend asked, arching an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I’m not finished, but I may have found something important. Let me change out of my clothes and gather my things and I will meet you and the others in the south Council chamber in an hour.”
Seersha nodded and, without pursuing the matter, went back out the door. As she disappeared, she gave a wave and said, “You-know-who has gone off alone again but is expected back soon. Still your heart, if you can.”
Bombax again. Aphenglow laughed and closed the door behind her.
It was way too late to do anything about her heart.
When she had washed and dressed in clean clothes, she walked through the corridors of the Keep toward the south Council chamber, taking her time, drinking in the smells, tastes, and sounds she had been missing during the year she was away. It was a ritual for her, a reconnecting with the place she called home. That she could feel such pleasure in a structure built of stone and iron would have surprised the Elves of Arborlon. But she saw so much more than simply the cold surfaces of the materials. The Keep was a living thing, a presence that could be felt and on occasion heard. It was protective of its children and incredibly dangerous to those who threatened them. Down in the Well, in the heart of the Keep, there was a magic that warded everything and could not be dislodged or destroyed. Time and again, when the Druid order had disappeared, died out, or simply stayed away for a long time, the magic of the Keep had come awake to keep watch until those who belonged returned.
Sometimes, when she was alone, walking down cavernous halls and through rooms layered with tapestries and shadows, she would sense the magic keeping her company, a silent, undemanding presence that wished only to share her space. It was little enough to request, and she gladly gave back what it asked.
Interestingly, no one else seemed to share her experience. In the early days after her arrival, she mentioned the unseen presence of the magic to the others. But while they nodded and smiled agreeably, she could tell they had no idea what she was talking about, that her experience was completely foreign to them.
“May I walk with you, Aphenglow?” Garroneck asked, appearing next to her out of nowhere.
She nodded wordlessly, forcing her heart to drop back down out of her throat. How did a creature so huge and ponderous appear like that without a sound? He could be a wraith when he chose, as silent as death’s shadows.
“Is your family well?” he asked conversationally.
“My sister is fine. My mother doesn’t speak to me.”
“One day she will.”
He said it with such conviction she was instantly persuaded he was right. “I would like that.”
They walked on without speaking until they reached the Council chamber entry. Light spilled through the open doors into the hallway, and she could hear the sound of voices coming from inside.
“I will be standing watch,” Garroneck advised. “No one will be allowed in while you give your report. Close the doors behind you.”
“Do you think we might be disturbed?” she asked.
He gave her a small shrug. “Not now I don’t.”
She smiled, turned, and entered the chamber, pausing to seal the doors behind her as he had asked.
The others, all but Bombax, were gathered about the long Council table. Long-limbed, loose-jointed, and rail-thin Carrick, the other member of the Race of Man, lounged in a chair at the far end, draped over the arms and seat like the scarecrow he resembled. He was bald and clean-shaven, and his pale skin seemed to radiate in the light, giving his startling blue eyes an especially vibrant look. He sat up at her appearance and clapped his hands enthusiastically.
“There she is, the woman of the hour! Welcome home, Aphenglow Elessedil. We have missed you greatly.”
“Not that greatly,” Seersha said quickly, giving her a wink. “But enough so that we have agreed to hear whatever it is you wish to say. Assuming it doesn’t go on all that long.”
Aphen crossed the room and took a seat about halfway down the table, close by Seersha and across from Pleysia Ariana. Pleysia gave her a nod and a desultory wave of one hand. Pleysia, an older and more accomplished user of magic than Aphenglow, was also Elven, but the women shared little else and did not much like each other.
“Did they throw you out?” Pleysia asked, trying for humor.
“If you mean the Elves, no.” Aphenglow smiled as if she thought the attempt at a joke funny. “I came back all on my own.” She glanced at Seersha. “Which is not to say anyone was unhappy to see me go.”
Carrick leaned forward. “Their loss is our gain. But tell us. Have you found something useful? Seersha suggested that maybe you had.”
Aphenglow hesitated. “I’m not yet certain. That is why I came back. I need you to listen to what I am about to read and then tell me your thoughts. I believed my discovery important enough to bring it now rather than wait. And there is reason to think I might be right. But leave that until I have finished.”
She reached into her pocket and produced the diary. “This book contains the writings of a young Elven girl named Aleia Omarosian, who lived and died centuries ago. I stumbled on it quite by accident. It isn’t a part of the official histories or even something that would be considered important, absent a thorough reading, to anyone looking to add to or embellish the information contained in those histories. That, I think, is why it has been overlooked for so long. It was kept because the writer was the child of a King and Queen of the Elves in the time of Faerie. But mostly, it was forgotten.”
She opened the diary. “I won’t read you all of this, only those parts that are pertinent to what seems important. Listen.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, she read from the diary, taking each entry in turn, reading it through in its entirety and without comment moving on to read the next. Her three listeners did not interrupt, but sat quietly, paying close attention.
When she was done, Pleysia said. “I don’t know. Is
this story even real? It sounds like something Aleia Omarosian might be making up. Young girls do that. They create an imaginary existence hoping that some of the angst and excitement might relieve the ennui of their real lives.”
“Maybe,” Carrick mused, rubbing his chin. “But it doesn’t sound made up to me.”
“I thought as Pleysia does,” Aphenglow said. “I wondered if the reason the diary had lain undiscovered so long was that somewhere along the way—maybe as far back as when she was still alive or right after her death—it was determined to be only a young girl’s musings. But on the same night I took the diary back to my cottage, I was attacked.”
She proceeded to fill them in on the details of the first night, then went on to relate how the attacker had returned on the second night and she had been forced to kill him. “Until then, I wondered. But the attacker’s persistence and knowledge of the book suggest it might have value. The attackers, at least, must have thought so.”
“But they don’t even know what’s in it, do they?” Pleysia pressed, leaning forward, brow furrowed. “Why would they bother with something they know nothing about? And if they did know what it contained and thought it dangerous for some reason, why wouldn’t they have tried to steal it or destroy it long before this?”
“I don’t know what they were thinking. The one is dead and the other’s identity is a mystery. But he did take my backpack in the clear anticipation that the diary was in there.”
“Or he took it because he knew something was in there that you believed had value,” Seersha offered. “He might not have known it was the diary, only that it was a document that you had found valuable. So it might still be true, as Pleysia thinks, that the diary is only a young girl’s imaginings.”
