by Terry Brooks
The Grimpond’s eyes narrowed sharply, flickering deep red as the silence between the two lengthened. “Find your own way, Brin of the Vale people,” the Grimpond hissed.
Rage exploded inside Brin, but by sheer force of will she held it in check. Wordlessly, she nodded in acquiescence, then stepped back and seated herself upon the shore, her cloak pulled close about her.
“You wait to no purpose,” the shade sneered.
But Brin did not move. She composed herself carefully, breathing in the damp air of the lake and drawing her thoughts close about her. The Grimpond stayed suspended above the waters of the lake, unmoving, its eyes turned toward her. Brin let those eyes draw her close. A serene look came over her dusky face, and the long black hair fanned back. It does not yet see what I will do! She smiled inwardly, and the thought was gone an instant after it had come.
Then softly, she began to sing. The wishsong rose into the midday with sweet and gentle words from the lips of the girl seated upon the lakeshore, to fill the air about her. Quickly, it reached out and bound the misted form of the Grimpond, weaving and twisting with its magic. So startled was the shade that it did not stir from its resting spot, but hung suspended within the web of the magic as it slowly drew tighter. Then, for the barest second, the Grimpond seemed to sense what was happening to it. Beneath its gathered robes, the lake waters boiled and hissed. But the wishsong swiftly swept all about the imprisoned form, wrapping it away as if it had become a chrysalis.
Now the Valegirl’s voice came quicker and with more certain intent. The shrouding of the first song, the gentle, womblike wrapping that had bound the Grimpond without his seeing, was gone. A prisoner now, as surely as the fly caught within the spider’s web, the shade was to be dealt with as its captor chose. Yet the Valegirl used neither force of arms nor strength of mind against this being, for she had seen that such would be useless. Memories were the weapons she called to her aid now—memories of what had once been, of what had been lost and could never be regained. All came back once more within the wishsong’s music. There was the touch of a human hand, warm and kind. There was the smell and taste of sweetness and light and the sensation of love and joy, of life and death. There were all these and others, lost to the Grimpond in its present form, barely remembered from the life long since gone.
With a cry of anguish, the Grimpond sought to evade the old sensations, shimmering and roiling in a cloud of mist. Yet it could not escape the magic of the song; slowly, the sensations caught it up and held it, and it was given over to their memories. Brin could feel the shade’s emotions come again to life, and within the memories exhumed, the Grimpond’s tears flowed. She sang steadily. When the shade was hers completely, she hardened herself against her own pain and drew back what she had given.
“No!” the apparition howled in dismay. “Give them back, Valegirl! Give them back to me!”
“Tell me what I would know,” she sang, the threads of the questions weaving through her song. “Tell me!”
With frightening suddenness, the Grimpond’s words came pouring out as if released with the anguish that tore its forgotten soul. “Graymark bridges the Maelmord where it lies within the Ravenshorn—Graymark, the castle of the Wraiths. There lies the way that is sought, a maze of sewers that runs from its halls and chambers deep beneath the rock on which it stands, to empty into a basin far below. Enter through the sewers, and the eyes of the walkers will not see!”
“The Sword of Leah,” Brin pressed harshly. “Where can it be found? Tell me!”
Anguish wrenched the Grimpond through and through as she touched him in taunting strokes with the feel of what had been lost. “Spider Gnomes!” the shade cried desperately. “The blade lies within their camp, snatched from the waters of the Chard Rush, gathered in by the nets and snares they keep fastened to its banks!”
Abruptly, Brin drew back the magic of the wishsong, filled with the memories and the sensations of the old life. She drew it clear in a swift, painless rush, freeing the imprisoned shade from the trappings that had bound it. The echoes of the song lingered in the stillness that hung across the empty lake, dying into a single haunting note that rang in the midday air. It was a note of forgetfulness—a sweet, ghostly cry that left the Grimpond as it had been.
There was a long, terrible silence then. Slowly Brin rose to her feet and stared full into the face that was the mirror of her own. Something deep within her howled in dismay as she saw the look that came upon that face. It was as if she had done this to herself!
And the Grimpond realized now what had been done. “You have tricked from me the truth, dark child!” the shade wailed bitterly. “I sense that you have done so. Ah, black you are! Black!”
The shade’s voice broke, and the gray waters boiled and steamed. Brin stood frozen at the edge of the lake, afraid to turn away or to speak. Inside, she was empty and cold.
Then the Grimpond lifted its robed arm. “One last game then, Valegirl—something back from me to you! Let this be my gift! Look into the mist, here beside me where it forms—look closely now! See you this!”
Brin knew then that she should flee, but somehow she could not. The mist seemed to gather before her, swirling and spreading in a sheet of gray that lightened and smoothed. A slow, shimmering motion rippled across its surface like still water disturbed, and an image formed—a figure, crouched low within a darkened cell, his movements furtive . . .
Jair snatched back the vision crystal, thrusting it deep within his tunic, praying that the shadows and the gloom hid from the Mwellret what it was that he did. Perhaps he had been quick enough. Perhaps . . .
“Ssaw the magicss, Elfling,” the harsh voice rasped, dashing his hopes. “Ssenssed all along that the magicss were yourss. Sshare them with, me, little friend. Sshow what you have.”
Jair shook his head slowly, fear mirrored in his blue eyes. “Stay away from me Stythys. Stay back from me.”
The Mwellret laughed—a low, guttural laugh that echoed in the emptiness of the cell and the long corridors beyond. The creature swelled suddenly within the dark robes, rising up against the dim light like a monstrous shadow.
“Threatenss me, ssmall one? Crussh you like a tiny egg if you usse the magicss on me. Sstay quiet now, little friend. Look into my eyess. Ssee the lightss.”
Lidded, scaled eyes glimmered, cold and compelling. Jair forced his own eyes down, knowing that he could not look, that if he did so he would belong once again to the creature. But it was so hard not to look. He wanted to see into those eyes; he wanted to be drawn into them and the peace and serenity that waited there.
“Ssee, Elfling,” the monster hissed.
Jair’s hand closed about the small bulk of the vision crystal until he could feel the edges cutting into his palm. Concentrate on the pain, he thought frantically. Don’t look. Don’t look!
Then the Mwellret hissed angrily and one hand lifted. “Give to me the magicss! Give them to me!”
Voiceless, Jair Ohmsford shrank back from him . . .
The Grimpond’s robed arm came down sharply and the screen of mist dissolved and was gone. Brin lurched forward desperately, stepping off the rock-strewn shoreline into the gray waters of the lake. Jair! That had been Jair in the images! What was it that had happened to him?
“Did you enjoy that game, Brin of the Vale people?” whispered the avatar harshly, the waters roiling once again beneath where it hung. “Did you see what has happened to your precious brother whom you thought safe within the Vale? Did you see?”
Brin fought back against the rage that welled up within her. “Lies, Grimpond. You tell only lies this time.”
The shade chuckled softly. “Lies? Think what you wish, Valegirl. A game is only a game, after all. A diversion from the truth. Or is it truth revealed?” Robed arms drew close, the mist swirling. “Dark you are, Brin of Shannara, of Ohmsford, of history spawned. Dark as the magic with which you play. Go from me, now. Take what you have learned of the clown prince’s magic and the passag
e to your death. Find what you seek and become what you surely will! Get you gone from me!”
The Grimpond began to fade back into the gray mist that rolled behind it over the lake’s murky waters. Brin stood transfixed upon the shoreline, wanting to hold the shade back, but knowing that this time she could not.
Suddenly the shade paused in its retreat, red eyes narrowing into slits within the mist robes. Brin’s own face leered back at her, a twisted mask of evil. “See me as you are, Brin of the Vale people. Savior and destroyer, mirror of life and death. The magic uses all, dark child—even you!”
Then the Grimpond disappeared back into the wall of the mist, its laughter soft and wicked in the deep silence. Soundlessly, the grayness closed about it and it was gone.
Brin stared after it a moment, lost in a gathering of fears, doubts, and whispered warnings. Then slowly she turned and walked back to the trees.
XXXIII
Dark and forbidding, the Mwellret Stythys advanced through the gloom of the little cell, and Jair backed slowly away.
“Give to me the magicss,” the monster hissed, and the crooked fingers beckoned. “Releasse them, Elfling.”
The Valeman retreated further into the shadows, the chains that bound his wrists and ankles dragging. Then the cell wall was pressing into his back and there was nowhere left to go.
I cannot even run from him! he thought desperately.
A soft scraping of leather boots on stone sounded from the cell entry and the Gnome jailer appeared from the corridor beyond. Head lowered into shadow, the hooded form passed silently through the open doorway into the room. Stythys turned at the other’s approach, cold eyes glittering with displeasure.
“Ssent not for little peopless,” the Mwellret muttered darkly, and the scaled hands motioned the Gnome away.
But the jailer paid no heed. Mute and unresponsive, he shuffled past the lizard creature as if he had not seen him and came directly toward Jair. Head still lowered, hands tucked deep into the folds of the ragged cloak, the Gnome slipped wraithlike through the dark. Jair watched his approach with mingled surprise and uncertainty. As the little man came closer, the Valeman shrank back in repulsion against the stone of the cell wall, the iron of his chains clanking as he raised his hands defensively.
“Sstand away, little peopless!” Stythys rasped, angry now, and his scaled body drew itself up menacingly.
But the Gnome jailer had already reached Jair, a hunched and voiceless thing as he stood before the Valeman. Slowly the cowled head lifted.
Jair’s eyes went wide. The Gnome in the ragged cloak and hood was not the jailer!
“Need a little help, boy?” Slanter whispered.
Then a black-clad form leaped from the shadowed corridor without, and the slender blade of a long sword pressed up against the throat of an astonished Stythys, forcing him back against the cell wall.
“Not a sound from you,” Garet Jax warned. “Not a twitch. Either, and you’ll be dead before you finish!”
“Garet, you’re alive!” Jair exclaimed in disbelief.
“Alive and well,” the other replied, but the hard gray eyes never moved from the Mwellret. “Hurry and set the Valeman free, Gnome.”
“Just be patient a moment!” Slanter had produced a ring of iron keys from beneath the cloak and was trying each key in turn in the shackles that bound the Valeman. “Confounded things don’t fit the lock . . . ah-ha—this one!”
The locks on the wrist- and ankle-bindings clicked sharply and the chains fell away. “Slanter,” Jair gripped the Gnome’s arm as Slanter stripped away the jailer’s ragged cloak and tossed it aside. “How on earth did you ever manage to find me?”
“No real trick to that, boy!” the Gnome snorted, rubbing at the other’s bruised wrists to restore the circulation. “I told you I was the best tracker you’d ever met! Weather didn’t help much, of course—washed out half the signs, turned the whole of the forestland to muck. But we picked up the lizard’s tracks right outside the tunnels and knew he’d bring you here, whatever his intentions. Cells in Dun Fee Aran are always for sale to anyone with the right price and no questions asked. People in them for sale the same way. Lock you away until you’re bones, unless . . .”
“Talk about it later, Gnome,” Garet Jax cut him short. “You.” He jabbed sharply at the Mwellret. “You walk ahead—keep everyone away from us. No one is to stop us; no one is to question us. If they do . . .”
“Leavess me here, little peopless!” the creature hissed.
“Yes, leave him,” Slanter agreed, his face wrinkling in distaste. “You can’t trust the lizards.”
But Garet Jax shook his head. “He goes. Foraker thinks we can use him.”
Jair started. “Foraker is here, too!”
But Slanter was already propelling him toward the cell door, spitting in open disdain at the Mwellret as he walked past. “He’ll do us no good, Weapons Master,” he insisted. “Remember, I warned you.”
They were in the hallway beyond then, crouched in the shadows and the silence, Slanter at the Valeman’s elbow as Garet Jax brought Stythys through the door. The Weapons Master paused for a moment, listened, then shoved Stythys before him as they started back down the darkened corridor. A torch burned in a wall rack ahead of them; when they reached it, Slanter snatched the brand away and assumed the lead.
“Black pit, this place!” he growled softly, picking his way through the gloom.
“Slanter!” Jair whispered urgently. “Is Elb Foraker here, too?”
The Gnome glanced at him briefly and nodded. “The Dwarf, the Elf and the Borderman as well. Said we’d started this journey together and that’s how we’d finish it.” He shook his head ruefully. “Guess we’re all mad.”
They slipped back through the labyrinth passageways of the prisons, the Gnome and the Valeman leading and the Weapons Master a step behind with his sword pressed close against the back of the Mwellret. They hastened through blackness, silence, and the stench of death and rot, passing the closed and rusted doors of the prison cells and working their way back into the light of day. Gradually, the gloom began to recede as slivers of daylight, gray and hazy, brightened the passages ahead. The sound of rain reached their ears, and a small, sweet breath of clean air brushed past them.
Then once again the massive, ironbound doors of the building entrance appeared before them, closed and barred. Wind and rain blew against them in sharp gusts, drumming against the wood. Slanter tossed aside the torch and hastened ahead to peer through the watch slot for what waited without. Jair joined him, gratefully breathing in the fresh air that slipped through.
“I never thought to see you again,” he whispered to the Gnome. “Not any of you.”
Slanter kept his eyes on the slot. “You have the luck, all right.”
“I thought no one was left to come for me. I thought you dead.”
“Hardly,” the Gnome growled. “After I lost you in the tunnels and couldn’t figure out what had become of you, I went on through to the cliffs north above Capaal. Tunnel ended there. I knew if the others were alive, they’d come through just as I had, because that was what the Weapons Master’s plans had called for. So I waited. Sure enough, they found each other, then found me. And then we came after you.”
Jair stared at the Gnome. “Slanter, you could have left me—left them too. No one would have known. You were free.”
The Gnome shrugged, discomfort reflecting in his blocky face. “Was I?” He shook his head disdainfully. “Never stopped to think about it.”
Garet Jax had reached them now, prodding Stythys before him. “Still raining?” he asked Slanter.
The Gnome nodded. “Still raining.”
The Weapons Master sheathed the slender sword in one fluid motion and a long knife appeared in its place. He pushed Stythys up against the corridor wall, his lean face hard. A head taller than Garet Jax when first surprised by him in Jair’s cell, Stythys had shrunk down again, coiled like a snake within his robes. Green eyes gl
ittered evilly at the Southlander, cold and unblinking.
“Leavess me, little peopless,” he whined once more.
Garet Jax shook his head. “Once outside, walk close to me, Mwellret. Don’t try to move away. Don’t play games. Cloaked and hooded, we shouldn’t be recognized. The rain will keep most away, but if anyone comes close, you turn them. Remember, it wouldn’t take much to persuade me to cut your throat.”
He said it softly, almost gently, and there was a chilling silence. The Mwellret’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Havess the magicss!” he hissed angrily. “Needss nothing from me! Leavess me!”
Garet Jax brought the point of the long knife tight against the other’s scaled throat. “You go.”
Cloaks wrapped close about them, they pulled open the heavy wooden doors of the darkened prison and stepped out into the light. Rain fell in blinding sheets from gray, clouded skies, blown against the fortress walls by the wind. Heads bent against its force, the four started across the muddied yard toward the battlements that lay immediately north. Scattered knots of Gnome Hunters passed them by without slowing, anxious only to get in out of the weather. On the watchtowers, sentries huddled in the shelter of stonework nooks and bays, miserable with the cold and damp. No one cared anything about the little party that crossed below. No one even gave them a second glance.
Slanter took the lead as the north battlements drew near, guiding them past small lakes of surface water and mudholes to where a pair of iron-grated doors closed away a small court. They pushed through the doors and crossed quickly to a covered entry that led into a squat stone-and-timber watchtower. Wordlessly, the Gnome unlatched the shadowed wooden door and led the way inside.
An anteway lay within, brightened by the light of torches jammed into holders on either side of the door. Brushing the water from their cloaks, they paused momentarily while Slanter moved to the edge of a darkened corridor leading left beneath the battlement. After peering into the gloom, the Gnome beckoned for them to follow. Garet Jax snatched one of the torches from its bracket, handed it to Jair, and motioned him after Slanter.
