by Terry Brooks
The burning flooded through her. She felt herself expand and grow with its rush.
—For a thousand years, I have been used in ways that would dictate the fate of you and yours. For a thousand years, the enemies of your family have called upon my power and sought to destroy what you would keep. All that has brought you to this place and time has been because of me. I am the maker of what you are; I am the shaper of your life. There is reason in all that happens, dark child, and there is reason in this. Do you sense what that reason is? Look within—
A whisper of warning called suddenly to her, and she seemed to remember a tall, black-robed figure with graying hair and piercing eyes speaking to her of that which would deceive and corrupt. She struggled momentarily with the memory, but no name would come and the vision was obscured by the burning that filled her and the lingering echo of the words of the Ildatch.
—Do you not see yourself? Do you not see what you are? Look within—
The voice was cold, flat, and emotionless still, yet there was an insistence to it that wrenched her thoughts away. Her vision blurred, and she seemed to see from without the thing that she had become through the magic of the wishsong.
We are as one, dark child, just as you have wished. There was never any need for the Elven magic, for you are what you are and always have been. That is why we are joined. There are ties born of the magics that make us what we are, for we are no more than the magics that we harbor—you within your body of flesh and blood, I within mine of parchment and ink. We are lives joined, and what has gone before has brought us to now. It is for this that I have waited all these years—
Lies! The word flashed through Brin’s mind and was lost. Her thoughts spun in confusion, and her reason scattered. Her hands still gripped the Ildatch as if it held her life within, and she found the words spoken by its disembodied voice oddly persuasive. There were indeed ties that bound them; there was a joining. She was like the Ildatch, a part of it, kindred to it.
She called out the name of the Druid in her mind, struggling to find the memory she had now lost. The burning rose in a fierce rush to carry it away, and again the voice spoke.
—All these years I have waited for you, dark child. From time out of time, you have come to me, and now I belong to you. See what must be done with me. Whisper it back to me—
The words came together in her mind, dark against the red haze of her vision. She sought to scream, but the sound constricted in her throat.
—Whisper what must be done with me—
No! No!
—Whisper what must be done with me—
Tears rose to her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks.
I must use you, she answered.
Rone stalked from the Croagh in fury, wheeled, and came back again. Both hands gripped the ebony blade of his sword until the knuckles were white.
“Enough is enough—get that cat out of my way, Kimber!” he ordered, coming up next to her and slowing as Whisper’s massive head swung about to face him.
But again the girl shook her head. “I cannot do that, Rone. He uses his own judgment in this.”
“I don’t care a whit about his judgment!” Rone exploded. “He’s only an animal and he can’t make a decision like this! I’m going past him whether he likes it or not! I’m not leaving Brin down in that pit alone!”
Sword lifting, he started for Whisper, but in that instant a deep shudder rippled through the mountain, rising up from the dark jungle of the Maelmord. So strong was the tremor that it staggered the highlander and the girl, causing them to stumble back in surprise. Shaken, they regained their balance and hurried to the edge of the cliffs.
“What’s happened down there?” Rone whispered worriedly. “What’s happened, Kimber?”
“Walkers, I’d guess.” Cogline spit from behind him. “Called up the dark magic to use against the girl, maybe.”
“Grandfather!” Kimber was angry this time.
Rone wheeled in rage. “Old man, if anything has happened to Brin because I’ve been held up here by that cat . . .”
Then he went suddenly still. A line of shadows appeared on the stairway of the Croagh, stooped and shrouded in the fading half-light of the late afternoon. They came one after another, descending from Graymark’s leaden walls, winding their way downward toward the ledge where Rone and his companions waited.
“Mord Wraiths!” the highlander breathed softly.
Already Whisper was turning, wheeling into a crouch as he prepared to defend against them. Cogline’s sudden intake of breath hissed sharply through the silence.
Rone stared upward wordlessly as the line of dark forms lengthened and advanced. There were too many.
“Get behind me, Kimber,” he told her gently.
Then he brought up the sword.
I must use you . . . use you . . . use you.
The words repeated over and over in Brin’s mind, rising in a litany of conviction that threatened to inundate all reason. Yet some tiny semblance of logic remained, screaming at her through the words of the chant.
It is the dark magic, Valegirl! It is the evil that you have come into this place to destroy!
But the touch of the book against the skin of her hands and the burning it brought to her body held her bound so that nothing else could hold sway. Again the voice came to her, wrapping close about.
—What am I but a gathering of wisdom’s lessons culled through the ages and bound for the usage of mortal beings? I am neither good nor evil, but simply a thing that is. Learning recorded and bound—there for any who might seek to know. I take what is given me of the lives of those who work my spells and I am but a reflection of them. Think, dark child. Who have been the ones who would use me? What purposes have they sought to serve? You are not as they—
Brin braced herself against the altar, the book clasped in her hands. Don’t listen! Don’t listen!
—For a thousand years and longer, your enemies have held me. Now you stand in their place, given the chance to use me as no other has tried. You hold the power that is mine. You hold the secrets that so many have wrongly used. Think what you might do with that power, dark child. All of life and death can be reshaped by what I am. Wishsong joined to written word, magic to magic—how wondrous it would be. You can feel how wondrous it would be if you would but try—
But there was no need to try. She had felt it before in the magic of the wishsong. Power! She had been swept away by it, and she had reveled in its sweetness. When it wrapped about her, she rose far above all the world and all of the creatures in it and she could gather them in or sweep them away as she might choose. How much more, then, could she do—could she feel—if she had also the power of this book?
—All that is would be yours. All. Be what you would and make the world as you know it should be. You could so do much, and it would be as it should with you—not as with those who came before. You have the strength which they lacked. You are born of the Elven magic. Use me, dark child. Find the limits of your own magic and of mine. Join with me. It is for this that I have waited and that you have come. It is what has always been intended for us. Always—
Brin’s head shook slowly from side to side. I came to destroy this, came to make an end . . . Within, everything seemed to be breaking apart, shattering like glass fallen to stone. Rushes of blinding heat burned through her, and she felt as if she were a thing apart from the body that sought to hold her.
—I have knowledge to offer that I would give. I have insight that surpasses anything ever dreamed by mortal creatures. It can make you anything you wish. All of life can be made over as it should be, as you see that it should. Destroy me, and all I have is needlessly lost. Destroy me, and nothing of what might come to pass can ever do so. Keep what is good, dark child, and make it your own—
Allanon, Allanon . . .
But the voice cut short her soundless cry.
—See, dark child. What you truly would destroy stands behind you. Turn now and look. Turn a
nd see—
She whirled. A gathering of robed walkers slipped from the shadows like ghosts, tall, black, and forbidding. They filed into the rotunda, hesitating as they caught sight of Brin holding in her hands the book of dark magic. The voice of the Ildatch whispered again.
—The wishsong, dark child. Use the magic. Destroy them. Destroy them—
She acted almost without thinking. Clasping the Ildatch to her protectively, she called forth the power of her magic. It came swiftly, loosed within her like the waters of a flood. She cried out, and the wishsong shattered the tower’s dark silence. It went through the gloom of the rotunda, almost a tangible thing. It caught the walkers in a burst of sound, and they simply ceased to exist. Not even ash remained of what they had been.
Brin staggered back against the altar, and within her body the magic of the wishsong mixed with the magic of the book.
—Feel it, dark child. Feel the power that is yours. It fills you, and I am part of it. How easily your enemies must fall before you when that power is called forth. Can you question longer what must be? Think no more that anything different could ever be. Think no more that we are not as one. Take me and use me. Destroy the Wraiths and the black things that would stand against you. Make me yours. Give me life—
Still that part of her locked deep within fought to resist the voice, but her body was no longer her own. It belonged now to the magic, and she was trapped within its shell. She rose through herself, a new being, and that tiny bit of self that still saw the truth was left behind. She expanded until it seemed as if she filled the tiny chamber. There was so little room for her here! She must have the space that waited without!
A long, anguished groan broke from her lips, and she stretched forth her arms, the book of the Ildatch held high.
—Use me. Use me—
Within her, the power began to build.
XLIV
The steps of the Croagh sped away beneath Jair’s feet as he hastened after Garet Jan and Slanter, and it seemed to him as he climbed that each step must surely be his last. The muscles knotted and cramped within his body, and pain from his wound lanced through him, wearing away at his already failing strength. He was gasping for breath, his lungs aching, and his sun-browned face streaked with sweat.
But somehow he kept pace. There was never any question of doing anything else.
His eyes swept upward along the Croagh as he ran, concentrating on the weave of stairs and railing, following the path of the roughened stone. He was conscious of the cliffs and fortress walls below him, distant now and fading further, and of Graymark and the Ravenshorn. He was conscious, too, of the valley all about, encased in mist and the half-light of a dusk that rapidly approached. Brief images slipped past the corners of his vision and were quickly forgotten, for none of that mattered now. Nothing mattered but the climb and what waited at its end.
Heaven’s Well.
And Brin. He would find her again in the waters of the well. He would discover what had become of her, and he would learn what it was that he must do to help her. The King of the Silver River had promised him that he would find a way to give Brin back to herself.
His boot slid out from under him suddenly as he stepped on a patch of crumbling stone and he fell forward, his hands scraping as he caught himself. Quickly he pushed back up again and hurried on, heedless of the damage.
Ahead, the other two ran effortlessly on—Garet Jax and Slanter, the last of the little company that had come north from Culhaven. Bitterness and anger flooded through the Valeman. Flashes of light danced before his eyes as he fought for breath momentarily, exhaustion sweeping through him. But they were almost at their journey’s end.
The stone spiral of the Croagh swung suddenly right, and the wall of the peak toward which they climbed rose close before them, rugged and stark against the graying sky. Ahead, the stairway ascended to the dark mouth of a cavern that opened back into the heart of the mountain. Less than two dozen steps remained.
Garet Jax motioned for them to wait, then soundlessly climbed the last few stairs to the summit of the Croagh and stepped out onto the ledge. He stood there a moment, his black form framed against the afternoon sky, lean and shadowy. He was like something inhuman, the thought flashed briefly through Jair’s mind, like something that wasn’t real.
The Weapons Master turned, gray eyes fixing on him. One hand beckoned.
“Hurry, boy,” Slanter muttered.
They scrambled up the remaining steps of the Croagh and stood beside Garet Jax. The cavern loomed before them, a monstrous chamber split by dozens of crevices that let in the light from without in dim, hazy streamers. Close about, the shadows gathered, and within their blackness nothing moved.
“Can’t see anything from here,” Slanter grumbled. He started forward, but instantly Garet Jax pulled him back.
“Wait, Gnome,” he said. “There’s something there . . . something that waits . . .”
His voice trailed away softly. A stillness settled down about them, deep and oppressive. Even the wind that stirred the mists of the valley seemed to die suddenly away. Jair caught his breath and held it. There was indeed something there—waiting. He could feel its presence.
“Garet . . .” he began softly.
“Shhhhh.”
Then a shadow detached itself from the rocks within the cavern entrance, and Jair went cold to the bone. Silently, the shadow slipped through the gloom. It was nothing that any of them had ever seen. It was neither a Gnome nor a Wraith, but a powerfully built creature, almost man-shaped, with a thick ruff about its loins and great, hooked claws at its fingers and toes. Cruel yellow eyes fixed on them, and a scarred, bestial face split wide at its snout to reveal a mass of crooked teeth.
The thing came forward into the light and stopped. It was not black like the Wraiths. It was red.
“What is it?” Jair whispered, fighting to contain the sense of revulsion that swept through him.
The Jachyra gave a sudden cry—a howl that rang through the silence like hideous laughter.
“Valeman, it is the dream!” Garet Jax cried, a strange, wild look crossing his hard face. Slowly he lowered the blade of the sword until it touched the ledge rock. Then he turned to Jair. “Journey’s end,” he whispered.
Jair shook his head in confusion. “Garet, what . . . ?”
“The dream! The vision that I told you about that night in the rain when we first spoke of the King of the Silver River! The dream that brought me east with you, Valeman—this is it!”
“But the dream showed you a thing of fire . . .” Jair stammered.
“Fire, yes—that was how it appeared!” Garet Jax cut him short. He let his breath out slowly. “Until now, I thought that perhaps—in a way that I could not fathom—I had mistaken what I had seen. But in the dream, as I stood before the fire and the voice that told me what I must do died away, the fire cried out like a thing alive. It was a cry that was almost a laugh—the cry that this creature has given!”
His gray eyes burned. “Valeman, this is the battle that I was promised!”
Before them, the Jachyra dropped into a crouch and began sidling forward from the cavern. Garet Jax brought the sword up at once.
“You mean to fight this thing?” Slanter was incredulous.
The other never even looked at him. “Keep back from me.”
“This is a poor idea if ever there was one!” Slanter looked frightened. “You know nothing of this creature. If it is poisonous like the one that attacked the Borderman . . .”
“I am not the Borderman, Gnome.” Garet Jax watched intently as the Jachyra approached. “I am the Weapons Master. And I have never lost a battle.”
The cold eyes flickered briefly in their direction and then fixed once more on the Jachyra. Jair started toward him, but Slanter grabbed his shoulder roughly and pulled him back again. “No, you don’t,” the Gnome snapped. “He wants this fight—let him have it! Never lost a battle! Lost his mind, that’s what he’s lost!”
Garet Jax was gliding forward across the ledge to where the Jachyra had stopped. “Take the Valeman into the cavern and find the well, Gnome. Do it when the creature comes for me. Do what you have come here to do. Remember the pledge.”
Jair was frantic. Helt, Foraker, Edain Elessedil—all lost in an effort to get him to the basin at Heaven’s Well. And now Garet Jax as well?
But it was already too late. The Jachyra screamed once and launched itself at Garet Jax, a blur of motion as it shot across the ledge rock. It leaped up against the Weapons Master, claws ripping. But the black form slipped aside as if it were no more than the shadow it resembled. The sword blade cut into the attacker—once, twice—so quickly the eye could barely follow. The Jachyra howled and slipped free, circling away for another rush.
Garet Jax wheeled, his lean face fierce, gray eyes bright with excitement. “Go, Jair Ohmsford!” he cried. “When it comes for me again—go!”
Anger and frustration tore at the Valeman as Slanter pulled him away. He would not go!
“Boy, I’m through arguing with you!” Slanter cried in fury.
Again the Jachyra attacked, and again Garet Jax sidestepped the rush, his slender sword flicking. But he was a fraction of a second too slow this time. The claws of the Jachyra ripped through the sleeve of his tunic and into his arm. Jair cried out, pulling free of Slanter.
Slanter spun him about and hit him. The blow caught him squarely on the chin. There was an instant of blinding light, and then everything went black.
The last thing he remembered was falling.
When he came awake again, Slanter was kneeling next to him. The Gnome had pulled him upright and into a sitting position and was shaking him roughly.
“Get up, boy! Get on your feet!”
The words were hard and filled with anger, and Jair scrambled up quickly. They were deep within the cavern now. Slanter must have carried him in. What little light there was came from cracks in the broken rock of the cavern’s roof.
