by Terry Brooks
The Gnome yanked him about. “What did you think you were doing back there?”
Jair was still dazed. “I couldn’t let him . . .”
“Off to the rescue with your tricks, were you?” the other cut him short. “You don’t understand anything—you know that? You really don’t understand anything! What is it that you think we’re doing here? You think we’re playing some kind of game?” Slanter was livid. “There’s choices been made long before this about living and dying, boy! You can’t change that. You don’t have the right! All of the others—all of them—died because that was the way it had to be! That was the way they wanted it! And why do you think that was?”
The Valeman shook his head. “I . . .”
“Because of you! They died because they believed in what it was that you had come here to do—every last one of them! Even I would have . . .” He caught himself and took a deep breath. “It would have done a lot of good if you’d gone dashing to the rescue back there and gotten yourself killed, now wouldn’t it? A whole lot of sense that would have made!”
He wheeled Jair about and shoved him ahead into the cave. “Enough time’s been wasted on teaching you things you ought to know already—time we don’t have! I’m all that’s left, and I’m not going to be much help to you if the walkers find us now. The others—they were the real protectors, looking out for me as much as for you!”
The Valeman slowed and half turned. “What’s happened to Garet, Slanter?”
The other shook his head darkly. “He fights his promised battle—just as he wished.” He pushed Jair again and hurried him on. “Find your well quickly, boy. Find it and do what you came here to do. Make all of this madness count for something!”
Jair ran with him and said nothing more, his face flushed with shame. He understood the Gnome’s anger. Slanter was right. He had acted without thinking—without consideration for what the others of the little company had given up for him. His intentions might have been good, but his judgment had been poor indeed.
Ahead, the shadows fell away in a haze of graying sunlight that poured down through a massive crevice in the mountain stone. In the floor of the cavern, caught in the half-light, foul black water bubbled up from out of the rock in a broad basin, pumped in some impossible way through thousands of feet of stone from the depths of the earth. Gathering and churning, it gushed through a slot at one end of the basin into a worn channel, then poured through an opening in the mountain wall to tumble to the canyons below, where it began its long journey west to become the Silver River.
Gnome and Valeman slowed cautiously, eyes darting through gloom and hazy spray to the deep niches and corners of the cavern’s dark ends. Nothing moved. Only the flow of the blackened waters gave evidence of life, a terrible rush of poison that steamed and boiled as it lifted from the wellspring. All about, the stench of the Maelmord hung like a shroud.
Jair went forward once more, eyes fixed on the basin that was Heaven’s Well. How perverse that name seemed to him now as he gazed upon the fouled waters. Silver River no more, he thought dismally, and he wondered how even the magic of the old man could change it back to what it had once been. Slowly, he reached into his tunic front and his fingers closed about the tiny pouch of Silver Dust that he had carried with him all through his long journey east. He slipped the drawstrings free and peered within. The dust lay gathered, like ordinary sand.
And if it were only sand . . .?
“Quit wasting time!” Slanter snapped.
Jair moved to the edge of the basin, conscious of the sludge that choked the well’s dark waters and of the reek. It could not be only sand! He swallowed against that fear, remembering Brin . . .
‘”Throw it!” Slanter cried angrily.
Jair’s hand jerked up, flinging the Silver Dust from its pouch, scattering it in a wide sweep across the surface of the fouled well. The tiny grains flew from the darkness of their container; and in the light of the cavern they seemed suddenly to sparkle and shimmer. They touched the waters and flared to life. A sheet of brilliant silver fire burst from the dark well. Jair and Slanter recoiled, shielding their eyes with their hands, blinded by the glare.
“The magic!” Jair cried.
Hissing and boiling, the waters of Heaven’s Well exploded skyward, raining down across the length and breadth of the cavern, showering the two who crouched at the basin’s walls. Then a rush of clean air seemed to spring to life, born out of the shower of water. Gnome and Valeman stared in awe and disbelief. Before them, the waters of Heaven’s Well bubbled clear and fresh from the mountain rock. The stench and the black, poisoned color were gone. The Silver River was clean once more.
Quickly, Jair took from around his neck the vision crystal and its silver chain. There was no hesitation now. He moved back to the basin and climbed to a small outcropping of rock that overlooked it. He heard again in his mind the King of the Silver River telling him what he must do if he were to save Brin.
His hand tightened on the crystal, and he stared downward into the waters of the basin. All of the weariness and pain seemed to seep away in that single instant.
He threw the crystal and the chain into the basin’s depths. There was a blinding flash of light—a flash greater than that created by the scattering of the Silver Dust—and the whole of the cavern seemed to explode in white fire. Jair dropped to his knees in fright, hearing Slanter’s harsh cry behind him, and for an instant he thought that something had gone terribly wrong. But then the light fell away into the surface of the basin’s waters, and the waters became as smooth and clear as glass.
The answer—show me the answer!
An image spread slowly across the mirrored surface, shimmering like a thing of transparency, then tightening. A tower room appeared, cavernous and flooded with musted, graying light, and there was an oppression that was almost palpable. Jair shrank from what he felt as he watched the room broaden and begin to draw him in.
And then the face of his sister appeared . . .
Brin Ohmsford felt the eyes looking at her, seeing all that she was and would become, then reaching to draw her close. Though wrapped within layers of magic as the power of the Ildatch built within her, she sensed the eyes and her own snapped up.
Stay from me! she howled. I am the dark child!
But that tiny part of her that the magic had not subverted knew the eyes and sought their help. Trapped thoughts broke from their shackles within her mind, fleeing like sheep from wolves that hunted, crying out and striving to reach shelter. She saw them, and the discovery filled her with fury. She reached for the scattered thoughts as they fled and she crushed them, one by one. Childhood, home, parents, friends—the disparate pieces of what she had been before she had found what she could be—she crushed them all.
Her voice found release then in a wail of anguish, and even the aged walls of the dark tower shook with the force of her keening. What had she done? There was pain within her now, brought about by the harm she had caused. A brief moment’s insight flooded through her, and she heard the echo of the Grimpond’s prophecy. It was her own death, indeed, that she had come into the Maelmord to find—that she had found! But it was not the death that she had supposed. It was the death of self through her entrapment by the magic! She was destroying herself!
But even in the horror of that realization, she could not release the Ildatch. She was caught up in the feel of the magic’s power as it built and expanded like flood waters gathering. Before her, she held the book in a death grip, hearing its dispassionate voice whisper in encouragement and promise. Her pain was forgotten. The eyes were swept away. There was only the voice. She listened to its words, unable not to, and the world began to open up before her . . .
At the basin of Heaven’s Well, Jair staggered back from the vision of his sister. Was it truly Brin whom he had seen? Horror flooded through him as he forced himself to view again the apparition that the waters had shown him. It was his sister, but twisted into a thing barely recognizable—a per
version of the human being she had once been. She was lost to herself—just as the King of the Silver River had said she would be.
And Allanon! Where was Allanon? Where was Rone? Had they failed her as he had failed her by reaching Heaven’s Well too late?
Tears streaked Jair Ohmsford’s face. It had come to pass as the old man had warned that it would—everything as he had foreseen. A terrible desperation filled the Valeman. He was all that was left. Allanon, Brin, Rone, the little company from Culhaven, all were gone.
“Boy, what is it that you do?” he heard Slanter call to him. “Get back from there and use what sense . . .”
Jair closed his ears and his mind to the rest of what the Gnome would have told him, his eyes fixing once more on the apparition in the basin’s waters. It was Brin that he saw there, however twisted. It was Brin, gone down into the Maelmord, drawn to the book of the Ildatch, subverted somehow by the magic she had come to destroy.
And he must go to her. Even if it were too late, he must try to help her.
He came to his feet again, remembering the final gift of the King of the Silver River. “Once only shall the magic of your wishsong be used to create not illusion, but reality.”
He brushed aside the confusion, horror, fear, and despair, and he sang. The music of the wishsong rose up in the stillness of the cavern, flooding the silence and drowning the sudden cries of protest that broke from Slanter’s throat. Pain and weariness faded into yesterday as he cried out for the wish. The brilliant white light of the basin waters shimmered again in the air above Heaven’s Well, and again the spray geysered skyward.
Slanter staggered away, blinded and deafened. When he finally looked back again, Jair Ohmsford had disappeared into the light.
XLV
There was a moment when Jair seemed to step outside of himself. He was within the light and yet he was gone from it. He passed through stone and space like an insubstantial ghost, and the whole of the land spun wildly about him. Brief images appeared out of that whirling mass. Slanter was there, his roughened yellow face staring in shock and disbelief at the empty basin from which Jair had passed. Garet Jax was locked in mortal combat with the red monster, his lean face alive with fierce determination and his dark form bloodied and torn. Gnome Hunters scurried in maddened confusion through the halls of Graymark, searching frantically for the intruders that had somehow eluded them. Helt had fallen in the gatehouse, his body pierced through by sword and pike. Foraker and the Elven Prince were ringed all about . . .
No more!
He screamed the words, wrenching at them like rooted things from the music of his song, and the images fell away. He plummeted downward, racing on the slick surface of the wishsong’s cry. He had to reach Brin!
Below, the tangle of the Maelmord lifted toward him. He could see its dark mass rising and falling like a thing alive and could hear the sound of its breathing, a loathsome hiss. Mountain walls swept past him as he fell, and he watched the jungle stretch out its arms to gather him in. Panic filled him. Then he plunged into the Maelmord; its gaping maw closed about him, the stench and the mist enveloped him, and everything disappeared.
Jair came back to himself slowly. Darkness lay across his vision like a shroud, and his head spun. He blinked, and the light returned. He was no longer falling through the vortex of the wishsong’s music or plummeting downward into the tangled dark of the Maelmord. His journey was finished. The stone walls of the tower he had sought to reach surrounded him, aged and crumbling. He stood within them, a part of the vision that the waters of the basin of Heaven’s Well had shown him.
“Brin!” he whispered harshly.
A figure turned, ringed in shadows and graying half-light, slight hands clasping firmly a massive, metalbound book.
Brin was a distortion of the woman she had once been, her features twisted almost beyond recognition. All of the exquisite beauty and vibrancy of form had hardened into something that might have been carved from stone. She was an apparition, her color drained away and her slight form skeletal and hunched down against the dark. Horror flooded through Jair. What had been done to her?
“Brin?” he called again, his voice faltering.
Wrapped in the frightening power of the Ildatch magic as it rushed to mix with her own, Brin was barely aware of the solitary figure who stood at the far side of the tower room. He called to her—a soft, familiar call. She fought back for an instant, through the layers of magic that wove about her to the reason that had fled deep within her, and memory returned. Jair! Ah, shades—it was Jair!
But the dark magic tightened again, stealing her back. The power surged through her, washing away all recognition of who it was she faced, bringing her back to the creature she had made herself become. Doubt and suspicion twisted through her, and the empty voice of the Ildatch whispered in warning.
—He is evil, dark child. A deception given life by the Wraiths. Keep him from you. Destroy him—
No, it is Jair . . . somehow he has come . . . Jair . . .
—He would steal the power that is ours. He would make us die—
No, Jair . . . has come . . .
—Destroy him, dark child. Destroy him—
She could not seem to help herself. Her resistance crumbled, and her voice lifted in a frightening wail. But Jair had seen the sudden look of hatred in his sister’s eyes, and he was already moving. He sang, his own magic shielding him as he slipped from himself and left behind an image. Even so, he barely escaped her. The explosion of sound that broke from Brin’s throat disintegrated the image and the wall behind it instantly and caught him up in the aftershock, throwing him like an empty sack to the stone floor. Dust and silt swirled through the half-light, and the ancient tower rocked with the force of the attack.
Slowly, Jair crawled back to his knees, crouching down within the screen of debris that hung on the air. For an instant, his certainty that he had used the third magic wisely wavered. It had seemed so clear to him when he had first seen Brin in the waters of Heaven’s Well. He had known that he must go to her. But now that he had reached her, what was he to do? As the King of the Silver River had foretold, she was lost to herself. She had become something unrecognizable, subverted by the dark magic of the Ildatch. But it was more than that, for not only had she changed, but the magic of her wishsong had also changed. It had become a thing of awesome power, a weapon she would use against him, not knowing who he was, not remembering him at all. How was he to help her when she meant to destroy him?
A moment’s time was all that he had to consider the dilemma. He came back to his feet. Allanon might have had the strength to withstand such power. Rone might have had the quickness to elude it. The little company from Culhaven might have had the numbers to overwhelm it. But they were all gone. All those who might have stood by him were no more. Whatever help he was to find, he must find within himself.
He slipped quickly through the screen of smoke and silt. He knew that if he were to be of any use to Brin, he must first find a way to separate her from the Ildatch.
The air cleared before him, and Brin’s shadowy figure appeared a dozen yards away. Instantly he sang, the wishsong a sharp humming sound in the stillness, carrying in its music a whispered plea. Brin, it called. The book is too heavy, its weight too great. Release it, Brin. Let it fall!
For a brief second, Brin’s hands came down, her head lowering in doubt. It appeared the illusion would work and that she would release the Ildatch. Then a fury swept across her gaunt face, and the cry of her wishsong shattered the air into fragments of sound, breaking apart Jair’s plea.
The Valeman stumbled back. He tried again, this time with an illusion of fire, a hiss that scattered flames all about the binding of the ancient tome. Brin screamed, an animal-like cry, but then clasped the book to her as if she might smother the fire against her own body. Her head twisted about, her eyes darting. She was looking for him. She meant to find him and use the magic against him, to see him destroyed.
His so
ng changed again, this time creating an illusion of smoke that billowed in clouds through the chamber. But she would be fooled for only a few moments. He dodged back about the walls of the tower, trying to come at her from a different direction. He sang again this time sending to her a whisper of darkness, deep and impenetrable. He must be quicker than she was. He must keep her off balance.
He sped about the tower’s shadows like a ghost, striking out at Brin with every trick he knew—with heat and cold, with dark and light, with pain, and with anger. Twice she lashed out blindly at him with her own magic, a searing burst of power that threw him from his feet and left him shaken. She seemed confused, somehow uncertain—as if unable to decide whether or not to use the whole of the power that she had summoned. But even so, she kept the Ildatch clasped tight against her, whispering to it soundlessly, grasping it as if it were her life-source. Nothing that Jair tried would make her release the book.
It was no game that he was playing now, he thought darkly, remembering Slanter’s scathing rebuke.
He was beginning to tire rapidly. Weakened by his battle to gain Heaven’s Well, by his wound, and by the strain of his prolonged use of the wishsong, he was becoming exhausted. He did not have the power of the dark magic to sustain him as did Brin; he had only his own determination. It was not enough, he feared. He slipped back and forth through the gloom and the shadows, searching for a way to break through his sister’s defenses. His breathing was labored and uneven; his strength was ebbing away.
In desperation, he used the wishsong as he had used it at Culhaven before the Dwarf Council of Elders to create a vision of Allanon. From the haze that lay over the battered chamber, he brought forth the Druid, dark and commanding, one arm stretched forth. Release the book of Ildatch, Brin Ohmsford! the deep voice admonished. Let it fall!
The Valegirl staggered back against the altar, a look of recognition crossing her face. Her lips moved, whispering frantically to the Ildatch—as if speaking to it in warning. Then the look of recognition was gone. High above her head she lifted the book and her song rang out in a wail of anger. The image of Allanon shattered.
