by Terry Brooks
So long ago now. So far in the past.
She watched the last vestiges of the fortress fade into the distance and experienced a strange feeling of regret at leaving, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“She will be fine, Mistress,” Garroneck said at her elbow. “She is a strong young woman.”
Khyber gave him a smile. “I know that. I just wish we could have found a way to include her.”
The big Troll shrugged. “Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be included. There might be something else that requires her talents.”
“A nice thought.” She nodded slowly. “I hope you are right. Mostly, I hope she will be able to do what is needed at Paranor in our absence. Leaving her with only her younger sister, her Elven protector, and a handful of your Trolls worries me. I hope Bombax comes back soon.”
“You know he will. He always does. And don’t underrate the capabilities of my Trolls, Mistress. They are more than a match for anything that might threaten Aphenglow or the Keep.”
She nodded absently, redirecting her attention to the forward decks on the big warship. “What do you think of those three?”
She was referring to the two men and one woman that her Druids had brought back with them from their forays into different parts of the Four Lands in compliance with the urgings of the Shade of Allanon.
“An odd bunch,” Garroneck declared.
An apt description, she thought. Each very different from the others, all very different from the Druids.
Skint was a Gnome Tracker recruited by Carrick—small, dark-faced, and decidedly uncommunicative. The Druid had found him in a small village at the foot of the Wolfsktaag Mountains in the Anar. He had known Skint from his childhood in the Eastland, where Carrick’s father had managed a mining business. His father had used Skint as a hunter and trapper to feed his workers and protect his operation, which was a long way from anything approximating civilization. Skint’s value, Carrick had explained to Khyber, was that he was exceedingly adept at finding his way through places he had never seen before, at reading signs, and at ferreting out dangers. As a boy, he had spent time with Skint—though his father had never found out about it—so he had witnessed firsthand how clever the Gnome could be. Skint wasn’t a pleasant fellow, but he was very good at what he did. If you were with him and in danger, he was your best chance at finding your way to safety.
Seersha had brought back a Dwarf Chieftain. His name was Crace Coram, and he was something of a legend. He was the son and grandson of former Chieftains of their people, the Quare Rek, and he had inherited wars with Gnome tribes that went back several centuries. His father was killed in battle by members of one of those tribes, the Zek’ke, when Crace was just twenty, and he had been named leader by his people immediately. Only days later the Zek’ke had attacked again, knowing his father was dead and expecting to find the Quare Rek in disarray. At first, they were, fleeing in all directions. But Crace Coram rallied them in midflight, sought out the Gnome leader responsible for the death of his father, and single-handedly killed him and three others who were trying to protect him. Then, with fewer than thirty men, he drove the Zek’ke from his village and pursued them for three days through the mountains, the Dwarves under his command killing the fleeing Gnomes one by one.
When he finally caught up to the survivors, the Gnomes threw down their arms and begged for their lives. Crace Coram granted their wish, extracting a promise that none of them or any of their families or friends or members of their community would ever participate in another attack on the Quare Rek. The Gnomes not only agreed, they kept their word.
But the Dwarf legend was no longer Chieftain of his people. He had passed on that responsibility to his oldest son. Seersha had come from a neighboring village and had known Crace Coram all her life. When she had found him and explained her purpose, he had agreed at once to come back with her. His respect for Seersha and for the Druids was enormous, and if he could be of help to them he was more than willing to do so.
Besides, he had added with a smile, he had nothing better to do with his time.
Of the third choice, the strange young woman brought along by Pleysia, the Ard Rhys knew nothing at all beyond her name.
Oriantha.
She was sitting now at the bow of the vessel, deep in conversation with her friend and mentor. Pleysia was gesturing as she talked to the young woman, insistent and determined. Whatever the subject matter of their discussion, Pleysia was passionate about it. At times, it seemed to the Ard Rhys, almost angry.
“I think I need to learn something more about Pleysia’s choice,” she said to Garroneck.
She left him at the stern of the vessel, walked past the pilot box, went down the three steps to the mid-deck, and continued forward. Pleysia and Oriantha sensed her coming and ceased their conversation immediately, turning to watch her approach.
She knelt down next to them so that she was on eye level and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you settled in?” she asked Oriantha.
The young woman nodded, but said nothing. In fact, she hadn’t said ten words since being introduced. She seemed pleasant enough, if odd looking. There was nothing Elven about her; if anything her strong features were almost feral. Her face lacked softness of any kind, and her lithe young body was hard and lean and layered with muscle. There was nothing special about her otherwise, nothing to suggest what it was she could do to help them. When asked why she had been chosen, she had deferred to Pleysia, who had refused to say. They would find out when it was time, the latter had advised obstinately, but not before.
Khyber Elessedil glanced from one woman to the other. “It might be a good idea if we talked now about what Oriantha can do for this expedition, Pleysia. I don’t mind if we keep it among the three of us, but I think I have to insist that you tell me. I’ve trusted you this far, but I don’t want to be caught by surprise later.”
She waited. Pleysia glanced at her companion and shook her head. “It must wait awhile longer, Mistress.”
The Ard Rhys felt a rush of irritation, but she kept her expression neutral. “How much longer, Pleysia?”
“We sail for the Westland to find the Ohmsford twins. Isn’t that so? A journey of not more than two days?”
Khyber nodded. “That is so.”
“I ask your forbearance until then. When we reach our destination, I will tell you why Oriantha is so important to this expedition. You have my word on it.”
Khyber thought about asking why two more days made any difference, but then thought better of it. By asking, she would be opening herself up to another argument. Better to just let things alone.
She smiled. “Very well. We’ll wait. Please remember your promise.”
She rose and walked away, vaguely dissatisfied.
Aphenglow watched the Walker Boh depart from the window of her bedchamber, still propped up by pillows, her splinted leg stretched out in front of her. She did not witness the liftoff and the long, slow swing west, but could see the airship through her window as it flew away from the castle and disappeared into the horizon. It took a long time to disappear completely, and by the time it did she was in tears.
She was alone for the moment. Arling was exploring the Keep with Cymrian in the company of Krolling, the Troll who had been given command of the guard contingent left to watch over the Keep. She sat thinking for a time, pondering this and that, letting her mind skip from one subject to the next, trying not to direct her thoughts but letting them wander where they chose.
“I hate this!” she whispered finally, her anger breaking through.
She thought suddenly of Bombax, still not returned, and she threw off her lethargy and growing sense of helplessness and swung her legs off her bed and stood. She was surprised and vaguely irritated at how strong her leg felt. She had been employing her healing talents regularly, but hadn’t tested the results before now. Had she known she could bear her weight this well, she might have fought harder to be included in the expedition.
&n
bsp; She took a step away from her bed and almost instantly felt her leg give way. She barely managed to keep herself from falling.
She sat down again and stayed there for long moments, gathering her resolve. She would not even consider quitting. Hoisting herself off her bed a second time, she hobbled carefully to the far corner of her chamber. Her walking staff was leaning against the wall, and she took it in hand. Better supported now, she made her way to the door and out of the room.
Her destination was a hundred feet down a hall and three floors up to the highest room in the highest tower of Paranor. It took all her energy to get there, and she suffered a good deal of pain in the process. When she had climbed all sixty steps, she limped across the entry chamber to the ironbound wooden door that led into the cold room.
Even though the Ard Rhys had not found any trace of Bombax by using the scrye waters, Aphenglow thought she might have better luck. She was much closer to him than Khyber, more deeply invested. She might see things that others would miss or simply overlook. Reading the scrye waters was an art, and sometimes success was achieved for intangible reasons. It was a better use of her time trying to discover if that were true rather than sitting around. Doing anything was better than doing nothing.
She released the latch and pushed open the heavy door to the cold room. The drop in temperature as she entered was immediately noticeable; on the walls condensation had turned to smears of ice, and she could see her breath when she exhaled. The chamber occupied the whole of the top floor of the tower, a surface area forty feet in diameter and fifteen feet high. It was empty save for a platform constructed of massive blocks of bluestone on which a broad basin rested. The shallow bowl of the basin was filled with greenish waters that looked to have the consistency of a thicker liquid, something approaching oil. The waters swirled in a clockwise motion, the movement barely discernible.
Aphenglow approached and looked down into the basin. Layered across its bottom were geographic features and strange symbols that represented the whole of the Four Lands and some places beyond. Anyone unfamiliar with Druid lore would not have been able to recognize what they were looking at; only a Druid could read the scrye waters. Grianne Ohmsford had built it that way using her considerable magic, back in the infancy of her rule as Ard Rhys, when she had been beset by enemies and disbelievers on every side and had felt keenly the need to monitor their uses of magic from afar.
If Bombax had used his magic at any time over the past few days, the scrye waters should reveal when and where and measure the potency of the use.
The scrye shimmered slightly as she passed her hands across its surface. She was careful not to touch the waters, allowing herself instead to trace their swirling patterns in the air above. There were no discernible disturbances. She took her time, reading them carefully, focusing first on the Borderlands and then allowing her search to radiate outward to the other lands, one after the other. She felt herself merge with the movement of the waters, traveling as they did, cutting across the lines of power that encircled the world, tracking each to places near and far.
Only once did she sense something. Far out in the wasteland beyond the wall of the Breakline, in country where almost nothing lived, she encountered a disturbance unlike anything she had come across before. She lingered on it a moment, but it was brief and gone almost as quickly as it had come. She was able to tell that it had happened before but could not determine if it had produced any consequences.
In any case, it had nothing to do with Bombax.
She lifted her hands away and stood looking at the scrye waters in what amounted to an admission of defeat. There was no sign of Bombax; she had found no hint of where he was or what had happened to him.
She stepped away from the basin. Apparently her life mate had not found a need to use his magic since leaving Paranor, which was a good sign. If he were threatened, he would have done so. She had to accept that wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he was not in any particular danger.
That was what she told herself, but not what she believed in her heart.
Her damaged leg aching steadily now, she limped out of the room and made her way back down the stairs to her bedchamber. By the time Arlingfant and Cymrian returned from the tour of the Keep, she was back in bed and there was nothing to say that she had ever left.
In Arishaig, Drust Chazhul paused just inside the entry to his quarters and stared down at the piece of folded white paper lying on the floor.
Another one.
He felt a twinge of fear and uncertainty as he reached down to pick it up, knowing right away what it was. Shielding his movements from the guards who stood at watch to either side of the doorway behind him, believing they would never dare to look, but cautious anyhow, he unfolded the paper and read the words printed on it.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
He was filled with helpless rage. Who was sending him these notes? Who could possibly have known what had happened in Edinja’s chambers two nights before? No one had seen him come or go; no one but Edinja and her cat had been present. Yet this was the third of these notes in less than two days and still not a clue as to who was sending them.
Or why.
It was this question that bothered him most. Why were these notes being sent? What purpose did they serve? If someone wanted something from him because of what they believed he had done to Edinja, why didn’t that someone tell him what it was?
He turned back to the guards. “Did anyone come to see me while I was gone?” he demanded. “This morning, while I was in Council?”
The guards exchanged a hurried look. “No one, Prime Minister,” one answered.
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Very sure. We were here all morning, both of us. No one even approached your chambers.”
He turned away and went into his rooms, closing the door behind him. Just like the other times. The notes appeared inside his rooms, but with no evidence of how they had gotten there. If he had not trusted Stoon so completely or had been able to conceive of any advantage the other might gain by doing this, he would have suspected him. After all, Stoon was the only one who had access to his quarters, the only one who could come and go without being seen.
There were the chambermaids, of course, but they had to pass the guards to get in to do their work. Besides, he had questioned them already, a thorough and not entirely pleasant examination that had yielded nothing. The women were dull and frightened, and he could detect no hint of duplicity in their responses.
No, this was someone else—someone with talent of the sort that Edinja had possessed.
But Edinja was dead, and he still had no idea who had killed her or why. Whoever thought he was responsible and hiding it was mistaken. But there was no way he could relay that information to his persecutor without knowing who it was.
Of course, once he found out, he wouldn’t waste five seconds trying to explain anything. He would simply have Stoon remove the source of the problem.
Speaking of which, he was waiting now for his confederate to return with news of Edinja’s death. No one had reported it yet, not even after two days of her absence at the Council meetings. Surely retainers of some sort must have found the body. Why were they hiding it? Were they somehow involved with whoever was sending him the notes?
He felt his paranoia spiraling out of control and quickly tamped it down. He poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter, started to drink it to calm himself, and stopped. He studied the wine and then set it down again. He wasn’t ready to drink wine again quite yet.
Which made him wonder anew why the poison had affected Edinja and not him. Had it already been in her glass when she poured the wine? How could the killer have known which glass she would use?
He went over to the couch and lay down to nap. He felt on edge and irritable from everything that had happened since his meeting with Edinja, as if his life had somehow taken a wrong turn. He wished he had never asked for the meeting. He wished he had never gone
.
He even found himself wishing she were still alive. He had wanted her dead, but not this quickly and not in a way that was out of his control.
He fell into an uneasy sleep, but woke instantly when he heard the panel in the wall slide back and Stoon appeared through the opening. He sat up at once, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“What did you find out? Tell me.”
The assassin hesitated. “Edinja has disappeared.”
Drust stared at him. “What does that mean? She’s dead. How can she disappear? You mean someone took the body?”
“There isn’t any body. According to the retainers I spoke with there isn’t even any sign of a struggle.”
“No body? What about the cat?”
“Sitting there where she usually sits, I gather. I didn’t get inside for a look. This all comes from Edinja’s servants. They don’t know where she is, but apparently she isn’t there. Maybe she isn’t even dead.”
“No, she’s dead. I watched her die.” Drust rose and walked over to the table, picked up the glass of wine he had poured himself and handed it to Stoon. “Smell this.”
The assassin did and shrugged. “You believe it might have been poisoned?”
Drust snatched back the glass and set it on the table. He handed Stoon the note. “This came while I was in Council.”
Stoon glanced at it. “Same as the others. Did the guards see anything?”
“No. I have to find out what is happening, who is doing this. I have to put a stop to it. You didn’t learn anything? Anything at all?”
“Nothing. But that’s only because no one knows anything. Except for whoever is doing this.”
“I don’t understand it. What can anyone gain by this? Tormenting me for something I didn’t do? Suggesting that I am responsible and implying that I should be held accountable because of it? It’s madness!”
Stoon nodded. “It feels to me as if tormenting you is the whole point. Who would want to do that?”
