by Terry Brooks
Drust shook his head. “The line goes out the door and down the hall since I became Prime Minister. It’s the nature of the job. But no one has threatened me like this before. No one has deliberately made themselves my enemy. Not even Edinja did that. Nor Arodian.”
Stoon walked over to the table with the wine and sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. “Well, you should be pleased that with Edinja dead and gone, you only have one troublemaker left to dispose of. What shall we do about Arodian?”
Drust shook his head. “I have to think about it. Is there news about what’s happening at Paranor?”
“It’s the reason I’m here. The Walker Boh departed earlier today with what looks to be nearly a full complement of Druids and Troll guards. Our spies tell us the Ard Rhys herself is aboard. The airship flies west, but the destination is unknown.”
“West? Surely not to the Elves again?” Drust thought about it. “I’m guessing the King’s granddaughter remains. Her leg was broken in the attack at Arborlon. But maybe the rest have left.”
He paused, looking pointedly at Stoon. “This might be the opportunity we seek. If we act quickly, we might be able to rid ourselves of both the Druids and Paranor. But how …?”
He looked away a moment, and then back again. “We need to get inside Paranor. It would be better if we didn’t have to force our way in. Is it possible to arrange for someone inside to open the gates for us?”
Stoon, tall and lean, bent forward like a vulture eyeing prey. “Anything is possible, Prime Minister. Anything.”
18
Aphenglow Elessedil’s instincts about what might have happened to delay Bombax’s return to Paranor were not misguided. Far from it. His efforts to find help for the Druids in their quest for the missing Elfstones had not gone well. Rather, they had gone spectacularly awry.
He had flown south to the Borderland City of Varfleet, thinking to seek out someone with magic the likes of which the Druids did not possess. After all, if the Shade of Allanon felt the members of the order lacked sufficient talent to accomplish what was needed, it stood to reason they needed to find someone who possessed magic of a different sort. So that was what Bombax, never short of confidence and determination, meant to do.
In the course of his travels, he had heard of a man who could make himself disappear. He had heard of one who could shape-shift. He had been told of a woman who could transport herself instantaneously from one place to another. The sources of the stories were reliable, and the stories themselves had been repeated often enough that he had reason to believe at least one of them might be true. Finding even one such talented magic user would be invaluable in getting into heavily guarded or magic-warded places that the Druids might come across in their search. He would have preferred someone who could sense the presence of dormant magic—that would have been extraordinary—but he had never heard of anyone who possessed such a talent.
Still, you never knew.
So he had gone to Varfleet, where most of the stories had originated, with certain preconceptions about the sort of people he was looking for.
Men and women gifted with powerful magic tended to be solitary and nomadic. They did not seek out lives involving families, friends, homes, spouses, and children. They were rootless by choice, keeping apart, hiding their talents, and living their lives behind walls of secrecy. They did so in order to protect themselves but also because they saw themselves as outsiders. When people close to you discovered you possessed extraordinary talent, it changed both their behavior toward and expectations of you. Druids avoided the fallout of this reaction by living in a community of magic users. Men and women came to the Druid order with raw, undeveloped talent and hopes for what they might achieve with training. They joined with an understanding that magic was to be used to help others and never for selfish reasons. They became one another’s friends and family.
But men and women like the ones he was looking for kept apart because they had no interest in sharing their talent with the larger world or even one another. Instead they hired out for money or simply took what they wanted because they could. Too much magic, too much talent, too little regard for others—it was a dangerous combination. This was fine with Bombax. He wasn’t looking for new recruits to the Druid order. He was looking for mercenaries who could be hired to perform a specific task and then dismissed to go back to their previous lives. There would be fewer complications that way when the quest for the missing Elfstones ended. Nothing would remain between employers and employees save memories. He left Paranor convinced that keeping a reasonable distance between the Druids and the people they sought would be the better choice.
Aphenglow would have disagreed, but she was of a different character than he was and possessed a different worldview.
He wondered sometimes what had drawn them together. She was young and naïve and possessed of a strong sense of commitment. He was worldly, experienced well beyond anything he had revealed to her, and believed that in order to survive the damage visited on you by the world’s pitfalls and heartaches you had to distance yourself from its needs. It was fine to share yourself when and where you could, but you had to accept that there were limits to the sacrifices you could make.
Aphenglow did not believe such limits existed.
They loved each other in different ways. She loved him for his tough-mindedness and self-confidence and an unexpected tenderness of heart that manifested just often enough to sweep aside her doubts about his brash and impetuous behavior. He loved her for her calming presence and for an inner strength of character that never seemed to waver. The combination was enough, he supposed, to sustain the relationship. But he was not naïve about such things, and he could already sense the ways in which the ties that bound them might fray and eventually break. He would be sad when it happened, but he would survive. She would be devastated.
He was thinking of her on his first night in Varfleet as he roamed from tavern to pleasure house to gambling den, looking for familiar faces and interesting conversation, seeking sources of information that would lead him to one of the magic wielders he sought. Perhaps if he hadn’t, things might have turned out differently, although even afterward Bombax could not bring himself to believe so.
Shed of his Druid clothes and trappings, dressed instead in the trader’s garb by which he was commonly known in Varfleet, he sat in a tavern with three hardened men who made their living hunting and trapping when easier choices didn’t present themselves. Not hunting and trapping animals, of course, but people. Slaves for the mines and the factories, for the fields and the quarries—men, women, and children alike, all in demand for work done in secret, distant places where there was little chance of rescue and no chance at all for escape. He knew two of them casually and while passing by their table had heard one of those he knew mention a man who could shape-shift. It caused him to pause long enough to say hello and offer to buy all three a glass of ale.
It had taken him almost ten hours of rambling around from place to place to stumble on even this small scrap of information. All of his usual sources had dried up, and no one he had talked to could tell him anything he didn’t already know. But the men he was sitting with seemed to have a concrete idea of where at least one of those he was looking for could be found. Even so, the information was provided slowly and only after an initial exchange of coin and some ruminations about the difficulties of life in Varfleet, which led to a further exchange.
But in the end Bombax had what he wanted and was on his way out the door when the roof caved in.
He had been drinking steadily, but only small amounts, not so foolish or inattentive as to allow himself to become intoxicated. Nothing seemed unusual to him until he stood up and started for the door. Even then, for the first dozen steps, he experienced only a mild sense of imbalance, one that caused him to blink and try harder to focus his movements as he neared the door.
But he had only just taken the first step outside when all his strength simply melted away and he c
ollapsed into a deep pool of blackness.
When he awoke, he was lashed to a wooden framework that rested against the wall of a cavernous warehouse empty of almost everything but himself. His mouth was similarly wrapped, the whole of him trussed in such a way that he could neither move nor speak. Someone, he thought right away, knew who and what he was and what it took to stop him from using magic to free himself. Unable to gesture or speak, he had no means of summoning the magic that would free him. His second thought was for the three men in the tavern who had drugged him and given him up to this fate. Although, he corrected himself quickly, he could not jump to conclusions about who had done this to him. The drink had been drugged, but someone besides the three could have done it. He had no clear way of knowing.
What he did know was that he was a captive, and that it almost certainly had to do with his being a Druid.
He glanced at his surroundings. The warehouse was old and dilapidated, and parts of it were missing or falling apart before his eyes. Whole sections of the roof were gone, and pieces of the walls high up near the joists, some thirty feet off the floor, were splintered or broken. Debris littered the floor in mounds.
But the heavy doors at either end were solid enough, and he was willing to bet they were locked, as well. There were no windows, and besides the doors and the holes in the roof no other visible ways in or out. He tested the ropes that bound him and found them too tight to loosen or to wiggle out of. No surprise. He watched rats scurry about in the gloom, eyes shining with reflected light from a sun only just visible through a gap in the far wall.
Sunrise or sunset? He couldn’t be sure.
He waited a long time afterward for someone to come. When someone finally did, it was dark, the light gone, the world beyond his prison lit only by stars and a thin wash of torchlight thrown off by the city. He might not even have known anyone was there if not for the slow hissing of breath in the darkness.
“Doesss you know thisss plassse, Druid?”
A Mwellret. The sound of its voice was unmistakable. Lizard creatures, they made their homes in the far Eastland, mostly in the swamps below and caverns within the Ravenshorn Mountains. Seldom did they get this far west. Bombax could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had even heard of Mwellrets being sighted in Varfleet.
“Catsss gotsss your tonguesss?” the voice hissed at him, sly and insinuating, a teasing that made Bombax want to tear the speaker’s head off.
Instead he kept still and waited. His chance would come.
“Thirsssty?” the voice persisted.
Bombax heard movement—a rustle of clothing—as the speaker approached. Then cold water was poured down his face and into the gag. He sucked at it eagerly, drawing it from the cloth into his parched mouth. It had a slightly bitter taste, but he didn’t care; he drank it anyway. The water trickled down his throat, easing his thirst. He kept his eyes closed as he drank, feeling the Mwellret’s breath on his face, knowing he must not look in the creature’s eyes, that if he did those eyes could take control of him and make him a slave. The Mwellret was testing him, seeing if he would let his guard down.
“Prisonersss are troublesss for usss,” the voice continued, the shadow of the speaker backing away again. “Essspecially Druidsss.”
A pause. Bombax waited, searching the darkness for the Mwellret’s face. Tell me who did this? Who is responsible?
“Staysss with usss only another day. Then leavesss for visssit to thossse who pay usss to take you prisssoner.”
Who? A name!
But the Mwellret was already moving away, and in seconds it was gone.
He was alone again for a long time. Eventually, he fell asleep. He hung from the rack like a side of meat, pinned fast, but sagging where the ropes failed to hold him up. When he woke, the sunlight piercing the openings in the failing walls of the warehouse like spears, he was aching and sore. Where the ropes bound him, the skin was bruised and rubbed raw. He worked his limbs and body to encourage circulation of his blood, flexing his hands and feet, chasing away the numbness and residual tingling.
At some point they would have to cut him down, and when they did he would be ready for them.
But he worried that his strength would be depleted and his reflexes slowed by his bondage. He might have the will to act, but lack the means.
He hated himself for letting this happen.
Then, unexpectedly, he heard voices outside, the words unclear but unmistakably human. He listened as they came closer, trying to make out what they were saying, to decide how many there were. He heard them move down the wall behind him toward the far end of the building, and then cease suddenly. He waited. He tried calling out, but the gag was tied too tightly in place for him to do more than emit a muffled grunt. He strained at the ropes, banging his body against the wooden frame he was lashed against, trying to create any sort of sound that might attract attention. But he couldn’t manage even that.
The voices went away, and he was left anew in silence and gloom. His one chance, gone. He felt a wave of despair wash through him, but quickly forced it away again. He would not give up on himself. One way or another, he would get out of this.
Long minutes passed before he heard a scrabbling at the far door, metal on metal, and the sharp click of a latch releasing. He peered through the gloom, his hopes renewed. A crack appeared in the darkness as the door opened and a slim figure slid through. But then the door closed again, and the silence returned.
He waited for a sound—any sound—to break that silence. But nothing did.
“Thought I saw something back here,” a voice announced suddenly, startling Bombax so that he jerked against the ropes in surprise. “Earlier, when my mates and I were peeking through cracks in the boards, that was you I was seeing.”
A figure stepped into the light. It was a boy, older rather than younger, somewhere close to manhood, his body tall and slim, his face narrow and sharp-featured, his expression cocky.
“So what’s your story, I wonder?” He peered at Bombax. “You must have become a serious irritation in somebody’s backside to end up like this. I should set you free, I guess. But maybe that’s not the right thing to do, given the likely nature of those who brought you here.”
Bombax kept staring at him, waiting. He couldn’t do much besides hope that the boy’s instincts persuaded him to make the right decision.
The boy hesitated, and then shrugged. “Well, least I can do is hear you out, listen to what you have to say. Better make it a good story, though, or you’re back on your own.”
He reached around Bombax’s neck and began working on the knots securing the gag. “Those boys knew what they were doing. Can’t get these knots loose.” He stepped back, reached down, and brought out a slim, wicked-looking knife. “Let’s try this. Hold real still now. Else I might cut your throat by mistake.”
It took him two quick swipes with the knife and the gag fell away. Bombax opened his mouth and breathed in great gulps of fresh air. But when he tried to thank the boy, he couldn’t make the words come out as anything other than an unintelligible grunt.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked, watching him struggle. “They didn’t cut out your tongue, did they?”
Bombax shook his head. He mimed swallowing. Whatever liquid the Mwellret had let him drink had paralyzed his vocal cords.
“Oh, some sort of poison?” The boy shook his head in sympathy. “Makes it kind of hard for you to tell me what’s wrong, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, but I might have to leave you here. Like I said, I can’t chance letting you go if it’s the wrong thing for me to do.”
Bombax shook his head quickly, sighed and nodded. He understood. He tried again to speak, but nothing intelligible came out.
“You’re in a fix,” the boy said.
Bombax nodded.
The boy studied him some more. “Well, I can’t see leaving you, whatever the reason you’re here. No one deserves this. If you’d done something really bad, whoever’s responsib
le for this would have just killed you and been done with it. This looks to me to be something else.”
He stepped forward again, took out the knife a second time, and began cutting the ropes that bound Bombax to the frame. When the ropes fell away, the Druid fell with them, his body so numb and aching he couldn’t stand. The boy tried to catch him, but Bombax was too big and heavy for him to hold, and the best the boy could do was break his fall.
“Guess you were strapped up there awhile.” The boy held him up in a sitting position, bracing him in place while Bombax tried to work the circulation back into his arms and legs. “You want some water?”
Bombax nodded. The boy helped him move over to a wall where he could prop himself up before disappearing back into the gloom. Bombax kept working at his limbs, thinking that he probably couldn’t even manage to get back on his feet and out of there if the Mwellret returned. Because he couldn’t speak and couldn’t work his hands properly, he couldn’t work his magic, either. He might be free, but he was virtually helpless.
The boy returned after a time carrying a ladle filled with water. “The water’s okay to drink,” he told Bombax. “It’s clean.”
Bombax drank, easing the dryness, opening his throat so he could breathe better. He grunted in thanks and handed the ladle back.
“Look, I’d do something more for you if I knew what it was you wanted me to do,” the boy said.
Bombax nodded. He made writing motions with his hands.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t have anything for that. Here, use the floor. Write in the dust. Start with your name.”
Bombax did so, using his finger.
“Bombax,” the boy repeated. “I’m Deek Trink. Now tell me what you want me to do.”
Bombax thought about it for a moment, trying to think how to explain it. Then he wrote a single word:
PARANOR
