by Terry Brooks
Miles of this desolation passed, and time slowed to a crawl as Redden stared across the cage at Khyber Elessedil and she stared back at him.
Until they came in sight of the horror that was their destination, a fortress that was black and massive and terrifying, and the boy knew instinctively that this was a place from which no one ever returned. Up the winding road they went to the summit of the bluff, and then huge iron gates and craggy walls swallowed them up. They were hauled from their cages while their captors and their animals howled and huffed and snorted and growled and breathed on them from so close at hand, they could feel their heat and smell their odors.
Dragged into the bowels of the formidable keep, away from the last real light and air he or the Ard Rhys would probably ever see again, they were brought into a windowless room and chained to a wall, side by side, their arms and legs spread, their torsos pinned in place, fastened so that they could barely move and still could not speak. Redden remembered the hard cold feel of the stone pressing up against his back as he sagged against it, exhausted and deeply ashamed of what had become of him. He remembered his fear as he waited to discover his fate, far away from his home and his brother, deep in a savage land he barely understood. He remembered the companions and friends who had stumbled unwittingly into the Forbidding with him, all either dead or lost now. Gone.
He remembered exchanging a single look with the Ard Rhys, a look that said more than any words could hope to express.
The Straken Lord had entered the room then, his minions bowing or dropping to their knees instantly, acknowledging his power and position without hesitation or restraint. Tael Riverine was big and powerfully built, standing close to seven feet, his body studded with spikes and rippling with muscle. He wore leather garments that barely covered him, all of them draped with colorful feathers and ribbons, and there were blades strapped everywhere. His nearly featureless face was expressionless, and his blue eyes hard and bright with purpose.
He gave Redden a brief glance and then turned to gaze for a longer time on Khyber. “You are not her,” he said finally.
She stared at him, not comprehending.
“You are not the Straken Queen!” he roared with such fury that everyone cringed away from him. “Tarwick!”
A lean feral creature that looked as if a strong wind might blow it away bounded from the crowd of onlookers and dropped to the floor in front of his lord. “Master?”
“Fit them with the collars.”
The creature scrambled up, produced a pair of metal collars, and locked them in place about the prisoners’ necks. Then it released Redden and Khyber from the wall, unshackling them from their chains, freeing their arms and legs, and letting them drop to their knees.
“You wear conjure collars,” the Straken Lord told them. “While you wear them, you must obey me. They will teach you to do so. Disobedience or disrespect will result in punishment.” Khyber Elessedil started to rise. “No, stay where you are. On your knees. Bow to me.”
What followed was the lesson he had intended to teach them all along—a lesson that was to establish his dominance and their servitude. When Khyber continued to rise, the Lord of the Jarka Ruus gestured casually and she jerked upright with a scream, consumed by a terrible pain. As she collapsed and Redden tried to catch her, he was treated to a similar demonstration. The pain was excruciating, radiating out from the collar all through his body, and he dropped to the floor and lay writhing in shock for long seconds.
“This is how it will be if you fail to do as I wish,” Tael Riverine advised. “If you fail to call me Master. If you speak out of turn and without being asked. If you attempt to remove the collar for any reason. If you try to use your magic.”
He saw the stunned looks on their faces. “Yes, I know of the magic you wield. You have been watched and your powers noted. You are no mystery to me. You are only slaves. You are mine to do with as I choose. Do you understand? Answer me.”
Both had murmured, “Yes, Master,” and their servitude had begun in earnest.
It was the beginning of their imprisonment. Since that day they had been confined to separate cells, always kept apart and solitary. They lived within their tiny dark spaces and awaited their Lord’s pleasure. Their magic, which should have served them well, was useless. Redden had tested his early, and the resultant pain had persuaded him not to try again. He had fiddled once with loosening the conjure collar and suffered a similar fate. He assumed it was the same for Khyber. He had examined his cell from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, searching for a way to escape. There was none. He had considered trying to overpower his jailers, but they almost never appeared when he was awake and then only in force.
He wondered anew what had become of Khyber. In that first meeting, Tael Riverine had demanded to know what had become of the Straken Queen, how Khyber dared to call herself Ard Rhys, how she had found her way into the Forbidding, who else knew there was an entry, and so on. Dozens of similar questions were thrown at her, one after the other. When she had failed to answer him fully enough, fast enough, or respectfully enough, he had used the lash of the conjure collar on her until finally she collapsed unconscious at his feet.
He had not bothered with Redden. In truth, the boy was not even sure why he was still alive.
By now, he had come to believe it didn’t matter. His life was over in any event. No one was coming for him. No one knew how to reach him. Not even Railing and Mirai—though he believed they would try—could save him from this.
He looked down at himself. He had not washed since he had been brought here. He had not shaved or cut his hair. He wore the same clothes in which he had been captured. He smelled and he itched from things he did not want to think about. He was miserable all the time, and what small hope he had harbored at the beginning of his misery had long since faded away.
Now and then, he found himself thinking about the reason he had come here in the first place—to search for the missing Elfstones. How far away that seemed. How unimportant. He thought of it as a monumental miscalculation, an effort that never should have been attempted, a foolish and reckless undertaking that had killed more than half their company and left them with nothing to show for their loss.
If he had to do it over again …
But he didn’t, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Each time the subject surfaced he quickly let it slip away.
He did, however, wonder frequently about Tesla Dart. What role had she played in the fate of the expedition? Had she arranged their capture or had she tried to warn them away from it? He was uncertain even now. Tesla had appeared and vanished again too often for him to know what to think. It might have been her intention to help them, but she might just as easily have been leading them into a trap.
He had no way of knowing this, just as he had no way of knowing much of anything else, and trying to come to terms with his uncertainty was the worst part of his suffering.
Then, all of a sudden and for no discernible reason, his jailers came for him, accompanied by the creature called Tarwick, and brought him to a room where a tub of hot water waited and allowed him to bathe. Afterward, they cut his hair and gave him clean clothes and hot food. They took him to a different room—still a cell, but with a barred window that allowed in light and fresh air and let him look out over a ragged, rolling landscape as riven and desolate as everything else.
The only favor they did not do for him was to remove the conjure collar, but he had no illusions about that happening. They might be treating him better—relieving a fair amount of his discomfort—but they had no intention of giving him a chance to escape. To emphasize the point, they continued to lock the door to his cell day and night.
This new, improved treatment continued for the better part of a week, and he felt his strength and self-confidence returning. He wondered if similar consideration had been extended to Khyber Elessedil, but he never saw her and no one spoke about her. Once, right at the beginning of his change of circumstances, he tried
asking Tarwick what had become of her. But the Straken Lord’s servant quickly put a finger to his lips and lightly touched the collar about Redden’s neck.
There was no mistaking his meaning.
Then one day Redden was taken from his cell and marched up into one of the towers of Kraal Reach, a climb of hundreds of steps around a winding staircase that bypassed floor after floor of closed doors and ended at the tower’s pinnacle. Once there, he was brought into a tiny room off the entryway and left alone to wait.
Long minutes later the door opened, and in walked Khyber Elessedil, flanked by another pair of jailers.
He started to get to his feet, but she made a small hand movement that told him to stay where he was. They remained facing each other until the door closed behind them, then she came over to him and hugged him warmly.
“We don’t want them to know more than necessary about us,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
Looking at her, he wondered if he was. If he looked anything like she did, she was right to be concerned. Her face was haggard and drawn, her graying hair hanging loose, and her body thin enough that the clothes she wore hung on her as if she were a scarecrow. She was washed and freshly clothed, and he assumed she had been given the same treatment he had. But there was a dullness to her eyes that reminded him at once of his own sense of hopelessness.
“I’m all right,” he whispered back.
“This hasn’t been pleasant. I’m so sorry I brought you into it.”
“Don’t worry about me. Have they hurt you any more?”
She shook her head. “And you?”
“The same.”
“I saw this keep in Aphenglow’s memories of the Elfstones’ vision. It’s called Kraal Reach. Grianne Ohmsford was imprisoned here …” She trailed off, exhaling sharply. “We’re going to get out of this, Redden.”
“I don’t see how.”
“There is always a way.”
“There wasn’t for some of us. All the others are dead, aren’t they? All the ones who came in with us? And maybe even the ones who didn’t. Maybe even Railing?”
She reached up and gripped his shoulders hard. “Listen to me. I’ve been in a lot of hopeless situations through the years. In the time of the Druid rebellion against Grianne Ohmsford, things were so bleak there were times when I wanted to give up and just let go. But I didn’t, and I survived. I will do so here, too. And so will you. Will you believe me?”
She was so fierce that he found himself nodding his agreement. “I will.”
“Have you tried using your magic?”
“It didn’t work. It just triggered the collar, and the pain dropped me like a stone. We have to find another way.”
She turned abruptly and moved away as the lock snicked and the door began to open. Patience, she mouthed silently as she placed herself against the wall several feet away from him.
Tarwick stepped inside the room, looked them over, his gimlet eyes bright, and beckoned them to follow. Without a word or a look to each other, they did so.
A handful of Goblins surrounded them once they were outside, providing an escort. Right away, Redden started to worry. For a week now, guards had seemed a formality. Now, all at once, there was a reason for them. An urge to bolt swept over him, irrational and impossible, and he had to fight not to break away and run.
They followed a corridor that circled left around the tower until they reached a pair of huge iron doors that stood open.
Inside, the Straken Lord sat slouched on a bench atop a dais, robed in black and drinking from a metal cup that steamed and spit as if its contents were boiling. Tarwick led them forward until they were less than six feet away and then dropped to his knees and bowed until his forehead was touching the floor. Unbidden, Redden and Khyber Elessedil did the same.
“Address me properly,” said the Straken Lord.
“Yes, Master,” Khyber said at once.
“Master,” Redden echoed quickly.
“Rise,” he said, and they did. His impassive face turned away from them, and his gaze shifted to an open window. He was quiet for a long time. “What should I do about you?” he asked finally.
That he spoke their language was a puzzle Redden had not been able to solve, but he assumed it had something to do with the collars, even though he could provide no good reason for thinking this and it was at best an educated guess. In any case, hearing this creature speak words he could understand was not as jarring to him now as it had been during their first encounter, when everything had revolved around domination and pain.
The Lord of the Jarka Ruus looked back at them, straightening on the bench and leaning forward slowly. “Where is the Straken Queen? Where is Grianne Ohmsford? Wait!” He held up his hand abruptly. “This will be the second time we have had this discussion. There will be no third time. Think carefully before you answer. Be truthful. I will know if you are lying. Tell me where she is.”
He pointed at Khyber. “You.”
Khyber nodded, looking weary and defeated. “She is in the Four Lands, outside the Forbidding, Master. But she is no longer Ard Rhys. She left years ago and lives alone now in the mountains.”
Tael Riverine studied her. “You have succeeded her as Ard Rhys?”
“I have, Master.”
“I wish her back. I wish her to be my Queen. How can I make this happen?”
Redden felt his heart stop. Grianne Ohmsford had been gone for over a century, and even if she were still alive she would be very old. But this was not what the Straken Lord wanted to hear. It was not what they could tell him.
“She will not come back to you, Master,” Khyber answered. “She ran from you. She was afraid of you.”
“She is meant to be my Queen and bear my offspring, and I will have it so.” He talked as if he hadn’t heard her, as if nothing she said mattered. “Will she return if it means your lives?”
Khyber shook her head. “No, Master. She will not come back for us. She will let us die first.”
Tael Riverine seemed to think this over for a moment, his strange flat features revealing nothing. Then casually he gestured, and Khyber Elessedil jerked as excruciating pain exploded through her body, causing her to scream and drop to the floor of the tower, twisting and writhing in shock. He left her that way for long seconds, watching her suffer with studied indifference. Then he motioned toward her again, and she collapsed sobbing.
“I told you not to lie to me,” he said softly.
Khyber hauled herself to her knees, gasping and choking. “I didn’t lie. I told you the truth!”
“I did not sense that. You lied.”
“No, she didn’t!” Redden cut in abruptly. He cringed as the Straken Lord wheeled on him. “Master,” he added quickly. “She speaks the truth!”
He waited for the inevitable gesture, but Tael Riverine only stared at him for what seemed an endless amount of time before leaning back again on the bench and looking away.
“You lie as well. But I expect nothing less.” He looked back at his prisoners. “The walls of our prison are collapsing. Soon we will return to our old world, the one from which we were driven. I will lead the Jarka Ruus back through the shattered walls and reclaim what is ours. There is nothing anyone can do to stop this.”
He paused. “Anyone except Grianne Ohmsford. She can prevent this from happening. If she returns to me and if she mates with me and bears my children, the Jarka Ruus will remain within their own lands and forsake yours. You have my word on this.”
He would abandon his plans for invasion of the Four Lands if Grianne became his? Redden almost laughed out loud. Now who was lying? Granted, Tael Riverine was clearly obsessed with the former Ard Rhys and would apparently do anything to get her back, but giving up the chance to seize control of the Four Lands and its people when there was no reason to do so felt patently false.
Khyber remained on her knees, still shaking from the attack. “You cannot promise this for all of the Jarka Ruus! The Drachas, for instance, are
not yours to command. And there are others equally rebellious. Some will break through and do as they choose.”
Tael Riverine nodded. “Some is still better than all. Those beholden to me will not transgress against me. You will keep your world and your lives. But Grianne Ohmsford must accept my offer.”
That would never happen, Redden thought. Besides, even if it could, he had already realized there was no reason to think the Straken Lord’s word was worth anything.
But Khyber Elessedil was struggling to her feet, saying to Tael Riverine, “We would have to find her first. We would have to explain your offer. We would have to persuade her to accept it and then bring her here. That won’t be easy. But we can do it.”
His eyes fixed on her. “Address me properly, woman.”
“Master,” she said at once, and bowed deeply.
He shifted his gaze to Redden. “What do you say to this?”
“She is family to him, Master,” Khyber said quickly, clearly afraid for Redden’s safety if this creature thought him useless. “He is an Ohmsford, too. He will be effective in persuading her.”
The strange blue eyes flickered with something dark and unexpected, and Redden was suddenly certain that Khyber had made a mistake in telling him this.
“You are blood kin?” the Straken Lord demanded of the boy.
There was nothing he could do about it now, so Redden nodded.
“Would that matter to her?”
“I don’t know, Master. She’s never seen me. She doesn’t know me.”
Tael Riverine looked back at Khyber. “But she knows you. You are her chosen successor. She named you so. Did you not say this?”
Khyber stared, unable to answer. Finally, she nodded. Redden felt the floor drop away, and he was overcome by a sinking feeling that they had signed away their lives.
