by Terry Brooks
Stoon had seen many strange and terrifying things in his life, and there wasn’t much that could give him pause. But he was not prepared for what waited behind that heavy door.
“Cat’s blood!” he hissed softly.
Men shambled about a cavernous chamber of stone blocks, iron racks dripping with chains and shackles and, in the dim recesses of the far back wall, cages. But these were not men in the accepted sense of the word; these were something else entirely. Resembling men, they stood mostly upright and were possessed of two legs and two arms, but they were otherwise misshapen in unnatural ways, their faces so severely blunted and warped that their features had virtually disappeared. They muttered and huffed like cattle as they trudged about the chamber, but they did not converse. They seemed to know what they were supposed to do, but they paid no attention to one another or to anything that was going on about them.
“What are they?” Stoon asked.
Edinja was smiling. “They are my creatures. Assembled and shaped in ways that I alone determined. Answerable only to me. They do what I wish without argument. They carry out my orders without question.” She looked at him. “Is that not the sort of servants everyone wishes they could have?”
He nodded, thinking as he did so that no one wanted creatures like these prowling around their homes. No one but Edinja. These were aberrations—humans mutated into monsters, men made into beasts. Where had they come from? They might have been men once, even if they were clearly something much less now. What had she done to them? They looked to have had their brains reconstructed, their ability to think and react scrubbed down and selectively erased.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him forward. “Meet your new companions for your voyage.”
She took him to the cages at the back of the room, passing them by until she came to the final three. In each was a prisoner of reasonably normal appearance—big, heavily muscled men who had seen hard work and lived hard lives. Ragged and dirty, they screamed curses at Edinja as she stood safely out of reach. They grasped the bars and shook them violently, throwing themselves against the cage doors so hard Stoon wondered that the chains securing them did not give way.
“Not very well behaved, are they?” she said to him, stepping away so that a handful of her creatures could lumber forward and begin their work. They opened the cage doors and hauled out the prisoners one by one, dragging them like wild animals across the chamber floor to be securely shackled and chained to heavy wooden tables set side by side. Stoon could not help but notice the stains in the wooden planks; many of them had been made by blood.
Though enormously strong, Edinja’s captives were no match for her creatures. Though they struggled mightily, they were held down and secured, their heads and bodies immobilized. Flexible metal funnels with clamps and short tubes were forced into their mouths and down their throats. The prisoners wailed and roared in fury and terror, thrashing wildly but unable to break free.
Then Edinja said to him, “Do you have your knife?”
He nodded, pulled it free from beneath his clothing, and showed it to her.
“Cut yourself. Across your palm.”
He hesitated a moment, then did so. She took his bleeding hand, held it over a beaker, and let the blood drip into the muddy fluid contained inside. After a moment, she moved his hand away, swirled the liquid around in the beaker, and nodded. “Watch.”
She stepped over to the men on the tables, going to each in turn, prodding their throats while whispering until—even though their mouths continued to gape and their bodies to strain—they could no longer make any sounds. Once they were quiet, she began pouring doses of the liquid from the beaker into the funnels and down their throats. The liquid steamed as it disappeared into the funnels and the bodies of the prisoners convulsed. Edinja poured and whispered, moving from the first to the second to the third, three times each until the beaker was emptied and her captives had grown silent and unmoving.
She removed the funnels from their mouths. Then she turned to Stoon and beckoned him closer. He came reluctantly, not wanting any part of this, already wishing he had said nothing to her about his fear of Aphenglow Elessedil. When he was beside her, she gripped his arm in both delicate hands and held him close.
“Watch.”
The prisoners were beginning to change. Whatever magic she had employed, it was remaking the men in front of his eyes. One after another, they took on a different look, their features tightening and stretching, their bodies growing larger and filling out with muscle, and their eyes snapping open and growing feral and dark with animal hunger. Hair sprouted in knots from their faces, from their arms and legs, from their hands and feet, all of it thick and dark.
When the change was finished, they had taken on a different look entirely. Now they more closely resembled animals than men, creatures built to hunt and kill. Their bodies powerfully built, their faces wolfish and equipped with muzzles and sharp teeth. Their eyes snapped open and they looked about with a predator’s cunning, clearly taking the measure of things, growling and snapping at the air they breathed, flexing and straining against their bonds.
Edinja stepped forward to where they could see her clearly. At once they went quiet, watching her intently. She spoke to them in small hisses, her voice too indistinct for Stoon to hear any words, though the response of her new creations was clear enough. They were listening and they were doing so because she was now their master.
“Come, stand beside me,” she ordered. “Let them smell you.”
Again, he stepped forward obediently, aware of the hungry gazes now shifting to find him, of the looks that said he would be nothing more to them than prey should they be set free.
When he was next to her, she began making fresh sounds—animal noises, small grunts and growls—and he could see her newly created creatures were listening. He watched the once-men shift their gazes from her to him, fixing on him, watching intently.
“There,” she said finally. “It is done. They are yours to command. They will do what you tell them, and they will act as your protectors against anything that threatens you. They will hunt all day and all night, if you ask it. They will fight until they win or are destroyed. They are enormously strong and impervious to pain and weariness. They feel nothing and require no care. You can set them a task, and they will pursue it until it is completed.”
She paused, giving him a wicked smile. “Even a Druid will have difficulty standing against all three of them. Even one as troublesome as you find Aphenglow Elessedil to be.”
“But they will not kill her if I do not ask it, will they?” He remained unsure of these creatures. “I need to know, Edinja. Will they do exactly what I tell them with Aphenglow Elessedil?”
She gave him a sharp look. “Why are you suddenly so concerned for her? What are you saying?”
He had unwittingly crossed a line, but he was quick to recover. “This has nothing to do with being concerned for her. I need to know what I can expect of your creatures. If it becomes clear that the best course of action is to kill the girl and seize the Elfstones, then these creatures should be perfect. But what if there is good reason to keep her alive so that she can be brought to you? What if she has information that only you can extract? Will these things let her live or will their animal instincts govern them in spite of what I ask?”
“They will not go against your wishes. They will do as you ask.” She paused. “But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it? You are afraid they might turn on you.”
He shrugged. “I would be a fool not to consider the possibility. They don’t look as if it would trouble them much.” He hesitated. “I want to test them here and now. I want to see if they’ll do as I say.”
Without answering him, she walked back to the tables on which her creatures lay and released their chains. They sat up at once, cat-quick and eager. But they did not try to attack her. Instead they crouched atop the tables as if waiting for direction.
She looked o
ver her shoulder at him. “Tell them what to do. Tell them to get back into their cages. Give them a command.”
He did as she asked. Without hesitating, the three bounded off the tables and loped back across the room to their cages, pulling the doors closed behind them after they were inside. Edinja walked over, snapped shut the locks on the chains that secured the doors, and turned back to him.
“I need the truth behind the failed Druid expedition so that I can understand what is happening. I want you to find the girl and her companions and track them. I want you to discover what it is they seek. If it involves magic in any way, I want to know. I want both of the Elessedil sisters brought here to me. With the Elfstones.”
“Is that all?” he deadpanned.
She smiled. “You are my right hand, my steady guide, my dependable and loyal consort. I rely on you to do what is needed.”
He shrugged. “I will do my best.”
She came over to him, once again took hold of his hands and looked deep into his eyes. “I hope so. Because I will know if you don’t.”
Then she reached up and kissed him ever so gently on the mouth.
17
Aphenglow Elessedil spent the following day preparing for their departure with Cymrian and Arling. She had thought at first to send her sister off to the Gardens of Life to be with the other Chosen, giving the appearance that everything was normal, but she quickly abandoned that idea. She hadn’t forgotten that someone had been stalking her ever since the day she had uncovered Aleia Omarosian’s diary. There was no reason to believe that the danger she had faced was past or that whoever was behind it had given up. Nor was there reason to think that the danger to her hadn’t spilled over onto Arling. Whoever was behind it knew about the diary and the Elfstones; why wouldn’t they know about the Ellcrys seed, as well?
So she kept Arling close to Cymrian and herself, preparing Wend-A-Way for the upcoming flight.
It was not a difficult undertaking. It involved little more than gathering up material and weapons, supervising the loading of both onto the airship, and interviewing the crewmembers Cymrian had chosen to accompany them. At first she had resisted the idea of taking anyone else. Better to keep this among the three of them. But Cymrian was quick to point out that he and Aphen alone could not safely fly the airship. Arling lacked the proper training, and at least several others would be needed to take shifts at the helm if they were to get any sleep or if either of them became sick or injured. He was right, of course, so Aphen backed down, irritated that she had not seen this before he did.
She was also forced to reconsider using the Elfstones before they departed to get a sense of where they were going. Any use of magic would alert other magic users, and those alerted might be the very ones hunting her. She could not be sure this would happen, but there was no point in taking chances. She already knew that what they were hunting was hidden somewhere in the Wilderun. So all they needed to do was to fly there and then use the Elfstones to pinpoint their destination. By then, they would be far enough away that they wouldn’t be as likely to be identified.
An air of suspense and expectation infused her efforts during the assembling and loading of supplies and equipment. Time and fate seemed to press down on her in equal measure, urging her to move faster, to perform more quickly, to finish and be off. She worked steadily throughout the day, and more than once caught Cymrian staring at her, a mixture of surprise and disbelief reflected on his lean features.
Once, he said to her in passing, “This isn’t a race, you know.”
To which she had replied. “You’re wrong. That’s exactly what it is.”
Late in the afternoon, the ship almost ready, she told the other two that she intended to say good-bye to Ellich and Jera. She had thought at first she might forgo the visit; it might be better not to speak to anyone before leaving. But she needed to believe that someone cared enough to see her before she left.
Cymrian immediately announced that he was coming with her, but she told him that it would be better if he stayed with Arling and kept watch over her. She didn’t say so—she didn’t need to—but she was better able to protect herself, and leaving Arling alone with the Ellcrys seed was not a good idea. She promised she would be careful and, after a short visit, would come right back.
She made her way from the airfield and took the roadways that led to her aunt and uncle’s home, skirting her own cottage, where Cymrian and Arling had promised to wait for her, and her mother’s, where only disdain and disappointment could be found. She turned down smaller roads and finally pathways, and in short order she was standing at the front door, knocking hopefully.
Ellich and Jera provided the succor she needed. Warm and welcoming, they sat her down in their kitchen, fed her hot tea and muffins, and said they would miss her terribly and she must do everything she could to stay safe and well until her return. No mention was made of her sister, and Aphen could not be certain if her uncle had told his wife that Arling was going, too. So Aphen said nothing about her sister’s plans, including the fact that Arling now carried the Ellcrys seed and was entrusted with the future not only of the Elven nation but also of the other Races. It was a secret charged with dangerous possibilities, and it made Aphenglow want to bury it so deeply that it could never even be glimpsed.
Throughout their conversation, Aphen was reminded of her own carefully kept secret. The Elfstones were buried deep in a pocket of her cloak, and she found her hand straying to them frequently—an involuntary reflex generated by the need to reassure herself that they were still safely tucked away.
But her visit went well, her self-indulgence in gaining their farewell was satisfied, and she departed with a feeling of contentment.
Twilight was falling by then, and she was reminded of another visit she had made to her aunt and uncle not so very long ago. She had been attacked on her way home on that occasion and forced to kill a man. Almost without thinking about it, she began looking around, peering into the deeper shadows, angling as she walked to parts of the pathway that were still light. Her hand strayed again to the pocket where she hid the Elfstones. Foolish of her to obsess like this, she told herself as soon as she realized what she was doing. But she took the Elfstones out of her cloak pocket and put them inside her tunic, where she could feel them pressed close against her body.
She mulled over the details of the departure they had planned for the following day. Their journey would take them out through the Valley of Rhenn and then south past Drey Wood and the swamps below to the Rock Spur and from there to the Wilderun and the peak known as Spire’s Reach. The time required would be less than three days by airship. She had not been down into that part of the world, but she knew Cymrian had. She relied on his experience to see them there safely.
She found herself thinking again about Arling and the enormous struggle she was undergoing. Her sister would be carrying the Ellcrys seed, but with no clear intent of what she would do with it once it was immersed and quickened. If she did not intend to use it herself—and it seemed clear at this point that she did not—she would have to find another Chosen willing to take her place.
A failure by Arling or any of the others to make the sacrifice required to renew the Ellcrys would doom the Elven people and likely the whole of the Four Lands to a fresh war with the demonkind—a war that might never find a resolution. It would betray the heritage of the Elves as protectors of the talisman that had kept the evil creatures of Faerie locked away for all these centuries and return the world to the chaos that had existed before.
Would Arling permit that to happen?
She didn’t think so.
But she didn’t think her sister would sacrifice her life, either. She didn’t think she was capable of it.
She sensed another presence then, her instincts warning her this time, and was quick to respond. Her wards came up at once, and she turned toward the source of the danger. But nothing happened. She listened and stared into the darkness, searching.
No
thing.
Yet she was not mistaken. Something was out there.
She started toward home again, suddenly furious. She was sick of being stalked and attacked and made to feel that she wasn’t safe anywhere. She was tired of not knowing who was behind it, always suspicious that it was someone she knew, someone from Arborlon. A secret enemy, a creature with plans about which she knew nothing specific. It wanted the diary and the Elfstones and probably the Ellcrys seedling. It wanted to hurt her and already had. Maybe it wanted her dead. But why was it doing all this? What did it hope to gain?
Then her thoughts flashed again to Arlingfant, waiting in the cottage for her return, and she broke into a frightened run.
She had never run so hard and at the same time taken so long to reach a destination. She imagined a hundred terrible results, a hundred horrific scenes, and she was all but exhausted by the time she tore up the front walkway and burst through the door into their tiny common room with its reading chairs and its small table for eating.
Arling, stepping out from the kitchen, stopped in surprise. “Aphen? What’s wrong?”
Aphenglow stopped where she was and scanned the room quickly to reassure herself. “Nothing. Are you all right?”
Her sister stared at her. “Of course I’m all right. You can see that for yourself. But you don’t look so good.”
Cymrian appeared behind her and took one look at Aphenglow. “What’s happened?”
“Something was tracking me—just now—after I left Ellich and Jera. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “It was there, and then it was gone. I was afraid it was coming here.”
Cymrian stalked to the windows and peered out, his face grim. “This is the second time you’ve had something like this happen right after visiting your uncle. That’s a big coincidence.”
