by Terry Brooks
Railing wasn’t reassured in the least by any of this, but he wasn’t in a position to argue. Woostra was the only one of them who could access Paranor, and he would just have to hope the scribe was right about the Keep’s magic being back under lock and key.
Toward midday, after spending the morning alternating between conversations with Farshaun and taking his turn at the helm, he found a moment to be alone with Mirai in the pilot box. They had almost completed their crossing of the Streleheim Plains by then, and the peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth had come into view—a jagged, broken line that stretched across the eastern horizon.
He stood beside her as she worked the steering and for a moment didn’t say anything. She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “It will be all right, Railing. We’ll get him back.”
“I can’t stop thinking that this might all be a waste of time,” he confessed. “I’m flying away from Redden, not toward him, and it might all be for nothing. I know rationally what we’re doing. I understand the reasons for it. I even believe it has value. But it just feels so …”
He trailed off, unable to find the words.
She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, and that alone was worth anything she might have said to try to comfort him. They stood in silence for a while longer before she spoke again.
“If we don’t find anything at Paranor, if you don’t feel right about what we’re doing at that point, we can go back and find Seersha. We can travel all the way to the Breakline, if you want. I’ll go with you. I’m not giving up, either.”
“I know that. I never thought you would.”
She smiled at him. She was so pretty, he thought. He wanted to tell her so. He wanted to lean over and kiss her. But they were standing out on the open deck with people all around them, and he couldn’t make himself do it. He loved her, but he wasn’t sure enough of himself to risk finding out that she didn’t love him in return. At least, not in that way.
He stared off into the distance. If he were Austrum, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have just done it.
But instead he made up an excuse about needing to talk to Woostra and left her there alone. Conflicting thoughts jumbled together in his head. How can I even be thinking about Mirai like that when Redden’s life is at stake? How can I be so selfish? Why didn’t I go ahead and kiss her? She wouldn’t have minded. She didn’t mind Austrum doing it. But it doesn’t matter about Austrum. What matters is Redden, and I can’t let myself think about anything else.
He raved on for a few moments more and then angrily swept everything aside and went down into the hold to sleep.
He was awake again when they reached the Dragon’s Teeth, and then all the way through the peaks and across the Forbidden Forest to the spires of Paranor. By then the day was easing toward sunset, and the sky to the east was darkening. Woostra had them set down in the same clearing where he had landed with the Elessedil sisters and Cymrian weeks ago when returning to discover information about the Bloodfire.
Then, leaving the others to keep watch, the Druid scribe departed with Railing for the tunnels that led into the Keep.
It took them little time to find the hidden entrance and make the underground journey into the fortress. Torches helped them navigate their way through the darkness, and no obstacles appeared to hinder their progress. Although Woostra proceeded with no apparent concern for what might be lying in wait, Railing couldn’t help listening for noises and searching for movement. He couldn’t seem to help himself, even though he knew that if anything were hiding in these tunnels, it would be on them before he could do anything about it.
But nothing happened, and once inside the walls of the Keep and aboveground, Woostra started directly for the tower where the Druid Histories and accompanying papers were concealed and where Khyber kept her sleeping chamber. Evidence of the Federation’s attack on the Keep had not been removed. Debris from broken walls and parapets still littered the courtyards through which they passed, and damage from fire launchers and rail slings still scarred the buildings surrounding them. Bodies lay everywhere, picked apart by birds of prey and other scavengers. The Keep itself was silent and devoid of life, and it was clear that the Federation had made no further attempt to occupy it.
“Guess the scavengers decided they could feast on the dead after all,” Woostra muttered. He glanced over. “Stay close to me. Don’t wander off.”
Fat chance of that, the boy thought. The heaped bodies and the extent of the carnage inflicted by whatever magic warded the Keep unnerved him. In the best of times, Paranor would be an intimidating place—cold and cavernous and filled with strange sounds. But turned into a charnal house, it was terrifying. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and as they passed down the lifeless corridors he could feel cold spots that froze his blood.
“Why isn’t the Federation army anywhere about if the magic’s gone back to wherever it came from?” he whispered.
Woostra glanced over. “They don’t know that Aphen has locked the magic away again. And they have no way of knowing what’s here without coming back inside the walls. They’re not about to do that after what happened to their fellows.” He paused. “Besides, Drust Chazhul is dead. Without his insistence on pursuing the attack, they’ve retreated to Arishaig. Edinja Orle will have a different take on things.”
Railing listened to the silence, unbroken save for the sound of their footsteps as they climbed flights of stairs and traveled down empty, echoing passageways crisscrossing the building. Rooms came and went, all of them deserted. Paranor felt as if it had been abandoned for centuries and not weeks. He tried to imagine what it would be like to live here, to be a Druid in residence, and he could not do so. It felt too closed away, too claustrophobic. He was a creature of open air and sunlight, and walls felt unnatural and unfriendly. He thought of his great-aunt living here, of her days as Ard Rhys, but any image he could form was incomplete and tinged with what he knew of her dark life, and it felt forced and unreal.
“Here,” Woostra said, many floors and passageways later, standing at a set of heavy doors that were closed and locked. “We begin our search in these rooms.”
He manipulated the locks, and the doors opened to admit them. Together they entered the first of what Railing could see was a series of rooms with wall-to-wall bookshelves and cabinets and floor space crammed with worktables and desks. He looked around in dismay. How in the world would they ever find anything in this jumbled mess?
“We’ll begin here,” Woostra announced. “We won’t need to look through the Histories themselves; I’m familiar with what they contain, especially regarding recent times. There’s nothing in them that will help.” He saw the look on the boy’s face. “Don’t worry. I know where to search for what we need.”
So search they did, through notebooks and journals, through stacks of letters, files thick with official Druid documents and piles of odd notes and scraps of paper with cryptic comments. They did not find Grianne Ohmsford’s private diary as they had hoped to. They found, in fact, exactly nothing that would help explain what had become of Grianne after she left Paranor.
It took them all night to discover this, and at the end Woostra simply shrugged. “Unfortunate. We’ll try the sleeping chamber of the Ard Rhys.”
They left the document chambers and went up another flight to Khyber Elessedil’s private rooms. Woostra took the boy inside, and together they resumed their search. There was a desk and a writing table, but neither yielded anything of value. Because this was primarily a sleeping chamber, the search went quickly and finished when Railing, looking through a nightstand, found a series of journals belonging to Khyber Elessedil beneath a false bottom in a drawer containing a collection of loose documents.
He thought at first he had found what they were looking for, flushed with anticipation as he handed the journals to Woostra.
But the Druid scribe, after carefully paging through each, shook his head. “These were written by Khyber Elessedil. And they aren’t
what we want. They don’t go back far enough. There is at least one missing, the oldest. That’s the one we need to find.”
So they went back to looking, working their way from the obvious places to the least obvious, trying to work out where the Ard Rhys could have hidden another journal. They looked for the better part of an hour but in the end came up empty-handed.
“I don’t understand it,” Woostra admitted. “Why would she hide one journal and not the others?”
“Maybe there aren’t any besides the ones we’ve found,” Railing said. “Maybe that’s all there are.”
Woostra shook his head. “I don’t believe that. She would have started keeping a journal right from the start of her term of service if she was going to keep them at all. She’s always been very thorough. She’s hidden that one deliberately. We have to look some more.”
Railing glanced around at the already ravaged room. “Where? Should we start tearing out the walls?” He paused. “Wait a minute. Could she have used magic to hide it? Redden and I used to do that with all sorts of stuff. If the journal’s so important …”
Woostra was on his feet. “That’s exactly what she’s done. She’s done it before with important documents.” He looked around expectantly. “Can you use your magic to look for it? Can you try uncovering it that way?”
Railing stood up quickly. “I think so.”
He glanced again at the journals they had already read through. All of them looked the same. So he pictured another like them and began to hum, calling up the wishsong. He felt the magic respond, felt the familiar warmth and the tingling at his fingertips. Holding the wishsong steady as he hummed, he began a slow scan of the room. He felt the magic spread away from his hands, lighting here and there, revealing patches of color, bits of detritus from earlier magic. The room was filled with it, and he realized he was sweeping over years of magic use, all of which probably related to the journals in one way or another and none of which gave him a clue as to the whereabouts of the one missing. The leavings were especially thick around the writing desk, which confirmed his thinking.
He stopped his search and told Woostra what was happening. “We have to find another way. Something that will set the hiding place of the journal apart from all this other stuff.”
They considered the problem in silence for a long time, and then Woostra said, “If she hid it, she must have left a way to find it. A way that a Druid would understand. But we don’t have a Druid with us to ask.”
“What if she put something in one of the other journals?” Railing asked. “A key to the one that’s missing.”
“She would have done that right at the beginning, assuming she wanted it hidden right after Grianne left the order.” Woostra took out the earliest journal and paged through it quickly. “Nothing written in here that stands out.”
“It wouldn’t be something written.” Railing took the journal from him and studied it. “Let me try another approach.”
He called up the wishsong a second time, humming first, and then shifting into words that just came to him as he envisioned a link between this book and the one missing. He sang of a need for rejoinder, for assembling all of the journals as a unit, for a reunion and an end to separation.
At first, nothing happened. But then he felt a tugging and the sudden launch of the blue light, flaring out and sweeping through the room. Almost immediately it settled on the stone blocks of the south wall about midway up, flaring once as it revealed a series of red lines, then consuming the lines and turning dark again.
Woostra crossed quickly to the place in the wall upon which the magic had settled and began fingering the surfaces of the stone blocks and the crevices between. It took him only moments to discover what he was looking for, and abruptly one of the stone blocks popped loose, extending out far enough for Railing to pull it free and set it aside.
There, in the space behind the stone, was the missing journal.
Together they sat down and began to scan the contents.
Railing brushed strands of his unkempt hair out of his eyes. “I can’t read any of this. What language is this?”
“Old Elfish,” Woostra answered, giving him a look. “Interesting that she changed languages after filling up this first journal. She made a choice at that point to make the others more readable, so that they would be more accessible to anyone who found them. Why not this one?”
He scanned a few pages, searching.
“Read me something,” Railing pressed. “How does it start?”
Woostra sighed, a hint of irritation flashing across his seamed face. “All right. First page, first entry. She uses a dating system I don’t recognize. But here’s what she’s written.”
I am Ard Rhys now, the legacy of the Druid order passed on to me by decree of my predecessor and by circumstance, as well. Though more newly come to the Druid order than others, I am asked to serve in this capacity. Trefen Morys and Bellizen have been with the order longer, but neither hesitated to defer to me. The others are too new and too unsure of themselves to take on such responsibility. So I am left with the choice of accepting what is asked of me, knowing it will likely consume my remaining years, or of rejecting it knowing it will instill within me an irrefutable certainty that I have failed Grianne Ohmsford.
So I have made my choice and taken on the role. I have given myself over to the demands of being Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order. I wonder how I can make myself do this, knowing what I am giving up, knowing what I am embracing. I wonder how Grianne stood it for so long, even to the end of her days when she was betrayed and her life thrown into such upheaval.
I wonder if she has found peace where she has gone.
I wonder if I will one day find peace, as well.
“This is what we’ve been looking for!” Railing exclaimed excitedly. “Isn’t it?”
“It appears so.” Woostra seemed less enthused. “But let me look ahead and see if the answer we seek is actually here in these pages. Be patient a moment.”
He began scanning the journal’s pages, reading carefully, taking his time. He turned the worn sheets one by one, and with each Railing waited to hear that the answer they sought had been found. But Wooster just kept reading, shaking his head, muttering to himself, pausing now and then to decipher something that was unfamiliar to him.
“Some of this language is obscure, even to me,” he said finally, looking up. “Most of it I can translate. She talks about how she will reform the order. She sets out the parameters and goals she intends to adopt. She mentions Grianne frequently, drawing strength from her example, repeating how she will …”
He was still scanning as he was talking, and suddenly he stopped doing both. He held up one hand to silence Railing and read the page he was on carefully. Then he went back and read it again.
He looked up, distraught. “Listen.”
After much consideration, after weeks of delay, I have decided to keep my promise to Grianne. She asked it of me when she departed with Penderrin Ohmsford and confided that she would not be returning. She gave her journal into my keeping and told me that if I wished to read it, I could do so. Only yesterday, I did so. It explained in detail what she intended to do. It revealed the immensity of her heart and courage. It revealed, as well, the depth of the suffering she has endured and what it has brought her to.
I am to give the journal to Penderrin and his descendants to keep safe. I am to tell him that he must read it and remember her story and pass it on to those Ohmsfords who come after so that they will understand the nature and importance of their history. I wonder if they would not understand that anyway, but perhaps she is afraid it will all be seen a different way if her writings are lost. Why she chooses that it be kept within her family rather than by the Druids, I don’t pretend to understand.
At first I did not intend to honor my promise. I thought instead to keep the journal here, safe at Paranor, safe in the hands of the Druid order. Better that I fail her than allow the journal to be lost. It belong
s with the others, here in the place where she was most at home.
But I have changed my mind. I will honor her wishes and give the journal over to Penderrin on my next visit to his home in Patch Run.
I thought it odd, before reading the journal’s last entries, that she wished it given to her nephew rather than to his father, her brother. But I know now she shares something with her nephew that is different from what she shares with Bek. Something that transcends all other considerations. Something that dictates her decision regarding the fate of the journal.
Something that requires l do my part for her.
“So the journal isn’t even here?” Railing asked in disbelief.
“I would guess that it is somewhere in your home,” Woostra answered. “If it hasn’t been destroyed.”
Railing thought a moment. “We have a trunk in which writings made by Ohmsfords since the time of my great-grandfather have been kept. Everything before that was lost during a period when it seemed all of the Ohmsfords had died out. The trunk came to us and my father took it into the attic of our home and left it there, bound and locked. We have been careful to preserve everything in it ever since.”
“But you must have looked in it?”
“I don’t think anyone has. Not since my grandfather died.” Then he paused suddenly, and a startled look crossed his face. “Except for …”
Realization flooded his eyes. “My mother.”
