The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  A whirring sound broke the stillness. Webbing flew into her face, and something hard struck her head, and she tumbled into blackness.

  Time slowed.

  Time stopped.

  She was drifting again, far away somewhere, untethered to any sense of place or time. When consciousness began to return, it did so slowly. It seemed as if she were being dragged upward from a deep hole toward a sliver of light.

  Then she blinked and her eyes opened. She was lying on her back in the forest. Her head throbbed, but whatever had wrapped itself around her and struck her was gone. She reached up and felt the bruise above her temple and pulled back quickly.

  Chrysallin, she thought.

  She forced herself into a sitting position and looked around frantically.

  But she was alone.

  Deep within the Phoenix Tower, in quarters designated for use by members of the Coalition Council and their families and staff and visiting dignitaries, Paxon Leah stood motionless in his tiny bedroom and considered the day ahead. He was dressed in his regular working uniform—leather belt and boots and lightweight, durable forest clothing, colored green and brown, all of it overlaid by the familiar black-and-silver cloak that indicated members of the Druid Guard. He wore his sword strapped across his back, its black handle protruding over his left shoulder and within easy reach. He should have no need of a weapon in the Coalition Council chambers, but as lead protector of the Druids in the delegation, he must always be prepared.

  He looked at himself in the wall mirror and saw a man as rough-hewn and shaggy as his clothing. Long reddish hair and the beginnings of a beard, sun-browned skin, eyes that were a startling blue, and features that were chiseled and sharp—all of it made a map of his years. He should have shaved and considered dressing up a bit more, but that wasn’t who he was. And it was a bit late to try to change his habits now, especially given the nature of his work. If Leofur were there, she wouldn’t advise him to alter his appearance to please others. So in her absence, neither would he.

  He tightened the long knives he wore strapped to his lower body—one to his waist and the other to his right thigh. They were partially concealed by the cloak, but he could get at them easily enough. He considered again the possibility that weapons might be needed. Was there any reason to think an attack would be made on the Druids within the Federation Capital City, especially when they had been guaranteed safe passage? And after so much effort had been expended to bring this meeting about? He couldn’t imagine the Federation breaking its word—not with its Prime Minister so eager to have them come to Arishaig to discuss how the two powers might better cooperate in their efforts to fashion a stronger guarantee of continued peace.

  No one wanted another Prekkendorran.

  And no one wanted a repeat of what had happened when the Forbidding collapsed and the demons escaped.

  There might be differences between the Druids and the Federation regarding the proper place of magic and science in the world. There might be disagreements about which should be cultivated, expanded, and used to further the aims of the various governments. There might be suspicions and dislikes and even outright hostilities from time to time, but no one wanted it to come to war.

  Which didn’t mean it wouldn’t, unfortunately. Not while there were insurgents and firebrands to lead them. Not while the Gnomes remained war-like and the Trolls drew lines in the sand. And especially not when there were dangerous sorcerers like Arcannen Rai still loose in the world, just waiting for a chance to stir things up.

  Paxon couldn’t help himself. He was always alert to the possibility that Arcannen would make a fresh appearance. He kept himself ready for that moment, knowing it would happen eventually. Hard life lessons and painful experience had taught him that you could never take anything for granted where the sorcerer was concerned. Others might behave in rational ways and display some measure of caution and common sense, but not Arcannen. Nothing he did ever followed a recognizable pattern. All of his appearances had been unexpected and violent, tailored to further his goal of destroying the Druids. Men and women had died as a result, several of them Druids, and two of them his friends. Each time, Paxon had come close to putting an end to Arcannen, and each time the sorcerer had been just a little bit quicker.

  He would try again. He would keep trying until he had finished what he had set out to do.

  Which was why Paxon was prepared for it here, just as he was prepared for it in every other situation where the Druids under his protection might be at risk. It might seem as if nothing could go wrong within Arishaig’s walls, for who would dare attempt anything here in the heart of the Federation? But Paxon was not taking any chances.

  He had asked Isaturin if it would be possible for the Druids not to sit together during the conference, but Isaturin had said they must. He had asked if body armor might be worn, but that was rejected out of hand, too. He asked if, just this one time, the Druid Guard might carry flash rips, even though it was forbidden to Druids and those in their employ while without the walls of Paranor. Light, deadly, and easily employed, the flash rips were swifter and surer than the blades and bows the Trolls were normally permitted.

  Again, Isaturin said no.

  So here Paxon was on the morning of the first session of the Assembly with no real protection for his charges other than standard weapons and his sword. Oh, there was magic, of course. But save for Miriya, none of the Druids in attendance was a warrior, and none had extensive training in the use of magic for defense. He had almost decided to ignore the Ard Rhys and equip the Trolls with flash rips anyway, but in the end he had decided against it. The Trolls were loyal to a fault. They would reject anything not specifically approved by the Ard Rhys himself.

  I should have brought Leofur, he thought. She, at least, would have come armed and ready. She would have brought her Arc-5.

  He pictured her with the big, long-barreled flash rip hybrid, its diapson crystals sufficiently powerful to blow out a wall. It was almost bigger than she was, yet she carried it with ease. He smiled, thinking of her hefting it—a formidable figure. Her presence now would have helped tremendously.

  But Leofur was back in Paranor, doing what he had asked her to do, protecting and mentoring his sister. Helping her find ways to come to terms with the magic of the wishsong.

  He regarded himself once more in the mirror, took a deep breath, then went out the door into the residence hallway. A single floor of rooms had been given over to the Druid delegation for its personal use—a readily defensible place in which no one outside their order was allowed without permission. It contained bedrooms, a kitchen and dining room, and a reception area where all of them were to gather this morning before going over to the council chambers.

  Paxon walked down the hallway toward the designated meeting area, nodding to the Trolls who patrolled the floor in a steady crisscross pattern. Nominally, he was in charge of the guard and held absolute authority over them. But early on he had decided the order of command needed tweaking, so had given responsibility for overseeing the guard to a Troll captain named Netheren. The Trolls knew who Paxon was and respected his position as the High Druid’s Blade, but they responded better to one of their own. He just wished he could make better use of their presence in this situation.

  He had passed several doors when the one in front of him opened and Miriya stepped into view. “Well met, Paxon Leah.”

  “Morning,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Sleep well?”

  She shrugged. “My bedmate saw to it that I did.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll bet you miss yours!”

  He made a rude noise. She knew the answer to that well enough. “Is Karlin still sleeping?”

  “Already up and gone. She likes to rise early and meditate. Says it loosens up her cognitive powers. Gives her better use of the sight.”

  Karlin Ryl. A seer with formidable skills, tall and willowy, with skin as smooth and black as ink. She was a rare breed of magic user, everyone agreed. Almos
t none among the Druid order possessed the sight, so she was esteemed for her gift. Of course, there was the problem of recognizing what she saw for what it was, but all seers suffered from the same dilemma. How did you interpret visions of things that hadn’t come to pass when sometimes they were so foreign as to be unrecognizable?

  Miriya brushed back her short-cropped blond hair and rolled her powerful shoulders. “I prefer exercises in sets of thirty for waking my cognitive powers.” She grinned at his look. “You doubt me? Don’t. Loosening up my muscles always focuses my ability to reason. And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about. You must experience the same thing when you spar with old Oost.”

  Oost Mondara was his Dwarf mentor and trainer in the use of weapons—in particular, the magic-infused Sword of Leah. Given centuries ago to his ancestor Rone Leah by the Druid Allanon, after the latter had dipped the blade in the deadly waters of the Hadeshorn to instill in it a new form of magic, it had been passed down through the centuries to finally end up in Paxon’s hands. Ironically, it was his first encounter with Arcannen Rai that had revealed the sword’s incredible power and led eventually to his becoming the Ard Rhys’s Blade.

  “I might characterize training with Oost in somewhat different terms,” he replied, “but I take your point. Tell me how you see our chances in winning over the Federation today.”

  “Good.” She gave him a look. “They want to find common ground as badly as we do, and there are places where we can do that. Agriculture, roadways, airship travel routes for trade and passenger service, the education of the young.” She paused. “In everything save defense and weapons, I would guess. In that, each will want to go a different way.”

  “Magic and new science.”

  “It can’t be helped. Our history is too deeply embedded to allow for anything else. You know how the Federation feels about us, and us about them. The Elves don’t like the idea of an alliance with the Southlanders, either, but they’ll support whatever we decide…I guess.”

  He wondered about that. On the surface, maybe, but the Elves were independent-minded and headstrong, the curators and protectors of the magic they had brought with them out of the age of Faerie. They were suspicious of everyone, even the Druids, but the Southlanders especially. There was too much history between them that couldn’t easily be set aside. There had been too many wars with the Federation, too many betrayals, too many situations in which the Southlanders had failed to come to the aid of the Elves when it was needed. Callahorn and the Borderlands were another matter, but then they didn’t see themselves as a part of the Southland or the Federation, either, and they had allied themselves with the Elves repeatedly over the years.

  “I worry about Isaturin,” Miriya said suddenly, lowering her voice.

  Paxon looked over. “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Something about him bothers me. He’s too eager for this. He wants it too badly. It will be his legacy—and a good one, if he can manage to achieve it—and that means something to him, something more than I think is healthy for what’s likely in store.”

  They were almost to the reception area. “He’s not blind to that,” Paxon said. “He’d not trade away anything that the rest of us didn’t believe was wise. He’d not sacrifice our place in the Four Lands as collectors and keepers of magic.” He paused. “Do you think?”

  She didn’t answer, for they had reached the reception area and found everyone but Isaturin present. Old Consloe, bent and worn but possessing a wealth of information about Druid history and acquisitions, sat alone in a corner, reading. Darconnen Drue, a skilled orator and debater who would carry the argument for the mission when they reached the Assembly floor, was talking with Karlin Ryl, holding forth at the center of the room. Cresson Oridian, a Southlander by birth and once a Federation official and member of the Coalition Council, stood looking out the windows at the gray skies beyond.

  Adding in Isaturin and Miriya, there were six Druids under Paxon’s protection. A sizable responsibility.

  The Trolls that made up the Druid Guard were clustered in a tight knot by the door, talking among themselves in their harsh, guttural language, their dark, nearly featureless faces inscrutable. Netheren looked up, then away again. Paxon and Miriya slowed and paused, glancing about at those gathered.

  “A fine delegation for a good morning’s work, don’t you think?”

  Isaturin had come up behind them so quietly they hadn’t heard him approach, but both nodded in response.

  “Are we ready, then?” Paxon asked.

  “Ready as we can be.” Isaturin moved past them, headed for the door. “Time to go,” he announced to the room. “The Coalition Council Assembly is on the second floor. Let’s keep together, please. Remember our intentions and plans, and good luck to all of us!”

  With the Trolls leading and Paxon Leah trailing, the members of the Druid delegation went through the door, speaking in lowered voices, and started down the stairs.

  —

  The delegation selected by the Coalition Council to represent the Federation was already seated and waiting when the Druids entered the Assembly. From across the room, Fero Darz looked up, noting numbers and faces, doing a quick head count and at the same time taking each delegate’s and guard’s measure. It was his job to do so. As commander of the newly minted Ministerial Watch, he was Paxon Leah’s counterpart. In the wake of recent events—among them a series of attempts on the lives of council members and government officials—the Watch had been formed to provide personal protection for both. Most of these incidents had not amounted to much, and almost none of them ever had a realistic chance of succeeding, but a small chance was still a chance. The odds of success didn’t change the fact that the attacks had happened, and those threatened were anxious to prevent them from happening again.

  Darz was smart and poised, an accomplished Federation army commander with more than twenty years of service. His appointment had come at the suggestion of the Prime Minister himself, who liked to remain involved in matters of personal security. The Ministerial Watch was a hundred strong—a sizable number of soldiers for such a limited usage, but no one wanted to take chances by cutting corners. Darz had parceled out the roles for his command early, to make certain they were kept active. Idle soldiers were all too likely to grow careless. He formed a unit for protection of the Prime Minister himself, a series of units for other members of the Coalition Council when need or prudence dictated it, a unit for investigation and interrogation, one to manage paperwork and supply orders, and a handful of others to accompany delegations on long journeys outside the Southland borders. He’d been tinkering with the format ever since, but overall it seemed to be working well.

  His gaze shifted back across the aisle to find Paxon Leah, and he nodded companionably. They knew each other from previous encounters while carrying out their duties, and they shared a mutual respect that in other circumstances might have led to friendship. Paxon was an honorable man—rare in this business of protecting others at the risk of your own life—and Fero Darz liked to think of himself as honorable, too, though he hadn’t yet been tested as the Highlander had. Darz was a career soldier who did what he was told and tried to make the best of the things he didn’t much care for. His position as Commander of the Ministerial Watch gave him measurable autonomy in carrying out his duties, which was fortunate. He liked being in control, and liked being responsible for his own life and the lives of those under his command. If something went wrong, at least he knew who to blame.

  But Paxon? He was a horse of a different color, and something of an enigma. He was relentless in the performance of his duties at Paranor, the inheritor of a magic said to be so powerful that he had twice fought the sorcerer Arcannen to a standstill. Most men would have been dead after the first encounter; that he had survived two was remarkable. Yet his life history and particularly his disappearance a year or so ago into the wilds of the Westland suggested he was not entirely satisfied with
the direction his life had taken. There were rumors, of course. There were always rumors about these sorts of things. People said he lost his nerve when the Druid he was protecting was killed atop the Horn of Honor in Sterne. Others claimed that he lost his sense of purpose when he failed to stop Arcannen. Or that he lost his faith in himself and his cause. There were as many speculations as there were men and women willing to make them.

  Fero had investigated all of this because one wanted to know as much about one’s counterparts as possible. Everyone involved in service to the governing bodies of the Four Lands spent a fair amount of time investigating everyone else, always looking for secrets to uncover, for weaknesses to exploit, for an edge in potential dealings down the road. But there wasn’t much to report about Paxon Leah. It was said he had taken a life partner, but no one seemed to know who she was. He had a sister, but no one had seen her in quite some time—or at least no one who was willing to talk about it. Since there was no history of deceit or treachery and no indication that Paxon had ever been anything but honorable, Fero felt reasonably confident that no bad intentions were driving the Druids during this meeting with the Federation.

  Which didn’t mean he intended to leave anything to chance.

  “We are all set, Commander,” his second-in-command, Serge Baliscom, said quietly, coming up beside him. “We have armed guards at every door to secure the Assembly, and we have patrols in the halls beyond. We have soldiers at the back of the room, as well—just in case.”

  Darz glanced down to the open Assembly floor. A wide oval table had been placed at its center with chairs provided for the Prime Minister and his associates on one side, and the Ard Rhys and his Druids on the other. Farther back, space had been provided for soldiers of the Ministerial Watch and the Druid Guard.

  All were now in place. “Have I missed anything?” Baliscom asked.

  Darz took a moment to consider. “I want no one to be let in or out unless I approve it. If anyone leaves, they are to be accompanied by one of our men. No exceptions. These rules apply to everyone from this moment on.”