The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  “I understand your position. But we need your help to convince the Federation. There’s no good reason for the Druids to have killed off the Prime Minister when he was so close to Aphenglow Elessedil and is now working on an equally strong friendship with Isaturin. Why in the world would we want to disrupt that friendship by killing off our strongest Federation ally?”

  Darz glanced over. “But you think you know someone who might have wanted exactly that?”

  “Don’t you?”

  The other nodded. “Arcannen Rai. We haven’t been able to track him down, and he knows we won’t give up. Causing a war between the Druids and the Federation would suit his purposes just fine. Distract us from him, give us something bigger and potentially more far reaching to deal with.”

  “That’s my thinking, too. Arcannen Rai. He hates both of us equally.”

  Ahead, the land was undergoing a change. The rain-carved flats were giving way to hills and ridges, the land beginning to slope upward toward what appeared to be the distant outline of huge mountains. Paxon had been watching this landscape materialize in a distracted sort of way, concentrating on his arguments with Darz. But now he took a closer look, realizing what he was seeing. So much for his thoughts of stopping.

  “Isaturin,” he called, bringing the company to a halt.

  The Ard Rhys moved forward to join him, his face dark and impatient. “What is it?”

  Paxon pointed. “Those are the Ravenshorn. That storm blew us all the way east of the Duln. I can’t be sure, but from estimating the distance to those peaks, I’d say we are somewhere below the Battlemound, more east than west. What do you want to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” Isaturin countered. “You’re the one leading us home.”

  Paxon considered. Off to one side, Fero Darz shook his head in a gesture of disgust. Clearly, he thought Paxon and the Druids were in over their heads. Paxon took Isaturin’s arm and steered him away from Darz and out of his hearing.

  “I think we should continue east until we sight the forests of the Lower Anar. There’s nothing much between here and there. Certainly no towns large enough to have airships. If we can reach the Anar, we can find concealment. Then we turn north until we reach Culhaven. We can ask help from the Dwarves once we get that far.”

  The Ard Rhys shook his head. “The others are very tired, Paxon. I don’t know how much farther they can go without sleep. Do we really need to keep walking?”

  “If we don’t, we’ll have to sleep out in the open. If we’re spotted, we’ll have to defend ourselves. What sort of shape are we in to do that? The mist wall won’t work a second time. They’ll be expecting it. I think we have to keep moving.”

  Isaturin took a moment to think about it, looking off in the direction of the Ravenshorn. “All right, but we rest when it gets light. No arguments.”

  Paxon nodded. “I wish there was another way. I wish we could go another way. But nothing else makes any sense at this point. If we want to get home again, we have to get off these flats.”

  Isaturin responded by giving him a curt nod and walking away. Paxon watched him, puzzled by his abruptness. Then Fero Darz walked back over.

  “Maybe you should consider turning yourselves over to the Federation. I would speak on your behalf, if you did that. The Druids have enemies within the Coalition Council, but they have friends, as well.”

  “And most of them are dead, killed in the Assembly.”

  “Still, I would stand up for you. I would find a way to persuade the others.”

  Paxon smiled. “If they were all as reasonable as you, I would be more willing to agree. For now, though, I have to consider how things might go if they got their hands on us while they are still convinced we caused all those deaths in Arishaig.” He shrugged. “I guess what we really need is proof that what we claim is true. We need Arcannen.”

  “I wish you luck.” Darz did not bother to hide his skepticism. “But no one has been able to find him, have they? Including you. So I hope you have a plan for changing that.”

  Paxon ignored him and started walking once more. Because there was no one else with whom he felt comfortable walking, Darz stayed at his side. It was fully dark by now, with storm clouds gathering in the west. The wind was blowing crossways to those clouds, however, so it appeared as if the storm might pass behind them. Paxon tried to estimate how far it was to the still-invisible forests of the Anar. It was difficult to know, but he thought that if they kept walking through the night, they might get reasonably close by morning. He knew how tired the rest of his little company must be. He was practically dead on his feet himself.

  “Why don’t you think about what you’re doing?” Fero Darz grumbled next to him. “Maybe consider a new approach.”

  “Stop talking,” Paxon snapped. “If you haven’t got something constructive to say, don’t talk at all.”

  They walked in silence. Paxon kept a steady pace for the next hour, casting regular glances back at the storm. It did not appear to be gaining on them. If anything, it seemed to be moving south, as he had hoped it might. The night sky had cleared overhead, but with no moon, traversing the rough terrain was a challenge. He thought he could see the low, dark outline of a forest ahead, running north to south. Maybe things were going to work out, after all.

  As the night continued, conversation died and everyone began concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Their group began to stretch out into a single line, one member following another, heads down and eyes forward. Old Consloe dropped back until he was almost no longer in view. At that point, Isaturin ordered the Trolls to take turns carrying him on their backs and the march resumed.

  Midnight came and went.

  Paxon’s thoughts strayed to Leofur. He wondered what she was doing, if she had received the news of what had happened to him. If so, she must be frantic with worry. He remembered his promise to come back safe. He was doing the best he could, but he knew the odds were against him. Worse, he couldn’t get word to her about where he was or what he was trying to do. He was cut off from her as surely as if he were locked away in a Federation prison.

  And Chrysallin? She was the more fragile of the two. She was the one most likely to be emotionally unsettled by not knowing his fate. Would she come looking for him? Would Leofur? They would want to, both of them; he knew them well enough to be certain of that. They would not sit back patiently and wait for his return—not if they decided that maybe he wasn’t coming. But would they act on those impulses or would common sense prevail?

  Then he had another thought, one so dark he could barely stand to consider it. What if he was right about Arcannen Rai being responsible for what had happened in Arishaig? If Arcannen had orchestrated the killings in the Assembly, was it such a stretch to think he might also intend to harm both his daughter and Chrysallin, if only to gain revenge for being thwarted twice before? Settling scores was an integral part of his character. That had been apparent with Arbrox and the Red Slash in their last encounter. Arcannen would never forget or forgive those who crossed him, and it was very likely he was already balancing the scales if he was behind the attacks in Arishaig.

  Which by now Paxon was pretty sure he was.

  All the more reason to get home to Paranor to make sure his sister and his life partner were safe.

  He trudged on, aware of the many worries pressing down on him. But all he could do was to keep walking and hope things would work out. It was a poor solution to a complicated situation, but sometimes you had to take things as you found them.

  They were nearing the dark line of the eastern horizon, close enough that Paxon could almost define what he believed to be the canopy of the Anar, when Miriya gave a small cry. He wheeled back to see her holding Karlin Ryl in her arms; the other had gone limp and unresisting. With her head thrown back and her mouth open, she was making a series of strange sounds intermingled with scattered words.

  He went back to them immediately, asking the others to step back as he kn
elt down close to her. He was aware of Miriya at his shoulder.

  “Karlin’s having a vision,” she said quietly.

  “…inside me, squirming…” A strangling sound, a gurgling. “…can’t get it out, seeing…oh seeing…terrible, all gone, all dead…”

  She broke off abruptly, her breathing heavy and liquid sounding, as if she were drowning. The seer did not squirm or try to free herself from Miriya’s arms, but just let herself be held as she stared up at the sky, eyes wide open, mouth slack.

  “What do you see?” Paxon pressed. “Who’s gone? Who is it that’s dead?”

  A head shake, violent and sharp, as if something had latched on to Karlin and she was trying to shake it off. The others of the company exchanged glances, doubt and sadness reflected on their faces. Even the Trolls managed to convey their distress. Only Fero Darz revealed nothing of his feelings, his face expressionless as he watched.

  “…airship down, smashed, all lost…” Karlin was speaking again, her words so soft only Paxon and Miriya could hear them. “…storm winds took her…tore her apart…threw her away…with all aboard.” A gasp, a small shriek. “Killed! All of them killed!”

  Us, Paxon thought. She’s talking about us. Our airship brought down by the funnel, smashed to pieces, some dead, and the rest of us…What? Soon to be dead? Is that what she is seeing? Our future? We will all be killed?

  He leaned close, his hand touching her face gently. “Karlin, listen to me. We aren’t dead. We are all here, all who crashed and survived. Is there something else that threatens us? Are we in danger?”

  Her head jerked forward and her eyes fixed on him. She saw him clearly; there was no doubting it. She held his gaze, though her eyes were wide and staring, and her face stricken. For a moment it looked as if she would not speak again, her mouth a tight line, her lips sealed. But then she leaned toward him, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

  “…no, Paxon! Not us. The…Federation airship…pursuing, out there…” She pointed back the way they had come, gesturing for emphasis. Her pale face was suddenly calm, her gaze no longer intense, but so sad he could barely stand to meet it. “The…storm took them all, Paxon. They are…all dead.”

  The Highlander glanced hurriedly over at Fero Darz. He could tell at once that the other had heard. There was defiance and anger reflected on his face as he spoke. There was denial in his voice.

  “No, she’s mistaken! Or crazy! That’s impossible! A Federation cruiser and its entire crew? No, I don’t believe her.”

  But Karlin Ryl did not shrink away or speak even one word of equivocation. “All dead. There is no longer…a pursuit. There is no one left. No one.”

  Then she turned to Paxon again, and her look changed once more, this time to one so stricken and rife with sadness that the Highlander flinched in spite of himself. She was trying to speak, and he leaned close to hear her words.

  “Help me, Paxon,” she whispered. “Please, help me!”

  Night crept west, giving way grudgingly with the first tinge of dawn’s silvery light in the east, and as it did so a strange mist surfaced ahead of the fleeing Druids. It was a brume formed of cool air and warm earth, and it swirled and shifted like a living thing. To those approaching, it seemed ominous. Fero Darz, walking apart from the others and still stunned by the seer’s revelations regarding the loss of his ship and crew, found it especially disconcerting—enough so that he could not take his eyes off it.

  He was walking by rote—walking because to give up and sit down would have been akin to admitting the hopelessness of his situation, and that he would never do. He could not believe the seer was right, no matter how certain she sounded. He could not accept that his soldiers—many of them from the Ministerial Watch command—were all dead. Pas Allett, irritating as he was, gone? The captain and crew of his heavy cruiser? Even the oketar and their handler? It was too much to take in, and the part of his mind trained to accept the inevitable rebelled at the very idea of it.

  At one point, he even wandered back over to the main group, his Druid Guard shadowing him all the way, and fell into step beside Paxon.

  “Could she be mistaken?” he asked quietly, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the other.

  Paxon nodded. “She could.”

  When he said nothing more, Darz added, “But you don’t think she is?”

  “Only because she hasn’t been wrong before. When she has a vision, that vision has always proven true. So, no, I don’t think she is wrong.”

  An irrational part of Darz wanted to blame Paxon and his Druid friends. They were the ones that had caused this to happen. By fleeing Arishaig, they had brought Darz and his ship and crew in pursuit. If not for that, there would have been no accident, no crash, and no deaths. Perhaps they had even done something with their infernal magic to cause that storm to seek out the ship and men and destroy them. Paxon’s behavior didn’t seem to suggest any of this, but what if Paxon didn’t know about it? As the High Druid’s Blade, he might be their protector, but that didn’t mean they told him everything. Especially in this case, where it was apparent he was close enough to Darz to give away something of the truth, even by accident…

  At this point, Darz squeezed his eyes shut against his foolish musings and stopped speculating. There was no point. The accident was nothing more than that—an accident. He must let go of it; he must put it behind him. He was alive, and he must still attempt to do his duty as Commander of the Ministerial Watch.

  Especially when he coupled his continued doubts about what had really happened in the Assembly with his need to determine the truth.

  But this heavy brume that, in the soft first light of morning, presented a barrier to their passage north disturbed him. It had brought back unpleasant memories of the Druid-conjured haze that had ensnared the oketar and their handler and, ultimately, himself. They were walking straight toward it—with no hesitation, no delay. No one even seemed the least bit concerned.

  He glanced over at Paxon. For a moment, he hesitated. “Is this a good idea?” he asked at last.

  Paxon glanced over. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this heavy fog. I don’t like the look of it.”

  “It’s only mist.” Paxon looked away. “We’re done with fighting, Fero. We just want to go home. Do you want to talk some more about what happened in the Assembly? Have you had time to think about what I said?”

  “Time enough. You may be telling the truth—as you know it. But I worry there is more to this than the Druids are telling you.”

  “That could be. But I still think Arcannen was behind this. Or someone very much like him.”

  Fero nodded, looking anxiously at the mist, peering into its sinuous net. “Look, Paxon. Is something in there? What is that?”

  Paxon looked where the other was suddenly pointing. He saw it, too. “I don’t know.”

  What Fero Darz had seen was a series of bulky figures. They were big, vaguely man-shaped forms. They weren’t moving, but there were a lot of them. With the mist shifting as steadily as it did, it almost gave the impression that they were shifting with it. Darz peered closer, trying to separate the mist from the figures. For a second or two, he managed it.

  They were moving. Their arms were lifting.

  “Paxon,” he said softly.

  “I see it,” the other said.

  —

  Paxon held up his arm to stop the rest of the ragged procession, thinking this was all they needed—another distraction, another potential risk. Those bulky objects didn’t exactly look like men, and probably weren’t. But what were they? He peered closer, then took a few more steps forward. What was moving were arm-like appendages that seemed to be gently waving. But there were more than two attached to each figure, so these were definitely not men.

  “Stay here,” he told the others, and moved ahead.

  He did not go into the fog, only close enough to its edges to get a better look. They were a species of plant, he saw. They had broad, bark-encruste
d trunks rooted in the earth and supple limbs that sprouted from their upper regions. At the top of each trunk sat a low cone-shaped protuberance with a rippled surface and thin strands of moss. Glancing left and right, he found them rooted across their path in a seemingly endless array.

  There were thousands of them.

  He turned and walked back to join the others, uncertain what to do.

  “What are they?” Fero Darz demanded.

  “I can’t be sure. They appear to be large plants, but they’re nothing like the plants I’m familiar with.”

  “Do they seem dangerous?” Isaturin asked.

  Paxon shrugged. “Everything living in the Battlemound is dangerous.”

  “Can we go around them?”

  “Maybe, but it would take time. I think we have to find a way through them. They’re spread out in front of us as far as the eye can see, blocking our way, but there are gaps we might be able to navigate. We just have to be careful. I don’t think it would be a good idea to come into contact with them.”

  “We should just burn a path through them,” Miriya snapped. “Why bother going around?”

  “Because,” Paxon said, drawing out the word slowly, “we don’t know what they are or what they can do. And I would hate to find out the hard way.”

  Miriya grumbled under her breath and moved away to stand with Karlin. The latter looked pale and distracted, a mix of resignation and confusion on her face. She didn’t seem to be aware of what was happening around her. She seemed to have her thoughts on something else entirely.

  “We’ll continue on,” Isaturin declared, “but let’s be careful. Lead the way, Paxon.”

  The Highlander nodded and started ahead. At once Fero Darz was beside him, leaning in. “I think this is a bad idea. I think we should go another way.”