The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  “Well,” he said, breaking into her musings, responding finally to her earlier comment, “I guess I’m here because I don’t have anything better to do. Going back to Paranor’s stables is unacceptable. I would not be happy knowing you were out here alone. I would be worrying that you needed me. I made a commitment to see this through, to stick with you until we found your friend, and that is what I will do. I want to see you and Chrysallin safely home.”

  “And the risk does not trouble you?”

  “Does it trouble you?”

  “Of course. But Chrysallin is my friend, and the sister of my life partner. That’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  She did not know what he meant by that, and she looked over again, studying his face. But he gave nothing away as he scanned the countryside below them, watching forests and grasslands passing beneath them as the two-man continued its steady pace westward.

  They didn’t talk again for a while. Leofur watched the new storm approach out of the Streleheim, drifting south toward the lower Borderlands. This fresh batch of clouds roiled and churned but seemed less threatening, and the winds that propelled them seemed less violent than the ones now fading east into the Southland. She knew they would be able to continue on if there was no unexpected shift in the weather. By nightfall, they would be all the way to the edge of the Westland. By tomorrow night, they would be down into the Wilderun, their search for the Murk Sink begun in earnest.

  For now, she had time and space to let go of everything as she gave herself over to flying. It was always like this. She didn’t know exactly how it affected Paxon; he never talked about it. But she supposed it was the same for him—musing amid the automatic tasks that flying required. She wasn’t as experienced with airships as he was, but she was competent enough to be able to think about other things while engaged in the act. Everything came instinctively, all of the movements and choices and assessments required. She could rely on herself to let her thoughts drift and still keep them safe.

  She could let herself be at peace.

  “What was your life like when you were young?” she asked Imric as they sat together later, far out on the grasslands, eating their lunch of cold meat and cheese and ale. “Did you have friends?”

  He shook his head, his bladed features somber, his eyes dark with memories. “Not close ones, no. My parents kept me apart from other children when I was very young. Perhaps they feared what I might become. What, in fact, I already was, though none of us knew it then. After I discovered my talent, I deliberately stayed away. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out. I couldn’t be certain of my control over the shifting. I was essentially alone after that.”

  “No lover? No woman to care for you?”

  He laughed. “What woman could love someone like me? No, I had no one like that. I had female companions now and then, but only for a single night’s pleasure. I knew what I was. I understood the risk I posed to anyone who got close to me—especially after I lost my parents.” He hesitated. “Especially after I killed my father. It’s hard to say those words, but they need saying. I haven’t said them to anyone since after coming to Paranor. There’s a certain release in doing so now.”

  “Why do you stay at Paranor? You seem able to control yourself well enough. Even without a tether, I sense you could manage it. Perhaps you could find a new life.”

  The strong features tightened, then turned incredibly sad, as if the very idea of what she was suggesting was cruel beyond accepting. She instantly wished she could take back the words. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

  “You spoke from your heart,” he corrected gently. “You want something good for me, and that’s not to be regretted. But the truth is I cannot leave Paranor and go back out into the larger world. The danger of reverting to what I was before, when I could lose control so easily, remains. The temptation to let that happen is too great. I need the safety net the Druids provide me with. I need the solitude they offer. Yes, it is lonely, but I have been lonely all my life, so I am used to it. It’s best for everyone.”

  He looked over, a smile on his lips. “I consider myself fortunate to have this time away, this chance to escape my ordinary life. I thank you for that, Leofur Rai. It means so much. You can’t imagine how much.”

  Perhaps I can, she thought, smiling back. But she saw no reason to say so, and so left it there.

  —

  They flew through the remainder of the day and spent the night out on the open grasslands of the lower Streleheim, not far above the Tirfing. The ground was cool and damp, so they slept in the two-man, crammed into its tiny interior, wrapped in blankets and pressed up against each other as they sought enough space to stretch out. On rising, they ate breakfast and set out again. The storms had rolled past and the clouds had moved on. The temperature had fallen, as well, but the air was clear and the sky blue from horizon to horizon. They talked now and then, but mostly remained locked in their thoughts. The landscape changed with the approach of nightfall, the grasslands giving way to a mix of mountains and forests, the openness of the plains disappearing.

  “Is this a good idea?” Imric asked her, as he recognized where they were going.

  Ahead, the lights of Grimpen Ward had come into view, a scattering of isolated residences clustered around the central core of the town.

  She knew what he was getting at; undoubtedly he had been here a time or two on his own before coming to Paranor. There was nothing good about Grimpen Ward—a town filled with people running from their old lives or engaging in various forms of indulgence. Pleasure houses, gambling dens, opportunities for doing things best left unsaid, chances for quick money and changes of fortune abounded.

  “You don’t think so?” she replied, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  “This is a dangerous place. Especially for women.” He didn’t say what he was thinking, but she knew anyway—that she had already overestimated her abilities when she had let those men in the Kennon Pass get the best of her. That she was young and unready in spite of her bravado. That her determination to find and rescue Chrysallin had clouded her judgment. “I just wonder if it’s necessary to come here to find out what we need to know about the witch.”

  Leofur smiled. “I used to come here all the time. I’ve traded and bargained with these people. Done deals and moved on. No one ever bothered me. Not after the first time someone tried it and word got around. And yes, coming here is necessary, Imric. I have contacts here who will help us—people who have helped me before. People who will tell me what I need to know.”

  People who will cut your throat for the price of a drink, she knew he was thinking, but again he kept quiet. This was her decision, and he was ceding her the right to make it. All he could do was to try to keep her safe. Leofur understood him well enough. She knew he admired the fact that she was bold and capable. But she could tell there was something else happening, too—something beyond what she had expected when they set out together. She was still figuring out exactly what that something was, but she knew it was important enough for him to believe it well worth his time.

  They landed in a small airfield at the edge of the town, a space that was little more than a grassy field and lacked security and services—a place where you left your craft and took your chances. But the two-man was armed with warning systems and self-destruct mechanisms in case of attempted theft, and that was usually enough to deter thieves looking for an easy target. There were other vessels about, a few of them valuable, a few with guards aboard keeping watch, and Leofur anchored their ship close to these.

  Once the two-man was secured, they set out for the lights of the village.

  It was a short walk. The town consisted of buildings densely packed together, their walls either shared or close enough that you could touch both at the same time if you wished to squeeze between them. The streets were muddied and rutted from recent rains and spilled ale, the smell both rank and vaguely intoxicating. The doors an
d windows of the pleasure houses and gambling and drinking halls were thrown open to the night, their lights ablaze against the coming darkness. Shouts and laughter filled the air, and men and women roamed the streets in search of business and fun—though the two were often indistinguishable. More than a few of those who passed were either wildly inebriated or well on their way.

  Imric watched everyone, ready to act if there should be need. He stayed close to Leofur—perhaps because she was deliberately manifesting a lack of concern with what was happening around her, which caused him obvious dismay. Again, she could read his thoughts. He thought her too casual about the dangers surrounding her, lacking any sense of caution for what she might come up against. But this, of course, was only her surface appearance; inside she was tightly wound and ready to act. He should have known as much. She had survived a lot in her life; she had learned to be wary. But if he recognized this, it apparently made him feel no less protective toward her. She found it strange but charming.

  Once, she even wheeled back on him, telling him he was walking too close. Reluctantly, he backed off a step, but then he reclaimed the distance a little while later.

  She slowed as they reached an alehouse with a large wooden sign that read BURNING MAN. Below, charmingly depicted in garish red and yellow, was what was clearly supposed to be an image that reflected the name. That it in any way did was something of a stretch.

  She turned to Imric. “The man we’ve come to see is Talis Closteralt. He’s the owner, and I’ve done business with him in the past. He’s done considerable trapping and hunting throughout the Wilderun before opening this establishment. He will know of the Murk Sink and the witch. He may even know how to find her.”

  The shape-shifter nodded wordlessly. His brow furrowed, but she let it pass and forged ahead, pushing her way through a cluster of half-drunk men as she entered the building. She didn’t bother to glance back to see if Imric was following. She didn’t need to.

  She worked her way through the patrons and serving girls to the long bar at the back of the room, spying Closteralt behind the counter. He was a slight wisp of a man, his hair thinning, his skin still brown from sun and weather even though he no longer worked outdoors. His sharp eyes flicked left and right as he moved from ale keg to patron and back again, always searching.

  It took only moments for his gaze to light on her. She nodded a greeting and moved to the far end of the bar to wait.

  When a fight broke out next to her, she could feel the tension in Imric as he moved in front of her, but she pulled him back, shaking her head. Fights happened in alehouses all the time. No one beyond those involved took it personally. In seconds a pair of very large men had moved over, separated the combatants, and thrown them through the door and into the street. Closteralt had nothing against fighting so long as it didn’t happen in his place of business.

  The barkeep was in front of her seconds later, his eyes shifting from her to Imric and back again. “A friend?”

  “A partner,” she corrected. “Can we talk somewhere less public?”

  He took them behind the counter and through the kitchen to a small porch in the narrow alley behind. It was hardly private; there were windows opening onto the alley all around them, and the sounds of men and women enjoying themselves drifted down from more than a few.

  She ignored all that and turned to him. “I have a favor to ask,” she said. “I will pay you well if your answer has value.”

  The thin lips twisted, and the rest of his narrow face followed suit, like a rubber mask. “Anything I tell you will have value. You can depend on it. Payment, of course, is always appreciated.”

  “So is accuracy. I will need to know that what you tell me comes with a guarantee.”

  “For you, always. If I know something, I will tell you. If I don’t, I will simply bid you farewell.” He paused, giving her a smile. “It’s good to have you back for a visit. Time spent with you, sweet Leofur, whether for business or…pleasure…has always been…enjoyable.”

  The way he said it was so deliberately suggestive, she almost laughed. But then she saw his features change, the momentary smarminess wiped clean. A second later Imric had surged past her, snatching up Closteralt by the front of his shirt and yanking him close. The look on his face was terrifying. She couldn’t decide what he intended to do, but it wasn’t anything good.

  “What’s the trouble, big man?” Talis said, somehow managing to keep calm in spite of being lifted off the floor. “Don’t like hearing about Leofur and me?”

  Leofur grabbed Imric’s arm and forced it down so that Closteralt was standing on his own two feet again. Carefully, she pried Imric’s fingers loose from the other’s shirt and moved him back.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. Then she turned to Closteralt, all business. “What gives you the right to talk about me like that? Do you think telling lies and making false claims is a good idea? Especially where I’m concerned? I think you’d better tell him it isn’t true.”

  There was a long pause. “It isn’t true,” Closteralt said finally. He exhaled sharply, a sour look on his face. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Not in the least. You shouldn’t play games when you don’t know the rules. It might get you hurt. My partner doesn’t like thinking of me with other men. Especially men who make things up.”

  Closteralt held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a joke! Of course it has always been business between you and me. Never anything else. But a man can dream, can’t he?”

  “Keep your dreams to yourself,” she snapped. “Now, are you ready to hear me out or not?” She waited for him to nod. “That’s better. Then let’s get to it. The Murk Sink. Tell me what you know.”

  “What I know?” He laughed, the sound high-pitched and nervous. “I know to stay away! I know that those who travel there quite often don’t come back again. Why would you ask me about this? You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

  “Do you know of a witch who lives there?” she pressed, ignoring the question. “A witch called Melis?”

  Now he looked genuinely frightened. He put a finger to his lips. “The walls have ears where she’s concerned. Even to speak of her is dangerous!”

  “Then do so softly,” she whispered. She leaned close. “Tell me what you know.”

  The other blinked rapidly. “I know that she is far more dangerous than you and your friend could ever hope to be. I know that one word in her ear about anything I say would mean the end of me. So why don’t we just leave it at that? In fact, why don’t you just pack up and get out?”

  It was a clear dismissal, but she ignored it. “What if I were to find her on my own, and one way or another let it slip that you were the one who told me how? How would you feel about that?”

  His pinched features tightened. “You would, too, wouldn’t you? Nasty little piece of…” Her look cut him short. “All right, then. Let’s end this. Here’s what I know…but you never heard a word of it from me. Melis is called the Murk Witch because she lives in the Sink. She only comes out once in a while. She has magic. I haven’t seen her use it myself, but I’ve heard about it from some who have. Very bad stuff. Very dangerous.”

  “How do we find her?”

  He shook his head. “Why would you want to do that? Bah, it doesn’t matter! I can’t tell you anyway; I don’t know. But I know someone who does. It’s dangerous to ask, though. Word has a way of getting back to those you don’t want to hear. Is this really so important?”

  She nodded slowly. “Give me a name.”

  “Olin. A boy, a young swamp rat, come out on dry land a few years back. He grew up in the Murk Sink, lived there with his family. They all died except for him. Fever, I was told. I don’t know the whole story. But he knows the witch. Some say he lived with her after he lost his family. Some say they were lovers. Now he’s just another drunk, barely out of his teens. Lives above the Weathervane, a little farther down the road. Maybe if you
sober him up he will talk to you. Or maybe not.”

  “This is true, all of it?”

  “All of it. Now pay me.”

  “After I speak with him. After it’s confirmed.”

  “Do that, and you won’t be coming back.”

  Leofur rose, and Imric immediately stood up with her. “I liked you better when you were buying weapons and information and knew how to keep your mouth shut,” Leofur said. “I like you less now that you’ve decided you can make up stories about me.” She brought out the flash rip. “In fact, I don’t think I like you at all.”

  “Wait!” he gasped. “I never said anything about you to anyone until just now. I was just playing with you. I made a mistake! Please.”

  She gave him a long look, then nodded finally and slipped the weapon back under her cloak. “Then don’t ever do it again. Don’t use my name for any reason. Don’t speak of me. Even if the witch doesn’t hear, my father might.”

  Closteralt got up, lips compressed and eyes hard. He hesitated a moment, then went back inside the building.

  Imric looked at her with approval after he was gone. “That was good. You handled that perfectly.”

  Fury filled her. “No, I didn’t—no thanks to you! Now come. Let’s find this boy.”

  Once through the interior of the tavern and back out onto the street, Leofur hauled Imric down the roadway a few buildings farther, then pushed him into an alley and against a wall. “What did you think you were doing back there?” she demanded.

  He looked confused. “What do you mean? When?”

  “When you looked like you were making my personal life your business! That disrupted everything I’d planned. You came to my defense as if I were some callow girl in danger of assault! Why would you do that? What were you thinking?”