by Terry Brooks
He paused, sighed. “I didn’t tell you everything about the tethering before. It was all I could do to tell you as much as I did. Besides, I thought you would reject me just from what I had revealed. I held back the things I believed could wait. This was one: The power of the tethering to bind us, the ways it could influence us. The nature of the dependence it would create and the possible consequences thereof. When it surfaces, it removes all choice. There is only time for reaction, and that reaction is instantaneous—a reflex akin to an eyeblink. You act because you must. In those moments, you are the tether’s creature, and you do its bidding.”
“But I don’t feel that way about you!” Leofur blurted out before she could stop herself, realizing only after she had spoken what she had said. Hastily, she tried to backtrack. “Wait. I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did,” he interrupted quickly, his voice rough. “You spoke honestly. There can be no condemnation for that. And I understand. Your feelings are your own. We are different people. My response to the tether is necessarily different from yours. I don’t presume anything about how you should feel. I am telling you this so you will understand how it affects me. I would never suggest it should be the same for you.”
Well, it wasn’t the same with her. Was it? She thought of earlier conversations when he had insisted she was a perfect complement to him—different, but in a way that strengthened him. It made her wonder. How alike were they? More so than she wanted to admit, perhaps. She knew she hadn’t gotten a firm grasp on this yet; her understanding of their relationship was still vague and one-dimensional. How much of what it meant was she still missing?
She lay back again, looking up at the sky, letting the particulars of the conversation settle in, considering them one by one—and especially the last. How did the tether impact her? She wasn’t entirely sure. It was hard to deny that it was a powerful experience. Or that it generated feelings in her she was still sorting out. She had been frightened for him when he had broken the link between them that first day while they were hunting the men who took Chrysallin. She had been furious and disappointed and a whole raft of other things. So she couldn’t say the tether had not affected her at all.
Just not the same way as it affected him.
And she did think she would have responded differently to Closteralt than he had if their positions had been reversed. She did think that whatever the impact of her link to him, it was nowhere near as strong and volatile as his to her.
And good thing, too. One of them needed to stay calm in confrontational situations. One of them needed to provide stability if the tethering was to work as it was intended to.
At least one of them, although both would be better.
Otherwise…
Otherwise what?
She was unable to say. The answer to that question was still hidden.
Every day began exactly the same for Chrysallin Leah. She would wake up in her box, the wooden slats and the layers of mesh over the airholes preventing her from seeing anything clearly. It might be morning, or it might be afternoon. She’d managed to settle into a schedule that let her sleep at night and wake during the day. What good this did her, she couldn’t say. Perhaps the consistency helped keep her sane.
Perhaps.
Every day she would wake inside the wooden crate, lying on the padding they had provided, her head on her pillow and her blanket wrapped around her. She would stretch her limbs in a space that was a little more than eight feet long (she had measured it herself), then she would give herself a moment to wake fully, lying very still and listening for sounds, even though there never were any. After she was awake, she would sit up and recite in her head the names of those she loved and missed and whom she was determined to return to.
It was a ritualistic list: Paxon, Leofur, her mother, her Druid friends, her Troll friends, her friends from the old days in Wayford, and always one or two she made up to allow for a little variation in the ritual.
When that was finished, she would lie back again and wait.
The waiting was the hardest. There was never any way to measure how long it would last. It varied so widely she had given up trying to find a pattern. Sometimes, it happened quickly. Sometimes, it took all day. But it always happened sooner or later. At some point, the little girl would come to her.
In the beginning, she used to try summoning this elfin creature. She would rap on the crate boards or even bang sharply on them. She would stamp her feet. But there was never a response to any of this. Only silence.
Chrysallin supposed she could have fallen victim to the kind of madness that had claimed her when Arcannen had abducted her and given her over to that other witch, the one who called herself Mischa. She could have given in to the urge to merge the two witches in her mind and imagine the situations were similar. But in truth, the situations were not similar, and neither were the witches involved. Not even a little.
For starters, she wasn’t being drugged and subverted by potions and magic to be made over into some creature meant to serve. Arcannen, in fact, had not appeared even once. She was assured he was coming, of course. The little girl had seen to that, instructed to do so, she claimed, by the Murk Witch. Well, maybe. But then the little girl was insane, so you couldn’t put too much stock in what she said.
The Murk Witch never showed herself, either—at least not so as to reveal what she actually looked like. Chrys supposed she would do so when Arcannen came as a final provocative gesture, another variation on the game. But perhaps it wouldn’t be either the sorcerer or the witch who came for her. Perhaps it would be Leofur or her brother. Perhaps it would be her Druid protectors and their Troll guards. That someone who loved and cared about her was coming was never in doubt. She had been down this road before. In the end, someone always came for her. They would do so this time, as well.
She refused to believe anything else.
Firming up her resolve, just as she had done every day since the beginning of her captivity, she reaffirmed this certainty, as well.
She remembered almost nothing of her abduction. One minute she was walking with Leofur, then both had sensed a presence and begun to move away. She remembered Leofur going down first, collapsed in a heap, unmoving. She remembered starting toward her, then everything had gone black. She thought she remembered receiving a blow to the head. She definitely remembered waking later with a headache.
She had been bound and gagged, unable to move or speak, or use her magic or free herself. She remembered a bitter taste in her mouth, and efforts to swallow it had failed. It had permeated and clotted her throat with an unpleasant layer of mucus.
She had not at that point understood what it meant.
She was blindfolded, as well, so she could not tell who had her or how many of them there were or where they might be taking her. They barely spoke, and when they did it was airship-speak—directions, control management, and navigational terms delivered mostly in one or two words. They were men, but that was all she could tell. Their voices gave nothing away of their origins. They gave nothing away of their numbers.
She waited for them to remove the blindfold and gag, but they never did. They must have known what might happen if they gave her even a single breath by which to summon her magic. They must have understood what she was. They would not have bothered with all the bindings otherwise.
They were flying, though. She could tell that much from the movement of the vessel in which she lay trussed. She tried to guess what sort of airship, but it was impossible to know without some small allowance for sight or movement. She was frustrated in every aspect by her kidnapping. She hated not knowing. Was Leofur all right? Had they brought her along, too?
Who was responsible for this?
Arcannen, she thought. Who else would dare such an intrusion into Druid country, practically in sight of Paranor’s walls? They would be missing her already. They would have begun to search. They had the means to find her and they would act. She would be free again soon enough.
But to be in the sorcerer’s hands? Yet again? Had he nothing else to do than keep coming after her? And to what end? She told herself that if it was Arcannen, at least she was ready for him this time. There would be no more mind bending, no more illusions and trickery. She had learned a thing or two since about how to use her magic, how to protect herself if she should come under attack. Once she got that gag off, things would be different.
So her thinking went. And then they had landed—a hard, jarring descent that threw her across the floor of the vessel. It was rough enough that she believed they might have crashed. And indeed they quickly hauled her out once they were down and, apparently recovered enough to do so, carted her away. This time she could tell a little more about them. There were at least three—two carrying her and another leading the way. Others joined them a little later, and there was a campfire and the smell of food cooking, though none was offered to her. Still no one spoke except in whispers, most of which were too soft for her to follow.
She was terribly hungry and thirsty by then, but no effort was made to allow her to eat or drink. She was left bound, gagged, and blindfolded throughout her time with them. She was wrapped in a blanket and left to her thoughts with no indication that anything would change.
Then she heard the airship. Its sounds were soft and distant, but she heard them clearly enough to identify what they were. It landed somewhere close by, the thrusters powering down. Hands reached for her, lifted her, and carried her off to meet it. She was placed inside. Further talk ensued, all of it too soft to make out. When the airship rose she was aboard and the men were gone, and her life was about to enter a new phase of miserable.
The witch had her.
The Murk Sink was her new home.
She ran through her memories one more time, trying to glean a fresh scrap of information about what had happened, but her memories were all scraped clean, and there was nothing more she could do to fill in the missing pieces until someone told her all the things she still didn’t know.
A gentle rustling caught her attention, the soft sound of footsteps as they crossed the wooden floor of the cabin. She waited for the hateful voice.
“Good morning, Chrysallin,” the little girl greeted her.
She gritted her teeth. It begins anew, she thought. She felt an unexpected rush of elation and relief—because this was all she had to look forward to—and it shamed her.
At least now she would be released from the cage so she could play the game. The bindings, gag, and blindfold had come off days ago, almost the minute she arrived. She was put in the cage, of course, but even so it allowed for some small freedom of movement. And almost every day she was taken out so she could move around the cabin, unrestricted save for the chain cuffed to her ankle.
Of course, there was the matter of the mysterious root she was forced to chew and ingest. Always the root. The little girl stood right there while she ate it, then examined Chrysallin’s mouth afterward to make sure she had swallowed all of it. Hiding it never worked.
There was no avoiding the root.
Or its immediate and lasting effects on her voice. It was the same root forced into her mouth when the men had taken her at Paranor. It was the same bitter taste. She understood its purpose now. The little girl had told her.
“You have to take this, Chrysallin,” she announced apologetically. “You must chew it and swallow it. The witch will know if you don’t. She knows everything. She will hurt me if you disobey, and then she will hurt you. The root takes away your voice. That way you won’t be able to speak. Your magic won’t work. The wishsong relies on strength of voice, and you will have none. The effect is immediate and complete. So there will be no point in trying to cast spells. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Chrys had understood, all right. But of course she had tried anyway, only to discover the little girl was right. Her voice—and therefore her control over any form of the wishsong magic—was gone. Her one weapon, her one chance of breaking free, had been taken away.
The locks on the door to her cage began to release, their sharp snicks a reminder of what her patience could yield. The bolts slid back and her cage door opened to the gray and murky swamp light.
And the beaming face of the little girl.
“Come out, come out! It’s time to play!”
A bit stiff and feeling awkward and exposed, Chrysallin stooped and crawled out of her cage. The little girl leaned down and patted her head—like you might a pet let out for food and drink and playtime. Chrys wore one of the two white shifts she was allowed, the only clothes she was given—one to be worn while she washed the other. She was permitted no shoes. Not that she would have tried to run anywhere if she had them.
The little girl stood before her, half her size, small and frail and so unassuming it was ludicrous. But this was no one Chrys would ever think of trying to overpower. The freckled face, the blue eyes, the button nose, and the endless smile were all for her benefit, meant to be reassuring. They were anything but. The little girl, after all, was always pretending. She was always playing the game.
“Let’s start you out with some good bread and milk,” she announced brightly after cuffing Chrysallin’s ankle to the chain. She took her prisoner’s hand and led her over to the little table where her meal was waiting. Together, they sat down and the little girl watched while Chrys ate her breakfast. Irritating, but there was nothing she could do about it. The little girl made all the choices.
Oddly, she did not have a name. Chrys had signaled, but the little girl only shook her head. “I belong to the witch,” was all she would say. “She will not tell me my name. She likes me as I am.”
Which was one way of putting it, but Chrys knew better.
“What shall we do today?” the little girl asked.
Chrys shook her head, giving no suggestion of an answer. This was the only show of defiance behind which she could take refuge—a small and rather insignificant act of protest. If she was not to be allowed the use of her voice, she would respond as little as possible. Of course, sometimes she had no choice. The little girl made certain of that.
“Why don’t we sit over there at the window and watch for Mr. Teeth?” the little girl suggested, clapping her hands. “He is so much fun when he jumps up and snatches the birds! Or some other foolish creature trying to swim the waters of the Sink. I just love watching Mr. Teeth! Wouldn’t that be fun to do?”
Chrys shrugged.
“Oh, Chrysallin, I wish you wouldn’t be like this. Don’t be so unhappy. This isn’t my fault. I would let you go if I could, you know that!”
The plea sounded so genuine, the words so sincere, that at first Chrys had believed them. Had wanted desperately to believe them. But that was before she figured out the truth. Before the nature of the game revealed itself. Now she knew not to believe anything.
On that first day after her arrival and upon her release from the cage, the little girl had explained her situation in detail. She had started with the warning that any attempt to use her magic would fail—worse, that it would cause her extreme pain. She must never try to speak. Also, she must take the root she would be given each day. She must chew it and swallow it in the little girl’s presence. Her mouth would be examined afterward. This was regrettable, but the little girl was afraid of the witch, who had invested her with responsibility for seeing that Chrys obeyed and promised that any failure would cause her pain of a kind she had already experienced and never cared to experience again.
The chain about Chrys’s leg was intended to keep her from going outside the cabin. She was never to do that. She was never even to try. If she did and somehow succeeded, Mr. Teeth or one of the other things that lived in the Murk Sink would eat her. Some of those things were very big—bigger even than Mr. Teeth. Some lived very close. They would not bother the witch or the cabin and those who lived in it. Wards prevented that from happening. But anything that went beyond their protective shield was fair game. Thus the chain and
the warning as preventives.
She was allowed three meals a day and regular baths and changes of clothes. She was not mistreated so long as she obeyed the rules. She had the little girl for a companion, and they could play together and visit for several hours each day.
But this arrangement quickly went from bad to worse. After the first few days, the little girl would stay anywhere from several hours to all day. Until Chrysallin, having figured out what was going on, thought she would scream.
“The witch might come visit today,” the little girl said as Chrys finished her breakfast. She smiled brightly. “She just might.”
Or not. She said the same thing every day, and it never happened. Big joke. Build up expectation, then watch hope fade to nothing. Chrys nodded in response but didn’t smile. There was no point in encouraging the little snit.
The girl frowned in disapproval, then took Chrys’s hand firmly in her own and led her over to the bench in front of the window by the locked door where they could look out at the swamp. “Let’s sit and watch,” she whispered conspiratorially.
They sat together, looking into the mist. The cottage sat well back in a heavy stand of cypress, which sheltered and protected it, with enough gaps between the trees to allow them to look out over the huge, weed-choked lake and its grass-tufted islands. The Murk Sink was a sprawling wetlands dotted with pools of water (some miles wide), thick stands of mango and cypress, large clumps of swamp grasses, and hidden stretches of quicksand. For those unfamiliar with swamps, it should be said that no one in his or her right mind should ever wish to stumble into one. Perversely, only familiarity could save you. There were things living there that couldn’t be found anywhere else except farther north in the Matted Brakes—things bigger than buildings and with teeth the size of arms and legs. The Murk Sink was perpetually shrouded in mist and clouds, colored in shades of washed-out gray and green, infused with chilling noises of dubious origin, and inhabited by dozens of creatures that could kill you without warning.
