The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  They were face-to-face now, and he could see the deep purple bruise at her temple. Her eyes were closed, but she was alive, though her breathing was slow and shallow. She’d suffered a concussion and was unconscious. He pressed her against him, feeling the coldness of her body, knowing he had to wake her. Swinging her over the branch on which he sat so that she straddled it, her back against the trunk, he slapped her cheeks, gently at first, then harder.

  “Miriya!” he snapped. “Wake up! Look at me! Open your eyes! Listen to me, Miriya! Wake up!”

  He repeated his efforts several time, then her eyes fluttered. “Stop it,” she whispered.

  “Look at me, and I will!” he shouted at her.

  Her eyes opened. “Paxon? What happened?”

  He took a quick few moments to tell her, then added, “You’ve been hurt. You’re concussed. You have to stay awake. Don’t close your eyes again.”

  “Sleepy,” she murmured, her eyes beginning to close.

  “No!” He slapped her hard—once, twice, three times—and her eyes opened.

  “Quit hitting me, you idiot!”

  “Just look at me. Does anything hurt? Does anything feel broken?”

  She shook her head. “Only my face, thanks to you.” She experimented with her arms and legs, felt her ribs, and shook her head. “No. I don’t feel anything else. Where are the others?”

  He straightened her on the tree branch. “Gone. Maybe Isaturin’s still up on the ledge, or maybe trying to climb down to us. But probably he’s left, thinking us dead.”

  She snorted, and the look she gave him was ironic. “Maybe we are and we just don’t know it yet.” She glanced around, a doubtful look on her rain-streaked features. “How do we get back up? Or do we climb down?”

  “It’s too far to climb down, so we have to go up. But you rest first. You’ll need to regain your strength.”

  She nodded, yawned, then looked at him wordlessly for a few long moments. “Thanks for saving me.”

  “Yeah, well, save it for when we’re both really safe again and not just hanging from a tree.” He still had his water skin slung over one shoulder and handed it to her. She drank thirstily, taking deep swallows, then handed it back.

  “That dragon was big,” she said.

  He managed a shaky grin. “The biggest thing I’ve ever seen. At least it’s gone. After a fall like that it must be dead…”

  A roar sounded from down in the canyon abyss—huge and ferocious and unmistakable. It rose out of the gloom through the howl of the wind and the steady rush of the rain. It shook the air.

  “Okay, I’m rested,” Miriya announced. “Let’s go.”

  With the dragon’s voice still echoing in their ears, they began to climb. Though the cliff face offered clusters of roots and tangled scrub along with deep crevices and rocky projections to which they could cling or on which they could stand as they worked their way up, it was slow going. The rain had soaked everything, leaving it damp and slippery. Footing and handholds both were treacherous, and the wind blew in a steady whistling howl, each fresh gust threatening to shake them loose. They had to climb separately; there was no rope to tie them together, and perhaps that would not have been something either of them would have wanted, anyway. Paxon watched Miriya carefully at first, worried that dizziness or exhaustion, coupled with her injury, might confuse or impede her. But when it was clear she was able to continue, he quit worrying and concentrated on his own efforts.

  It took everything just to accomplish that. It was one foot, one hand, over and over, each time searching for a place to grab hold and dig in, the risk of falling always present. Paxon did not dare look down after they started. He knew it was a long way to the bottom. The cliff face, while not sheer, was steep enough that any slip would send them tumbling away. Plastered against the damp rock, trying to keep the wind and rain out of their eyes, the Blade and the warrior Druid pressed on.

  It was an endless climb. Paxon was never able to tell how long it took, although he was aware of a darkening of the skies beyond what the storm was causing, as the day passed away toward nightfall. If they were caught out here in the dark, still trying to find their way, they were probably not going to make it. He couldn’t do much about it, though. They were going as fast as they could, and doing anything more was too risky.

  The only way he knew when they had finally reached the rock shelf once more was when the canyon wall began to slant gently away from him, and he was able to haul himself upward onto a horizontal slope. Together, Paxon and Miriya lay on the ground breathing heavily, faces turned toward each other as the rain beat down on them. Their fingers were scraped and bruised, their fingernails split, their hands raw with scratches and tears, and their arms and legs screaming with pain. Both were exhausted, their strength depleted from the climb. But they could not afford to rest out in the open, still on the wrong side of the rock ledge.

  “Come on,” Paxon said finally, hauling himself to his feet. “Let’s go home.”

  They trudged on, crossing the bridge to the far side of the canyon. They walked all night, down out of the mountains and through the ancient trees of the Anar forests—a slog that left them emptied and mindless, able to summon just enough resolve to keep going, allowing the terrain and their instincts to guide them. The weather changed again at some point, the rain slowing but the temperature dropping as it did so. They were still in the mountains when this happened, albeit farther down the slopes and closer to the lowlands to the west. After a while, it started to snow, which caught them by surprise. Paxon wasn’t even sure he knew when it began. It seemed to him, on reflection, that one minute it wasn’t snowing and the next it was. He lifted his face to the soft touch of flakes falling against his skin and looked over at Miriya. She was smiling like a child.

  Eventually, they reached a point where they could no longer go on. By now the snow had ceased and the grasslands were within easy reach. It was still several hours before dawn. Finding a place in the shelter of the trees bordering it, out of sight if not smell of predators, they lay down and slept.

  —

  The sun was fully risen when rough hands shook Paxon awake and a gruff voice said, “Come now, lad. Time to rise and shine.”

  The Highlander’s eyes opened to find a Dwarf’s bluff face peering down at him. Ginger beard and hair, startlingly blue eyes, weathered skin, and a touch of humor—Paxon’s immediate impressions were not the sort to startle but to reassure. Nevertheless, he took a few moments to wake sufficiently to remember where he was and what had happened.

  He sat up then, nodding to the other. “Well met.”

  “And you. Are you all right? You look rather ragged. What’s happened to you and this lady, sleeping out in the open like this, with no blanket or supplies or apparently much of anything?”

  Paxon glanced over at Miriya, who was still asleep. “We’ve had a hard time of it. Our airship crashed. We’ve been walking for four days, maybe more. We’ve come up from the Southland below the Battlemound.”

  The Dwarf puckered his lips. “You didn’t try to come through there, did you?”

  “We came through the mountains. Through the Lower Anar.”

  “That’s even worse. Terrible things live there. You’re lucky they didn’t eat you.”

  “They tried.” Paxon sat up slowly, holding his head, which was pounding. His entire body ached. “We’re trying to reach Culhaven to find transportation home.”

  “It’s a long way to Culhaven,” the Dwarf said, giving him a look, “but I’ll do what I can to help you. I can’t leave you out here like this, that’s for sure. Are you hungry?”

  They woke Miriya and the three shared a portion of the food the Dwarf was carrying. His name was Trond Ulkend, and he was a hunter tracking game for his village, which was only a few miles off. Hunting along the edge of the Anar was good, he told them. Animals tended to come down out of the mountainous regions of the Anar whenever possible for better foraging, which made things easier when you w
anted to find them. He’d just set out on his hunt earlier this morning before stumbling on them.

  “I haven’t seen a thing since I started out, so I think I’ll just see you both safely back to my village and try again tomorrow. Can you walk? I’ve no means by which to carry you.”

  “We can walk,” Miriya assured him, eating the last crust of bread from her portion of the meal, washing it down with a long series of swallows from the water skin.

  Trond regarded her solemnly. “This was Druid business that brought you here?”

  She hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

  “You wear the insignia of the order.” He pointed to her breast.

  She nodded. “Does it matter to you?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious. Lots of talk about Druids and the Federation, even out here. It’s none of my business, though, is it? Are you ready to leave?”

  Paxon rose. “Is there transportation in your village that would get us back to Paranor?”

  “No airships, if that’s what you mean. But I could probably find you horses to get you somewhere there are airships.” He looked up into the mountains. “Still, you might want to rest a bit longer first.”

  Indeed, Paxon thought. A longer rest would be wonderful. But he didn’t think they could afford the time. Already, he could feel things slipping away from them. If Isaturin had escaped, he needed to be located and a decision reached on what was to be done to stave off the Federation. At present, the Coalition Council must still be convinced that Darz and the entire crew of his ship had perished, and that the Druids were to blame for that as well as the assassination of the peace delegation.

  Things had to be set right quickly. If not, they would only get worse.

  “Your offer is appreciated,” he said, exchanging a glance with Miriya, “but we have matters at home that need our attention. We’ll have to leave again at once.”

  Trond smiled. “Fair enough. I’ll do what I can to help you. Let’s be on our way.”

  As soon as the little girl and the boy were out the door and Chrysallin heard the lock click behind them, she began to count to one hundred. When she finished counting and neither had returned, she stuck her fingers down her throat and threw up the piece of voice-numbing root she had only pretended to chew and then swallowed whole. It was an unpleasant, disgusting effort at best, but she got the job done. The regurgitated root was essentially still whole. She had ingested almost none of its juices.

  The next part was a little more difficult. She had to find a way to hide the evidence of her forbidden act. She took the piece of root and shoved it down between gaps in the crate floorboards where it couldn’t be readily seen. Then she used part of the towel she had been given to wash with to wipe up the leavings and mute the smell. It wasn’t an entirely satisfactory cleanup, but it would probably be good enough to fool the witch if she didn’t climb into the crate for a look around.

  Oh, that she would, and I was standing outside when she did!

  Wishful thinking, but pleasant to contemplate. Chrysallin sat back, pleased with herself. She had found an opportunity to avoid allowing the hated root a further opportunity to work on her system. She had bought herself an entire day in which to recover her voice. One or two more, and she might have it back—and with it, the wishsong’s powerful magic.

  She slept for a time after that, waking again when she heard the lock in the front door release. Upon peering through the mesh of the airhole she saw the little girl enter.

  “I’m back!” came the cheerful greeting. The little girl walked over and peered into the cage, her eyes meeting Chrysallin’s. “I wasn’t gone all that long, was I? Did you miss me terribly?”

  Chrysallin shrugged to show her disinterest.

  “You probably want to know what happened to the boy who went with me, don’t you?” The little girl smiled. “That’s a rather sad story, I’m afraid. He risked himself foolishly and is now in several pieces in the stomachs of the swamp dwellers. We won’t be seeing him again. Something you should be grateful for, considering. Because you won’t be seeing your friend again, either. It was my intention that she come back here and join us in our games. I was looking forward to it. But Olin was careless and left her where she could be eaten. And she was. Every last bit of her. Now she’s all gone, not a trace of her left.”

  Chrysallin fought back a scream and hurriedly wiped away the tears that followed.

  “Are you dreadfully sad?” the little girl inquired with false concern.

  Chrysallin refused to answer. She would not give the little girl the satisfaction. She would not let her see the extent of her dismay. She could practically hear the eagerness in the other’s voice, in anticipation of her response. No, she thought. I’ll show her nothing.

  Instead, she pointed at the little girl, then ran her finger across her own throat in a cutting motion.

  The little girl laughed merrily. “You are so funny! I love talking with you. Let’s agree to disagree, and in a few days we’ll know who’s right, won’t we? Let’s just go to sleep and wake up fresh to a new day and another chance to have fun!”

  She drew back, moving away to whatever part of the cottage she slept in, leaving Chrys to ponder her situation anew. But Chrys was done pondering, done with obedience and good behavior and pointless hope. Even if Leofur truly was gone, she was going to find a way out of this.

  And when she did, she would make this weasel-faced little girl, this brain-warped witch, sorry she had ever been born.

  —

  How had things come to this? Leofur wondered.

  The question burned in the discontented silence of her mind as she contemplated her situation. Of all the things she might have imagined happening, this was not one of them. It was so unexpected and out of her comfort zone (even as large as that zone had become since meeting Imric Cort) that it bordered on surreal.

  She was lying in a depression perhaps fifty yards off the shores of the swamp lake where the boy Olin had taken her captive. She was naked, as Imric had confiscated all of her clothing before she was allowed to climb into her hiding place. Even her boots were gone.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Imric told her, “but I need your clothes to convince the witch there’s no further threat.”

  The witch whom Imric was convinced was on her way to gather Leofur up and haul her away. Or worse.

  She gave him what might charitably be called a withering look. “You want me to take everything off?”

  “You’ve seen me naked often enough. What’s the harm in me seeing you? But all right, I won’t look. I’ll turn away while you do it.”

  So he did, looking off into the distance, and she had reluctantly removed all her clothes. And then, at his further insistence, she walked to the edge of the lake while he turned away once more and rubbed mud all over herself, leaving no part of her body uncovered. The mud was slimy, cold, and stinky, but she forced herself to apply it; she understood its purpose. Once he was satisfied, she had lowered herself into the depression atop a bedding of soft moss he had gathered.

  “You look comfortable enough,” he said, looking down at her after she was settled in place. “I know the mud is cold, but your body will warm it up soon enough, and you’ll feel better.”

  She nodded as she hugged herself, then winced as her eyes were drawn to the deep slashes across Imric’s back and limbs, to the break in his wrist, to the way he shivered as if with a fever. It was cold in the swamp, but this was something more. He had fought hard to get free of the witch’s creature, and it had cost him. With wounds like these—some of them open and bleeding—he lacked the strength necessary to travel, even if it meant reaching Chrysallin and setting her free. Rather than chance losing him, she had agreed to this substitute plan.

  Hide and wait.

  Rest through the night.

  She thought Imric might climb into the shelter with her—a prospect she found truly troubling even though she was used to his nakedness by now, finding him as familiar this way
as when he was fully clothed. But instead of joining her, he began covering her with grasses and broken limbs, leaving the ground surrounding the place in which she hid looking undisturbed.

  Then he left, taking her discarded clothing with him and setting out into the gloom of the Sink.

  Now she waited, and as she did so considered how strange all this was. The shape-shifter and herself both naked as they tried to become one with their surroundings. What would Paxon think if he knew? She couldn’t say with any certainty, but she thought he would approve; Paxon was nothing if not practical.

  But if felt odd anyway. The daughter of the sorcerer Arcannen Rai and a star-crossed shape-shifter had been thrown together by chance and need, companions as different as night and day. But how different, really? Certainly things were not the same as when they had started out together on this quest. The distance between Imric and herself had closed considerably. She found herself wondering at the obvious changes, particularly in herself. While he had always responded in pretty much the same way to her, ever since they established the tether, her own attitude toward him had been altered. She had started out not just reticent toward him but frustrated by his behavior. She had found him difficult and taciturn, his insistence on doing things his way irritating at best and dangerous at worst. She had not liked him much and had decided early on that setting boundaries and exercising a firm hand were required. She had managed to achieve exactly nothing with such an approach, yet somehow she had been drawn closer to him, had come to understand that their tethering had formed a complicated bond. She wasn’t sure how this had happened, but it had changed her thinking about him. She liked him better; she appreciated and respected him more.

  And it didn’t hurt that he had come to her aid twice now in situations that might otherwise have left her injured or dead.

  Tonight was an astonishing example of the commitment he clearly felt toward her. He had appeared as if by magic, emerging from the swamp just as she was ready to abandon hope. Her efforts at freeing herself from the tree had failed, and she had begun to hear things moving around in the trees and out on the water. The predators had smelled her; they were searching. Even perched in the tree’s lower limbs, she was not safe. It would take little enough for any of those hunting to reach her and drag her down. She had no weapons with which to defend herself save her knife. She had no plan for what to do when something came for her beyond fighting as hard as she could.