by Terry Brooks
“He might assume a new disguise,” Miriya suggested.
Paxon shook his head. “Leofur says assuming disguises takes him a long time. He’d look for a quicker way.”
“An airship!” Oost said at once. “One the Federation couldn’t catch easily and might not bother with at all.”
In the next instant an angry hiss rose through the stone floor, deep and insistent. Paxon had never heard it before, and he looked around in confusion.
“That’s the Keep!” Oost exclaimed. “Someone other than a Druid has used magic!”
“Arcannen!” Miriya wheeled toward the door. “He’s still here!”
In a rush they were out of the room and racing back the way they had come.
—
It was not often Arcannen Rai made a mistake, but he had made one this time. In his eagerness to get at the artifacts in the Druid vaults, he had let his desire to possess them overrule his usually clear thinking. Worried that Keratrix would escape him and sound the alarm, he had employed the quickest and easiest solution to the threat and had killed the young Druid. He should have thought it through a little better, because his precipitous act had now come back to bite him.
To begin with, he quickly discovered that the most vital and powerful artifacts were sealed away so thoroughly that it would take him hours to break down the magic keeping them safe. Clearly he did not have hours—he would be lucky if he had minutes—so he had to abandon any hope of adding them to his collection. He had to settle for taking lesser treasures, ones nowhere near as powerful. He left the Elfstones behind, and the Stiehl—Druid magic he had gone to great lengths to learn about over the years, and magic he greatly desired.
So he settled for what was easiest in order to assure himself of a swift and untroubled departure from Paranor. His plan was to return through the cellar passageways following the route they had taken coming in, which he had memorized, then locate the underground tunnel he had learned about that would lead him out of the Keep. It was useful having spies in his employ; not even the vaunted security of the Druids was enough to protect what he needed to know.
All well and good, except that once he began to make his way back through the tunnels, he discovered that his memory wasn’t quite what he thought it was—or perhaps this was yet another Druid magic at work, obscuring the way out. But the result was the same. He quickly became lost, wandering down various corridors, unable to find his way clear. Again, if he had thought ahead, he would have kept Keratrix alive at least long enough to provide him with a map.
But he hadn’t done any of that, and as a result precious time was being wasted as he stumbled blindly through the passageways, growing ever more confused. After a while, he began to mark his way so that he could tell if he was going in circles, but even that didn’t seem to help because he never saw any of the marks again. Either there were hundreds of passageways down in these black depths, or else magic was erasing his efforts the moment he left them behind.
He also realized he probably wouldn’t be able to find the underground passage out of Paranor in time to make use of it. His entire plan was going up in smoke.
Eventually, he gave in to his frustration and used magic to escape. He realized this might very well alert someone; the Druids would certainly have wards in place to let them know when an intruder was using a foreign magic. But he had no choice. He had no use of Druid magic. He might take Isaturin’s form, but he could not assume his powers.
Sure enough, the moment he used his magic, a deep hissing sounded all through the passageways about him. The Druids had been warned. They would begin searching immediately. He would have to hurry now if he was to have any chance of getting clear.
From somewhere in the darkness behind him, he heard voices, quick and insistent. A pursuit had been mounted already. Frustration bloomed within him, driving him ahead more swiftly.
Don’t panic. Just keep moving away from them, whoever they are.
The problem with staying calm, however, was that he thought he recognized the voice of Paxon Leah. How that could be, he didn’t know. And he didn’t want to find out. He just wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. If Paxon was still alive, there was every reason to think he knew about his sister. If so, he would come after Arcannen—and not stop coming after him until he was dead. The sorcerer did not much care for that idea. He would prefer to save the confrontation for another day, in a place and time of his own choosing. The Highlander had already proved himself entirely too dangerous to be taken for granted.
So he moved quickly along the escape route his magic had mapped out for him, not hearing the voices anymore, leaving whatever was back there safely behind. He found the stairs and went up them swiftly and silently, then reached the door leading back into the Keep and went through. The hallway beyond was deserted, but as he made his way along its length, Troll guards began to appear, inquiring in their deep, scratchy voices if he had seen or heard anything odd. Smart enough to recognize that a denial would look suspicious, he directed them toward the cellars and passed on.
Everything was happening too quickly. All his plans were falling apart. Yes, he had possession of stolen magic, but he didn’t know what use it would be, if any—and the really important magic had eluded him. Plus, he was about to be discovered if he lingered even a moment too long. The Federation was camped outside Paranor’s walls, waiting for him to emerge as Isaturin and confess his complicity in the assassination of the members of the Coalition Council.
It was time to find an airship and get out of there.
He had settled on this mode of escape while fleeing up the stairs. It was the best choice left. The likelihood of the Federation taking the time and trouble to come after a lone vessel was small. They might send a flit or two to intercept him, but if he could commandeer a Sprint he would be able to outdistance a flit easily. He would be gone before they even knew who he was. He could fly to the Murk Sink, take Chrysallin off the witch’s hands in payment for the magic he had promised her, and go back into hiding. Then he could bargain with the Druids to return Paxon’s sister in exchange for a more important and useful magic. He had long since tired of trying to figure out how to make use of the wishsong, anyway. Better to just give it and her up. Commanding any assistance from that wretchedly difficult young woman was futile.
He maneuvered his way through the halls and stairs, climbing several levels of the Keep to reach the doors leading out onto the airship-landing platform. Troll guards were everywhere, but he simply summoned the closest one and ordered a Sprint brought out. Then he stood with his back to the airfield and his eyes on the doors through which he had come and waited.
No one appeared.
When the Troll guard returned, informing him that his airship was ready, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Have you filed a flight plan, High Lord?” the Troll asked.
Arcannen almost laughed. “Young Keratrix has it tucked safely away in his head.”
He hurried over to his craft and tossed his bag of stolen artifacts into the back. He was about to climb into the pilot box when the door from the Keep burst open behind him.
“Arcannen!” he heard Paxon Leah shout.
Without hesitating, the sorcerer wheeled back, summoning magic as quick as thought and sending a blinding sheet of fire toward the sound of the voice. The Troll guards closest to him were incinerated on the spot. Several aircraft went up in flames or simply burst apart. The Highlander would have gone up with them, but he had that infernal sword out, and the blade deflected the sorcerer’s attack. Protected as well were the female and Dwarf Druids in his company, who dropped to their knees to shield their eyes, both instantly summoning magic of their own.
Sword raised, Paxon raced toward him.
Arcannen struck out a second time, this effort more successful than the last. He put down the Dwarf with a blow that took the other’s legs out from under him and threw him back against the wall. At the same time, he flung up a wall of den
se smoke and crackling fire between himself and his assailants.
It gave him the few precious moments he needed. He leapt into the Sprint and powered up the diapson crystals, parse tubes wide open and thrusters jammed all the way forward. He caught a glimpse of Paxon Leah rushing toward him. The Sprint shuddered and lurched as something struck it a shocking blow and then it shot away so quickly the fiery after-strikes launched by the female Druid missed him entirely.
Airborne and free, Arcannen flew west into the midday haze, the Druid’s Keep and its dangers safely behind him.
—
Paxon had tried to use his sword to disable the Sprint so that it could not fly, but he was too far away. He broke through the wall of fire and got close enough as it started to rise to deliver a single blow from his blade, which exploded through the hull in a ragged tear that might have damaged the stabilizers but failed to prevent the craft from lifting off and racing into the distance. He wheeled back immediately to the Druid Guard.
“Do we have something that can catch her?”
The bluff, impassive faces remained expressionless as the Trolls considered. Then one said, “A Ghost Flare might get you close enough to use your weapons. We have one.”
“Bring it up, then. Right now. We have to catch him!”
He rushed back over to where Miriya was kneeling by Oost. “Broken leg,” she said, glancing at Paxon. “Did you damage his ship?”
“I think so. I’m going after him.”
“Not without me.” She was on her feet. “He’s not getting away this time. Oost, you have to tell the others what’s happened. If we don’t make it back, they’ll need to know.”
Then she and Paxon were racing across the landing platform to board the Ghost Flare, its mooring lines already in the process of being thrown off.
Leofur and Chrysallin walked into the Murk Sink with the taste of smoke and ashes in their mouths and the reek of death in their nostrils, free of the witch’s grasp if not her memory. The night was shrouded in deep mist but illuminated by a strange glow that emanated from some hidden source within the waters of the swamp. The gloom was alive with sounds. Everything had gone still in response to the ferocious din of the battle, but returned in its aftermath—as if the death of the witch had put an end to any need for further silence. The calls of night birds, the splashes of the giant swamp dwellers, and the cries of animals large and small flooded back in a wave of sound that rose and fell like an incoming tide.
Before setting out, Leofur had taken time to retrieve Imric Cort’s discarded clothes and stuff them into her backpack. It wasn’t that she expected she would ever see him again to return them. It was just her need to preserve something of him—something tangible to remember him by. Or maybe just a way to compensate for the shock of losing him so abruptly. They had come so far and suffered so much together, and now that he was gone his absence was a black emptiness in her heart.
She would keep his clothes not because they signified anything special, but because they were all that remained of him.
Tears streamed down her face, and she did not bother to wipe them away. Gone! He’s really gone!
The young women walked along the shores of the lake, navigating an uncertain course through mist that swirled and limbs that drooped within acres of sprawling dark cypress and willow. Leofur led the way, keeping them on a path she mostly, if not entirely, remembered, guiding them back to the lives they had left behind. It was not safe for them to be traveling in the Murk Sink at night, when they could see so little and predators were so plentiful. But the prospect of staying in the cottage until morning was unthinkable, and both felt that risking the dangers of the swamp was the better choice.
“What a miserable place,” Chrysallin murmured after a long silence, her boots scuffing the soggy earth disdainfully.
Leofur looked over. “Are you all right?”
Chrysallin shrugged. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Me, either.”
“But we will be. As soon as we get out of here.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Chrys. I should have done a better job looking out for you.”
Chrysallin made a dismissive gesture. “You couldn’t have prevented what happened. It was enough that you came to find me. That’s all that really counts.”
“It was my father’s doing, wasn’t it?”
“So the witch claimed. Something about getting back at Paxon. It seems to be an obsession with him.”
Leofur looked out over the lake. “My father,” she repeated softly. “When has he ever been that?”
All those years he had left her to her own devices, without a mother, without any sort of real family. All those years he had treated her the same way he treated everyone—with disdain, with barely disguised tolerance, with the intent to make her submissive to his whims, with complete disregard for their relationship. It all came flooding back in memories she had thought buried so deep they would never resurface. But clearly they were not buried deeply enough. She felt more tears come, and this time brushed them away hurriedly.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Chrysallin said suddenly. “He was very brave. He fought hard for me.”
Leofur nodded. “He fought hard for everyone when it mattered. But he was so unhappy. He was conflicted and driven by what he was. He was the most tragic person I have ever known.”
Then slowly, cautiously, she began to tell Chrys about Imric. She related the details of his birth, his parents, his upbringing, and the terrible set of events that brought about his flight into the larger world and the years of pain and sorrow that had followed. Much of it she still didn’t fully understand and now never would. But she knew enough from what he had revealed to be able to imagine it, and that was more than enough.
She finished by recounting the particulars of what had brought her into the Murk Sink to find Chrys, but she kept to herself Imric’s feelings for her, what he had told her that morning, and any part of how their relationship had begun as one thing and somehow evolved into another. She kept to herself, as well, her unresolved feelings for him. All this was her secret and hers alone, and she did not think she would ever tell anyone.
“I will never forget what he did for me,” Chrysallin said when Leofur had finished. “I wish he were here so I could tell him that.”
I wish so, too, Leofur thought. But she tamped her regret down quickly, unable to examine it too closely.
She shifted the big flash rip in her arms, keeping a watchful eye on the landscape ahead. Too many big predators lurked in the Murk Sink for her to let her guard down, even for a moment. Chrys was right; this was a miserable place. If she ever got out, she was never coming back. Where she ended up didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t here.
She glanced back at her friend, following close behind. What sort of life would Chrys have now? Would she continue working with the wishsong, her newly rediscovered magic? Would she remain with the Druids and perhaps become one of them? It was an option that was not available to Leofur, who possessed no magic and had nothing to offer the Druid order. Going back to Paranor no longer felt right. Her time with Imric had changed that. It had caused her, even without fully understanding why, to rethink the course of her life. All she could be at Paranor was Paxon’s life partner, and she knew now this wasn’t enough.
She realized suddenly she had not yet told Chrys what had happened in Arishaig. She had not spoken of the assassination of the Federation delegation. She had not spoken of Paxon’s flight with the Druids. Chrys knew nothing of any of this.
She wondered if she should tell her friend now.
She decided against it. Chrysallin had endured enough. The news about Paxon could wait until they were safely out of the Murk Sink. It could wait until all this was behind them.
Silence descended, deep and prevailing, the noise of the swamp drifting away. She listened to Chrysallin moving behind her. She listened to her own breathing
as it punctuated the steady cadence of her steps.
Leofur.
She stopped short, her head snapping about in shock. Her breath caught in her throat.
Imric!
Can you…come for me?
Where are you?
The bower.
She tried to think what he was talking about, then she remembered. The framework construction they had passed on their way in, a sort of decorative collection of beams and cross-bracings draped with gossamer curtains.
“Leofur! What’s wrong?” Chrysallin was at her elbow, shaking her. “What is it?”
“It’s Imric, Chrys! He’s alive!”
Leofur.
I’m here.
You did the right thing…letting me go. I was able to gain control…without dragging you in. I’ve stopped changing…but I don’t know for how long. I am fighting hard not to give in…to the urges…but the witch…turned me inside out. I can barely hold on. It was all I could do…to link to you. Stay with me. Come find me!
I’ll find you. No matter what!
Don’t let me…go!
He was weak and having trouble breathing. It was reflected in his thoughts as he reached out to her. Fear bloomed within her like a poisonous flower.
“Chrys,” she said to her friend, “I have to go to him. I have to try to save him. He’s hurt. He’s still in danger of changing and not being able to stop. Will you come with me?”
Chrysallin gave her a withering look. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I’ll come.”
They picked up the pace, practically running along the lakeshore. But the going was hard. They tired quickly and were forced to slow down again, their strength depleted from their earlier struggles. Even so, Leofur kept moving ahead steadily, refusing to give in. She understood what was at stake. Once Imric started changing again, he might not be able to stop. He might continue changing until he destroyed himself. If she lost him now, knowing he was still alive, she didn’t know what it would do to her. She had to make things come out right, to find him and save him.
