Witch Wraith

by Terry Brooks

  Eventually she reached an area at the front of the building where a handful of Elven Hunters engaged in transporting the injured back from the Valley of Rhenn were taking a short break before heading out again. Normally, there wouldn’t have been time for this effort in the midst of a battle, and it made her wonder anew what had happened in the valley since she had been returned to Arborlon.

  She approached a grizzled veteran she recognized from the training field who was standing by the doorway and peering out into the rain. The day—or what was left of it—was dark and gloomy, and the rainfall on the other side of the walls a steady downpour.

  The Elf glanced at her and immediately straightened. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be up. In fact, you should be dead.”

  “I’m hard to kill,” she answered.

  “So it appears. But would you mind not testing that theory? I’m one of those unfortunates who had to haul you back here. You were not in such good condition.”

  She nodded. “Thanks for your efforts. Can you tell me how things stand out there?”

  He shrugged. “The fighting’s stopped for the moment, and both sides are pretty much right where they were at dawn. We almost lost the pass a few times, but the warships got the best of those things trying to force their way into the valley. Ugly stuff.”

  “I imagine so. Did the dragon come back?”

  “Not that I saw. You did some real damage. I don’t know that it can return now.”

  She nodded. Would the Jarka Ruus attack again after dark? All this rain would make it hard to sustain watch fires, and there would be no moon or stars to provide light otherwise. It would be a perfect opportunity.

  “I need to get back to the valley,” she said. “Can you find me a flit?”

  “And risk the captain finding out I helped a madwoman to kill herself? Not hardly. Besides, nothing is flying in this stuff. We have to wait for it to clear. All of us, I might add, which includes you. Get back in bed. Sleep some more.”

  “I’m all slept out,” she said, glancing around.

  “Then pretend. Captain said to take good care of you when he sent you back here. He said we’re going to need you healthy enough to come back strong by morning. Maybe sooner.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right. Come wake me if there’s any news. If anything happens. A night attack, especially.”

  He nodded and looked away, studying the rainfall, not saying any more. He wouldn’t do a single thing to wake her unless the enemy was right outside the door, she thought. He probably had orders from Aresh to that effect. Maybe all of them did. She turned away and, ignoring the old veteran’s suggestion about going back to bed, went back down the hallway to a side door and slipped out into the rain.

  From there, she slogged her way over to the Home Guard barracks and tried to find Aresh. She didn’t expect she would, but wanted to try. She was told he was back from the valley, but had gone over to the palace to see how Phaedon Elessedil was doing. Apparently, both the King and Ellich Elessedil were being kept there—a concession to their status as members of the royal family—until further disposition could be made regarding their respective situations.

  She paused to decide whether she was wasting her time wandering about like this and should just go back to bed as the old veteran had advised. Then she shrugged off the idea, departed the barracks, and headed down the roadway for the palace, head bent and shoulders hunched against the rain. In the storm and darkness, no one was about. With good reason, she thought. Even wearing a cloak for protection, she was soon soaked through. Her body was beginning to ache and her wounds to throb in spite of the bandages and salves. She shouldn’t be out like this, but she couldn’t make herself go back and lie around in a sickbed doing nothing. If she couldn’t get back to the valley, she could at least walk over to the palace and have a conversation with Aresh.

  When she reached her destination, she was met by Home Guards who recognized her and took her inside. She was told that Aresh was in the building visiting the prisoners, but that she must remain where she was until he returned. She knew neither of them personally, and so her efforts at persuading them to make an exception were ignored. They did take her into a private room so she could change out of her drenched clothes and into a set of ill-fitting spares scrounged from a trunk, remarking on her damaged condition and mentioning they had heard all about her battle with the dragon. They told her she was an inspiration and added they were sorry they couldn’t do more to grant her request.

  She smiled and said she understood.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in dry clothes and in possession of an all-weather cloak, she walked past them down the hallway and into the depths of the building. Neither guard cast even a single look in her direction.

  Druid magic had its advantages.

  She had no clear idea where she was going, and she ended up wandering about for a time until she found a guard who had befriended her on the practice field standing watch at a closed door.

  “No one is allowed back here without permission,” he said, blocking her way. “Do you have a pass?”

  “No,” she answered. “I was sent to find Sian Aresh to give him a message from the Elven defensive front in the valley. I need to see him.”

  He considered a moment. “I heard about the dragon. That was good work.” Then he shrugged. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed to speak to the captain. He’s with the King, in his bedroom. Down the hall, around the corner left, then first left again. Big, double doors. Another guard on duty.” He gestured to the closed door behind him. “Ellich is in here.” He shook his head in disgust. “A good man, Ellich. I do my duty, but I don’t mind telling you I think this whole business is a travesty. He would never harm his brother. Everyone knows that. There’s something wrong here.”

  “Agreed,” Seersha said. She bent close, lowering her voice. “Someone else is to blame for Emperowen’s murder. Any clue as to who it might be?”

  The guard shook his head, lips tightening into a frown. “None. But I wouldn’t have, would I? I’m just a soldier serving out my time in the Elven Home Guard. I don’t know these people well enough to be able to guess at either the names or the number of their enemies.”

  She nodded. “Well, things will get sorted out. So Aresh is down the hall in the King’s room?”

  “Left here just ten, fifteen minutes ago. He was in here with Ellich before that. And Jera. She’s an odd one. She’s not been to see her husband once until today. Then shows up, visits until Aresh comes, and then insists on seeing her nephew. They argued about it. I could hear them through the door. Finally, he gives in.”

  Seersha stared. “She wanted to see Phaedon?”

  “She said she did. Aresh didn’t like it, though.”

  Seersha went still. “Give me those directions again.”

  She left without seeming to be in a rush, but once she was out of sight she picked up her pace until she was almost running. She didn’t know what was troubling her exactly. Perhaps it was the idea of Jera visiting her nephew. Perhaps it was hearing that Jera had not come to visit Ellich until tonight. Especially that. It did not sound at all like the woman Aphenglow had described on repeated occasions—a wife whose entire life had been built around caring for her husband.

  She reached the next corner and came around it in a rush. She saw the double doors immediately, but there was no guard on duty. She slowed, quieting her approach, her instincts telling her she should be cautious until she knew the lay of the land. She couldn’t imagine what might be happening, but she didn’t like how she was feeling.

  She came up to the doors and stopped in front of them, listening. She could hear voices, low and indistinct. Or maybe it was only one voice. There was crying, too. A kind of low sobbing that had hints of despair and exhaustion. She listened for Sian Aresh, but didn’t hear him.

  She almost knocked. But in the end she simply opened the door and stepped inside.

  Next to the bed, a single
smokeless lamp burned on a nightstand. In the faint splash of illumination it cast, she could see everything.

  Sian Aresh and the Elven guard lay sprawled on the bedroom floor, lifeless eyes staring. There was blood pooling all around them, metallic and pungent. Phaedon Elessedil had been released from his restraints and was sitting on the side of the bed in his bedclothes. He was holding a knife in his lap, bending over and staring down at it, mumbling and sobbing. There was blood both on his clothes and on the knife.

  Jera was sitting next to Phaedon, her arms around him. She was speaking to him in a low voice, and she seemed to be trying to comfort him.

  She looked up instantly as Seersha appeared and put a finger to her lips. Seersha stood in front of the open door, staring in shock. “What’s happened here?”

  Jera gave her a stern look. “Close the door. Don’t say anything more.”

  The Elven woman continued to whisper to Phaedon, her voice low and compelling, her hands on his shoulders, bracing him as he sobbed and whimpered. The King seemed to be completely undone. There was no hint of the old Phaedon, the one Aphen had famously described as cold enough to freeze fire.

  Seersha took a few steps toward them and stopped, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The shadows of the dark room felt as if they were filled with secrets, and all of them hidden from her.

  Phaedon went suddenly quiet, leaning into Jera, his face buried in her shoulder.

  Jera looked up at Seersha. “He killed them both. Somehow he got free of his restraints and got hold of this knife. When Sian and I entered the room, he attacked immediately. Sian was killed at once. When the guard heard the sounds of fighting and came running, Phaedon killed him, too.”

  She stroked Phaedon’s head, smoothing his dark hair. “He didn’t do anything to me. He doesn’t seem to want to. He keeps calling me ‘Mother’ and telling me he’s sorry. I don’t think he even knows what he’s done.”

  “He was supposed to be secured to the bed,” Seersha insisted in disbelief. “We told everyone he was a danger to himself and others. How did he get loose?”

  Jera shook her head. “I don’t know.” She gave Phaedon a quick hug and rose. “I’ll leave him to you. I have to tell the other guards what’s happened. Ellich, too. Perhaps they’ll free him now.”

  Seersha nodded blankly, looking down at the bloodied form of Sian Aresh. She couldn’t quite make sense of it. Jera’s explanation seemed plausible enough, but there was still something wrong. Maybe it was the knife, still in Phaedon’s hands. Maybe it was the tenderness Jera was showing Phaedon—a kindness that felt out of place.

  The shock must be causing her to react like this, she told herself as Jera walked past her toward the door.

  Then her eyes shifted back to Phaedon, still sitting on the bed, staring into space, and she noticed that the knife was gone.

  An instant later she felt a sharp blow to her back followed by a wrenching pain, and she collapsed to the bedroom floor. It was as if all her strings had been cut, and she could no longer make anything work. She lay in a red haze of anguish and fury, watching as Jera Elessedil stood looking down at her, bloodied knife in hand, and she realized what had happened.

  “You killed them,” she managed to gasp.

  Suddenly Jera didn’t look like Jera anymore, but like something not even human. Her features were losing shape and twisting into something feral. It lasted just a minute, and then she was back to herself again.

  “You’re not dying fast enough,” she hissed.

  She lunged for Seersha, who barely managed to catch hold of her wrists and stop the knife’s downward descent. Jera shrieked and thrashed in her grip, and for a moment Seersha, her strength all but gone, was certain she was finished.

  But Jera was too eager, and her wild efforts caused her to lose her footing and tumble to the floor, the knife skittering away. Seersha saw her chance—one so small it offered no real hope, but she embraced it anyway. In an instant she was on top of Jera, her wounds forgotten, her weakness thrust aside, her body flooded with the Druid magic that had always sustained her. Everything happened all at once, and even making the effort to regain control of her injured body was done on faith.

  A warrior to the last, she refused to give in to the damage and the pain, refused to admit she couldn’t do what she needed to survive. Refused to admit she was finished.

  She bore down on Jera Elessedil with every last ounce of strength she could find, hammered her head into the floor, then jammed a forearm across the her neck and pressed down.

  The cry that broke from Jera’s mouth was terrifying and inhuman. Instantly, the creature that had surfaced earlier—the creature Seersha now realized had been disguised as Jera—reappeared in bits and pieces. Clothing ripped and split apart. Skin fell away. Jera Elessedil began to fade, and something muscular and lithe emerged in her place, something covered head-to-foot in earth-colored hair and possessed of sharp claws and teeth—a being like nothing Seersha had ever seen before. She knew this was what had killed not only Aresh and the guard but also the old King. It was the spy that had tried to steal the diary from Aphenglow and leave her injured or dead.

  All this came to the Druid in seconds, and that was all the time she was given. The creature hiding within Jera’s skin had emerged, and she did not have the strength to fend it off. It was enormously strong, and Seersha knew it would be free in seconds and that would be the end.

  She cried out for help, then flung her arms about the creature’s neck in a vise-like grip that crushed its windpipe and cut off its air. The beast thrashed and writhed once more, and this time its claws ripped into the Druid, tearing at her exposed back. She summoned her magic anew and tried to create a protective covering for her body. But mostly she used it to infuse her arms with renewed strength so that she could apply crushing force as she tightened her hold about the creature’s neck.

  They rolled and twisted about the floor of the bedroom, bumping into the bodies of the dead and covering themselves with blood. Atop the bed, Phaedon Elessedil was screaming, backed up against the headboard, trying to curl himself into an invisible ball.

  When the door finally burst open and Elven Home Guards poured through and managed to pry Seersha free, they found that the creature she was locked onto was already dead.

  Blankets were brought in which to wrap her, and voices called out to her as they picked her up.

  “Hold on. We’re getting you help.”

  “There! Her legs! Keep them steady.”

  “She’s been stabbed in the back, too. Look at the wound!”

  “Seersha, can you hear me?”

  She was drifting now, far out on the ocean, borne by the waves in a rocking motion that left her warm and sleep.

  “Seersha! Don’t go to sleep!”

  On the bed, Phaedon was weeping. For himself, she imagined.

  “Seersha! Listen to me!”

  Listening.

  Drifting.

  Don’t go.

  Thirty-one

  Very late that same night, having spent four nights and three days coming down out of the Charnals and crossing the Streleheim west, the Quickening at last reached the forests of the Elven Westland on a clouded, rain-drenched night. It was never anyone’s intention that they make the journey so quickly, but the witch wraith they carried aboard insisted. With little hesitation and in a voice that permitted no argument, she demanded they sail on with no stops. Sleeping and eating would be allowed, but there would be no anchoring the vessel until they had reached their destination.

  She was a chilling presence—ragged gray robes and haggard, ruined features, a ghostly creature whether crouching near the forward mast, which had become her favorite haunt, or sliding through the gloom and mist to some position farther astern. Men moved away at her approach, and no one other than Railing bothered to speak to her. Even he had given up after their last conversation, having learned all he cared to about her intentions. There was an inhuman aura to her that matched the
story behind her time in thrall to the Tanequil. To those around her, it felt as if she had evolved into something no longer even slightly human but more akin to the demonkind they were taking her to face.

  Railing thought he understood what Mother Tanequil had decided to do for them. Or to him, when you came right down to it, for he was the one who had brought Grianne Ohmsford back. When he had come to the Tanequil’s island, crossing the bridge to the song of the aeriads, he had found Grianne a spirit of the air and had hoped she might be set free to aid them. But what had happened instead was that the part of her still in mortal form, the flesh and blood and bone parts that were kept imprisoned in Mother Tanequil’s tangled roots down within the earth, was what had been released. Because it wasn’t Grianne Ohmsford, the Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order, that would defeat Tael Riverine. It was Grianne Ohmsford, the Ilse Witch—a monster that could stand up to another monster and find a way to prevail.

  What he had not reckoned on and was still uncertain about was what sort of price they were all going to pay for having brought this to pass. There was not even a hint of an intention on her part to do anything that would help him regain his brother or free the Four Lands from the Jarka Ruus. There was no empathy for the fate of the Races. There was only a driving need to confront an enemy that had haunted her for more than a century in her memories and dreams, and to eradicate any trace of him.

  Railing couldn’t know if she possessed the abilities and skills to bring this about, even though she seemed certain enough. But he did not doubt that she intended to try, or that they were along for the ride and completely superfluous to her ultimate goals. Whatever happened if she prevailed and the Straken Lord was defeated would in no way benefit them.