Witch Wraith

by Terry Brooks

  He rose. “Now I’ve done so, and I’ll leave. If it’s to be Seersha and myself, then that will have to do. Maybe the shape-shifter daughter of Pleysia will come along. She seems to know what I’m talking about.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, and stopped, looking back at her. “But it won’t be the same without you. Nothing will. You think on it. You remember what the others gave up for the order. Do the right thing.”

  Then he was gone.

  Afterward, she made her dinner and ate it alone in the privacy of the cottage she had once shared with Arling. Although her sister was gone, her ghost remained, a silent watchful presence that inhabited every room and every memory. Aphen almost couldn’t bear it, but then told herself she must learn to, that it would never change, never get better. Nor did she think she wanted it to. Arling belonged here more than she did. Missing her sister was a fact of life. She must learn to get used to it. Even a ghost could offer a small bit of company.

  When she was finished with her meal and had cleaned up after herself, Aphen sat down to translate the note Railing Ohmsford had given her several days earlier. She had not felt pressured to do so before now, but Woostra’s visit and the ghostly presence of her sister had generated a need to do something more than sit staring out at the darkness.

  She began slowly, but the language was familiar, a rather crude variation on the same ancient Elfish used by Aleia Omarosian in her diary, and soon she was working her way through it quickly. The note was written by Aleia’s Darkling boy, and Aphen had no doubt that she had taught him the language he had used to compose the note while they trysted all those centuries ago.

  She wrote out the words carefully, read them through once swiftly to affirm she had them right, and then read them a second time more slowly.

  She was crying within seconds.

  My Dearest Little Elf, Aleia:

  I can only hope you do not hate me too badly, but I will never know for certain. By the time this letter is read, you and I both will be long dead. I did not intend for matters to end this way. I risked too much by taking all of the Elfstones but the seeking blue and hoping you would use them to come to me. But events conspired against us, and now we will never be reunited.

  Know that I love you and will always love you. I took the Elfstones because I could tell I would lose you otherwise, and must find a way to bring you to me. I intended nothing more than that you find me; I never gave a single thought to using the Elfstone magic against you or your people. I was desperate to hold on to you and took what risk I deemed necessary to do so. But my transgressions were discovered, the Elfstones were taken from me, and I was imprisoned. I was disgraced and declared a traitor. No one would listen to my explanation; no one would heed my pleas. When you came searching for me, I was locked away and magically concealed from you and from the blue Elfstones’ power. My people had magic also, you will remember, and they used it.

  Still, I thought to escape and come to you. I sought a way to make that happen. But all of my efforts failed.

  When a new form of magic swept up all of my people and their allies and many other creatures and exiled us to another world, I knew there was no longer any hope. At first, we did not know what had happened. It seemed as though we were still in our former world, but the landscape had been ruined and the air and water were fouled. Everything was dark and hazy and bleak. Thousands of us died. I was released finally, for those in power saw no particular reason to keep me locked away.

  I was old by then, after all, and no longer a threat to anyone.

  The Elfstones had lost their importance. Efforts had been made to make use of them, but an Elven magic can be summoned only by Elves. The Stones had become nothing more than a reminder of how powerless we were and how shamefully we had been treated. Along with other magic and other talismans we had come to possess, they were locked away and mostly forgotten.

  But through the kindness of a friend I have gained access to them. When this note is finished, I will place it in the case where the Elfstones remain and hope that someday your people will find it. I have no reason to think that will ever happen, but I must do what I can. I do not want to be thought of as a thief and a liar. I do not want the record I am sure has ben written of my treachery to be the final word on what I did. Or of what you meant to me.

  You must believe you were everything to me and will remain so until the day I die. There will never be another. If I could have one day back in my life, I would choose a day I could spend with you. Nothing would be sweeter. Nothing would mean more.

  And so I leave you, faithful to the end, lost in another world.

  Your one true love, Charis.

  Aphenglow Elessedil put down the note and wiped away her tears.

  “See what love brings you, Arling?” she whispered.

  But at least now she knew the entirety of the story of Aleia Omarosian and her Darkling boy, Charis.

  She wondered with whom she would share it.

  Thirty-five

  Weeks passed. Railing had been back home for almost three months, his memories of the past starting to lose their sharp edges and grow less painful. Mirai was living with him at his home, embraced by his mother in a way he still was not. Sarys had come to accept Redden’s condition, and had even told Railing it wasn’t his fault. She had forgiven him, she said, for his part in what had happened. But she looked and acted differently in his presence, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of perceived failures in his character or a fear of losing him as she had lost Redden.

  Whichever it was, it hurt him enough that he could not manage to put aside either his sense of guilt and failure or his deep, abiding sadness. He could only press on, helping with Redden’s care and trying his best not to disappoint his mother further.

  Having Mirai living with them helped. His mother had always loved her, and this didn’t seem to change with the Highland girl’s complicity in hiding what the twins were up to. Mirai was partnered with him, and they would be married, when Redden was better. But for now they let things be as they concentrated on looking after Redden and waiting for his condition to change.

  But Redden refused to wake up. He was deep in his catatonia, unimproved since the battle with the witch wraith at the Valley of Rhenn. Nothing any of them said or did seemed to get through to him. Wherever he had gone inside himself, it was far distant from the real world and he remained unreachable. Sarys cried less over him with the passing of every new day, but still she cried. Railing saw it and hated it. Mostly, he hated that he was seen as the cause.

  “She doesn’t feel like that,” Mirai argued when they were in bed together at night, whispering in the dark. “You have to let her grieve and not make it personal. No one could have done more than you did to try to save him.”

  But her words didn’t help. Nothing did. In spite of everything she said, in spite of patience and faith, Railing could feel his brother slip a little farther away with the passing of every day. He couldn’t sense any possibility of Redden getting well again.

  He was sitting alone with his brother at the edge of the woods behind their home on a gray summer day months later, talking to him and staring off into the trees by turns. He wasn’t saying anything particularly important or looking for his brother to respond, even though that was always at the back of his mind. He was just passing time while Mirai and his mother prepared dinner inside. Redden sat slack-faced and as still as stone, just as he always did. They kept him alive by hand-feeding him and seeing to his personal needs, and Railing hated all of it. It was undignified and it was demeaning. This was his brother, his twin, and it felt like it was happening to him. Redden never got sick and he never wanted for anything, but he also never seemed much more than a stuffed toy.

  He bit his lip as the thought slipped into his mind like a snake. It felt like betrayal of how much he loved his brother.

  One hand drifted down to his pocket and the ring given him by the King of the Silver River. He carried it all the time, even th
ough he had sworn off magic and had not used the wishsong once since his return. This forsaking, at least, was something his mother appreciated. He carried the ring mostly because it reminded him of the warning the King of the Silver River had given about what might happen if he persisted in his search for Grianne Ohmsford. It was his own, private form of punishment—and one that he felt he deserved. He wasn’t sure what else he should do with the talisman even if he quit carrying it. Should he cast it away or give it to the Druids as he had the crimson Elfstones, as they were now being called. Aphenglow might like to have it, as well, for the new Druid order. Maybe he would give it to her on her next visit from Paranor. She was overdue for taking a fresh stab at using her Druid magic to heal Redden. Her other attempts had failed, but she had insisted she would not give up.

  He brought the ring out and studied it for what must have been the thousandth time, and as he did so something occurred to him—something so preposterous that for a moment he just sat there staring. The ring had been given to help him find his way out of the darkest places, to show him how to work his way clear when he was lost. Each thread was a link in a chain that would lead to a safe haven.

  But what if …?

  He stopped himself mid-thought, afraid to go farther. Then he relented.

  What if it could help me find my brother?

  He had used it only twice during the search for Grianne, and in retrospect those usages didn’t seem particularly important. Now he found himself wondering if it might have a further use, one he had somehow failed to consider until this moment. Go to your brother, the King of the Silver River had urged. Save him yourself. Could the Faerie creature have given the ring to him for that very reason? Could he have foreseen the future?

  The possibility was so wild it left him breathless. He stared at Redden, his mind racing. “Are you in there?” he whispered to his brother. “Are you waiting for me to come find you?”

  No reaction. But, then, there wouldn’t be, would there?

  He slipped on the ring, and then took a deep breath and gently extracted one of the malleable threads. He was terrified he would fail. He was even more terrified he wouldn’t, but that his effort to bring back his brother would end the same way as his effort to bring back Grianne. He couldn’t bear the thought of that happening. But he couldn’t let this chance slip away, either.

  He placed one end of the thread between the fingers of Redden’s right hand to hold it in place. Then he took the other end in his own. He didn’t know exactly how this might work; he was operating solely on instinct. He sat very close to his brother, their faces only inches apart, and looked into his eyes. I’m here, Redden. I’m right next to you. Don’t be afraid. Don’t hide. Come back to me.

  He waited for a response from his brother. There was none. He experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Then the thread disappeared.

  He waited, hopeful once more. But nothing happened save that now the thread was invisible.

  He reached over and took Redden’s hands in his own. Redden, please!

  He felt a tugging in his mind from the thread, just as he had at Stridegate, insistent and forceful. He went inside himself, trying to find something more, a further response, a signal that Redden was reaching out for him. The tugging continued, with sudden, sporadic jerks.

  He closed his eyes. Redden.

  But there was nothing else. And after a few minutes, even the tugging ended.

  He sat back, releasing his brother’s hands and placing them back in his lap. He would not give up, he thought. He would use the ring again another day. He would keep trying. He would pull out another thread and repeat the process. He would pull out threads until none remained.

  He kept what he was doing to himself. It was his experiment, and he didn’t want to raise anyone’s hopes on so slim a possibility that something good might come of it.

  Days passed. One by one, he pulled out the threads and used them to try to reach his brother. One by one, they disappeared. But Redden never responded.

  When he was down to the last three and the gemstone they wound about, he put the ring aside, telling himself it was better to give it some time. Then he went back to sitting and talking with his brother.

  Summer passed into fall. The days shortened, but were filled with softer light and the changing of the colors of the leaves on the trees, green giving way to gold and yellow, orange and red.

  Then one day, solely on impulse, he decided to try once again. He sat alone near the woods in back of their home, close to his brother, facing him, and he pulled out one of the three remaining threads. He placed one end between Redden’s fingers and the other between his own. The thread disappeared, the tugging ensued, and he waited.

  Nothing happened.

  For the first time, he began to think nothing ever would. He stood and looked off into the trees, wishing things could be different, even if just a little.

  “How long have I been asleep?” he heard Redden ask suddenly. He wheeled back in shock. His brother was looking at him, blinking his eyes. “It must have been awhile.”

  Railing couldn’t make himself move, afraid if he did it would turn out this wasn’t happening. “A long while,” he said.

  Redden nodded and stretched his arms, yawning. “Can you tell me what happened? I can’t seem to remember anything. Is everybody safe?”

  Breaking free of his paralysis, Railing knelt in front of his brother and embraced him, holding him as if he would never let go. There were tears in his eyes, and it felt as if his heart was breaking. But there was joy, too.

  “Yes, Redden,” he whispered. “Everybody is safe.”

  BY TERRY BROOKS

  SHANNARA

  SHANNARA

  First King of Shannara

  The Sword of Shannara

  The Elfstones of Shannara

  The Wishsong of Shannara

  THE HERITAGE OF SHANNARA

  The Scions of Shannara

  The Druid of Shannara

  The Elf Queen of Shannara

  The Talismans of Shannara

  THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA

  Ilse Witch

  Antrax

  Morgawr

  HIGH DRUID OF SHANNARA

  Jarka Ruus

  Tanequil

  Straken

  THE DARK LEGACY OF SHANNARA

  Wards of Faerie

  Bloodfire Quest

  Witch Wraith

  PRE-SHANNARA

  GENESIS OF SHANNARA

  Armageddon’s Children

  The Elves of Cintra

  The Gypsy Morph

  LEGENDS OF SHANNARA

  Bearers of the Black Staff

  The Measure of the Magic

  The World of Shannara

  THE MAGIC KINGDOM OF LANDOVER

  Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold!

  The Black Unicorn

  Wizard at Large

  The Tangle Box

  Witches’ Brew

  A Princess of Landover

  THE WORD AND THE VOID

  Running with the Demon

  A Knight of the Word

  Angel Fire East

  Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life

  About the Author

  TERRY BROOKS is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty books, including the Dark Legacy of Shannara adventure Wards of Faerie; the Legends of Shannara novels Bearers of the Black Staff and The Measure of the Magic; the Genesis of Shannara trilogy: Armageddon’s Children, The Elves of Cintra, and The Gypsy Morph; The Sword of Shannara; the Voyage of the Jerle Shannara trilogy: Ilse Witch, Antrax, and Morgawr; the High Druid of Shannara trilogy: Jarka Ruus, Tanequil, and Straken; the nonfiction book Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life; and the novel based upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas, Star Wars:® Episode I The Phantom Menace.™ His novels Running with the Demon and A Knight of the Word were selected by the Rocky Mountain News as two of the best scie
nce fiction/fantasy novels of the twentieth century. The author was a practicing attorney for many years but now writes full-time. He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest.

  www.shannara.com

  www.terrybrooks.net