by Terry Brooks
Standing at its edge, he lifted his arms and began to chant. His voice was soft and steady, his conjuring studied and deliberate. He did not look down, even when he heard the stirrings and the sighs from within the depths. He moved his hands slightly, weaving out the symbols that commanded obedience. He spoke the words without hesitation, for even the slightest waver could bring the spell to an end and doom his effort.
When he was finished, he reached into his robes and withdrew a pinch of greenish powder, which he cast into the void. The powder sparkled with wicked intent as it fluttered on the air currents, seeming to grow in size, to multiply until the few grains had turned to thousands. Momentarily, they hung suspended, shining in the near black, and then they winked out and were gone.
Bremen stepped back quickly, breathing hard, feeling his courage fail as he leaned against the cold stone of the tower wall. He had not the strength that he once had. He had not the resolve. He closed his eyes and waited for the stirrings and the sighs to fade back into silence. Use of the magic required such effort! He wished he were young again. He wished he had a young man’s body and determination. But he was old and failing, and it was pointless to wish for the impossible. He must make do with the body and determination he had.
Something scraped on the stone walls below him—a rasp of claws perhaps, or of scales.
Climbing to see if the spell caster was still there!
Collecting himself, Bremen stumbled back through the door and pushed it closed tightly behind him. His heart still beat wildly, and his face was coated in a sheen of sweat. Leave this place, a harsh voice whispered from somewhere beyond the door, from far down in the pit. Leave it now!
Hands shaking, Bremen resecured the locks and chains. Then he scurried back down the narrow stairs and through the empty passageways of the Keep to rejoin Caerid Lock.
IV
Bremen and Kinson Ravenlock spent the night in the forest some distance back from Paranor and the Druids. They found a grove of spruce that provided reasonable concealment, wary even here of the winged hunters that prowled the night skies. They ate their dinner cold, a little bread, cheese, and spring apples washed down with ale, and talked over the day’s events. Bremen revealed the results of his attempts to address the Druid Council and reported his conversations with those he had spoken to within the Keep. Kinson confined himself to sober nods and muttered grunts of disappointment and had the presence of mind and good manners not to tell the older man, when advised of his failure to convince Athabasca, that he had told him so.
They slept then, worn from the long trek down out of the Streleheim and the many nights spent sleepless before. They took turns keeping watch, not trusting even the close presence of the Druids to keep them safe. Neither really believed he would be safe anywhere for some time to come. The Warlock Lord moved where he wished these days, and his hunters were his eyes in every corner of the Four Lands. Bremen, standing watch first, thought he sensed something at one point, a presence that nudged at his warning instincts from somewhere close at hand. It was midnight, he was nearing the end of his duty and beginning to think of sleep, and he almost missed it. But nothing showed itself, and the prickly feeling that ran the length of his spine faded almost as quickly as it had come.
Bremen’s sleep was deep and dreamless, but he was awake before sunrise and thinking of what he must do next in his efforts to combat the threat of the Warlock Lord when Kinson appeared out of the shadows on cat’s feet and knelt next to him.
“There is a girl here to see you,” he said.
Bremen nodded wordlessly and rose to a sitting position. The night was fading into paler shades of gray, and the sky east was faintly silver along the edge of the horizon. The forest about them felt empty and abandoned, a vast dark labyrinth of shaggy boughs and canopied limbs that enclosed and sealed like a tomb.
“Who is she?” the old man asked.
Kinson shook his head. “She didn’t give her name. She appears to be one of the Druids. She wears their robe and insignia.”
“Well, well,” Bremen mused, rising now to his feet. His muscles ached and his joints felt stiff and unwieldy.
“She offered to wait, but I knew you would be awake already.”
Bremen yawned. “I grow too predictable for my own good. A girl, you say? Not many women, let alone girls, serve with the Druids.”
“I didn’t think they did either. In any case, she seems to offer no threat, and she is quite intent on speaking with you.”
Kinson sounded indifferent to the outcome of the matter, meaning that he thought it was probably a waste of time. Bremen straightened his rumpled robes. They could do with a washing. For that matter, so could he. “Did you see anything of the winged hunters on your watch?”
Kinson shook his head. “But I felt their presence. They prowl these forests, make no mistake. Will you speak with her?”
Bremen looked at him. “The girl? Of course. Where is she?”
Kinson led him from the shelter of the spruce to a small clearing less than fifty feet away. The girl stood there, a dark and silent presence. She wasn’t very big, rather short and slightly built, wrapped in her robes, the hood pulled up to conceal her face. She didn’t move as he came into view, but stood there waiting for him to approach first.
Bremen slowed. It interested him that she had found them so easily. They had deliberately camped well back in the trees to make it difficult for anyone to discover them while they slept. Yet this girl had done so—at night and without the benefit of any light but that of stars and moon where it penetrated the heavy canopy of limbs. She was either a very good Tracker or she had the use of magic.
“Let me speak with her alone,” he told Kinson.
He crossed the clearing to where she stood, limping slightly as his joints attempted to unlimber. She lowered the hood now so that he could see her. She was very young, but not a girl as Kinson had thought. She had close-cut black hair and enormous dark eyes. Her features were delicate and her face smooth and guileless. She was indeed dressed in Druid robes, and she wore the raised hand and burning torch of the Eilt Druin sewn on her breast.
“My name is Mareth,” she told him as he came up to her, and she held out her hand.
Bremen took it in his own. Her hand was small, but her grip was strong and the skin of her palm hardened by work. “Mareth,” he greeted.
She took back her hand. Her gaze was steady and held his own, her voice low and compelling. “I am a Druid apprentice, not yet accepted into the order, but allowed to study in the Keep. I came here ten months ago as a Healer. I came from several years of study in the Silver River country, then two years in Storlock. I began my study of healing when I was thirteen. My family lives in the Southland, below Leah.”
Bremen nodded. If she had been allowed to study healing at Storlock, she must have talent. “What do you wish of me, Mareth?” he asked her gently.
The dark eyes blinked. “I want to come with you.”
He smiled faintly. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”
She nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I know what cause you serve. I know that you take the Druids Risca and Tay Trefenwyd with you. I want to be part of your company. Wait. Before you say anything, hear me out. I will leave Paranor whether you take me with you or not. I am in disfavor here, with Athabasca in particular. The reason I am in disfavor is that I choose to pursue the study of magic when it has been forbidden me. I am to be a Healer only, it has been decided. I am to use the skills and learning the Council feels appropriate.”
For a woman, Bremen thought she might add, the phrase hidden in the words she spoke.
“I have learned all that they have to teach me,” she continued. “They will not admit this, but it is so. I need a new teacher. I need you. You know more about the magic than anyone. You understand its nuances and demands, the complications of employing it, the difficulties of assimilating it into your life. No one else has your experience. I would like to study with you.”
He shook his head slowly. “Mareth, where I go, no one who is not experienced should venture.”
“It will be dangerous?” she asked.
“Even for me. Certainly for Risca and Tay, who at least know something of the magic’s use. But especially for you.”
“No,” she said quietly, clearly ready for this argument. “It will not be as dangerous for me as you think. There is something about me that I haven’t told you yet. Something that no one knows here at Paranor, although I think Athabasca suspects. I am not entirely unskilled. I have use of magic beyond that which I would master from study. I have magic born to me.”
Bremen stared. “Innate magic?”
“You do not believe me,” she said at once.
In truth, he did not. Innate magic was unheard of. Magic was acquired through study and practice, not inherited. At least, not in these times. It had been different in the time of faerie, of course, when magic was as much a part of a creature’s inherited character as the makeup of his blood and tissue. But no one in the Four Lands for as long as anyone could remember had been born with magic.
No one human.
He continued to stare at her.
“The difficulty with my magic, you see,” she continued, “is that I cannot always control it. It comes and goes in spurts of emotion, in the rise and fall of my temperature, in the fits and starts of my thinking, and with a dozen other vicissitudes I cannot entirely manage. I can command it to me, but then sometimes it does what it will.”
She hesitated, and for the first time her gaze fell momentarily before lifting again to meet his own. When she spoke, he thought he detected a hint of desperation in her low voice. “I must be wary of everything I do. I am constantly hiding bits and pieces of myself, keeping careful watch over my behavior, my reactions, even my most innocent habits.” She compressed her lips. “I cannot continue to live like this. I came to Paranor for help. I have not found it. Now I am turning to you.”
She paused and then added, “Please.”
There was a poignancy in that single word that surprised him. For just a moment she lost her composure, the iron-willed, hardened appearance she had perfected in order to protect herself. He didn’t know yet if he believed her; he thought that maybe he did. But he was certain that her need, whatever its nature, was very real.
“I will bring something useful to your company if you take me with you,” she said quietly. “I will be a faithful ally. I will do what is required of me. If you should be forced to stand against the Warlock Lord or his minions, I will stand with you.” She leaned forward in a barely perceptible motion, little more than an inclining of her dark head. “My magic,” she confided in a small voice, “is very powerful.”
He reached for her hand and held it between his own. “If you will agree to wait until after sunrise, I will give this matter some thought,” he told her. “I will have to confer with the others, with Tay and Risca when they arrive.”
She nodded and looked past him. “And your big friend?”
“Yes, with Kinson also.”
“But he has no skill with magic, does he? Like the rest of you?”
“No, but he is skilled in other ways. You can sense that about him, can you? That he is without the use of magic?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me. Did you use magic to find us here in this concealment?”
She shook her head. “No. It was instinct. I could sense you. I have always been able to do that.” She stared at him, catching the look in his eye. “Is that a form of magic, Bremen?”
“It is. Not a magic you can identify as easily as some, but magic nonetheless. Innate magic, I might add—absent acquired skill.”
“I have no acquired skill,” she said quietly, folding her arms into her robes as if she were suddenly cold.
He studied her for a moment, thinking. “Sit there, Mareth,” he said finally, pointing to a spot behind her. “Wait with me for the others.”
She did as she was asked. Moving to a patch of grass that had grown up where the trees did not shut out the sun, she folded her legs beneath her and seated herself in the huddle of her robes, a small dark statue. Bremen watched her for a moment, then moved back across the clearing to where Kinson waited.
“What did she want?” the Borderman asked, turning away with him to walk to the edge of the trees.
“She has asked to come with us,” Bremen answered.
Kinson arched one eyebrow speculatively. “Why would she want to do that?”
Bremen stopped and faced him. “She hasn’t told me yet.” He glanced over to where she was seated. “She gave me reasons enough to consider her request, but she is keeping something from me still.”
“So you will refuse her?”
Bremen smiled. “We will wait for the others and talk it over.”
The wait was a short one. The sun rose out of the hills and crested the forest rim minutes later, spilling light down into the shadowed recesses, chasing back the last of the gloom. Color returned to the land, shades of green, brown, and gold amid the fading dark, and birds came awake to sing their welcome to a new day. Mist clung tenaciously to the darker alcoves of the brightening woods, and through a low curtain that yet masked the walls of Paranor walked Risca and Tay Trefenwyd. Both had abandoned their Druid robes in favor of traveling clothes. Both wore backpacks slung loosely across their broad shoulders. The Elf was armed with a longbow and a slender hunting knife. The Dwarf carried a short, two-handed broadsword, had a battle-axe cinched at his waist, and bore a cudgel as thick as his forearm.
They came directly to Bremen and Kinson without seeing Mareth. As they reached him, she rose once more and stood waiting.
Tay saw her first, glancing back at the unexpected movement caught from the corner of one eye. “Mareth,” he said quietly.
Risca looked with him and grunted.
“She asks to travel with us,” Bremen announced, forgoing any preliminaries. “She claims she might be useful to us.”
Risca grunted again, shifting his bulk away from the girl. “She is a child,” he muttered.
“She is out of favor with Athabasca for trying to study magic,” Tay said, turning to look at her. The smile on his Elven face broadened. “She shows promise. I like her determination. Athabasca doesn’t frighten her one bit.”
Bremen looked at him. “Can she be trusted?”
Tay laughed. “What a strange question. Trusted with what? Trusted to do what? There’s some who say no one’s to be trusted but you and me, and I can only speak for me.” He paused and cocked his head toward Kinson. “Good morning, Borderman. I am Tay Trefenwyd.”
The Elf shook hands with Kinson; then Risca made his greeting as well. Bremen apologized for forgetting introductions. The Borderman said he was used to it and shrugged meaningfully.
“Well, then, the girl.” Tay brought the conversation back around to where it had started. “I like her, but Risca is right. She is very young. I don’t know if I want to spend my time looking after her.”
Bremen pursed his thin lips. “She doesn’t seem to think you will have to. She claims to have use of magic.”
Risca snorted this time. “She is an apprentice. She has been at Paranor for less than three seasons. How could she know anything?”
Bremen glanced at Kinson and saw that the Borderman had figured it out. “Not likely, is it?” he said to Risca. “Well, give me your vote. Does she come with us or not?”
“No,” said Risca at once.
Kinson shrugged and shook his head in agreement.
“Tay?” Bremen asked the Elf.
Tay Trefenwyd sighed reluctantly. “No.”
Bremen took a long moment to consider their response, then nodded. “Well, even though you vote against her, I think she should come.” They stared at him. His weathered face creased with a sudden smile. “You should see yourselves! All right then, let me explain. For one thing, there is something intriguing about her request that I failed to mention. She wishes to
study with me, to learn about the magic. She is willing to accept almost any conditions in order to do so. She is quite desperate about it. She did not beg or plead, but the desperation is mirrored in her eyes.”
“Bremen . . .” Risca began.
“For another,” the Druid continued, motioning the Dwarf into silence, “she claims to have innate magic. I think that perhaps she is telling the truth. If so, we might do well to discover its nature and put it to good use. After all, there are only the four of us otherwise.”
“We are not so desperate that . . .” Risca began again.
“Oh, yes, we are, Risca,” Bremen cut him short. “We most certainly are. Four against the Warlock Lord, his winged hunters, his netherworld minions, and the entire Troll nation—how much more desperate could we be? No one else at Paranor has offered to help us. Only Mareth. I am not inclined to turn down anyone out of hand at this point.”
“You said earlier that she keeps secrets from you,” Kinson pointed out. “That hardly inspires the trust you seek.”
“We all keep secrets, Kinson,” Bremen chided gently. “There is nothing strange in that. Mareth barely knows me. Why should she confide everything in our first conversation? She is being careful, nothing more.”
“I don’t like it,” Risca declared sullenly. He leaned the heavy cudgel against his massive thigh. “She may have magic at her disposal and she may even have the talent to use it. But that doesn’t change the fact that we know almost nothing about her. In particular, we don’t know if we can depend on her. I don’t like taking that kind of chance with my life, Bremen.”
