by Terry Brooks
The Southlander ran his hands slowly up and down the length of wood, and as he did so the dried mud and dirt fell away and the surface turned bright and smooth, revealing the intricately carved network of runes hidden beneath. He blew gently to clean it of any remaining flecks of dust, then used one end of his sleeve to polish the wood.
“There,” he said, smiling cheerfully at Pen. “You can see for yourself. What do you make of this? Pyson?” He glanced over at the other Druid. “Isn’t this a surprise?”
Pyson Wence started for Pen, his face flushed with rage, but Traunt Rowan held him back. “No, what are you doing? No need for that! You heard Pen; he didn’t know what it was. He probably just picked it up while walking around the forest and kept it because he needed a crutch. Isn’t that right, Pen?”
Pen said nothing, his eyes fixed on the other, watching him the way a mouse would a snake. Traunt Rowan had known all along. He had been leading Pen around by the nose, letting him fabricate whatever story he wished, because in the end he knew the one thing that counted—that what the boy was really hiding was the secret of the staff.
“Little man, I will see you hung from meat hooks and gutted before this matter is finished!” Pyson Wence hissed at him. His gaze shifted to Traunt Rowan. “What are we waiting for? Let me have him now, and we will know the truth of things quick enough!”
Traunt Rowan shook his head. “Not until Shadea is done with him. I don’t want to have to explain to her why we failed to keep him alive long enough for her to question him.” He smiled at Pen. “This isn’t going to work out the way you wanted, Pen. Not for you or your parents. You shouldn’t have tried to be so clever. You’re only a boy, and boys always think themselves much more clever than they really are.”
Pen was having trouble breathing. He knew he should say or do something, but he had no idea what it should be. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart completely.
Traunt Rowan watched him a moment longer, then shrugged. “Cat got your tongue?” He hefted the staff and tossed it to Pyson Wence. “What do you make of it, Pyson? Can you read the markings? Elfish, I think. Very old.”
The Gnome studied the runes a moment, then shook his head impatiently. “Nothing I’ve ever seen. We might find something on it back at Paranor, in the books. What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know. Pen, do you?” Traunt Rowan looked at him. “Anything about these markings look familiar? No?” He pursed his lips. “Maybe we should see if they’re even real.”
He took the staff out of Pyson’s hands, dropped it carelessly to the floor, and pointed at it. Blue fire exploded from his fingers, engulfing the darkwand. Pen gasped in spite of himself, leapt to his feet, and tried to snatch the darkwand back. Almost casually, Traunt Rowan backhanded him into the wall so hard that he almost blacked out. On the floor, the darkwand jumped at the touch of the searing fire, but to his surprise refused to burn. The Druid tried again, the fire flashing from his fingers in a fresh wave, licking at and engulfing the wood. But again, nothing happened. When the fire ceased, the wood was left untouched.
Pyson Wence snatched up the darkwand and smashed it against the bulkhead, but the staff bounced away unmarked and unbroken.
“Magic, of a very powerful kind,” Traunt Rowan declared softly, looking down at a dazed Pen. “Is this meant for the Ard Rhys, Pen? I have a feeling it is. A talisman of some sort, to be used to free her.”
Pen tried to keep his expression blank, his feelings from showing on his face or reflecting in his eyes. He tried to pretend he didn’t feel anything, that nothing that was happening mattered. But pain ratcheted through him as he slumped on the bench, his head throbbing with the blow he had taken, and his hopes for achieving anything of what he had set out to accomplish vanished.
“He doesn’t want to talk now, but he will soon enough,” Pyson Wence hissed. “Do you hear me, little man?”
Traunt Rowan stepped forward and yanked Pen off the bench, holding him up so that they were face-to-face. “He hears you, Pyson.” He bent so close to the boy that their noses were almost touching. “Are you worried for your parents, Pen?” he whispered. “I worried for mine, too, but it wasn’t enough to save them. You think Grianne Ohmsford is worth giving up your life for, but she isn’t. She killed my parents, and in a way she will end up killing yours, as well, won’t she? She is a monster, Pen. She always was and she always will be. Except that now she’s where she belongs—with the other monsters.”
He let go of the boy, shoving him back onto the bench. “You think about it while we fly to Paranor. You think about how much she really means to you.”
He stepped back, flushed with the heat of his words. Then he turned and walked from the room, taking the staff and Pyson Wence with him.
In the ensuing silence, Pen was left alone to consider the fate that awaited him.
“What do you think you are doing?” a voice called out from behind Khyber, causing her to turn abruptly to face the speaker.
It was the sunset of the following day, and the light was weak and tinged with twilight, so she could not make him out clearly, other than to identify him as one of the Gnome crew. Of course, he couldn’t make her out, either, so she was able to act before he could determine who she was. A quick movement of her fingers caused him to hear an unexpected noise, a sound he recognized as dangerous. When he was looking the other way, she brushed the air about her to create a screen of mist and walked away.
It was one of the small skills she had learned from Ahren Elessedil while aboard the Skatelow all those weeks ago. A lifetime ago, she thought. It made her sad, remembering. It made her wish she could change things, even though she knew she couldn’t.
She glanced back at the Gnome Hunter, who was looking around in confusion, trying to figure out what had happened. It was the first time anyone had challenged her, but she had been prepared for the possibility. Still, she would have to be more careful. One sighting might go unreported. A second was more likely to draw attention.
They were flying south along the spine of the Charnals, come out of the Klu now and gone down below the Lazareen. Ahead, the bleak wasteland of the Skull Kingdom was a dark smudge against the extended green of the landscape stretching toward the southwest, where the light was a dim reddish gold band along the horizon. In another day, perhaps as early as the next evening, they would reach Paranor. The Druid warships were swift, and they flew unhindered and unconcerned through that dangerous country. Few enemies would dare to attack even a single Druid warship, let alone three.
She scanned the countryside below for a moment, then started for the starboard aft hatchway. The decks were mostly deserted, the crew below eating dinner, the night watch not yet come topside. Only the pilot and two crewmen were in view, and they were mostly passing time until they could eat and sleep.
She was at the hatchway when she saw the flash of light from the Athabasca, which was flying just ahead and to port. The light was sudden and intense, and it came from somewhere in the hold, belowdecks, flaring out through cracks in the shutters, slivers of brilliance against the black. She recognized it as magic right away; it was too sharp-edged for firelight. She stared momentarily in shock, then watched it flash a second time.
But that was all. She waited, but it didn’t come again. She listened for some indication of what had caused it, but heard nothing. She tried to read its origins using her own magic, probing the space between the vessels, but the air currents caused by the airships’ movements swept away all traces.
Was it Pen?
She had no way of knowing. She wouldn’t be able to tell anything until they landed at Paranor—perhaps not even then. She stared out at the dark bulk of the Athabasca. The ship was only a hundred yards away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles.
Disconsolate and frustrated, she dropped her gaze and slipped through the hatchway to try to get some sleep.
FOUR
Rue Meridian sat with her back against the cel
l’s far wall, facing the locked door. Her prison, like Bek’s, was deep beneath the walls and buildings of the Druid’s Keep. There was only the single door. The door was solid metal, save for a flap at its bottom, which permitted her jailers to slide a tray of food inside without opening the door, and a series of slits at eye level, which let in slivers of torchlight from the hallway beyond. Within her cell were a wooden bed frame and mattress, a blanket, a slop bucket, and a broom. The broom was a mystery. Was she supposed to sweep up the cell when it got too dusty? Was she supposed to knock down cobwebs?
Since she had been shut away, she had not been allowed out. Not once, even for a moment. Nor had anyone come inside. She had heard the guards moving in the hallway, and she had looked out in an effort to see them once or twice. But the guards kept out of her line of sight and spoke in low enough tones that they were out of hearing, as well. They had not spoken to her through the door. Other than delivering her food and allowing her to slide the bucket out for emptying now and then, they had paid no attention to her at all. As far as she could determine, in the minds of her captors she had ceased to exist.
So she sat and waited for something to happen, all the while thinking of ways she might escape.
She thought constantly of her son, frantic for his safety. Her husband was resourceful and would be able to help himself. And she would be fine. But Pen lacked their experience and their skills; he would be at the mercy of whoever went to find him. She knew enough of Shadea a’Ru to appreciate how determined she was to eradicate the Ohmsfords. It wouldn’t stop with Grianne, though she was the excuse for the purge. It would continue until the last Ohmsford was wiped from the face of the Four Lands.
Thinking of it left her furious. She had never trusted the Druids, never cared for their secretive ways and manipulative schemes. It had been bad enough when there was only one, and that one was Walker Boh. But now there were dozens of them, not only within the walls of Paranor, but scattered throughout the Four Lands, as well. She had always felt at risk, especially with Grianne as Ard Rhys. Her feelings for Bek’s sister were unchanged. In her mind, Grianne would always be the Ilse Witch. Bek’s assurances notwithstanding, she had never been convinced that Grianne’s transformation from dark witch to white queen was real. Her attitude was not so different from that of many others. She could understand why some among the Druids were so eager to be rid of her.
But the real problem was her certainty that their connection with Grianne put them all in danger. It didn’t matter that they were not close to the Ard Rhys and had nothing to do with the Druid order. It didn’t matter that their lives were so different. Blood and history bound them inextricably. She had always known that the cauldron of mistrust and dislike Grianne stirred among those who were troubled by her position of power as Ard Rhys was in danger of spilling over onto the rest of them.
Her present circumstances seemed to bear that out.
She stared at the iron door and wished she had thought to stick a throwing knife into her boot. She wished she had any kind of weapon at all. She wished she had two minutes alone outside that door.
After a time, she dozed, drifting away on thoughts of her family and better times. In the near blackness of her prison, sleep was the only form of relief she could find.
She did not know how long she slept, only that it ended suddenly and unexpectedly. She awoke with a start, her sleep broken by an odd sound from beyond her cell. She blinked in confusion, sensing that what she had heard was the collapse of something. She sat up straight, listening for more.
Then a key twisted in the lock, metal scraping on metal, and the lock released with a sharp snick. She got to her feet quickly and took a deep breath to steady herself, to clear her sleep-fogged mind. She didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know how to prepare herself. She snatched up the broom, the only thing at hand that might serve as a weapon, and moved to stand close by the door.
The door opened, and a black-cloaked figure stepped through. One gloved hand came up quickly in warning as she started to move out of her crouch. “Wait!”
The hands rose to pull back the hood, and she found herself confronted by a young man with angular features and a quizzical expression. He blinked at her and smiled. “No need for that. I’ve come to help.” He glanced over his shoulder into the hallway, his lank brown hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes. “Hurry. We haven’t much time. They’ll discover you’ve gone soon enough and they’ll know where it is they must look.”
Satisfied to be free, to have a chance at escaping the Keep, she went with him without questioning their destination. They slipped from the cell into the hallway, where she saw the collapsed form of the Gnome Hunter who had been keeping guard outside the door. There was no blood, no mark on him anywhere.
“A sleeping potion,” whispered her rescuer, his young face brightening with pleasure. “Worked on the one at the top of the stairs, too. They have a warning system to prevent your escape that travels from the bottom up, but not from the top down. They expect any attempt at escape to come from you. They don’t think you have any friends here.”
“I didn’t think so, either,” she admitted, reaching down to snatch away the guard’s dagger.
“Oh, yes,” he replied quickly. “A few. Well, two of us, anyway. I am the one who slipped your husband that warning note when you first arrived. But I couldn’t do more until now. Come, hurry!”
They moved silently down the shadowy corridor. Torchlight from brands set in wall brackets cast pools of yellowish light on the stone floor. She listened carefully for the sound of other movements as she went, but heard nothing. At the bottom of a circular ascent, her rescuer paused to peer upward into the dark hole of the stairwell. No light filtered down.
He glanced over. “I left the door closed against intrusion. No shift change is due for another hour, but you don’t want to take chances.”
He smiled his infectious smile again. “I’m Trefen Morys.” He stuck out his hand, and she gave it a quick squeeze. “Bellizen and I are still loyal to the Ard Rhys. And to you and your husband, too.”
“Where is Bek?” she asked quickly.
“Imprisoned, like you. I couldn’t risk trying to reach him until you were free. They keep him closely watched, held in check by a warning that any attempt on his part to escape will result in your death. They are afraid of his magic. They think that if they keep him contained, you will not present a problem. So I freed you first, to take the pressure off while we break him free.”
She nodded. “Sound reasoning, Trefen Morys.”
He blushed. “I hope you will have a chance to tell that to my mistress.” His brow furrowed. “When she disappeared, I knew that Shadea a’Ru and those who follow her had something to do with it, especially after they seized control of the order. Then Tagwen disappeared, and the word went out that they were looking for you and your son. It was all too clear that they meant to stop any effort at finding my mistress.”
“Do you know where Pen is?” she asked quickly. “Have they found him? Have they brought him here?”
He shook his head. “There is no word of your son. I know he has not been brought here. I have been watching for him. We both have, Bellizen and I.” He gripped her arm. “We have been waiting for the right time to set you free, but we could not chance it while Shadea and the others were all present at Paranor. But Shadea has gone south to meet with the Prime Minister of the Federation and will not return for several days. Her closest allies, Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence, flew north days ago.”
“In search of Pen?”
He nodded. “We will try to reach him first, once you are both free and we have control of your airship. Our usefulness here is ended. There is nothing more we can do to help my mistress. The order follows Shadea now, all but a handful. Already, they believe she is the leader the order requires and that my mistress was an unfortunate mistake. Whatever we can do to change their thinking, to find my mistress and stop Shadea, must happen elsewhere.”
He pointed up the stairs. “We have to go. Follow me.” He put a finger to his lips. “Quiet like a mouse, now.”
They tiptoed up the stone risers, the young Druid leading the way. Rue had the Gnome dagger in her right hand, ready for use. She wished she had more than one, but the truth of the matter was that if they were discovered, a dozen daggers wouldn’t be enough to save them. They must count on stealth and surprise to see them through.
At the top of the stairs, Trefen Morys eased open the ironbound wooden door and peered through the crack. Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded and pushed through to the light beyond.
They were in a guardroom that served as a waypoint between the cellars and the rest of the Keep. Weapons and armor hung from racks on the walls, and open doors revealed storage closets filled with cloaks and boots. Torches burned in their racks, but the room was empty save for them.
Trefen Morys walked over to a pair of closed doors and opened them. A Gnome Hunter lay slumped on the floor. The young Druid nudged the Gnome with his boot, and when he didn’t move closed the doors once more. Then he took one of the cloaks from its peg and handed it to Rue.
“Your husband is being held in another part of the Keep. They are taking no chances that one of you will have any chance of finding and rescuing the other. But I know where to go and how to get there. The trick will be in disposing of the Gnome Hunters who serve as guards. Make no mistake. They are Shadea a’Ru’s men—mercenaries recruited and paid for by Pyson Wence to replace the Trolls. They have been ordered to kill both of you if there is any sort of escape attempt. So we have to keep them from finding out what has happened here until we reach your husband.”
He paused. “One thing more you need to know. It is important that we do this now. Things are very bad here. Many Druids have been dismissed from the order and sent home. Others have simply disappeared, including some who were close to Shadea. Terek Molt has been gone for more than a month. Iridia Eleri disappeared two weeks ago. And right before Shadea left for Arishaig, her consort, Gerand Cera, was found dead. There wasn’t a mark on him. No one says so, but we all think the same thing—she used him until he became expendable. It might be true of the others, as well.”
