Straken

by Terry Brooks

  Well, it had, but the circumstances were not what she would have hoped for.

  She knew a little of the Keep’s layout, having asked Ahren about it on several occasions, even persuading him once to draw her a rough map. But, in truth, she remembered little of the detail, and it was different being there, staring at its walls and buildings with no idea where to begin her search. She would need someone to help her find her way around, but she could not afford to ask for assistance because that would mean giving herself away.

  The impossibility of her situation quickly became apparent. On starting out, she had thought that it would be easier, that a way to get to Pen would present itself. She had been wrong, and the boy was likely to pay the price for her presumption.

  She shivered in response to her dark thoughts, and as her hands rubbed her arms and body to warm herself, they brushed against the small bulk of the Elfstones in her pocket.

  She froze, her fingers closing over the talismans. She had forgotten about the Elfstones. Fresh hope warmed her chilly thoughts. She could use their magic to find Pen! The Stones would lead her straight to him!

  And lead the Druids straight to her. Her hopes faded. Using the Elfstones would give her away instantly. Every Druid in the Keep was familiar with Elven magic. She would be detected in a heartbeat.

  She released her grip on the Stones reluctantly and sank back against the pilothouse wall. The use of small magics was commonplace within the Druid’s Keep. Small magics would not be noticed. But the Elfstones were a large magic that no one could mistake for anything other than what it was. Nothing could disguise the extent of their power. Another way would have to be found.

  Another way, she thought, that utilized her skills and training as an apprentice Druid. A way that relied upon the lessons she had been taught by her mentor and best friend before his death. It was all she had left to call upon. It was what she would have to employ if she was to have any chance at all of saving Pen.

  She went still inside as she measured herself for the task she was about to undertake. She had studied hard the skills that Ahren felt she should master. He had given her so little; their time was too short for more. But what he had given her would have to be enough. Most of what she could call upon relied on her ability to concentrate and to center herself. She had worked hard during the voyage to Anatcherae to become accomplished at both. She would put it to the test.

  Gathering her resolve, she rose, moved over to the side of the airship, and looked down. The yard directly below her was empty. She went over the side quickly, down the rope ladder and onto the ground, not bothering to hide her descent or even her presence. Subtlety would not serve her well just then. The key to her success lay in boldness. She stood at the bottom of the ladder, looking around for the Gnome guards. Still wrapped and hooded by the cloak she had stolen earlier, at a distance she could pass for one of them. It was her best chance.

  She picked out the guards in the darkness, then started toward the window-lit walls of the Keep as if it made no difference to her whether they were there or not.

  Darkness served her purpose well. She was shadowed for much of the way by the hulls of the airships and then the walls of the parapets and buildings; she was just another solitary figure crossing the yard, no different in appearance from the others. One of the guards glanced her way as she advanced toward the doors she had spied ahead, but he made no attempt to challenge her. When another turned toward her in the making of his rounds, she released a quick bit of magic to create an unexpected noise behind him, causing him to turn back again. In the windows ahead, shadows passed through the light, their appearance unexpected and startling. She felt her throat tighten, but did not slow.

  Keep going, she told herself.

  She reached the doorway after what seemed an interminable length of time, pulled down on the handle to release the latch, and stepped inside.

  A large anteroom, its ceiling cavernous and smoky with torch burn, its walls hung with heraldic pennants, opened into three long corridors that stretched away through pools of torchlight and layered shadows to lines of closed doors, high windows, and dark alcoves. She started forward and stopped. A pair of Gnome Hunters stood to either side of her, neither more than a dozen paces away, armed and gimlet-eyed as they watched her freeze in place.

  She had no time to think and only a moment to react.

  She threw back the hood to her cloak and fastened the one on the right with a dark glare. “Where have they taken him?”

  The question was asked in Elfish, a language with which she did not think he would be familiar. She was right. He stared blankly at her, a hint of surprise shadowing his sharp features.

  “The boy!” she snapped, speaking now in Callahorn’s tongue, a Southland dialect everyone in the Borderlands spoke, accommodating him in a way that would demonstrate her superiority. “Where is he?”

  She shifted her gaze quickly from the first Gnome to the second, her impatience evident, her sense of command clear. She radiated what she hoped was Druid authority, giving clear indication that as a member of the order, she was where she belonged and had a right to ask the questions she was asking. There was no reason to doubt her. All that was required was a quick, concise response.

  Not surprisingly, the Gnomes had trouble supplying one. “The cells, I think,” the second Gnome told her in the Southland dialect. He said something to the other in Gnomish, but his companion simply shrugged. “Yes, the cells. To be held until the Ard Rhys returns.”

  She nodded perfunctorily and marched past them down the central corridor, acting as if she knew exactly what she was doing, when in fact she had no idea at all. The cells? Where were the cells? Below ground somewhere? She couldn’t ask that, not of these guards. Someone else, maybe. She was inside and she had a destination, and that was going to have to be enough.

  A handful of doors farther down the corridor, she stepped into a deeply shadowed alcove and stood breathing hard with her back against the rough wall, her mind racing. Ahren would have known what to do next if he were there. She must try to think the way Ahren would. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain that thinking of him cost her, then opened them quickly, determined not to give way. The mechanics were easy. She needed to find her way to the cells. To do that, she needed to find someone to tell her how.

  She brushed at her short-cropped dark hair, squared her shoulders, then stepped back out into the corridor and began walking deeper into the Keep.

  Empty of life, the passageway tunneled ahead, her footsteps soft echoes in the silence. She was aware that she still wore the Gnome hunting cloak and that it would eventually draw unwanted attention. Her first order of business was to replace it with a Druid robe. But that was easier said than done. It wasn’t as if there were robes hanging on hooks all up and down the hallway, Druids wandering about from whom she might steal one.

  But she got lucky. At a juncture of corridors much deeper inside the Keep, just as she was despairing that she might wander the halls of Paranor until sunrise, she came upon a study chamber with lights burning and Druids at work. She paused just outside the doorway, still within the corridor shadows, and peered inside. She could see three dark-cloaked forms, hoods thrown back, bodies hunched over books at tables, heads lowered in concentration.

  She stood for a time, trying to decide what to do next. But she couldn’t think of anything that didn’t involve going into the room for a closer look around. That was too dangerous. She hesitated, undecided, and as she did so, she felt a finger tap her shoulder.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  That she didn’t jump out of her skin entirely was something of a miracle. She even managed to turn around. A Druid stood behind her, a questioning look on his scowling face. Bright green eyes peered out from under heavy, furrowed brows. A Southlander. She stared at him without speaking, her heart gone straight to her throat.

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. But you look
like you don’t know what you’re doing here.” He rubbed his smooth chin reflectively, then glanced at her robe and gave a disapproving frown. “Why are you wearing a Gnome Hunter’s cloak? You know the rules.”

  She didn’t, of course, but she nodded anyway. “I was working on the airships and wore the robe to keep from getting dirty. I forgot to take it off.”

  “Well, it’s not allowed.” He glanced past her into the study room. “Wait here.”

  He stepped inside, out of view, then returned a moment later and thrust a Druid robe into her hands. “Here, wear this until you can put on one of your own. The rules are clear.”

  She nodded her thanks, slipped off the Gnome cloak, and slipped on the proffered robe. “I’ve been away. I don’t know all the new rules.”

  The Druid looked suddenly eager. “Did you come in one of those airships that just landed? Has something else happened?”

  She hesitated. Something else? What was he talking about? “The airships brought in a boy,” she said, deciding to measure his reaction.

  “Ah, the Ohmsford boy.” The Druid shook his head. “What a lot of bother. They’ve been looking for him for weeks. Nephew to the old Ard Rhys. They think the whole family is at risk, so they’re bringing them here to keep them safe. Found the parents, but they couldn’t find the boy. Until now.”

  “So the parents are here?” she tried.

  “No, no, that’s what I was talking about. They’re gone. Disappeared with their ship two days ago. Flew off in something of a confrontation, I hear. Hard to say; the Gnomes won’t talk about it with us. But there was a fight of some sort. No one knows. Shadea keeps such things secret from everyone but her closest advisers.” He shrugged. “Typical.”

  Khyber took a deep breath. “Do you think she would be awake this late? I need to see her.”

  The Druid shook his head. “You don’t know much about what’s going on, do you? She isn’t even here. She went to Arishaig and hasn’t returned.”

  “As I said, I’ve been away,” Khyber repeated. “All this is news to me.” She had learned all she was going to learn and more than she had expected. She had to break this off. “Who would I speak to in her absence?”

  The Druid frowned. “I don’t know. Traunt Rowan or Pyson Wence, I suppose. Didn’t you fly in with them? How did you get here?” The disapproving frown was back. “Where did you say you had been?”

  But she was already moving away, giving him a perfunctory wave as she did so. She couldn’t believe her luck. She knew now that the ringleader of the conspirators was away, so Pen would not be touched until she returned. That gave her a small measure of time in which to act. She also knew that Pen’s parents were no longer prisoners in the Keep, so that the boy, if she could free him, would be able to go into the Forbidding without fear of reprisal against his captive family. But she had to find Pen quickly if he was to have his chance.

  “Wait up! Stay where you are!”

  She wheeled about, astonished to find the Druid she had thought left behind chasing after her down the corridor, black robes flying out behind him. One arm came up as if in challenge, a sense of urgency to the motion, his heavy brow furrowed more deeply than ever.

  Having no choice but to deal with him, she stood her ground. “Who did you say you were?” he demanded, panting and out of breath as he reached her. “How is it you happen to have been aboard an airship bringing back the Ohmsford boy when …”

  Khyber braced her feet, cocked her fist, and hit him so hard she knocked him backwards into the wall. She was on him instantly, hauling him up with one hand while putting a dagger to his throat with the other.

  “Not another word,” she hissed at him. “Not unless I tell you to speak. If you yell for help, I’ll cut you chin-to-navel before you finish. Do you understand me?”

  She had never seen such fear in another’s eyes as she saw in his. His throat worked as he tried unsuccessfully to speak and finally settled for nodding.

  “You don’t know who I am and you don’t want to,” she told him softly, her eyes locking on his, making sure he did not misjudge her determination. “Behave yourself, do what you’re told and you might stay alive. Now listen carefully. I want you to take me down to the cells where they keep the prisoners. Don’t speak to anyone we pass on the way. Don’t try signaling for help. Am I clear?”

  She was only a girl, but the Druid she held pinned against the wall saw her as infinitely more dangerous than he was, and he nodded vigorously. “One thing more,” she said to him. “I have the use of magic, just as you do. I understand its complexities. If you try to use your own, even secretly, I will know.”

  He found his voice again. “You’ve come for the Ohmsford boy.”

  She put her face inches from his own. “He means a lot to me. So much so that if something bad happens to him now, something much worse will happen to you. What I intend for him is safe passage out of here. If you interfere with me, I will kill you.”

  His face was bloodless, his eyes wide. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “I won’t if you don’t make me. Now, which way?”

  He pointed, his hand shaking. She pulled him away from the wall and marched him back down the cavernous hall, the dagger at his back, her free hand gripping his arm. They moved quickly, following the corridor to its end, turned into another, followed that for a time, then turned into a third. They passed no one on their way. They heard no movements or voices that would indicate the presence of others. What she was doing was madness, an impulsive act that could end badly for her, but at least she was getting to where she wanted to go. Someone would have had to tell her, and it might as well be someone under her control. Her eyes darted left and right as she walked, to every crevice and alcove, to every closed door. She kept waiting for her luck to run out. She kept waiting for things to go bad.

  They reached a broad stairwell leading down and her prisoner hesitated.

  “Keep moving,” she whispered, nudging him with the tip of the dagger.

  They descended carefully, Khyber watching the bend in the wall ahead for shadows cast by torchlight. None appeared. At the bottom of the stairwell, they reached an anteroom that served as a hub for five different corridors leading off like the spokes of a wheel.

  A Gnome Hunter sat facing them from behind a table, his wizened face unreadable. Farther down the corridor at his back, torchlight cast the shadow of a second guard against the stone-block wall.

  Keeping one hand firmly attached to her reluctant companion, Khyber moved over to the Gnome at the table. “We’ve been sent to speak with the boy,” she said, again using the Callahorn dialect. “Where is he?”

  The Gnome Hunter stared at her, clearly surprised by her demand. Then he shook his head. “No one sees him. I have my orders.”

  “Orders from Traunt Rowan,” she snapped. “Who do you think sent us here? Now take us to the boy. Or do you want me to drag him down here to tell you for himself?”

  The threat cut off whatever reply the Gnome was about to make, and he simply nodded. “Someone should tell me these things. I can’t know them otherwise.” He paused. “You just want to speak with the boy?”

  She shrugged dismissively. “He won’t be leaving his cell, if that’s what you are asking.”

  He rose doubtfully, reached under the table to produce a ring of keys, and led them down the hallway. Khyber felt the beginnings of some resistance on the part of her reluctant companion and shoved him ahead.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, the dagger digging into his back so hard he whimpered.

  They passed the second guard on his way back. He glanced at Khyber and her companion without interest and moved on. She fought the urge to look over her shoulder at him when he was out of sight. Instead, she pulled the dagger away from the Druid and close to her body so that it was hidden in her robes, still keeping the fingers of her other hand tightly fastened to her prisoner’s arm. She did not know how much longer she could hold him in check. Sooner or later, he was going to
give way to his growing panic or to the temptation to run. If it happened now, while she was still out in the corridor with the Gnome Hunters, she was in trouble. Her plan to free Pen, born of opportunity and chance, was just beginning to take shape. She needed time to flesh it out, to think it through, to find a way to implement it fully. Getting to Pen was just the first step. The ones that followed would be much harder.

  They reached the door of the cell, and the Gnome Hunter turned. “Do you want me to wait?”

  She scowled. “I want you to go back to doing what you are paid to do and leave me to my work. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “I have to lock you in.”

  “Then do so. You are wasting my time.”

  The Gnome fiddled with the keys, slipped one clear of the others, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. The lock clicked, and the door opened with a squeal of metal fastenings.

  As it did so, Khyber’s prisoner wrenched free of her grip and ran screaming down the hall.

  NINE

  Khyber didn’t stop to think, didn’t do anything but respond to the disaster that was unfolding. She wheeled on the Gnome nearest, slammed the hilt of her dagger into his temple, and dropped him without a sound. As he collapsed, she turned back toward the fleeing Druid, her hands weaving, conjuring a magic with which she was familiar and on which she had depended before. In response to her summons, a sudden gust of wind exploded down the hallway, caught up her quarry before he had run a dozen yards, snatched him off his feet, and hurled him into the wall like a sack of wheat.

  The remaining Gnome Hunter came racing toward her in response to the shouting and tumbling bodies, his weapons drawn. She used her magic again, picking him up off his feet and bearing him aloft as she had once done a simple leaf. Remembering to focus her efforts, she held him suspended in midair, kicking and squirming in a futile effort to break free. No failure of attention, no break in concentration. She was at her best in that moment, her uncle’s attentive student in the way he had always wanted her to be. She reached the Gnome and dropped him to the floor in a ragged heap, kicking him so hard in the head that he did not move again.