by Terry Brooks
Battered and disheartened by their defeat on the Prekkendorran, the Federation had withdrawn its armies, ceding to Callahorn and its people the lands to which it had laid claim during the war. After more than thirty years, the Southlanders had lost their taste for fighting a war that had netted them nothing. Sen Dunsidan was dead, and a new Prime Minister ruled the Coalition Council—a man who did not favor expansion as a goal and war as a means to an end. His people appeared to agree. There were those on both sides who believed that the war should be fought to the bitter end, those who would never accept any resolution short of victory on the battlefield, but they represented a small minority. A peace accord was swiftly brokered.
The threat presented by the deadly fire launcher was blunted, at least for the time being. As a condition to the peace she had brokered between the Federation and the Free-born, Grianne had won a single concession: There would be no further use of diapson crystals in the making of weapons. Diapson crystals would be used to power airships, and that would be all. The last fire launcher had been destroyed. The man who had invented it had disappeared and was believed dead, and his plans for building other weapons had been lost in a fire along with his models and designs. She had made certain of those things. She had assured herself that the matter was settled.
Her price for winning the agreement and assistance of all parties in enforcing covenants regarding the future use of diapson crystals was her promise to relinquish her place as head of the Druid order. Those who sought that did not know she had already made the decision to step down. It did not hurt to let them believe they had been responsible for persuading her. They were as frightened of her as they were of any weapon, and the bargain was easily struck.
She could not know if the bargain would be kept, but for the moment, at least, there was a fresh outlook in the governing bodies of the Races and a chance that common sense might prevail. Her successors would do their best to see that it did. Tagwen would serve as their adviser. Kermadec, who had re-formed the Druid Guard from among his own people, would see that they were protected. It was as much as anyone could hope for. It was the best she could do.
“Aunt Grianne?”
Penderrin stood at her elbow. She gave him a quick smile, her reflections and musings scattering like dust motes. “It’s a beautiful day, Pen. Perhaps that is a good omen.”
He smiled back guardedly. “Do you really think you can do something to help?” he asked. “Do you think there is a chance you can get her back?”
“I think maybe there is. Don’t you?”
He bit his lip. “I think that if anyone can do it, you can.”
“That is high praise, coming from a boy who found his way into the Forbidding and back again.” She paused. “Perhaps when we get there, you will discover that you don’t really need me after all, that you can do this by yourself.”
She saw the unsettled look that crossed his face. “No,” he said. “I’ve seen what’s down there, how she’s bound by the tree roots with the others. I don’t think I would be strong enough to free her on my own.”
They were flying to Stridegate and the island of the tanequil, where they would attempt to reclaim Cinnaminson. She thought that perhaps she had made the decision to do so even before coming out of the Forbidding, that she knew even then that she owed the boy that much. She understood from what he had told her how much the girl meant to him and how hard it had been to give up trying to free her and come looking for Grianne instead. That sort of sacrifice deserved more than a simple thank-you. She had waited until things were settled with the order and the treaties between the Federation and Free-born signed before acting. She had waited until his parents had returned home. It wasn’t that she didn’t think they would support their son’s efforts to free Cinnaminson; indeed, they would want to help. But making the attempt was something she had decided she must do with Pen alone, for reasons she had kept to herself. Only Kermadec and his Trolls were invited to come along.
She put a hand on Pen’s shoulder. “You are a lot stronger than you think,” she said. “I want you to remember that. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating what you can do.”
He shrugged. “I’m not very strong, really.” He hesitated. “I think that you are wonderful for doing this. I won’t ever forget, even if we don’t get her back.”
She almost hugged him, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. She had been distanced from others for too long, and although she might feel affection toward them, she was not comfortable with demonstrating it. She still saw herself as an outcast, as someone who didn’t really belong anywhere and would never be close to anyone. Worse, she saw herself as dangerous, more so since the events that had taken place inside the Forbidding. The workings of the wishsong’s magic when she had transformed herself into a Fury and when she had destroyed the Graumth had left her shaken. For the first time since she was a child, she was uncertain of the magic. Something about it was changed—perhaps still changing—and she was not sure how well she could control it.
She looked off into the horizon. “Strength comes to us through belief and determination, Pen. The trick is in recognizing how to use it.”
“You’ve done that better than I have,” he said quietly.
She glanced over at him and smiled.
How I wish that were true.
The grave diggers arrived around midday on their way south, and the old man invited them to eat with him. He set out ale and cheese and bread and sat with the three men around an old wooden table that occupied one corner of the porch and looked out over the fields of wheat he farmed as his family had farmed them for five generations.
“How is it up there?” he asked, after food and drink were consumed and the men were smoking.
The stocky one shook his head. “Bad. A lot of bodies. We did the best we could, along with the others. But they’ll be finding the bones of those we missed for years.”
“At least it’s over,” the old man said.
The tall one shook his head in reproof. “Should have been over years ago. Didn’t accomplish anything, did it? Years and years gone and nothing’s changed. Except a lot of good men are dead.”
“And women,” the stocky one added.
The tall one grunted. “Treaty with the Free-born gives us just exactly what we had before the war started. The only good thing that’s come of all this is we have a new Prime Minister. Maybe he won’t be as stupid as Sen Dunsidan was.”
He looked at the old man. “Did you hear what happened with that one?”
The old man shook his head.
“I heard it from one of the soldiers on the Zolomach. He was there and saw it all. They were flying Dunsidan to Arborlon, maybe to make peace, maybe not. There’s some debate. They had that weapon aboard, the one that shot down the Elven King and his whole fleet. Anyway, some Druids intercepted the ship. One of them had a staff with markings that glowed like fire. Soldier who told me this said Sen Dunsidan couldn’t take his eyes off it. The Druids offered it to him, but when he took it, he changed into some sort of monster. Split right out of his skin, like a snake, then disappeared. No one’s seen him since.”
“Druid magic at work there,” the stocky one declared softly. “More of it later, too, if you ask me. The Zolomach sailed back to Arishaig, was there maybe a day, caught fire, and burned to her keel. Everything destroyed. Took that weapon with her.”
“A fire took the place where they built that weapon and the plans for it, too,” the tall one said. “Nothing left but ash and smoke. You’re right about those Druids. They were involved in it. Happened right after the witch reappeared. They thought she was gone, but she won’t ever be gone, that one. Not her. What is it they called her before she was Ard Rhys? Ilse Witch. She comes back and all this happens? Not by chance, I don’t think.”
“Doesn’t matter what you or I think,” the third man said. “What matters is that the war is over, and we can get on with living our lives. There’s been enough madness. I lost a brother and
two cousins out there on the Prekkendorran. Everyone lost someone. For what? Tell me that. For what?”
“For Sen Dunsidan and his kind,” the stocky man declared. “For the politicians and their stupid schemes.” He took a long pull on his ale. “This is good,” he said to the old man, smiling. “Good enough to help me forget the smell of all those dead men. Can I trouble you for another glass?”
When they were gone, the old man went back into the house, pulled aside the rug to the storm cellar, and let the two Elves out. They’d been in hiding down there for several weeks, too damaged at first to do much more than sleep and eat, and then too weak to travel. He’d nursed them as best he could, using the remedies and skills he had acquired from his mother when she was still alive and working the fields with him. The man was the worse of the two, shot through with arrows and cut with blades in a dozen places. But the woman wasn’t much better. He’d helped them because they were hurt and that was the kind of man he was. The war on the Prekkendorran was not his war and not his concern. No Federation war ever had been.
“They’re gone,” he said as the two climbed back into the light.
Pied Sanderling glanced around, and then reached back for Troon’s hand. The day was clouded, but warm and calm, and it felt good to come back into the light. The old man brought them up whenever it was safe to do so, but that hadn’t been often until now. They all knew before the treaty what would happen if they were caught out.
“Did you hear what they said?” the old man asked them.
Pied nodded. He was thinking of those who had gone with him into the Federation camp. He was thinking that their efforts had been worth something after all. The tide of war might have turned on the destruction of the Dechtera and her deadly weapon. Twenty-four hours later, Vaden Wick had broken the siege, counterattacked, and driven the Federation off the heights. In the end, the Free-born had prevailed.
Now, it seemed, any danger of fresh weapons of the sort the Dechtera had carried was ended, as well. If the Druids had intervened, the chances were good that whatever remained of those weapons had been hunted down and destroyed.
“Sit, and I’ll bring you a glass of ale,” the old man offered.
He had saved their lives. He had cared for and protected them while they recovered. He had asked nothing about them, nothing from them. He had been kind to them in a place and time when some would have wished them dead and worked to make the wish a reality. They were Elves and enemy soldiers. The old man didn’t seem to care.
They took chairs at the table while the old man brought the glasses and set them down. When he left to feed the animals in the barn, Pied looked at Troon. “I guess it’s finally over.”
She nodded. They were mirror images of each other, their faces cut and bruised, their limbs bandaged, and their bodies so sore that every movement hurt. But they were alive, which was more than they could say about any of the others who had gone with them that night. They would have been dead, too, if not for the old man. He had been burning off a field he had partially cleared, the fire still bright even after darkness fell, and they had homed in on that beacon. The old man had seen the flit come down, found them in the wreckage, and taken them in. He had thrown what remained of the flit into the fire, and then lied to the Federation soldiers who came looking the next morning. Neither of them knew why. Maybe he was just like that. Maybe, like the grave diggers, he’d had enough of war.
“We can go home now,” he said to her.
She gave him a bitter smile. “To Arborlon? Where Arling is Queen?”
She was reminding him that he was forbidden to return to Arborlon, that Arling had dismissed him from her service.
They stared at each other wordlessly.
“Let’s not go home,” she said finally. She held his gaze. “Let’s go somewhere else. They think we are dead. Let’s leave it that way. Have you anyone waiting for you?”
He thought about Drum for a moment and shook his head. “No.”
“Nor I.” She took a quick breath and exhaled sharply. “Let’s start over. Let’s make a new home.”
He studied her face, appreciating the straightforward, uncomplicated way it revealed her. With Troon, there was never any question about what she was feeling. Certainly, there wasn’t any question there. She was in love with him. She had told him that night on the flit. She had told him any number of times since. The revelation had surprised him, but pleased him, too. Eventually, while they recovered from their wounds, he realized he was in love with her, too.
She reached out for his hands and took them in her own. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I don’t want to do it in a place that reminds me of the past. I want to do it where we can start over again and leave behind what we’ve known. Do you love me enough to do that?”
He smiled. “You know I do.”
They smiled at each other across the table, sharing feelings that shouldn’t be put into words because words would only get in the way.
They set the Bremen down in the gardens that fronted the bridge to the island of the tanequil, anchoring her well back, but safely within walking distance. Stridegate’s ruins were empty and still on an afternoon filled with sunshine and blue sky. They had flown into the Inkrim that morning, sailing out of night’s departing darkness into dawn’s bright promise, the boy and she standing together at the bow and looking down at the world. They had not spoken a word, lost in their separate thoughts. She thought she could probably guess at his but that he could not possibly know hers.
The Urdas were not in evidence on that visit, but Kermadec and his Trolls kept careful watch for them, even after they were anchored and on the ground. Urdas would not enter the ruins, it was said. They would not come into any place they considered sacred. Kermadec was taking no chances, and sent scouts in all directions with instructions to make sure.
Grianne turned to him. “Keep watch for us, Old Bear,” she said with a smile. “This won’t take long.”
He shook his great, impassive face in disagreement. “I wish you would let this wait for a while longer, Mistress. You have been through too much already. If there is a confrontation down there—”
“There will be no confrontation,” she said quickly, putting a reassuring hand on his armored wrist. She glanced over to where Penderrin stood at the bridgehead, looking over at the island. “This isn’t to be an encounter of that sort.”
She took her hand away. “You were the best of them all,” she told him. “No one was more faithful or gave more to me when it was needed. I will never forget that.”
He looked away. “You should go now, so that you can be back before dark.” There was resignation in his eyes. He knew. “Go, Mistress.”
She nodded and turned away, walking over to join the boy. He glanced at her as she came up beside him, but said nothing. “Are you ready?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. What if the tanequil won’t let us cross?”
“Why don’t we see?”
She walked out onto the bridge, the boy following, and called up the magic of the wishsong, humming softly to let it build, working on the message she wanted it to convey. She stopped perhaps a quarter of the way across until she had it just right, then released the magic into the afternoon silence and let it drift downward into the ravine. She gave it the whole of what she thought was needed, taking her time, content to be patient if patience was what was required.
It was not. A response came almost immediately, a shifting of heavy roots within the earth, a rustle of leaves and grasses, a whisper of wind. Voices, soft and lilting, that only she could hear. She understood what it meant.
“Come, Pen,” she said.
They crossed untroubled to the other side of the bridge and walked to the trail that had led the boy into the ravine weeks earlier in his search for Cinnaminson. The island forest was deep and still, the air cooler, the light diffuse, and the earth dappled with layered shadows. She watched Pen cast about, eyes shifting left and r
ight, searching. He was looking for the aeriads, but she already knew they would not come. Nothing would come to them now. Everything was waiting.
They found the trailhead and stopped. The path wound downward in a steep descent that gradually faded into a mix of mist and shadows. It was so dark within the ravine that they could not see the bottom. It was the sort of place she had entered many times. It was a mirror of her heart.
She turned to him. “You are to wait here for me, Pen. I will do this best if I am alone. I know what is needed. I will bring Cinnaminson back to you.”
He studied her face carefully, unable to keep the hope from his eyes. “I know you will try, Aunt Grianne.”
She reached out impulsively and hugged the boy. It was something she had seldom done, and it felt awkward, but the boy was quick to hug her back, and that made her feel better about it.
“Be careful,” he whispered.
She broke away, moving slowly down the trail toward the shadows.
“Thank you,” he called after her. “For doing this.”
She gave him a small wave in response, but did not look back.
The afternoon eased toward evening, and the light shifted and began to fade. Pen stood until he grew tired, then sat with his back against an ancient trunk, staring down into the ravine, keeping watch. He listened for sounds he did not care to think of too carefully, but no sounds came. Silence cloaked the ravine and the forest and, for all he knew, the entire world. He watched patterns of light and shadows form and re-form, slow-moving kaleidoscopic images against the earth. He smelled the scents released into air by the forest and the things that lived there. He rubbed the blunted tips of his damaged fingers and remembered how they had gotten that way. He remembered what it had felt like to become joined to the tanequil through the carving of the runes. He remembered night in the island forest and his terrifying encounter with Aphasia Wye.
