by Terry Brooks
She trudged into Emberen and up the roadway toward her destination, paying almost no attention to anyone around her, head down and body hunched in an effort to lessen her agony. It seemed apparent that the grime-encrusted knife blade had done its job. It all seemed a very long time ago, and she didn’t care to think on it. Even Tavo seemed far in the past, and just then she found she didn’t care if he was still coming to Emberen or not. Simply recovering from her wound would take all the strength she had left.
She had just come in sight of the cottage when she saw the cloaked figure sitting on the porch and felt a surge of relief and joy. Drisker had returned from Paranor, and now everything would be all right!
Except it wasn’t Drisker. She knew it almost at once, and as she drew nearer, it became clear the occupant of the chair was Clizia Porse. Tarsha felt a sinking in her stomach, but there was no help for it now. She was too close to turn aside, even had she wished to, and given her present condition it made no sense to go anywhere else.
She watched the old woman rise and pull back the hood of her cloak, revealing her sharp old features—a pinched and wrinkled image still all too familiar from their last encounter.
“Tarsha, isn’t it?” she said. “Do I have it right?”
Tarsha nodded, irritated. “Where is Drisker?”
Clizia Porse pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. I left him at Paranor, assuming he was on his way out. I came here to find him. I thought he might be waiting, but he isn’t.” She paused. “I thought I might find you, too.”
Tarsha shook her head. “I went back home to see my family.” She dropped her backpack, suddenly unable to hold it any longer. “I need to sleep.”
“Your bed is waiting; your room is ready. I have not disturbed either. Would you eat first?”
“No, I just need to sleep.”
She took two steps and dropped to one knee, the strength gone out of her. Instantly, Clizia Porse was beside her, arms about her waist, helping to hold her up as she guided her inside. “You’ve been hurt, girl. I can smell the infection. We have to get you treated at once.”
Tarsha shook her head stubbornly. “The village healer…”
“Knows not a tenth of what I do. I can help you far more than anyone else. Now, come inside.”
The old woman was far stronger than expected, and Tarsha let herself be led to the bedroom and put into the bed. Without asking permission, Clizia began to remove her clothing so she could get a look at the wound. When she had Tarsha stripped to the waist and the infected wound was revealed, she made a disparaging sound. “You’ve let this go far too long. It needs cleaning, medication, and binding anew. A knife wound, it appears. Wait here.”
Tarsha closed her eyes, and it seemed only seconds later that she felt hands on her shoulders. Clizia was holding a cup of steaming liquid in front of her face. “Drink this. All the way down. It will help with the pain. It will also help you to sleep when I am finished.”
The girl drank the bitter, pungent brew without objection, no longer wanting anything but to be cared for. The Druid took the empty cup, set it aside, and began to clean out the wound. The pain was excruciating, but Tarsha said nothing, determined to keep her feelings to herself. She remembered how Clizia Porse had made her feel during their meeting at Paranor—exposed, uncomfortable, at risk. Even Drisker had been wary of her, warning Tarsha to reveal nothing, to keep her own counsel.
She would do so here.
When the wound was washed clean of infection and blood, the old woman applied a poultice and then wrapped it with a bandage that felt snug without applying too much pressure. It should be left open to drain at present, she advised. Tomorrow, she would stitch it up and reapply the bandage. By now, Tarsha was almost asleep. She stayed awake only by telling herself she must know everything that was happening while Clizia Porse was in her bedroom. So she fought sleep just long enough for the old woman to complete the treatment and rise from beside her.
“You rest now,” the other said. “We will talk in the morning. I will keep watch and wake you if there is need. Sleep.”
And Tarsha did.
She dreamed of nothing at all.
* * *
—
When she woke it was light out again, the midday sun high overhead, the birdsong bright and clear, and the forest air filled with the smell of leaves and grasses. She felt markedly improved from the previous night, but she tested herself anyway by moving her arms and legs. To her surprise, there was almost no pain at all, and what remained of her injury seemed to be all but healed. She sat up slowly, looked around, swung her legs out of the bed, and stood. A little bit of dizziness, but otherwise she was fine, save that she was very hungry.
She shed her nightclothes and put on forest garb, taking her time, listening for Clizia Porse and hearing nothing. Once dressed again, she slipped from her bedroom and walked out into the main part of the house.
The old woman sat at the small kitchen table sipping liquid from a cup. Without comment, she rose, poured a second cup, and handed it to Tarsha. “Drink it,” she ordered.
Tarsha drank, frowning. “This is ale.”
“Ale with herbal medicines to help you heal. You’re clearly better, but not yet completely back to yourself.”
“I feel well enough. The medicine you gave me and a good night’s sleep did wonders.”
The other’s long face took on a look of amusement. “You’ve been asleep for almost two days.”
The girl stared at her. Two days? No wonder she was so hungry. And no wonder she felt so rested. But two days? Without once waking? How could that be?
The Druid seemed to read her mind. “The medication I gave you was very strong. The infection needed healing without interruption. That meant you had to sleep for more than a single day. Can you feel how it helped you?”
Tarsha nodded. “I am grateful.”
Clizia made a dismissive gesture. “You must be hungry. Let’s get you something to eat. Then I will sew up your wound.” She paused. “Proper young ladies don’t fight with knives.”
Tarsha grimaced. “It wasn’t much of a fight.”
The old lady nodded. “I imagine it wasn’t.”
As she prepared a meal for them, Tarsha was surprised to find herself liking Clizia Porse better than when they had first met. In spite of Drisker’s warning, Clizia appeared to have good intentions toward her. If the old woman had not cleaned and bandaged her infection and given her the healing medicines to drink, it was hard to say how things would have turned out.
On the other hand, she was still not convinced that she knew where Clizia’s loyalties lay. After all, she had lied to Drisker about knowing Kassen. And Tarsha felt that, in spite of her kindnesses, Clizia was keeping something back from her. So it might be best if she kept a secret or two of her own for now.
While they were eating, Tarsha asked again about Drisker, and this time Clizia told her what had happened. While the two of them were inside Paranor attempting to summon the Guardian of the Keep, Drisker had decided at the last minute to go in search of Kassen. On his orders, Clizia had gone ahead, relying on Drisker’s promise that he would quickly follow. But once she was safely outside, she had witnessed the conjuring of a Druid spell that must have been cast by Drisker and Paranor had disappeared, sent into a limbo existence.
“He has the means to bring himself and the Keep back,” she finished, giving a perfunctory shrug. “I am certain of that much, if nothing else. But it will not be easy. In the meantime, he is trapped there.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” Tarsha pressed.
Clizia shook her head. “Nothing of which I am aware. Although…” She hesitated, as if she had remembered something. “Drisker brought several books of old magic with him when he left the Keep and went into exile. I searched for them everywhere, but could not find them. There might be something
in there that could help him, if we just knew where they were hidden.”
A whisper of warning surfaced in the back of Tarsha’s mind. Be careful. “I know of the books,” she said, “but I think they were still here when I left for Backing Fell. Are you sure they’re gone?”
The old woman nodded. “I’ve run out of places to look. Maybe someone else has them. But let that go for now. You said you went to Backing Fell? In the deep Westland? Whatever for?”
Tarsha had been open and aboveboard with Clizia until now, and it was tempting to be so again. But she was bothered about the woman’s rather too keen interest in Drisker’s books of magic. Besides, she had kept the secret of her brother’s use of the wishsong for so long she found it easy to do so now.
“My family lives there. I went home to see how they were.”
“An odd time for a visit all the way back there when Drisker was risking himself at Paranor. Are you not his student and is he not your mentor?”
Tarsha hesitated. “I am and he is. For about a month now. I would have gone with him, but he insisted I remain behind. He also insisted I go back to see how my brother was doing. Tavo has been very ill, and Drisker knows I am worried about him.”
The sharp old eyes studied her. “There’s more to this story, I suspect, but it can keep until you are stronger. I want to know why Drisker took you on as his student. This is very out of character for him, you understand. There must be something rather special about you for him to make an exception.”
Tarsha smiled. “I guess he must have thought so. We never discussed it.” She pushed back her plate. “Can we go outside now? I think it might be good for me.”
So they cleaned up their dishes and put them away, and then left the cottage for a walk. They traveled a couple of miles down the roadway, ambling along companionably. They were a good match this day, the old woman and the still-recovering girl—the former asking questions at every turn while the latter answered those she didn’t object to and slid past the ones she did. It was an odd cat-and-mouse game that Tarsha quickly found required cautious navigation. Clizia Porse was no fool, and she knew how to find things out. But the questions she pursued—of family and of magic—were ones Tarsha was used to avoiding, and she was able to do so here, too.
They walked until the sun had moved well past midday before returning, and then Tarsha went off to have a nap. She remained in her bedroom for the rest of the afternoon, trying to decide how much more she wanted to reveal and what she was going to do with herself now that Drisker was gone. At one point, she wondered what had become of the highlander, Dar Leah. Had he gone into the Keep with Drisker? Was he trapped in lost Paranor, too?
By bedtime that night, she still had more questions than answers.
* * *
—
When Tarsha had retired for the night and Clizia Porse was certain she slept, she went out onto the porch and sat in a high-back wicker chair to think things through. While the girl was skillful and practiced at avoiding questions when she did not wish to provide answers, she had nonetheless revealed herself in other ways. Clizia was now in possession of answers she had not known she was looking for.
That the girl was hiding something was undeniable. Why she was dissembling was a matter of debate, but the evidence was there. Something was wrong with her family, and she had been hiding it long enough that doing so was second nature. She was also hiding the reason that Drisker Arc had taken her on as a student when he had refused to do this for anyone else since leaving Paranor. Clizia was certain it had something to do with a magic she either possessed or could access. But the exact nature of that magic remained unclear.
Even without knowing the answers to any of these riddles, the old woman had found out something more important—what she should do about Drisker Arc and the Black Elfstone. When the girl spoke of him, she did so with special fervor and respect, with compassion and tenderness. It wasn’t overt, but it was there. She cared for the Druid, and Clizia was willing to bet he cared for her, as well.
So if Drisker still lived, Tarsha Kaynin could provide Clizia with the leverage she needed to persuade the Druid to do something he clearly would not do otherwise—to use the Black Elfstone to bring Paranor back into the Four Lands. The trick was in determining how best to present an offer he could not refuse—one that would seem to be the key to his freedom while at the same time hiding the fact that it would lead him to his doom.
After all, she still needed to find a way to rid herself of him. Once she had possession of the Black Elfstone, she could do this.
She was aware suddenly of another presence. A shadowy figure that lacked substance or identity was passing through the trees just beyond the fringe of the clearing and her range of vision. She recognized it as the shadowy movement she had sensed earlier. She sought it out anew with her magic, trying to reveal its identity. But it blocked her efforts, a conscious act that shut her out, almost as if it sensed what she was doing—which meant it had the use of magic.
She waited on it, but eventually it disappeared and the night was empty of everything but what was usually there. She found herself wondering how long she could stay in Drisker’s house and remain safe from the creatures she now realized were watching her.
She shook her head as she rose and went inside. Sleep now, worry later. Tomorrow would be a big day. For her. For Tarsha.
When she woke, she would know better what the future held.
THIRTEEN
In the shadow-layered passageways of Paranor, in the gloom of a halfway world, Drisker Arc walked alone, wrapped in dark thoughts. All around him the silence was an intense, suffocating presence. Only the scrape of his boots on the stone flooring and his own measured breathing broke its spell. Time had passed, but it was difficult to know how much. There was nothing by which to measure it. There was no day or night, no full dark or light, no sun or moon. The shadows did not alter, frozen in perpetual twilight and so fixed they might have been painted on the walls and floors of the Keep. While Drisker moved about the buildings, the courtyards, the towers, and the walls, he could feel growing within him the certainty that he was losing ground. Chances were slipping away. Opportunities remained hidden and secretive, and still no solution for escaping his prison had presented itself.
Shades knew he had tried to find one. He had tried to use the Black Elfstone over and over again. He had done everything he could think to do to bring its magic to life. He had willed it to surface; he had threatened and cajoled. He had pictured what it would do if it were triggered and when that failed had given himself over to a blind faith and desperate plea that it would do anything at all.
And still nothing had happened, and he remained imprisoned. He began to imagine that like the Keep he was fading away. He could tell he was becoming less substantial, more ephemeral, the longer he remained trapped in this endless limbo. He wondered if eventually he would lose everything that made him who he was and become a shade that would wander endlessly in search of meaning. It did not feel unlikely. He had kept despair at bay until now, but he was beginning to feel it press against him with inexorable determination. And once it took hold, he knew he was finished.
Helplessness was already an insistent presence in his life. He found himself struggling with visions of what might be happening back in the Four Lands. Clizia Porse was free to carry on with her machinations, the Skaar were relentlessly foraging deeper into the lands south of Paranor—perhaps preparing to challenge the might of the Federation itself—and Tarsha Kaynin was searching for her brother with no one to protect her against her own bad judgment.
All of it was maddening.
That Dar Leah might have located Tarsha and be looking after her as she searched for her brother—since by now it was clear that Drisker and Paranor were gone—provided some small consolation. But nothing changed the fact that there was nothing he could do about any of it while he remained trap
ped within the Keep.
He slowed for a moment, thinking once more of the archives, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time if there might be something in there that could help him. But he could think of no artifact or talisman or magic that would free him from his prison and return him to the Four Lands other than the Black Elfstone. His frustration surfaced anew. When he could call upon so many forms of magic to serve him, why couldn’t he find a way to call upon this one? What was he missing?
He revisited his efforts—every one of them. He took his time, cataloging and examining each carefully. Was there something he hadn’t tried? Was there another summoning spell, another method of conjuring he had failed to remember? Was there something he could do differently? Cogline had seemed to suggest there was, that he was not doing something that was needed to make the magic respond.
What was it the old Druid had said to him? It requires something of you to command such magic. It demands a price.
But what sort of price?
He looked around, almost expecting to find Cogline watching him in his struggles, thinking perhaps to ask him for more information. But shades rarely helped the living, and when they did it was always in an enigmatic way. They gave hints at solutions, but it was up to the one who needed the answers to unravel them. In any case, there was no sign of his ghostly companion. For the moment, at least, Cogline had chosen to let him reason things through on his own.
