by Terry Brooks
“No one will see you.” He gave the boy a firm pat on his back. “Bribery still works, lad, and credits still provide information. And silence. No one will bother you.”
“Well, if bribery still works, why didn’t you just find a way to walk in and walk out with Tindall? Why am I going through all this?”
Rocan shook his head. “If it looks like the watch helped us, my source would likely be compromised. I promised that wouldn’t happen. Walking in and walking out again would be a dead giveaway.”
“And you’re sure this will work?” Shea could hear the doubt in his own voice, and it reflected the myriad suspicions he harbored about this whole plan. “Seems like I’m the one taking all the risks.”
Rocan straightened. “If something happens, Shea Ohmsford—if something goes wrong—I will come for you. You have my word. No matter how long it takes or what I have to do, I will come for you.”
The way he said it—the gravity of his words, the insistence in his voice—convinced the boy that he meant it, and he felt a measure of reassurance.
He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “All right, I’ll do it,” he agreed reluctantly.
“Good lad! I knew you would. Now let’s get on with it.” Rocan paused. “Ah, one thing I forgot to mention.” He actually looked sheepish. “At night they put scrubbers inside—mechanical cleaners designed to remove anything larger than a bug. It’s a precaution against clogging the ducts, but also against anyone trying to escape.”
“Wait! You mean there’s something in there that might kill me if it finds me?”
Rocan made soothing gestures with his hands. “We have to enter the Deep at night. That was the deal I made with the guard I bribed. There are too many guards around in the daytime; one would be bound to notice something. I’ve been assured the scrubbers have all been shut down tonight, however. You’ll be safe enough.”
Safe enough? The boy shook his head. “But you’re warning me about them, anyway?”
“Just so you know. Just in case. Also, there are guards besides the one I’ve bribed scattered throughout the building. While there are definitely fewer of them at night, some will still be…”
“I think this is a mistake,” Shea interrupted angrily. “I’ve heard no one ever gets out of this prison unless they are carried out. Add in the guards, and these scrubbers, and what chance do I have?”
“Stop worrying. Yes, there are guards, but not at every turn. They ward the doors and the cells, working in shifts, but they can’t be everywhere at once. And the scrubbers have been disabled. Shea, the reputation of the Deep relies on the myth that no one has ever escaped—that everyone who has ever tried has been caught or killed. But this isn’t so.”
He stared. “You’re making this up. Who ever escaped that you know?”
Rocan smiled. “I did.”
“How could you have escaped?”
“I’ll tell you sometime. Just trust me for now—it can be done. Going in through the waste ducts is viable. If a scrubber appears—which it won’t—use some of the compound I gave you to disable it. If you are quiet and careful enough, no guards will know you are there. I paid a pretty penny for these plans and the assistance of the guard I bribed, and your own quick thinking will be enough to see you through.”
“What if I decide not to do this?” the boy demanded suddenly. “What if I decide it is monumentally stupid and I am almost certainly going to die?”
Rocan shrugged. “Then we leave here now, I take you back to where I found you, and we will likely never see each other again.” He paused. “But that would be a real shame.”
Shea was quiet for a long time. The way the other spoke of taking him back, the unspoken implication of this dismissal, was chilling. He had already decided that this was an instance when taking a risk was necessary. He had never given any real consideration to how large the risk would be before it became unacceptable. Was it so large now that he was unwilling to embrace it—so large he was ready to walk away?
“Are you going to do this or not?” Rocan asked finally.
Shea Ohmsford thought back momentarily to his old life in Varfleet. Although it was by now far too late, he wished he had stayed where he was.
He gave a reluctant nod.
* * *
—
Clizia Porse had set out for Paranor three days after losing Tarsha, taking Tavo Kaynin with her, thinking that he still might serve a purpose. If nothing else, he would prove a useful sacrifice in her efforts to rid herself of Drisker and the two who accompanied Tarsha Kaynin. The girl, on the other hand, had more potential—if she was handled in the right way. For now, she thought of Clizia as an enemy, but that could change.
Whereas Tavo Kaynin was hopeless.
Not so long ago, she had harbored great hopes for him. His attraction to the Stiehl was obvious, and he was certainly capable of killing. Then she had spent a frustrating two days trying to teach him how to wield the fabled blade—and had failed miserably. Though he had been given the deadliest weapon in all the Four Lands, Tavo Kaynin saw it only as a knife—a blade that could cut and slice and skewer. He failed to understand its nuances. Because a weapon of this sort—a weapon of such sophisticated magic—was so much more. No prison could hold its owner; no barrier could keep him out. No armored juggernaut or implement of war could defeat him so long as he understood how to wield it in the right way.
But Tarsha’s brother did not understand. He didn’t even care to try.
Worse still, it quickly became apparent that he could not control his madness sufficiently to be trusted. She had explained to him over and over the value of sparing his sister and killing the others; with endless patience, she had explained that they were the real threat. They were the ones who had stolen Tarsha away and disabled him. Once they were out of the way, there was nothing and no one that could protect his sister. But he kept insisting he must kill her first—that she had betrayed and abandoned him and he was determined to see to it that she joined the others…Stark raving mad, he was. Just look at the course he had embraced, the path he traveled with his imaginary friend Fluken—this creature who always agreed with him, who always stood by him, and whom Tavo believed to be utterly real, even though there was no evidence of his existence whatsoever.
So yes, Tavo was expendable, and turning him loose on the Elf and the Blade was a good way to put an end to all three of them. If she handled it right, Tavo would kill Drisker first, then engage the other two in a struggle that would kill them all while she disabled Tarsha Kaynin. Then she could take the girl back to Drisker’s cottage and begin the process of bending her mind to serve her new mistress.
With this in mind, she had set out from Emberen on the third morning in a small two-man craft she had stolen from the airfield manager’s own collection while he napped—a condition she had helped to foster. Finding the girl and her companions was now her first order of business, and while it should have been a simple chore, there was one significant complication. She had marked Tarsha, of course, as a prevention against losing her. But suddenly the marker was no longer in evidence. She had to assume it had been discovered and negated by one of the three. She could no longer rely on it.
Even without the mark, though, Clizia was pretty sure she knew where the girl had gone.
Flying east, she and Tavo traveled that day and much of that night, stopping only briefly to sleep, and—toward the evening of the second day—reached a clearing in the forest surrounding lost Paranor’s former site and landed. A quick scouting mission confirmed that Tarsha and her companions were indeed present and waiting. That done, she faced her unpredictable companion and talked slowly and carefully about what she intended to do, what his part was to be, and how he was to behave as they neared their destination. Tavo was to carry their camping gear, which they needed so they could be comfortably settled while they waited for Drisker’s r
eemergence from Paranor—still assuming, of course, that he remained inside. She had no idea how long that would take, but she was sure it would happen soon. He had undoubtedly retrieved the Black Elfstone since he was threatening to come after her, so it only remained for him to make use of it. Whatever else he had planned, his first order of business was to bring himself back into the Four Lands where he could protect his beloved student and endeavor to dispose of Clizia.
Others had sought to do the same over the years, she recalled with a smile, and all had failed. Drisker would fail, too.
With camp established far enough away from where Tarsha and her protectors waited, and a cloaking spell in place to hide them from discovery, she hunkered down to wait. But Tavo was not good at waiting. He was restless and bored and eager to make an end of his sister. He spent time talking to his imaginary companion when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, his words hushed and furtive, his body hunched over and protective. She was afraid she was losing control over him—despite the medications she slipped into his food and drink, and her constant attempts at reassuring him he would get what he wanted.
Two further days had passed by now, and still nothing had happened. Even she was growing impatient. It was close to midnight, and she was sitting up and keeping watch. Easy enough for her to do since she slept so little these days and liked the quiet and calm of being alone. Tavo was sleeping nearby—sleeping more these days, it seemed to her, as if he was drifting farther away from the real world by the moment. He talked in his sleep—nonsense words and vague mutterings, his body twitching, his eyes fluttering as if he might be half awake.
She kept thinking of ways she could speed things up, but everything she could do other than wait always came back to using the scrye orb, and she didn’t want to give anything away by doing so. Drisker Arc was nothing if not observant, and if he thought she was close to Tarsha, he would know it was a trap.
Snow had begun to fall. She watched it for a time, then reached into her pack and produced a pair of heat stones—magic that could warm the body for hours if tucked into clothing. She slipped one into her dress first and then went to Tavo.
She was tucking his in place when he suddenly woke. “What are you doing?” he demanded at once.
The tone of his voice was troubling, but she held up the heat stone regardless. “It’s snowing and getting cold. This will keep you warm. Put it inside your tunic.”
The boy stared at her suspiciously for a moment, then did as she asked. He nodded once it was in place. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he muttered.
“Next time I won’t.”
Tavo lay back, looking up at the sky. “Never mind.”
She was returning to her watch when suddenly he said, “What are those?”
She followed his gaze skyward. Dark shapes were passing silently overhead like giant birds on migration, only much more slowly. They were vague shadows amid the curtain of falling snow, traveling just under the clouds as they passed in silence through the skies in a southward direction.
She watched in fascination as they came and went. There were dozens of them—some huge creatures, some smaller. They were so dark she imagined Tavo might have missed them entirely had they not been moving through the snowfall.
“Warships,” she murmured to herself. But to Tavo, she said, “A freighter convoy. Go back to sleep.”
When he returned to his bedding and lay quiet, she glanced skyward again as the last of the airships disappeared. A smile played across her thin lips.
Well, well, well.
THIRTY-ONE
In the bowels of Assidian Deep, Shea Ohmsford was making his way through the tangled system of ducts that made up the prison waste system and trying not to gag. Indeed, the system had been flushed recently, as Rocan had promised; the floors and walls were still damp. But the smell of waste still lingered, embedded in the metal from constant use over the years. The vents helped to clear the air, but not enough. In Shea’s opinion, no amount of venting would have been sufficient.
Still, there was nothing for it now but to continue on. And so he did.
He had entered the maze immediately after ending his argument with Rocan Arneas, removing the grate to the duct opening and slipping inside. He wasn’t sure by now how long he had been in there, crawling through the ducts and climbing the narrow metal ladders between floors. It was just as dark as the night he had left behind, and he had no idea what time it was. Without the smokeless lamp, he would have been completely lost. All he could think about at this point was reaching the nineteenth floor, getting Tindall free of his cell, steeling himself for the journey back, and getting out of there once and for all.
Now that his journey was under way, it seemed endless. Climbing up between floors, crawling through stench-filled metal tunnels and the occasional piles of unspeakable filth, was almost more than the boy could bear. He kept telling himself to remember what was at stake, to ignore anything but putting one elbow and knee in front of the other. It was a tiny space, even for him.
Several times there were loud bangs and shouts that echoed down the ductwork, and each time he paused and took a deep breath to remain steady. Whatever was happening was likely a good distance off and had nothing to do with him, but still he slowed automatically. If he were discovered, Rocan had promised to come for him. But it seemed just as likely that his companion would choose to abandon him. After all, what would it cost him to toss aside a homeless street kid, no matter what promise he had given?
The darkness pressed close, partly mitigated by the weak circle of light provided by his lamp. The smells threatened to overpower him. The ragged sound of his breathing was a constant reminder of how quickly his life could be snuffed out. His knees and elbows and back were all aching. Every time he glanced at the map to make sure he was doing what he should, he despaired over how far he still had to go.
Once, as he climbed the ladder from the thirteenth floor to the fifteenth, he found himself wondering what all this was going to achieve. Oh, sure, he knew it would free Tindall. And he understood Annabelle’s value. But how was anything permanent supposed to come to pass? What exactly were Tindall and Rocan planning on doing with Annabelle to change the destiny of the Four Lands? They couldn’t expect to travel the countryside using her to change the weather everywhere they went. That would take years—not to mention that Annabelle was far too big to move easily. In fact, even if they could figure out how to move the big machine, wouldn’t they be fugitives from the Federation prisons? Wouldn’t they be hunted at every turn? How could they do what they needed to if they were constantly fleeing pursuers? The prospect of such a life left the boy cold, and he told himself again that once he had finished freeing Tindall, he was going home.
When he reached the eighteenth floor, he found himself facing a metal grate identical to, but much larger than, the one he had come through earlier. It was securely fastened in place and barred any possibility of passage down the length of the horizontal ductwork ahead. He peered through the slots into the corridor beyond, using his lamp, but there was nothing to see. He listened for voices or other sounds of occupation and heard nothing. Scooting backward, he looked for another means of passage, but the ladder ended on his floor and the duct only ran one way. He looked at his map to see if there might be an explanation for this barricade, but there was none.
For a moment, a spike of panic hammered thought him. Had he miscounted a floor or taken a wrong turn? Would he, as Rocan had said, be lost in here forever? But no, he had gone slowly and consciously through this labyrinth, counting each level carefully and triple-checking the map at each junction. This had to be the right path. All that was different was this grate. He forced himself to relax, trying to decide what to do.
Then he remembered the substance Rocan had given him to burn his way through Tindall’s cell door.
He wriggled onto his side so he could reach
the leather-wrapped package and take it out. Then he crawled forward again until he was back at the grate. A quick study revealed that it had been fastened to the walls, ceiling, and floor with metal clamps. If the substance worked as he had been told, it should be easy enough to burn those clamps away from their fastenings.
He decided to test it first. Opening the wrapping, he scooped out a little of the substance and placed it against the closest fastening. When it was in place, he leaned forward and spat on it—twice, because he missed the first time. On the second try, the substance flared with white brilliance and the metal dissolved instantly.
Powerful stuff, he told himself. Best not to let any of it get on him. Or to stick his fingers in his mouth.
Emboldened, he began to work on the remainder of the fastenings and was done with all but one when he heard something moving in the darkness on the other side of the grate.
He paused what he was doing and listened carefully. A slow scraping broke the silence, a stealthy creeping.
Something was back there, and its movements were growing louder.
And closer.
* * *
—
Kol’Dre stood with his Skaar princess on a rise that gave them a broad view of the Mermidon River and everything that lay south for twenty miles. They had watched the sunrise as it colored the skies earlier—first crimson, then orange and pink, and finally deep blue. The colors had been spectacular, even for a sunrise in the Four Lands, and the cold of the day and the thin layer of snow that the deep night had brought to announce winter’s coming failed to diminish their beauty. Now they kept watch. For both of them, the end might be coming—today or tomorrow or, with luck, perhaps a bit longer. Every day was an exercise in patience as they waited along with their soldiers for the arrival of a Federation force that would crush them. Sooner or later, Ketter Vause would lose patience. And when he did, he would give the order.
