by Terry Brooks
It was his intent to decimate the population, and he was already considering how to make this happen. The most obvious way was to bring the Trolls who had already attacked the valley into fresh conflict with the humans who were seeking to keep them out. He did not know the history of these peoples, but history of this sort was pretty much always the same. One side had something that the other wanted. One side sought to take that something away and the other sought to keep it. Both were willing to kill to have their way.
How hard could it be to give them their chance?
He stood amid corpses piled up one upon another and surveyed the killing ground. These few were only the first of those destined to cross over to the land of the dead. These few were just the tip of the iceberg. The demon walked forward until he was at the apex of the descent into the valley. It was just light enough that he could see some of what lay beyond. Far away to the south and east, the lights of a village were barely visible through a thick screen of brume. He would start there, he decided.
Humming to himself, he began his descent.
IT WAS ALMOST DAWN by the time the ragpicker arrived at the outskirts of Glensk Wood, his feet sore and his body weary, but his spirits high. So much to be done, so much to be accomplished. But the rewards were worth the effort, and he felt eager to begin his work.
He walked through the village—strolled, really—greeting people as he passed with a word or a simple nod, an itinerant seller of goods, a harmless old man. Everyone seemed eager to acknowledge him. One or two even offered him food and drink or asked his destination and if they could help him in any way. They saw he was a traveler and might have come far. They extended their kindness without having the slightest clue whom they were extending it to.
It made him laugh inside. It put a smile on his face and a dark satisfaction in his heart.
He found his way to the village council chambers, walked up the steps to the veranda and through the open front door. The cavernous room inside, where the town meetings were clearly held, was empty, and he stood there for a moment imagining what it would look like if it were set afire. He made a promise to himself to find out.
“Help you?” a voice behind him asked.
He turned, smiling. “Perhaps.”
He was facing a young man with sandy hair and freckles and an eager face. The young man was wearing working clothes and carrying a wooden box of tools.
“Just happened to be passing by and saw the open door. You looking for Pogue?”
The ragpicker shook his head. “I’m not from here. I just arrived this morning. I sell odds and ends. Who is Pogue?”
“Pogue Kray, the council chairman. He pretty much runs things in Glensk Wood. Which town are you from?”
“Sunny Rise, way to the east. Do you know of it?”
The young man shook his head. “Can’t say that I do. I don’t get over that way much. Not at all, matter of fact. This is my home.” He smiled some more. “Anyway, I just wanted to see if I could help. Pogue is out gathering up men to attend to the defenses up at Declan Reach. Been out since sometime yesterday, making the rounds. So you won’t find him, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
The ragpicker cocked his head. “Who I’m really looking for is a man who carries a black staff. Do you know of such a man?”
His new friend nodded eagerly. “Everyone knows about him. That’s the one they call the Gray Man. Sider Ament. Patrols the valley rim, checks the passes to see if the wards are still in place. They’re not anymore, you know. Down, all of them. The way out—or in—is open to anyone.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Word is, there’s an army out there. Trolls. They’re camped on the flats beyond Aphalion Pass, waiting on something. Word is, they want to take our valley away from us and make a home of it for themselves. Throw us to the wolves or whatever. But we won’t stand for that. You heard about this?”
“I did hear something. No details, though. Are there a lot of these Trolls out there? Enough to do what they say they’re going to do?” The ragpicker gave the young man his most concerned look. “Do you think our people are in any real danger?”
The young man shrugged. “Could be. I put my faith in the teachings of the Seraphic. I belong to the Children of the Hawk. We believe that we will be saved no matter what the danger, once the valley opens up again. Like it has now. We believe the Hawk will return for us and keep us safe from whatever threatens.”
The ragpicker nodded sagely. Do you, now? Safe from anything at all? Safe from me? The words burned like a cleansing fire in his heart. “Tell me something of your order,” he asked the other. “All of this is new to me. Who are the Children of the Hawk?”
Then he proceeded to listen carefully to everything the young man had to tell him about the sect and its leader, the Seraphic Skeal Eile, who at the moment was gone from the village but was expected back within the next few days. It was a fascinating story, and the demon drank it all in with a rapturous enthusiasm he could barely conceal. This was so much better than he had hoped. Everything he needed to bring his plans to fruition was right there for the taking. He could hardly believe his luck.
“Well, I will certainly make it a point to speak to your Seraphic upon his return. I think I might be interested in joining your sect. It sounds just right for me. But I want to hear more from the Seraphic himself.”
“Oh, he will be glad to speak with you,” the young man assured him enthusiastically. He stuck out his hand. “My name is Elson. Yours?”
The ragpicker did not take the other’s hand, but only smiled. “My name is of no importance. I am a simple trader in goods and services. A ragpicker, as you can see. But it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elson. I am grateful for your time and your insights.”
He started to turn away and then stopped suddenly. “One thing more. You never did say where I could find the man who carries the black staff. What was his name again?”
“Sider Ament,” the other replied. “But he’s a hard one to find. He comes and goes as he pleases and never with any announcement beforehand. Pogue might know. Or maybe his wife, Aislinne. She has a history with the Gray Man. Knew him when they were both young. He still comes by to visit her now and then. She might know.”
The ragpicker repeated the name carefully in his head. “And where will I find her?” he asked.
Minutes later, he was through the door of the council hall and on his way to find Aislinne Kray.
IT WAS A SHORT DISTANCE from the council hall to the residence of Pogue and Aislinne Kray, and the ragpicker found it without any particular difficulty. People helped him navigate the journey, taking time to set him on the right paths, wishing him well as he went. It was early still, but people were up and about, beginning their day, off to work or on errands or whatever pursuits occupied their time. The ragpicker found that everyone knew the Krays and no one questioned why he wanted to visit them at their home. Apparently, it wasn’t all that unusual to do so, although one or two people mentioned that the husband was away and the ragpicker might find himself disappointed if that was who he was intending to see.
But the ragpicker was seldom disappointed about anything these days, and the bright promise of finding the bearer of the black staff was a beacon that never dimmed.
It was no different on this day. He arrived at the little cottage to which he had been directed and found the woman he was seeking working in her frontyard flower garden. She was on her knees, digging in the dirt, weeding her beds. But when she heard him call out her name and saw him approaching, she rocked back on her feet and then rose. Tall and slim and centered, she waited on him patiently as he came up the walk, an old man she had never seen before. The demon might have found her pretty—long blond hair gone almost white, brilliant green eyes, fine features—if he had thought that humans in general were the least bit attractive, which he did not. Save for those few who had the use of magic or carried talismans possessed of magic, there was nothing interesting about any of th
em.
Still, he liked the cool way she appraised him, not in the least afraid, not showing even the smallest deference.
“Good day,” he greeted her, giving a smile and a sort of small bow. “Are you Aislinne Kray?”
She nodded. “I am. And you?”
He gave her his patented shrug. “I don’t really have a name. Haven’t got much use for one. I am a ragpicker, an itinerant, and I never stay long enough in any one place to have need of a name. I had one once, I think, but I have long since forgotten it. I hope that doesn’t matter?”
She gave him a look. “It doesn’t to me. I can’t speak for others. What brings you to my home?”
“A favor.” He gave her another smile. “I am looking for a man. His name is Sider Ament. I am told by some of the villagers that you knew him as a girl and that he sometimes comes here. I was wondering if you might know where he is now.”
She said nothing, green eyes fixed on his face. Her steady gaze gave him an unexpectedly uncomfortable feeling, and he suddenly wondered if he had said something that gave him away.
Then she shook her head slowly. “You’ve come too late. Sider Ament is dead. He was killed last week at Declan Reach. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
The demon was momentarily flummoxed. Dead? That was what the girl in the ruins had said, and he had known at once that she was lying. But this time the words rang true.
“You will pardon me for asking this,” he said to Aislinne Kray, “but are you sure? I came a long way to find him, and this news is heartbreaking.”
“To me, as well. But there’s no mistaking it. The source is unimpeachable. He would not lie. Sider is dead.” She hesitated. “Why were you seeking him?”
The ragpicker shrugged. “He did me a great favor once, something of a personal nature, something I don’t talk about with anyone. But I never had a chance to thank him. It took me until now to find enough coin and courage to come looking for him.” He smiled ruefully. “I waited too long.”
The woman nodded. “Would you like some tea?”
The ragpicker nodded. “That would be nice.”
She did not invite him inside, but left him waiting on her front stoop while she fetched the tea. While she was gone, he gave thought to what this new information would do to his plans.
“Green tea for a cool morning,” she announced, handing him a mug. She sat down beside him. “How long ago was it that you met Sider?”
“Oh, several years. Too long to make excuses.” He sipped at the tea. “This is quite good. I can’t remember when I’ve had better.” He sipped some more. “I was wondering. When I met him—Sider Ament—he was carrying a black staff carved with symbols. Quite striking. Do you know what became of it?”
For a second time, her green eyes fixed on him, and this time there was no mistake—he had crossed a line that revealed him. She smiled, reached out, and took the mug of tea out of his hand.
“I can’t imagine,” she said conversationally, “what difference it would make to you, an itinerant ragpicker who met Sider Ament the one time only, what became of the black staff.”
He tried a reassuring smile. “It doesn’t make a difference so much as it satisfies my curiosity.”
She stood up. “I rather doubt that. Just as I am beginning to doubt that you are anything of what you say you are. It was nice meeting you, but I think you had better leave.”
He stood up with her but made no move to depart. “You are a perceptive lady. Perhaps you have discerned I seldom leave without gaining possession of what I came for. In this case, it was only information. If I am denied, I might choose to come back for something more.”
She gave him a chilly smile. “Others have made the mistake of thinking that way. You can visit their remains in the woods.”
She was only a woman holding two mugs of tea and lacking any weapons at all. But there was something about the way she said it that gave him pause.
By then, it was too late.
“Good morning, Brickey,” she called to someone behind him.
The ragpicker turned to find a gnarled little man with a shock of unruly black hair and a crooked smile approaching, seemingly out of nowhere. There was something dangerous about him, and the ragpicker sensed it right away. He was certain he could dispose of him, that the little man was no match for him. But there was every chance the effort would draw attention, and he did not want that.
“Can I help with something, Aislinne?” the man called Brickey asked, never taking his eyes off her visitor.
The ragpicker bowed to Aislinne Kray. “I have overstayed my welcome. I apologize. I am sure I can find what I need somewhere else. Good day.”
Without a glance for either the little man or Aislinne Kray, the ragpicker turned and walked away. He could feel the woman’s eyes on his back, and it made him smile. She might not realize it, but his business with her was far from finished.
He would be back to see her later.
SKEAL EILE SAT ON A COUCH IN A TINY RECEIVING room in the Amarantyne Palace, awaiting the appearance of Isoeld Severine, although his patience was growing decidedly thin. He had arrived an hour earlier—coming to a rear door of the building, as instructed—only to find a solitary Home Guard waiting to receive him. Without so much as a word of greeting, the Home Guard had taken him through various corridors to this room, deposited him inside, and left him to whatever solitary pursuits he could manage to invent.
The Seraphic had not expected that the recently widowed Queen of the Elves would greet him with crowds of admirers chanting his name or baskets of flowers strewn on the front walkway as he entered, but he had expected better treatment than this. He had assumed the Queen would be better prepared for the tumult that followed the King’s assassination and the incarceration of his daughter for the murder, but it appeared he was mistaken. Isoeld Severine had adopted a fortress mentality right from the start, closing off contact with all but a few trusted advisers and her heavily armed personal guard. Aside from Teonette—though Eile assumed he might be mistaken about this, too—no one had been given access to her.
She had addressed the High Council right after the King’s demise, and he was told that she had handled herself well in that situation. She had spoken eloquently of her husband’s service and her intention to see to it, no matter if she was proclaimed ruler of the Elves or not, that his legacy endured and his good work continued. Impressed by her dedication to her husband’s efforts and memory, they had named her successor on the spot. It was a decision they were all probably regretting by now.
In any case, she had made a bargain with him, and he had yet to see any evidence she intended to keep it. It was his man who had killed the King, done so on his orders and at her request, and the agreement had been plain enough. Once the King was dispatched, his daughter charged with the crime, and Isoeld ascended the throne, he was to be given ready access both to her and the Elven people so he could begin the work of gathering new disciples for the Order of the Hawk. He knew they were there; he had even seen them at gatherings he had held on the outskirts of this part of the kingdom’s borders. But they were a minority afraid of condemnation and even retribution for their beliefs, and so they kept a low profile. It was his intention to remove the barriers that forced them to keep silent by making it clear to all that even the Elven throne was accepting of his work.
Yet none of that had happened. The Queen had not so much as mentioned the Children of the Hawk the few times she had addressed either the Council or the Elven people, and for all intents and purposes nothing had changed for the better where he was concerned.
So here he was now, come to find out why this was so, come to advise her that if she didn’t act quickly to make things right, she might find out to her regret the consequences of ignoring her promise. He did not intend to back away simply because she had now gotten what she wanted and might feel less beholden to him.
He was considering the nature of the consequences he would impos
e when the door to the receiving room opened and she stepped through. She gave him only a cursory glance before closing the door behind her and locking it.
“Good day, Seraphic,” she greeted, her voice cool.
He nodded, but said nothing in return. She gave him a look and then walked over to the windows that opened into the gardens behind the building and carefully drew together the floor-length curtains, leaving the room in semi-darkness.
“Better if no one sees us just now,” she said, turning back to face him.
Even in the dimness of the room’s shadowy illumination, she was beautiful to look at. He could understand why Oparion Amarantyne had been so taken with her. He might have been similarly tempted—had been more than once—except he knew what sort of creature lived within that lovely skin.
“I don’t mind the secrecy, but I can’t say I much care for the treatment otherwise.” He walked forward a few steps, putting him close enough to watch her eyes. “You kept me waiting a very long time.”
“For which I apologize,” she said. “But the High Council has been meeting all day, trying to come to an agreement about how to treat the threat of a Troll invasion. Unfortunately, they lack ideas and backbones in equal measure. It is much easier to debate the matter to death.”
She moved into the light more directly, and he saw the deep furrows scratched into the smooth skin of her face.
“Teonette does nothing to help?” he asked, trying to mask his surprise at what he was seeing, wondering who was responsible.
She laughed softly. “Come, Seraphic. A title does not the man make. He may be first minister, but that does not confer on him anything he doesn’t already possess. In this situation, he is sadly inadequate. You know what men like Teonette are good for? Of course you do. You must also know, then, that if I relied on him to lend backbone or clear thinking to our efforts, I should already be imprisoned and sentenced.”
