The Measure of the Magic: Legends of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT BY NOW AND TIME FOR HARD-WORKING men and women to be in bed and asleep, but the ragpicker had an appointment to keep. The one thing he had learned over the long years of his life—the one thing that had served him well in his demon work—was that humans were duplicitous. Skeal Eile was no exception; he might have been worse than most, in fact. So the ragpicker had known better than to trust much of anything he had to say. The Seraphic might promise he would secure the black staff from its newest holder—this boy, Panterra Qu—but it was more likely than not that even if he did so he would not relinquish it once he had hold of it. A man like the Seraphic was hungry for power, and he would already know the staff would give him command of magic beyond anything he possessed.

  So Skeal Eile would keep the staff for himself.

  Or at least, he would try.

  The ragpicker had been careful not to tell the Seraphic either his suspicions or his real intentions. The other might believe that the ragpicker trusted him to secure the staff and would simply wait around for that to happen. He might believe the ragpicker wanted the Seraphic to do the work for him. But the ragpicker had learned long ago that if you wanted something done, it was never a good idea to rely on others. Others were never as committed to achieving your goals as you were.

  So let Skeal Eile think what he wanted to. Let him believe he had value. Don’t reveal the truth about what he was really needed for. Don’t tell him that when he provided information, he revealed far more than he knew. So much so he would have been appalled, had his understanding of what was happening not been deflected just enough to cloud his memory. Best if he remembered only certain things. Best if he didn’t think too carefully on what was going to happen next.

  The ragpicker’s plans for the Seraphic, in fact, were complex and far reaching, and they would work best if the latter remained ignorant of true goals. Trusting the truth with such a man was a fool’s game. The ragpicker had spent sufficient time during the past few days learning about the Seraphic and his order, about how the people of his village regarded him and how he conducted himself as the self-appointed leader of his sect, to know what to expect. It was enough to enable the ragpicker to take the measure of the man and to determine accurately what was needed to secure his cooperation. Just enough, not too much—that was the key to what the Seraphic needed to know.

  That way he wouldn’t realize he was doing the ragpicker’s work until it was too late.

  But first things first. Having made contact with the Seraphic and given him reason to know he was being watched, he could turn his attention to more important things. Let Skeal Eile believe the demon was only interested in the black staff. Let him believe he could manipulate and deceive with impunity. He would learn the truth quickly enough.

  The ragpicker was a harsh taskmaster.

  He worked his way through the sleeping village to the council hall, intent on paying a visit next to the Drouj prisoner locked away in the building’s basement storeroom.

  It took him only minutes to reach his destination. Once there, he stood in the shadows, hidden from prying eyes, searching for the guards on duty. There would be two, he had learned—one keeping watch from without and one stationed at the door to the makeshift prison in the basement. A double measure of protection, it was said, against any sort of escape attempt.

  When he was satisfied there was no one in the building save the guards and their prisoner, the ragpicker detached himself from the shadows and walked to the main entrance. The first guard was sitting in the shadows against the veranda wall. He waited until the ragpicker had started to climb the steps before calling out to him to stop. The old man gestured vaguely, muttered something about his weary bones, and continued on until he had reached the top riser. He stopped there, stretching his arms and muttering on aimlessly.

  When the guard walked over to escort him back down again, the ragpicker seized the man by the front of his tunic and cut his throat with a single swipe of his hunting knife.

  Dragging the man inside, the ragpicker left him slumped in a corner of the room, bleeding out his life. It would have been quicker and less messy simply to crush his windpipe and leave him to strangle, but that form of killing wouldn’t have suited his purposes in this business.

  The ragpicker walked through the hall to the basement stairway and started down the steps. A voice called out to him—the other guard presumably—but he made no response. The second guard met him at the bottom of the stairs and had only just started to ask him his business when the ragpicker swiped his blade across this man’s throat, too.

  Amateurs, he thought.

  Without bothering to move the body, the ragpicker reached down to extract the storeroom keys, stepped carefully around the spreading pools of blood, and walked over to the storeroom door. Two tries with two different keys and he heard the lock give and pulled open the door.

  The prisoner was chained to a wall ring in the far corner, sitting on a pallet and looking at him through the gloom. His face, like chiseled wood, was blank and expressionless, but there was a cunning in the gleam of his eyes as he studied this newcomer.

  “Arik Siq?” the ragpicker asked.

  The prisoner made no reply. The ragpicker crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Are you Arik Siq or no?”

  The Drouj stood up, towering over him. Tall and lean, he was so dark he was almost black. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s have you answer my question first. That would be the polite thing for you to do. Are you Arik Siq?”

  “Who else would I be?” the other snarled. “How many prisoners are chained down here besides me?” He paused, studying the old man’s face, not liking what he saw. “All right, I’ll say it. I’m Arik Siq. What does it matter to you?” He looked past him toward the open door. “Where are the guards?”

  “Busy with other things. How would you like to get out of here and go back to your own people?”

  The Drouj stared at him. “Who are you, old man? You didn’t say.”

  The ragpicker shrugged. “Just a traveler, come through one of the passes that lead to the outside world. I came looking for a man. He carries a black staff. I’m told he’s dead. I’m told you killed him. How did you manage that?”

  Arik Siq hesitated, uncertain where this was leading. “Poison darts, from a blowgun.”

  “Really?” The ragpicker could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “He must have been distracted not to have been able to defend himself. You are a lucky man. Lucky twice over, now that I’m here.”

  “You’re going to set me free?”

  “I am.”

  The Drouj shook his head. “Why would you do that? What do you want from me in return?”

  The ragpicker smiled. “I understand that the man you killed gave the black staff to a boy. Apparently the boy tracked you down, captured you, and brought you here. Is that right?”

  “He tricked me.”

  “But here you are nevertheless. If I set you free, I want you to find that staff and bring it to me. You can do what you want with the boy, but the staff is mine. Do you agree to this?”

  He watched the Troll give him a quick look and then nod. “Why not? After I kill the boy, I’ll bring the staff to you.”

  He held the old man’s gaze for just a second before his eyes shifted away. The ragpicker reached out so swiftly that he had hold of the other’s tunic front before there was time to react and had pulled him so close that he was breathing in his face. Arik Siq made a halfhearted attempt to break free, but then the other’s free hand closed down on his shoulder, and his features twisted as if daggers had been driven into his body. Groaning, he dropped to his knees, where he remained hunched over and shaking, no longer big and threatening, no longer anything but terrified.

  “Do not play games with me,” the ragpicker hissed, all pretense of civility gone. “Your life is mine to do with as I choose. You give me little reason to salvage it when you lie to me like that. If you intend not to give me the blac
k staff, then you would be wise not to lie to me about it. I can sense lies, Troll. I can sniff them out!”

  “I was just … telling you what you … wanted to hear!” the other gasped. Then, in a surge of mixed bravado and fury, he added, “Why shouldn’t I?”

  The urge to break his neck was enormous, but the ragpicker managed to resist the impulse. “Look at me,” he ordered, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Look carefully.”

  Arik Siq did as he was ordered, and the ragpicker let him see just enough of what he was that he could feel the Drouj shiver with recognition. He held him in check a moment longer, letting him feel his strength, giving him time to understand how helpless he was. Then he released him and stepped back.

  “If you lie to me again, I will kill you,” he said quietly. “Understood?”

  The Troll nodded, unable to speak.

  “Now tell me again that you will bring me the black staff.”

  “I will,” the other promised, and this time the ragpicker could tell from his voice that he meant it.

  “Answer this. Why are they keeping you prisoner here? Why don’t they just kill you and be done with it?”

  Arik Siq shook his head. “The boy thinks to trade me for the girl we keep as prisoner. Or perhaps for the lives of his people.”

  “You intend to invade this valley? That’s who lays siege to it now, that army to the north? And you spied for them to find a way in?”

  “They brought me here of their own free will. They were stupid. They betrayed themselves. They don’t deserve to keep this valley. We will take it away from them and make it our new home.”

  The ragpicker grimaced. Idiots, all of them. “But you know the location of the passes now? You know how to bring your army in through either?”

  “I know.”

  “Then bring them. I have removed the guards and opened the door. When we are finished here, you can just walk out. No one will stop you. Go from this village back to your people. Tell them what you know. Advise your father to attack Aphalion Pass because that is where most of those who will resist your invasion will be waiting. The Elves are the real danger. But you will take one hundred of your Drouj and go to Declan Reach. Do not enter the pass. Wait for me outside. Stay hidden. Look for that boy. If you see him, take possession of the staff and do with him whatever you choose. But keep the staff safe and wait for me to come to you.”

  “All you want is the staff? Nothing more? What if you change your mind and want the valley, as well?”

  The ragpicker smiled. “The staff will be sufficient.”

  “The staff has magic?”

  “It does. But not of the sort that would be of any use to you. Don’t be foolish. Do what you have promised. Once I have the staff, I will be on my way to other places.”

  Arik Siq nodded, but the doubt in his eyes was clear. When you were possessed of a deceitful mind, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that everyone else was the same. There was nothing the ragpicker could do about that. Not now. But if the Troll failed to do as he was told …

  He reached down and broke the chain that held the Drouj bound to the iron ring as if it were paper. “Get out of here,” he ordered. “Don’t let anyone stop you. Don’t forget what you are supposed to do. If you fail to follow my instructions, I will find you. Now go.”

  He stepped back. The Troll climbed to his feet, rubbed his arms and legs where the chain had bound him, looked once more at the old man, pulled up the hood of his cloak so that his face was obscured, and without a word went through the door and up the stairs. The ragpicker listened to the sound of his footsteps receding, staying where he was until everything was silent once more.

  Then he walked from the room, satisfied that things were going as he had intended. Setting the Troll free should stir things up nicely. With luck, he would return with his father’s army in tow, which should bring the boy with the black staff running.

  After all, that was the only way this matter would be settled. He didn’t think for a moment that Arik Siq would manage any better than Skeal Eile to find and claim the staff and bring it to him. He would have to do that for himself. Creating the right conditions for luring the bearer to where he would be waiting was the trick.

  He went up the stairs and out the door of the council hall, the night black and empty around him. Sunrise was still hours away; the people of the village still slept.

  He allowed himself a small smile. One more task needed doing this night. He was anxious to get it done.

  THE DEMON HAD COME into the valley for the express purpose of finding the man and the black staff and destroying both. It was a search that had been ongoing for months, so there was no particular expectation that it would happen quickly. The demon was patient in the way of most demons, and so encountering obstacles and overcoming difficulties was expected. Moreover, it had no special plan for achieving its goals, but simply waited to see what it would find once it got close enough to determine that an end to its search was in sight.

  Encountering the girl in the ruins had been the first real indication that the hunt was winding down. Finding his way to this village and speaking with its people had reinforced that hope. But it was Skeal Eile who had provided him with the necessary tools. The Seraphic had given him so much more to work with, information and insights alike, and now it could employ its usual tactics to create the sort of disruption that would bring the bearer of the staff right to him.

  He was sowing the seeds that would grow that crop this very night. Not in a way that anyone would suspect—because he needed to go unnoticed among humans if he were to be effective—but by letting the humans themselves do his work for him.

  It was so easy. Humans were predictable creatures. They were prisoners of their own emotions, unable to prevent themselves from repeating the same mistakes over and over. They might try to change, but in the end they always reverted. Their moral codes and need for a sense of place in the world and dependency on one another doomed them from the cradle and led them to the grave. They would never change, and the demon would not have it any other way.

  The ragpicker found Aislinne Kray’s cottage without difficulty, remembering correctly the paths that led there. The house was dark and quiet, but he stood outside for a time making sure he was missing nothing. He had not forgotten the gnarled little man who had appeared out of nowhere on his last visit, an ugly little watchdog clearly much more dangerous than he appeared. He could see the proprietary interest in the woman reflected in the little man’s eyes, and he suspected that it was not to be taken lightly. He could kill the other easily enough, but once again that might draw attention he was trying to avoid.

  Especially this night.

  But eventually, he decided there was no one keeping watch and whoever was in the house was sleeping soundly. So he made his way around to the rear of the cottage, opened the simple latch lock with little more than a touch, and stepped inside.

  He stood where he was once again, listening. He had known he would be coming back here from the moment Aislinne Kray had ordered him off the property. Her sense of entitlement grated on him even now, and he knew he would not be satisfied until he had found a way to make her pay. His plan for her had solidified while he had listened to the Seraphic ramble on about his various schemes and machinations—particularly the one detailing how he had helped the Queen of the Elves murder her husband.

  It was in that dark story that he had found the beginnings of an idea for his revenge.

  It would be particularly fitting given her relationship with the original bearer of the black staff, whose unexpected demise had cheated him of the chance at a killing he would have relished. At least he could make her suffer in his stead. There was order and symmetry to that.

  He finished his vigil, satisfied that nothing was amiss, and began to move through the cottage. He took his time, pausing often in his search. He had to be careful not to wake her unexpectedly. He had no knowledge of where to find her bedroom, or of her sleeping habits. If he made
a hasty or wrong move, he would lose her. She was not someone he could scare easily or panic into doing something foolish. His best chance was to catch her asleep and dispose of her before she knew what was happening.

  When he had gone far enough through the downstairs to eliminate any reasonable possibility that she was there—convinced that the bedrooms were on the second floor, pretty much as he had expected—he climbed the stairs leading up, his footsteps so silent he might have been a cat. He could move so when it was needed—silent and weightless. He could slow his breathing and even his heart rate, become little more than a wraith passing through with the night.

  He found her asleep and alone in her bed. Her husband had not returned from his culling of able-bodied men to defend the pass at Declan Reach. The ragpicker watched her as she slept, wanting to make sure of the deepness of that sleep. Then he crossed the bedroom, bent over carefully, and pinched the nerves of her neck just so, rendering her unconscious. She never woke, barely moved. He smiled at this. He liked the feeling of power it generated inside him.

  Wrapping her in a blanket, he picked her up, slung her effortlessly over one bony shoulder, and carried her back downstairs, her long hair trailing down his back. No one appeared to impede him, although by this time they would be too late in any case. That troublesome little man who protected her was nowhere to be found. Her husband had not returned. She was alone, and she was completely his.

  He bore her back through the village to the council hall, encountering no one, entered the hall anew, and trudged down the basement stairs to where he had left the second guard sprawled on the floor. Taking away the blanket, he laid her next to the dead man, making sure she was resting in the still-spreading pool of his blood. He took time to smear some of that blood on her clothing and hands and even her face. Then he stretched out her right arm toward the dead man’s throat and curled her fingers around the knife that had killed him.

  Rudimentary, but effective. The formula had already worked once for Skeal Eile and the Queen of the Elves when they had killed the King and made it appear as if it was his daughter who had done it. The Seraphic had told him so. It was this story that had given the ragpicker the idea.