by Terry Brooks
Mirai fought side by side with Railing, each protecting the other and both trying to protect Farshaun. But the old Rover was soon too weak to continue and dropped to the ground senseless. Railing’s use of the wishsong threw back most of their assailants, and Mirai’s quick hands and sure use of her blades cut down the rest. Whatever manner of beings these creatures were, they seemed impervious to fear and pain and possessed no threshold where they would break and run. No matter what the defenders did to drive them off, they refused to quit. It was disheartening and eventually terrifying, and after a while Mirai began to sense that there was no way this battle could be won.
Then Skint went down, felled by a blow from a club, and suddenly they were four. A moment later the last of the Trolls went down, and then they were three. A handful of their attackers got behind them and seized the Speakman. He shrieked and howled as they dragged him out into the open and then gave a strangled gasp and went silent as they cut his throat.
Railing, Mirai, and Seersha were backed up against one another, surrounded on all sides. It was over for them, Mirai knew. Their strength was depleted and their numbers reduced to where they were too few to hold off their attackers. One by one, they would be cut down. Even their formidable magic was not going to be enough. Already it was showing signs of failing both the Druid and the boy, leaving them ashen-faced and gasping for breath.
“Get behind me,” Railing told Mirai as the creatures massed for another rush.
He was covered in ash and grime, and his face was hard in the darkness. He looked a dozen years older, and she was stricken at the thought of losing him.
“I’m right here,” she said, tears flooding her eyes.
Right to the end.
But suddenly light flooded the darkness overhead, spearing down to the precipice and illuminating the hordes of attackers. A familiar whine broke through the sounds of battle, and a flit shot out of the darkness and plunged into the battle. Rail slings released their deadly missiles, sweeping aside scores of attackers, and a fire launcher’s deadly beam incinerated dozens more. Instantly the tide of battle shifted. Even for creatures as determined and blood-crazed as these, this was too much. They broke and ran, disappearing over the edge of the precipice and into the night.
Mirai wanted to shout aloud what she was feeling, but she settled for hugging Railing instead. Somehow, against all odds, the Rovers had found them!
Still holding on to Railing, who was swallowing hard and murmuring “It’s all right, it’s all right,” over and over, she watched the flit swing around and settle onto the bluff. The pilot, wrapped in leathers and a protective mask, stepped out of the cockpit and looked around cautiously before coming over.
Mirai felt a twinge of surprise. She knew at once who it was.
Austrum reached her, pulled off the mask, took her out of Railing’s arms, and kissed her hard on the mouth.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her.
She shook her head no, too shocked to speak.
“Courting you is very hard work,” he said, looking her in the eyes and holding her gaze. “But worth it.”
Then he kissed her again.
11
In that same hour, far to the east in Arishaig, the assassin Stoon approached the sprawling compound that housed the offices and residences of the Federation’s Coalition Council. It was raining—a torrential downpour, thunderclouds massed overhead and the skies filled with flashes of lightning and long peals of rolling thunder. Cloaked and hooded, a wraith abroad on a gloomy night, the assassin passed through a door used by servants and laborers—a door that was locked, but to which he possessed a key.
Keeping to the shadows, he made his way along the courtyard walls and then through a little-used rear door to the building that housed the Prime Minister’s residence. He slipped inside a darkened entryway, pausing to make certain he was alone. But there were no guards at this level or any servants about at this time of night. He shed his cloak and moved swiftly down the hall to the secret passage, triggering the release to the hidden door and passing through to an even deeper darkness.
It was musty and cobwebbed within, and he could hear rats scurrying in the walls. He found the candle he required to light his way, lit it, and started up the stairs to the next floor, moving on cat’s feet, his senses straining to catch any unusual or unexpected noises. But there were only the rats and the sound of his breathing.
Just like old times.
He thought momentarily of Drust Chazhul, dead now for over a week, lying in the ground to which he had been hastily consigned by a handful of the soldiers who had followed him to Paranor—a handful lucky enough to survive the doom that had overtaken their fellows and with no love for the late Prime Minister and no reason not to want him dead and buried. They would keep their mouths shut; they did not wish to be connected to the deed and had been made to understand that silence was what would keep them alive. It was an easy bargain to make. Drust Chazhul was nothing to them. He was just another in a long line of politicians that had found countless ways to make their personal lives difficult and their lot as soldiers more trying.
Stoon thought of Drust without sadness or regret. He had killed Drust because the Prime Minister had become an obstacle to his own ambitions. In his trade, you looked out for yourself first and foremost. He might serve a master or mistress from time to time, but it was never for long and never with any thought of permanent attachment. That he had stayed with Drust for as long as he had was something of an oddity. He doubted it would ever happen again.
Even with her.
He reached the next floor and turned down the hidden passageway leading to the Prime Minister’s chambers. How many times had he made this journey? How often over the years had he followed this very route through the bowels of the compound to meet in secret and plan great things? It would have been impossible to say, and in any case unnecessary to speculate. The past had no meaning in these matters. It was always about the future and what great promises the future might hold.
Farther down the corridor, several twists and turns later, he reached another set of stairs and climbed to the third floor. As he did so, he flashed back to the killing and recalled Drust’s face as the knife slid home and his life thread was severed. An image of it hung suspended in the air before him, fully remembered from the moment the killing had occurred. Shock and dismay, confusion and a clear sense that something was terribly wrong—all had shown in the man’s dying features. Stoon savored the memory. It gave him an undeniable satisfaction. There were many others like it, but none that provided such a clear sense of fulfillment. Drust Chazhul had been a monster, bereft of any sense of moral obligation or purpose in life. He had only wanted to achieve power and then hang on to it. Such men were plentiful and always replaceable. Such men needed purging, and when the chance came to remove one, it was an opportunity to be exploited.
Or so Stoon believed, and at the end of the day what else mattered but his own beliefs?
At the head of the stairs he found a landing and a locked door. He looked to see that the signal candle was lit and then knocked softly, waiting for her voice before he used the second key. He entered the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. The light was better here, thanks to a series of lit candles arrayed about the room and the pale reflection of the torchlight that illuminated the courtyards, its rain-washed glow streaming through the windows.
“You have news for me?” she asked softly, her voice low and seductive. She was sitting in her bed, wrapped in a silken robe, propped up by pillows and holding a tablet on which she had been writing.
“Yes, Mistress,” he answered. “I do.”
He extinguished the candle he was carrying and moved over to the chair he favored on these visits, wondering how the rest of the night would go.
“Have you missed me?”
He shrugged. “Always.”
“Life with me is so much better than it was with Drust, isn’t it? So much more interesting?”
; “I’d be a fool to say otherwise.”
“And you are not a fool, are you, Stoon? Not where I am concerned. Are you?”
He watched Edinja Orle set down the tablet and rise from her bed. She walked over to where he sat, bent down, and kissed him on the lips. Her dusky skin smelled of sandalwood, and her long silver hair spilled over his face. “I didn’t hear your answer.”
“I didn’t give it. I don’t need to. You own me body and soul, Mistress. You already know that.”
She smiled, the teeth behind her lips as sharp as those of her cat.
“I know men aren’t to be trusted,” she said quietly, moving away.
Drust would have appreciated knowing who had orchestrated his death. He would have liked the symmetry of it, had he been able to look at it objectively. He had been so anxious to rid himself of Edinja that he had overlooked the obvious when he found himself the recipient of those threatening notes. When the possible doesn’t fit, one must take a closer look at the impossible. Certain that Edinja was dead, it had not occurred to him to wonder why no one had been able to verify her death. He had even accepted Stoon’s story about the disappearance of the body—that it quite likely had been spirited away by family members, a common practice among magic users. Seeing her poisoned right in front of him had been sufficient proof, and he had never even considered the possibility that she had arranged all this for his benefit, in order to catch him off guard and finish him.
Stoon had made certain it all went as planned. He and Edinja had become lovers and accomplices several months before, not long after Stoon had decided that things were not working out with Drust as he had expected. The “permanent position” he had accepted was leading nowhere. Drust was ambitious and clever, but he was not well positioned in the hierarchy of Federation families and there was a limit to how far one could rise when personal circumstances were unfavorable. Stoon had seen the need for a different alliance clearly if he were to improve his situation—something he was always looking to do. He had been looking around already when he met Edinja.
The meeting had been carefully planned, though not by him. It was she who had approached him as he was coming back to his quarters late one night, cloaked and hooded as she stepped out from the shadows to confront him. How she had found him in the first place was a mystery, but the reason she had done so was never in doubt. She asked him if she could come in, she told him what she had in mind for him as they sat drinking cups of ale, and then she asked him to take her to his bed. He let it happen; she was eager and he was curious. It occurred to him that she might be lying, that she might have another purpose in doing this, but he saw no harm in taking the time to find out what it was.
He began seeing her regularly after that, but always on her terms and always making certain they would not be discovered. He discovered she was a good match for him, and soon enough curiosity turned to attraction and attraction to infatuation. She wanted him to become her assassin; she wanted him to leave Drust Chazhul. She made it clear that he would never improve himself with Drust, no matter the promises made or the heights the other might strive to achieve. None of it would last; in the end, Drust would go the way of other overreaching, ambitious amateurs. She intended to see that this happened. It would be wise of him to join her in this effort. Didn’t he find the idea attractive?
Eventually, he agreed to join her. The decision to be rid of Drust Chazhul was made the moment he did. Stoon might not have agreed to the arrangement had he not been so certain that Drust had overstepped himself and that his demise, however it came about, was imminent in any event. Allying himself with Edinja Orle made perfect sense. She was a member of a powerful family of magic wielders and politicians. She, herself, was an extremely talented sorceress. She was beautiful and smart, and she wanted him. The benefits were obvious. In the beginning, there had been no specific timetable for eliminating either Drust or Federation Commander Lehan Arodian. Once Edinja had faked her own death, Stoon had simply waited for the right opportunity to dispatch the other two. Arodian’s killing had been simple; Drust was looking to eliminate the commander and been more than willing to help achieve that end. Killing Drust after the debacle at Paranor had been inspired by Stoon’s realization that there would never be a better time. The Prime Minister had led his soldiers into a disastrous engagement, and the fury and hatred he had called down upon himself as a result assured that no one would question too closely what had happened when he didn’t return.
Of course, Stoon understood the danger inherent in the game he was playing. Edinja had been quick to resurface and lay claim to the position of Prime Minister once Drust was out of the way, explaining how she had gone into hiding to save her life and convincing by various means the members of the Coalition Council that she was the logical choice. Many, it might be pointed out, knew of the tower in which she lived and the rumors of what happened to those who disappeared within because they had incurred her disfavor. The salient point, so far as Drust was concerned, was that once she was named to the office, he became dispensable. At any point thereafter, Edinja might decide she would be better off rid of him. But Stoon was drawn to the riskiness of the relationship, and he trusted his instincts to warn him when it was time to quit playing the game. His instincts exceeded those of most and had saved him before on repeated occasions. He had no reason to think they wouldn’t save him again.
“What have you come to tell me?” Edinja asked, bringing him out of his reverie. She was standing across the room, looking out the window.
He caught sight of Cinla now, stretched out beneath the sill, eyes bright lanterns of yellow in the shadows. The moor cat was staring at him, gaze fixed and steady.
He forced himself to look away. “Aphenglow Elessedil has left Arborlon and is flying west toward the Blue Divide, possibly in search of the Ard Rhys, but perhaps for another reason.”
“Another reason?”
“Before she left this last time, she flew back to Paranor and apparently went into the Keep. The birds you set on watch after we withdrew brought word only hours ago; she was seen on the south wall, inside the Keep.” He paused. “Those birds. How do you get them to report to me like that?”
Somehow, in a way that was a mystery to him, she had trained ravens not only to keep watch for her but also to report what they had seen by a form of communication that projected images into the mind. It was magic, of course, but magic of a sort he had never before encountered. Edinja was the possessor of many such skills, and it only served to strengthen his belief that abandoning Drust Chazhul had been the correct choice.
She shook her head dismissively. “I just do. Now finish what you were saying.”
He backed off at once. “On returning, she resupplied her vessel, bid good-bye to her sister, and flew off with her bodyguard. Just the two of them. So perhaps she searches for the Ard Rhys, but perhaps she found something at Paranor that sent her west. We can’t know.”
Edinja smiled. “Not right away, we can’t. But perhaps soon. Our source in Arborlon has nothing more to add?”
“I received a message about the Elessedil girl’s return and subsequent departure. Nothing more. She seems to have spoken to no one about why she either went back to Paranor or later flew west.”
“Her sister will know,” Edinja said softly.
Stoon hesitated. “Do you wish me to find out?”
“What interests me is the reason behind the Ard Rhys’s departure and the nature of her destination. There is something important happening.”
She walked over to stand beside him. She was small, but it always seemed she was the larger and stronger of the two when he was in her presence. He had never felt that way with Drust Chazhul.
“I want to know the moment any of the Druids return or are sighted in any part of the Four Lands. I want to find them and I want to track them. Send more of my birds to search them out. Send word to my creature in Arborlon. I want to know what is going on. All of it.”
“I will see that it is don
e, Mistress.” He paused. “Do you wish to have Paranor occupied now? Perhaps the protective wards have been removed.”
She reached out and stroked his cheek gently. Then she sat down across from him. “Do you know why I wanted Drust Chazhul dead? Not because he was Prime Minister when I should have been. Nor because he was any real threat to my ambitions—certainly no more than Arodian was. I could have killed them anytime and gotten what I wanted. No, it was because Drust was so determined to put an end to the use of magic in the Four Lands.”
She got up again, crossed the room, poured wine into goblets, and returned, handing one to him. She smiled as he hesitated in accepting. “It is only wine, Stoon.”
He took it from her, and she sat. “Drust believed that magic had run its course and that once again science had become a viable alternative. He ignored history and common sense, believing that the advent of the Great Wars and the destruction of the Old World were things of the past and that the future should not be shaped by what had happened several thousand years ago. The discovery of diapson crystals and the inventions that were generated as a result led him to embrace this theory. Magic seemed dangerous to him. He perceived it as a threat—not only to himself because he had no use of it, but to the larger world as well, because its power rested in the hands of a few, and that could never change. Magic wasn’t an object that anyone could master and command. It was genetic and therefore elitist. It could be studied and learned or it could be acquired by chance and sometimes diligence, but never possessed by more than a few.”
“He hated magic’s unpredictability, as well,” Stoon added. He sipped at his wine and found it satisfactory. “He didn’t trust it.”
“He didn’t understand it. He preferred science because it could be contained and manipulated by everyone who had access to it. He could see its source; he could hold it in his hands. This isn’t so with magic, which is ephemeral and intuitive—even when you hold a talisman. In any case, he was determined to stamp it out, in spite of what he suggested to me in our final meeting. He thought to placate me and later would have betrayed me. Had he been allowed, he would have advanced science to the position it occupied in the world before the advent of the Great Wars. He would have relegated magic to the pages of ancient history.”
