by Terry Brooks
So here, on the Behemoth, exiled from her fellow soldiers by her father, she knew better than to abandon her daily regimen out of self-pity or despair. Her current situation was only temporary. She would be back in favor quick enough.
But until then she had to remember one very crucial fact of her new life. She was in danger, and she would remain in danger every single day until she was removed from the predatory reach of the pretender, her scheming and hateful stepmother. No effort would the pretender spare to dispose of her once and for all. It was largely because of the false queen’s efforts to undermine her in her father’s eyes that she was being sent home in the first place. Her father might think his duplicitous wife would not dare to harm his daughter without his permission, but accidents were known to happen, and if no fault could be found, how could the pretender be blamed?
So she worked her way through stretches and lifts—isometrics passed down from generation to generation by her ancestors since the time of the Great Wars, and her own self-designed exercises that tested quickness and accuracy. Once that was done, she went on to weapons practice. Starting with throwing knives and stars, then on to swords, both long and short. Rocan Arneas, who had taken a fancy to her almost immediately, had supplied the weapons. She was used to men who coveted her, and she could read their intentions almost before they did. But the Rover was a good man, if a typical opportunist and manipulator in the way of so many men. She did not think he would attempt to breach her boundaries, which she had made clear to him right from the beginning, even if he hoped she might at some point bend a few for him. His affection for her was open and genuine, and she did not sense any hidden dark intentions that he might one day choose to visit on her.
In fact, he reminded her more than a little of Darcon Leah—though the attraction she felt for the highlander eclipsed the possibility of any attraction she could imagine having for another man.
At this point in time at least, she amended with a smile. You never wanted to close the door on matters of the heart.
So she was working hard with her long sword, feinting and lunging, blocking and parrying and working high and low with cuts and slashes, when she realized she was being watched.
When she turned to see who it was, she found the Blade staring at her.
“I would be more than a little uneasy if I was someone you were angry with,” he said. “You aren’t, are you? Angry with me?”
She smiled her reply. “Do I seem like someone who is angry with you?”
“I think I should take nothing for granted where you are concerned. You are…unpredictable.”
She lowered her sword. “Not where you are concerned. I think I’ve bared myself completely to you—well, in all but the literal sense. Not that you’ve responded yet in the way I would like. But you will. My opinion of what’s between us has not changed.”
“Nor mine. Too bad we aren’t of a single mind.” He paused. “Since I still hold your favor, would you care to spar a bit with me? Not with blades, of course, but with staffs. I can bring us a couple.”
She nodded slowly. “A physical confrontation but only in jest? Nothing of magic from you? Just a straight-up test of agility and strength?”
“And no disappearing from you,” he added quickly.
She gave a firm nod. “Agreed.”
“Wait here.”
He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving her to ponder yet again her unmistakable attraction to him. All that passion and wanting she had revealed to him, and still he failed to respond. He had been sweet and tender enough the night she had crawled into his bed, eager for his embrace. And embrace her he had, but only as a friend would and nothing more. She treasured her memories of that night, and at the same time felt bereft that it had not come to more.
He returned, a pair of six-foot lengths of oak in hand. Where he had found them, she couldn’t imagine. They must belong to the Rovers, who she knew did some training of their own aboard ship.
“I promise to go easy on you,” he said teasingly.
“And I on you,” she replied. “Once I have you pinned to the deck and disarmed.”
“Such a lady.”
They began circling each other, each in a semi-crouch, staffs held at port arms, ready to strike.
“You seem awfully confident,” the highlander said.
“With good reason,” she answered.
A rush and a feint, and he almost broke through her defensive block. But she sidestepped quickly and went back into her crouch. Darcon turned slowly to follow her, watching and waiting, relaxed in his more upright stance. His movements were so smooth, she thought, so graceful.
Don’t think about him! Don’t open yourself to him!
She went at him immediately, a rush that became a drop-back feint. Blows were exchanged in a clash of wood against wood—quick strikes that rang out sharply but did nothing to disarm or damage either opponent.
She watched him back away, searching for an opening. He had taken her measure, and his attack would be for real this time. She knew he favored an upward swing from the right, his side of preference for an opening gambit—one that would land a blow to her forearm and loosen her grip on the staff. Then he would break past her defenses and have her.
Well, he would try anyway.
Let him come.
Come he did, a sideways spin that brought him right up against her so quickly she did not have time to back away. But it also exposed his right hand. Before he could strike her arm, she slammed her staff against his hand with numbing force. She heard him grunt, saw his fingers loosen, and struck at his staff in an uppercut that wrenched it away. It spun across the decking to drop with a clatter, and he stood disarmed before her.
He straightened, bowed. “Well done, Princess. You are a worthy opponent. I concede. Care to try again?”
She did, of course, and nodded at once. She was enjoying this interaction. It was not the one she imagined she would enjoy the most but patience. She gestured to his staff, and he moved over to pick it up. Again, they faced each other, weapons held ready.
A few of the Rovers had heard the sounds of their exercise and had come to watch. They said nothing as they gathered—no calls of encouragement, no taking of sides—but Ajin could see the excitement dancing in their eyes. They loved a good fight, even when it wasn’t theirs and only pride was at stake. She saw them whisper, exchange a nudge or three, place a few bets, and settle eagerly in expectation.
Dar Leah and she resumed their dance, circling, feinting, setting and resetting themselves, watching for an opening. Neither was in any hurry this time; it was more of a waiting game than a rush to engage. Catching the other off guard was less likely now that they had been given a chance to measure and judge each other. Both made tentative attacks, testing the other’s response, but neither attempted to carry through.
Soon, though, Ajin warned herself. Very soon now.
When he came at her with clear intention—a strike that would bring her down quickly and surely—she was ready for it. She met him head-on, blocking him with momentary strength and position and then sliding past him with agility and swiftness. She was congratulating herself as she whirled to face his riposte when she found him already on top of her, his staff inside her own, twisting. He had guessed what she would do and found a way to turn it against her. A sharp twist of his staff and her own was gone. A swipe down against her boots and she was on her back, the wind knocked out of her.
She lay where she was for a moment, catching her breath. Then she began to laugh. A hearty, approving, congratulatory sound that brought him up short. The Rovers who were watching looked at one another, perplexed by her reaction.
They were still whispering among themselves when the highlander reached down to help her to her feet. As he lifted her up, she seized his arm and pulled him against her.
To his credit, he did not r
esist her. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Marking my territory. I want to make it clear to everyone that you and I are together.”
“But we aren’t!”
“Yes, we are.” Her voice was a seductive whisper. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
He stared at her in disbelief. He was still staring when she released her grip on his arm and shoved him away from her, bending at the waist to present him with a swift bow of concession. “One round apiece, Darcon Leah,” she said in a voice everyone could hear. “Perfectly matched, you and I. Let’s try again soon.”
And to a scattering of hoots and hollers and shouts from those watching, she turned and walked away.
TWENTY
IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE DEPARTURE of their companions aboard the Behemoth, Drisker had ushered Tarsha and Tavo Kaynin to the modified Sprint so they could get under way. The day was not conducive to flying, the cloud cover low and heavy and thick enough that their surroundings seemed to shape-shift, causing their sense of direction to become uncertain. But the Druid was determined to reach their appointed destination that day—and before nightfall, if possible.
That destination being, he informed the siblings when Tarsha asked, the Druid’s Keep.
“Why would we go back there?” Tarsha asked at once. “I thought we were trying to find Clizia Porse.”
“We are,” the Druid assured her. “But in order to do that we are going to need some help. We don’t have the Elfstones anymore to reveal where she is, so we have to track her another way. She won’t be easy to locate from out here. If we return to Paranor, we can use the scrye bowl.”
Neither Tarsha nor Tavo had any idea what that was, so he took a few minutes to explain it to them. Standing next to the Sprint, the mist shrouding everything around them and leaving them isolated from the rest of the world, they listened intently.
“The scrye bowl is a Druid magic, and there is only the one. It has the capability of detecting magic used anywhere in the Four Lands. Its waters replicate the disturbances such usages cause to the elements, pinpointing the locations and measuring the strengths of the magic employed. It will tell us enough that we can at least make an educated guess if it’s Clizia who is using it, since there are no other Druids or powerful magic users left. I think she will not be able to avoid invoking magic sooner or later, if only to hide her movements. It might take us time and effort to monitor the scrye, but we have no other options to choose from unless we simply go hunting for her blindly. And that would be not only a waste of time but also dangerous. We might be looking for her, but she will be looking for us, as well. She knows I will be coming after her, and that I will probably have others with me. She would like nothing better than to trap us all, and if we are not well-enough prepared, she is likely to succeed.”
“But won’t it be dangerous going back into Paranor?” Tarsha pressed. “I thought you wanted nothing more to do with it.”
“Well, I didn’t say that exactly. I said it was too soon to go back inside right away after finally getting out. But that’s in the past. It won’t be pleasant—I was trapped there for too long to want to return this quickly, I admit—but I don’t see that I have a choice. We need a starting point to begin our hunt.”
Tavo, who had said nothing at all until now, cleared his throat. “I don’t ever want to see that witch again, but I know I will probably have to. Couldn’t we just wait on her? Won’t she just come back at some point to finish what she started? She seemed pretty intent on finding a way to get rid of you when she tried using me for the job. Why don’t we just let her come to us and do what we have to then?”
Drisker watched him closely as he argued. The young man spoke calmly and without any trace of anger. There was no hint that he still saw himself as Clizia’s creature. This was good news.
“A reasonable approach under other circumstances,” he responded, “but we lack the time to employ it. We need her found and incapacitated quickly if we are to prevent a war with the Skaar.”
“How do you know this?” Tarsha asked. “You seem very certain.”
Drisker exhaled sharply as he looked off into the mist. “I don’t know why I bother trying to keep anything from you, Tarsha. You are entirely too quick to recognize it. Yes, I am certain of what I am telling you. The shade I spoke to made it clear that to save the Four Lands, two things needed to happen. The Behemoth and its passengers—and especially its cargo—must reach Skaarsland, and we must find Clizia. I received no further explanation as to what should happen afterward. It’s maddening, I agree. But because I was instructed not to go with the others, when my good sense says I should, I have to assume that staying behind is extremely important.”
“So you have no idea why Clizia is so important?” Tarsha pressed.
“Look at what she’s done so far!” Tavo snapped, irritation in his voice. “Look what she did to the Druids! Look what she almost did to us! Isn’t that reason enough to assume she is?”
“You’re right,” Tarsha agreed quickly. “She’s too dangerous to be allowed to run around loose.”
“She wants to restore the Druid order with herself as Ard Rhys,” Drisker pointed out. “That’s bad enough. But to accomplish this, she must have a plan that involves finding support from the Federation and the Elves. Or possibly from the Skaar. So she’ll try to do that first. Come, we have to go.”
They boarded the Sprint, strapped themselves in, and were off. Drisker took the controls, while the siblings seated themselves behind him, side by side. Not so very long ago, Drisker thought, glancing back, that wouldn’t have been possible. But now whatever bad feelings Tavo had harbored toward his sister had been commuted.
With his eyes directed forward in order to find their way through the heavy mist, he was aware nevertheless of their voices behind him. They were talking in calm tones, their exchange devoid of any hint of unpleasantness.
He found himself smiling. It was something of a miracle. And maybe, too, a new beginning.
They flew through the rest of the day, stopping only once to set down and eat a hasty lunch before resuming their flight. They passed through the Kennon Pass at midafternoon and were setting down inside Paranor’s walls on the airship landing pad by sunset.
The sunset’s deep-purple and scarlet fires barely penetrated the clouds and mist to the west, breaking through in vivid streaks that appeared jagged and angry. There was a surreal feel in the air as they climbed out of the Sprint, a sense of being in another time and place, another world. Elevated as they were by the promontory on which Paranor rested, and by the Keep’s towering buildings themselves, they felt as if they stood inside the clouds. The mist was so heavy that, from where they stood two stories up, they could only make out glimpses of the grounds below. Everything was hushed by the swirl of white brume, and in the dimming light it felt to Drisker as if he might have somehow been returned to the limbo world from which he had just escaped.
This unpleasant feeling persisted, and he found he had to fight hard to convince himself his worst fears had not somehow been realized and that Clizia Porse had not found a way to send all three of them out of the Four Lands forever. The silence about them was absolute, suggesting a complete lack of life—which was not at odds with what he presumed to be the reality of the situation. No Druids remained but himself; all save Clizia had been killed in the Skaar attack weeks earlier. How many days ago had that been? He could not recall. He had lost track of time since his return, a carryover from his imprisonment when each day blended into each night, and the passing of time lacked any frame of reference.
Anxious to put this memory out of his mind, he beckoned the other two to join him, and they entered the Keep. Once inside, they descended to ground level and walked out from the main building into the courtyard facing the west gates. It wasn’t the way to the cold room and the scrye waters, but he had something else to
attend to first. He had caught a glimpse of something troubling as they landed, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t mistaken about it.
He wasn’t.
They encountered the first body not a dozen yards from the gates—or rather, what was left of the body. More than half of it had been turned to ashes, and what remained was savaged. He heard Tarsha gasp and told both siblings to remain where they were. Advancing, he bent for a closer look, and then walked on to find more dead, some of them hanging off the battlements, some sprawled on the ground. Skaar soldiers, he knew, since he was able to identify bits of clothing and pieces of weapons.
And he knew at once that his assumption about what Clizia might do once he was gone had not been wrong.
He walked back to join his charges. “The dead are Skaar. Clizia did exactly what I was afraid she might do. She tried to reenter Paranor. She managed to recruit a complement of men and women from the Skaar army to come with her to reclaim it. Because she was a Druid, she assumed she would be welcomed back and those who accompanied her would be allowed to enter as her guests, but she assumed wrong. During my transformation from outcast to Ard Rhys, I made sure that she would be recognized as the Keep’s betrayer and would no longer be seen as a Druid. The Guardian knew this, as well.”
“So it killed them?” Tarsha asked. “It reemerged at their intrusion and killed them all?”
“All but Clizia. There is no evidence that she was among the dead, and I would have been able to tell if she was.”
Tavo looked from one to the other. “Who is this Guardian you are talking about?”
It took a bit of doing for Drisker to explain, but he patiently did so, stopping to elucidate when Tavo looked confused, embellishing when it seemed necessary. He needed Tarsha’s brother to feel he was a part of their effort. If he failed to feel that he was an equal, there was a real danger that the old Tavo might emerge, threatening all the progress he had made and undermining everything Tarsha was trying to do to keep him stable. So far, they had made remarkable progress. But it was dangerous to assume the struggle was over.
