The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (23 page)

“Anything?” Paxon whispered, not wanting to wake his sister, who was still asleep.

The boy nodded. “A little. Arcannen arrived at the airfield not long before we got there. My father saw him. He was alone. He crossed the field to his vessel, woke his crew, released the mooring lines, and took off. He didn’t say anything to my father as to where he was going.”

“Starks?”

“Leofur’s gone hunting for him. He didn’t show up at the airfield. I waited until just a little while ago to make sure. She’ll let us know when she finds him.”

“She doesn’t even know where to look,” Paxon muttered absently, more worried now than ever.

“She doesn’t have to know,” Grehling said quickly. “Other people will; she knows everyone. She will ask around, and someone will tell her where he is.”

The boy settled back against the wall across from him, watching Chrysallin. Neither said anything for a long time. The morning began to brighten and the shadows to fade. More people filled the street beyond their alcove, moving in groups, beginning their day’s work. Tucked away in their shelter, they occupied an island of calm among the steady movement and sounds only yards away. But their uneasiness was palpable.

“She looks better now that she’s sleeping,” Grehling offered finally. “I think she will be all right when she wakes.”

Paxon wasn’t so sure, but he knew the boy was just trying to be helpful. So he nodded in agreement. “You were very brave to rescue her,” he said.

Grehling shrugged. “I didn’t know what I was getting into. I just thought something felt wrong. Then, when I saw her, I knew it was Arcannen’s work, trying to get at you again. He wants your sword, doesn’t he?”

Paxon nodded. “How did you know?”

“Everybody wants something like that. Especially someone like him. A sorcerer’s tool, he probably thinks. He spends all his time collecting such things. Mostly, he steals them. But whatever it takes to get hold of them, he will do. He told me that once. He said that’s how you got by in this world—that if you wanted something, you found a way to get it, no matter what.”

“But you don’t agree?”

Grehling managed to look insulted. “Of course not. Do you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

They were quiet again after that, still waiting on Leofur. Chrysallin awoke and began staring into space once more. Both Paxon and Grehling tried talking to her, asking her questions, offering her further assurances that she was safe and that no one would hurt her again. But still she did not respond.

It was approaching midmorning when Leofur finally reappeared. She returned from a different direction than the one she had taken earlier with Grehling, catching them both by surprise. She approached at a brisk walk, her eyes fixed on them, her posture ramrod-straight.

She stopped in front of Paxon and took a deep breath.

“I have news of your friend. It’s very bad.”

He knew at once what it was. He knew it as much from her tone of voice and the look on her face as from the words themselves. When she spoke them aloud, he already knew what she was going to say. He held up his hand in a belated gesture to forestall hearing them. But it was too late. She was speaking, and the words were cutting at him like knives.

T
WENTY
-
THREE

A
RCANNEN
’
S
NERVES
SHOWED
NO
SIGN
OF
GI
VING
WAY
in the face of what he had done until he had reached his airship, woken the crew, and lifted off. Then all at once his hands were shaking and he was damp with sweat. He had killed a Druid. He had committed the one act he had warned himself against, the one act he had known would bring him the worst kind of trouble. Now the Druids would hunt him until he was found and killed. He could argue all he wanted about why that wouldn’t happen—the passage of time would take the edge off the urgency of finding him, changes in the order would result in an agenda where punishing him was a lesser concern, whatever. But the truth was inescapable: Sooner or later, he was going to have to answer for what he had done.

He cursed the Druid for being so persistent, for continuing to hunt him long after any reasonable person would have given up. He cursed himself for believing his ambush would be enough to stop the Druid. He should have kept running, should have made better choices, should never have given the man the chance to come after him in the first place.

But it was all water under the bridge now, wasn’t it? It was all beyond a place where he could do anything about it. He was stuck with things the way they were. Regrets and hindsight and disgust were all shackles that threatened to slow him down and ultimately to undo him. What he needed to remember was that if he kept a clear head and acted quickly enough, he might still find a way to get clear of this mess. After all, it wasn’t the first time he had put himself in danger. It wasn’t the first time he had made a mistake that threatened to cost him everything.

But it was the first time he felt really, truly threatened.

Still, a solution to his problems was already nudging him, whispering in his ear—a plan that would free him from the immediate threat of Druid retaliation. It had come to him—as so many things did—when he least expected it. He was fleeing the scene of the killing, not yet seen by any of Wayford’s citizens, still not exposed nor his deed revealed. It gave him the opportunity and time to escape from the city, and it was while he was coming up to the airfield and making for his airship that the idea had begun to take shape.

If he could find a way to shift attention away from himself, he would have a chance to disappear until matters settled down. If he could give the Druid order a distraction to occupy its time, a matter that was more pressing than finding him—a threat so immediate and troubling that its members wouldn’t hesitate to focus all their efforts on dealing with it—he could salvage this debacle.

And by
debacle
he meant his disrupted plans for gaining control of the Druid order through Paxon and Chrysallin Leah.

The plan as originally conceived had long since fallen apart. The goal, however, remained the same: Find a way to take control of the order, then subvert it sufficiently to turn it to his own uses. In the beginning, after he had inadvertently discovered that Paxon Leah had in his possession a talisman believed lost, one quite possibly infused with extraordinary magic, his goal had been simple—he would claim it for himself. His first impulse was simply to steal it. But then he had remembered he lacked a means to unlock its magic, that only a member of the Leah household could do so. Therefore, he had taken Chrysallin Leah as a way to make her brother do his bidding.

But that effort had failed when Paxon Leah had discovered the power of the sword and by doing so had found a way to rescue his sister. For a time, it seemed he would have to forget the whole idea of using the boy; he was in the Druid camp after that, living at Paranor and not likely to return for a second encounter without bringing help.

Then he had come up with the idea of taking the girl a second time and using her in a different way. She was better suited to what he had wanted to accomplish in the first place, and maybe the boy could be brought around as well. Using Mischa to subvert her thinking, he would make her his pawn—one that could be conditioned to perform without hesitation a single act when the opportunity was given her.

She would kill the Ard Rhys.

Such a thing had seemed impossible at first glance. But Mischa was talented, and she had turned more than one unwilling subject into an obedient servant. Give Chrysallin Leah enough reason, fill her with enough hatred, subject her to enough emotional and psychological suffering, and she would react instinctively against one she perceived to be an implacable enemy. The torture would not have to actually happen; it would not be necessary to physically damage her. It need only be perceived as real by the victim to accomplish what mattered—to leave her so obsessed with gaining freedom from and revenge upon her perceived torturer that she would use deadly force against her at the first opportunity.

All that, Mischa now claimed, she had accomplished. Chrysallin Leah was terrified of the gray-haired Elven woman who had stood by and directed her endless suffering—a woman who wasn’t even there, but who was as real to the girl as the pain she had experienced. A woman who looked exactly like Aphenglow Elessedil. The first time Chrysallin Leah came face-to-face with the Ard Rhys, she would try to kill her. She wouldn’t be able to help herself. She would use whatever weapon she could find, whatever tool lay close at hand, to put an end to the Druid leader.

To help her with this, Arcannen had arranged for Mischa to leave the Stiehl where Chrysallin could find it. But when she had escaped, she hadn’t even bothered to take the blade with her. He had worried from the beginning that Chrysallin Leah might not react as Mischa believed she would—that she might simply break down and be unable to function, reverting to a helpless victim. But the witch said the girl was very strong and very determined, and once she was free of her imprisonment she would be driven by the memories of what she thought had been done to her and would act quickly and directly to achieve revenge. She would not see herself as helpless. She would see herself as needing to prevent any chance of ever again becoming her enemy’s prisoner. She would be driven to seek revenge for acts that were embedded in her memory like spikes.

All that was needed was a way to put the Ard Rhys and the girl together in the same room. And that would have been arranged if the girl hadn’t somehow found a way to escape through Mischa’s carelessness. It might still happen, of course. If her brother found her before the witch did—which was entirely possible—he would take her with him to Paranor to keep her safe. He would want the Ard Rhys to have a look at her. He would not understand the danger of what he was doing. Not until it was too late.

It was an ambitious and admittedly uncertain plan, but it was worth trying so he had carried it out. Now, of course, the outcome was highly improbable given the extent of the disruption that had occurred. Mischa could believe whatever she wanted, but he was a realist and he knew that the chances of Chrysallin Leah doing what she had been conditioned to do had fallen off dramatically.

Though he was willing to wait and see before writing off its chances altogether.

And with the Druid dead and a full-scale hunt to find and punish him inevitable, his plans for gaining control over the Druid order were evolving anew. The opportunity was still there. His path to the Druid archives and their collection of talismans and magic was still open to him. All he needed to do was to widen it a little, to smooth things over sufficiently that access was assured.

He thought he knew now how to make that happen. Not as he had planned in the beginning, but as he now determined was necessary.

A fresh plan, a fresh start.

It would begin in the Federation city of Arishaig.

In another part of the skies, some hours later, Paxon Leah was winging west toward Paranor. He was back aboard the Druid airship he had flown to Wayford, bearing his still-catatonic sister and the body of his friend and companion Starks back to the Fourth Druid Order. He had intended to fly back alone, thinking to sail the airship single-handed.

But flying an airship the size of a Druid clipper was risky in any case, and more so here, where he was distracted by what had happened to him and by his sister’s need for constant attention. It was Leofur Rai who pointed this out and Grehling who was quick to back her up. He should not be flying solo; she and the boy would accompany him, offering assistance where it was needed, either in sailing the airship or in providing care and companionship for Chrysallin. Once he was safely returned to Paranor, they would find a way home again. In the end, he saw the wisdom in what they were suggesting and reluctantly agreed.

It was his reluctance to permit
anyone
to be around him just now that had caused him to resist the offer in the first place. He was still in shock over what had happened to Starks, and he did not think himself fit company. The loss of his friend was something from which he did not think he would ever recover. The guilt he was feeling was enormous. In part, he blamed himself for not going with the Druid in pursuit of Arcannen. In part, it was his sense of having failed again—a pattern of lapses that seemed to mark his entire brief career as a Druid protector. Only this time it had cost a life.

He brooded about it on the flight north, whether standing at the controls or sitting with his sister. The other two did not try to engage him in conversation, clearly aware that if he wanted someone to talk to he would let them know. Neither made any attempt to distract him from his dark mood. They were simply there to help him where they could, doing what was needed to keep him on track to complete his return to Paranor and to those who might better be able to address what had happened.

They flew through the remainder of the day and into the night, lighting the ship’s guidance lamps, tracking their way across the darkened terrain under a cloudless sky brightened by an almost full moon and millions of stars. They encountered no other vessel or any form of disruptive weather, and it was still several hours before dawn when they reached their destination.

Trolls from the Druid Guard met them on the landing platform that connected to the north tower and swiftly bore Starks away. Because of the hour, Paxon was sent to his quarters while Chrysallin was taken to the healing center and Grehling to rooms on the visitor level. There would be plenty of time to give reports after they had rested. The Ard Rhys would be informed. For now, sleep was what was needed. Matters were handled in the usual efficient manner, and all three were dispatched to their beds.

Paxon slept until noon. His sleep was deep and dreamless, and when he woke Sebec was waiting to receive him, lingering just outside his room.

“Come with me,” he said. “The Ard Rhys is anxious to see you. At present, she is speaking with the boy and has just finished interviewing the young woman. Leofur, isn’t it? I’ll take you to sit with her until it is your turn to report to the mistress.”

He paused as they walked toward the dining hall. “I am very sorry about Starks. I know you will miss him greatly.”

Paxon said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Then he stopped suddenly. “I should see about Chrysallin.”

Sebec slowed, but shook his head. “Please wait on that, Paxon. The Healers are working with her just now, trying to find a way to bring her out of her catatonia. She is deeply under the influence of her self-induced withdrawal, and so far nothing anyone has said or done has been strong enough to bring her back. It might be best not to interrupt their efforts.”

Although he didn’t like the idea of not going immediately to see Chrys, he understood Sebec’s reasoning and let the matter slide. But he made the young Druid promise to inform him the moment the Healers were done working with his sister—even if it was for just a short time—so that he could go to her. She might not know him yet, but he still thought his presence might be enough to help her recover.

Minutes later, he found himself sitting with Leofur Rai in the dining hall. Sebec had returned to the Ard Rhys, and the two of them were off in a corner by themselves.

“Did you sleep?” he asked her, knowing she would wait for him to speak first.

She nodded, her silver-streaked hair rippling in the sunlight. “Better than I thought I would after what happened.”

“Your wounds are better?”

“Fine. Healing.”

He looked down for a minute. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did. Taking Chrys into your home, sheltering her when you knew how dangerous it was, making a stand against that black thing, facing down the witch—I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

“Sure you can,” she said. “You did pretty much the same. You ended up saving us from Mischa’s creature, and Chrysallin saved us from the witch. We came through it because we each made a stand when it mattered.”

“Still, I owe you for that.”

She shook her head. “You don’t owe me a thing. No one does.”

The way she said it puzzled him. “So you knew Grehling when he was much younger?”

“I helped his father raise him for a little more than a year. Do you want to eat something? I’m pretty hungry.”

He found he was hungry, too, and they went into the kitchen to see if there was any food be had there and emerged with full plates. They ate in silence, and when they were finished Paxon said, “What sort of weapon did you use on Mischa’s creature? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Her nose wrinkled in something that suggested distaste. “A handheld flash rip. They’re new. A fresh invention from the Federation that relies on a set of specially faceted diapson crystals for its power. Word is, they’re working on other things, too. Weapons development is high on their list of priorities. They intend to rebuild their army.”

From what it once was before the demons broke free of the Forbidding and destroyed the old city of Arishaig and most of its army.
He hesitated. “How did you come by one?”