The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (24 page)

She shrugged. “Payment for a favor. A foolish, impulsive gesture on the part of the original owner, in my opinion. But he’s not likely to complain. Tell me about your sword.”

She was clearly uncomfortable talking about the flash rip, but he didn’t want to say too much about his talisman, either. “An ancient weapon. It’s been in the family for many generations. It was infused with magic by the Druid Allanon for one of my more famous relatives, Rone Leah.”

“And Arcannen knew about this sword? And that was why he took Chrysallin—he was trying to get to you?”

“Grehling’s been talking to you about this?”

“Some of it. Some I figured out on my own. Am I right?”

“He’s kidnapped Chrys twice. The time before he was trying make a trade for the sword. This time, I don’t know what he was doing. Except that he knew I would come after her, so maybe it was the same thing again—a trade for my sister. But he tortured her, didn’t he? Or the witch did. I don’t understand the purpose of that.”

“Maybe there wasn’t any purpose. Maybe it was just to teach her a lesson. Arcannen has done it before. He tortures his girls at Dark House when they disobey.”

Paxon shook his head. “But he knew I would find out.”

“Maybe he just didn’t care.” She ran her fingers through her streaked hair. “And he didn’t do it himself. Chrysallin told Grehling that her torturer was a gray-haired Elven woman who stood by and watched the whole thing. She kept asking Chrysallin to tell her something—I don’t know what. Chrysallin apparently didn’t know, either. When Grehling brought her to me, she was barely coherent. It’s hard to know what happened to her.”

Paxon leaned back. “The Healers will help her. Once she’s better, maybe she’ll be able to tell us more. Whatever the case, I intend to go after Arcannen myself.”

Leofur pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about something. Did you know the Ard Rhys spoke to me about all this earlier, while you were still sleeping? She asked me to tell her everything I could about what happened.”

“Sebec told me.”

She paused. “Well, maybe this doesn’t mean anything, but I couldn’t help noticing that the Ard Rhys is a gray-haired Elven woman.”

Paxon almost laughed aloud. The idea of the Ard Rhys being responsible for Chrysallin’s torture was ridiculous. But then he caught himself, wondering suddenly if there might be a connection he wasn’t quite seeing.

“Tell me what Chrys said about this Elven woman,” he demanded.

By the time Arcannen landed his cruiser in Arishaig’s main port, he was already firmly settled on his plans. He had used the entire trip to mull them over, and he was satisfied that he had thought them through carefully and should proceed to execute them.
Execute
—a good word for what was needed. The ramifications of what he would do here would be extensive, but they would diminish considerably the chances that the Druids would be coming in search of him anytime soon. He just needed to hide himself for a sufficient length of time for events to proceed to a logical conclusion. How that would all play out, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. His goals, his needs, and his plans would not be changed by what happened after today.

He disembarked the airship with orders to be ready to lift off at a moment’s notice and for no one else to leave, even for a moment. He was wearing the black robe he kept in the onboard locker for situations of the sort he was confronted with today. He spent much of his time disguised as someone else, and the black robe—which was, in fact, one belonging to the Fourth Druid Order—would provide him with the look he required for today’s work.

It was the first of two pieces to the disguise he would assume.

The second was the change he had made to his facial features. Temporary, not permanent, and good for at least several hours, so that whomever he encountered or who happened to get a look at him would be able to describe him accurately to those who would come looking for him later.

He summoned one of the carriages that were always waiting at the edge of the field by the manager’s office and ordered the driver to take him to the Assembly and the chambers of the Coalition Council. He rode inside the closed passenger’s chamber with the curtains drawn and did not bother looking out. He was wrapped in his black robes and had his hood pulled up over his head, leaving only his face and hands visible. He was already deep in character, assuming the behavioral traits of the man he was impersonating. For the next two hours, or however long it took, he would become that man, and those who saw him would have no reason to doubt what they were seeing.

He experienced a brief moment of regret that things had failed to turn out the way he had expected, but that was the nature of attempting to manipulate others. You had to be fluid in your thinking and in your decision making. Matters had a tendency to go awry no matter how well laid your plans. Arcannen knew this. Never so much so as in this case, but what was required to right the situation was the same as always. He must adapt and he must do so quickly.

And no one was better at it than he was.

When he arrived at the imposing edifice that was now called the Assembly, he paid the driver with Federation credits and ascended the steps leading to the building’s primary entrance. He knew his way and did not have to ask for directions. His robes and the emblem they bore identified him well enough that he was barely slowed at the checkpoints. A few of the guards gave him a look of recognition, and one even saluted him. Good enough. His disguise had not been uncovered. When his business was over, his identity would be confirmed. Eventually, the truth might surface, but by then his plans for the Druid order would have come to fruition as intended.

He wound his way through the Assembly hallways, keeping to himself, doing nothing to suggest that he desired conversation with anyone. In short order, he was standing at the entrance to the offices of the Minister of Security Against Magic. Here, he was stopped briefly, his identity apparently not so well known. Eventually Crepice emerged to confront him.

“Isaturin,” the aide greeted him, bowing slightly. “We welcome you to this ministry.”

He bowed in return. “I am appreciative of your hospitality. I hope to speak with Minister Caeil. Is he available for a brief conversation?”

Crepice hesitated, his eyes shifting away momentarily and then back again—assessing the situation. Arcannen recognized the look. He was deciding what he should tell Isaturin—a man who was clearly antagonistic toward this office and its avowed purpose.

“Come into the waiting room and let me find out if he can see you.” Crepice had decided favorably. “I am sure something can be arranged.”

He guided Arcannen from the outer office to the reception area beyond and motioned for him to take a seat in one of the chairs set against the far wall. Then he disappeared through the familiar double doors that led to Fashton Caeil’s chambers. Arcannen sat down and waited, thinking through how he would handle what must happen next. Crepice would be right outside the chamber doors, so he would have to be careful.

He had only a few minutes to wait before the doors opened anew and out walked Caeil, his corpulent frame garbed in scarlet robes, his face flushed, his arms outstretched in greeting.

“What a surprise!” he enthused, gasping both of Arcannen’s hands in his own. “This visit is long overdue and much welcomed!” He paused, as if remembering something. “Although I have heard it said in certain quarters that your feelings for this office are not of the warmest sort.”

Arcannen nodded and managed a regretful look. “Times change. Attitudes evolve. I think a meeting between us is long overdue. I am hopeful that a reconciliation between the Federation and Paranor might begin at this very meeting.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Caeil released his hand and stepped back. “Come in, then. Let’s sit down and discover what sort of agreement we can achieve.”

Leaving Crepice to close the doors behind them, they entered Caeil’s chambers and sat, Caeil behind his desk, Arcannen in front of it. The minister bent forward to lessen the distance between them and smiled. “So, Ambassador Isaturin, what is it I can do for the Fourth Druid Order and its esteemed Ard Rhys?”

Arcannen motioned for him to lean even farther forward, and then he bent closer himself—a gesture that suggested that secrets and confidences were about to be shared.

“Well, Minister,” the sorcerer replied, the Stiehl already in his hand and held just out of view below the desktop, “you can die.”

In a quick, practiced movement, he snatched the front of Fashton Caeil’s robes with his free hand, yanked him across the desk, and buried the Stiehl at the base of his throat, severing his vocal cords and spinal column. Caeil went limp, his mouth opening and closing, and Arcannen pinned him to the desk while he worked the edge of the black knife blade back and forth across his throat, separating the other’s head from his shoulders.

It was over in seconds. The minister’s heavy body slumped to the floor, but his head—eyes wide in shock, mouth hanging open—remained atop the desk.

Arcannen took a moment to study his work, then carefully set the knife on the floor to one side, where it would be found, and stepped back. There was a little blood on the sleeves of his robe, but he was able to wipe most of it off on the dead man’s body. If he kept his arms folded against him when he left, nothing of the smears would be seen. He gave Fashton Caeil a last look. The Minister might still be alive if he hadn’t given himself away on their last visit. But suggesting that meeting in public was no longer an option was a clear indication of the direction in which things were going. Caeil’s usefulness as a resource was at an end. He would serve better by drawing the Federation’s attention to the Druids, and the Druids’ attention away from Arcannen as a result.

He took a moment to compose himself, making certain he was back in character as the Druid Isaturin, and then he walked to the door and opened it. Crepice was sitting at his desk, but he got up immediately as Arcannen appeared. The sorcerer waited until the man was close enough, then reached out quickly, grasped his neck, yanked him close, and twisted his head sharply to one side. Crepice went limp instantly.

Arcannen caught the body in his arms and dragged it behind the desk, leaving it there, out of sight.

Then, still in character as Isaturin, he walked through the doors leading out, closed them behind him, nodded to the guards standing watch and disappeared down the hall.

T
WENTY
-
FOUR

A
PHENGLOW
E
LESSEDIL
WAS
TAL
KING
WITH
G
REHLING
in her chambers, urging him to tell her what had happened to Chrysallin Leah.

“So when you found her in Mischa’s quarters, she was strapped to a bed in a room that was crisscrossed by glowing lines. But you could walk through these lines and they shredded and disappeared? They didn’t hurt you? You didn’t feel anything?”

The boy thought about it. “They didn’t hurt me, but they did something to me. They made me see images of Chrysallin and a gray-haired Elven woman. Chrys was in trouble; she was in pain. And—”

He stopped suddenly, staring at her. “And what?” she encouraged him. She needed to understand what had happened. “Go on, Grehling. Tell me everything.”

“The gray-haired Elven woman looked like you.” He hesitated. “In fact, it
was
you.”

“You’re certain about this?”

He nodded. “But then the images went away when I broke enough of the threads. So I got her free and took her out of there. She was in a lot of pain. She kept saying she had been tortured and no one could bear to look at her ever again. She seemed to think that she had broken bones and that there was blood all over her; it was hard to make sense of it all. I couldn’t see anything wrong with her. She looked fine to me. But I didn’t ask her about it. She was too upset. I just wanted to get her away. We bumped into Mischa right outside the door, coming back from wherever she’d gone, but I hit her hard enough to knock her out. We ran then, and I took Chrysallin to Leofur’s house.”

He went on from there, describing how Leofur had taken them in and they had slept until the black creature broke down the door and then Leofur saved them by using her weapon and taking them down into the tunnels. But the creature had followed them, Mischa had appeared, and again they had fled until they were caught by the witch and trapped in an alleyway.

“But then something really strange happened,” he continued, his voice suddenly becoming more intense. “Mischa started taunting Chrysallin. She kept reminding her about the gray-haired woman—the one who looked like you. She asked her if she wanted more torture. Then the gray-haired Elven woman appeared and said something, and Chrysallin went crazy. She started screaming—and I’ve never heard anything like it! It was terrible. I tried covering my ears to shut out the sound, but nothing helped. Then the Elven woman exploded. The witch started backing away, but she was thrown against the wall and smashed apart. And all from the screaming! But Chrysallin didn’t seem to know what had happened afterward. She even asked me if I did!”

Aphenglow didn’t say anything in response for a long time, turning away to walk to the window and look out over the walls and towers of the Keep. “Chrysallin didn’t do anything with her hands, didn’t speak any words? She just screamed?”

“That’s what I saw,” Grehling affirmed.

You don’t suppose,
Aphenglow thought, an idea occurring to her that was so unexpected she was momentarily startled.

She turned back to the boy. “Why don’t you go have something to eat in the dining hall? Paxon and Leofur might be there. I’ll have Sebec take you.”

The boy started to leave, then turned back. “Do you know what’s wrong with Chrysallin?” he asked her.

She smiled. “I might.”

“Can you help her?”

“I intend to try.”

She watched him depart, closing the door behind him, and then she turned back to the window once more. She would have to see the girl at some point, although she would need to be careful about how she handled it. If Chrysallin thought her responsible for her current condition—if she believed Aphen was the one who had overseen her torture—she would not be very receptive to a visit.

Normally, this wouldn’t be of much concern to an Ard Rhys. The defenses of her magic would be more than enough to protect her from any harm the girl might try to cause her in retaliation. But this tale of screaming that was strong enough to cause a human being to simply disintegrate was disturbing. It could be it was an aberration resulting from a form of wild magic—one either due to a birth defect or attained through exposure or physical contact—or it could be what had occurred to Aphenglow immediately on hearing of it. It could be an indication that Chrysallin Leah had been born with a heretofore-submerged command over the Ohmsford family’s generations-long magic they called the wishsong.

After all, she was the great-grandchild of Mirai Leah and Railing Ohmsford, the product of a mixed bloodline with a very long history of magic use. Paxon Leah possessed the same blood and carried the same history in his genetic mix, but he had shown no trace of having use of the wishsong. It was entirely possible that the sister had it and he did not. There was a history of that within the family—of the magic sometimes skipping entire generations before resurfacing. It was also true that the ability to summon the wishsong did not always appear right away. Sometimes, it took years to reveal its presence.

But it was a magic embedded in the use of the bearer’s voice, the sound capable of achieving almost anything for a practiced user. If not controlled or if released spontaneously, the result would very likely be the one Chrysallin Leah had experienced. Terrified, threatened, and enraged, she would have struck out blindly, giving voice to the mix of feelings roiling inside of her. She would not necessarily have even been aware of what she was doing, and the result would have shocked and confused her.

It all fit. Yet Aphenglow could not be certain unless she revealed to the girl what had happened and then convinced her she needed to find a way to deal with what it meant.

But how best to do that?

She would start by telling Paxon what she suspected. He would have to come to terms with the fact that his sister might have the use of a magic that had not surfaced in the Leah/Ohmsford bloodline for several generations—an incredibly powerful magic that she would need to learn to control. He would probably have to help her do that. It would require that Chrysallin be given time and opportunity to fully recover from the damage she had suffered at the hands of Arcannen and Mischa. It would demand patience and understanding and guidance.

She didn’t know if the young man was up to it. She thought he might be, given the level of maturity and determination he had demonstrated in his efforts to master the skills taught to him by Oost Mondara and the lessons imparted by Sebec, but she couldn’t be sure.

No one could.

She stepped away from the window and started for the chamber door. She had another matter to occupy her attention just now. She had put it off for days, but she could do so no longer. She must go down to the artifact chamber and discover if anything had disturbed the wards she and Sebec had placed over the vault that housed the crimson Elfstones. The Stones themselves were safe enough; she had taken no chances with that.

All that mattered was whether or not another theft had been attempted.

Paxon was still deep in conversation with Leofur about his sister when Sebec reappeared. “They’ve finished with her for now. She’s sleeping, but you can sit with her. Would you like to do that for a few minutes?”

He didn’t have to ask whom the young Druid was talking about and he didn’t hesitate to break off with Leofur. “Can we continue this later?” he asked, already getting to his feet.

She gave him a nod, and he was off. With Sebec leading he departed the dining room, went down the hall to a set of stairs, climbed one level, went down another hallway, and at the very end entered a large ward sectioned off into a collection of rooms with walls and closed doors and open compartments separated only by curtains. The Healers, whether they were Druids or not—Paxon couldn’t tell which for certain—were all dressed in white, men and women alike. There were eight or nine in evidence, all bustling about, going this way and that, some singly and some in small groups. A few glances were directed his way, but no one spoke to him.

He had not spent much time in the healing center during his stay at Paranor and did not know his way around. But Sebec, who was obviously familiar with everything, led him forward to one of the enclosed rooms, knocked softly on the door, turned the latch and peeked inside.

He turned back to Paxon. “I’ll let you stay with her alone. But not for very long. The Healers will be back shortly. I’ll come for you when they are ready. I’ll knock first. Don’t open it unless I do.”

Paxon went inside and heard the door close behind him. Chrysallin was not, in fact, sleeping, but sitting on a chair staring off into space. She was dressed in a white gown and slippers. She had been washed and her hair had been combed. He walked closer, noting once again that there were no marks on her, no evidence at all of any sort of torture. Whatever had been done to her, it was all in her mind. But she believed the terrible things she spoke of had actually happened, and that was all that mattered.

He knelt beside her and took her hands in his own.

“Chrysallin, can you hear me? It’s Paxon. It’s your brother. Please, look at me. Let me know if you can hear me.” No response. He kept talking. “Chrys, we’re going to help you. You’ve been hurt, but there is no damage to your body. The torture you experienced wasn’t real. It all took place in your mind; you were meant to believe it was happening when it wasn’t. But we are in Paranor now. There are Healers here who can help you. They are working to find a way to make you better. Everything will be all right.”

Then he talked to her about their childhood. He told her stories she would remember of when they had played together as small children. He reminded her of adventures they had gone on in their backyard. He tried kidding her about the time he had chopped off her long hair and made her cry. He talked about the trips they would take together on the airships, freighting cargo from Leah to other cities in the Four Lands. He told her how good she would be at crewing and piloting, how much she had learned, and where they would go and what they would do once she was well.

He asked her to come back for their mother, who loved her and missed her. He told her he wanted to take her home.

He talked to her until he was talked out, and then he held her to him and sang softly, stroking her hair and rocking her. A long time passed. He kept thinking the Healers would come back, but they didn’t. Maybe Sebec had told them to wait a bit, to let Paxon have time with her. Perhaps the Healers believed he might have better luck than they had in bringing her out of her withdrawal.

Then he stopped everything and just held her in the quiet of the room, trying not to cry, holding back the tears that threatened to come with every dark thought about how she might never get better. Eventually, he put her back in her bed and tucked her in, sitting next to her for another long period of time, watching over her. But she just lay there, her eyes open and staring.

He was finally getting ready to leave when a soft knock sounded at the door. Sebec, he thought. Releasing his sister, he rose and walked over. When he opened the door, the Ard Rhys was standing in the opening.

“Sebec said …” she started to whisper, and then she trailed off as she saw the look of shock on his face as he turned quickly to look over his shoulder. Her gaze shifted past him, and she locked eyes with Chrysallin, who was suddenly sitting up in bed.

Paxon saw the shock and surprise mirrored on his sister’s face an instant before she began to scream. He reacted instinctively, throwing himself in front of the Ard Rhys to protect her, propelling her backward through the door and into the hallway beyond. But he was too slow. Chrysallin’s scream struck him like a hammer blow, slamming into him with such force that it knocked the breath from his lungs and his feet out from under him. Locked together with Aphenglow Elessedil, he was thrown into the wall beyond. They went down in a tangled heap, and Paxon lost consciousness.

When he came awake, Sebec and the Druid Healers were there, pulling him off Aphenglow. The treatment room door had been closed again, and he couldn’t see what was going on with Chrys. But the screaming had stopped, so he knew the attack was over. The Ard Rhys lay next to him, still unconscious, the Healers bent over her. They would both likely be dead now, he thought, if the impact of the attack hadn’t carried them back out the door, beyond where his sister could see them.

Or had she somehow realized who he was and instinctively held back? Or perhaps the Ard Rhys had managed to summon magic in time to protect them both. Would such magic come to her as his did to him when he held the sword—an instantaneous response that required no act or even thought to summon it?

Sebec knelt beside him. “What happened?”

He breathed in deeply and exhaled. “I’m not sure. She came to the door and knocked. I thought it was you or the Healers. So I opened the door. Chrysallin was awake, and she saw the Ard Rhys and reacted at once, screaming …” He closed his eyes at the memory. “The force of it threw both of us out of the room and into the hallway. That was the last thing I remember. I blacked out.”

Sebec looked confused. “Why did your sister scream at the Ard Rhys? They’ve never even met.”

The scribe didn’t know about the possible resemblance between the gray-haired Elven woman of his sister’s torture experience and the Ard Rhys that Grehling had described to Leofur, so Paxon told him. “Perhaps she just attacked as a response to what she thought she was seeing; I’m sure she was terrified she was about to be hauled back for more,” he finished.

“Well, whatever she thought, she hurt my mistress; I don’t know how badly just yet. The Healers will have to spend more time with her before we know. You shouldn’t have opened the door without being sure it was me, Paxon.”

The Highlander cringed at the rebuke, thinking he hadn’t done anything wrong. Sebec had said not to open the door until he knocked, and Paxon had waited until he heard a knock. What was the Ard Rhys thinking, coming to Chrysallin’s room in the first place?