by Terry Brooks
“Ruis is right: This is a delicate situation.” Her owlish eyes shifted from one face to the next, probing. “On the other hand, it must be dealt with. Sitting back and doing nothing is not a viable option.”
“A delegation, then?” Crace Adris said, making it more a question rather than a suggestion. “Neither an attack nor a verbal warning but a simple meeting. A discussion. Approach them and ask their intentions. What can it hurt if we do that much? There is no threat in seeking common ground.”
“He’s right,” Frenk agreed quickly. “And our very able and experienced Crace Adris is exactly the right man for the job. His obvious lack of warrior prowess will suggest no threat is posed to those he approaches and will allow him to assess the situation efficiently.”
“Perhaps I disagree with you,” Adris snapped.
“Perhaps that is irrelevant,” Frenk replied.
“It is the High Druid’s decision, not yours.”
“Which might get you off the hook, might it not? Is that your wish?”
“Enough.” There was a deep impatience evident in Balronen’s voice, and all fell silent. “Pescarin. Amarodian. What say you? Speak up.”
“I defer to your decision, as always.” Pescarin bowed slightly from his seat. “I am not a military-minded man.”
“Just a simple-minded one,” Tolt spit out. “The High Lord asks for your opinion. Give it.”
Pescarin glanced over, his smooth face registering pity. “I do not answer to you, Tolt. Nor do I look to you for help with interpreting what the High Lord means when he addresses me. I can manage that for myself, I’m happy to say.”
Balronen looked as if he would intervene and say something to both of them, and then apparently decided to give it up. “Zia. Let’s have your opinion. No deferrals to me, please. Enough sidestepping.”
Zia Amarodian was the only one of those gathered whom Dar liked, and the one who seemed most out of place with these backbiters and schemers. Her support of Balronen made no sense. He knew her well enough that he found her presence in the High Druid’s inner circle odd. As far as Dar knew, she had never spent time with him before he was elevated to the position of High Druid. She was an Elf, though not in the mode of most other Elves. She was a Halfling, born to an Elf mother and a human father, but she looked entirely Elf on the surface. Her temperament, on the other hand, was all too human. She was quick to anger and slow to forgive. Frenk had gotten on her bad side over a year ago and remained there still. The two never spoke, even in meetings such as these.
Zia’s reticence was famous. She seldom voiced her thoughts, and when she did she was succinct. Dar expected it would be the case here.
“I think we are wasting our time discussing this. If magic has registered in the scrye waters and a massacre is connected, we need to find out the reason. Waiting is a fool’s game, and we are not fools. Crace Adris has voiced the proper solution to the problem. Let’s do as he suggests. But let Ruis Quince be given leadership of the delegation. He is the more experienced negotiator and statesman. I will go with him. I’m curious to know what this incident means.”
It was a bold declaration for someone who seldom bothered to make one. Moreover, it was a voicing of opinion that almost never happened. Zia must feel strongly about this business, Dar thought. Or at least more strongly than she had about much else in the time he’d known her.
But then he was prejudiced when it came to Zia. He glanced at her momentarily, unable to help himself. Theirs was a complicated relationship, and he had to take a step back before he attempted any objective analysis of her behavior.
Balronen seemed pleased. “This seems a reasonable course of action to me—although we mustn’t act in haste. We should wait for further word on this army’s movements. Then, if I deem it necessary to send a delegation, Ruis and Zia will go. Now let’s move on. There are other matters that require our attention. Let’s start with the Federation. What else do we have that needs to be dealt with concerning the machinations of our Southland friends?”
The conversation shifted to other, less interesting topics. The slaughter of the Corrax tribe should have had them all quaking in their Druid boots, yet none of them seemed overly bothered. Which was odd, because destroying an entire Troll army would suggest a rather powerful and dangerous enemy. Or perhaps the Elves were responsible. If there was magic involved, the Elves were the logical culprit. But it was unlikely the Elves would have attempted anything like this unless provoked, and the Druids would have heard about it in advance.
So it remained a possibility that this was an enemy they knew nothing about. If that wasn’t cause for alarm, Dar didn’t know what was. But the High Druid and the members of his inner circle were acting as if the matter was already resolved. It was one thing to consider sending Ruis Quince and Zia Amarodian on a mission to make contact. It was something else again to believe this response was sufficient without anything else being done.
The meeting dragged on with occasional bickering and flinging about of accusations and blame. It made Dar wonder how anything ever got done. He decided that it probably didn’t, that whatever was currently accomplished within the Druid order happened without any help from the men and women in this room. He took a moment to stretch—irritated, bored, and fed up in general—and thought about walking out. But it was only a thought. He couldn’t abandon his post, bored or not, without resigning his position, and he hadn’t thought it through sufficiently yet to make the jump.
Instead, he shifted his attention to Zia, who was slouched back in her chair ignoring the tumult about her, looking as if she, too, wished she were somewhere else. She wasn’t even bothering with making sure she was attracting Balronen’s attention long enough to demonstrate her loyalty and give evidence of her importance as a member of his inner circle. If anything, she looked like she couldn’t care less.
He caught her eye and nodded a silent greeting. She glared at him, as if her boredom was his fault, and he shrugged and looked away. She still hadn’t forgiven him.
And there was much to forgive. He understood that now.
—
They had met in the second year of his service as Blade to Drisker Arc. At first their relationship was cordial but uncomplicated. She was a respected member of the Druid order and he was newly appointed as the High Druid’s protector. A number of times, he had accompanied her on expeditions. On occasion, he walked with her in the woods, just the two of them, talking about the future of the order. Then his relationship with her slowly changed. He could feel it even as it was happening, a slow drifting toward something more personal, discovering an unexpected closeness that involved tender words and brief touching. He came to know her better and more fully, and she him. He welcomed this, because he found her to be interesting and compelling. Then he found her to be something more.
One night, woozy with sket and the warmth of the evening and a need that had grown undeniable, they crossed a line. The loving was sweet and urgent and intense. They found themselves in foreign territory and happy to be there. They were newly come to love and eager to know more of where it would take them. They were open about it because there was no reason not to be. He sensed they had started out on a journey from which there was no turning back, but he felt it was right to have done so. He did not fear the feelings she generated in him or the passion she aroused.
He should have.
At some point, shortly after Drisker had resigned his position and Balronen had become the new Ard Rhys, Dar was nearly killed while on a mission for the Druids into the deep Eastland. He survived, but it changed his thinking about Zia. Maybe trying to bind her to him was wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. He did. What was wrong was what he perceived for the first time to be a conflict between his position as Blade and her future as his life partner. Continuing the relationship would be a mistake. Everything he did put him in danger. Every time he set out on a fresh expedition for the Druids, he risked not coming back. His life hung by a thread when he came
up against a dangerously wild or ill-used form of magic. There were too many ways he could be killed—and too many opportunities for it to happen. It was not fair to allow her to think they could have a life together. Not when that life was so tenuous. It was selfish and unreasonable. It was wrong of him to lead her on when he understood the realities of his work. He became convinced of it.
But he did not reveal any of this to her. He did not discuss it. He muddled through his regrets and doubts and uncertainties on his own, then decided it was best to put an end to things. He was thinking of her, and in a different way entirely not thinking of her at all. He believed he was protecting her while at the same time setting in place the foundation of an act that would damage her irreparably.
When he finally told her he was leaving, that while he loved her he did not want her to depend on someone who might be gone in the blink of an eye, she responded with shock, then tears, and then rage. She railed at him, called him a coward and a fool. She begged him to reconsider. She used arguments and threats. She tried physically to keep him from going.
But he ended it anyway. He was setting her free to have a life. At the time, that was what he believed he was doing. Eventually, he came to see he was doing something else entirely.
By then, it was too late.
—
So now here they were, former friends and lovers, sharing meetings as boring and unproductive as this one and not much more. Dissatisfied and unhappy. Drifting.
Zia was with Ruis Quince now, a condition Dar could barely manage to think about. Several months now, and it wasn’t getting any easier for him to accept. He, on the other hand, was with no one, and not much interested in even bothering to look.
She looked back at him briefly, and he dropped his gaze. It was too hard for him to hold it. He could read too much of the past in her look.
He shifted his thoughts to the history of the Druids from Allanon to the present, retracing all they had accomplished, recounting to himself how many terrible threats they had helped overcome, how many wars and battles and individual struggles they had endured. The Four Lands had come a long way in three thousand years, and the Druids had been there every step of the way. They had helped make the transition from the devastation of the Old World to the hard-won but durable civilization of the present. Where once science had ruled and then failed, now magic held sway. The Druids had made this possible. They, more than anyone, including the Elves, had devoted themselves to gaining control of and managing artifacts and talismans and to finding ways to put a stop to the presence of rogue magic. They had dedicated their lives to being curators and protectors.
Except that now, all of a sudden, they weren’t doing their job. Not since Drisker Arc had stepped down. Not since Ober Balronen had taken his place. Now, instead of aggressively pursuing an unknown magic employed by an unknown force, they were all but dismissing it, concerned only with how it could be turned to their political advantage. It was so wrong it screamed for a correction, yet there was no one other than Balronen with enough power to make that happen.
It gave him pause. It aroused anger and frustration. It caused him to take another long, hard look at what the future might hold. A single question kept coming back to him.
How long could this sort of casual disregard continue before the entire house of cards that was the Fourth Druid Order came tumbling down?
How long before something really bad happened?
EIGHT
The slender black-cloaked stranger appeared at the south gates of Paranor just after dawn, standing in place for a time and looking up at the walls of the Keep before calling to the sentries he knew would be watching to announce his presence. A side door opened, and two members of the Druid Guard appeared. Huge bark-skinned Trolls in heavy armor bearing halberds and short swords, they separated just outside the portal, one coming forward to meet with the stranger while the other stood just at the door, ready to seal it away again if the need arose.
The Troll who came out to greet the stranger studied him carefully. He was unusually fair-skinned when he pulled back the hood of his cloak to reveal his face. His appearance was pleasing, almost pretty, his skin smooth and unblemished, his build slender, and his expression placid. He was so nonthreatening that the Troll felt a disdain he could not tamp down. When the Troll asked him, in his Southland dialect, what he wished, the man replied in a soft, pleasant voice, using the same dialect, that he was there to be interviewed for a position in the Druid order and would like to speak to someone who could arrange for that. He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but everyone in Paranor knew no one was given an interview save by invitation.
The Troll to whom he spoke stood looking at him for a long few moments, his features expressionless and unreadable.
“Wait here,” he ordered finally, and together with his companion disappeared back inside the Keep. Once there, he went alone to the reception room to advise the Druid-in-Training on duty of the stranger’s arrival.
—
Allis Errencarthyjorian, she of the unpronounceable last name, was one year into her training and shortly would be brought up for review to see if there was a possibility of further advancement in the order. As a result, she was deeply engaged in her studies, currently reading and rereading a book of spells and incantations that one of her teachers had advised she look into carefully before her examination by her Druid elders.
Allis was not naturally gifted in the way some other Druids-in-Training were, but she was a hard worker and a clever young woman. She had progressed measurably in the development of her skills since arriving at Paranor and passing her entrance exam into the order, despite the doubts she had harbored at the beginning of her chances for success, and by now she was determined to make her good fortune count for something.
Nevertheless, when Eskrit, the guard, brought her news of the black-cloaked stranger seeking entrance, she put aside her book and walked back to see what this was about. Admittedly, she was curious. Eskrit had conveyed a full description of the man, which included a mention of poise and confidence that she wanted to examine for herself. Perhaps he was one of the very few uninvited magic users that the Keep would want to admit. It would be remembered if she were the one to invite him in.
She walked through the service door and over to the stranger, who immediately executed a low bow. “My lady,” he greeted her.
Allis was caught off guard. “You don’t need to bow to me. I am no one special.”
“It is my privilege to consider all women special,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “I do not make exceptions.”
“Then, well met, sir,” she responded, smiling. “Can you give me your name?”
“Kassen Drue,” he said. “I am from Franschen Dell.”
She had never heard of him or the place he was from. “You come from the deep Southland?”
“Deeper than most. On the edge of the Antra Sink, well below Arishaig and the larger cities.”
So he was from somewhere in the regions of the lower ice seas. “And you seek entry into the order?”
“I seek a chance to prove I deserve admission. No favors, no gifts. I expect to be tested.”
She liked his face. His was a fine-featured, open countenance that showed some weathering and much exposure to the outdoors. Yet it was kind, too. It showed him to have humor and a willingness to accept others.
“Do you have weapons on you?” she asked.
“I don’t require weapons,” he replied.
Coming from another man, such a claim might have raised a doubtful eyebrow. But with Kassen she found the claim believable, even though she couldn’t have said exactly why. She folded her arms within her gray robes and gave him a studied look.
“I hope not, because I am required to have you searched. Eskrit?”
The huge Troll approached, and Kassen held out his arms from his body compliantly to allow the other to check him over from head to foot for any concealed sharp objects. Eskrit
found nothing.
“Very good,” said Allis. “Now, if you will come with me, I will show you to a reception room where you can wait while a panel of examiners is assembled.”
Together, with Eskrit shadowing them, they went through the service door and into an antechamber, which contained a few weathered wooden benches and not much else.
She pointed to the benches. “Sit here, please. Eskrit will keep you company until I return. Do not go farther into the Keep until then.”
She left him there and went to her mentor, the Druid Clizia Porse, who was the chief examiner on duty that day, to let her know that a stranger seeking admission as an initiate had appeared at the gates. She did so with some trepidation, just as always—not only because Clizia was very old and very respected within the order, but also because the rumors about her history were dark and dangerous. Although Allis had never personally felt threatened in any way, it was hard to ignore stories about someone who was said to have used poisons to settle disputes and whose gift with magic was claimed to be nearly incomparable.
She found Clizia in her study, occupied much as Allis had been earlier: deeply engaged in reading a book of spells and incantations. The old woman looked up the moment she opened the door and in that initial moment her look was hard and threatening.
A second later it was gone. “Yes, Allis?”
“There is a stranger at the gates seeking admittance to the order. He bears no weapons; I judge him to be no threat.”
She waited uncertainly for the response, but Clizia only nodded. “I will meet with him shortly. Take him to the examining room and stay with him until I arrive with the panel.” She paused. “And Allis? Don’t ever judge anyone to be no threat. Everyone is capable of being a threat, whether it appears so or not.”
Allis went out again without waiting for more, happy to be able to retreat relatively unscathed. No matter how much time she spent with her mentor, it never got any easier for her to feel comfortable.