by Terry Brooks
He tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. At first, his thoughts were directed toward Tarsha and himself and their respective situations. But eventually he began to think of other things, his mind wandering, his interest in sleeping forgotten. And in the way these things sometimes work, it was then he fell asleep.
Quickly enough, he was dreaming. He was back in Paranor, in the Druid’s Keep, in the chamber that housed the Druid Histories. And there was Tarsha, slumped over the old wooden table with the Histories scattered all around her, sleeping with her head on her folded arms. She was right where he had left her, only now she was slumped in her chair, her expression worn and depleted, not focusing on much of anything.
When she became aware of him, she rose, blinking rapidly. Drisker?
He couldn’t hear her, of course, but he could read his name on her lips as she spoke it. She had a frantic look and mouthed something wildly that he could not understand.
Seeing his incomprehension, she then pointed toward the entry wall, and he saw it was closed. It must have happened while she was working, and now she was trapped in the room with no way to escape. But for how many days? Her cheeks looked hollow and her lips were cracked and parched, so he knew he had to get her out immediately.
He nodded his understanding and patted the air with both hands in an effort to offer reassurance. Then he moved to the wall that had imprisoned her and placed his hands just so. He let her take a long look and then stepped back. The imprints from his fingertips were clearly visible. He motioned for her to put her fingertips where his had been and watched her do so. Nothing happened, and she looked back at him in dismay. Again he patted the air and mimed shoving.
She did what he indicated. This time the wall quickly disappeared and she was free.
She stood where she was for a moment, a look of shock and relief mirrored on her young face. Then she returned to the table, snatched up one of the books, and left the chamber, moving over to the easy chair she had occupied earlier, where she collapsed.
Drisker felt something sieze up inside at the thought of what she was going through. She was all alone now, her allies dispersed and her brother dead, while he was trapped within the Forbidding. She was taking on so much, and she was still only a girl. She had matured, but the weight of what she faced might still end up crushing her.
A moment later, she beckoned him close and pulled out a sheet of paper on which she had printed out: A magic called a darkwand is inside the Forbidding. Anyone with Ohmsford blood can use it to get free. Would Grianne help you?
Tarsha reached out to him, as if momentarily forgetting he was nothing more than a projection of himself. Then she drew her hand back quickly when she realized the futility of what she was attempting and dropped her gaze. But he was still pondering her message. A darkwand? He did not recall this magic. How he had missed learning about it while reading the Druid Histories was difficult to understand, but Tarsha had found it and was telling him it was a way out.
Or was it? If so, why hadn’t Grianne used it a long time ago? If it was there, why hadn’t she found it and escaped? Why had she come to him at the Hadeshorn to ask him to find a way to help free her? There was too much he didn’t know, too much he still needed to find out. Too many questions and too few answers.
Answers that perhaps only the Straken Queen could give him.
Then, abruptly, he realized he had failed to warn Tarsha of another danger—one he had dismissed earlier and which she knew nothing about. Clizia had transported him by use of a triagenel into the Forbidding, but for that to happen, something within the prison—a demon of some sort—must have been released in exchange. It was likely Clizia would have appropriated it for her own usage immediately, and it was entirely possible that Tarsha knew nothing of this. But if Clizia found out she was still alive, she might well use this demon to hunt her.
He scrambled about, searching for paper and writing tools, saw them a few feet away on a desk, and reached for them.
Instantly, his dream began to go soft and vague around the edges. No! he screamed in dismay. But before he could do anything to stop it, he had disappeared back into sleep.
SEVENTEEN
After Drisker Arc’s image was gone and the dream finished, Tarsha continued to sleep for a time. When she woke, she was shocked to discover she was still trapped within the chamber housing the Druid Histories and not outside as she had been in her dreams. She rose and walked to the sealed-over wall, finding with no small amount of relief the faint trace of fingerprints from years of Druids past that she had missed before. Feeling rather foolish, she placed her own fingertips over the imprints, pushed hard, and the wall disappeared. Relief flooded through her as she stumbled back outside again. Tucked in her tunic was the paper with the brief sentences she had shown Drisker. She had to hope he understood what she was trying to tell him. She had to hope it would give him a way to get free and come back to her.
She left the offices of the High Druid behind and went searching for food and drink. Down the hall a short distance away was the pantry she had taken advantage of earlier. Her choices were limited, but sufficient to satisfy her need for nourishment. She sat at a small dining table to eat and drink, trying hard not to rush. Nothing had ever tasted better. She took her time consuming enough not only to regain her strength, but to sustain her for the journey that lay ahead. Then she rose, pulled her cloak about her, and departed Paranor. She had done all she could here. She had to hope it would be enough.
She went downstairs to the cellars and the underground tunnel that would take her back outside the walls of the Keep. The Guardian did not reappear; nor did she hear or see any sign of it. The hallways echoed hollowly with her footsteps and breathing, but were silent otherwise. Paranor’s Druids were all gone. If Drisker failed to return, no more would come. Unless he meant for her…
She could not finish the thought. But the image was there, firmly fixed in her mind. She was standing at the edge of the waters of the Hadeshorn with the Shade of Allanon looking on as Drisker whispered words of magic and touched her forehead with waters from the black lake.
She pushed the image aside. She had other matters to consider—matters more immediately pressing than her future prospects.
She could not decide where to go next. Back to Emberen was the logical choice—back to her safehold where Flinc and Fade could keep her safe. But Drisker would want her to warn those who needed warning that Clizia Porse was still out there, still as dangerous as ever. And she wanted to find Clizia in any case and settle matters once and for all. But she did not know where the witch was and she did know how to find Ketter Vause. It seemed to her it might be best to find the Federation Prime Minister first, but she knew she would have to do so carefully. Drisker had departed with Tavo and her under something of a cloud, and Vause had definitely blamed him for Clizia’s escape. Now Tarsha would have to find a way to make Ketter Vause put all that aside. Of course, it was possible that Vause might not even agree to see her, once she presented herself, but she could not permit that to happen. It was far too important that he listen to what she had to say.
She would have to travel to the Federation encampment to speak with Vause, and that meant a long flight from Paranor over the mountains of the Dragon’s Teeth, down into the hill country beyond where the Skaar had last been encamped, and across the Mermidon. It would take hours to accomplish this, but she was reasonably well rested by now and thought she could manage it.
She walked through the tunnel after locking the doors to the cellars and the Keep, exited the trapdoor and locked it as well, then walked back to where she had left her airship. The sun was starting to set by the time she arrived, and she had no idea how many days had passed since she had found herself locked in the chamber housing the Druid Histories. It felt strange so much time might have passed without her experiencing any of it. But her life since going to Drisker’s cottage had taken on a su
rreal aspect, and her disconnection from anything that was happening elsewhere had become the norm. Too often subjected to the whims of a fate that seemed to have no consideration for either her well-being or her peace of mind, she felt constantly adrift.
She walked around her airship, examining the protections she had employed to alert her to intruders, and found them all intact. By now she was realizing that her earlier assessment of her ability to fly Drisker’s two-man all the way to the south bank of the Mermidon was overly ambitious. She already was feeling the need to sleep again. Since it was dark and the sky was clouded over, screening away moon and stars and their attendant light, making a decision about what to do was easy.
She climbed into her aircraft, curled up on the passenger’s bench with a blanket wrapped about her, and went to sleep.
When the sunrise woke her, she felt sufficiently rested and fresh again. Waiting until daylight had been the right decision. She rummaged around the storage compartments and found some dried foodstuffs and water and made a meal of them. She was already thinking ahead to how she needed to handle her meeting with Ketter Vause, given her concerns about the reception she was going to receive. She decided she should tell him only just enough to persuade him of the danger he was in and let the rest reveal itself later. After all, what mattered most was that he be made to understand the peril and take steps to act on it. Beyond that, the rest of what she knew—about Drisker’s fate and her own rather desperate situation—would be of little help.
She set out as soon as her meal was finished, flying south toward the jagged peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth, angling toward the Kennon Pass. She reached it in several hours, passing through its twisting length at a low height to help avoid detection, and then continuing on toward the Mermidon. By midafternoon, she was crossing the river and turning south for the Federation camp. It was only a short time later that she had reached the perimeter and swung about for the airfield.
She landed smoothly, by now sufficiently familiar with how her craft handled to feel comfortable. No sooner had she landed than sentries approached, with the airfield manager following hard on their heels. She told them she was a companion of the Druid, Drisker Arc, and had come to give a report to the Prime Minister.
“Miss,” the airfield manager addressed her with a concerned look, “I suppose you haven’t heard, but Ketter Vause was assassinated two weeks ago. Apparently by a disgruntled soldier, but no one seems exactly sure.”
This was news she wasn’t prepared for. She wondered momentarily if Clizia might have returned and dispatched him. “Did anyone see it happen?”
“He was killed in his sleep,” said another man. “As unlikely as it might seem, Belladrin Rish caught the assassin trying to escape and killed him. She’s someone to be reckoned with, that young woman.”
So not Clizia, apparently, and she was still in time. Tarsha remembered Belladrin, though they had not spoken more than once or twice. A young woman serving as a personal assistant to the Prime Minister, she recalled, and she had seemed capable enough in that capacity. But as a protector able to dispatch an assassin? Like the soldier, she found it hard to believe.
“So who is in charge of the army now?” she asked. “Whom can I speak to? Has a new Prime Minister been appointed?”
The airfield manager chuckled. “A new Prime Minister appointed so quickly? Unlikely; that process will drag on for weeks. There are commanders of the army, certainly, but you might do better speaking with Miss Rish herself. She seems to have been given control over organizational matters.”
“The fact is,” yet another soldier jumped in quickly, “she took control the moment we learned that the Prime Minister was dead. She even traveled into the Skaar encampment with several of our commanders to negotiate a truce with the Skaar king. Brave girl, to manage that! Once all the details have been finalized and the treaty has been ratified in Arishaig, we’ll be breaking camp and heading home. Well, most of us. A small force will remain behind to ward against a breach of the truce.”
“A truce?” Tarsha repeated in disbelief.
“Come with me, miss,” the soldier told her. “I’ll take you to Miss Rish, and you can speak with her yourself.”
Tarsha felt her head spin as she passed into the encampment. So Ketter Vause was dead, but a truce had been reached anyway? And what Drisker had believed to be the danger of a war between the Federation and the Skaar was no longer immediate? So how much danger was there of Clizia doing anything more to stir the pot now that the Prime Minister was dead and the armies of both Federation and Skaar were standing down?
But Clizia might not know any of this yet; she’d have to come here to find out, much as Tarsha had. And when she did, Tarsha would be waiting.
* * *
—
She was taken into what had formerly been the quarters of the Prime Minister to meet with Belladrin Rish. It made sense, of course, but at the same time it was troubling. For a personal assistant—however competent and well informed she might be—to have gained such power virtually overnight was highly unusual, to say the least. That the commanders of the army had allowed her to negotiate a truce with the Skaar king—and especially that she had succeeded in doing so when so many other efforts had apparently failed—was likewise impossible to understand. There was clearly more to all this than Tarsha knew, but she imagined she would get at least some answers when she and Belladrin spoke.
Her guide made her wait in the tent’s antechamber while one of the soldiers on guard went inside to inform Miss Rish—as he, too, called her—of Tarsha’s presence. He was gone only a moment, and then Belladrin herself burst through the opening and rushed to embrace Tarsha.
“Thank the fates you are safe!” she exclaimed, stepping back with a broad smile. Her dark hair was unexpectedly short-cropped, and her face had taken on a less youthful cast, giving her a more mature, seasoned look. “You’ve heard, I imagine? The Prime Minister is gone, struck down in his sleep. We are all devastated! But come inside. Can I offer you a glass of ale? Have you come far? What of Drisker Arc and your brother?”
With questions flying, she pulled Tarsha into the inner chambers and sat her down on a bench, then poured ale from a decanter into two glasses and handed one to Tarsha. “Now, tell me everything!”
Her reception was a clear invitation to gossip, but Tarsha remembered to keep her head. Belladrin Rish wasn’t that much older than she was, but she was clearly not lacking in self-confidence. And Tarsha had been schooled well enough by Drisker in the value of never revealing more than was needed—by personal example as much as by verbal instruction—so she knew to step carefully.
“Drisker remains behind with my brother,” she said, praying she managed to hide the spear of grief that went through her at the words. “He is engaged in other matters. We’ll see him again soon enough.” I hope. “However, he dispatched me to advise you of what we believe to be a serious threat from Clizia Porse. Although it now appears you have negated that threat, in part through your own capable efforts at securing a truce with the Skaar.”
Belladrin blushed. “It is not all it might seem, and my role has been greatly exaggerated. The Prime Minister made the necessary arrangements for a meeting with the Skaar king before his death, and I simply followed through because he would have wanted it that way. He trusted me to bring the Dwarves of Crackenrood with their Reveals when they were needed, so this was just one last service I could perform.”
Tarsha took a long drink of ale and brushed back a few bothersome strands of her white-blond hair. Like Belladrin, she had cut it short. She had done so during her last visit to the Federation camp; she was young enough that she thought it prudent to avoid unwanted attention from overeager soldiers. But her cut was less military in its look than Belladrin’s; the other young woman now looked almost masculine.
“You’ve done well,” Tarsha said, putting her thoughts about the ot
her’s appearance aside. “That the commanders would accept this—or you, for that matter!—speaks to your persuasive powers. So is the war truly at an end? Will you actually go home to Arishaig soon, as the airfield manager said?”
“Well, as soon as the treaty is ratified, but we will not be abandoning our post entirely,” Belladrin assured her. “We leave a watch, to be certain the Skaar attempt nothing untoward.”
“And what of you? Will you continue to serve?”
There was a momentary hesitation. “If I am needed; I am but a civil servant. And the Coalition Council must choose a new Prime Minister, who may prefer a very different aide. Tell me, what sort of threat are we facing from Clizia Porse?”
Tarsha look another drink of ale and leaned forward. “Now? Perhaps nothing. But I think she might still seek Vause’s death, and thus might come here as I did, not knowing that he is dead already. And she remains dangerous.”
Belladrin Rish considered. “I beg to differ. Her main target is already gone, and those of us left are well beneath her notice. Plus, we have dozens of guards stationed everywhere since the assassination, so Clizia will have trouble even getting into the camp.” She paused. “But what about yourself? How much danger are you in? Haven’t you placed yourself in a situation in which Clizia could be perilous to you as well?”
Tarsha smiled reassuringly. “More than you know! But I have magic, too; I was trained to use it by Drisker. I am not without protections I can call upon.” A bit of bravado there, but she didn’t want Belladrin to see her as weak in any way.
“Even so, Clizia is hunting you, isn’t she?”
“Not at the moment. Clizia thinks me dead, so she will not be looking for me. Best to worry about your own safety and that of your companions. It is Clizia’s intention to reestablish the Druid order with herself at its helm, so she will do whatever she thinks necessary to make this happen. Even if she is not an immediate threat, we still have to find a way to stop her.”