Bearers of the Black Staff

by Terry Brooks

  Every setback brought fresh opportunity. It was so here. He need only make use of his skill and experience to take advantage of it.

  When he was deep in the trees, he slowed, pacing himself, gathering his thoughts anew, wanting to be careful now, to be cautious. He did not want to reveal what he was feeling—the excitement, the euphoria, and the intense sense of possibility that fed his ambitions. Not to the boy, his killing tool.

  He reached the dilapidated cottage, walked up to the sagging porch, and stopped. The old man was nowhere in sight, and the cottage was as dark and silent as ever. Yet there was someone inside; there was always someone inside. Even the old man, blind as he was, kept watch in his own way and would know Skeal Eile was there.

  But it was the boy who appeared this time, coming silently through the doorway to greet him. “Your Eminence,” he said, his smile bright and expectant. “Did things go well for you?”

  “You know of the meeting, then?”

  The smile widened. “Tell me something of what was said, won’t you?”

  Skeal Eile ignored the question. “It was helpful of you to advise me of their coming. It makes it so much easier for me to forgive you for your failure to carry out your assignment in Arborlon.”

  Bonnasaint shrugged. “Sometimes patience is the only alternative to disaster. I did what I could. My disguise as an old woman got me close to their quarters, but not to them. They were away from the city when I arrived and remained gone for several days. When the boy returned, he was alone. The girl never did reappear. The boy was always in the company of others, including the King of the Elves. He stayed but one night, and then he was gone again. An opportunity that would have allowed me to perform my special services never presented itself. My apologies, again, if you are displeased.”

  Smooth and diffident, as always. Skeal Eile inclined his head. “I am in no way displeased. Matters have taken an unexpected turn, one that makes it wiser to let the boy and the girl live. They will cause no further trouble. The failure of the protective walls and the appearance of this Troll army require that I take a fresh approach. The Children of the Hawk are threatened, but in being threatened they are also offered an unexpected chance to enhance their standing and thereby my own among the citizens of the valley. It requires only a few nudges and a little luck for this to happen.”

  “You are ever vigilant in finding both,” Bonnasaint observed, arching a perfectly formed eyebrow. “What is my role in advancing your special interests, Eminence?”

  “My interests and yours run roughly parallel, Bonnasaint.” He gave the youth a broad smile. “In the sense that I still have people who are obstacles to my efforts and you still have skills for removing such obstacles, nothing has changed. I still require you.”

  Bonnasaint executed a perfect bow, a graceful sweeping motion of one arm together with a downward cant of his slender body, an act of deference that could not be mistaken. “I am yours to command.”

  “Then listen carefully. The Gray Man and the boy travel south from Glensk Wood to the larger villages to enlist support for our own citizens. They do my work for me, although they do not realize it. They set the stage for my ascension as leader of all the peoples of the valley. The Races will be persuaded to stand with me when it matters, although ultimately it will be for purposes of my own. Do you see?”

  The boy shrugged. “You seek to increase your hold over them?”

  Skeal Eile smiled indulgently. Bonnasaint knew just enough to appreciate the opportunities, but cared nothing for the reasons. It was one of his best qualities. “The teachings of the Children of the Hawk are the way and the life. No other considerations or causes must be allowed to diminish those teachings or my own stature as leader of the sect. Simple enough.”

  “As you say,” the other acknowledged. “It is an honor to serve you, a privilege.”

  “It is your calling, Bonnasaint. It is your destiny.”

  The other inclined his smooth, boyish face. “What is it you require of me this time, Your Eminence?”

  “A great sacrifice, Bonnasaint. A great risk that might cost you your life if you are the least bit careless. For I intend to give you a challenge that no other would even dare consider. Does the idea suit you?”

  There was a momentary pause as the boy regarded him. From within the cottage, the soft cackle of the old man wafted through the silence. Listening, of course. Always watching over his talented son. “Father,” the boy said, an admonishing edge to the word. He kept his eyes fixed on Skeal Eile, and the latter could tell that the hesitation was born not of uncertainty, but of a desire to savor the moment.

  “The idea suits me perfectly,” he replied. “What is it you wish me to do?”

  “To come with me on a journey of our own, the kind you best prefer.”

  Bonnasaint smiled. “Tell me more, Eminence.”

  The Seraphic bent close.

  TWENTY-TWO

  PHRYNE AMARANTYNE WAS IN SUCH DISFAVOR WITH her father that she was forbidden to leave the city for any reason, assigned instead to work with Isoeld in caring for the sick and injured. Phryne tried reasoning with him, but he talked right over her attempts at an explanation, fixated on his belief that she had not only disobeyed him but lied to him, as well. She thought his conclusions unfair and wrong, but he was having none of it. Her punishment was decided. She was confined to the city for as long as he decided she needed to be confined. When she asked how long that might be, he told her he would let her know.

  With that, things quickly spiraled out of control. Her patience exhausted and her back well and truly up, Phryne lost her temper completely. She called her father pigheaded and obtuse. She called him other things, too, much worse things that came out of her mouth in the heat of a shouting match that brought retainers running. They arrived just in time to witness her father break a vase that had been given to him by her mother, sweeping it aside from its resting place on his desk in a wild gesture that was meant to emphasize the extent of his rage.

  After that, it was pretty much over. She was sent to her room and told to stay there until she could conduct herself in a civil manner, and she told him that he should stay right where he was in his office until he could do the same. She stormed out, flinging final threats back at him in response to his own threats, and by the end of the day the tale of their confrontation had grown to epic proportions and was being recounted with imaginative embellishments throughout the city.

  By the following morning, both Phryne and her father were speaking again, albeit without warmth or much eye contact.

  Phryne was not unhappy to be working with Arborlon’s healers, an undertaking she had engaged in on her own over the years, and she was rather pleased to be working with her stepmother, hoping that this might present a fresh opportunity to strengthen their relationship. She had all but decided that she had been wrong about Isoeld’s infidelity and wanted to make amends. Here was the perfect opportunity, a chance to be with her for more than a few minutes at a time, working side by side in a shared effort to bring a little comfort and relief to those less fortunate. Doing so would allow them to know each other better and to find common ground that transcended Isoeld’s marriage to her father.

  But right away she noticed that her stepmother seemed less than pleased about her presence. It wasn’t anything overt in her behavior or comments; on the contrary, she seemed to want to make Phryne feel welcome. It was mostly in her lack of enthusiasm and frequent periods of distraction. Phryne supposed these might be explained by the need for each of them to concentrate on the care each patient required. But the feeling persisted that something about having to share this time with Phryne was aggravating her. Something about her stepdaughter was nagging at her underneath all the pleasant words and friendly smiles.

  Phryne wasn’t sure what was going on, but she resolved to talk with Isoeld about it before the week was out in an effort to close this fresh breach that had opened between them. If that failed, she told herself, she might even ch
oose to speak to her father about it, asking his advice on what to do.

  But before she had a chance to act on this, she received a message from her grandmother summoning her for tea and conversation.

  When it came to her grandmother it was never an invitation, it was always a summoning. Mistral Belloruus was her mother’s mother, a formidable woman in her day, never a Queen herself, but the scion of a family of Kings and Queens reaching all the way back into the time before the Elves had uprooted and come to the valley. She had never approved of her daughter’s marriage to Oparion Amarantyne, his crown and his impressive family history notwithstanding. She had not attended the wedding and not come into the palace or sat in the Council or attended official functions since. In point of fact, Phryne could not remember when she had last heard of her grandmother even leaving her home. Certainly she had never seen it happen herself.

  Nor had Phryne gone to visit her grandmother or been invited—or summoned—to do so since the remarriage. It was as if their family ties had been so thoroughly severed that there was no point in even considering an effort at rebinding them. She accepted that she was as much to blame for this as her grandmother, since she had made virtually no effort to correct the situation, but whenever she had thought of trying to do so she had always come up with an excuse for putting it off to another time.

  Now, it appeared, that other time was here.

  The message was delivered as such messages always were—by one of the oldsters who still clustered about Mistral Belloruus like suitors. All of them were men of dubious origins and even more dubious purpose. Everything they did seemed to revolve around her grandmother. Phryne seldom saw any of them except when they were delivering her grandmother’s messages. Such messages were frequent and always couched as admonitions to which she was advised to pay heed. They arrived at odd times and never included even a suggestion that a visit might be nice. But the oldsters were the same, some four or five of them in all—she could never remember which—and the messages were always handwritten on stationery inscribed with her grandmother’s name.

  This one was no different:

  To Phryne Amarantyne:

  Please attend on me this midday at my home.

  Come alone. Give notice to no one of this meeting.

  Be discreet. Be prompt.

  Mistral Belloruus

  She did not use exclamation points, but she might as well have. Phryne could practically hear the emphasis her voice would have put on her words had she been present to speak them. The oldster conveying the message stayed long enough to be sure that Phryne had read it through and then, without waiting for a reply, he departed. Apparently it was assumed that once she knew what was required, she would act appropriately.

  Phryne dawdled a bit that morning, trying out various scenarios for what she imagined might take place at this unexpected meeting. The one that made the most sense revolved around her grandmother’s curiosity over why she was working with Isoeld. Mistral Belloruus knew well enough that Phryne did not care for her stepmother, and that there was no good reason evident that she would suddenly agree to work with her. Given this sudden change of heart, her grandmother might have deduced that something important had happened.

  Or maybe she had simply decided it was time for her granddaughter to visit her.

  Or maybe anything.

  Phryne decided to dress for the occasion, choosing feminine, loose-fitting clothes of which she knew her grandmother would approve. She picked flowers from the garden, arranged them in a basket, added fresh apples, and with only minutes to spare set out.

  It was a short walk down a main road diverging off into smaller byways, then into worn paths, and finally into trails that wound through the forest trees until they disappeared and you couldn’t find your way unless you knew exactly where you were going. Her grandmother did not encourage visitors of any sort, limiting such to those with whom she was familiar. In most cases, even those weren’t welcome without having either received a prior invitation or provided acceptable notice of an intended visit.

  Her grandmother lived in a large cottage east and south of the main city in woods dedicated to her personal usage and jealously guarded against encroachment. Phryne wasn’t sure who did the guarding, since all she had ever seen back there were the oldsters, but she had a feeling that it wouldn’t be wise to try to find out. It was rumored that Mistral Belloruus had use of magic. Since Phryne hadn’t visited for months, she couldn’t really know if anyone was doing the guarding these days. It had been enough to know that her feisty grandmother was alive and well and still dispensing unsolicited advice to her granddaughter.

  Still, she felt a certain pleasure in making this visit, knowing that by the time she left she not only would have made some sort of amends for her failure to visit earlier but also would be able to reassure herself that all was well with her grandmother.

  She had not told her father where she was going. She had not told anyone, adhering to the admonition contained in her grandmother’s message. But afterward, she would tell her father, because even if he wouldn’t admit it, speaking only now and again of Mistral Belloruus, he cared about her and worried that they had become so alienated.

  Phryne walked up to the porch of the cottage, finding one of the oldsters sitting in a rocker by the door, aged eyes fixed on her as she approached. She couldn’t remember his name, although she had known it once. He was small and hunched over and wizened to the point of being dried out completely. His head inclined as she climbed the steps, and he whispered the word “Princess” by way of greeting. She inclined her head in response and walked past him through the open cottage door.

  Inside, the rooms were gray and shadowy, curtains closed over windows, shutters canted against the sun, the whole of the interior as still and airless as a crypt. If felt to Phryne as if her grandmother might be trying to acclimate herself to being dead, but that was an unkind thought and she quickly dismissed it.

  “Grandmother?” she called out.

  “Bedroom!” her grandmother’s voice came back, much too strong and abrupt for anyone thinking about dying.

  Phryne walked down the hallway and past several rooms to the very back of the house and the chamber in which her grandmother slept. She remembered everything about the house, even though she had not visited for so long, the details familiar enough that she might have left only a day or so earlier. Ancient tapestries and paintings hung from the walls, much of it her grandmother’s work. Furniture gleamed with fresh polish, and colorful throws were draped over chair backs and arms. Crystal glittered from a cabinet here; china plates and saucers with intricate patterns rested upright in small grooves notched in the shelves of a hutch there.

  A cat wandered by. Crazy Orange, her grandmother called it, a tiger with white feet and a white blaze on its forehead. It never looked at her, on its way to finding better things to do, Phryne supposed.

  She found her grandmother propped up in bed, dressed in her good clothes, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gray hair was pinned up, the wrinkles in her skin powdered over, and her lips painted. She looked younger than her years. Except for lacking a smile, she would have been almost pretty.

  “You look very nice, girl,” she declared. “I think the colors suit you. Sit over there.” She motioned to a chair next to the bed.

  Phryne sat. “Are you well, Grandmother?”

  “As opposed to what? I am ninety-five years old, well into middle age and looking at the downside of my life. But yes. I am well enough. And you? How are you? Other than lacking a certain respect for your elderly grandmother, a failing that apparently requires no visible remorse for your failure to visit me, how are you?”

  Phryne flushed. “I deserve that. I apologize. I should have come before, but I always seem to become distracted when thinking to do so. It is not an attractive habit.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t. But then you make up for it in other ways, so why don’t we let all that go. The past is the past, over and done
with. Most of it, anyway. How is your father?”

  “Well.” She hesitated. “He is preoccupied at present with matters of court.”

  Mistral Belloruus laughed. “Is that how you would put it? ‘Preoccupied with matters of court’? You need to work on your language skills, Phryne. Your father is facing the most dangerous moment of the past five hundred years. The valley’s protective walls have collapsed, the passes are open, monsters of a sort we haven’t seen since we came here have appeared from the outside world, and a Troll army threatens. I should hope he is—if nothing better—preoccupied!”

  Phryne stared. “How do you know all this? It hasn’t been told to anyone. Not even the Elven Hunters who travel north to Aphalion Pass to build the barricades know as much. Only Father and the High Council know. How is it that you’ve found out?”

  Her grandmother smiled and shook her head in what Phryne took to be an expression of disbelief. “You know so little about me, girl. After all these years, still so little. I have eyes and ears everywhere; that’s how I know. An old woman doesn’t learn much without them. Mine are among the sharpest and most dependable. Remember that when you think of misbehaving again. Some tea, perhaps, before we speak further? Farsimmon! Bring tea, if you please. Even if you don’t please, bring it anyway.”

  Nothing more was said until the old man from the front porch appeared bearing a silver tray with tea service. Solemnly, he poured cups for each of them, bowed to each, and departed.

  “A sweet man,” Mistral offered when he was out of hearing. “Enamored of me from the moment he laid eyes on me. He never got over the fact that I chose another over him. But now here he is, all these years later.”

  Phryne took the flowers from the basket she had carried in and handed them to her grandmother, who beamed with obvious pleasure as she cradled them in her arms. Beautiful, she pronounced them. Phryne found a vase, helped her grandmother arrange the flowers, added water from a pitcher, and set the vase on a bedside table.