Wards of Faerie: The Dark Legacy of Shannara
Page 24
“Good enough. Save it for later, though. We need to get out of here first. Lie down, now. Let me cover you up.”
Bombax did as he was told. He lay still as the boy covered him and then felt him shift his weight onto one of the two wooden seats and heard him set the oars in their locks.
When they began to move, the sound of the oars pulling against the water and the rocking of the skiff quickly put Bombax to sleep.
19
EARLIER THAT SAME MORNING, MANY MILES TO THE SOUTH, the Federation Flagship Arishaig lifted away from the city for which she was named and started north toward Paranor. She was followed by a fleet of four other airships—two warships like herself, ships-of-the-line; one huge transport; and a scouting vessel built for speed and maneuverability. Almost a thousand men were aboard the five vessels counting crews, Federation soldiers, and Drust Chazhul. Of those, most had no clear idea where they were going, and only the Prime Minister and Stoon were aware of the real purpose of the journey.
Even Lehan Arodian, newly appointed commander of the Arishaig and Minister of Defense of the Coalition Council, whose considerable power matched that of Drust, did not know the whole truth.
It had taken some doing to bring all this about. Theoretically, Federation Prime Ministers were expected to visit other heads of state throughout the Four Lands. But in practice those who held the office rarely ventured outside the Southland, confining their visits to undisputed parts of the Federation. Only now and then, when it was necessary, would a Prime Minister go out into the other three lands or surrounding territories, and then only because such a visit would in some concrete way further Federation interests. That Drust Chazhul should choose to go to Paranor raised more than a few eyebrows, given the tensions existing between the Federation and the Druids. But he deflected criticism and doubts voiced by members of the Coalition Council by pointing out that establishing some sort of relationship with Paranor early on in his term of office would be the first step toward finding a way to change their attitude. Ignoring the Druids, as they had done for many years, had failed to work; it was time to try something more creative.
It was only a short step from there to convincing them that a sizable force was needed for the journey. If the Druids were to be persuaded, they needed to be reminded of the considerable power the Federation commanded. They needed to be shown an example of what they would be up against if they made the Federation their enemy. The arrival of a fleet of warships bearing the Prime Minister would go a long way toward accomplishing that.
They were further convinced when it was suggested that Lehan Arodian, one of their most capable and trusted soldiers and a member of the Council’s Inner Circle, be given command of the expedition. That had been Stoon’s idea. Make him a part of the supposed delegation. Name him commander of the fleet. Then drop him overboard somewhere on the way. An accident, of course. Accidents were known to happen aboard airships.
It was a gamble on Drust’s part, to be sure. But big rewards usually required big risks. Drust Chazhul was ready to take one here.
Standing on the bridge of the Arishaig, watching the towers and walls of the Federation capital city begin to diminish as the fleet eased into formation in preparation for sailing north, he paused a moment in his thinking to study the man who was now the chief obstacle to his efforts at holding on to his office.
Like Edinja Orle, Lehan Arodian came from a powerful family of politicians and army commanders dating back three centuries. He was a soldier first and foremost, but after years of service he had gone on to become a member of the Coalition Council. A dual role of this sort was allowed under Federation law, and he was a logical choice to act as Minister of Defense. Because of his family history and oratorical skills and because he was respected and liked by the soldiers he commanded, he had risen fast in political circles to become the obvious choice as successor to the old Prime Minister. He would have been so named if not for the campaign mounted by Edinja and the secretive efforts of Drust to position himself as an acceptable compromise to either.
Failure to gain the position of Prime Minister had done little to diminish Arodian’s ambitions; of that, Drust Chazhul was certain. In fact, there was every reason to think that Arodian himself had been responsible for Edinja Orle’s death. With Edinja out of the way, any real threat to his ambition to be appointed Prime Minister was eliminated. It would not take much for him to persuade the Coalition Council to reconsider their choice; and if that happened, Drust was out of a job. After all, he had been a compromise choice in the first place, and there was no longer any reason for compromise. Thus the decision to name Arodian commander of this expedition. It gave the Minister of Defense the impression that Drust was deferring to him, and at the same time it took him outside the city walls, away from the comparative safety of his family, and put him in a place where he could be disposed of. Lehan Arodian might be going out on this expedition, but he was most definitely not coming back.
Drust walked over to the commander and stood next to him. “Fine day for flying, isn’t it?” he offered.
“Not as fine as you might think.” Arodian didn’t look at him, his eyes directed forward. “Clouds to the west? Storm coming on, maybe two, three hours off. We won’t be past the Prekkendorran by then. Be right out in the open when she strikes us.” He glanced over, smiling. “Hope you remember to lean over the side if you get queasy, Drust. This is new stuff for an office dweller like yourself.”
Drust smiled back, ignoring the other man’s failure to address him as Prime Minister. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”
The other nodded. “We’re flying a lot of canvas for a simple visit. This feels more like the buildup to an engagement.”
“Does it?”
“Three ships-of-the-line? A transport crammed with soldiers? Yes, it most certainly does. I know you sold the Council on this being a simple courtesy call, but I think you might have something more in mind. Maybe you know something the rest of us don’t about the state of the Druid defenses?”
Drust shook his head. “I just think a show of force doesn’t hurt when dealing with people who don’t much like you. They might come around quicker if they see what they could be calling down on themselves.”
“Especially if you find a reason to use that force. Don’t be too quick to go up against the Druids, friend Drust. They’ve got magic that puts our scientific developments to shame. Including all our diapson-crystal-powered weapons. If you want to subdue them, you need to use cunning.”
Just what I was thinking, Drust mused silently. “If you say so.”
He walked away before Arodian could say anything more. He had an uneasy feeling about the way the other was so bold in challenging his intentions, as if somehow he already knew what they were. Well, he might have guessed, of course. Arodian was no fool. But whatever he was, it wouldn’t matter after tonight.
After tonight, he would be dead.
Aphenglow Elessedil was working in the garden, her walking staff close at hand, damaged leg wrapped in a lightweight splint and carefully stretched out in front of her where she could avoid doing anything that might injure it further. Her healing was progressing rapidly, the exercises and uses of her magic producing noticeable results. She needed the splint now only for protection; she no longer required it in order to move about. Leaning on her staff and taking slow, cautious steps were protection enough. At night, she slept without the splint. And she could get to her feet by herself and wash and dress herself without assistance.
She was well enough, in fact, that she was eager to do something more active. But Arlingfant was insistent that she not rush things, making it a point to monitor her sister’s activities to make sure she didn’t.
Right now, Arling was off fetching lunch and cold drinks for a picnic. But she would be back soon enough, and Aphen was feeling lazy enough in the sun’s warmth, her hands buried in the dirt as she planted flowers and pulled weeds, that she did not feel like arguing the matter.
That suggestion had been firmly rebuffed by both. They would leave when she was healed and when they felt she could be safely left alone. That time had not yet arrived.
Nor had Bombax, she thought suddenly.
It was getting harder and harder as the days passed not to obsess over his absence. She had been back to the cold room twice since that first time and used the scrye waters to try to detect some sign of his magic. But nothing had revealed itself, and she was stuck with wondering and worrying and waiting some more.
Which was what she was doing once again when Arlingfant came running down the pathway shouting, “He’s back!”
Aphenglow didn’t need to ask whom she meant. She scrambled to her feet, trying to be careful of her damaged leg. Her sister came charging up to her. “He’s hurt, Aphen. Some boy had to bring him back. They’re down in the healing ward.”
As quickly as Aphenglow’s injured leg would let her, she hurried to reach him. Forgotten were the warmth of the day and the enjoyment of gardening. All Aphenglow could think about was how badly Bombax might be hurt. She quizzed her sister, but Arling couldn’t give her any answers. Bombax, it seemed, had lost his voice and much of his muscular control.
“He seems delirious! I don’t think he even knows where he is!”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. They found him lying on a bed, strapped in place by the Troll guards who had carried him in from his airship. He was thrashing and crying out and looked to be in the throes of a form of madness. Aphenglow hurried to him, bent close, and called his name repeatedly. But he looked right through her, as if he didn’t know who she was and didn’t care.
“What will you do?” her sister asked, hands on Aphen’s shoulders to steady her as she backed away from the bed and its wild-eyed occupant.
For a moment, Aphenglow panicked. She didn’t recognize the illness from the symptoms she was seeing. This was something new. Her panic was exacerbated by how much she loved him and how desperate she was to do something to help him.
Then she shook off her uncertainty and went to work. She fed him teaspoons of althenin, a nightshade derivative that acted as a relaxant and calming agent. She had Arling bring her cold cloths to bathe his face and cool him down; when she felt his forehead, he was burning up. She dismissed everyone except her sister—including the boy who had apparently returned him to Paranor, flying him home in Bombax’s own airship—wanting to empty the room of everyone who wasn’t necessary to what needed to be done. Arling had worked with her before in Arborlon and knew how to behave. Besides, Aphen couldn’t move about as easily as Arling and needed her sister’s superior mobility to fetch and carry.
When the althenin had taken effect and Bombax had stopped thrashing and was lying in a semi-stupor, she examined his mouth to be certain his tongue hadn’t been damaged and then called up the magic that she hoped would heal him.
She placed her hands on his face, closed her eyes, and slowly, carefully began to probe his damaged body. Using a magic that allowed her to discover the source of the sickness attacking him, she found the residue of a liquid he had apparently swallowed that had robbed him of both his voice and his muscle control. A dangerous side effect, it appeared, was that it was rendering him increasingly delirious and psychotic. She searched for the places where the poison was doing the most damage and slowly worked it out of his body, withdrawing it through his pores and turning it into a fine mist that evaporated in the open air.
She worked on him for a long time, a tedious and thorough cleansing of every part of his body. Arlingfant kept watch over them both, standing close at hand, bringing cold cloths to lay on Bombax’s forehead and feeding him additional althenin when he started to wake and move about. Keeping Bombax still while she worked was crucial to her efforts, Aphenglow explained, and her sister saw to it that he remained immobile.
When she finally finished her ministrations, night was coming on. She sent Arling off to find them food and drink and sat alone beside her life mate while he slept. The poison was extracted now, the thrashing ended, the worst of it past. But she would not leave him until he woke and she was certain he was well again.
She sat with him all night.
Aphenglow slept on and off during her long hours of keeping watch, making sure at regular intervals that Bombax was sleeping comfortably. But when she woke at sunrise she found him awake and staring at her from the bed. When he gave her that familiar smile—the one she loved so much—she leaned down and kissed him passionately.
“I was worried for you,” she whispered.
“I was worried, too.”
“You can talk again?”
“So it seems. I didn’t even think about it. I just did it.”
“How do you feel?”
“Good. Much better. Whatever was in me is gone. Was that your doing?”
She nodded. He reached up and stroked her face, and they kissed again.
Then he told her everything that had happened to him after he had reached Varfleet. She listened intently, a mix of emotions surfacing as she did so: shock, relief, and anger. She was surprised at their intensity and even more surprised when anger overwhelmed everything else.
“What in the world were you thinking?” she demanded when he had finished. “Going into the worst part of Varfleet to find someone to help us? Mixing with people who would cut your throat for your shoes? Don’t you see what you did? You put yourself in danger for no good reason!”
His rough, handsome face tightened. “It seemed a good enough reason to me. A little risk was necessary. We needed magic of the sort that couldn’t be found by staying in the better neighborhoods.”
“That’s very funny. But it almost cost you your life. Or maybe something worse. Who knows what the Mwellrets had planned for you? It appears you were to be turned over to someone else. What do you think that might have led to?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.” He gave her a look.
“Not this time it doesn’t, but what about the next? You think you are invulnerable! It’s maddening! No one else takes the chances you do. Do you ever stop to think about that?”
He looked suddenly hurt. “Why are you so mad at me?”
“Because I love you, and I don’t want to lose you! I think more of you than you do of yourself! You put yourself in these dangerous situations and you expect me not to mind?”
He sighed. “I expect you to understand.”
“Well, I don’t! I don’t understand! Not any of it!”
“What if I promise not to do it again?”
“Now you are being condescending.” She was furious. “You tell me what you think I want to hear and everything will be all right. Is that it? Keep me happy until you do it again? Because you will! You can’t help yourself!”
He looked exasperated. “What am I supposed to do, Aphen? What can I do that will please you? It seems nothing will, listening to all this.”
She stood up, limped across the room, and turned back to him. “I can’t answer that right now. I’m exhausted. I’m relieved to have you back and terrified you might go away and do this to me all over again. Remember that time you went to Arishaig and posed as a courier so that you could get inside the chambers of the Coalition Council? Remember when you penetrated the quarters of the Red Guards and had to fight your way out? Alone? In the
middle of Federation country?”
He stared at her. “What happened to your leg? What have I missed while I was away?”
She smoldered. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. At least you noticed. Finally.” She glared at him. “Go back to sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”
She stomped out of the room without looking back.
Aboard the Arishaig, the decks were mostly empty of life. A helmsman steered the vessel north, a lookout slouched in the crow’s nest atop the mainmast, and a pair of soldiers stood watch across from each other, port and starboard amidship. The night was dark and moonless, the cloud cover heavy over the Prekkendorran, a shroud of mist rising off the lowlands of Clete some miles ahead to drift south toward the advancing Federation fleet. Except for the creaking of the rigging and the snores of sleeping men, the warship was quiet.
Drust Chazhul came on deck and moved toward the aft railing, breathing in the night air, steadying himself for what would happen in the next few minutes. Stoon would be in place by now—although Drust did not have any idea at all where that would be—ready to spring out when needed. They had gone over the plan a dozen times. Arodian’s personal attendant had mentioned to Stoon, when the assassin had engaged him in conversation down in the servants’ quarters and plied him with considerable alcohol, that the commander liked to watch the sunrise each morning from the fantail, the launching deck for the handful of flits the airship carried. The fantail was positioned aft below the command deck and the pilot box, hidden from view from the men who would be on watch. The plan was for Drust to confront him there and hold his attention long enough for Stoon to get in position, and then the assassin would grab the commander and throw him over the side of the airship.
They were flying at somewhere around two thousand feet. No one could survive a fall from that height.
Drust was confident. There would be no witnesses. Arodian would not suspect an attack; he knew himself to be physically superior. It would all be over quickly.