The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  “I ran then. A coward’s way out, but I was nine years old and I didn’t have the courage to do anything else. I think everyone in that village assumed I was carried off and torn to pieces like my father. I ran, and I never looked back. Afterward, for years, I lived a life no sane man would live. I don’t know how I survived. Eventually I realized how bad things had become, so I found my way here, to the Druids, seeking help from their magic and their skills at healing. Fortunately, they heeded my pleas. They cured me, giving me a means to cope with what I had become. The cure was already a part of who I was, and now, unexpectedly, it became my lifeline to sanity.”

  He stopped again, and she said, “I don’t understand. What sort of lifeline are we talking about?”

  “A lifeline that will connect us, girl, if I agree to help you. A lifeline meant to keep us both safe by providing me with a tether. You will be in danger from the moment I agree to help you and you agree to the conditions involved in accepting my help.”

  He rose. “I don’t think we need to talk about it further until I have a look at the place where your friend was taken.”

  “Does this mean you are thinking about helping me after all?”

  He shook his head in an ambivalent way. “It means I am taking one small step toward deciding, by agreeing to see if I can find anything. Be happy, for the moment, with that. Now, do you want to show me where it happened?”

  She did, of course. A sudden rush of hope bloomed within her. False or not, she would have to see.

  Seconds later they were out the door, the shape-shifter and she—an odd pairing about to become even odder.

  —

  Oost Mondara remained behind, watching them go, wondering what he had done.

  The conversation resumed once Leofur and Imric were outside the gates and moving toward the clearing where Chrysallin Leah had disappeared.

  “You still haven’t told me why agreeing to help me places both of us in such danger,” she said finally.

  His reply was a noncommittal grunt, so they walked from the walls of the Keep toward their destination in silence. Leofur cast furtive glances in Imric’s direction, hoping to find something revealing in his look. But each time she risked glancing in his direction, he was already looking back. His instincts were far superior to hers, it seemed. Whatever advantage he enjoyed over normal men and women as a shape-shifter must be remarkable. He carried himself easily, but there was a weariness to his gait that reflected what she had observed in his features when they had first been introduced.

  As if life had beaten him down and left him less than complete.

  As if the freedom he had once found so enthralling had been curtailed so completely that he had been left only a part of what he had been, and that part all but dead.

  She was speculating on this point, but speculation was almost all she had to work with. He had lost his parents in a terrible fashion when he was very young, and that had clearly shocked and hurt him deeply. The nature of their death was terrible enough. The fact that he had been told by his father that he was the cause of his mother’s death would have left anyone stricken. And then to have killed his father in response? Impossible to imagine what that had done to him. Whatever had happened in the aftermath—in the years that had passed before he came to the Druids—had apparently not helped matters. Rather, it had led him down a path where he had felt so debilitated and perhaps so close to embracing his own death that he had taken what must have seemed like the only road left. If anyone could help him, it would indeed have been the Druids.

  But that they had chosen to do so was interesting. Normally, they did not take in either supplicants or the emotionally damaged. Theirs was an order committed to gathering and preserving magic, not to healing.

  Yet they had taken in Chrysallin Leah, hadn’t they? They had taken her in because she possessed magic of such power, it seemed only logical that they should do what they could to keep her safe. So perhaps the Druids had felt the same way about Imric Cort. She didn’t know exactly what his magic could do. She couldn’t know the true extent of its power. It might be that it was greater than she imagined, and the Druids had realized this.

  “How close are we to where you lost her?” he asked.

  “Just ahead, through that screen of spruce.” She risked another look and found his face empty.

  “We’ll wait on further explanations until I’ve had a look. You’ll get the answers you need if I find it relevant enough to give them.”

  She glared at him. So self-important! Did he think he was the beginning and end of any effort to find and rescue Chrys? Well, he was in for a rude surprise. If he decided this wasn’t relevant enough, she would find someone else to do what was needed. And if she couldn’t find anyone else, she would go alone. She was resourceful; she would find a way.

  She fumed in silence the rest of the journey. When they reached the clearing, she indicated with a sweep of her arm and a stony silence that this was where it had happened. He gave her a small grin and immediately began a search of the area. He did so in a seemingly haphazard fashion, every so often dropping to his knees to examine the ground or the vegetation. Several times he actually sniffed the air. He moved quickly, his gestures swift and sure—an indication that he had developed a process and was confident in its use.

  His efforts consumed considerable time, but she was more patient with him now that she had gotten past his outright refusal to help. He might still turn her down, but at least this search indicated he was giving the matter some thought. She watched him closely as he worked, fascinated by the way in which he resembled a predatory animal. There was a sinuous grace to his movements, and in spite of her earlier irritation with him she found his fluidity and suppleness oddly attractive. She could envision him as a hunter.

  Except he didn’t know what he was hunting here, did he? So he must be searching for anything out of the ordinary, anything unfamiliar. How could anyone do that? How could you separate smells and tastes and physical indicators of an absent presence that were invisible to normal people? What must that be like?

  She found herself wanting to know, wanting to find a way to understand how it felt.

  He came out of his crouch suddenly and turned to face her. “They took your friend from the air,” he said. “They must have used a sling weapon of some sort to render you unconscious, then snatched her from overhead and carried her off.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You can tell all that?”

  “I can tell more than that, but I wanted to give you the general picture first.” He grinned, and this time she found it infectious. “You can’t always tell what’s so by what you see. Sometimes it’s more about what you don’t see. Here, it’s very obvious. Your footprints are present, but no others. There are no signs of a disturbance to the site. No wagon wheels, no hoofprints, no footprints, no marks of any sort. You eliminate what the signs don’t show, and what’s left gives you your answer.”

  “You said there was more?”

  He nodded, sitting down in the grass, inviting her to join him. They faced each other, eyes locked. “There are branches broken in the higher elevations of the surrounding trees. This suggests whoever took your friend wasn’t flying anything particularly sophisticated or maneuverable. They were probably using an older vessel, one that has seen some use but is reliable. It would be wind-powered in order to escape detection. A diapson-crystal-powered vessel might have been heard, so they would have glided in. The branches also suggest that the pilot and crew of the vessel weren’t all that skillful. They were experienced at stalking, but not so much at flying. They must have felt the need to hurry when they had your friend, so they rushed things. Also, they likely came from the south.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  “The wind direction. It’s been blowing northward for days. They would have taken note of that and made a conscious decision to take advantage of the wind. They must have been shadowing you previously, mapping your routes, charting your sch
edule, tracking the wind’s direction. They made a careful study of your habits before acting.”

  Leofur felt a chill. So whoever took Chrys had planned it out in advance. They had watched from cover, taking note of everything the two of them did. It felt strange and invasive, knowing this. It made her angry.

  “We have to go after them,” she declared. Then she paused. “But how are we going to do that? Surely you can’t track them through the air?”

  “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe I’ve agreed to do this yet. Or even to consider it further. And you haven’t heard anything about the possible consequences if I do.”

  Leofur had lost her patience. She brushed her hair from her face angrily. “You’ve danced around this matter long enough, Imric. Either you help me or you don’t. You have all the information you need. What else is there to know? You’ve listened to my plea. You’ve examined the site. You’ve determined what happened. What more do you want? Are you afraid? Is that it? Tell me!”

  He regarded her wordlessly for a long moment. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “No!” she snapped.

  “The daughter of Arcannen Rai,” he mused. His words were slow and drawn out, a musing tone to his voice. “The child of the most famous sorcerer in the Four Lands. Yes, I think that perhaps you really aren’t afraid. All the fear would have been driven out of you long ago. You’d have to have found great reserves of courage to get through your childhood.”

  That stopped her. She hesitated before answering. “More than you could possibly imagine. Although,” she added, “perhaps no more than yourself. Your own childhood and adolescence must have demanded courage, as well. Why aren’t you afraid?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, I am—but not for the reasons you think. I know things about this matter that you don’t, and I am weighing them against the nature of your quest and my interest in you personally.”

  “Your…interest? What does that mean?”

  “I am a member of the Druid household at their sufferance. I am not close to any of them, even Oost. They tolerate me, but not much more. There is a story, but I shall spare you from listening to it now. What matters is this. I live with men of power, but ones who have never known personal hardship. They did not grow up as you and I did. They did not suffer from the afflictions we did. You remind me in many ways of myself. Living with a father whose very presence was anathema. Living in fear of what he might do to you. Living with the knowledge that your life could go wrong with a snap of his fingers. Tell me, do you truly not possess any sort of magic?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I have ever been aware of. Mine would not be inherited, in any case. It would be learned. But I purposefully distanced myself from allowing that to happen—much to my father’s dismay and regret. He would have made me over into his image, but I am not him. I am nothing like him.”

  “You see? You complement me perfectly. You are entirely suitable for what must happen if we are to successfully complete this quest. There must be a balance—myself, with my shape-shifter magic, and you, with your self-reliance and your strong determination never to be anything or anyone but who you are now.”

  “Why is this important? I don’t understand.”

  “Shhh, I am considering. Give me the silence and forbearance to do so.”

  So she quit talking and even quit looking at him. She stared instead into the greenery of the forest, into the maze of tree trunks, into the tangles of scrub and grasses. She lost herself in the sounds of the creatures that scurried through and flew over them. It was a music she had come to love since leaving Wayford. It chafed sometimes to be at Paranor, but more often than not the surrounding forest calmed her. She was at peace in its midst. She felt safe in its shelter.

  She breathed the mountain air blowing down off the heights, took in the mix of scents, sweet and sharp, soft and rough. Time slowed. She thought of Paxon and how much she missed him. She imagined his return, wished she could be there for it, and was troubled she might not be. Any search for Chrysallin diminished the possibility. For whatever happened here, she must find her friend. She must do so for Paxon—and for herself, as well. Anything less would mark her for life.

  “I like you,” Imric said softly, interrupting her musings. “You lack experience in tracking, but you make up for it with your moral center. I see this in you. I see it the way animals do. They know when another creature is to be trusted or not. I need to be able to trust you, and I think I can. I am willing to risk it.”

  “You will go?” she asked, shocked in spite of herself. Excitement coursed through her. She could barely believe what she was hearing.

  “I will go if you want me. But you may have second thoughts in spite of your insistence once you hear what it means for you should I agree to this. So listen well before you decide.”

  —

  When he arrives at Paranor, he is barely hanging on to his sanity. He has been shape-changing so often, and for so long, that he no longer knows exactly who he is. His identity has blurred because he lives in his own skin so little of the time. He is still trying to escape his memories—his mother’s body lying just inside the door of their home, his father telling him he was to blame, his own bloodlust as he tore his father to pieces in a blind rage, his flight from everything and everyone he had ever known. He is still trying to make sense of what has happened in his life, which is a whirling kaleidoscope of wild and reckless behavior intended to shed everything of his past through any means possible. He lives on the edge of despair and permanent damage. His mind is already balanced precariously, and his body is catching up. He drinks and fights and pleasures himself in every way imaginable. He becomes everything he knows or can envision and visits those creations on others just to hear them scream and see them run.

  But when he wakes one morning with a woman he doesn’t know in a place he can’t recall and finds he cannot manage to remember who he actually is, even long enough to change back into himself, he flees into the woods and considers how far lost he is and how welcome death would be.

  Instead of acting on that impulse, he sets out for Paranor, determined to find help. The Druids, after all, understand magic better than anyone. They study it, collect it, warehouse artifacts and talismans, visit places where magic shows itself in unexpected and often unpleasant ways, and in general record everything they learn.

  Will they not have a way to help him?

  Aphenglow Elessedil herself comes to speak with him in the outer courtyard, responding to a summons from the Troll guards. She sits with him in her gardens to hear his story. She is kind and patient and encouraging, and she does not judge or criticize. She does not offer advice, either. She just listens.

  When he is finished, she agrees to let him stay the night while she considers his problem. If there is a way they can help him by using magic, they will. If not, he will have to leave and look elsewhere. Will he accept that condition in exchange for a night’s lodging, a meal, and a chance to change his life?

  He cannot make himself respond. He breaks down in front of her and weeps.

  Because she is thorough and Paranor’s records, though extensive, say little about shape-shifters and their magic, she lets him stay longer while she burrows into the Druid Histories, searching for information that will reveal what is needed. She does not see him during that time; her involvement in her task is total. On the third day, she has her answer and while they sit together again in her gardens, secluded and alone, she tells him what it is.

  His problem, she explains, originates with his mix of human and shape-shifter blood. Being the offspring of a human father and a shape-shifter mother makes growing up much more difficult. Not telling him the truth of his heritage was a mistake. It would have helped if he had known even a little of what to expect. The gift of being able to change is offset by the danger of doing so too frequently and too casually—something he has found out for himself. There are instances when
it has had no adverse effect on the offspring of such different species, but just as many when it has. There was, at one time, a shape-shifter who was integrally involved with the brother of a future Ard Rhys, and much of what is known about shape-shifters was recorded as a result.

  In your case, she adds, you pushed yourself beyond your limits. You failed to act responsibly; you behaved recklessly and with complete disregard for your own health. The wisest thing for you to do now is to stop changing entirely. Accept yourself as you are and leave it at that. And if you think you cannot do this, you need to develop a way to protect yourself against the possible adverse effects of continuing to change. You need a safety line that will pull you back to shore when you have swum too far out into the current of your shifter compulsions.

  He is listening without fully understanding what she is suggesting. Quitting is simple enough in the abstract, but almost impossible to envision as a reality. He is a shape-shifter. It defines him. It is what he does. It is as natural as breathing and every bit as necessary. Yet she is saying he should stop. In the alternative, she is saying he should…what?

  In that moment, for the first time, he feels a hint of fear.

  —

  Imric paused in his explanation, his distress obvious. “She told me that I required a tether, a magically induced safety line to which I could be attached. When the urge to change became too strong, when it dominated my rational thinking and demanded that it be indulged—when my self-control slipped beyond my grasp—the safety line would be there to pull me back. It would, initially, remind me of the danger in which I was placing myself—willingly or not—so that I could take whatever steps were necessary to stop what I was doing. If that failed and I was unable to help myself, the tether would do the job for me.”

  Leofur nodded. “A safety line,” she repeated. “And you require that here, in order to search for Chrys?”

  “I do. It will be necessary if I am to undertake this hunt because I must be able to shape-shift into whatever is needed to track your friend successfully.”