The Sorcerer's Daughter

by Terry Brooks

  The Ard Rhys didn’t argue. He simply moved back to see that Paxon’s orders were carried out. The Highlander adjusted their vessel’s direction to bring them a little more directly into the wind. Too much sideways exposure in a storm could tear the masts and sails right off. He powered up the thrusters in a last-ditch effort to get clear, even knowing they couldn’t. He glanced into the still-clear skies behind him for any sign of pursuit, but saw nothing. At least they had that to be grateful for.

  It wasn’t much, and after another ten minutes it didn’t matter. The storm arrived—a whirlwind of rain and wind and darkness, engulfing them as a great beast might, striking them with mighty blows, each of which threatened to break the airship apart. There was no getting through it now, so Paxon turned the bow of the ship into the wind and tried to ride it out. In seconds they were rain-drenched and huddled down on the ship’s decking in an effort to find protection. All save the Highlander, who had lashed himself to the wheel and remained upright so he could keep his bearings as he worked the controls.

  It soon became apparent that his efforts would yield little.

  The rain was blinding, and visibility dropped to zero. Had there been any mountains close by, they would have been in serious danger of being dashed to pieces. Fortunately, they were still far enough out on the grasslands below Leah that there was no real risk of striking anything if they could manage to stay airborne. Their greatest danger was the distinct possibility that the winds would send them tumbling out of the sky altogether.

  “Take down the sheaths!” Paxon screamed at those behind him, but his words were lost in the howl of the wind.

  After much waving of hands, he managed to attract the attention of Netheren, the Troll captain, who released his safety line and fought his way over to the pilot box. His voice rendered useless, Paxon managed to indicate by gestures that he wanted the Troll to take the wheel and hold the vessel steady. That done, he set about hauling down the light sheaths by himself. It took a tremendous effort, with the storm threatening to rip the sheaths out of his hands. He had to pull the heavy sail material close to his body as he gathered it in, careful not to let the wind grab it. The strain on his arms was excruciating, and by the time he had finished he was exhausted.

  But there was neither time nor opportunity for him to rest. He stumbled back to the pilot box, sent Netheren back to his seat, and took control of the vessel once more.

  Only seconds after that the funnel cloud struck.

  A huge whirlwind that stretched for miles on either side, it was on top of them before he knew it was there. Buried in the center of the storm, it simply materialized out of the darkness. The dust, debris, and chunks of ice already caught in its invisible claws revealed its presence as it spun into view and came for them.

  “Get down!” Paxon screamed at the others, the roar of the wind once again obscuring his words.

  If he had been heard, it might have made a difference. Netheren had returned to his seat but failed to resecure his safety line. When the whirlwind struck the airship, it carried him away. Hands reached for him belatedly, grasping at air, too slow even to catch hold of his clothing. Like a scrap of loose paper, he was yanked into the maelstrom and gone.

  Paxon didn’t see it happen. His attention was fixed on flying their craft, trying to slip along the edges of the funnel cloud to its lee side where he might be able to use the thrusters to break its hold. The whirlwind was threatening to pull them in completely, but Paxon kept them at its edge, working the thrusters in small bursts. The ice and debris already in its grasp whipped past them, dangerous projectiles that could render anyone unconscious or dead if they were struck. The Highlander could do nothing to protect himself while he remained upright at the controls; he had to be content with hunching down and hoping for the best.

  Shades protect me, he prayed.

  The scope of the storm was immense, too large to measure accurately from so close in. Paxon lost his sense of direction once the airship was caught up in the funnel’s broad sweep, and now he was reduced to fighting to break free and get them down. But where was back and where was forward at this point? He could no longer tell either the storm’s direction or his own.

  Then he saw a marginal lightening of the darkness and, heeling over hard, the bow of his vessel angling away, he gave full power to the thrusters. The airship lurched and bucked, but it broke the funnel cloud’s grip and shot away with a long shudder that could be felt through every last timber.

  It also shattered the rudders, tore off the rear-port parse tubes, and brought down the main mast.

  Still, Paxon managed to keep the vessel flying, holding it steady while fighting to get clear of the storm. But then the power failed. For no discernible reason, everything stopped—the diapson crystals gone dark, all thrust terminated as if exhausted.

  Instantly the ship went into a spin. Clear of the funnel but still caught in the tailing winds of the storm, it began spiraling downward. Paxon tried to regain control, but it was no use. With the power gone, there was no way to keep the ship steady. They were going to crash, whatever he did. He yelled a warning to the others, not sure if they heard him or not, but unable to do more. Any form of controlled flying was impossible. If he could get them down in one piece, he would have done as much as was humanly possible.

  He wished suddenly he had been able to leave the sails up. He wished he had more time. He wished, in hindsight, he had chosen a different method of escape.

  He crouched in the pilot box, the sound of the wind a shriek, its force like a giant hand pressing them down. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the ground rushing up to meet them.

  —

  Miles to the south, well out of the path of the storm engulfing the Druids and their ill-fated craft, Fero Darz was speaking with his new second. Pas Allett had been elevated to the position, given that its former holder lay in pieces following his ill-advised attack on the creature that had then proceeded to annihilate all of the Federation ministers and their guards. Darz knew he had been lucky to survive, but it’s the lucky survivor that all too often bears both guilt and blame for the deaths of those he might have saved. It was so here. What had saved his skin for the moment was the fact that he was the only one left alive who could identify the creature. A hurried meeting of those senior ministers fortunate enough not to have been included in the negotiating delegation had determined that Darz should be left in place as Commander of the Ministerial Watch for at least as long as it took to clean up his mess, thus giving him a small chance to redeem himself sufficiently to avoid being executed for dereliction of duty.

  Fero Darz was not a newcomer to the politics of the Coalition Council, and he understood how things worked in these situations. The only real surprise was that he was being given a chance to act on what he knew about Paxon Leah and the Druids. Or believed he knew, in any case.

  Of one thing, he was certain. While Paxon Leah had been clever enough to circle back and commandeer that cruiser, he had missed a crucial detail. For there were things that even the clever Paxon Leah did not know about Federation technology, and one of them was that, in the past year, their scientists had developed a way to use diapson crystals to track one another. It had something to do with using pieces of a single crystal, the smallest of which were embedded in the airships while the largest was held back and placed in a power source that could detect the location of any airship. There couldn’t be too many vessels flying north just now, so it would be easy enough to determine the direction and distance of the one Paxon was using.

  Which Darz had already done, once his pursuit vessel was well away from the city.

  “We are absolutely certain the Druids got out of the city?” he asked Allett for what must have been the tenth time.

  The other nodded. “Paxon Leah was positively identified by the guards from whom he stole the cruiser. The Druids were seen at the walls, as well, flying out of the city and into the grasslands. It was them, all right.”

>   Darz glanced down at the strange box with its lights, watching them glow and listening to the pinging sound the box emitted.

  “Commander, we’re heading into a storm,” his second said suddenly.

  Darz glanced up. He hadn’t been paying much attention until now, but the darkness to the northwest had moved closer and was spreading out in a wide swath directly in front of him. They had perhaps another thirty minutes before they would be in it.

  “Have the captain set down immediately,” he said.

  “Commander, if we do that…”

  “If we do that, Pas, we might live to see another day. We need to stay out of that mess if we’re to continue the hunt. The Druids aren’t going anywhere. They have to fly through that if they’re going north, and they won’t risk it. And even if they do, our signal will pick them up again once the storm has passed.” Darz allowed himself a small smile as he peered out into the gathering dark. “Now get going. I want us on the ground.”

  Allett, who had been called up with little notice, hadn’t been told everything. There hadn’t been time, and there wasn’t any need. It was enough that Darz knew, enough that he could anticipate what would happen sometime during the next hour or so.

  The storm, of course, was a bonus, but it was a crucial deficiency in the aircraft Paxon had stolen that would undo him. He might think himself well away, able to outdistance and outfly his pursuit, but he was sadly mistaken.

  That airship had been left sitting on the landing pad for a reason. All of the diapson crystals were nearly drained of their power. It had less than three hours of flight time remaining, and there were no replacement crystals on board.

  He took a moment to imagine the shock when Paxon and his Druid charges discovered they could no longer fly. He wished he could be there to see their faces.

  Sunshine, like liquid gold, pours out of a cloudless sky, bathing Paxon’s face in warmth and brightness. He sits on a hillside with Leofur beside him, his shoulder touching hers, looking out over the countryside. He cannot seem to decide where he is, but he knows it doesn’t matter. Being with Leofur is what is important, and he feels her nearness the way he feels his skin—closely wrapped about him, holding him together.

  They do not speak—have not spoken, he believes, in some time now. It is enough that they are close, bonded by their silence as surely as by their love and trust. There is a newly forged connection between them, a vow they have taken that will keep them together for the rest of their lives. It is their promise to engage in a life partnership, each pledging loyalty and commitment to the other, each agreeing to be true.

  “You understand the nature of what you are promising me?” she asks quietly, the first words she has spoken since they took this vow.

  “I think so,” he answers.

  “You are telling me you will always be there for me. No matter how far away you go, you will always come back to me. You will never leave me, no matter what.”

  He nods. “I promise that.”

  “It will not always be easy,” she continues. “You will forever be at risk as the High Druid’s Blade. You will always be facing dangers that could prevent your return.”

  “I will not let them,” he says.

  He bends to her and kisses her gently. Then he kisses her again, harder. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him to her. “Never leave me, Paxon. Or if you must, always come back to me,” she whispers.

  But even as she speaks the words, she is fading away. He can feel her slipping from his grasp. Around them, the day is darkening and the air is growing damp. There is a storm coming. It is out there on the horizon, but it is inside him, too. It is everywhere.

  “Paxon,” she cries, and he feels her disappear entirely.

  He is alone, and rain pelts his face.

  —

  “Paxon!” A familiar voice called to him, and hands gripped his shoulders, squeezing hard. “Can you hear me?”

  Miriya was leaning down, looking into his eyes. He was lying in the wreckage of the airship, shattered timbers and spars and bits of canvas surrounding him. Rain fell in streams, and the sky was filled with dark clouds that surged past in violent gusts as the wind howled and spit.

  Miriya bent close. “Don’t try to move just yet. Lie there and let Karlin have a look at you.”

  Karlin Ryl moved into view, her ethereal face pale and drawn, her large dark eyes fixed on him. Her hands moved up and down his legs and arms and then across his body. She paused in her examination now and again, as if waiting to see if he would respond to her touch. It took her only a few minutes, but it seemed much longer to Paxon.

  When she was done, she said nothing but only rose and walked away.

  Paxon pulled himself to his feet, the last of his vision of Leofur fading as the pain in his muscles and joints ratcheted through his body. He might not have broken anything, but it felt as if he had. He stood upright, testing his limbs gingerly. Rain continued to pour down and the wind whipped about him, rising to a shriek that threatened to cut off whatever Miriya was trying to say.

  She leaned closer. “What do we do? The airship is finished, and I can’t even determine the compass points in this soup!”

  The Highlander glanced about, seeing immediately what the other meant. A deep mist swirled all about them, shifting with such frequency that it was impossible to tell if the storm was advancing or retreating. He could barely see a dozen feet in any direction. Any attempt to move about at this point would be foolhardy.

  “We have to find shelter!” he shouted back. “We have to take cover until this blows over!”

  She nodded in response. Then someone called out to him from the edge of the swirling blackness.

  It took him a moment to realize that it was Isaturin, crouched next to a stand of boulders and scrub beyond the remains of the airship. As he started to respond, he caught sight of a twisted, broken body that lay off to one side amid the wreckage. He moved closer. It was Cresson Oridian, a jagged piece of broken spar thrust all the way through his chest. There was blood everywhere. His eyes were open and staring, as if he had seen something surprising just at the last minute but would not now ever be able to reveal it.

  Paxon climbed to his feet and made his way over to the Ard Rhys. “I found him like that after the crash,” the other shouted in his ear, overriding the howl of the wind. “Look over here!”

  He pointed into the rocks. A natural opening was visible, not entirely free of rain, but otherwise sufficient to shelter all of them. Paxon nodded wordlessly and within minutes he had their little group safely inside. Miraculously, only Oridian had perished. Even old Consloe did not seem any the worse for wear. Together they hunkered down amid the rocks and tried not to think about being wet and cold.

  Paxon took a silent head count. Of the Druids, there was Isaturin, Miriya, Karlin, and Consloe. Only three of the Trolls guards remained, now that Netheren was gone, and two of those were wounded. So eight in all, counting himself. A much smaller party to try to get back to Paranor safely, but smaller, too, if it came to a fight. Which, he imagined, it would, sooner or later. How could it not?

  Without the airship to provide transportation, they would have to make their way north across the grasslands on foot. If they were lucky, they could reach the forests of the Duln and possibly find help from the residents of one of the small forest communities. But he couldn’t count on that; these villages were poor and frequently lacked airships of any sort. They would have horses and wagons, and that would be it.

  Huddled with the others, he sat waiting for the storm to abate, wondering how things could have gone so terribly wrong.

  —

  Miles to the south, Fero Darz was eating dinner inside the Federation fast cruiser he had appropriated for hunting down the fleeing Druids. Outside, the storm was raging, but it was much less severe on its southern edge than where Paxon and his sodden entourage were waiting it out. Darz had put down in plenty of time to search out a sheltered area, so while the storm howled
and the winds moaned, the inside of the cruiser was mostly calm.

  They had picked up the signal from the stolen Federation airship almost immediately after departing Arishaig, so tracking the Druids had been relatively simple. Darz had expected Paxon to fly directly north, which was pretty much what he had done. The only wrinkle was a noticeable deviation to the east, but he believed this to be an effort to shake off pursuit long enough for Paxon and company to reach the far shore of the Rainbow Lake. After that, it was only a few more hours to the Dragon’s Teeth, and there were plenty of hiding places along the way.

  He finished his meal, but then sat sipping his ale and thinking. Even having witnessed the carnage caused by the creature that had then disappeared, even having already decided that the Druids had brought this creature to life and set it on the Federation ministers and soldiers in order to kill them all, and even knowing that flight is almost always proof of guilt, he was having second thoughts. Several things about this incident troubled him, and he could not quite make himself dismiss them.

  First of all, Paxon had asked well before anything had happened if their security was sufficient. He had seemed genuinely worried, and if he had known what was coming, why would he have asked that question? Why do anything to alert Darz to the possibility that something might be amiss? He kept thinking that it might have been that very question that created enough doubts to start him looking around and eventually finding the missing man and the unguarded door.

  In addition to this, there was his assessment of Paxon Leah. He had never believed him in the least duplicitous and did not believe him so now. He had always found him forthright and trustworthy. To accept that he was part of such a treacherous act was almost impossible. The Highlander might not have known, but wouldn’t that have been a dangerous secret to keep from the man charged with protecting the Ard Rhys and his Druids? Besides, hadn’t he attempted to stop the creature himself, his fabled sword ablaze with magic?

  Finally, there was the problem of motive—or the absence thereof. What possible reason could the Druids have for arranging a meeting to achieve common ground only to sabotage it? What could they hope to gain by killing the old Prime Minister and those closest to him when those men and women were perhaps the only allies within the Federation that the Druids could hope to find? There just didn’t seem to be any point in all of this, any reason for the Druids to do what they had done.