by Терри Брукс
He stared at her in silence, then shook his head. «I think as you do.»
Shadea wasn't sure she believed him, but it was enough of an affirmation for now. She looked back at the scrye waters. Another message would arrive by tomorrow if Terek Molt was still alive. If not, then she could only hope that he had taken the boy, the Elven Prince, and that sycophant
Tagwen with him to the grave. Then she could stop thinking about all of them and concentrate on what was happening at Paranor.
It occurred to her suddenly that she had forgotten about Aphasia Wye, dispatched with the Stiehl, as Iridia had reminded her, to eliminate the boy and his protectors. What of him? Even if the Galaphile was destroyed, even if Terek Molt was dead, perhaps the assassin was still carrying through on his task. Nothing would stop him once he set his mind to it. The only character flaw she had ever discovered was his troublesome streak of independence. On a whim, he might abandon the whole project.
She stared down again at the scrye waters, studying the diminishing series of ripples that marked the passing of the Galaphile.
With Aphasia Wye, she thought, you never knew.
* * *
Iridia Eleri strode blindly from the cold chamber and down the hallway beyond, so furious she could barely make herself think.
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, a series of ragged, glistening tracks on her perfect features. Had she stayed a moment longer, she would not have been able to hold them back. She stopped now, turning into a deep alcove in the empty hallway, and cried freely for several minutes, her body racked with sobs, her world collapsed about her. She knew what Shadea only suspected. Ahren Elessedil was dead. The voice had told her so.
When she stopped crying, she stood motionless in the alcove's darkness and forced herself to confront the truth. She had lied to herself, lied to them all. She was still in love with Ahren. She had always been in love with him and always would be. Shadea might sneer and the others might doubt, but it was so. It didn't even matter that he was dead. She loved him anyway.
What she could not bear was that he had not loved her, in turn.
She stared into space, the words echoing in her mind. The voice had promised that this would change, that with time and patience, he would. The voice had promised from the very beginning, when it had first summoned her and offered its help. The voice was persuasive and comforting, and so she had listened and believed. Ahren could be hers, and for that she would do anything.
And had.
She closed her eyes against a wave of memories that paraded through her mind like specters. A flood of emotion followed on their heels. The sadness she felt for the man she had left in order to pursue Ahren. The emptiness she had experienced when she had given birth to and then abandoned the man's baby. The humiliation she had endured when Grianne Ohmsford had discovered what she had done. The terrible hurt she had suffered when Ahren had told her that in spite of everything, they could not be together, that his life was meant to go another way. The rage she had called upon to ally herself with Shadea and the others in their determination to rid the Druids of Grianne Ohmsford. The hatred she had nurtured for the Ard Rhys, the person most responsible for her misery.
The sense of devastation and irreparable loss she felt now, with Ahren Elessedil forever beyond her reach.
— But it need not be so–Her eyes snapped open and she took a quick breath. The voice was back, come to comfort her anew. She nearly began crying again, so grateful was she to hear it. How much she depended on it. Just the sound of it was enough to give her fresh hope, new strength.
— He can still be yours–She nodded at the darkness, wanting it to be true. But how could it? Ahren was dead, the voice had already told her so. There was no way to bring him back, no way to restore life to his shattered body. She could join him, of course. She could end her own life and reunite with him in death. She believed that was possible and even preferable to what life offered without him. Maybe she would have that, anyway. Now that she had broken with Shadea, it would not take the other long to decide to eliminate her.
— You need not die to have him back–She had always trusted the voice, and she had never had cause to regret it. From the beginning, when it had summoned her north to the ruins of the Skull Kingdom and she had built the fires and made the sacrifices that had brought it into being, she had known it spoke the truth. It was a small thing for her to help it, when it was doing so much to help her. Shadea had believed from the first that she was the guiding force behind the conspiracy to eliminate the Ard Rhys, that she was the one who had sought out and found the means to carry out the act through her connection with Sen Dunsidan. The Federation Prime Minister, in turn, believed that he was the one who was determining the course of events, that his promises and gifts to Iridia, after she had approached him, had subverted her and made her his spy within the Druid camp. But she was the one to whom the voice spoke. She was the one who had brought it out of the darkness and into the light. She was the one to whom it had given the liquid night and the means by which she could gain some small measure of revenge against the woman who had turned Ahren Elessedil against her through scurrilous subterfuge and self–serving advice.
The others could think what they wished. She was the one who had made everything possible.
— I am here, Iridia–She felt a surge of expectation and joy. She had waited for it, longed for it, the time when the voice took form, as it had promised it would, to give her back her place in the world. It would happen after the exile of the Ard Rhys, it had told her. Once the High Druid was gone, the voice could come out of hiding. It could take form and become for Iridia the friend and confidant she had once thought Shadea might be.
— I can be more than that, Iridia. I can be him–Not quite willing to believe that she had heard the words correctly, she felt her heart lurch. She stood frozen in the darkness of the alcove, listening to their echo in the silence. I can be him. Was that possible? The voice was a chameleon, a changeling, capable of wondrous things. But could it bring back the dead? Could it make Ahren Elessedil whole again? Was the voice capable of that?
— Walk to me. In the cellars–She left the alcove at once and proceeded to the main staircase, descending in a rush, her footfalls tiny and lost in the cavernous passage. No other Druid was abroad; most were gathered in the dining hall, the rest in their rooms or libraries. It felt to her as if she were alone in the world, free of its constraints and discriminations. She had never been well liked, never a part of anything, always alone. It was because of her childhood, where she had been set apart by her skills and the mistrust of those who recognized them. Even her parents had looked on her with growing suspicion and doubt, distancing themselves and their other children, sending her away early to study with an old woman who was said to understand such magic. The old woman did not, but living with her gave Iridia space and time to grow as she wished, to hone her talents, to gain a better understanding of what they offered. She needed no mentor to help her with this. She needed only herself.
Ten years she lived with the old woman, a crone of demands and false promises that would have eroded a less determined student. But Iridia only smiled and agreed and acquiesced to all, pretending obedience and waiting until she was alone to do what she wished. The old woman was no match for her, and when it was time, Iridia led her abusive and demanding benefactor to the well out back and pushed her in. For three days and nights, the crone screamed for help that never came.
Iridia turned down the lower hallway to the cellar doors at the north end of the Keep, knowing instinctively that was where she was meant to go, that was where the voice would be waiting. Shadows draped the heavy stones of the floors she passed across, her own the only one moving. No guards warded the passageways or walked the walls of Paranor now; the Druids alone kept watch, and theirs was a desultory, disinterested effort. In the time of the Warlock Lord, the keep would have fallen already.
At the heavy, ironbound doors leading down, the Elven sorc
eress paused to look back. No one was in sight; no one had followed. Shadea might have thought to try, but had not made the attempt. Just as well, Iridia thought. That would have complicated things. She wanted no one to intrude on her meeting.
— Hurry, Iridia. I am anxious–As was she, flushed with unexpected passion. She was like a young, foolish girl, filled with wild emotion and desperate need. The voice had never failed her, and now it was going to give her the thing she desired most. It made her feel heady, as if she could dare anything, as if anything were possible. She pushed through the cellar doors in a rush, taking one of the torches from the brackets just inside, lighting it with a sweep of her fingers and a spray of magic, and started downward once more.
This time, her descent was much longer and darker, the stairwell windowless and narrow as it tunneled into the deep earth beneath the castle foundation. The air was damp and stale, smelling of long years of confinement and ageless dust. Her footsteps on the stone steps matched the sound of her breathing, quick and hurried. When this was finished, she thought, she would leave Paranor and go far away, taking Ahren with her so that they could build a life together free of everything that had gone before. It was what she would have done in the first place, had the Ard Rhys not poisoned Ahren against her. Ahren had claimed Grianne had nothing to do with his dismissal of her, but Iridia knew better. His claim that he had never loved her, did not feel for her as she did for him, was a lie forged in the furnace of his anger at what she, who would always be the Ilse Witch, had told him. For that alone, she had deserved banishment to the Forbidding, and much worse.
At the bottom of the stairs, a rotunda formed a hub for a dozen passageways leading in different directions. Iridia chose the one from which the voice was calling, certain of its location, of its presence. Holding out the torch to chase back the darkness, she went down the passageway, a silent presence in a silent tomb. The catacombs were used infrequently, which had something to do with the past, with the history of the Keep, though Iridia had never cared enough to find out what that history was. It was the place she met with her coconspirators, but not a place she visited otherwise. It was enough that she would do so for the last time tonight.
A hundred feet down the corridor, a door stood open, the room beyond as black as pitch.
— I am here–Iridia stepped inside, the torchlight flooding the room with its yellow glow. Her eyes searched swiftly. Four blank walls, a floor, and a ceiling. The room was empty.
«Where are you?» she asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.
— In the air, Iridia. In the ether you breathe. In darkness and in light. In all things. Close your eyes. Can you feel me–She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly. It was true. She could feel his presence. He was there, all about her.
«Yes," she whispered.
— It is time to give you what you were promised for helping me. To give you Ahren Elessedil, whole and complete again. To give you peace and love and joy. It is time, Iridia. Are you ready
«Yes," she breathed, tears flowing once more, gratitude flooding through her. «Oh, please.»
— Extinguish your torch and lay it on the floor–She hesitated, not liking the prospect of being left in darkness. But her need for Ahren overcame her doubts, and she did as the voice had commanded. The torchlight went out and she was left standing in the heavy darkness.
— Close your eyes, Iridia. Stretch out your arms. I will come to you, into your embrace, no longer a voice, but a man. I will be him. For you, Iridia. Forever. Enfold me with your love and your desire. Accept me–She would not have thought to do otherwise, though she still did not see how it could happen. But the persuasiveness of the voice was sufficient to make her believe. Again, she did as she was told. She closed her eyes and opened her arms.
Almost instantly, she felt a presence. It was only a faint sense of movement at first, a stirring of the air. Warmth followed, an infusion that spread through her like the flush of expectation she had experienced earlier. She felt a tingling, and her breath quickened at the prospect of what waited.
Then he was there, in her arms, Ahren Elessedil come back to life. Though she had never held him and did not know how it would feel, she knew at once that it was him. Her arms came about him gratefully, and she breathed in his smell and pressed her body against his. He responded at once, pliant and anxious, the part of her that was missing, the part that would make her whole.
«Ahren," she whispered.
He moved closer still, so close that it felt as if he were a part of her. She could feel them joining, becoming one. He was melting into her, entering her, becoming a part of her physically. She started in shock, then instinctively tried to resist what was happening. But it was too late, he was already fused to her as metals in a forge, locked together to form a single skeletal frame.
Then the pain surged through her, so intense that when she began screaming she could not stop. Raw and sharp, pulsing with razors and knife points, it riddled her from head to foot, and her scream turned into a shriek that lasted until her voice gave out and her mind snapped.
Then she ceased to think or feel anything.
* * *
It was later that evening when Shadea a'Ru passed down the corridor of the north tower on her way to her chambers and encountered Iridia coming from the opposite direction. She approached the Elven sorceress warily, remembering how they had left things in the cold chamber earlier. One hand snapped free a dirk from the sheath bound to her wrist beneath her tunic sleeve. She had endured enough of Iridia's unpredictable behavior. If there was to be a confrontation, she wanted it to be done with quickly.
The other woman came right up to her, but there was no anger or resentment or challenge of any sort in her green eyes. Her perfect features were composed, and there was an air of new determination about her.
«I behaved poorly this afternoon," she said, coming to a stop several feet away. «I apologize.»
Shadea was immediately suspicious. She didn't like the abrupt switch. It wasn't like Iridia to forgive so readily. Not her, not anyone. Nevertheless, she nodded agreeably. «We will put it behind us.»
«That would be best for everyone," Iridia said as she turned away.
She walked past Shadea and continued down the hallway without looking back. Shadea stayed where she was, watching until the other was out of sight, all the time wondering what was going on.
TWENTY–EIGHT
They chose not to bury Ahren Elessedil's remains, but to burn them. A wetland was a poor place to dig a grave, and they had only their long knives to attempt the task. Besides, Khyber was not happy with the idea of leaving her uncle interred in a mud flat where rains and erosion might soon uncover him and leave him food for scavengers.
Working by light provided mostly from the still–burning swamp waters, they collected deadwood, piled it high on the mud bank where he had fought and died, and placed him on it. Khyber sang a Druid funeral song, one she had learned from her uncle, one that spoke of the purpose of a life well lived and an afterlife where hopes were fulfilled and rebirth possible. She used her magic to ignite the dry wood, and soon it was burning. They stood together beside it, watching as it consumed her uncle's body, turning it to ash and smoke and sending it rising into the descending night in a mix of heat and ash.
When it was finished, they moved into the trees and slept, exhausted physically and emotionally, not even bothering to mount a watch against the things that dwelled in the Slags. They shared a sense of inevitability that night, that what would happen to them was not within their control, that if their strongest member could be taken from them so abruptly, their own efforts at protecting themselves would make little difference.
They woke unharmed and in a better frame of mind, the trauma of the previous day far enough behind them that they could think about what was going to happen next. The day was typical of the Slags, all grayness and mist and sunless, fetid air. The fires of the funeral pyre and the doomed Galaphile were extingui
shed finally, and only dark smears of ash remained to mark their passing. Looking out over the bay, Pen caught sight of heavy ripples that indicated the movement of something big beneath the dark surface. Life went on.
With nothing to eat or drink, the three companions huddled down in the chilly dawn light to discuss what they would do.
«Perhaps we should think about going back," Tagwen offered solemnly. «Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting we give up—just that we not continue on as we are. After all, we are in a rather desperate situation. We are lost, grounded, and weaponless. I know what Ahren told us to do, but it might not be the best thing. We might be better off doing what I started out to do in the first place—finding Penderrin's parents and seeking their help. With Pen's father's magic and an airship, we will have a better chance of getting to where we want to go.»
To Pen's eyes, the Dwarf looked a wreck. His clothes were hanging raggedly from his once stout frame, his face was haggard and worn, and his eyes had a jumpy, nervous look to them. The gruff, determined air he had brought with him to Patch Run had vanished in the chase across the Lazareen and through the Slags. There was more than a hint of desperation about him.
But, then, he might be describing any of them, Pen thought.
He need only look at his own reflection in the waters of the bay to see that was so.
«I don't know where my parents are," he said to the Dwarf. «I'm not sure we can find them.»
«Besides, it would take as much effort to go back as to go on," Khyber pointed out. «At least out here we are safe from the Druids who hunt us. With the Galaphile destroyed, the closest enemies are eliminated. Unless we give ourselves away again, the rest can't find us once we're out of the area.»
«Oh, they can find us, don't you doubt it!» Tagwen snapped. «They are resourceful and skilled. I should know. And Shadea a'Ru is a demon. She won't give up, even with the Galaphile gone. Maybe especially with it gone, since she will blame us for its destruction. And for Terek Molt's death.»