by Терри Брукс
The darkwand lay cradled in his hands, its six–foot length a rich mottled gray and black, the same colors as the tanequil's trunk, gleaming and smooth in a way that should have been impossible for newly carved wood. An intricate pattern of runes wrapped its surface, strange markings that Pen did not recognize and could not interpret. When they were turned to the moonlight, they gleamed as if lit by an inner fire. Pen could still feel unmistakable warmth emanating from the wood, the tanequil's life force firm and strong.
The boy unfolded his legs, which were cramped and sore. His mouth was so dry he could barely open it. He took a few minutes to gather his strength, then got to his feet and began hobbling toward the pool that Cinnaminson had showed him earlier. He carried the darkwand with him, — he knew he would carry it everywhere from then on. Slowly, his legs regained their feeling and the cramps disappeared. He listened for signs of life as he walked, but there were none. Even as long as he had been sitting beneath the tree, he was still alone.
He wondered suddenly what had happened to Cinnaminson. She had told him she would come back to him at nightfall. She had promised.
He found the pool and dropped down on his hands and knees to drink. The water was cool and sweet, and he got back a little of his strength. When he had drunk his fill, he stood up again and looked around.
Where was Cinnaminson?
He exhaled in frustration. He didn't like it that she was still gone. He never liked it when she was gone. Losing her was worse than losing his fingers …
He stopped himself, remembering suddenly the sensation of another's hand guiding his as he shaped the tanequil's limb into the darkwand, one that allowed him to work blindly, his eyes closed, his reliance on touch alone.
Apiece of yourbody. A piece of your heart.
A terrible certainty swept through him, harsh and implacable, so traumatizing that he could not give voice to it, but only whisper it in the silence of his mind. He thought he had understood. He hadn't. He assumed that the loss of his fingers was enough to balance the scales. It wasn't.
Something more was required.
Cinnaminson.
Twenty–five
Shadea a'Ru stood at the window of her sleeping chambers and looked out from Paranor's towers over the forested sweep of the land beyond. The sun was rising, a soft golden glow in the east that silhouetted the jagged peaks of the Dragon's Teeth against its bright backdrop and gave promise to the coming of a warm, languorous summer day.
Her lips compressed into a tight, angry line. It would not be such a good day for her. And less so for some others.
She glanced down at the note she held in her hand, at the words written on it, then looked away again. Idiots! She brushed absently at her short, spiky blond hair and flexed her shoulders. Her muscles were stiff and tight. She missed the training and fighting that had been so central to her life when she had been a soldier in the Federation army. She missed the discipline and the routine. She had never thought she would feel that way, but after weeks of struggling as Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order, she was ready to abandon it all for a chance to go back to a time when things were less complicated and more direct.
Her gaze drifted back to the note. It had arrived during the night, while she slept, and she had found it on waking, tied to the leg of the arrow swift. The bird's dark, fierce face had peered out at her from its enclosure, almost daring her to reach inside. But it was her bird, one of the many she had appropriated and trained to carry her messages from her co–conspirators and servants in the plot against Grianne Ohmsford. Its countenance only mirrored the intensity that could be found in her own.
She knew the bird.Split was its name, chosen for the strange wedge in its tail feathers, an accident of birth. The arrow swift was one of those assigned to Traunt Rowan on his departure to the Northland; it had been sent by him.
She had reached inside for the message, untied it from Split's leg, withdrawn it from the cage, opened it, and her face had gone dark with rage immediately.
THE BOY AND HIS COMPANIONS
ESCAPED FROM TAUPO ROUGH.
HAVE FOLLOWED THEM INTO THE KLU.
And lost them there, of course, though the writer had been careful not to say so.
She looked back at the message again, still furious with its contents and its incompetent sender. She had expected better of Traunt Rowen. She had expected better of Pyson Wence, as well, and better still of the two of them working together to track that boy!
She gritted her teeth. Why was it so difficult for anyone to find and hold him? The effort had cost Terek Molt his life. It had cost Aphasia Wye her respect, a respect she had thought nothing could diminish. What would it cost her this time? The lives of two more of her allies, men whose support she could scarcely afford to lose, even if they were proving less competent than she had imagined possible? Her respect for them had long since vanished, so there was no danger of losing that.
She crumpled the note in her hand, then set it in a small bowl on her desk, fired it with magic, and scattered the ashes out the window. She watched the breeze carry the ashes away and wished her anger and disappointment could be made to vanish as easily.
What was she going to have to do to finish this business?
For a moment, for just an instant, she toyed with the idea of breaking off the hunt entirely. It was requiring much more time and effort than she cared to spend and netting no favorable results at all. She had the boy's parents safely locked away in her dungeons. Couldn't she just wait for him to come for them? He would surely do so, once he found out where they were, and it would be easy enough to make him aware.
Her frustration building toward a headache, she rubbed at her temples with her fingers. The trouble with ignoring him was that she was almost certain she knew what he was doing. He was trying to find a way to reach his aunt. She had no idea how he planned to do that and believed it beyond his or anyone else's capability. But she could not chance being wrong. If he had found a way into the Forbidding, if he had discovered an avenue about which she knew nothing, then she had to stop him from using it. Because if he managed the impossible and actually reached Grianne Ohmsford from Paranor's side of the wall, he might find a way to guide her back again.
If that happened, Shadea knew she was finished. They were all finished, all who had conspired with her.
The chance of that happening was so small that it was scarcely measurable, but she knew better than to put anything past the Ohmsfords. Their history spoke for itself. They had survived impossible situations before, several generations of them. They were imbued with both magic and luck, and the combination had kept them from harm more times than anyone could count.
She could not afford to allow that to happen again.
So she would leave things as they were. She would allow Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence to continue to hunt down the boy. Perhaps Aphasia Wye still tracked him as well, even though she had heard nothing from her assassin in days. One never knew about that creature. One could never predict.
The ashes of the burned note were gone, turned to dust and blown away. She breathed in the morning air, calming herself, reassuring herself that everything was going to be all right. In the next few days, she would journey to Arishaig to meet with Sen Dunsidan.
The Prime Minister was seeking her support for a sustained assault on the Free–born, a course of action on which they had already tacitly agreed but had yet to act. The Federation required the backing of the Druids if they were to succeed in their plans to break the stalemate on the Prekkendorran and advance into Callahorn. The Prime Minister needed to know that Shadea, as head of the Druid order, would not act to stop him. She, in turn, needed to know that he would continue to support her as Ard Rhys.
She was less concerned about his backing than she had been at the beginning, when her support was so small and her position as acting Ard Rhys so tenuous. But things had changed. Once she'd bedded Gerand Cera and made him her consort, she began working to gain the support of his f
ollowers as well. One by one, using promises and threats, she had subverted them. Even though Cera still thought of himself as leader of his own faction, she had long since replaced him in that position.
She glanced at the rumpled bed to one side and grimaced. She had played at that game long enough. She had allowed him enough liberties. It was time to put an end to it. It was time to toss him from her bed and from her life.
Intent on going out to confer with a handful of those on whom she believed she could depend, she threw off her nightclothes and dressed in her Druid robes. Matters would get rough before the day was out, and she must know who would stand with her when they did. She knew better than to leave such things to chance.
Wrapped in her black garments, her chain of office hung about her neck, she was moving toward the chamber door when it burst open and Gerand Cera strode through, his hatchet face dark with anger.
«We have been betrayed, Shadea," he announced without preamble. He flung off his robe and threw himself down in one of the cushioned chairs. «By the very ally you were so confident would not dare to do so.»
She stared at him. «Sen Dunsidan?»
A sneer twisted his lean face. «Sen Dunsidan. Last night, the Elves launched an airship strike against his army. The strike failed because the Federation forces knew about it in advance and were waiting. They have invented a weapon that produces a light beam of such intensity and power that it can burn an airship right out of the sky. It did so in response to the attack, destroying virtually the entire Elven fleet before the Federation airship that bore it was damaged and had to set down.»
He leaned forward. «But that was just the beginning. During the airship battle, the Federation army attacked the Elven defensive lines and broke through. The Elves were driven right off the Prekkendorran. They might still be running, for all I know. Their allies are trying to hang on, but they're surrounded. I wouldn't give them much chance.»
He shook his head in disgust. «So tell me, Shadea. What do you think of your precious Prime Minister now?» His sharp eyes fixed on her. «You didn't know about this attack beforehand, did you? 1 would hate to think you were keeping things from me.»
She hadn't known a thing about it, of course. She was as surprised by the news as he was. But there was no reason for her to tell him so. Better that he thought her one step ahead of him.
«There was some discussion about it. I hadn't thought he intended to act so quickly.»
«It would have been nice if you had told me.»
She shrugged. «We both keep some things to ourselves, Gerand. Don't pretend otherwise. As I said, I hadn't thought he was going to do this until later. Apparently an opportunity presented itself that he couldn't afford to pass up. We can hardly begrudge him that.»
Gerand Cera frowned. «I don't like it that he's acted without seeking our approval. It will look to everyone as if he no longer cares whether we stand with him or against him. It will look as if he considers our support irrelevant.»
Just so, she was thinking. Sen Dunsidan would have to be called to account once she was able to confront him. It might be that it was time for her to end their relationship in a way that left no doubt as to who was the real power in the Four Lands.
«This weapon," she said, changing the subject. «It doesn't sound like anything I have ever heard of. It sounds as if it employs a form of magic.»
Gerand Cera shook his head in disagreement. 'The Prime Minister doesn't have the use of magic.»
«Perhaps he has acquired the aid of someone who does.» Her eyes locked on his. «One of us.»
He snorted. «Who? Who would want to give aid to Sen Dunsidan, knowing that you would view it as a—" He stopped himself. «Are you thinking of Iridia?»
«Do we know where she is? Did we ever find out where she went after she left here?»
Cera shook his head slowly. «No. But she wouldn't dare to betray us. She knows what would happen if she did.»
She cringed at his use of the word us, at the implication that he was somehow a part of the decision–making process, when in fact he was little more than another obstacle. She glanced away to hide her disgust, then turned and walked to the window. She stood there for a moment, thinking.
«What do you intend to do?» he asked, rising and coming over to put his hands on her shoulders.
She felt the strength of those hands as they gripped her. They were possessive and commanding as they turned her about to face him. They suggested in no uncertain terms that he was the one in control. She smiled agreeably as he leaned down and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, waited for the kiss to end, then broke away.
«I intend to drink my morning cup of tea before speaking with those in the order who will keep an eye on things in our absence.»
He stared after her. «Our absence? Are we going somewhere?»
«To confront Sen Dunsidan, of course.»
She had told him nothing of her plans to visit Arishaig before this. The reason was simple. She had not intended for him to go. She still didn't, but it was best to let him think she did.
«To confront him? In his own home, his own city, surrounded by his own people?» Gerand Cera considered the prospect. «A bold course of action, Shadea. How safe can we expect to be?»
She shrugged, pouring tea into cups, slipping into his the tiny pill she had been saving for that moment and watching it dissolve instantly. «We are Druids, Gerand. We can't afford to worry about being safe. We can't afford to be seen to be afraid.»
She handed him his tea, stood in front of him as she sipped from her own, and watched with satisfaction as he drank.
«Sit with me on the bed.» She took his arm and moved over. She pulled him down next to her. «Perhaps we needn't go down right away. The tea is making me warm all over. I need to find a way to cool off.»
She smiled and sipped again. «Come, Gerand. Finish your tea. Don't keep me waiting.»
He drank it in a single gulp and reached for her. His appetites were so pathetic, so predictable. She eased away playfully. He was still grinning when the drug took effect. An abrupt change came over his hatchet features. His face went slack and empty, and he lurched forward, falling onto his side.
That was quick,she thought. She rose and looked down at him, at the way his eyes rolled frantically from side to side as he tried to understand what was happening to him. She eased a pillow under his head, then reached for his legs and lifted them onto the bed so that he was lying stretched out along its length.
«Comfortable, Gerand? Much better to rest while this is happening.» Knowing he could no longer reach for her, could no longer move at all for that matter, she bent over him. His lungs and his heart still worked, but not very efficiently. He barely had the strength of a baby.
«I've given you a drug," she explained, sitting next to him. «It saps the strength from your muscles and leaves you paralyzed. It only lasts a little while. There is no trace of its presence afterwards. Unlike poison, for example, which I considered using but decided against. After all, I can't afford to be seen as a murderess.»
She leaned close. «You see what is to happen, 1 expect. Your eyes tell me you know. So now you no longer love me. Now, you despise me. Love is like that. It only lasts for as long as both parties require it, and then it becomes a burden, which is one reason I do not permit myself to love anyone too much. You should have learned that lesson a long time ago. I am surprised you didn't. Now you must learn it the hard way.»
He was staring fixedly at her, and she read the hatred in his eyes. In contrast, his face was empty of expression, and it seemed as if the eyes must belong to someone else. Yet the eyes were really all that was left of him. Everything else had been stripped away by the drug.
She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. «Try not to think too harshly of me, Gerand. You would have done the same, if you had paid closer attention to how I looked at you.»
Then she took the pillow from under his head, placed it firmly over his face, and
pressed down on it with all of her considerable strength until he stopped breathing.
When the cell door closed and the locking bolts were thrown, Bek Ohmsford was engulfed in blackness. He sat down, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and after a time they did. A sliver of light crept under the door and through the seams on the latch side, permitting him just enough illumination to find his way around. The cell was tiny, and it didn't take him long to explore it. He found nothing that would help. The walls, floor, and ceiling were hewn from bedrock, and the only exit was through the barred door. The room contained only the bed, straw, and bucket he had seen upon being brought in. There were no implements that might be used for tunneling or prying. There were no fissures or seams on which to employ such a tool in any event. And there was nothing he could use for a weapon.
He sat on the bed and thought about his situation for a long time. If Shadea was to be believed—and he had no reason to assume she wasn't—there was a guard stationed on the other side of the door, watching for any attempt at escape. Down the hall and up the stairs, there would be others. A relay was in place to send word faster than he could run, should he attempt to break free. He couldn't know all the particulars, but he had to assume the guards had a form of communication that would allow them to know if one or more of their number had been overpowered.
Time passed, and eventually the door opened far enough to permit a Gnome Hunter to slide a tray of food inside before the locks were thrown anew. Accustomed by then to the dark, Bek was blinded by the sudden glare of torchlight and barely caught a glimpse of what was happening before the door was closed again. He took that into account as he continued to make his plans, sitting on the floor of his cell and eating his meal. The food, he found, was reasonable; apparently, Shadea didn't intend to do away with him through starvation. But he hadn't changed his mind that she intended to do away with him in some manner.
He waited through three more meals, measuring the time it took the Gnome to pull back the lock bolt, open the cell door, slide the food tray inside, close the door, and throw the bolt again. It was clear to him that any escape would have to come then. It would not be possible to escape if he had to break down or lever open the door. The noise such an effort would require, even if time and opportunity allowed for it, would alert the Gnome Hunters immediately, and any chance of surprise would be lost.