by Terry Brooks
So there was much to do, and she must start quickly. The larger plan could wait, but in the end it would only work if she successfully carried out the smaller parts first.
She picked herself up, still wrapped in her robes, and went off into the darkness to find a place to sleep. She would have been more comfortable by one of the many fires the traders were gathered around, but she preferred not to get too close to anyone. The less these people knew about her, the better. She would use them to reach Varfleet, then never see them again. They would remember her in a vague sort of way, but never with any real clarity. An old woman, quiet and aloof, her worn face immediately forgettable. She would leave them with no clear impression and disappear into the city to begin her new life.
Settling herself against the mossy trunk of an old-growth chestnut, she leaned back contentedly and patted the hard bulk of each of the treasures she hid inside her clothing. When she had taken the Black Elfstone from Drisker Arc, she had barely glanced at it before stuffing it into her robes. There had been no time for that, no time for anything but getting out of Paranor. Since then, she had left it where she’d put it that night, safely hidden away. After all, it would not be of use until the five years she had allotted for her plan and Drisker’s lifetime were up.
Nor had she bothered with unwrapping the Stiehl once she had removed it from the archival vaults. It had taken her only moments; her knowledge of where it was and how its locks could be released was information she had persuaded a foolish Ober Balronen to entrust to her in a moment of weakness. She had coveted the blade since she had known it was there, but had been content to leave it where it was until she knew the Keep was going to fall.
Yet now, for the first time, she gave in to a sudden urge to look upon both, to revel for just a few moments in what she had accomplished.
She reached into her robes and drew out the Stiehl first, keeping her actions furtive and swift. A quick glance around and a scanning of the darkness with her Druid senses confirmed she was alone. She placed the blade in her lap where the moonlight could provide a sufficiently clear look once she had removed its wrappings. Her hands were shaking with excitement as she tore open the layers of leather and soft cloth and found the dagger nestled within. It was a wicked-looking weapon, its ebony handle carved with runes darker still and its blade matte black, deeply striated, and well over a foot long. She stared at it with keen anticipation for what it might be used for. It was the most dangerous weapon in the world, and now it was hers to do with as she chose.
After a few moments more, she slipped the Stiehl back into her clothing and brought out the Black Elfstone. She could feel the angles and planes of it through the fabric of the pouch in which it was kept. Such a pleasant feeling, she thought, as she caressed it lovingly.
Carefully, she loosened the drawstrings to the pouch and let the Elfstone tumble out into the palm of her hand…
And saw at once that it was something else entirely.
For a second, she was certain she must be mistaken. It was a stone. It had edges and planes. It was the right size. But it was not an Elfstone. It wasn’t even black! It was just an unremarkable stone.
Her rage surfaced in a rush of white-hot heat that left her flushed. She put the rock aside and rummaged through her clothing and pack. Nothing. But she had known that, hadn’t she? She had taken what she believed to be the Black Elfstone and put it right where she could find it when she was ready to take it out. Except something had gone wrong. Had Drisker somehow scooped up the wrong talisman when he was rummaging through the archives? Had he mistaken this ordinary rock for the Black Elfstone, snatching it from its concealment and pocketing it without looking while she kept urging him to hurry?
Or had she somehow mistaken what she was stealing from him while he lay helpless on the floor of the Keep?
Everything was suddenly scrambled—all of her plans and schemes and thinking jumbled together in a confusing mix. Everything she had planned would fail if she could not get her hands on the Black Elfstone. Without Paranor, there could be no reformation of the Druid order. Without the magic and the talismans contained within, there could be no starting over. Did Drisker know she didn’t have the Elfstone? Did he still have it himself? How could she find out without telling him the Stone was still inside Paranor? Only if she did so could the Stone’s magic be used to bring Paranor back into the Four Lands!
Her ancient face, deep-etched by age and taut with renewed expectations, assumed an expression of cunning. She had to be careful about what she did next. She had to think of a way to get Drisker to reveal what he knew without his realizing it. Or find a way to turn him into her ally, willing or not. She needed leverage for this. But what sort of leverage could she apply that would rid her of Drisker and still allow her plans to go forward?
At the moment, she had no idea.
* * *
—
“She has the Stiehl!”
Drisker shouted it with such fury that it became not a question but a cry of despair. The extent of his anger was almost beyond measure. The Stiehl was a creation of dark magic with a history that went far back in time—so far back there was no clear record of how the weapon had been forged or who had fashioned it. What was known was that there was nothing it could not cut through and no one it could not kill. It had surfaced first in the days of Walker Boh and the assassin Pe Ell, while they were on their journey to the ancient stronghold of the Stone King, accompanied by the highlander Morgan Leah and Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River. Pe Ell had killed the girl using the Stiehl, but had been killed himself later. Afterward, the Stiehl had been locked away in Paranor. Grianne Ohmsford and then Aphenglow Elessedil, both while serving as Ard Rhys, had determined it must never emerge again. Since then, it had remained locked away in the vaults of the Druid archives.
Until now. Until this.
Cogline, to his credit, said nothing, letting Drisker think it through. For a shade dead more than a thousand years, he possessed excellent instincts.
“I have to get out of here,” Drisker said finally, staring down at the Black Elfstone, his gaze fixing on what he believed might still be the answer to his problems. “I have to use the Stone to free myself and go after her.”
“Well, perhaps,” the other replied.
“Perhaps? You don’t think it might be dangerous to let Clizia Porse run around with the most dangerous weapon in the world while she implements her plans for…well, for whatever she’s planning?”
“Yes, but what are her plans, exactly? I don’t know. Do you, Drisker? How will she use the Stiehl to advance them? It might behoove you to think this through. And there is yet another matter to consider.”
He went silent, his expression enigmatic as he waited for a response.
“Another matter,” the Druid repeated. He shook his head. “Of course there would be another matter, and you wouldn’t be happy if you didn’t make me guess what it is, would you?”
“It should be obvious.”
“Let’s suppose that what is obvious to you—a shade with some insights that the living lack—isn’t necessarily obvious to me. Please enlighten me.”
Cogline shrugged. “You have to figure out how to use the Black Elfstone.”
“What? You think it won’t respond to me? That I am not a true member of the Druid order with the power to summon its magic?”
And suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps the Stone might not be his to use. He was no longer Ard Rhys. He was not even the last of the Druids. That alone might prevent him from employing its magic. What if he had disqualified himself by leaving the order and abandoning the post of Ard Rhys? Yet he could not imagine that Clizia Porse, complicit in the fall of the Keep, would be the only one who could wield it.
Cogline was watching him. “It isn’t as simple as it seems,” he said quietly, his body shimmering as if with a sudden
chill. “It requires something to command such magic. It demands a price.”
“What are you talking about? What sort of price?”
“It is not for me to say. It is for you to find out.”
“Very profound. Well, then, I will do as you say. I will find out for myself. Care to come watch?”
He started off without waiting to see if the other would follow, stepping from the chamber and closing the doors behind him. Let the shade pass through the walls if he wishes to follow. Using magic, he reset the locks and resealed the chamber. The Black Elfstone was in his pocket once more as he strode back down Paranor’s hallways, heading for the doors leading out to the Keep’s west gates. His mind was spinning. Had Clizia discovered she did not have the Elfstone? And what were her plans for the Stiehl?
He stopped abruptly. He could find all that out easily enough. Both he and Clizia still had their scrye orbs. It would be a simple matter for him to contact her. They could speak to each other, and he could ask her what she knew.
But to what end? What would this accomplish? And what could he say to her that would matter? At best, she would be outraged both that she did not have what she needed and that he was still among the living. What sort of bargain could he hope to make with her that would help him but not her? It was likely to be a short conversation.
The complexity of the situation was daunting. Neither of them was about to give in to the other. Thinking on it further, he realized that the only advantage he had was that she couldn’t be certain whether he still had the Elfstone. She might believe he was ignorant of the fact that it was still there somewhere in Paranor. She couldn’t know that Cogline still lived on as a shade within the Keep and had purloined the Elfstone from her and given it back to him. She might even think he still believed the Elfstone was in her possession—that she really had stolen it from him.
He watched Cogline materialize beside him, bleeding through the passageway stone. He turned away from the shade. There must be a way he could take advantage of this knowledge that he had and she didn’t. But he couldn’t think just what it might be.
He continued down the hallway, reaching the west doors of the building and stepping out into the open courtyard beyond. The air was gray and misty, the skies a screen of impenetrable gloom through which neither moon nor sun was revealed. The outer walls of the Keep were blank screens ahead of him, barely visible through the haze. He already knew that from the top of those walls he could see nothing in any direction; the world of the Four Lands had disappeared, and what had replaced it was a vast emptiness.
He walked swiftly toward the gates, noting as he went that nothing seemed to have changed beyond the walls—no sign of life, no birdsong, no wind rattling the tree branches. Nothing. Only an immense void that threatened to crush his spirit.
But he would change all that. Standing before the west gates, he brought out the Black Elfstone and held it forth, summoning its magic to dispel the gloom and bring Paranor back into the world of the Four Lands.
Nothing happened.
He hesitated, not wanting to try again too quickly, afraid he was making a mistake. He walked through the steps he had taken to summon the magic—focusing on the Stone, binding to its power, speaking the words of summoning, the congealment of elements surrounding him that would ease the magic’s passage. He had done them all, and if he was entitled to use the magic, as he had insisted to Cogline he was, it should have responded.
He tried again, taking his time, making sure he did everything correctly, and giving his words and gestures exactly the right amount of time and space.
Surface, he commanded the magic silently.
Once again, nothing happened.
“Surface!” he hissed aloud.
But the Black Elfstone remained dark. Drisker closed his fist on the talisman and stared helplessly at the closed gates and the gray haze that cloaked everything surrounding him.
“It might be that something more is needed,” Cogline offered unhelpfully.
“Which I must discover for myself?”
“Well, you should at least think about what it might be.”
“Suppose I simply don’t qualify as a wielder of this particular magic? I’ve considered that possibility.”
“As you should.” Cogline gave him an appreciative nod. “However, I don’t think that is your problem. You are a former Ard Rhys. You don’t always shed that mantle simply because you cease to function in the job. I should know. I was once a Druid myself, if you recall my history. The Keep responds to truth and belief and commitment, not to a title. Are you Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order or not, Drisker Arc?”
He spoke mildly and without hurry, but there was a hint of impatience to his words.
“I don’t know,” Drisker admitted.
“It always helps to know yourself before you try to know others. It helps to know yourself before you attempt to use certain kinds of magic, too.”
“Well, maybe I don’t know myself sufficiently well to use this particular magic.”
Cogline nodded. “That could well be true. Why don’t you let me know when that changes?”
And he turned away, walked into the wall, and disappeared.
SIX
Far to the southwest of Arborlon, where the Rill Song wound toward the Rock Spur, Tarsha Kaynin was nearing Backing Fell and home. She had been traveling for three days, passing countless towns and villages, all of which she had avoided, spending her nights in wooded shelters along the river, limiting any chance encounters that might lead to delays.
As she journeyed, her night in Wending Way remained a vivid memory. It was there she had encountered the old woman Parlindru, the seer who had foretold her future with such gentle certainty while they sat together in the taproom of an inn. The old woman had read her future by taking hold of her hands, and had given her three promises of what was to be.
Three times would she love and all would be true, but only one would last.
Three times would she die, but each time she would come back to life.
Three chances would she have to make a change in the lives of others, and one of the three would change the world.
The rule of three, Parlindru had told her—a rule so embedded in the fabric of life that it was absolute. Three things could define all aspects of life. Three things could explain all events and all fates. It was true for everyone, and it would be true for Tarsha.
Yet did any of this really happen or had she imagined it all, her mind fogged by weariness and ale, her imagination run wild even as she sat wide awake at her table at that inn in Wending Way? Well, perhaps. She had drunk a couple of glasses of ale, but Parlindru, while seeming to drink with her, apparently had not taken a sip. The innkeeper who had served the ale and kept watch from behind the bar had not even seen the old woman. It was all mysterious and uncertain, and Tarsha had been left with a memory that was perhaps unreliable.
She had mulled it over as she flew on, trying to settle on at least one certainty, however small, that would tip the scales. In the end, she decided it was her instincts that mattered most, her always reliable sense of what was and wasn’t real.
And her meeting with Parlindru felt decidedly real, so she resolved to stop doubting it and embrace the foretelling she had been given.
But as a result, she was saddled with expectations she could not stop thinking about—wondering when each of the three would occur, what they would look like, how she would be affected, and if she would recognize them for what they were. She did not feel fear—not even at the thought of dying three times. She believed that fate was to be taken figuratively rather than literally, and the prophecies felt like metaphors for something more complex than actual occurrences. After all, you couldn’t die three times, could you? And change the world by changing someone’s life? There were nuances to these fates, she believed—suggestions of things
that would happen on a much smaller scale.
But whatever the case, the expectations were there, and the future she had been anticipating had suddenly expanded into something more fluid and at the same time settled.
So when Backing Fell approached, she put all of it aside and returned to thoughts of her brother. She wondered if her parents had ever brought him home. She wondered if he would be there when she arrived. She believed Tavo would be disappointed and hurt by her prolonged absence, but perhaps grateful, too, that she had returned. But whether he knew where she had been or not, she must find a way to reassure him that it had never been her intention to abandon him. She must explain what she was doing in a way that left him no room to doubt her intentions.
She must explain, too, about the path she had taken to find Drisker Arc and the work she was now doing as a Druid’s apprentice.
The day of her arrival was sunny and warm, the skies clear and the world bright and shiny, as if newly made and still unspoiled. She crossed from the river into the forests, bypassing her village and flying on to her parents’ cottage. When she was still a short distance away, she landed her small craft in a sheltered clearing where it was not likely to be disturbed and secured it. Leaving it behind, she began walking toward her destination. She was already rehearsing the words she would speak to her parents—and to Tavo, as well, if he was there—readying her explanations and her excuses and anticipating what lay ahead.
She passed out of the trees onto the pathway that led to her home, searching for what was familiar…
…and found instead the still-smoking ashes of what was gone forever.
Her home was in ruins, a pile of charred rubble and ash, burned to the ground, the earth beneath turned blackened and raw.
She slowed and then stopped altogether, staring in shock. There was nothing left. Everything was destroyed, everything she had expected to find, everything she remembered from her childhood. She started to call for her mother and father, then stopped. There was no one alive here; no one could have survived such devastation. What had happened? Where were her parents now?