by Terry Brooks
By then it was late in the day. She knew she should stop and rest, but she also knew she should hurry. So she flew on until nightfall before setting down only a few miles below the Rhenn. There she changed her dressing, ate a little food, drank a little water, and went to sleep.
When she woke the next morning, her wound was throbbing painfully, and she knew she was in trouble.
* * *
—
In the city of Arishaig, far to the east of where Tarsha found herself, Ketter Vause sat behind his desk in the Prime Minister’s office and stared silently at the man standing before him. The man was a junior officer of a Federation garrison stationed in Varfleet who had been dispatched to investigate rumors of a disturbance in the vicinity of Paranor several days earlier. Vause’s own first commander of the main body of the Federation army, who had been summoned to hear the junior officer’s report, stood off to one side, listening to his scout.
All bore stunned looks on their faces.
“The Druid’s Keep is gone?” Vause said after long moments, repeating the newcomer’s words in a tone of clear disbelief. “You are certain of this?”
“I was there. I saw for myself.” The other man shifted his feet uncomfortably. He was clearly unhappy with having been delegated by his commanding officer to deliver the news personally. “There’s nothing left of it. The ground on which it stood is empty. It’s as if nothing was ever there.”
The Prime Minister steepled his fingers before him in contemplation. How is this possible? The question frightened him. Did the Skaar invaders possess such terrible power? That envoy seemed to hint they did, although Vause had not for a moment believed it possible. But there it was. This messenger from Varfleet had just said the Skaar had disposed of the Druids, and it appeared they had.
“The Druids are gone, too? All of them?”
“There were no Druids at the site, although it is possible some fled. In any case, there were no witnesses to what happened. None that I could find, at any rate. Paranor and its Druids have disappeared, Prime Minister. Every last vestige of the order is vanished.”
“You searched?”
“There wasn’t much searching required. The truth of it was mostly in what I could see for myself. Or not see.”
Vause’s narrow features tightened. That the Druids were gone, their order wiped out and their members dead or scattered, was the best news he had received in a very long time. Paranor had been a thorn in the Federation’s side for countless generations, but no one had thought it possible to eliminate them altogether. Yet the Skaar had accomplished this practically overnight and the Federation war against magic and its uses appeared to be over. Without the Druids to collect and manage magic in all its various forms, the Elves were left isolated—the only Race solely dependent on such power. Without the Druids, the employment of magic might well be stamped out entirely.
“We can’t be certain exactly when it happened,” Arraxin Dresch, his first commander, observed. “No one seems to know. Word’s gotten back to us quickly enough, but even so—”
“Even so,” Vause interrupted, “not quickly enough for us to find witnesses or survivors, so we are left to imagine the particulars.” He paused. “What’s become of these invaders? Where are they now?”
The messenger glanced at Dresch for support and found none. “I don’t know, Prime Minister.” He spoke quickly, nervously. “I was told to come at once to Arishaig to report what I had seen. But there was no one at the site of the Druid’s Keep. There might be a report by tomorrow.”
Ketter Vause nodded. If he wasn’t so bothered by the implications of all this, he would have been more willing to celebrate what on the face of things was a stunning accomplishment.
But his moment of jubilation had already turned to one of concern. What did the Skaar intend next, and what was he going to do about it? Could he rely on the envoy’s promise that the Skaar were seeking an alliance? Could he believe the Skaar would leave the Southland alone if Vause agreed to their terms?
The answers to his questions were swift in coming. By the following day, a second messenger had arrived. First Commander Dresch brought him before Vause immediately. From the look on the commander’s face, the news was not good.
“Tell me what you found,” Ketter Vause ordered brusquely.
“Prime Minister, we discovered the main body of the invader’s army encamped on the north shore of the Mermidon River. They number somewhat less than a thousand soldiers. There is no clear indication of what they are preparing to do next. My commander positioned men on this side of the river to monitor their movements and report back when they know anything further.”
Ketter Vause nodded, expressed his thanks, and dismissed the man, gesturing for Dresch to remain behind. He was not happy to discover the Skaar were right up against Federation territory. The messenger from the Skaar princess had promised they would not attempt to occupy any part of the Federation. But the Borderlands were a Federation protectorate, and the Mermidon was their northern perimeter. If they weren’t intending an invasion of the Borderlands, then why were they setting up their camp at the edge of its borders?
He remained where he was for a moment, looking out the window across the vast expanse of the city of Arishaig. Arraxin Dresch stood perfectly still, waiting patiently. Vause expected as much. He had rid himself of the last man to hold the commander’s position, irritated by his constant insistence on questioning his decisions. This one had a reputation for complying with orders—a quaint but otherwise praiseworthy approach to the concept of chain of command.
He sighed. What did the Skaar intend? Advancing as they had to the banks of the Mermidon revealed they were up to something, but a force of less than a thousand was too small to risk exposing itself to the much larger Federation army—a force that could crush it like an eggshell if its full strength were brought to bear. Surely the princess and her commanders must know that. So what were they doing?
“Commander?” he said, without turning. “What do you make of this?”
“I don’t think we should sit around waiting to see how it turns out” was his immediate response.
Dresch was a big, bearded man with his best years still ahead of him, his loyalty long since established, and his bravery unquestioned. He had experience on the battlefield. He had put down a Dwarf uprising in the Declan mining region five years earlier. His sole weakness was his tendency toward caution. But caution wasn’t always a bad idea.
“Would this Skaar princess really dare to turn on us?” Vause shook his head. “It would be foolhardy to risk doing so. We have been offered an agreement, an alliance of non-aggression. Would she choose to go back on her promise to let the Federation be? What would persuade her to change her mind?”
“Greed. Hunger for more than she already has. Who knows?” Dresch paused. “Have you received any communication since the offer was made? Perhaps it has been withdrawn.”
Vause wasn’t sure, but for him to assume it was no longer on the table didn’t seem wise. “We must take steps to see that she behaves herself. Take two companies of Federation army regulars and a warship escort to the Mermidon today, and have them camp directly across the river from the Skaar. I want you with them to observe. Get word back to us if any attempt is made to cross the Mermidon into the Borderlands. Do it now.”
His first commander nodded and left without a word.
Vause went back to staring out the window. He would give this a few days, just to see if the princess or her envoy made any further attempt to contact him. If they did not, he would send someone to confront her. Whatever was going on, he wanted to know the details.
This whole business with the Skaar was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He was beginning to think they could prove to be more trouble than the Druids they had somehow dispatched.
If that feeling persisted, he would have to do somethi
ng about it.
And do it soon.
TWELVE
Clizia Porse had continued on with the trading caravan to Varfleet following her discovery that she had somehow failed to gain possession of the Black Elfstone. That she did not have the talisman she needed to bring Paranor back into the world of the Four Lands was galling enough. The fact that in all probability it was still inside the Keep—where Drisker, if he was still alive, could lay hands on it—put her at a decided disadvantage.
So for the day following her unpleasant discovery, as she walked beside and sometimes rode within the caravan wagons, she puzzled over what to do. By the following morning, on arriving at their destination, she still did not have an answer.
Her choices were admittedly unattractive.
Because she had left Drisker’s scrye orb behind, she had some connection with Paranor, however tenuous. Her decision on the matter had been deliberate and purposeful. Should Drisker somehow survive the Keep’s Guardian—unlikely as that seemed—she would want to know. The orb would provide her with a way. But now matters had moved beyond simply satisfying her curiosity. Now it appeared that her only chance for recovering Paranor lay in Drisker having succeeded in doing what she had intended he not do—avoid the death she had so cleverly arranged for him. And if he was still alive, she needed to not only confirm it, but also learn whether or not he actually had possession of the Black Elfstone.
Just at the moment she could not think of a way to proceed without tossing everything up in the air. She needed to be certain if he was alive—but without giving anything away about the Elfstone. If she found he was unaware of the truth and she left him that way, he would eventually die—which would be the simplest outcome. But then Paranor and all its vast and treasured magic would be lost to her and her plans to rebuild a new Druid order severely compromised. If, on the other hand, she told him the truth, how could she do so in a way that would further her own interests yet not put her in danger?
So which way should she jump?
The answer to this conundrum eluded her, so instead she quit thinking about it and went off to find an airship. That she would stay only a short time in Varfleet was a given. What she needed to do was travel west to the village of Emberen and Drisker Arc’s home to find those books of magic he had purloined on leaving. Yes, they were technically his, but the work had been done while he was a Druid at Paranor and so should belong to the Druids. And since she was the sole survivor of the old order and in the process of forming a new one, they should be hers.
That Drisker would never return to make use of them personally only strengthened the case for making them hers and finding a way to put them to use.
She had no regrets about what she had done to him—just as she had no regrets about how she had manipulated Ober Balronen, Ruis Quince, and all the other Druids to arrange for their demise. Nor did she have regrets about how she had betrayed Paranor to the Skaar so that she could form a new Druid order and begin a new era in the history of the Druids. To her way of thinking, it was a necessary sacrifice. To make a new start, you had to first put the past behind you. The members of the Druid order were irrelevant and divisive. They had lost their bearing and diminished their ability to impact the future. Increasingly, they were becoming dangerous in their blindness. She might have saved them, had they chosen her as High Druid rather than Balronen, but you lived with your mistakes in this world, and she had done nothing more than give a nudge to what was certain to happen eventually.
For Clizia Porse, everything was expendable in the quest to achieve her desires.
So once she had secured and provisioned an airship, she departed the city and set out for the Westland. A three-day journey lay ahead—though at her age, she required little sleep and could probably be in Emberen in two more days if she drove herself hard. It was a small concession to discomfort given what she hoped to achieve. She could have secured the services of a pilot and avoided expending the energy to navigate and fly the airship on her own. But then she would have had to decide what to do with him afterward, and there was only one acceptable choice given her determination to keep her movements secret.
Besides, she was a passable flier with years of experience—even if most of those years were in the past—so she opted to keep herself to herself for now. And she believed the time spent flying alone would provide her with a chance to think through her plans and divine the means for carrying them out. There was much to consider, and it would be best accomplished if she was left undisturbed.
One of the more intriguing prospects she found herself considering for the second time since leaving lost Paranor centered on what use she might make of the mysterious girl Tarsha, who had accompanied Drisker that first visit when he had sought to gain an audience with Ober Balronen. A student he was mentoring, the Druid claimed. Seemingly a young girl with no visible talent and no skills worth mentioning, his tone had suggested. But Drisker did not waste time on those lacking ability to employ magic, and she sensed there was something more to this Tarsha than what the Druid had suggested. There was an air of secrecy about her, revealed not by any obvious deception but by her presence alone.
And from the way she had looked at Clizia—from the caution and wariness she had displayed—she was clearly more than she appeared.
Clizia Porse was very good at reading people. She prided herself on being able to see right through anyone. Tarsha was a book waiting to be read, and if she was still in residence at Drisker’s cottage in Emberen there would be a chance to do so. For now, Clizia could enjoy anticipating what truths might then be revealed and how she might somehow prove useful for what lay ahead.
* * *
—
She arrived in Emberen close to sunset on the third day of travel, weary and hungry to get on with things. She brought the airship down in a landing field occupied by less than half a dozen other vessels, all worn and ragged and looking decidedly unsafe. Her ship was not new, either, but it was well maintained and fully provisioned. She left it under the care of the field manager—a man who seemed willing enough to look after it, especially after she promised him a sizable bonus if she found her craft to be in the same condition when she departed as it was now. A more extensive inquiry into the location of Drisker’s home than she had anticipated proved necessary; it appeared that it had been burned to the ground some weeks earlier and a number of brigands had paid the ultimate price for doing so. Informed that he had found temporary lodgings, she set out to find them, carrying a sack filled with food and clothing—a black-cloaked wraith, bent and gnarled and unapproachable.
She found the new home dark and silent amid other similarly shadow-bound residences, its bulk hunkered down within a heavy screen of trees and noticeably set apart. A brief scan with her magic revealed no one waited within. She climbed the porch steps, opened the locked door with ease, and entered. She had hoped to find the girl still in residence—assuming she hadn’t been scared off—but it appeared no one had been there for at least several days. There were clothes in a back bedroom that might have been Tarsha’s, but no other trace of her presence. She undertook a cursory search, but she did not waste her time trying to discover where the books of magic might be hidden, saving that for when she was better rested.
Then she ate her dinner by candlelight and went to bed.
When morning came, she rose, washed and dressed, ate her breakfast, and began her search for the books in earnest. Whatever else he had lost in the fire that had destroyed his earlier home, he would have made certain to protect those books. She went from room to room, a determined huntress, beginning with Drisker’s sleeping quarters and using her magic to aid her in her search. She took her time, considering every possibility as she went, her sharp old eyes missing nothing. She rummaged through all the drawers and closets, hunting under and behind furniture, moving quite deliberately from one room to the next. Afterward, she went on to consider what might
be under the home or in the attic above. She searched every place she could think of, no matter how far-fetched, but turned up nothing.
The day was nearly done when she finished, and she had nothing to show for her efforts. It was disappointing, but she was not discouraged. She had never once believed that finding something of such importance would be easy. Drisker was nothing if not clever, and he would have been more so concealing those books.
Toward evening, an oddity surfaced, one she could not explain. Glancing haphazardly into the trees surrounding the cottage, she caught sight of movement. It was gone as fast as it came, but she thought from the glimpse she caught that it might be human. She saw it again a little later, no clearer than before. Who or what was out there or what its purpose might be in prowling about remained a mystery. She thought to lie in wait for it or track it or even set a trap. But that seemed a foolish waste of her time, given what little she was apt to discover.
Lingering at the periphery of her expectations was the faint hope that Tarsha might appear, but still there was no sign of her. Clizia Porse was determined and strong-minded, but she was also very old and tired more easily than she once had. As a result, she began to wonder if she should abandon this effort and go in search of something more productive. The books would be useful, but forming alliances with those who might support her in establishing her new Druid order was important, too. Quite possibly, she began to think, it might be the better choice.
And then abruptly, on that same evening, everything changed.
* * *
—
Tarsha Kaynin was hot and feverish by the time she arrived back in Emberen, only barely able to land her airship, coming in too fast and hard, and skewing the vessel sideways as she set it down. Her knife wound was badly infected, and her efforts to cure the infection had failed miserably. Her arm and shoulder had been swollen and painful for the last two days, the wound festering and leaking fluids, her head pounding with her sickness. She managed a quick hello for the field manager as she stumbled past, leaving the two-man for him to put away, wanting only to reach Drisker’s cottage and go to bed. She had no idea if he would be there, but at this point it didn’t matter. She would have a decent, warm bed to sleep in, food and drink to consume, and a guarantee of safety for at least one night. There were some medicines waiting, some of which would help her, and if she weren’t better by morning, she would go to the village healer.