by Terry Brooks
“Well, I don’t know that there’s a timetable on these things. It seems to me you just have to let them happen. Look at me.”
He did, and she leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He kissed her back without thinking about it, wanting it to last longer than it did.
There was mischief in her eyes as she backed away. “See what I mean?”
—
Arcannen stood at the airship’s controls, awash in a welcome sense of satisfaction. Manipulating the boy had proved far easier than he could have imagined. The boy had no inkling who had attacked him back in Portlow; he still believed it was the Druids. He did not suspect the sorcerer, whom he now trusted and was convinced intended to help him.
Well, in a way, Arcannen did intend to help him, but only in order to help himself.
He could not yet be certain how useful Reyn would be, but the possibilities were intriguing. The potential was there; the wishsong magic was incredibly powerful. He needed to find a way to unleash it, though. The boy was frightened and reluctant to make use of it in the way Arcannen needed. He was hampered by his own insecurities and lack of confidence. Arcannen would have to change all that. He would have to reveal just enough to persuade the boy to do what was needed without hesitating or thinking too long about it. But manipulation was his specialty, and he would find a way.
He glanced down at the boy and Lariana. Perhaps the girl would do it for him. She had already enchanted Reyn; the boy could not take his eyes off her. His sorcerer’s instincts had not failed him; she had been the right choice after all. She was the perfect combination of approachable and unattainable. She was exotic, but at the same time she could draw you in. More important, though, she was willing to do whatever was necessary to further her own interests. His promise to teach her magic was a lure she could not resist. She wanted to better herself, and she knew that she needed help doing that.
She would be given her chance. If he still liked her well enough at the end of things, he would keep her on to serve him in whatever way he deemed best.
And if not, she would be left behind.
That was how life worked.
They flew on through the remainder of the day, continuing eastward toward the coast, speeding over increasingly rugged and barren terrain as farmland and inhabited country were left behind. There were no longer any towns or small settlements this far out. There was nothing much to sustain life this far into the badlands, and aside from small rodents and insects no evidence of life. Even the birds avoided this part of the Southland. Sparse grasses and scrub dotted the rocky countryside, but these were brownish and sunburned. Nothing green was in evidence; no water sparkled in the sun. It would be like this until they reached the coastal villages, which were still several hours farther on.
Arcannen’s passengers were sleeping, slumped against each other, the girl’s arm about the boy’s shoulders. It was a touching sight, but he did not respond emotionally. How they felt about each other was how he had told the girl they must, and she was working hard to make it happen. The boy would let her manipulate him; he wanted her badly enough that he could not help himself. He might question her motives—although Arcannen doubted it—but he would respond nevertheless. She would gain his confidence and help shape his thinking. In the end, it would be enough to place him firmly in Arcannen’s experienced hands.
He thought momentarily of the Druids, and especially of Paxon Leah and his sister. It was Paxon, back in Portlow, who had attempted to intercept the boy. He had known he would run across the Highlander sooner or later; there was a connection between them that made it inevitable. Perhaps it would be a while before it happened again, especially if Paxon had tried to save the female Druid by smashing his way into the cylinder that imprisoned her. He felt a momentary pang of regret that he hadn’t been able to stay around and watch it happen. It would have eased his unhappiness about driving Leofur farther away and losing Chrysallin Leah’s services.
By nightfall, their destination appeared ahead, misted and darkening, the last of the daylight fleeing west at their backs. Overhead, the moon and stars were visible in a clear, cloudless sky. He could smell the ocean—the vast waters of the Tiderace—wafting on the evening air, strong and familiar. He could just begin to hear the booming crash of the waves against the rocks.
The boy and Lariana were awake, peering ahead through the gathering haze. “Look ahead!” Arcannen shouted over the rush of the wind. “See the buildings?”
In truth, the buildings were toppled and crumbling, their walls blackened and their roofs mostly collapsed. Ruins awaited them, the devastation left by the men and women of the Red Slash.
“What is it?” Reyn called back.
Arcannen smiled and made a sweeping gesture. “Arbrox! Your new home!”
—
When they had landed and climbed from the Sprint, Reyn said to Arcannen, “This is our new home?”
Lariana, too, usually stoic and unruffled, was looking around doubtfully. “What is this place?”
Arcannen gave them a moment. They were standing at the perimeter of what had once been the fortress of the raider village. The walls were broken and collapsed from the attack of the Red Slash six weeks earlier. Charred and blackened stone marked the remains of the fires that had been set to burn out the inhabitants who were still in hiding after the Federation soldiers had killed the rest. Bodies picked down to bones by carrion birds and four-legged scavengers littered the landscape both inside and outside the shattered walls, dull pieces of white in the fading daylight.
“This way,” he ordered without explanation, moving toward a breach in the crumbling stone.
Inside, the collapsed buildings echoed with their footsteps in the deep silence as they picked their way through bones and debris. Nothing moved in the ruins, not even the birds that had fed on the dead after the carnage was complete. Arcannen remembered it all as if it were yesterday. He had never spoken of what happened here—not to anyone. Not until now. But today he would talk of it. These people had been his family—or the closest he had known in the five years of exile he had suffered after his flight from Wayford. They had taken him in, sheltered and fed him, made him one of them, and never asked a thing in return. Old Croy, who mended his shoes and clothing and told stories of his past. Melinhone, who cooked for him every day and kept him warm at night. The boy Phinn and the girl Derinda, brother and sister, who played in the yard of the home next door to his own, still children when they died.
The list went on and on, and every face on it was etched into his memory. All had died in the attack, and there had been no effort to spare them. It was understandable that the authorities would come after the raiders who had risked their lives from the moment they had chosen to prey on Federation shipping, but to make no distinction between those who were guilty and those who were innocent—those who were instigators and those who were no more than bystanders—was unforgivable. It was an affront to Arcannen and a blatant disregard of the laws of civility, and he could not abide it.
He explained all this now as he walked them through the remains of Arbrox from end to end, pointing out this and that space where a memory recalled itself, offering brief stories of those dead and gone, relating bits and pieces of the life he had enjoyed during the time he had lived here. The pain he felt in doing so was immense, but it was cleansing, as well. By telling of what hurt, he found fresh fuel for his determination to see it avenged.
“Do you not see the injustice of it?” he asked the boy as they walked on across the darkening landscape, glimpses of moon and stars now providing light for them to find their way forward. “A handful of these people broke the laws of a powerful government, but all who lived here were made to suffer for their violation. There was no effort to determine the guilty. The soldiers of the Red Slash were told that everyone was to be killed. The attack—which I witnessed—was meant to eradicate an entire people. It was an abomination against humanity.”
“But why do you still consider this your home?” the boy pre
ssed him. “It isn’t really your home anymore.”
“Come,” Arcannen ordered, turning away.
He took them a short distance to an open doorway and then inside rooms where the ceiling was collapsed and the floor strewn with rubble. Without pausing, he continued on to an opening in the cliff wall behind and through to a darkened hallway. With a snap of his fingers, he produced a flame that danced on his fingertips. In the glow of its light, they made their way back into the darkness until he reached a shuttered door, heavy and metal-bound, the lock that secured it new.
Digging into his black robes with his free hand, Arcannen produced an iron key that released the lock. Without a word, he opened the door and stepped inside. The boy and the girl followed. Reaching out with the flame he had conjured, he lit a series of torches fixed in wall brackets until the room in which they stood was flooded with light.
“As you can see,” he said, indicating what lay within with a sweeping gesture of his hand, “it is indeed still my home.”
The room was furnished sumptuously and decorated with ornate wall tapestries and silks, colorfully woven rugs, and bright paintings. Fixtures of gold and silver glittered in the torchlight, and colorful glass bowls shone from where they sat on tables and pedestals. Through other doorways and openings, the faint outlines of furnishings revealed bedrooms and a kitchen, and showed the length of a long hallway that tunneled back into a deeper darkness.
“I returned when it was safe to do so and found these rooms empty and untouched. I brought in the things I required to make it comfortable, and I resolved that Arbrox would rise from the ashes. I could not save her people, my friends and protectors, but I could save their home. I could make it mine again, and l could live here as once I had intended I might. No one would come to bother me here—not in this dead and ruined place—so I did not need to worry about discovery. In its destruction, it came to serve me as the perfect hiding place while I considered what I would do to the Red Slash in retaliation for their acts against these people.”
“You are all alone here?” Lariana asked him, her face solemn.
“Until now. I am not the sort of man who requires a great deal of company. I can manage on my own, even though I would have preferred things to remain as they were before the attack.”
“But you intend to avenge what happened here?” Reyn hesitated. “How will you do that?”
“First things first,” the sorcerer declared, squaring up before the boy. “Gaining revenge on the Red Slash on behalf of the dead of Arbrox is the prior obligation I mentioned. I seek your help in completing it. Will you consider doing so? Will you provide me with the assistance I need?”
The boy looked uncertain. “Wait. Are you asking me to use the wishsong to kill these soldiers you blame for what happened here? These men and women of the Red Slash?”
Lariana stepped close to him and took hold of his arm. “I don’t think so, Reyn. I think he has something else in mind.”
She said it in a way that warned the sorcerer he would be making a serious mistake in giving Reyn any other answer. He smiled inwardly at her perceptive recognition of what would amount to crossing a forbidden line, and was reassured anew that she had been the right choice for aiding him in his efforts to win over the boy.
“No, Reyn,” he said. “I am not asking you to kill anyone. I would never ask that of you. I know how you feel. Killing others is exactly what you are seeking to avoid! You have asked me to help bring your magic under control, and I will do so. What I need to know is whether you are willing to help me in another way. Exacting revenge is my business, but you could help me with the details. Please consider doing so. You can see what has happened here. Do you not think, as I do, that it was an injustice and a travesty?”
The boy nodded slowly. “I do.” But the uncertainty had not left his eyes.
Arcannen seated himself, fixing his face with a troubled look. “We are both victims of a world in which magic is mistrusted and disdained. Here, in the Southland, under the auspices of the Federation government, it is even outlawed. Druids hunt down those who possess it in order to take it away. A movement is afoot to stamp it out completely where it is not under the control of those who judge that they, and they alone, should make use of it. Look what happened to you in Portlow. There was no effort to talk to you; you were attacked. Your magic is considered dangerous, just as mine is. We are outlaws and exiles by the very nature of who we are and what we are capable of doing. No thought is given to intent or character. We are hunted and in most cases we are exterminated. Surely, you cannot believe this is right?”
The boy shook his head slowly. “I don’t. But if I can bring my magic under control…”
“No!” Arcannen slammed his hand down on the tabletop next to him with such force that both the boy and the girl jumped. “You miss the point. We have to look beyond specific instances. We have to consider the larger picture. Bodies of men and women as powerful and ruthless as the Federation government or the Druid order will not be deterred until they are confronted and forced to stand aside. An example must be made that will convince them that it is better if they do, that any other choice will be more costly and damaging than what they are prepared to accept. So it is here. If I can show that they are helpless in the face of the magic I possess, I can demonstrate why leaving people like you and me alone is their best option.”
He paused. “Yes, I intend to avenge my friends who died at Arbrox. But by doing so, I also intend to provide the Federation with an example of what will happen if they continue to pursue magic users like ourselves. I will give them a reason to think twice before they do so again. How they treated Arbrox is just another indication of how the powerful treat the powerless; it is a clear indication of their arrogance and disregard for others. Such behavior must be punished, Reyn. Such atrocities must be brought to an end!”
His voice had risen steadily as he talked, and by now he was practically shouting. But the boy was still listening and did not seem appalled. If anything, he looked to be deep in thought, caught up in what the sorcerer was saying, weighing his words, considering his advice.
Arcannen leaned back in his chair and smiled disarmingly. “I apologize. I was carried away with my passion for my beliefs. But at least I have voiced them so that you can consider.”
He rose. “Enough for today. It is late. We will sleep here tonight. Take that time to think about what I have said. We will talk about it in the morning. Sleep where you like. Choose a room and a bed that suits you. Whatever is mine is also yours.”
And he rose, went into the nearest bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
—
In the wake of Arcannen’s departure, Reyn moved over to take the chair he had vacated. The sorcerer’s words still echoed in his mind as he looked up at Lariana, standing across from him. “What do you think?” he asked.
She fixed her green eyes on him. “Why do you ask? What matters is what you think. You are the one he is asking for help. He already has mine.”
“I was just asking your opinion.”
“Well, don’t. It isn’t helpful. I don’t have magic like you do. I can’t tell you what to do. You have to make up your own mind.”
He compressed his lips in a gesture of frustration. “I cannot use this wishsong, as he calls it, to hurt people. I’ve hurt too many already. It does something bad to me each time. It leaves me a little less whole, a little more diminished.”
“Then don’t use it.”
“Is it that easy? He says he isn’t asking me to hurt anyone. He says just the opposite, in fact. But he intends to make an example of the Red Slash. I don’t think for one minute that he doesn’t plan to kill some of them. Maybe the whole bunch. He hates them for what they did to this village. If I agree to help him, what am I risking?”
She said nothing, waiting.
He looked away. “I guess I know the answer.”
“Let’s go to bed,” she said wearily. “I’ll keep you company while you pu
zzle things through.” When he hesitated, flushing with the heat that rose from his neck to his face, she laughed aloud. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just coming in to sit with you. Maybe talk a bit more, if you want.”
She walked over and pulled him to his feet. Her smile was unsettling. “What’s the matter, Reyn? Are you frightened of me?”
Maybe, he thought.
But he went with her anyway.
FOURTEEN
Midway between dusk and midnight, Dallen Usurient departed his quarters in the Red Slash barracks on the edge of Sterne and walked north. The Shadow Quarter was the one place in the city where there were no laws enforced against people who dabbled in questionable trades as either purveyors or customers. It was the part of the city where you went to find entertainment of the sort that would not be allowed anywhere else, but for which there was a strong demand among a certain percentage of the population. If you wished to patronize a pleasure house or gambling parlor or engage in any otherwise forbidden activity, this was where you went. Whatever you desired that was normally outside the restrictions enforced in other parts of the city, you could find here.
Usurient went for the drask fights, where he knew that, on this day of the week, he would find Mallich.
He had changed out of his uniform into ordinary clothing, wrapped himself in a heavy travel cloak, and donned a slouch hat to keep his features shaded. It did not matter much that he might be recognized, but he saw no need to advertise who he was. As a member of the Federation army—and particularly of the Red Slash—he was not all that popular with those men and women who might once have served under him before going on to things even worse afterward. Nor did he think it expedient or wise to advertise his presence when what he was seeking to accomplish was every bit as illegal and reprehensible as anything those who spied him out might be engaged in.
Usurient was a practical man. He understood that sometimes you had to step outside the boundaries of sanctioned conduct and approved behavioral codes to achieve a righteous end. Sometimes you had to embrace the very thing you sought to put an end to in order to bring it close enough. So it was now. Arcannen had crossed a line by disposing of Desset in such a blatant and confrontational manner. If it had been done quietly and without any attempt to draw attention to it, if it had not been meant as an obvious challenge, he might not have given it a second thought. He had cared nothing for Desset, after all. But it was obvious that the spy’s death was a lure meant to draw him back to Arbrox and into a confrontation with the sorcerer.