The Darkling Child

by Terry Brooks

  He sighed, bending his head close to hers. “Right now, I’m struggling with it. I’m haunted by what the magic does to me. There’s more to this than what I’ve told you. I just can’t talk about it right now.”

  She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. “Then you don’t have to. You never have to with me.”

  And she kissed him again and again.

  —

  “We’re not finished here yet, are we?” Usurient asked as they navigated various fresh corridors and passed through several more steel doors, realizing suddenly they were not moving in the direction of the entry. “Is there someone else you want?”

  “One more,” Mallich acknowledged. “Then we can go.” He glanced over. “Stop worrying about who it might be. This isn’t someone you know.”

  Usurient couldn’t decide whether to feel relieved or concerned. On balance, he thought, it was better just to wait and see.

  They moved from the wing of the building in which Etris was caged to a different section, descending a stairway to the ground floor. But soon they were going down another set of stairs and then another, and Usurient realized they were moving into a cellar level, an area of the prisons to which he had never been and about which he knew nothing at all. How Mallich, who was no longer affiliated with the Red Slash and lacked the requisite standing to enter these prisons without a member of the Federation in tow, knew his way around so well was a mystery.

  Eventually, they were deep underground in a warren of tunnels and passageways with steel doors inset on both sides, all of them closed and locked. Although Usurient listened for sounds coming from behind those doors, he heard nothing.

  “Never been down here before, have you?” Mallich asked suddenly.

  “Never. What is this place?”

  “This is where they put the prisoners no one ever wants to see alive again—either because they are already dying or because someone in power in the Federation wants them dead. The prisoners down here are refuse, garbage. Nothing is ever said about them. Their names are never spoken once they’ve been sentenced.

  “But Etris isn’t here?” Usurient asked. “Why not?”

  Mallich smiled. “I thought he should be kept where he is—that I might have need of him again someday. A bribe to the right person can buy you anything.”

  They walked on, the echo of their footfalls in the corridor the only sound that broke the silence. Smokeless lamps lit their way.

  “How many are down here?” Usurient was unable to keep himself from asking.

  “Not many. Most of these cells are empty. Men don’t last long down here.”

  “Are there women?”

  “Now and then. You don’t want to know.”

  What he was hearing about the prisons was unsettling, but what he was seeing in Mallich was even worse. Until now, he had thought him a hunter and a trainer of fighting animals. But he was clearly something more. There was a side to him revealed by this visit that was beyond disturbing, and Usurient was catching glimpses of darkness in the man that he didn’t want to get too close to. Again, he wondered if he had made the right choice in deciding to send him after Arcannen—not because he thought he was incapable of succeeding, but because there was clearly more to the man than he had realized and not knowing the men with whom you surrounded yourself was dangerous.

  “You’ve chosen to take someone out of these cells?” he asked finally. “Why would you do that?”

  Mallich shook his head. “We aren’t taking any of these men out. These men aren’t all that useful. Not like Etris. It’s their keeper I’m interested in.”

  Usurient frowned. Their keeper?

  They reached a bend in the corridor and found themselves standing before a desk tucked into an alcove in the wall. A solitary individual sat behind the desk, bent over pieces of metal rod that he was twisting together to build something. He was using his bare hands. He made it look easy. As it should have been, given his unusual size. He was easily seven feet and three hundred pounds, but none of it looked as if it had been acquired by accident or neglect.

  The man remained hunched over the rods as they stopped before him and didn’t bother to look up. “What?” he rumbled.

  “I need you to come with me,” Mallich answered.

  Piggish eyes shifted momentarily. “Mallich? Where this time?”

  “The Tiderace. Somewhere around what used to be Arbrox.”

  The big man lifted out of his hunched position and regarded him. “Who is this?” He pointed at Usurient.

  “The man who is going to pay you a lot of money for your services. Will you come with me?”

  The other man shrugged. “Why not? I have time coming. I need to get away. Just you and me?”

  “And Bael Etris.”

  A smile now. “Must be blood involved if he’s going. Whose blood?”

  “Arcannen.”

  “The sorcerer. Well, now.” He rose, towering over both Mallich and Usurient. “That’s blood that won’t be shed easily. Arcannen has more lives than a dozen cats.” He paused. “I don’t trust Etris, even if you think you can.”

  “I don’t trust him, either,” Mallich said. “But he can be useful even so.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I’ll pick you up here tomorrow at sunrise. Upstairs.”

  The other shifted his gaze to Usurient, then back to Mallich. “I’ll be there. The money had better be good.”

  This last was spoken sideways to Usurient, who nodded almost without thinking about it.

  Then he and Mallich were retracing their steps down the hallway toward the cellar stairs. Usurient realized suddenly that he had been holding his breath back there, unsure of what might happen.

  “Who is that?” he asked finally.

  “Don’t know his real name. Everyone calls him The Hammer. He rules the basement level of the prisons and those given over to his tender care. He decides who lives and who dies. How he does this is anyone’s guess. No one asks that question. Look at him; you can see his value.”

  “You’ve used him before? But not asked me?”

  Mallich glanced over. “Not everything I do concerns you and your Red Slash. Some things I do are for other people and different reasons. The Hammer has been useful in a few of those.”

  He stopped suddenly when they reached the basement stairs and turned to face Usurient. “Don’t question me further on this or I will let you find someone else to handle it. You’ve done your part, all but the payment. I make the decisions on how we get to Arcannen and how we dispose of him. You stay out of it.”

  He turned away and started up the stairs with a dismissive gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, inwardly seething at the other’s treatment of him, Dallen Usurient followed.

  SIXTEEN

  It was just after midday when Arcannen piloted his Sprint over the last of the coastal landscape separating him from the ruins of Arbrox and made a cautious landing in the sheltered area he had chosen earlier for his craft’s concealment. On the coast, vessels were in constant danger from high winds and sudden storms, but he faced an equally daunting prospect from the risk of discovery. If anyone found his vessel and commandeered it, he would be trapped in his lair. Escape without a flying vessel was out of the question. Between the miles of barren terrain surrounding his hiding place on three sides and the churning maelstrom of the ocean on the fourth, the only way a man could flee with any hope of success was through the air.

  So hiding his Sprint was a necessary effort each time he returned. His current choice was a deep depression in the rocks inland from the coast proper about a mile from Arbrox, tucked back in a mass of boulders and broken rock that no one could successfully navigate on foot without knowing how to do so beforehand. Using rock walls and cliff overhangs, he was able to place his airship almost completely out of sight. Finding it on foot would require an extraordinary stroke of luck. A careful air search in the right weather and with sufficient sunlight might reveal it, but the persistent marine
layer and frequent rains reduced the chances of that happening considerably.

  Besides, he lived in the ruins of a village to which no one came.

  Or hadn’t before now. But come they would, and very soon. He had made sure of that—all part of his plan to provide Dallen Usurient with an irresistible opportunity to bring the Red Slash back to the coast to find him. Not that he expected Usurient himself would do so. No, Usurient would take a different approach, one less obvious to those watching for it. He would send someone other than himself, reluctant to make a return trip if it wasn’t necessary, believing that hunting down and killing off Arcannen could be achieved without his personal involvement. He would send men skilled at the sort of undertaking with which he would task them, their orders clear and their destination determined through the rumors and reports with which he had provided them.

  And they would journey to their doom.

  But that was all part of the game, and Arcannen loved nothing better than contests of wit and machinations and, ultimately, surprises.

  He covered the Sprint with a canvas that was the exact same mottled gray and brown as the rocks within which it nestled and began the walk back to the remains of the village. All about him, the damp and the gray bore down in a heavy shroud. The wind whipped about him fiercely, constantly changing direction and force, a wild thing that nothing could contain. Ahead, the crashing of waves against the rocks was a steady booming that drowned out the rest of the world’s sounds.

  By now, he was thinking, Usurient would have begun the process of choosing the men he would send and providing the equipment and supplies they would need. By now an expedition would have been mounted, and if it had not already been dispatched it soon would be.

  He must prepare for them. He must anticipate their arrival and their intentions in ways that would allow him to dispose of them quickly.

  The seeds were planted, he assured himself. He had planted them himself. It would be interesting to discover what sort of crop they would yield.

  Arcannen was, at heart, a fatalist. He believed that most of what happened was predestined and that his own involvement was preordained. Life offered opportunities, and you made the choices that were demanded of you. To some extent, you influenced the results of what happened—but never completely and not always in the ways you anticipated. You had to accept that much of life was chance and luck, and so you rode that sea of the unexpected and unanticipated from the moment you were born until the moment you died. Sometimes the ride was smooth and easy, but often it was rough. The intangibles always dictated the outcome in ways you could not entirely predict or alter.

  So it was that his plans for Usurient and the Red Slash were fluid. He would arrive where he needed to be, but the journey would not go entirely according to his wishes.

  He wondered suddenly how things were proceeding with the boy and Lariana. She was clever, that one. She had already won the boy’s heart; he was so in love—even if he did not realize it—that his choices hereafter would begin and end with her. She was every bit as clever and manipulative as Arcannen had believed she would be. He was pleased enough with how she had handled herself that he decided he would give her instruction in the use of magic and perhaps even agree to take her on as his apprentice. He would have given that honor to Leofur had she not spurned him, but that was all water under the bridge now. And Lariana might prove the better choice in any case.

  As he closed on the ruins, he saw nothing of the happy couple. Nestled inside, he imagined, perhaps sharing secrets in ways that he had given up on long ago. Young love—such a tender, wonderful thing. Such an attractive nuisance. It stole away your reason; it ensnared your common sense in euphoric dreams. Useful here, however. In the end, it would net him what he needed to fulfill his plans for revenge against his enemies.

  When he reached the sealed door and released the locks, there was still no sign of them. Down the hallway and into his quarters he proceeded, listening for the sound of their voices. When he heard them, he slowed automatically to listen. But their words were low and indistinct.

  On entering his quarters, he found them sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea and smiling at each other. Good enough, he thought. “Well met, young friends,” he said cheerfully. “Reyn, are you rested and fed?”

  The boy nodded, sharing a look with the girl. Oh, rested and fed, indeed, the sorcerer thought.

  “Is your business concluded?” Lariana asked. “Did things go well?”

  He moved over to stand next to them. “Unfortunately, not all went as well as I had expected. Word has gotten out that I am living in these ruins or somewhere close by. I had hoped that a tighter lock might be kept on loose lips, but it hasn’t worked out that way. I expect I am compromised.”

  Lariana gave him a direct look. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means that Usurient and the Red Slash will soon know—if they don’t already—where I am.”

  “They will come here?” the boy demanded.

  “Not right away. And not Usurient. He will send someone else.”

  “He will send assassins,” Lariana said.

  He was pleased at how quickly she caught on. “I imagine so. He will choose a handful of killers to hunt me down, keeping at a distance so that no blame will attach to him. If that fails, then he will come himself.”

  “Maybe we should leave,” Reyn suggested. “There are other places we could hide.”

  “And other places we could be found. No, Reyn. Running away isn’t the answer. The hunting won’t stop unless we make it stop.” He was purposeful in using we rather than I. “We will make our stand here.”

  The boy exchanged a look with Lariana. “How do we do that?”

  Arcannen smiled reassuringly. “Well, in the first place, I’m not going to ask you to use the wishsong to help protect us. Not in a way that requires you to hurt anyone, at least. So you needn’t worry about that. Mostly, you need to keep your eyes open for the men Usurient will send. When they come, I will deal with them myself.”

  “But if we are threatened,” Lariana interrupted quickly, turning now to the boy, “we may have to defend ourselves. So there is no guarantee you won’t have to use your magic that way. Does that frighten you?”

  Arcannen could hear the challenge in her voice. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. This was what made her so valuable to him. She anticipated everything so well.

  “I will do what I have to,” the boy said at once. “But I would not like it if I had to hurt anyone.”

  Lariana nodded. “I would not like that, either. But it seems we are fated to be hunted by these people.” She turned to Arcannen. “These are the same people who massacred the population of Arbrox, aren’t they? They will treat us the same way.”

  Arcannen nodded. “And there are others we need to fear, as well. The Druids hate us, too. They fear my use of magic will somehow compromise them. They wish to stop me completely from using it. Understand. Not only do we need to protect ourselves now, but we also need to find a way to prevent this harassment—this persecution—from continuing. We need to persuade all of these people to leave us alone. Because once they find out the truth about you, Reyn, they will come after you, too. Just as they did in Portlow. You can’t allow that to continue.”

  “I know.” The boy nodded slowly. He had already begun to come around to the mind-set Arcannen wished him to assume. “But how do we do that?”

  “Can you tell us?” Lariana asked quickly, anticipating once again what was needed.

  Arcannen stepped away from the table. “I can do better than that. I can show you. Come with me.”

  —

  Paxon Leah was exercising alone in the training yard, working his way through a series of complex defensive maneuvers, when Keratrix found him. He was stripped to the waist, sweating in the hot sun, enjoying the strain on his body as he whipped the Sword of Leah from left counter to right thrust, blocking and counterattacking, twisting and turning his shoulders and arms
in a mock battle against an invisible enemy. Most of the moves he was employing had been taught to him by Oost Mondara over the past five years, skills he had studied, practiced, and finally mastered in his continuing efforts to make himself more deserving of his designation as the High Druid’s Blade. He was so deeply enmeshed in his efforts that it was some time before he noticed that the scribe was standing off to one side watching him.

  When he stopped and looked over, the other shook his head and smiled ruefully. “You make it look so easy. But I know it isn’t.”

  Paxon rolled his shoulders and stretched. “It helps if you do it about a million times. Besides, I’m still learning.”

  “You don’t look like you need to learn anything more.” Keratrix paused. He brushed at his mop of dark hair. “Sorry to bother you, but the Ard Rhys would like to see you. When you’re finished here.”

  Isaturin. Paxon walked over to the battered old scabbard that had protected his sword’s blade for so many generations and sheathed the weapon carefully. “I’m finished,” he said. “Let me wash up and I’ll come up right away.”

  He went inside the building to his quarters and bathed and changed his clothing. He was wondering what Isaturin might want of him. He had not been asked to undertake anything since his return from Portlow. No further missions had been assigned, and no reports had come in on Arcannen or the boy with the wishsong. Avelene had recovered from the trauma she had suffered at the sorcerer’s hands and had gone back to her studies. Since the night she had asked Paxon to stay with her, she had barely spoken to him. He thought she might be embarrassed at what she perceived to be a display of weakness, or perhaps she simply didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He had not pressed her about any of it, leaving her alone except to exchange pleasantries when they encountered each other, letting her work her way through her feelings, not presuming anything from what had happened and how she had reacted.

  In truth, he didn’t know quite what to make of her. She had shown no interest in him before they had set out in search of the source of the magic that approximated the wishsong. Even then, her feelings had appeared mixed. And her response to him after being freed from the black cylinder appeared to have been generated mostly out of fear and desperation. He was reluctant to read anything more into it.