The Darkling Child

by Terry Brooks

  When he reached the Ard Rhys’s quarters, Isaturin was waiting in the doorway. “I got tired of reading documents and decided to give my eyes a rest,” he offered, leading the way back inside. “I needed to look at something besides symbols on paper. Are you well?”

  Paxon nodded. “As well as ever. Is there any news?”

  They sat on opposite sides of Isaturin’s desk—the one that had belonged earlier to Aphenglow Elessedil and which, to Paxon’s way of thinking, always would. But he forced himself to shove the image of her still sitting at it out of his mind.

  “A rumor has reached us of Arcannen’s whereabouts,” Isaturin said. “He was spotted somewhere near the ruins of Arbrox, a coastal town that was a haven for pirates and their families until it was completely destroyed by Federation forces about six weeks ago.”

  Paxon was confused. “What would he be doing there?”

  Isaturin shrugged. “With Arcannen, you can never be sure about anything. Even the rumor is suspect. There is no clear reason for it. Arbrox is miles up the coast from the nearest inhabited village. All that remains are its ruins. How is it that not only has the sorcerer decided to inhabit these ruins but also foolishly allowed himself to be seen? Word got back to the Federation, so they are sending a contingent of soldiers to find out if it’s true. But the Prime Minister wants us to look into this, as well.”

  “That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would he want us involved if the Federation army already is?”

  “I’m not sure. But the Prime Minister was fond of Aphenglow. They were friends, so I don’t want to dismiss his request out of hand. He works hard to maintain a delicate balance with the various ministerial offices within the Coalition Council, and even with Aphenglow gone he has managed to maintain a close relationship with the Druids.”

  Isaturin pursed his lips. “I think he is curious about the Federation army’s reasons for undertaking this investigation. There were rumors of a massacre when the Red Slash went into Arbrox six weeks ago. In any case, I have decided to respond to his request. You are to go to Arishaig to speak with him directly and determine the real reason for our involvement.”

  Paxon was caught by surprise. “You’re sending me?”

  “He asked for you specifically. He has something he wants to say to you. It seems he believes your previous encounters with Arcannen might prove valuable. If what he tells you persuades you to go on to Arbrox for a closer look, then I want you to do so.”

  Paxon shook his head. “I hope he’s not putting too much faith in what I know about Arcannen.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be alone in deciding what needs doing. Avelene will be going, too. I want you to act as her escort and protector.”

  “Avelene?” The Highlander hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Is she…well enough?”

  “If you are asking me if she is physically well enough, I am assured by our healers that she is. If you mean emotionally, we’ll have to wait and find out. Are you worried?”

  “For her I am, yes. She underwent a great deal of trauma. I don’t know if she can handle any more just yet.”

  “I don’t, either, so I want you to find out. If she is to serve in the field—as I think she should—we have to test her at some point. This seems as good a time as any. But she will be in command, Paxon. As a member of the Druid order, she will lead.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way.” Paxon hesitated again. “Do you mind if I speak to her about this before we leave?”

  Isaturin rose, and Paxon stood with him. “Speak to her all you like. But you should know before you do that I didn’t ask her if she wanted to go. She asked me if she could.”

  The men stared at each other until Isaturin gave Paxon an amused smile. “You never know, do you?”

  Then he gestured him out the door.

  —

  Arcannen took his young charges from his living quarters, down the hallway, and out into the open air. He led them past the debris and the remains of the dead to a section of the fallen village that featured neither. There, in a mostly sheltered courtyard, away from the sudden spats of rain, standing beneath a sky of perpetual gloom and clouds, he faced them.

  “When you respond to threats like the ones you faced from the Fortrens, do you consciously think about what you are going to do?” he asked Reyn, standing close enough to be heard about the howl of the wind. “Or do you just react spontaneously without thinking at all?”

  The boy shook his head. “I just act. If I get pushed too far, everything just breaks free.”

  “When this happens, you are enraged and maybe afraid, too, aren’t you?”

  Reyn nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Lariana. The wind was whipping strands of hair about her alabaster skin, giving her face a veiled look. She smiled encouragingly and nodded an unspoken understanding.

  “What are you asking me to do?” he demanded of Arcannen, suddenly frightened.

  “What you need to do! To learn to think before you act. To not be so easily pushed into reacting in ways you don’t want to. Don’t you understand what is happening? Don’t you see what is being done to you?”

  He seemed angry now, almost threatening. Reyn took a step back in spite of himself. But Arcannen seemed to realize he had overstepped himself and held up his hands in a placating gesture.

  “I’m just trying to make myself clear. I want to help you. If you take time now to learn how to master your magic—when it doesn’t matter and there is no danger—you will be able to exercise more control when you need it. That’s the task I’ve set you. Practice using your magic in specific ways. Think it through first. Here.”

  He came over to Reyn, turned him toward what remained of one wall, and bent close, standing behind the boy, his mouth at Reyn’s ear. “To control magic, you have to imagine what it is you want it to do. You have to visualize it happening. You have to form the image in your mind and do so in a clear, concise way. Don’t think about anything else. Don’t let your mind wander. Keep the image at the forefront of your thoughts. Then sing it to life.”

  Reyn hesitated. “Is that how you do it?”

  “I don’t have your kind of magic. Only you do. Now do as I say!”

  “Then how do you know…?”

  “Just do what I say!” The sorcerer cut him short, impatient and irritated all over again. “All magic works on the same principles. You either layer on its use or you wield it like a hammer. You want the first; the second is what got you into trouble in the first place. Try it. Visualize, then sing to make it real.”

  Reyn started and stopped. He tried again, stopped. “I don’t know what I should try to make real.”

  Arcannen’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “Picture one of the Fortrens. They caused you enough trouble; think about one of them. Imagine him coming at you, wanting to hurt you. See his face in your mind!”

  The boy reacted, barely hesitating this time. His memory of Borry and Yancel Fortren was so strong that their faces came to mind instantly. He didn’t try to choose one, but fixed on images of both—seeing them just as he had that last night he had faced them in Portlow behind the Boar’s Head Tavern. The images formed, and then he began to hum softly to bring them to life. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but his instincts took command of his voice. Slowly, the images began to gain substance and color and finally a real presence.

  And suddenly, just like that, they were there, Borry and Yancel Fortren, standing in front of him, advancing with their familiar looks of cruelty and disdain, weapons held ready for use.

  In the next instant the image was gone, shattered as if by a hammer taken to glass. Reyn gasped and staggered back into the immediate support offered by Arcannen’s strong arms. “What happened?” the boy demanded. “I had it and then it went away!”

  “You lost control,” the sorcerer answered, straightening him up. “You lost focus. It only takes a second. This is new to you. It won’t happen all at once. You need to spend time working
on it. You have to practice using it. I want you to begin this afternoon, right now. Work with Lariana. Remember, she can see what you visualize into being. She can tell you what you are doing. She can suggest things to you. Try as much of this as you can. Work hard at it. It’s important.”

  “Won’t you be here to help?” the boy asked at once.

  “Later. After you’ve experimented on your own. I have something else I need to do first. We’re in some danger here. I need to change that. I won’t be long.”

  —

  Arcannen moved away, heading out into the wilderness surrounding the village ruins, satisfied that the boy and Lariana would do fine without him. He would be more comfortable with her, more willing to try things. She would exert no pressure on him; she would suggest and encourage. He had already spoken to her at length about what would be needed for the boy to be won over. He had explained how the magic worked and what was needed for the boy to develop it sufficiently to help him with his plans.

  He walked several hundred yards away from the ruins, looking out over the barren rugged terrain surrounding him, wondering how long he had to prepare. Not long, he thought. Usurient wouldn’t waste time. Whoever he was sending was likely already on their way. He could only hope, against all odds, that the Commander of the Red Slash had decided to come himself, wanting to make sure.

  But it didn’t matter. At the end of this business, Arbrox and her people would be avenged, and he would have made it clear to the Federation and the Druids and everyone else that he and those like him were to be left alone. He would make them so afraid of him, so unwilling to come near him, that by the time he had found a way to subvert the Druid order it would be too late for any of them to do much about it, and he would have gained control of all the magic that mattered.

  Most especially the magic wielded by that boy.

  Turning back to the task at hand, he began the slow, tedious process of laying down the wards that would alert him to the presence of the men who were coming for him.

  SEVENTEEN

  Standing at the bow of the Druid clipper, Paxon glanced around doubtfully. Clouds layered the skies north to south, east to west, the whole world blanketed for as far as the eye could see. There was a dreary, sullen cast to the day that presaged rain by nightfall. If there was a sun above those clouds, it was keeping its presence hidden, the absence of any source of light a clear indication that any appearance it made would be momentary. The air was awash in grayness at a thousand feet, and with clouds above and trailers of mist below and the light muted and diffuse, the landscape was leached of color.

  It was depressing really, but Paxon tried not to feel that way. Instead, he told himself that today marked the beginning of a journey that would at last lead him to the ever-elusive Arcannen and perhaps to a confrontation that would at last put an end to that chapter of his life.

  He almost glanced over his shoulder to where Avelene sat writing in front of the pilot box, but in the end managed to refrain from doing so. It would be nice if he could find in her face what he was feeling, but he knew that was asking too much. Yesterday she had come to him to tell him how much she was looking forward to another trip with him, but within moments her demeanor had changed and she had departed abruptly with no explanation. This morning she had boarded with a closed-off attitude that suggested she was in no mood to discuss much of anything, and he had left it that way. He was himself conflicted about her presence. In spite of Isaturin’s reassurances, he was not persuaded that she was as ready for another encounter with Arcannen as he was. There was a reticence to her, a tightening down, that suggested she was still haunted by memories of how Arcannen had locked her in that black cylinder and left her to die. Her behavior suggested that the trauma she had endured—presumably banished with her release—might return, given provocation. This worried him. He needed her to be strong and steady if they were to deal successfully with Arcannen. The sorcerer would exploit any weakness he found in either of them. Doubts and fears could not be allowed.

  He wished she was more willing to talk so he could take her measure and decide how badly damaged she was, but she had shown no interest in conversation. Instead, she had gone straight to the spot she occupied now, opened the packet she was carrying, and begun writing. All around her, preparations for lifting off had been under way, the Druid Guard working the lines and sails, the big Trolls tightening down radian draws and light sheaths, yet she had acted as if none of it had anything to do with her.

  She had offered him a perfunctory greeting and then dismissed him with a shifting of her gaze to her work.

  It irritated him no end, and suddenly he decided enough was enough. She would speak with him whether she liked it or not.

  He walked back to where she was sitting in front of the pilot box and sat down beside her, watching the smooth movement of her quill across the paper mounted on the writing board as the shaved tip dipped into the inkwell, transported its gathered contents to the white parchment, began to form fresh words and symbols, and then repeated the process time and again.

  Finally, she looked up. “What is it?”

  “Perhaps we should talk.”

  She studied him a moment, then set aside her writing materials, capped the inkwell, and looked back at him. “What would you like to talk about, Paxon?”

  “About what we are doing. What we are going to do. How we are going to do it. Do you have a plan?”

  “Of course I have a plan. I am leader of this expedition, am I not? I am the one who will speak to the Federation Prime Minister. I am the one who will ascertain why it is he asked for us to come—for you to come, in particular.”

  “Is that what you are writing out? What you intend to say?”

  A wash of heavy mist coasted across the decking, and for a moment she disappeared into it as if a ghost. It was so unexpected that it caused Paxon’s nerves to jangle. “Avelene?”

  She reappeared as the mist cleared. “What you want to know is whether or not I can handle another meeting with Arcannen. Why don’t you just come right out and ask me instead of going to all the trouble of working up to it?”

  She sounded calm enough as she confronted him, but he could sense an undertone of anger and frustration nevertheless. “All right, I’m asking.”

  She gave him a bitter smile. “Sorry. You don’t have the right to ask. Isaturin selected me for this mission. You are my protector, not my equal. You have no standing to question me.”

  He saw that she was not going to make this easy. “Where we are both at risk if either of us fails, I have every right to make certain you are well. You suffered a horrendous experience, one that might easily have unhinged another person. I was impressed by how you handled it. I do not seek to question your selection as lead in this business. You are clearly the better choice to make a presentation to the Prime Minister. Nor do I suggest that I am your equal in standing or that I am in any way a full member of the Druid order.”

  “But still you doubt me,” she said slowly. “Among my other skills as a student and practitioner of magic is the ability to sense other people’s hidden feelings. Not always, but now and then. Yours were so strong last night when I came to see you that there was no mistaking how you felt about me. You think it possible I am unable to carry out this mission. You worry I am weak and vulnerable. If you had your way, you would not let me come. Do you deny it?”

  He stared at her. “No. Although the way you characterize my feelings is not entirely accurate. My fears are for you, not for myself. I worry that you have not had time to heal properly. I worry that if confronted by a sorcerer with the experience and power of Arcannen, you will be overmatched. I worry that I will be overmatched, for that matter. I cannot help it; it is in the nature of who I am. Would you not worry if our positions were reversed?”

  She glared at him. “I have something to prove here. To myself, but to Isaturin and to you, as well. I accept that. I don’t intend to be cowed by one experience, no matter how nasty it was. I was c
aught by surprise, but that won’t happen again. I am confident in my training and my skills. Arcannen will not overmatch me when I confront him. And I will confront him. I want it to happen as badly as you do. And don’t try to tell me that’s not how you feel. You do. It radiates off you.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  She paused. “Let’s just start over. I am sufficiently healed now. I am able to do whatever is needed. Just like you. So let’s not speak of it again.”

  He nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s not.”

  Her disposition improved then, although it did not quite reach the level of warmth. But she did relate how she intended to approach their interview with the Federation Prime Minister and what she believed he might be seeking. Given the ongoing threat from within the Southland government structure to any existing Prime Minister—not to mention most lesser Ministers of the Coalition Council, as well—they could suppose that Arcannen might have become a threat in a way that the Druids did not yet understand. Since the Druid search for the sorcerer was still active, it made sense for the Prime Minister to use the order in any way that would benefit him.

  “He was close friends with Aphenglow Elessedil during her last years as Ard Rhys, but he does not enjoy the same closeness with Isaturin who, quite frankly, distrusts him,” she said. “So he will keep to himself as much as possible of what he knows and intends. Our job will be to worm it out of him any way we can while we have the chance.”

  Paxon nodded. “I imagine you can manage that.”

  “Not just me. You, as well. You are not to sit idly by if you see a chance to push him a little. I want you to engage him in conversation, argumentative or not, when and if it feels right to do so. I trust your judgment. Don’t be afraid to exercise it. Don’t ignore opportunities that present themselves.”