by Terry Brooks
Lariana turned. “It’s not far from here. He’s hiding in the cellars of the old Federation army barracks out by the bluffs. He thought that would be the last place anyone would look for him, and there are several ways in and out of the cellars if anyone should come looking.”
“It doesn’t sound as if it’s going to be easy to trap him there,” Paxon observed.
But Lariana shook her head. “There are three ways in or out. We can lock down two of them from the outside before we go in. Then it’s up to you.”
The city lay off to the right now, their path taking them along its eastern borders toward their destination. Neither Paxon nor Avelene knew anything about the abandoned barracks, so they were watchful as they neared the low, squat buildings that appeared all at once as they topped a rise and started toward a chain-link fence. There were no lights in the windows of the buildings; the entire complex was dark and empty looking. The grounds were littered with debris and overgrown with scrub; there was no sign of life.
When they spied the gates, Paxon moved into the lead, his black sword drawn and ready. But no one appeared, no sounds or movement drew their attention, and they reached the fence gates without incident.
Even so, Paxon experienced a twinge of uneasiness. He looked down at the huge lock on the gate holding a heavy chain in place. “We’ll have to break it.”
Avelene moved him out of the way, placed her hands on the lock, squeezed firmly while whispering something the Highlander couldn’t hear, and the lock opened.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “There’s a trick to it. You have to speak softly.”
Pulling the chain free from where it bound the gates together, she pushed the right side open before stepping back. “Lead the way,” she said.
Paxon moved Lariana up beside him. “Show us the doors we need to secure.” He lifted a cautionary finger. “And careful you don’t give us away.”
She gave him a cold look and started ahead. They bypassed the main entrance and worked their way around the building to a side door with a heavy iron bar, and she locked it down. She did the same with a second door. After that, she was ready to turn back, but Paxon insisted they investigate the entire outside of the complex. In case, he said, she might have missed a way in or out.
But they found nothing else in their search and arrived back at the main entrance. “Won’t there be wards in place?” Avelene wanted to know.
Lariana shrugged. “Can’t you find out? You have magic, don’t you?”
Ignoring the taunt, Avelene spent several long minutes testing the entry. She used words and hands both, murmuring as she touched and rubbed the smooth surfaces, creating small streaks of blue light that burrowed through seams in the metal parts and disappeared inside. Her absorption in the effort was complete, and at one point her eyes were closed and she was holding herself completely still. It made Paxon wonder what was required of you even to know that creating magic was something you might be able to do.
When she was finished, she stepped back. “No wards seem to have been laid. I don’t think it’s even locked.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Paxon observed with a questioning glance at Lariana.
“The wards will be laid farther in,” she said. “Traps, too. He never does anything the obvious way. Besides, he couldn’t come and go easily if the passageways were protected by magic. And he couldn’t abide that. He wants to be able to flee quickly if he needs to, not be slowed by having to spend time taking down wards and avoiding traps.”
Paxon nodded slowly. “You seem to know him well.”
“I’ve had time to study him.” She hugged herself as if the idea of it made her uncomfortable. “I understand how he thinks.”
“Let’s just go in,” Avelene declared, yanking down on the iron handle. The door released and swung inward soundlessly. She looked at them, her lavender eyes bright. “There. That wasn’t so difficult.”
Maybe not, Paxon admitted wordlessly, but he was still uneasy. As they moved into the darkness, Avelene took the lead, using a pale white werelight balanced on the tips of her fingers to illuminate their way. The entrance led to a long, narrow corridor that branched in several directions. Without hesitating, the girl chose the one that continued straight ahead, and they followed it past numerous rooms, most with their doors closed, but a few left open to reveal dark, windowless spaces. The corridor branched again and then again. They were in a maze, and Paxon quickly realized how easily they could become lost.
Finally, they reached a large open space that spread away into the darkness. A high ceiling rose into shadow, and the walls were stripped and windowless. Furniture had been piled against the walls so that the center of the room was left bare and empty.
Lariana started ahead once more, but Paxon took hold of her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Wait a minute,” he said, his instincts suddenly on edge.
“What is it?” Avelene hissed.
The Highlander shook his head. “I don’t know. Something.”
Lariana freed her arm from his grip. He glanced at her questioningly, but she said nothing, just glared at him. “Avelene,” he said. “Can you detect anything?”
The Druid placed her werelight on his fingertips, a cool flameless glow that tingled slightly but otherwise left no impression. He held it up for her as she began making small gestures that caused the air to stir and fresh light to appear and then illuminate the dark corners of the box-like chamber. The blue streaks reappeared, weaving their way along the surface of the walls and across the ceiling. She continued her search for a few minutes more and then shook her head.
“There is something, but I can’t tell what it is. Or even where it is. Complex magic of an unfamiliar form—very sophisticated. But it doesn’t seem threatening. I don’t detect any edges or teeth to it.”
Lariana stepped forward. “We’re wasting time. If he’s here, he’ll be just ahead.” She pointed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She started across the room before either Paxon or Avelene could prevent it, her determined stride carrying her quickly beyond their reach. When she was perhaps fifteen feet ahead, still illuminated by the glow of the werelight, she turned.
“You should have listened to me,” she called over her shoulder. “Now you have to trust me, like it or not.”
Then abruptly the floor opened up beneath her, and she disappeared.
—
In a building deep in the heart of the city, Arcannen sat hunched over a small table, writing on a piece of paper. A smokeless lamp burned away the shadows that threatened to close in on him, the edges of its light reaching to where Reyn Frosch sat watching from across the room.
They had arrived in Sterne earlier that evening, and Arcannen had brought him straight here. But then the sorcerer had gone out again, explaining as he left that he had important preparations to make for Lariana’s arrival. On his return, several hours later, he had gone right to work on the invitation. It appeared to Reyn that they were inside a complex of living spaces, but it was hard to be certain because no one else seemed to be around. Their new quarters were spare, but adequate—a central living space, a room with two beds, and a few other pieces of furniture.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked finally.
“Extending an invitation,” the other answered. He didn’t look up. “Are you hungry?”
Already impatient and agitated over what was happening—even without knowing for certain what that was—Reyn had become increasingly unhappy as the minutes dragged by.
“I don’t need to eat,” he snapped. “I need to know what’s going on. I need to know what’s happened to Lariana. Are you going to tell me any of this?”
“Soon. Why don’t you get some sleep? This might take a while.”
“What might take a while? What are we doing?”
Arcannen looked up now. “Waiting on Lariana. Didn’t I already tell you that? Didn’t I say she would be coming to join us later? Well, later isn’t here yet. Tr
y exercising a modicum of patience. You’re tired and you’re not thinking straight. Get some sleep.”
Reyn slouched in his chair. “I’m not tired.”
“Just unhappy. A condition entirely of your own making. My regrets.” The sorcerer went back to writing. “Do what you choose. But stop complaining.”
The boy waited a few minutes, then he rose and walked over to the small pantry area and looked in the cold box. It contained cheese, bread, and a handful of dates that still looked edible, along with a container of ale. He found a plate and a glass in the cupboard. He still wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do. Carrying his meal with him, he returned to his chair, sat down again, and began to eat.
More than once he had considered trying to leave. Escape, he corrected himself, since by now he considered himself as much a prisoner as anything else. Arcannen was determined to avenge himself against Usurient and the Red Slash, and use Reyn to help him. Nothing the boy said to prevent his involvement seemed to help. The sorcerer’s plan, whatever it was, remained a mystery—and his own role equally so. Even Lariana’s purpose was shrouded in hints and suggestions of deceit and trickery. He could not shake his suspicion that she was leading him on. He could not help thinking her commitment was not to him, no matter what she said; it was to Arcannen. He even wondered if they were lovers, and that possibility cut at him with a knife’s edge. The idea of it was unimaginable, but it nagged at him nevertheless. Their relationship was clearly more than what either was telling him, and his relationship with both was clearly something less.
Across the room, the sorcerer had written out and thrown away three drafts of his mysterious invitation, dissatisfied with each effort. Too many words, the boy had heard him mumble earlier. Now he was at work on a fourth draft, his head bent to the task. Reyn wondered again what he was doing. It seemed to absorb him, his attention given over to it completely. Perhaps now was the time to work his way over to the door and simply slip out.
But that sort of thinking was not just foolish; it was dangerous. Lariana had warned him about going against Arcannen in even the smallest way, and while he might be questioning much of what she had told him, he was pretty sure of this.
Finally, the sorcerer finished a draft that satisfied him, and he lifted his head, leaned back in his chair, and stretched. “There. That will do. Now let’s get some sleep. We might have a few hours.”
Reyn grimaced, feeling petulant. “I’m not sleepy.”
“You weren’t hungry, either. But suit yourself. Just don’t try to leave the room.”
The sorcerer rose, walked into the bedroom, and lay down on one of the beds. Reyn watched him roll over until his back was turned and then listened as his snores began. He was asleep. This was the boy’s chance. Just get up, walk over to the door, and leave. No hesitation, no sounds.
You could do it, he told himself. You know you could.
Yet something told him he couldn’t. Arcannen wouldn’t have left anything to chance. There would be wards or warnings that any such attempt would trip. As tempting as the opportunity might be, he knew he should pass it up.
He slouched in the chair, his mind working, his doubts and fears roiling in dark waves, and wished he had never started any of this. He should have found another way, back when he was still in Portlow and there was a chance. Now he was trapped, not only by the sorcerer’s expectations and demands, but also by his attraction to Lariana. Even knowing she might not feel toward him as he had hoped, even believing it was all a game.
He was still worrying it like a dog would a bone when he fell asleep.
And found it waiting for him when a hand rested on his shoulder and shook him awake. “Reyn.”
Lariana.
He opened his eyes to find her bending over him, her smile heartbreaking, the sound of his name on her lips so welcome it brought tears to his eyes.
She started to kiss him, but then Arcannen appeared, his dark shadow sliding into the light as he came up behind her to rest his hands on her shoulders, causing all the boy’s doubts and fears to return in a rush so that he shied away from her touch.
“What word?” the sorcerer asked, eyes only for her.
“It went as expected,” she answered, glancing back at Reyn, sensing his reluctance, her expression suddenly uncertain. “They wanted me to lead them to you, so I let them think I was. I followed your instructions, disappeared when the magic allowed it, and left them to find their way out. What happens now?”
“You go out again.” He walked over to the table. Picking up the invitation he had taken such pains to compose, he brought it over, folded it twice, and gave it to her. “Take it to the Command Center at the Red Slash compound and present it. Don’t linger, don’t give them a chance to detain you. Now, go.”
And with a final look at Reyn, her expression unreadable, she was out the door and gone.
—
Dallen Usurient was sitting alone in his office, trying to make sense of what had happened earlier on the coast of the Tiderace, attempting to put all the seemingly disconnected pieces together in a recognizable form. He had thought to sleep long ago, his escape from the ruins of Arbrox and flight back to Sterne having worn down what remained of his strength. His hands had finally stopped shaking, and the images he had carried back with him of the fates of his companions—the ones that had twisted and torn at his sanity for hours—had finally subsided.
But he was hardly whole. Nothing had turned out as expected save for one thing—Arcannen was dead. He knew the sorcerer was dead. He had killed him, had shot him to pieces with a handheld flash rip when he had finally appeared out of hiding and exposed himself. But the deaths of Mallich and The Hammer were terrible nightmares that would haunt him forever, and he could assume that Bael Etris had met a similar fate—though he would not take it for granted, not for a second.
But the boy and the girl—who were they? What sort of power did the boy possess that he could turn those animals against their handlers so effortlessly? Where had he come from? And the Druids! How had they found their way to Arbrox? Had they been tracking him all along, somehow alerted to where he was going and what he intended? Or had they learned of Arcannen’s whereabouts through another source? Had they seen and recognized him before he had managed to get clear of them?
He stood up and paced the room for a few moments, trying to still the thoughts that roiled through his brain, sharp daggers that pricked and cut at his confidence. What did he do now? He had to deal with matters as they were, and he wasn’t at all sure how to do that.
But Arcannen—Arcannen was dead. He clung to that as he would a lifeline, drawing on what comfort it offered him. The worst was past with the sorcerer dead. Whatever else threatened, that much at least was behind him.
He sat down again at his worktable and began considering choices for how he would handle his affairs from now on. Deny all involvement in whatever was discovered at Arbrox. After all, those who knew the truth were dead. Arrange to have the bodies discovered and file a report with the Federation Army High Command that did not implicate him. Track down Bael Etris, if he was still alive, and quietly put an end to him. Pretend that he knew nothing…
A knock sounded at his door. He jumped, instantly enraged. “What is it?” he screamed.
His aide entered, his face terrified, holding a folded sheet of paper. “A street boy just delivered this. I was told you would want to see it right away. Said it was a matter of life and death.”
Usurient rose. “Give it to me.” He snatched the paper away and motioned his aide out of the room. When the man was gone and his door closed again, he opened the paper slowly and read:
ARBROX IS HERE
Sunrise Horn of Honor
That was all. But that was enough. Usurient read it again and again, trying to make it mean something other than what it clearly did. No amount of twisting or turning of its words could change the essential truth of it.
Arcannen was alive.
And Arcannen was su
mmoning him.
He looked down and found that his hands were shaking once more.
TWENTY-FOUR
Reyn Frosch was still struggling with the mix of emotions generated by Lariana’s abrupt reappearance and even more abrupt departure; everything had happened so quickly, there was no time to sort it out. Then Arcannen said, “How would you like to have the answers to all those questions you’ve been asking?”
It caught the boy by surprise; he hadn’t expected any answers at all until the girl returned and wouldn’t have been surprised if Arcannen had continued to put it off even then.
But Arcannen led him over to the table on which he had composed his mysterious invitation and sat him down. Taking a seat across from him, the sorcerer leaned forward. “We are done with games, boy. We are done with practice. What happens next is a real test of your abilities. Can you stretch your magic in a way you haven’t tried and master it in the process? We’re going to find out tonight.”
Reyn felt his throat tighten. Tonight? “What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”
The sorcerer cocked his head slightly. “You’ve done well enough with images, but your magic has so much more potential. Let me tell you a little about its history. Once you understand what is possible, you might be better able to accept what I intend for you to do.”
He leaned back again, his gaze drifting off into the shadows of the room. “Lariana’s worked so hard with you. Tell me. Do you like her? It appears that you do. A great deal, in fact. Isn’t that so, Reyn?”
“I like her a lot,” the boy answered. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Surely Arcannen knew as much. “But you already know that, don’t you.”
He made it a statement of fact rather than a question. Arcannen laughed. “I do. And I’m happy for you. But let’s leave that subject for later discussion. The wishsong, then. The wishsong appeared centuries ago, an aberration created by Wil Ohmsford’s wrongful use of the Elfstones. It first manifested itself in his children. We’ve discussed this. What matters is that the sister, Brin, could make use of his gift in almost any way she chose. With it, she could change the world around her, altering the look and feel and behavior of other living things. She could literally bring a seedling to bloom or cause that very same bloom to wither.”