by Terry Brooks
“He still won’t talk to me,” Tarsha said suddenly, a deep sadness in her voice. “Not a word.”
The Blade didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. “He will. Give him time. He’s still getting used to the idea that maybe you were his friend all along and not his betrayer.”
“I can’t tell what he thinks. I can’t tell anything. He might just be waiting to try to kill me again and thinks words are a waste of time. He might be so ashamed of himself he doesn’t know how to talk to me anymore. But I don’t see how I can be of any help if we don’t communicate.”
“It’s only been one day, Tarsha,” Dar reminded her. “You can’t expect too much in one day.”
“No. But I was hoping for something.” She gave a long sigh. “It’s just been so hard knowing he’s blamed me for everything that’s happened to him. I can’t imagine what he’s gone through. Think how it must make him feel to know he killed our parents and all those people while hunting for me. And I’m worried that if he tries to use the magic again, it will destroy him. Can that collar stop him?”
Dar shrugged. “You’ll have to trust Drisker on that one. But I don’t think he would take any chances with your brother.”
“I’m going to make him talk to me tomorrow, no matter how much he tries to avoid it.”
“You’re a determined young lady. I’m certain you’ll get the job done.”
The storm was howling so loudly by now that, when they stopped talking, Dar realized they had been yelling at each other in order to be heard. The roar of the wind and slap of the wet snow on their bodies filled the void left by their silence. The temperature was dropping, and the cold was harsh against his exposed face. He was having trouble seeing. If things got worse, they would have to take shelter wherever they could find it.
If there was any to be found, he amended. Glancing about, he could only see open hillsides with scrub and clusters of sparse trees.
Then he heard a strange noise—a high whine that cut in and out abruptly. It was coming from the west, somewhere deep within the storm. When he looked, he saw flashes of light that looked almost like sparks, erratic and of differing intensity.
As he slowed to stare at the source, he knew instinctively that someone was in trouble.
He followed the light’s progress as it lurched in and out of low-hanging clouds and banks of heavy mist. Through the curtain of snow that was falling, it had the look of something not quite real.
Tarsha came up beside him, bending close to be heard. “Is that an airship?”
He nodded wordlessly. An airship, fighting to stay aloft.
But seconds later, it was falling out of the sky.
NINE
DRISKER ARC WALKED SLOWLY and cautiously into the Valley of Shale over acres of razor-sharp obsidian, placing his feet carefully as he proceeded on the loose and slippery shards. A fall on such terrain could result in serious damage; the sharp edges were easily capable of slicing through clothing and skin. All around him, the trailers of mist he had spied from the valley’s rim were moving, even in the absence of any wind. Lowering toward the valley floor while lengthening and joining, they were steadily forming a solid mass of brume that would hide the lake and eventually himself, as well, from those he had left behind.
He did not look back at his companions to measure their reaction. He had told them what they must do, and he had to take it on faith that they would obey him. He was thinking ahead to what would take place once sunrise arrived on the shores of the Hadeshorn. He knew from his readings of the Druid Histories what the past had produced, but he had no way of knowing if the past would be repeated here. There had been no reason to even think about it until now. No Druid had come for a visit with the dead since the time of Aphenglow Elessedil.
It was a sobering realization. He would be the first in all that time, and he was not sure how he should prepare himself. He remembered, from Walker Boh’s writings, that there might be no real way to prepare—that expectations were a fool’s game and only served to leave you twisting in the winds of fate. The dead came to the living when and if they chose. The dead told you what they wished to and did so in quixotic and devious ways. What you might learn was always determined by how well you read their voices. What you might learn was frequently buried beneath or within the words, and sometimes from what was not spoken at all.
Intuiting what was true and what was not was of absolute necessity. So he must listen carefully and take nothing for granted. He must look behind what he was told for hidden meanings. He must be wary of false assumptions and misinterpretations.
He must also not think of the four who remained on the rim, even though his tendency was to worry about them. Especially Tarsha and Tavo. He had done his best to provide them with a chance to put the past behind them. He had placed the inhibiting collar about Tavo’s neck to prevent him from using his magic. He had extracted Tavo’s promise to listen to his sister’s words when they talked and to remember that she had been his greatest champion and, to a large extent, was the reason he was still alive.
It was difficult to say how much of this would work out. Success would have to be measured incrementally, and it would take time for the results to reveal themselves. Tarsha would understand this. She was wise beyond her years, a young girl who took a measured approach to everything. But Tavo was much less reliable—impulsive and sometimes uncontrollable, possessed of an erratic and explosive temper. Both had the magic of the wishsong, but Tarsha knew how to manage it. It was hard to know if that would ever be true of Tavo. Any hope for change felt futile. It seemed impossible that Tavo could ever learn to tame himself sufficiently that using his magic would become a positive experience.
The Druid reached the edge of the Hadeshorn and took up a position on the near shore to wait. He was aware of the fog closing about, and on glancing back up in the direction from which he had come, he saw that the upper slopes had disappeared entirely. In point of fact, the fog was so thick by now he could barely make out the shoreline to either side, and the farther shores and the center of the lake had become invisible.
While he waited, he contemplated what he might expect from Clizia Porse as she continued to set about founding a new Druid order with herself at its center. Many possibilities suggested themselves. Paranor had returned to the Four Lands, and she might well try to get inside. She might also seek alliances with some or all of the Races in an effort to gain support for her efforts to rebuild the Druid order. She might renew her alliance with the Skaar. The trick was to outmaneuver her in the interim by finding ways to scuttle her efforts permanently.
And that meant finding a way to stay alive.
The sliver of light that lined the western rim of the valley in silver indicated dawn’s approach. Drisker straightened and faced out across the lake. It was time.
Arms stretched wide as if to gather the Hadeshorn to him, he called in the Druid language for a response from those who dwelled within. Almost instantly the waters began to heave, forming white-capped waves and churning with wild abandon. Bursts of spray caught by winds that hadn’t been there moments before were blown up, leaving his face and clothing damp. As the waters continued to roil with dissatisfaction and anger—his reading of their response to his intrusion unmistakable—voices called out from the lake’s depths. Moaning and howling by turns, they rose skyward to fill the deep silence of the valley. Their pleadings could not be understood, but Drisker moved his arms in a beckoning gesture, seeking to form a connection with one of the Druid shades so that he would have a chance of gaining answers to his questions.
Then the lake’s waters split apart, and the dead began to rise. Hundreds, then thousands of smallish white forms surged into the broad beam of a light that emanated from down within the dark—figures that resembled the faceless dead of men, women, and children from all the Races, come forth in a brief, wild burst of freedom. They flung themselves sk
yward, climbing as if to find new life. But there would be no life given to the dead from this summoning. Their momentary joy was ephemeral and misguided, and it would not survive his departure.
Even so, he could not help reveling in their exultation as he watched them dance on the air. But they were not who he sought, so he kept his gaze directed toward the mist-free center of the lake where the waters had gone oddly still. It was here that a Druid would appear. This was where Drisker must keep watch for his shade.
The cacophony of sounds made by the rising dead drowned out everything but the hissing of the spray they left in their wake and the crashing of the waves as they surged against the shores. Gone was any connection to what Drisker had known before coming down to the lake. Gone was any sense of the world beyond. He had invoked a summoning, and now he was bound to it as surely as if he had been wrapped in chains.
“Allanon!” he called, his voice booming out, rough and demanding.
But it was not Allanon who appeared.
The waters at the lake’s exact center—still as glass within the maelstrom swirling all around them as the spirits of the dead continued to fill the skies—birthed a cloaked and hooded figure much smaller in stature. Dark and unknowable from where Drisker waited, the figure stood upon the waters of the Hadeshorn and regarded its summoner from within the shadow of its robes.
Then it started toward him, and he could not deny the cold and empty feeling that settled upon him. Who was this dark wraith? Who was this frightening creature that could make him feel so threatened?
The shade moved steadily closer, giving no hint as to its identity, showing no interest in all the turmoil taking place about it, but only watching Drisker. The Druid breathed deeply. This was not what he had expected, and he already sensed that what followed was not going to go the way he had anticipated—even though he had tried not to look ahead.
A dozen feet away, still standing on the waters of the lake, the figure stopped and slowly pulled back its hood to reveal its face.
It was all Drisker could do to keep from gasping in shock.
* * *
—
Ajin d’Amphere closed her eyes against the rushing of the wind and the cursing of the pilot, and she braced herself as best she could, unable to do more than pray to the Skaar gods that some sort of miracle would save them.
It would be, for most of them, a futile hope.
The drop seemed to last forever, in no way helped by the spinning of their craft, the rush of the air in their ears as they gained speed, or the mix of thunder and lightning that had begun moments before. She curled herself into a ball, realizing she would probably not survive this. The end of her life, out in a foreign wilderness, far from home, in the company of men she barely knew and their prisoner to boot—she could hardly believe it was happening.
And then they slammed into the earth in a hammer stroke that threw her sideways into a world of pain and darkness.
She did not know how long she was unconscious. Her guess, when she woke, was that it had been no more than a few minutes. Fuzzy-headed and throbbing with pain, she took a moment to regain her senses before she looked around. The rain from earlier had turned to snow, and the first beginnings of white patches were visible from where she lay. She tried to move, and quickly stopped herself as the pain ratcheted up. Pieces of the airship lay all about her, most of it barely identifiable. The vessel had blown apart on impact, leaving the men with her scattered all over the place—some of them likewise in pieces. The darkness blanketed everything, but glimmerings of firelight from bits of the aircraft that were burning allowed her to see a little of what had happened.
They had come down on a rocky hillside, but had avoided landing on any of the larger boulders—a miracle. Even so, the front of the airship had plowed directly into a rocky outcrop, leaving it so badly crumpled that nothing recognizable remained, including the pilot and his crewman. Of the others, one was folded into himself in a position that told her at once he was dead. Then she saw a second man—or half of him—split in two by a large piece of planking from their craft, which had eviscerated him midsection.
She closed her eyes momentarily and then looked down at herself. The clothing on one side of her body was soaked with blood—her own or someone else’s, she couldn’t say—but it was enough to tell her that the injury was serious if it was hers. Her legs were numb, as well, and she decided that maybe she shouldn’t try moving them just yet. Otherwise, everything seemed to be intact, protected to some small extent perhaps by the heavy greatcoat she had chosen.
Then she noticed the length of mast stretched across the lower part of her legs, just visible in the heavy darkness, and she realized why her legs were numb. She tried moving them, but she was pinned fast against a mix of timbers and earth.
She levered herself into a sitting position and stared at the heavy mast. So she was alive, but what were her chances of staying that way if she couldn’t free herself?
Not so good, she thought. Not good at all.
Then a ragged figure staggered into view. Jor’Alt, bloodied and limping, and she felt a surge of hope. He appeared out of the blackness, saw her sitting there looking at him, and stopped. There was a moment of hesitation, then she saw his features tighten. “Princess?”
She couldn’t help a smile. “Thanks be to whatever gods there are that you’re all right! Are there any others besides you?”
He didn’t reply right away, but instead squatted down about ten feet from her. “Dead, all of them. All killed by the impact of the landing. At least, that is what I will tell them when they find me.” He hesitated again. “Princess, I am very sorry about how this is going to turn out.”
An odd way to put it. She tried to make sense of his words. Then suddenly she could and went cold with the realization that followed. “I’m not going to survive, either, am I?”
He shook his head no. “Only me. I killed Ta’Wentz a few moments ago. He was already almost dead, so you could argue that I simply put him out of his misery. That leaves only you, and you will be dead, too.”
He brought out his ballach—a Skaar weapon with a wickedly curved short blade.
She couldn’t believe it. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”
“Fate determines all our destinies, Princess; it always has. I can’t leave you alive. My family back home will die on the day you return. The queen has promised me that this will happen if I fail. I am sorry, but I must protect my family.”
She sat up straighter, moving her arms behind her back to brace herself. “You could spare my life and still find a way to save them, Jor’Alt. The queen does not give orders to anyone. My father is still king!”
“Your father is so besotted with his wife that he gives her freedom to do as she wants. You know this from what she has done to you. I was told you would be sent back. I was told to kill you. I will do what is necessary to save my family.”
He fingered his ballach’s fat blade. “If you do not struggle, I will make it quick.”
She nodded. “I will try to do the same for you, Jor’Alt.”
The throwing knife she had hidden in her clothing behind her back was already in her hand. She had been searched, of course, but there were places where a man was not likely to look so carefully. Her arm whipped out with all the force she could muster, the weight and strength of her upper body and her depth of experience with weapons behind the throw, and the entire length of the blade buried itself in Jor’Alt’s exposed throat. His windpipe severed, his spinal column crushed, he dropped to his knees, choking and gasping, as his hands went to his throat. With a supreme effort, he pulled the throwing knife free, and a fountain of blood gushed forth.
He died quickly.
She watched him collapse and savored the deep sense of relief that flooded through her. But it lasted only a moment as her rage at the pretender replaced it,
and she howled like a wolf to the darkened skies.
* * *
—
Darcon Leah and Tarsha Kaynin had started in the direction of the airship the moment it became apparent that it was going to crash. They went quickly, but not so as to endanger themselves in this night of darkness and falling snow and in this unfamiliar terrain. They were still some distance off when an explosion of earth and rocks and snow flew into the air, and the sound reverberated and momentarily eclipsed the howl of the wind. Keeping their eyes fixed on the approximate location of the crash site, they pushed on against a crosswind threatening to knock them off their feet.
It was hard going, and they didn’t speak to each other as they struggled forward. No words were needed—not yet. Dar was already wondering who had been flying the airship and if anyone inside could possibly have survived. He did not think it would be dangerous to approach; the passengers and crew of the vessel were likely in no condition, even if some were still alive, to present a threat.
And if any were alive and could be saved…
A howl split the night, raw and bloodcurdling, momentarily bringing them up short before they surged ahead once more, doubling their pace. Ahead, they could see the dark bulk of the wreck, timbers and planking smoking, and ruined shards of shattered diapson crystals still sparking. They were right on top of the airship before they saw a figure wave to them from the midst of the wreckage.
When they got close enough for their torches to cast light over the wreckage, they saw that the survivor’s legs were pinned beneath a heavy piece of mast that had broken off in the crash.
Then abruptly Dar realized who he was looking at, and he found himself completely dumbstruck.
“Darcon Leah,” Ajin d’Amphere greeted him. Then she began to laugh. “We just cannot help finding ways back to each other, can we?”