by Terry Brooks
He nodded wordlessly. A tall, lean man slipping toward paunchy, he scratched his thinning head of hair. “Is something wrong?”
She shuffled over to stand before his workbench. Her hunched form was so much smaller than his own sturdy presence, but her aura of dark possibility overshadowed their physical disparity. He knew what she was capable of. Even if he had been layered in armor and armed with deadly weapons, he would have felt small and vulnerable in her presence.
Their arrangement of twenty years before had been straightforward. She wished to have a spy in the Elven camp, and he wished to have credits enough to live better than he could on a leatherworker’s wages. He was never asked to do anything dangerous. He simply spied on the Elven hierarchy to acquire useful information, then passed it on to her. His value lay in his ability to get inside the walls of the palace and courts, and he was able to do this because he was the boot maker of choice for almost all the members of the royal family and the Elven High Council. His work was exceptional; he could measure, fit, and craft boots like no other cobbler. So his access to the palace and government buildings was pretty much unrestricted. He was, in his own words, as familiar as the furniture.
More to the point, no one thought anything about talking in front of him, and seldom gave consideration to what he might overhear. This was not a dictatorship, and the Elves were not a paranoid people. They lived their lives openly and without restrictions on speech, thought, or actions beyond what their personal moral codes required of them.
So it was easy enough then for Aquina to provide Clizia Porse with the things she asked of him. And for the most part, with no regrets.
But now he was no longer in need of the credits she gave him, no longer struggling with his life. He was successful and he was happy—if you discounted what had become for him an odious arrangement with a demon witch.
“I have something I wish of you,” she said to him now. “Something I want you to do. It won’t be difficult. You won’t even have to leave your shop. And afterward, I will release you from any further obligation to me.”
The leathermaker stared in disbelief. He had never expected this, not in his wildest dreams.
He gave her a low, sweeping bow of gratitude. “Thank you, my lady. I have been honored to serve you. You have always been most gracious to me. Tell me what it is I can do.”
“I want you to draw me a map of the royal quarters.”
“A map?” He was confused.
“A floor plan—a complete one—of all sections, floors, and rooms within the palace. And I want them labeled, so that I can know exactly the designated use for each space. Am I being clear enough?”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “If you could give me just a day or so, I think I can…”
“I can give you until tonight, at closing. That’s three hours, and plenty of time to do as I have asked. You know the palace; you visit there frequently. Close the shop. Devote the remainder of your day to the task I have set you. When I return, I expect you to be finished.” She paused. “You will be finished, Aquina, won’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course, but I…I just have…” He caught himself before he could equivocate any further. “I will have it ready.”
“Good,” she said, and she turned away from him and went out the door.
Crais Aquina closed his shop and spent the remainder of his afternoon drawing up the floor plans she had asked for. He meticulously detailed each room and hallway, indicating doors and windows, careful not to overlook spaces that were dedicated to storage and service equipment, mindful of the sizes and shapes of each, trying his level best not to miss anything. All the while he replayed in his mind her declaration that, after today, she would ask nothing more of him and he would be free. This bright promise helped speed him through his task and focus on its completion, so that by the time she opened the shop door once again—just at closing time, as she had promised—he was ready.
She entered and locked the door behind her. “Finished?”
“All complete, just as you asked,” he assured her.
He handed over the drawings, watching impatiently as she perused each. She took her time, studying them carefully. A couple of times she asked him questions, sometimes demanding a more complete explanation, confirming dimensions, and making sure all the windows and doors were accurately indicated.
Finally she nodded, rolled up the sheets into a cylinder, and slipped them into her robes.
“Well done, Crais Aquina,” she said. “You have served me long and well, and for that I will always be grateful. But a bargain is a bargain. It is time for us to part ways.”
She held out her hand for him to kiss. But as he bent forward to do so, she placed her fingers against the side of his face and scratched him. He felt a sudden pain ratchet through him and stumbled back in shock. He brought his own hand up to feel the damage, but it was negligible; there was barely any blood. Yet the pain blossomed quickly and became almost excruciating.
“Why did you…do that?” he gasped.
He was having trouble forming words, and he felt the entire side of his face go numb. He took a step forward, but his legs gave out and he fell to his knees.
Clizia Porse bent close. “Just relax and let it happen,” she whispered. “You have barely a minute before it is over. I promised I would release you from your service, and I have done so. But I can’t leave you alive to reveal what you know of our acquaintance.”
Aquina was gasping, finding it increasingly hard to breathe. He tried to object, to question, to demand—but no words would come. She was already turning away from him, moving toward the door. When she reached it, she looked back one final time.
“It will seem that you died of a heart attack—which is not too far from the truth. But take heart. Your family will do quite well without you, thanks to our business arrangement. Goodbye, Aquina. You do have my thanks.”
Then she was through the door and gone, and Crais Aquina was left lying on the floor of his shop, breathing his last.
* * *
—
Once she was outside and moving away, Clizia Porse gave no further thought to Aquina. For her, his death was simply a necessity—and a perfectly acceptable one. Men like Aquina were venal and corrupt by nature, or they wouldn’t sell out their country and their people for credits and the expectation of favors. That he had thought she was really going to release him from her control demonstrated the depth of his ignorance.
She walked through the city toward the palace grounds, found a bench in a shady park about five hundred yards away in a place where she wouldn’t be seen by anyone who didn’t approach her directly, and settled down to wait. She had debated eating before deciding she would be better off completing the coming night’s work on an empty stomach. But she needed it to be darker outside first, so there was nothing for it but to wait in a place where she was unlikely to be noticed.
She dozed for a time, waking at one point to find a small boy looking at her. Studying her, really, as if she were an interesting insect. When her eyes opened and she stared back, he turned and ran. Foolish child, she thought sleepily, you never run from people. You never give them reason to think you are vulnerable. You stand up to them. You back them down. She would never have harmed him; there was no reason to do so. She didn’t waste her time on doing things that didn’t serve a purpose.
She closed her eyes again and napped anew.
When next she woke it was full dark, the sun long disappeared below the horizon, the sky clear and filled with stars and the lights of the city shining in bright bursts all around her. She sat within a collection of shadows thrown across her by the sheltering trees. She rose only long enough to walk around and loosen up her ancient joints and withered muscles so they would be ready to do what was required of them, then returned to her seat.
She waited until after midnight bef
ore deciding the time was right.
From the park, she walked to the palace and made her way along its perimeter, wrapped in her robe and ignoring the Home Guards, who in turn ignored her. She took her time, moving to the entrance at the southern end of the compound. She paused in the darkness afforded by a heavy layer of shadows and studied the surrounding area. Two members of the Home Guard were visible, but she knew there would be others patrolling the grounds and perhaps even hidden in the shadows. She considered her options, measured her chances, and made a decision.
Using her magic, she caused her corporeal form to alter so that it blended further into the darkness and effectively disappeared. It was a talent she had perfected, although she could only maintain the illusion for short periods of time. But a short time was all she would need if things went according to plan.
She moved out of the shadows and made her way across the grounds toward the palace. She kept to a slow but steady pace so as not to disrupt the magic cloaking her, holding herself steady as she walked, shifting her gaze repeatedly to keep watch for patrolling Home Guards. But all she saw were the ones at the south entrance, none of whom even glanced her way. By the time she had reached the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to a reception waiting room, she was convinced she had done so undetected.
Holding the magic in place a moment longer, she unsealed the locks on the doors, eased them open, and stepped inside. No alarms sounded. None were thought necessary with the Home Guard on watch. She released the cloaking to reveal her presence—the strain of keeping it in place was beginning to wear on her—then closed and relocked the doors. She stood where she was for long minutes, listening for the sounds of an approach. There were none. She had escaped all notice.
She pulled the drawings Aquina had prepared for her from beneath her cloak and studied them carefully. She was at the right place to reach her destination, though still several rooms and who-knew-how-many guards away. It would become more difficult from here.
She smiled to herself. “Difficult” was a relative assessment. She was prepared; her plan was in place and she was confident she could carry it out.
Waiting just long enough to tuck the drawings away again, she opened the door to the hallway and peeked out. There was no sign of anyone near. She used her magic to disappear once more—although this time the strain on her was considerably more intense—and started down the hallway. She counted doors as she went, stopping when she reached a corner of the hall to have a quick look at what waited.
Three members of the Home Guard stood twenty yards and three doorways ahead—two on the right before a broad set of double doors and one opposite them at the wall. Everything was quiet, and no one else appeared to be about. Still invisible to those ahead, she rounded the corner and started toward them. The magic continued to protect her and they did not look her way. When she was within a few yards, she took out the Stiehl and held it ready.
She advanced on the pair of sentries to her right, and with two swift strokes of the Stiehl laid them out, dead before they fell. The other guard stood watching, stunned and confused by what had happened, and before he could call out or otherwise act, Clizia silenced him, as well.
Immediately she opened the door to the king’s sleeping chambers and dragged the men through. No one appeared to interrupt her, and within moments she was inside the room with the dead men, and had shut out the hallway behind her.
Deep, slow breaths calmed her as she listened. Silence. She stood in an anteroom full of couches and chairs and a desk littered with papers. Shelves of books lined two of the walls, and maps of various sections of the Four Lands were pinned to a third. The last wall, the one that held the double doors to the bedroom, was decorated with pictures of the royal family. Clizia released the magic that hid her and became visible once more. A man about to die should see the face of his killer before he expired.
The staff slept in rooms to either side, so she knew she had to act quickly and silently to avoid waking them. But this whole business would be over long before anyone even suspected what was happening.
She walked to the closed doors opposite the entry and stood listening. She could hear the heavy breathing of the king inside. This was his sleeping chamber, and she knew there might be members of his staff who slept on mats beside him in order to be at his immediate call should the need for help arise. But if such unfortunates were present, they would provide Gerrendren Elessedil with company on his journey to the netherworld.
She eased the door open and peeked inside. The king lay on his back in the middle of his huge bed, the covers pulled up to his neck, his arms tucked inside. She scanned the floor quickly. There was no one else present. The king was sleeping alone.
She did not worry about the queen. The pair had not occupied the same bed for some time, according to information passed on to her by the late Aquina. Her appearances in this part of the palace were infrequent and usually confined to daylight hours. She kept her own quarters in another part of the building, and rumor had it that she had preferred it that way for many years now.
Clizia still held the Stiehl ready as she eased over to the king’s bedside. His sleep was deep and untroubled, and he would die swiftly and peacefully enough. It was a better fate than he probably deserved, but what he deserved was irrelevant. She simply wanted him dead. And she wanted his death to bring disruption and uncertainty to the Elven monarchy, sidetracking any effort on the part of the Elves to interfere with the impending battle between the Skaar and the Federation.
Because this was how she had promised Cor d’Amphere she would help him solidify his foothold in the Four Lands. This is what she guaranteed him would keep the Elves from interfering in something that was essentially none of their business.
Well, it was half of what she had promised anyway. The other half would have to wait a few days more.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to relax her aging muscles.
Then she cut off the king’s head with a single stroke of the Stiehl.
TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS BY COINCIDENCE that Drisker was in the cold room with both Tarsha and Tavo when the scrye waters began to boil with unexpected fury, sometime well after midnight of their fifth day at Paranor.
Tarsha had the watch, and Tavo had chosen to sit with her—strangely unwilling to leave her side since that first day, almost as if he was afraid of what might happen if he did. Tarsha, to her credit, encouraged his presence and spent the time talking with him about how much she had missed and worried over him, and how much better things were going to be from now on. Tavo had limited himself to whispers and small gestures in response, most of which the Druid could not understand, but which seemed to make the young man calmer and more comfortable. Drisker knew better than to interfere with these exchanges. No one was better suited to the job of keeping Tavo from his demons than his sister, and so far she seemed to be having some success.
When the waters erupted—an almost volcanic reaction to magic of considerable strength—all three were on their feet and standing over the bowl in seconds. The scrye basin’s reaction to whatever magic had been employed was dramatic and sustained. And according to the map of the Four Lands inscribed on the inner surface of the bowl, it was occurring somewhere in the vicinity of Arborlon—which was a surprise.
“What is it?” Tarsha asked at once. “What sort of magic was used?”
He shook his head. “We can’t know that. Not yet anyway. Whatever its nature, it was sizable. That close to Arborlon would suggest it was a form of Elven magic.” He passed his hand over the place where the roiling of the waters still continued. “But it doesn’t feel like that. It registers as something darker.”
“It’s her,” Tavo said at once. “The old woman. The witch. I know it—I can feel it!”
Clizia. Drisker thought it possible. He didn’t think there was any way Tavo could know this, but then there were th
ings about the boy that were still very much a mystery. And his accusation made sense. Other than Drisker and his charges, Clizia Porse was the only person capable of wielding such power. But what was she doing in Arborlon? He felt a sudden dread. If this was indeed her doing, she had done something very bad indeed.
And at almost the same instant that he thought this, he remembered the Stiehl.
She still possessed it, after all. She had retrieved it after Tavo’s failed attack on his sister, as Drisker was subduing Tarsha’s brother. The weapon that could cut through anything, the blade capable of penetrating stone and killing whatever it was used against.
Yes, any use of the Stiehl would register such a violent reaction in the waters of the scrye bowl.
“Gather up your things,” he ordered at once. “Tavo might be right. If this really is Clizia Porse, we need to act quickly. We’re going to Arborlon to find out what’s happened.”
So they collected their meager possessions, boarded the modified Sprint, and departed the Keep. It would have helped, Drisker knew, if he could have used the scrye orb to connect to Clizia and attempt to verify where she was and what she was doing. But he believed she was too smart to allow the connection when it would be so clear what he was trying to do. All she was interested in doing now was destroying him.
They flew through that night and all the following day, the Druid unwilling to stop even to eat and sleep. Instead, he remained at the controls, taking his food and drink while flying, allowing the Kaynin siblings to grab what snatches of sleep they could find in their seats. It was considerably less comfortable than stopping, but Drisker felt certain that acting quickly was too important to allow concerns over comfort to delay them.
By then, he even felt certain he knew what had happened.
Exhaustion finally drove him to rest, so it wasn’t until midday on the third day that they reached Arborlon and set down on the public airfield. Leaving Tarsha and Tavo to keep watch over their airship and cautioning them not to leave it for any reason, he set out into the city.