by Terry Brooks
Sebec shrugged. “He knows a lot of things others don’t. And he is a skilled magic user, perhaps the best at Paranor. He can do things I’ve never seen anyone else do—not even the Ard Rhys. He can disappear while you’re looking at him. He can move short distances through space, disassembling and reassembling himself in the process.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he does even half of it.”
He returned Paxon to his room then and told him he would come back for him after sunrise. “We’ll use the morning to give you a tour of the buildings and grounds. In the afternoon, you will begin your weapons training with Oost. Better get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
Paxon took him at his word and said good night. Inside his room, he stood looking out the window, taking in the torchlit stone walls and ironbound gates, the lighted windows in the buildings all around him, the parapets and battlements, the soaring towers, and the layers of shadows draped everywhere. It looked and felt so different from home that for a moment he felt a keen disappointment and a sudden homesickness for the familiar Highlands.
But the moment passed, and he went back to thinking about what would happen tomorrow. Would he be allowed to use his own sword? Or would Oost feel its inherent magic a distraction that should not be allowed? When would he be permitted to start training with magic? Were there other students like himself, others with the use of magic brought in to fill the same position? Was he in competition with anyone?
The questions swirled around him like moths drawn to a flame, and even after he had shed his clothes and climbed into bed they were still flitting about, erratic little gadflies inside his head, pressing for attention.
It was a long time before he closed his eyes, brushed the questions away, and fell asleep.
He woke at sunrise and was dressed and waiting when Sebec came for him. The young Druid looked fresh and rested in a way Paxon did not feel, and as always he was cheerful as he took the Highlander down to breakfast and then began their tour of the Keep.
As they moved from building to building and room to room, Sebec kept up a running commentary on recent Druid history.
“Everything changed after the collapse of the Forbidding and the escape of the demons into the Four Lands,” he told Paxon. “The Fourth Druid Order was almost decimated, all of them killed save Aphenglow Elessedil and a Dwarf named Seersha. When the Forbidding was restored and the escaped creatures were locked away again, those two were all that was left. The order almost collapsed. But Aphenglow chose to go back to become the Ard Rhys, even though she had doubts about doing so. Her Elven heritage made the choice difficult. At that point, the Elves neither trusted nor supported the Druids. Anyone from the Westland who joined the order became something of an outcast. That was the case with Aphenglow, even before she became the Ard Rhys and undertook the job of rebuilding the order.
“But she felt strongly about it. Her younger sister, Arlingfant, had become the new Ellcrys, and she believed her own sacrifice should be at least as meaningful. So with Seersha and a shape-shifter named Oriantha, she rebuilt the remains of the Fourth Druid Order. Afterward, she immediately began to search out new members, traveling the length and breadth of the Four Lands to find suitable candidates for training. Surprisingly, there were dozens. But she kept the number small at first, choosing only those who had a natural affinity for or actual possession of magic. She rebuilt the order slowly and with care. Then she reached out to all the governments and rulers of the Four Lands to ask for their support. Some gave it freely; others did not. Interestingly enough, it was the Dwarves and Trolls who were most supportive at first. The Elves remained reticent, even with Aphenglow as the Ard Rhys and her uncle as King of the Elven people.”
“But she must have found a way to break down that barrier,” Paxon interjected.
“Time and patience.” Sebec stopped them at an overlook and leaned on the half-wall contemplatively. “When her uncle died, a member of the Ostrian family ascended to the throne. She was less inclined than others to vilify the Druids. She was a more pragmatic and farseeing ruler, and she understood that the Elves and the Druids were natural allies. They had always shared a belief in the importance of and need for magic in the world. The Southland had already banned the use of all magic within its borders, and their position on the matter was intractable, not open to discussion. Although Arishaig had been rebuilt as the capital city, and a new Coalition Council with a new Prime Minister had been installed, the same old prejudices were embraced. Science was the path to prosperity and a better world; magic was outdated and dangerous and elitist.”
He paused. “Seersha was dead by then. She died in her sleep, the Histories say. Oriantha was acting Ard Rhys during a long period of time following Seersha’s death when Aphenglow went into the Druid Sleep. While she held that position, she did something Aphenglow had never been able to do: She managed to open lines of communication with the Federation and arrange for an exchange of ambassadors. Perhaps it was because she put a new face on the order or perhaps the Federation grew tired of its isolation. In any event, even with their differences about the need for magic still a barrier between them, they began talking to each other on a regular basis. It was the beginning of a more open relationship between the Druids and the Southland. The other lands quickly took advantage of this and joined in. Delegations visited and information was exchanged. Even the Gnome tribes participated, insofar as they could manage any kind of agreement regarding who was to represent them. It was the first time in history that this had ever happened.
“By the time the Ard Rhys awoke from her Druid Sleep, Oriantha was old and worn out, and she left the order shortly after. She was never seen again. The entire order was new, and Aphenglow found much that was different from when she had gone into the Druid Sleep. This was eight years ago. I came to her in her first year after waking, sent by a friend of one of the other Druids. She interviewed me, and I was accepted into the order. I already knew a little magic, so that helped. Two weeks later, she made me her personal assistant. She says she likes the way I think. She says I am more organized than she is, and I am younger and have greater energy. That helps to prevent her from wearing herself too far down.”
He smiled ruefully, running his fingers through the dark curls of his hair and shrugging. “She’s coming to the end of her life. I can’t imagine the world without her. I have been her assistant for seven years now, and I would gladly serve her for fifty. It has been my great privilege. She is the kindest person I have ever known.”
He was lost in reverie for a few seconds, and then he straightened abruptly and started ahead once more. “We’ll have a quick look at the study rooms and lecture halls and then go down to lunch. Afterward, you can start your training with Oost.”
EIGHT
AS HE HAD PROMISED, FOLLOWING LUNCH SEBEC DELIVERED Paxon to Oost Mondara, who was waiting for him in the courtyard of the Keep reserved specifically for weapons practice and training. The yard was dusty and sunlit, and there were no other Druids or trainees about. Oost was standing by a rack of weapons, arranging them in a manner that suggested the paternal love of a father for his children.
“From now on,” the Gnome said without turning around, “I will expect you to be here promptly at noon. This area is reserved for your training each day for three hours exactly, and I know you don’t want to waste a minute of it.”
“Good luck,” Sebec whispered to Paxon, and hurried away.
Paxon, determined to do whatever it took to prove he belonged, stepped forward and bowed. “I apologize.”
The Gnome turned slowly to face him. In the daylight, he was even more gnarled and bent. “Apologies are not necessary between a teacher and a student. Nor is bowing required. Now, let’s have a look at you.”
He made a slow circle of Paxon, saying nothing until he had completed his study of the Highlander and was facing him anew. “You have a solid build and good posture. You might not think that’s important, but how you carry yourself defines how you
will perform with a blade. Is that your sword you have strapped to your back?”
“It is,” Paxon said. “I thought—”
“Take it off.” The command was brusque, perfunctory, as if perhaps it shouldn’t have even been necessary. “You won’t be needing it today. Or for quite a while yet. Tell me of your training. Formal or informal?”
“Informal,” Paxon admitted. “But I drilled with members of the Border Legion and the Red Guard while they were on leave and visiting Leah. A few were stationed in the Highlands and offered to teach me.”
The Gnome’s face crinkled in distaste. “How wonderful for you. But your education here will take a slightly different direction. I am sure you know how to use your sword in at least a rudimentary way. I am sure you could defend yourself, if need be. I am equally sure that once you discovered your sword possessed magic, you began thinking you might never again need to worry about fighting an average sort of battle. You could just use magic if things got too rough.”
Paxon almost said no, just to be perverse. But instead, he nodded. “It crossed my mind. But obviously you don’t approve.”
“Obviously I don’t. That sort of thinking can get you killed. Magic is a wonderful thing, but it is unpredictable and treacherous. It cannot be relied upon one hundred percent of the time. And it only needs to fail you once to put an end to your life. An ordinary blade, on the other hand, is always constant. Learn to use it, and you have only the limitations of your education and skills to hold you back. My job is to provide instruction that will allow you to know going into any battle what you can expect from your weapon and yourself. If you are forced to fight, you want no hesitation. Am I making myself clear?”
“Very.” He reached back, released the buckle that held his sword and sheath in place, and removed them.
“Give them to me, please,” Oost Mondara ordered, and held out his hand.
Again, Paxon almost declined. But what he hoped was good judgment and common sense overruled his reluctance, and he gave up the weapon to the Gnome. Oost took it from him, balanced it in his hand, drew out the blade and examined it from every angle, struck a combat stance against an imaginary foe, and sheathed the blade once again.
He carried the sword over to a rack, hung it from a peg, and walked back again. “That is a very fine weapon, young Paxon. Perhaps too good a weapon for you; that remains to be seen. At the very least, you owe it to yourself to become a swordsman worthy of such a blade. You owe it to those who carried it before you to be their equal. Let that be your goal in the time we are together.”
He paused. “Now walk over to that barrel, pull out one of those wooden swords, and follow me.”
With a final reluctant look at his own weapon, Paxon did as he was told. The swords in the barrel were battered and unwieldy and appeared to have been used by thousands of hands before his. Feeling less than enthusiastic, he chose the best of the bunch and rejoined Oost, who was standing by an odd contraption a few yards away. It was a six-foot-long log embedded upright in a circular platform that rested on wheels. It was shaped to resemble a human, with poles for arms attached to the makeshift body by heavy springs and a head consisting of a helmet set upon the upright end of the pole. A wooden sword similar to the one Paxon held was tightly attached to one of the pole arms.
“Meet Big Oost,” the Gnome announced, gesturing toward the creature. “He will be your sparring partner until you can knock his helmet off with your wooden sword. He will be my surrogate in this early part of your training.” He caught the look that passed across Paxon’s face and laughed. “What, you thought you would train with me, personally? But look how small I am! What chance would I have against someone as big and strong as you? You try your luck with Big Oost first. Who knows? Maybe you will get a chance at me quicker than you think.”
Paxon didn’t know what to say. He started at the Gnome and then at the contraption. “Just hit it?”
“Wherever you can.”
Paxon eyed Big Oost warily. “This isn’t what it seems, is it?”
“Nothing much is when it comes to fighting an enemy. You are right to be wary.” The Gnome smiled crookedly. “But do something anyway. This is just a lesson.”
Paxon took a guarded stance, and Big Oost immediately mimicked him, bringing its wooden sword about in guarded fashion. Paxon hesitated and then swung a mighty blow at the other’s helmet. But Big Oost’s sword blocked it so quickly that Paxon’s sword arm shuddered from the force of the blow. The Highlander tried again, this time with a feint and a follow-up thrust. Again, he was blocked. He went into a crouch, angry now, circling the contraption, watching it follow his efforts smoothly, rolling on its wheeled base, always keeping Paxon in front of him. Three more times the Highlander tried to get past the machine’s guard and three more times he failed.
He stepped back, winded and frustrated, his arm aching. “How does it do that?”
“Magic,” Oost Mondara replied. “How does it feel to be on the receiving end? But you have to expect the worst and be ready for it every time. Take nothing for granted. Expect the unexpected. Take me, for instance. I am a weapons expert who trains others, but I also have the use of magic. I animated this pile of wood and metal and infused it with a generous portion of my own combat skills. I have no desire to wear myself out on those who can’t defeat an inanimate hunk of spare parts. You will spend the rest of the day looking for a way to break through its guard. If you fail—which I fully expect you will—tomorrow will be another day of the same. I will offer helpful hints when I can. I will suggest ways in which you can improve. But mostly, you will learn on your own. There is no better teacher than experience. Now have at it.”
So Paxon did, renewing his attack on Big Oost, slowly accepting that the machine was better at protecting itself than he was at attacking it. He tried everything he knew to break past its defenses, and nothing seemed to work. All the while, Oost Mondara stood by, watching. Now and then, he would offer suggestions on Paxon’s form and choice of stance and approach. But mostly he said nothing. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would call a halt and let Paxon have a short rest and as much water to drink as he wanted.
The three hours went by more quickly than the Highlander would have expected, and he was surprised when Oost called a halt to the day’s training. On the other hand, he was so sore and winded from his efforts he could barely stand.
“A hot bath with plenty of soaking, a good dinner with ale to wash it down, and a solid night’s sleep will help.” The Gnome retrieved the Sword of Leah and handed it to him. “You can leave that in your room tomorrow. As I said, you won’t need it for a while. What you need first is a better understanding of your shortcomings.” He gave a perfunctory wave as he walked off. “Remember. Noon sharp.”
Paxon soon discovered that three hours of attacking Big Oost had left every part of his body aching. His sword arm, in particular, hurt so badly that even lifting it was a problem. He took the bath as suggested, lying about in the water until it was cold, and then dressed and wandered down to the dinner table. He found Sebec sitting with Avelene at one end of a long table, both of them grinning.
“How’s the sword arm?” Sebec wanted to know.
“Need me to help feed you?” Avelene asked.
He laughed along with them, but even laughing hurt. “Did you have to go through this?” he asked them. “Does everyone have to train with Oost?”
“Druids don’t train with weapons unless they are warrior Druids, and we have very few of those,” Avelene said. Her lean face bent close to her food, as if she was afraid it might get away from her. “There hasn’t been a single one since I came to the order five years ago. Training is reserved mostly for those in the Druid Guard and when Oost decides it is needed for men and women like yourself who are asked to serve as protectors and paladins for the order.”
“Well, how many of those are there?” Paxon demanded.
Sebec cocked an eyebrow. “None, right now. The last was several years ago.
He didn’t complete the training. It’s rigorous, I hear.”
Then he and Avelene began laughing anew, trying to muffle it but failing miserably. “Look on the bright side, Paxon,” Avelene declared. “You’ve got no competition! You’ve got the field to yourself.”
Paxon nodded along agreeably and finished his meal quickly so he could go off to bed and suffer alone.
The following morning, Sebec took him up to the cold room and let him have a look at the scrye. Paxon was still sore, but feeling better after his night’s sleep, ready enough for the afternoon weapons practice and confident that he wouldn’t have to limp through it.
They climbed to one of the highest floors in the main building and down a long hallway past many closed doors to one that looked the same as the others, but wasn’t. Inside, a huge stone basin resting on a circular riser housed the scrye’s magic-infused waters. A single Druid sat next to the basin, keeping close watch, monitoring its responses. Or in this instance, its lack thereof, because nothing was happening.
Nodding a greeting to the other Druid, Sebec offered a brief explanation of how it all worked. The basin bottom was inscribed with an intricately drawn map of the Four Lands and surrounding bodies of water and scattered islands. If magic was used anywhere within the Four Lands, it would register within the waters—sometimes as ripples on their surface and sometimes as a boiling deeper down. Now and then, there would even be changes of color.
“This is how we first learned about your sword,” Sebec said. “When you ignited its magic in your confrontation with Arcannen, it revealed its presence in the scrye waters. We followed up from there.”
“So the response of the waters varies according to the strength of the magic expended?” Paxon asked. “The amount of turbulence is directly proportional to the nature of the magic used? And you can read the nuances?”