Текст книги "The Darkling Child"

Автор книги: Terry Brooks

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BY TERRY BROOKS

SHANNARA

SHANNARA

First King of Shannara

The Sword of Shannara

The Elfstones of Shannara

The Wishsong of Shannara

THE HERITAGE OF SHANNARA

The Scions of Shannara

The Druid of Shannara

The Elf Queen of Shannara

The Talismans of Shannara

THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA

Ilse Witch

Antrax

Morgawr

HIGH DRUID OF SHANNARA

Jarka Ruus

Tanequil

Straken

THE DARK LEGACY OF SHANNARA

Wards of Faerie

Bloodfire Quest

Witch Wraith

THE DEFENDERS OF SHANNARA

The High Druid’s Blade

The Darkling Child

PRE-SHANNARA

GENESIS OF SHANNARA

Armageddon’s Children

The Elves of Cintra

The Gypsy Morph

LEGENDS OF SHANNARA

Bearers of the Black Staff

The Measure of the Magic

The World of Shannara

THE MAGIC KINGDOM OF LANDOVER

Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold!

The Black Unicorn

Wizard at Large

The Tangle Box

Witches’ Brew

A Princess of Landover

THE WORD AND THE VOID

Running with the Demon

A Knight of the Word

Angel Fire East

Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life

The Darkling Child is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Terry Brooks

Map copyright © 2012 by Russ Charpentier

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

The map by Russ Charpentier was originally published in Wards of Faerie by Terry Brooks, published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, in 2012.

ISBN 978-0-345-54079-9

eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54080-5

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

www.delreybooks.com

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

First Edition

CONTENTS

Cover

By Terry Brooks

Title Page

Copyright

Map

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

About the Author

ONE

PAXON LEAH WAS SITTING ON A BENCH IN THE CORTYARD gardens of Paranor, paging through documents written more than five hundred years earlier that recorded the events in the life of the Elf King Eventine Elessedil, when Keratrix came for him. He could tell immediately from the scribe’s solemn face that something was wrong.

“She’s asking for you,” the other said without preamble. His eyes seemed tired and haunted. “She says it’s time.”

Paxon stared. On a beautiful, sunny day like this one? On a day when everything felt right, and it seemed that the world was at peace and life could go on indefinitely? How could this be?

That was what he thought as he measured the scribe’s words and let their meaning sink in. He didn’t have to ask what Keratrix meant. He knew. He had known this was coming because she had told him herself.

Aphenglow Elessedil, Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order, was dying.

He rose at once, wordless and shaken, and followed Keratrix from the gardens into the tower that housed her private chambers. The Ard Rhys kept to herself these days, weakened by age and worn down by both the demands of her office and the passage of time. She was housed on the lower floors, no longer able to handle the stairs and the climb that going to her former chambers and to the upper reaches of the main tower required. She had not been in the cold room in over a year. She had not used the scrye waters once in all that time, relying instead on her chosen successor, Isaturin, to carry out her duties. She was in stasis, waiting for the inevitable. If the truth were told, Paxon believed, she was anxious for it to arrive.

And now, apparently, it had.

“Is she sure?” he asked Keratrix as they walked. When he looked at the young Druid, he was reminded of Sebec. Not because the two were anything alike, but because five years earlier, Sebec—then scribe of the Druid Order—had been his closest friend at Paranor, and the betrayal of that friendship was a wound that still burned in his memory.

Keratrix—slight and small, scarcely a presence as he wafted ahead of Paxon like a wraith in the shadowed hallways—barely turned. “She insists she is quite sure. I asked this, as well.”

Of course he would. Keratrix was efficient and thorough; he would not leave something like this undone.

“I can’t believe it,” Paxon whispered, almost to himself, though he knew Keratrix must have heard.

And he could not. Five years he had spent as the personal paladin of the Ard Rhys, as the High Druid’s Blade. She had brought him to Paranor at a time when he was drifting. She had offered him the position in large part because of his heritage as a bearer of the magical Sword of Leah. She had given him over to training and had kept watch from a distance as he struggled to find his place. When his sister Chrysallin had been taken by the sorcerer Arcannen, Aphenglow was the one who had helped him to get Chrys back and then found a home for her at Paranor—even though Chrysallin had been sent to kill her and had almost succeeded. And all the while, she had been beset by Sebec’s betrayal and Arcannen’s scheming to gain control of the order.

But perhaps even more important than that, she had taken Chrysallin into the order as a student in training, aware of the importance of the gift she possessed and the need to find a way to manage it. For like her brother, Chrysallin Leah bore a legacy of magic. Paxon’s was the ability to unlock the power of the Sword of Leah. Chrysallin’s was the presence of the wishsong, which she had inherited as a direct descendant of Railing Ohmsford. However, Chrys remained unaware of her powers. Arcannen had kidnapped her in an attempt to use her as a weapon against the Ard Rhys, but the subsequent trauma of the events that followed had wiped away any memory of those powers. Still, Aphenglow was convinced that her memory would eventually return.

So she had let Chrysallin remain at Paranor, keeping close watch over her and waiting for the moment when her magic would resurface and she could be given over to members of the order who would help her learn to master it—who would train her in its usage and teach her of the importance it held not only in her own life but in the lives of those around her.

So far, that moment had not arrived. To this day, Chrysallin remembered nothing, and no sign of the magic had reappeared. Now, as the Ard Rhys prepared for the end of her life, the task of watching over his sister would fall to Paxon. He was ready to accept this, he believed. More ready than he was for what waited just ahead.

As they neared the entry to Aphenglow Elessedil’s room, the door opened and Isaturin appeared. Tall, gaunt, strong-featured, and steady in his gaze, he seemed lessened in all aspects as he approached Paxon. Undoubtedly, he was coming to terms with what the Ard Rhys’s passing would mean for him. He was her designated successor, the next Ard Rhys, and the new High Druid of what would continue as the Fourth Druid Order. He had known of his future for many years; she had made certain of it. But it was one thing to know what lay ahead of you and another altogether to have it standing there at your doorstep.

“She is waiting for you, Paxon,” Isaturin said, slowing to meet him. “She doesn’t have much time, and the journey ahead of us is a long one.”

Paxon stared. “Journey? Do you mean her dying?”

Isaturin shook his head. “No, not that. She will explain. Hurry now. No lingering.”

He moved away, leaving the Highlander looking after him in confusion.

Keratrix touched his arm. “Go in, Paxon. I’ll wait out here.”

Paxon went to the door, knocked softly, and heard her voice in response. Though he could not understand her words, he took a deep breath and entered anyway.

“Paxon,” she greeted him.

That single word almost undid him. Everything she meant to him, everything she had done for him, all they had shared together seemed caught up in the moment. Memories flooded through him, some sad, some happy, all incredibly vivid—a jumble of connections realized in seconds. He stood where he was, weathering the onslaught, frozen in place.

Then he looked up from the spot on the floor to which his gaze had fastened and saw her. Whatever he had expected to find, it wasn’t this. She was sitting up in her favorite chair, a blanket spread across her knees and her hands in her lap, clasped together. She looked old, but not sick; worn, but not broken. Her face radiated strength and certainty, and she had about her an aura of invincibility that caused him to blink in disbelief.

“You thought perhaps to find me abed and failing?” she asked. “You thought I might be breathing my last?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

“It doesn’t work that way. High Druids go to their end with some measure of dignity and strength so that they can face what awaits. Sit with me.”

He took the chair across from her. “You don’t look as if you are dying,” he admitted. “You look very well, Mistress.”

Her face was lined by her years and the stresses and struggles she had endured and survived. She was very thin, and her skin had the look of parchment wrapped about bones. He had seen pictures of her when she was young—portraits and sketches executed by Druids who possessed such skills as would allow them to capture her image accurately. It was said she had been beautiful—tall and strong, a warrior Elf and the descendant of Elven Kings and Queens. He could see traces of that in her even now—small indicators of what she had been years ago.

“Kind words, Paxon. But in spite of what you think you see, my passing is at hand. I must go to my rest in the way of all leaders of the order—and for that, I require your company. I wish you to make the journey with me to the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn, where I will be met and taken home. I would like to leave at once. Though I may look strong, I can feel myself failing. It is a scary thing to be strong one moment and know that in the next your life will be over. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course,” he said at once. “Should I arrange transport?” He paused. “What happens once we get there?”

She gave him that old, familiar smile. “Best wait and see for yourself. I am not as certain of it as I would like to be. And don’t give any further thought to arranging for an airship. Isaturin is taking care of that now. Just sit with me. Keep me company.”

Paxon sat back. “Do the others in the Druid Order know this is happening?”

She shook her head. “Keratrix will tell them once I am gone. If he tells them now, there will be an unending line of mourners and well-wishers, and I don’t think I can bear that. I want to depart this world quietly. When my sister Arling left me all those years ago—when she embraced the fate decreed for her and transformed into the Ellcrys—well, that was quite enough trauma and emotional turmoil for several lifetimes. My departure will be considerably less dramatic.”

She gave a deep sigh and leaned back. “Ah, Arling, I wish I could come to you one last time.” She closed her eyes, and tears streaked her cheeks. Then she wiped them away unself-consciously and smiled at Paxon. “I have never gotten over losing her. Not even after all these years.”

Paxon shifted uneasily, not knowing what to say.

“I have revealed the situation with Chrysallin to Isaturin as the next head of the order,” she said. “I have told him of my fears and of my plans for her should her memory of the wishsong resurface. He will act in my place as her mentor and teacher when it becomes necessary. But I rely mostly on you to keep watch over her, Paxon. You are closest to her and likely to notice first if any changes occur. She will be safe at Paranor from everything save herself. You must help her with that.”

“I will,” he promised.

She straightened, and for a moment he thought she intended to rise. But she remained seated and added, “At some point, Chrysallin will discover the truth. I am convinced of it. I don’t know what effect it will have on her, but you need to be there to help her through it. So don’t fool yourself into thinking this will never happen. I worry that your decision not to tell her is more an avoidance than a kindness. You hope she will never remember what happened to her, what she had to do to save herself. But she will, Paxon. One day, she will. Don’t fail in this. Tell her soon. Chrysallin’s power is well documented in the records, and it is a powerful and sometimes unpredictable weapon.”

He leaned forward. “I have been considering it. I am aware of the arguments for why I should tell her now. But I cannot get past the danger it poses if I am wrong.”

She studied him a moment. “I know you would like this to simply go away, but I don’t think you can depend on that. So telling her in advance might be best. Use your good judgment on how to go about it if you decide to do so. She will listen to you. She adores you. Five years ago, it would have been hard to reveal the truth to her. But now she is grown; she is a woman, and her strength and maturity are much greater than when she first came to us.”

He found himself amazed that Aphenglow Elessedil would take the time and effort to try to help with his sister when there was so much else she might be doing. But she was still Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order, and she would have her priorities firmly in hand even at the end of her life. She would not deviate from who she had been and what she had done for well over a hundred years. That was her nature, a direct result of the demands of her position. She would want to set her house in order.

“I owe you so much,” he said, the words escaping him before he could think better of them. “You’ve given me this life, and I will never forget that.”

“You earned what you have, Paxon,” she said quietly. “No need to thank me for that.”

He basked in her smile. “Can I bring you something to drink? Or eat? Before we set out?”

She shook her head. “We are not sitting here so that you can do something for me. We are here so that I can do something for you. Part of it is warning you of the risk to your sister. Another is warning you to beware of Arcannen. Do not think him gone for good—no more than Chrysallin’s wishsong. He is a dangerous man with a long memory. He will be back for you and for Chrys. He will not tolerate leaving what you cost him unavenged. He will not be able to live with the humiliation and regret. When you least expect it, he will surface again, and he will seek to exact a price for what he has suffered.”

“I am not afraid of him,” Paxon declared at once.

“You should be. He nearly undid the Druid Order before you stopped him. He is capable of great evil. Watch out for him. Be careful of yourself and your sister.”

She paused. “One last thing. Isaturin will need time to learn his place as Ard Rhys. No one can prepare for this until they hold the office. It was so for me; it will be so for him. Help him adjust. Give him your support. Keep him safe. You are fully grown into your paladin shoes, a young man with great skill and the good sense to know how to use it. Make use of it for him. Be his right hand and protector in these early months of his service to the order. Now take my arm.”

She reached out, and he rose quickly to assist her. Her arm caught hold of his and she levered herself to her feet smoothly, suddenly seeming younger and stronger. She smiled at the look on his face.

“Now we can go,” she said.

TWO

WITH KERATRIX GUIDING THE WAY AND PAXON LENDING suport, Aphenglow Elessedil walked down the corridors and passageways of the Druid’s’ Keep toward the airship platform off the north tower. A few Druids passed them on their way, pausing to offer greetings to which the Ard Rhys dutifully replied before continuing on. A suggestion of haste marked her progress—and in truth haste defined the nature of her leaving, no matter how you looked at it.

She deviated from her path only once. Pausing at the door that opened out onto the landing platform and the waiting airship, she gestured Keratrix away, standing silently with Paxon as she awaited her aide’s return. The seconds slipped by in slow procession, the measure of her life steadily shortening. More than once, the Highlander thought to speak with her, but something in her demeanor kept him from doing so. She was alone with her thoughts, and he sensed that, for now, she wanted it that way.

When Keratrix returned, he had Chrysallin in tow.

Paxon’s sister rushed ahead of the scribe toward Aphenglow, all protocol and formality abandoned as they embraced. Chrysallin began to cry, her face stricken.

“Don’t go, Mistress,” she sobbed. “Don’t leave us!”

“You’ve guessed, then,” Aphenglow replied, taking her by the shoulders and moving her away so she could look at her. “You are always so quick to know the truth. It will serve you well.”

Chrysallin seemed to make a monumental effort to get her tears under control, straightening herself, becoming composed. She was tall and slender, her girlishness gone—a young woman now, strong and steady, her path through the world determined. “Is there nothing that can be done?” she asked the Ard Rhys quietly.

“All that can be done has been. What happens now is preordained. I leave because it is time. My life has been long and full. Do not grieve for me. Celebrate me in your memories.”

Paxon’s sister glanced at him beseechingly for help, then found the answer in his eyes to her unspoken need and nodded slowly. “I will never forget what you have done for me,” she said finally. “I will celebrate you in my memories, but mostly in my heart.”

Aphenglow smiled. “That makes me very happy. Now, give heed to me this final time. Should you need counseling at any point, on any matter, speak to Paxon. And listen to your brother. He is there for you if you should need him. He has sworn to me it will be so—though I am certain he would be there for you even without his vow to me. But there may come a time when life becomes so difficult you cannot bear it. If that happens, lean on him.”

“I will, Mistress. I promise.”

“That’s a promise I will hold you to.” The older woman leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “Good-bye, Chrysallin.”

Once through the door and atop the landing platform, the Ard Rhys and her attendants moved to the fast clipper that Isaturin had prepared and by which he stood waiting. He was to come with Paxon on this journey, and only the two of them would witness Aphenglow’s passing from the Four Lands. The Captain of the Druid Guard, Dajoo Rees, and his Troll companions were already aboard and would act as crew. To all who might witness it, this leaving appeared to be just another of many, and not the last. Only the handful gathered at the airship knew the truth.

At the ramp prepared for her boarding, Aphenglow turned to Keratrix and took his hands. “Good-bye to you, young one. You were everything I could have hoped for in a scribe and a confidant in these final years. I hope you will think well of me once I am gone, and that you will remember I tried to be kind to you.”

“You were unfailingly kind, Mistress,” the scribe managed to say before breaking down.

She took him by his shoulders and hugged him momentarily before turning back to Paxon. “Help me to board,” she ordered.

It was done in moments. Standing with the Ard Rhys and Isaturin, Paxon watched the Trolls raise the light sheaths and release the mooring lines. He heard the diapson crystals begin to power up, snugged down in their parse tubes, warm with the flow of energy siphoned down by the radian draws. He watched the sails billow out in the midday breeze, and then they were lifting away, rising into clouds banked overhead, thick and fluffy against a deep blue sky. Below, Paranor’s walls and towers grew small against the green of the surrounding forests, and as the airship shifted course south, they faded and were gone.

“The last time,” Aphenglow whispered, mostly to herself, though Paxon heard the words clearly.

Isaturin moved away toward the bow, leaving the Ard Rhys with the Highlander. Paxon watched him go. He had noted the other’s deep reticence during their boarding, and he believed the High Druid was dealing with these final hours in the best way he knew how—but still he was struggling, his path uncertain. Paxon could not blame him. His own emotions were edgy and raw, his sense of place and time rocked by his own reluctance to accept the inevitable.

The airship flew south toward the Kennon Pass, navigated the narrow fissure that split the Dragon’s Teeth, and descended into the borderlands of Callahorn before turning east to follow the wall of the mountains, tracking the blue ribbon of the Mermidon River far below. No one spoke, himself included. There was a surreal aspect to what was happening, a sense of suspension of time as they made their passage. The day eased through the afternoon and on toward sunset, but even knowing their destination did nothing to help dispel the unreality that wrapped the cause of their journey. Paxon kept thinking the same thing, unable to absorb the words fully, incapable of finding a way to accept them.

The Ard Rhys is dying. We are taking her to her final resting place. After today, she will be gone forever.

There had never been a time in the collective memory of living men and women when Aphenglow Elessedil hadn’t been a part of their lives. She had been as immutable and enduring as the land itself—a presence unaltered by events or the passing of the years. That she would one day die was inevitable, but it always felt as if it would never be this day, or the next, or any day soon. The constancy of her presence was reassuring and, in some sense, necessary. Her life had been a gift. Her tenure as Ard Rhys had been marked by accomplishment. She had been instrumental in saving the Four Lands from the creatures of the Forbidding when they had broken free. She had reformed the shattered Druid Order when all but two were killed and made it stronger and more effective than it had been in years past. She had brokered a peace that had lasted for more than a century between the Federation and the other governments of the Four Lands. She had made the Druids relevant and acceptable again in the eyes of the Races.

Her entire life had been given over to her duties as Ard Rhys. There had been two men in her life, but both had come to her in her early years, and both had been all too quickly lost. It was said that the loss of her sister Arling had been even worse, leaving her so bereft she had never been able to love again, and had supplanted that need with a deeply ingrained dedication to her work. It was said that, with her own family lost, the Druids had become her family.

All this Paxon Leah had gleaned from stories told and writings read—from Druids and common folk alike—and instinctively he knew it to be true. Knowing her confirmed most of it. The rest only added trappings to the legend she had become, wrapped in a mantle of history that would remain long after she was gone, survived by a legacy that would now be passed on to Isaturin. Paxon wondered at what this must feel like to the other man. Everything he did would be measured against what she had done. Everything he was or would become would be compared with her memory.

He would not wish that on himself, he thought. He would not wish that on anyone.

They were seated in front of the pilot box now, watching the sky grow slowly darker ahead of them as the sunset approached—passed now beyond the Runne River, where it turned south to reach the Rainbow Lake; beyond the city of Varfleet, as well; beyond everything of Paranor and the Druids but the airship on which they rode deep along the Dragon’s Teeth toward the broad expanse of the Rabb Plains, which could be seen stretching away toward the distant purple wall of the Wolfsktaag.

Then they were shifting north toward a gap in the Dragon’s Teeth where Aphenglow had told Paxon a path led upward into the jagged peaks to the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn.

“I want you to come with me when I go,” the Ard Rhys told him suddenly, leaning close so she could be heard without having to raise her voice over the wind. “Just you and me and Isaturin.”

He nodded his agreement, wondering at this, but not willing to question it openly. Why was he being asked to go? Was she worried for her safety? Was the presence of her successor not enough to reassure her?

Then they were down, the mooring lines fastened in place, the light sheaths brought in, and the radian draws unhitched. The hum of the diapson crystals faded as the parse tubes were hooded, and a deep silence descended as everything came to a standstill.

With Paxon’s help, the Ard Rhys climbed to her feet and moved over to the railing. Dajoo Rees had already opened the gate and lowered a rope ladder. He tried to help her climb down, his great hands reaching for her, but she brushed him aside and navigated the ladder on her own, beckoning Paxon and Isaturin to follow.

“The rest of you will please remain aboard,” she called back. “Thank you all for your service. Please do for Isaturin what you have done so faithfully for me. I will carry my memories of you with me when I am gone and will cherish them always.”

The Trolls muttered in response and clasped fists to their chests as a sign of respect. Stone-faced, expressionless, huge, and terrible creatures they could be, yet Paxon could discern a softness in the looks they cast after her.

Once down, the Druids and Paxon set out on the trail that led into the mountains. Isaturin carried torches to help light their way when darkness closed about them. They would be walking for much of the night to reach their destination, and moon and stars alone might not provide enough light to reveal their passage. Paxon worried that the trek might be too much for the Ard Rhys, and he had already accepted that he might have to carry her before it was over.

But it soon became apparent that she would be able to manage on her own, drawing on some reserve of strength she had husbanded deep within, intent on completing the journey to the Hadeshorn under her own power. They walked in single file up the steep trail, setting their feet carefully on the loose rock and uneven earth, allowing Aphenglow, who led the way from start to finish, to set the pace. The sun passed west and disappeared, the twilight deepened into nightfall, and the moon and stars came out in a glorious display of brightness across the darkened sky. In the mountains, the silence was deep and pervasive, unbroken even by birdcalls. Nothing moved about them, and only the scrape of their boots and the exhaling of breath marred the utter stillness.

They walked through most of the night—a walk that was more of a slow climb for the first few hours and then a cautious winding among giant monoliths and narrow defiles mingled with sheer drops and broad fissures that required cautious navigation. Only a few times did the Ard Rhys feel the need to reach out for Paxon’s strong arm to steady her, and never once did she ask to stop or offer complaint about her weariness. She kept to herself, but stayed steady as she went, and it was Paxon and Isaturin who were at times forced to keep pace with her.

They were still several hours from dawn when they reached the rim of the Valley of Shale. It appeared abruptly before them, the rocks parting to open out on the shallow depression and its acres of smooth, glistening black rock, shards of it spread away on the slopes of the valley and about the lake at its center from rim to shoreline. The lake itself was a dead thing, the waters flat and green and still, not a ripple to mar their smoothness. The travelers stood together for a moment, studying the Hadeshorn, marking its look and feel, casting about for something living where there was clearly nothing to be found. Of living creatures, they had only themselves for company.

“We wait here until just before dawn,” Aphenglow said—the first words she had spoken since they had set out from the airship.

So they sat together at the rim of the valley and faced down across the shards of rock to the empty-seeming waters, the moon and stars traveling along their endless course overhead, the earth turning as it had since the beginning of time, the night passing slowly toward dawn. And as they sat, the Ard Rhys began talking, her voice soft and low, but her words clear and measured. She spoke of her love for the Druid Order and her hopes for its future. She related stories of her life and her involvement in the events that framed the history of the Four Lands during her years as leader of the order. She told of her sister, whom she had loved more than anyone, and of the Elven Hunter Cymrian, her protector during the quest for the Bloodfire, whom she had loved only slightly less. She told of Bombax, her first love, and of the assault on Paranor by the Federation, which had claimed him. She admitted failures and recounted accomplishments, and there were more of the latter than the former.

Paxon listened without interrupting, entranced. Even dour Isaturin seemed enraptured with her tales, caught up in the drama and humor, in the euphoria and angst. There were so many revelations offered by a life lived long and well.

Eventually she went silent, and for a long time no one spoke, the three of them lost in their separate thoughts as the night advanced and the dawn neared. When the first blush of light appeared on the distant horizon, and the stars began their slow fade back into the growing brightness, the Ard Rhys rose and turned to them.

“It is time for me to leave you. I do so with confidence that both of you will do your best for the Druid Order and for the men and women who have embraced its cause. I entrust to you, Isaturin, the future of the order, and to you, Paxon, its protection.” She paused, and for an instant her smile was bright and warm. “Shades, but I wish I could stay here with you and help you with your struggles. And there will be struggles, I can assure you.”