Текст книги "The Darkling Child"

Автор книги: Terry Brooks

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SEVEN

PAXON LEAH WAS WORKING OUT IN THE PRACTICE YARD WITH Oost Mondara, his prickly Gnome sword master and close friend, his black-bladed sword flashing in the sunlight as he progressed through a series of feints and strikes, thrusts and parries, incorporating everything into positions of defense and attack. It had been five years since these lessons had begun, and another man might have decided long ago that he had learned all there was to learn of swordsmanship and there was no point in continuing to study. But Paxon wasn’t just another man, and he took nothing for granted when it came to improving his skills. That he had discovered the power of the ancient Sword of Leah was a gift to be honored. That he had been given the chance to serve as the Ard Rhys’s Blade and had been given a home and life in the Druid Order was not something he would ever take for granted or fail to view as a challenge.

So every day he came down to the yard to practice with his blade, and every day he learned a little more and progressed a step farther. Oost continued to instruct him, doing it now more out of the satisfaction he derived from viewing Paxon’s enthusiasm and steady development than he did out of a sense of obligation. In Paxon, the Gnome had found a kindred spirit—a fellow believer in the importance of hard work and dedication to a talent that clearly set him apart from almost everyone. Paxon was good with a blade, maybe the best the gnarled trainer had ever encountered, and if there was a way to make him even better then there was no reason not to employ it.

But Paxon was bored with practice and anxious for a chance to do something of a more practical nature, so he was more than a little excited and relieved when Keratrix arrived to tell him that Isaturin wished to see him when his practice time was finished. Paxon tried not to rush through what remained of his session, but failed miserably. Finally, Oost broke it off, throwing up his hands.

“That’s enough. You are sleepwalking through your disciplines! I’ve lost you completely.” His voice was gruff and accusatory. “Go find out what the Ard Rhys wants of you. Might as well do something useful.”

With muttered apologies thrown back over his shoulder, Paxon hurried off to do as the other had suggested, a sense of anticipation making him light-headed and happy. He was certain a mission awaited him, a chance to travel to another part of the world, an opportunity to use his skills to help someone. It was the reason he had accepted this position in the first place, the end result of the effort Aphenglow Elessedil had expended to bring him to Paranor and abandon his old life hauling airfreight.

He thought momentarily of his mentor and benefactor, dead six weeks now, gone down into the netherworld and the company of Druids past. She had done much more for many others than she had for him, but he treasured the gift of the life she had given him every day. He would never forget what she had meant to him. He could still see her face in his mind as clearly as he had on the last day he had been with her, accompanying her to the Hadeshorn to bear witness as the Shade of Allanon bore her away. He could still hear her voice, encouraging him to believe in himself, telling him there would always be a home for him and for Chrysallin at Paranor.

His sister, he believed, owed Aphenglow even more than he did. It was Aphenglow who had saved her, who had taken her in and helped her to heal. But this reminded him that the Ard Rhys had wanted him to tell Chrys about her magic—something he still had not done. He had not found the right moment or even a way to act on her warning. So he prevaricated, still uncertain. But he did not think he could put it off much longer. Sooner or later, something would happen to cause the wishsong to surface again. The consequences of that happening were unknowable. The Ard Rhys had believed it would help Chrys if she understood what was happening and could better find a way to deal with it. But Paxon continued to worry that telling her would have the opposite effect and send her back into a state of catatonia similar to the one she had been placed in after her first use of the magic.

Since he could not reconcile his fears with hers the debate continued, unresolved.

These were his thoughts as he changed out of his practice clothes, washed himself down, dressed anew, and climbed the stairs to the Ard Rhys’s quarters. It still seemed odd that Isaturin now occupied those rooms and that Aphenglow was really gone. He liked Isaturin well enough, although he would never think about him in the same way he thought about his predecessor. For Paxon, Aphenglow Elessedil would always be the real Ard Rhys of the Druids.

Still, on this occasion he was more than anxious to meet with the new Ard Rhys and find out if there was finally something for him to do besides practice with his sword and sit around waiting.

“Come in, Paxon,” Isaturin said at his knock, looking up from behind a desk as the Highlander entered. “Come sit.”

Paxon did so, noting that Isaturin seemed as consumed by record keeping and paperwork as Aphenglow had, his work space littered with documents and books. Keratrix stood to one side, organizing files, handing things over and taking them away, all without a word being spoken, apparently knowing exactly what it was the Ard Rhys required.

“We’ve registered a disturbance of some significance in the scrye waters.” Isaturin leaned back, locking his fingers behind his head. “It happened late last night and was reported to me this morning. This is of particular interest because the nature of the disturbance closely resembled the one we recorded when Chrysallin used the wishsong.”

Paxon was surprised. “Someone else has use of it?”

“Possibly. The reading of the waters isn’t an exact science. We can tell the general nature of a disturbance. We can tell the extent of the power expended to create it. And we can tell where it came from. The rest we have to guess at, using whatever information we have at our disposal. In this case, the Druid monitoring the waters was the same Druid who was monitoring when your sister used her powers.”

“So we have a solid comparison. Who was the Druid?”

“Avelene.”

An image of her face came immediately to mind—small, slender, dark skin, lavender eyes, sharp features that seemed perfectly suited to her look and temperament. He hadn’t seen much of her in the past few years, busy with his own pursuits, caught up in caring for Chrysallin. But he remembered hearing about her in snatches of conversation. Fiercely intelligent and independent-minded. Always ready to challenge authority if she didn’t agree. A student of magic, her own and others’ no matter the nature.

“Can I speak with her?”

Isaturin cocked an eyebrow. “All you want. She will be your companion for the next few days. I’m sending you both south into Federation territory to try to sort this out. I want the source of the magic found and its nature determined. If you think it advisable, I want it recovered and brought here. Avelene will be in command of the expedition; you will act as her protector.”

Paxon started to rise, anxious to begin preparations. “Wait a minute.” Isaturin held up his hand. “We haven’t finished here yet.”

Paxon sat back down. “There’s more?”

“There is. Tell me about your sister. Have you spoken with her about her condition?”

It was a reasonable question, but Paxon felt himself become irritated anyway. “Aphenglow must have told you she recommended that I tell Chrys. But I’m still not certain that’s the right thing to do.”

“I find myself wondering if there is a right thing, Paxon. This is a difficult situation with no clear path forward. But maybe you should consider the relative risks. If you tell her now, you can be there to talk to her about it. You can make use of the Druid Healers to help her come to terms with it. But if you wait and she discovers it on her own—perhaps in a life-and-death confrontation of the sort she faced before—you will have to hope she isn’t so severely impacted by the unexpectedness of the surfacing of the magic that she is flung into an even deeper catatonia than she was the last time.”

“I am doing what I can!” Paxon snapped back. “A day doesn’t pass when I don’t think about it.”

Isaturin nodded. “Indecision is the enemy. I think you should tell her. I know I am meddling, but I have an obligation to persuade you to what I think is the right course of action. Please give it some thought.”

Paxon forced himself not to say something he would regret later. “I will. I promise.”

Isaturin was already turning back to his paperwork. “Now go find Avelene and make your plans. I have assigned you one of the clippers and a crew of three members of the Druid Guard. You leave at first light.”

Paxon went out the door, still angry about the Ard Rhys’s interference, stomping down the hallway toward his quarters, paying no attention to those he passed on the way. What angered him most, he realized by the time he had reached his room and closed the door behind him, was that he knew Isaturin was right. Just as Aphenglow had been right. He should tell Chrys. He shouldn’t leave it to chance.

The real problem was that he was afraid to tell her. He was afraid of what it would do to her. She had been so good since her recovery. She had become a familiar face in Paranor’s halls and a friend to many who lived there. She had done well with her studies, and she had regained her footing in a way that encouraged him to believe she could find a home here—just as Aphenglow had promised.

He didn’t want to risk all that. He didn’t want to disrupt her life by revealing a truth so startling and immense that it might leave her crippled all over again.

He stood where he was in the middle of the room for a long time, pondering the matter, thinking he should put the matter behind him by going to her now, telling her the truth, getting it over with, and letting them face the consequences together.

He turned back toward the door and went out again into the hallway. But instead of going to his sister, he began searching instead for Avelene.

He found her a short time later in a quiet corner of the garden, sitting on a bench with her feet up, bent over an open book with several more sitting on the ground next to her. She looked up at his approach, and he was reminded again of how supportive she had been of him on his arrival five years earlier.

“So we’re off on an adventure together,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. She set down the book. “Do you think we’re up to it?”

He grinned. “I think you are. I hear you might be the best in all Paranor when it comes to magic.”

“I hear you might be the best swordsman in the Four Lands. If Oost Mondara can be believed.”

Paxon stared. “Oost really said that? Was he sober?”

“Apparently you impressed him considerably with your work ethic. Impressed me, too, I might add. I’ve had my eye on you, even if you didn’t see me. You work hard. You’ve dedicated yourself to becoming the Ard Rhys’s Blade. No one gave you anything. You worked for all of it.”

“You, too. Can I sit?”

She moved her legs to give him room, drawing them up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Seems like a long time ago that we first met,” she said. “You were kind of uncertain back then. I don’t see any of that now.”

“Oh, I’m still pretty uncertain about most things. I’ve gotten comfortable with using a sword, but you can’t cut your way through uncertainty. I still struggle with the moral issues surrounding the uses of magic.”

“Well, mostly, it’s not your concern, is it? It’s a Druid issue.”

“That might be, but I’m acting as their representative. I like to be sure about what it is I’m representing.”

She laughed. “That’s fair. But remember, we all struggle with what’s right and wrong, Paxon. That’s the nature of our lives. We have to figure out what we can live with, and hope that what we do to bring it about doesn’t exact a cost that’s too high. We have to decide where to draw the line. Are you thinking of Sebec?”

He shook his head. “Not so much. I was thinking more of Chrysallin. I haven’t figured out if she’s where she belongs, being here. I don’t know if studying to join the Druid Order is what’s right for her.”

He was hedging with his response. His real concern was not his sister’s presence at Paranor but his reluctance to be honest with her about why she was there. But he couldn’t tell Avelene that.

“She’s fine here. She’s got you to watch out for her. She’s got people who care about her. Lots of them, in case you hadn’t noticed. She’s made friends, Paxon. She belongs as much as you do.”

She brushed at her dark hair and studied him. “But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?”

Too perceptive by far, he thought. “Can I ask you about your readings of the scrye waters? Isaturin said you were on duty with this latest disturbance, but you were on duty, too, when Arcannen was trying to take over the order. Isaturin said you believed the magic used might be the same?”

“I said the properties evidenced by each were similar.”

“Can you explain that to me?”

“Magic of different types causes different sorts of disturbances to the scrye waters. Not in the strength of the disturbance, which is really a result of the power expended, but in the look of the ripples and shimmers. Rapidity, length, closeness, even color—these all say something about the magic. We keep records on this, as you know, and over time we have been able to determine after the fact where the similarities lie.”

“So the records told you something about these two?”

“No. In this case, we don’t seem to have any records. We never found out the exact nature of the magic that erupted five years ago, and it’s up to you and me to try to determine it in this latest instance. What I do know, since I was on duty both times and had a chance to observe personally, was that they were almost exactly the same. That’s not a coincidence.”

“But shouldn’t there be something in the records?”

“We only started keeping those records since Aphenglow Elessedil decided to track down and recover the magic that was being used by those not of the Druid Order. So we have barely more than a hundred and fifty years of records to date. This magic, whatever it is, might have been around awhile. It might have been used countless times over the centuries. We just don’t have anything that would tell us that.”

Which would explain why no one in the Druid Order but Aphenglow and now Isaturin knew it was the wishsong. Both must have decided it was better to keep it quiet.

Then he wondered suddenly how much Avelene knew. Could Isaturin have decided not to tell her about the wishsong? Had he kept that to himself? Or if she knew about it, why was she hiding it from him? Was it because he wasn’t a Druid?

“I have to go,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you how much I’m looking forward to going with you. I wish it could have happened sooner.”

She gave him a look. “You do?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

She studied him a moment. “See you bright and early then.” She picked up her book and went back to reading. “You do have something of a silver tongue, don’t you? You just make my little heart beat with excitement.”

She was angry. Or, at the very least, irritated. He started to say something in response, but gave it up. Whatever retort he made, she would have another poised on the tip of her tongue.

“I meant what I said,” he threw back anyway.

She didn’t look up—just gave him a dismissive wave of her hand.

He was a dozen steps removed when something occurred to him. An Ard Rhys would never dispatch members of the Druid Order on a mission like the one they were embarking on without telling them exactly what they were up against. Not if he knew, and Isaturin did. It would be putting Druids at risk unnecessarily. And there was no good reason for him to so here.

He slowed, and then turned around. Avelene was still reading her book. Slowly, he walked back over to her and waited until she looked up at him.

“Forget something?” she asked.

“Common sense,” he answered. “The magic we’re looking for is the wishsong.”

Her smile was brilliant. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“You already knew?”

“Of course.”

“And you didn’t think you should tell me that?”

“Well, you’ve apparently known for some time, right? Shouldn’t you have been the one to tell me?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “That was what I just decided. If we’re traveling together to find what might be a wild magic, we need to trust each other.”

She nodded. “And now we do. I do, at least.”

“I do, too.”

“Then all is right with the world.” She resumed reading. “See you in the morning, Paxon.”

This time she sounded happy about it.

EIGHT

ARCANNEN FLEW WEST THROUGH THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY, losing himself in the piloting of his Sprint, enjoying the passing countryside below and the sweet smells of the summer day. He did not spend time thinking about what lay ahead; he had done enough of that already. Instead, he gave himself over to clearing his mind and letting his thoughts drift wherever they cared to go. Rest came with difficulty these days; the long comforting sleep of his time in Wayford had devolved into catnaps and guarded dozing. Being hunted did that to you. Being prey instead of predator required you always have one eye open.

Unbidden, his thoughts jumped to Leofur. He wondered how his daughter was, how her life was going. He had not had contact with her in five years—not since Paxon Leah had given him his freedom in exchange for the medication that would cure his sister of her hallucinations and nightmares and give her back her life. Leofur had no idea where he was, of course. Like the rest of the world, she had been left behind. Not that they had been close before; not that leaving her caused him any particular pain. It certainly couldn’t have mattered to her when he disappeared; she had been trying to kill him. Or at least trying to help the Highlander do the job. She had forsaken him a long time ago.

Wasn’t it odd then that he was wondering about her now, that he found himself thinking about her when there was so little reason? But there it was, an inescapable fact. He supposed he wondered about her in a generic sort of way and not with any real hopes or aspirations. He did wonder how she had ended up with Paxon Leah and what had become of that relationship. He had sensed at the end that it might be more than casual, that they might have cared about each other in a more serious way. But he couldn’t say why he felt this was so; he couldn’t explain it with reasoning or logic.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted on to other things. To the boy, waiting for him back in Portlow. He didn’t even know his name. Wasn’t that odd? He had such plans for him, such possibilities in mind, and he didn’t know who he was. It was his nature not to get too close to people, of course. People were there to be used, instruments to be applied to a task. The boy was no different. Not in that way. In the way in which he might serve, he was decidedly different. In the nature of his power and his legacy, he was perhaps one of a kind.

But at the end of the day, the boy was there to be set on a course of action and made to follow through. He was just another weapon to be used against Arcannen’s enemies.

He wished suddenly that he still had someone inside the Federation government to whom he could turn. It was helpful having a highly placed collaborator working to help you realize your plans or aid you in obtaining special favors. He had no one like that these days. Sebec had been purged from the Druid Order, and he himself had eliminated Fashton Caeil, the Federation Minister of Security Against Magic.

Still, if you were on your own, you depended on no one to accomplish what needed doing, and the chances of mistakes were considerably lessened. He had learned that lesson a while back, and even though it placed a larger burden on him, it also assured that what was required would be done right.

Like now, when he was on his way to visit an old friend in the Southland city of Sterne in an effort to repay a debt.

He left his Sprint at the edge of the city airship field and walked several hundred yards to the field manager’s office to arrange for payment and a promise to watch over it. If he lost his airship, he would be in deep trouble. So a few extra credits paid to make sure that didn’t happen were credits well spent. The field manager was open to an arrangement—the pay he received from the city being less than what he believed he deserved—and a bargain was quickly struck. The Sprint would be carefully watched with an understanding that its owner would be back to claim it before dawn.

His escape route assured, Arcannen set out for the Federation barracks at the west end of the city.

He took a carriage to a place less than a quarter mile away—a shop that specialized in opiates and other mind-altering potions and plants—and stood outside until the shop had emptied of customers, checking a final time through the small glass windows to either side of the door to make certain before going in. The shop was small and cramped with shelves and bins backed up against all the available wall space and then stacked so high that a ladder was needed to reach the two top levels. A counter no more than four feet long sat well back in the shadows, its top clear of everything but a single cup and saucer and a smoking pipe resting in a bowl.

An old man sat behind the counter, eyes fixed on Arcannen. He might have been a hundred years old or a thousand. He was bent and withered, and until you looked closely you might have assumed that he had died and no one had noticed. He wore tattered gray clothes and a skullcap. Arcannen had never seen him wear anything else. His beard and hair were so wispy and thinned out, you could count the strands.

“Eld Loy,” the sorcerer greeted him, giving the old man a small bow. “All is well? Nothing has changed?”

The old man nodded.

“My friend still occupies the same quarters?”

Another nod.

“He sleeps alone?”

A shrug. A nod.

“The Red Slash do not ward him, I mean? I don’t care about the women.”

Still another nod.

Arcannen reached into his robes and withdrew a pouch filled with credits. “Yours, for your services—unless they prove inaccurate. In which case, they will pay for your burial.”

The old man didn’t blink. Arcannen bowed again and went back out the door.

He waited until close to midnight before making his way to his destination. It was a tavern set close to the barracks and frequented by the soldiers and their companions. It was the property of a retired squad leader and a few of his mates, and it catered almost exclusively to those who shared their worldview—which is to say, other soldiers. Even with midnight approaching, the tavern’s interior was well lit and filled with boisterous men and women, shouting and laughing and singing songs of army life. A few of those with too much drink and a vague notion that it was time to get home had made it as far as the front stoop before falling by the wayside.

Arcannen stepped around the bodies carefully. Because Eld Loy had given him a diagram of the tavern’s layout, he knew to go to the back door, step quickly inside, take three steps left to the rear stairwell, and climb to the small bedroom on the third floor. No one saw him enter the building; no one heard him ascend the stairs. This was not surprising, given the amount of noise and drunkenness in the tavern below. Arcannen had counted heavily on the distraction to keep from being noticed.

He paused at the door to listen. There were no sounds coming from inside. He tried the knob; it turned easily. He opened the door and peered in. Pale light from a streetlamp seeped through curtains hung over a solitary window to reveal that the room was unoccupied. Arcannen stepped in. The room was dismal—a squalid box with a bed, an old dresser, a table with a basin, and a wicker chair. There were some clothes on the floor and a few odds and ends of personal effects.

He glanced up. A heavy lamp was suspended from a hook screwed into one of the ceiling beams, but it was unlit.

Arcannen took another look around, moved the chair into the shadows to one side, and sat down to wait.

Miles away, in the village of Portlow, Gammon was confronting Reyn Frosch. It was after midnight, and the tavern patrons were finally beginning to make their way home, the great room quieting down. Even in the absence of the boy’s music, the people of the village had come to spend the evening, perhaps in the hope that he would resume playing. But Reyn had not found a way to replace his elleryn, and in spite of the assurances of the stranger that the Fortrens would leave him alone, he was not convinced.

This was being reinforced by Gammon as they spoke in the privacy of the boy’s room.

“You can’t trust a man like that,” Gammon was insisting. “Did you see his eyes? Of course you did. How could you not? Wicked. Dangerous! He may well be the man to convince the Fortrens to let you be, but what do you want with a man like that?”

“He knows something about my singing.” Reyn rubbed his temples. His head ached. “Maybe he can explain what happened.”

“Maybe. But maybe he wants something more from you. Why would he help you otherwise? I think you should go. Get away from here. Find a new town and a new tavern that needs a singer with your talent.”

“I told him I would wait.”

“You owe him nothing! Think about what you are doing!”

Reyn sighed. This discussion was going nowhere. He could not make Gammon understand. The tavern owner was fixated on the stranger’s darkness, as if it were a portent of impending doom. The boy didn’t sense that at all. He was less concerned with the way people dressed and looked. What determined a man’s character was how he behaved. The stranger had done nothing to him but show interest.

“I have to sleep now,” he said finally.

“Fine,” Gammon declared, rising. “But before you do, I have something for you. Wait here for me.”

He went out and was gone for perhaps five minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a package wrapped in cloth and bound with string. The size and shape caused the boy’s heart to quicken. He took the package from the tavern owner and swiftly unwrapped it.

A new elleryn, its burnished wood gleaming brightly, lay in his hands.

“She’s beautiful,” the boy whispered. He looked up at Gammon. “But I can’t afford her.”

“You don’t have to pay anything. It’s a gift.”

“But I’m not playing for you anymore. I can’t take this.”

Gammon laughed. “You made me enough money over the last two years to pay for this ten times over. I owe you this. You take it. Keep it.” He shrugged. “If you would agree to leave here tonight, I would pay you something extra to help you on your way. But I can see your mind is made up.”

Reyn smiled. “I won’t ever forget this.”

“I should hope not.” Gammon stuck out his hand. “Luck to you, Reyn. Whatever you decide to do. Luck always.”

The handshake warm and firm. Reyn wished once more that things could have worked out differently. Then Gammon released his grip and was out the door.

It was several hours later when Arcannen heard footsteps on the back stairs leading up to the bedroom in which he waited. The footsteps were clumsy and uncertain. There were frequent stumbles. He could tell that the man coming up was drunk and unsteady, anxious to reach his room and tumble into bed. It would make his task just that much easier, if not quite so satisfying. He would have preferred the other sober and fully aware of what was about to happen. He would rather the fear reflected in his eyes and voice not be dulled by drink.

But you couldn’t always have things the way you wanted them. If you could, the events that created the reason for his being here would never have come to pass.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairway. Soundlessly, Arcannen rose and moved to stand just behind the door. The man without fumbled with the handle, and the door swung inward. When the man was inside the room, Arcannen quietly closed the door behind him. The man turned back unsteadily, peering at the dark shape behind him, unable to focus.

“Who is it?” He slurred his words, swayed unsteadily. “What do you want?”

“I want you, Desset,” Arcannen answered.

Desset tried to scream, but Arcannen grabbed him, muffling his cries with one hand, bearing him backward onto his rumpled bed, pushing him down until he was pinned, his eyes wide with fear, his body quaking in the sorcerer’s strong grip.

“Shhh, shhhh,” Arcannen whispered. “There’s no point in trying to scream. I took your voice so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Do you know what’s going to happen to you, Desset? Of course you do. It’s what happens to all traitors sooner or later. I hope the last few weeks of your life was worth what you did.”

Climbing atop the other man, he pinned his arms and took his head gently in both hands, lifting it so that they could see into each other’s eyes clearing. Desset was thrashing feebly beneath him, and tiny whimpers were coming from his throat as he fought to scream for help.

Arcannen smiled down at him as he cradled his head. “You knew the price you would pay for betraying me, didn’t you? Or was it just bad luck that it worked out this way? Were you only interested in destroying Arbrox? No, they wouldn’t pay you well enough for that. Something, for certain, but much more for me. You couldn’t pass up the chance to get your hands on that kind of money. All you had to do was make certain I died along with all of the others. Those people were my friends, Desset. They sheltered and protected me. They helped me when no one else would. And now, because of you, they are all dead.”

Arcannen paused. “And now you can join them.”

Tightening his hands on Desset’s head, he wrenched it sharply to one side and then quickly the other way. He could feel the neck bones giving way; he could hear them cracking and snapping. Desset shuddered and clenched and finally went still.