Текст книги "The Darkling Child"

Автор книги: Terry Brooks

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Why don’t you tell me a little of what you told her? When did you first find out about your magic? About what your singing could do? Tell me that, and I’ll tell you what you don’t know about both.”

So Reyn told him of his past, relating pretty much the same details he had revealed to Lariana. He wanted to discover what Arcannen knew about his magic, thinking that this might be his one chance to learn something useful about its origins. He took his time, pausing now and then to see if the other had questions. But the sorcerer said nothing, letting him do the talking.

“Have you tried using this magic in other ways?” he asked when Reyn finished. “Besides singing? Have you attempted to do other things with it? Experimented with it?”

Reyn was confused. “No. What sorts of other things?”

The sorcerer ignored him. “Has anyone ever instructed you on how to use your magic? Have you been taught by anyone?”

“Is that what you want to do? Teach me to use my magic? Is that why you’ve been after me?”

Arcannen looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I would be interested in teaching you to use magic, yes. But I am much more interested in finding a way to help you stay alive. Or did you miss that part?”

Reyn flushed. “I know what you did for me. I’m just trying to understand what’s happening.”

“All right.” Arcannen gave him long look. “Let me keep my part of the bargain and tell you what I know about your magic. Then you can decide for yourself what you want to do about it. But first we need to leave this airfield. I’ve been here too long already.”

He signaled to Lariana, who was just finishing up with loading their supplies, and she moved immediately to begin the process of attaching the radian draws and raising the light sheaths. Because the Sprint was small, the work went quickly, and within short minutes they were lifting off, turning east from Sterne. Arcannen was at the helm with Lariana left sitting aft with Reyn. Sprints were small; the three of them pretty much filled up the cockpit.

Reyn, left to his own devices for the moment, began conversing with the girl once more. “Do you know where we are going?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t say. Why don’t you ask him?”

But Reyn didn’t want to do that. He didn’t care where they were going; he just wanted an excuse to talk to her. “I can wait,” he said.

The wind swept back her caramel hair, and the streaks of gold that ran through it flashed brightly in the sun. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of it. She was, in that moment, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

“I love flying,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

He smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret, if you want.”

She opened her eyes again and looked over. “Of course I want. Tell me.”

“Until last night and now, I had never flown in an airship. Not once.”

She held his gaze. “Aren’t you glad your first time was with me?”

Finding the right words to answer her proved impossible.

Farther north, within the ragged cradle of the Dragon’s Teeth, Paxon and the Rock Trolls who had accompanied him to Portlow in search of the bearer of the wishsong bore the black cylinder in which Avelene was imprisoned down off the clipper and into the recesses of Paranor. There were other members of the Druid Guard there to meet them, and within minutes Isaturin had come down from his tower quarters for a look.

It was nearing midday by now, the journey home again having taken the travelers the remainder of the night and most of the following morning. Paxon had managed a few hours sleep aboard ship, but had spent most of his time keeping watch over Avelene. It wasn’t as if he could do anything further to help her, but with the edge of the Sword of Leah placed against the hard side of her prison, he could banish the darkness long enough to look inside and let her look out at him and know that he was there.

In truth, she seemed calmed by his presence, aware that he was taking her somewhere, trying to do something to help. They could not hear each other—though they had both tried speaking through the cylinder walls—but they could find reassurance in knowing that there was a link between them and both were handling the situation in the best way they could.

Isaturin examined the cylinder, spent a few minutes touching it and bending close to listen, then used his own magic to turn the enclosure clear enough to see his Druid inside and to give her a few quick signs with his fingers that she seemed to understand.

When the cylinder went dark again, he had it picked up and carried to one of the workrooms. “It’s magic-generated,” he told Paxon as they followed in the cylinder’s wake. “Likely this is Arcannen’s work. It is sophisticated and, as you had assumed, a trap. Any forcible effort to free Avelene would cause the walls imprisoning her to collapse, crushing and suffocating her.”

“He would have been counting on that,” Paxon said angrily. “He would see tricking me into killing one of the Druids I am sworn to protect as a fitting punishment for what I did to him five years ago.”

Isaturin smiled. “But his plan didn’t work. You’ve grown less impulsive over the years. Now let’s see about getting Avelene free without harming her.”

The big man moved ahead, speaking now to another pair of Druids he had summoned, presumably to help with the unlocking of the cylinder. Paxon hung back, content to let them take the lead. Isaturin appeared to know what he was doing, and since Paxon’s fears about using his sword were confirmed, it was best to let the Ard Rhys find a way through Arcannen’s magic.

Once within the work area, the door was closed and barred by Druid Guards. Isaturin had the cylinder placed on a workbench. Stationing the two Druids who had accompanied him on the far side of the bench, he stood across from them. Together, the three began to weave separate spells, using fingers and voices, each deep in concentration. Paxon stood back, watching carefully. The air began to thicken, turning misty and dark, taking on a substantive appearance. Streaks of color emerged and then vanished again. Smells were emitted—some like burning, some like oiled metal. The cylinder began to pulse softly, its opaque appearance lessening, Avelene’s frightened face coming into sharper focus within.

It took them a long time to accomplish what they were attempting, and at more than one point Paxon began to worry that they couldn’t manage it. But finally the surface of the cylinder began to split apart, a jagged seam opening vertically down its middle. A rush of foul air exploded from within, turning black as it did so, morphing into dozens of insects. Isaturin sprang backward, warding his face and gesturing heatedly. One of the other Druids collapsed into the arms of the second. For a few moments, everything was in chaos.

Then Isaturin’s countermagic took hold of Arcannen’s, scooping it up and shrinking it down to nothing. The insects disappeared, the air cleared, and the black cylinder melted away, leaving Avelene lying wide-eyed and shaking atop the workbench.

Without being asked, Paxon rushed forward and covered her with his cloak. He lifted her off the bench, cradling her in his arms. He could feel her trembling.

“I thought I was dead,” she whispered, clutching him to her. “I was certain of it.”

“Paxon,” Isaturin said, coming up beside him. “Carry her to her room and put her to bed. She needs rest. Give her as much liquid as she can hold before you leave her. Just water, nothing stronger—nothing to stimulate her system. Wrap her in blankets. She’s shaking as much from the cold she’s feeling as from what she’s been through. Hurry now.”

Without a word, Paxon carried the young woman from the room and down the hallways of the keep to where she slept. He had to ask her how to get there because he had never been to her chambers, but she managed to direct him without once looking up from where she nestled her face against his shoulder.

“He caught me by surprise, Paxon.” He could hear the bitterness in her voice. “That never should have happened. I was so intent on watching you cross the roadway and then disappear behind the tavern—so certain you would call for my help …”

She trailed off, her voice breaking. “You aren’t the first to have that happen,” he said quietly. “I’m just grateful you’re alive. I was scared to death for you.”

“What happened to the boy?”

Paxon grimaced. “He got away in the confusion. We’ll find him later. First, we have to get you well again.”

She was silent for a long time. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” she whispered. “You can’t imagine what it was like inside that container, everything dark and no way to get free. If you hadn’t—”

“But I did,” he said, interrupting her with a hushing sound. “Just try to forget about it. Just think about sleeping now.”

When they were inside her room, he laid her on the bed and poured water from a pitcher on the dresser into a glass, holding it for her while she drank it down. He stayed with her while she finished it, then brought her a second glass and held her while she drank that one, too.

“So thirsty,” she mumbled.

He put the glass on the bedside table, took off her boots, and pulled back the bedding, easing her beneath the covers. He rose and walked toward the door. “Go to sleep now. I’ll see you when you wake.”

“Paxon!” She called his name with some urgency, bringing him back around. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me just yet. Please.”

He came back over and sat down beside her. He could see the fear in her eyes. “I’ll stay if you want.”

“I just don’t want to be alone right now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Would you lie down beside me? Would you just hold me for a little while? Until I stop shaking?”

He did as she asked, snuggling close to her and putting his arm across her so that she could feel his warmth. She scooted back against him, burrowing close. “Thanks,” she said so softly he almost missed it.

She was asleep before long, and the shaking stopped. He stayed with her anyway, wanting to make sure. But he also stayed because he liked holding her, liked being close. And for the first time since Leofur, he found that he needed the comfort of another body.

THIRTEEN

“THE MAGIC YOU POSSESS IS A VERY OLD MAGIC,” ARCANNEN explained. “Centuries old. And only members of a single family inherit it. When it first surfaced, it was called a wishsong, and the name has stuck.”

Reyn was sitting with the sorcerer in the stern of the Sprint, shoulder-to-shoulder in the small space, both of them looking ahead at where Lariana stood behind the controls of the two-man, guiding the airship east. She had taken over at Arcannen’s request a short while ago, and he had given her a heading and a set of landmarks by which to navigate. Now she watched the land ahead as they flew, but Reyn noticed her intense expression. She was clearly listening to every word.

This did not seem to bother Arcannen, who continued his explanation. “Your family surname is Ohmsford. Frosch is either a given name or perhaps a name taken in marriage and passed down to you. But the name that matters where the wishsong is concerned is Ohmsford. The magic surfaced three generations after Shea Ohmsford used the Sword of Shannara to destroy the Warlock Lord. It was passed down from his grandson Wil to Wil’s two children, Brin and Jair. Wil Ohmsford had gone with the Chosen Amberle to save the Forbidding when it failed, and in the process had used Elfstones once given to his grandfather by the Druid Allanon. Shea was a Halfling, but Wil was less an Elf than a human. Use of Elfstone magic is dangerous if you are not a full-blooded Elf, the more so if you are not even a Halfling. So Wil risked much in using the Stones, but he did so to save the Chosen’s life. As a result, his body was changed by the magic, which infused his blood. This infected blood, in turn, was passed to his children.

“But it was a different sort of magic that emerged. Singing generated the magic of the wishsong, creating a fresh reality, changing and enhancing or diminishing in the process. The girl, Brin, had the stronger magic at first. Whenever she wanted to impact the world around her in a physical way, she needed only to imagine it and sing it into being. She was an extremely powerful magic wielder, and she nearly lost her life to her own magic. Her brother, Jair, had the use of the wishsong, too, but for him, it wasn’t real. He could only create the impression of something happening, not the reality. Smoke and mirrors were his stock in trade—although that changed for him later in life—but it proved to be enough to save his sister.”

Arcannen paused. “Do you recognize the similarities with your own magic? By singing songs, you affect your listeners. They see in their own minds what they wish to see. You sing lyrics and music that create impressions or recall memories or simply stir emotions that make them want more of what you are giving them. I don’t think you do this consciously. I don’t sense a singular purpose in your singing. I think you just offer it for them to sample. Am I right?”

Reyn nodded. “I guess so. I know I can make them feel things, but I don’t necessarily set out to make them feel anything in particular. I just want the music to reach them.” He hesitated. “But stirring up emotions and recalling memories is only part of it. The magic kills people, too.”

“Yes, but that’s not peculiar to you. All of the Ohmsfords who inherited use of the wishsong had that power. And almost all of them killed someone, intentionally or not. They were all faced with life-and-death situations in which either they fought back using their magic or they died. Hasn’t it been like that for you?”

Reyn glanced at Lariana, not wanting her to hear this part. But even though she was not looking right at him, he knew she was waiting to hear his answer. There was nothing he could do to avoid it unless he refused to continue.

“I haven’t tried to kill anyone. But when I defend myself, I can’t seem to control it. I become so emotionally distraught that the magic gets away from me. It lashes out with such power I can’t seem to stop it. Then people die. That’s what happened with the Fortrens when they attacked me. It’s happened in other places, too.”

For just an instant, he thought about explaining how he would become temporarily catatonic afterward. But he did not feel comfortable revealing that he suffered from such a debilitating and dangerous weakness.

Instead, he kept his gaze steady and said, “Can you teach me how to stop this? Can you help me do better about controlling the magic of this wishsong?”

Arcannen smiled. “I can do that and much more. I can teach you to use it in dozens of new ways. I can show you how it can be applied to do things you haven’t even thought about. The wishsong is a powerful and dangerous magic, Reyn, but it is a versatile magic, as well. Give me the chance, and I will open the door to its secrets. I will give you the knowledge you need to stay safe.”

Reyn glanced at Lariana, but she was looking out onto the horizon again. He waited a moment, hoping her gaze would shift, but she remained steadily focused on the way forward, as if no longer listening. “What do I have to do to for you in return?” he asked Arcannen absently.

“Nothing! I want to do this. I want to help you. Do you think I haven’t been subject to the same misgivings and fears that have haunted you? Do you think that mastering my magic was any less traumatizing or difficult? No, Reyn. It is like this for all of us who possess such gifts. And you do possess a gift of great worth. You will come to see.”

The boy nodded and found himself suddenly eager to start with his lessons. “When can we begin?”

“Very soon, but I have a prior obligation I must satisfy first. We travel now to make that happen. I am hopeful you will come with me. Perhaps you can even help. It would be your choice, of course. But, in fact, I can set you down and leave you wherever you like and come back to find you another time.”

“No!” Reyn was shocked at the vehemence of his response. The thought of becoming separated from Arcannen now, when he was so close to finding out secrets that would change his life, was unthinkable. He steadied himself. “I think it would be better if I stayed with you.”

“Then stay with me you shall.” Arcannen rose, clapping the boy on his back and giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Now rest yourself. We have much to do in the days ahead. I have more to tell you, but it can wait. You know the gist of things, and that’s what matters. Lariana! Come sit with our young friend and keep him company. Let me have the helm back for a time. I feel rested enough to manage.”

The girl waited until her mentor reached her, then stepped away as he whispered something and came back to sit once more with Reyn.

“What did he say to you?” the boy asked.

She grinned. “He said I should think about considering a future with you. He apparently thinks you and I would make a good match.”

Reyn blushed. “We haven’t known each other that long.”

“Well, I don’t know that there’s a timetable on these things. It seems to me you just have to let them happen. Look at me.”

He did, and she leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He kissed her back without thinking about it, wanting it to last longer than it did.

There was mischief in her eyes as she backed away. “See what I mean?”

Arcannen stood at the airship’s controls, awash in a welcome sense of satisfaction. Manipulating the boy had proved far easier than he could have imagined. The boy had no inkling who had attacked him back in Portlow; he still believed it was the Druids. He did not suspect the sorcerer, whom he now trusted and was convinced intended to help him.

Well, in a way, Arcannen did intend to help him, but only in order to help himself.

He could not yet be certain how useful Reyn would be, but the possibilities were intriguing. The potential was there; the wishsong magic was incredibly powerful. He needed to find a way to unleash it, though. The boy was frightened and reluctant to make use of it in the way Arcannen needed. He was hampered by his own insecurities and lack of confidence. Arcannen would have to change all that. He would have to reveal just enough to persuade the boy to do what was needed without hesitating or thinking too long about it. But manipulation was his specialty, and he would find a way.

He glanced down at the boy and Lariana. Perhaps the girl would do it for him. She had already enchanted Reyn; the boy could not take his eyes off her. His sorcerer’s instincts had not failed him; she had been the right choice after all. She was the perfect combination of approachable and unattainable. She was exotic, but at the same time she could draw you in. More important, though, she was willing to do whatever was necessary to further her own interests. His promise to teach her magic was a lure she could not resist. She wanted to better herself, and she knew that she needed help doing that.

She would be given her chance. If he still liked her well enough at the end of things, he would keep her on to serve him in whatever way he deemed best.

And if not, she would be left behind.

That was how life worked.

They flew on through the remainder of the day, continuing eastward toward the coast, speeding over increasingly rugged and barren terrain as farmland and inhabited country was left behind. There were no longer any towns or small settlements this far out. There was nothing much to sustain life this far into the badlands, and aside from small rodents and insects no evidence of life. Even the birds avoided this part of the Southland. Sparse grasses and scrub dotted the rocky countryside, but these were brownish and sunburned. Nothing green was in evidence; no water sparkled in the sun. It would be like this until they reached the coastal villages, which were still several hours farther on.

Arcannen’s passengers were sleeping, slumped against each other, the girl’s arm about the boy’s shoulders. It was a touching sight, but he did not respond emotionally. How they felt about each other was how he had told the girl they must, and she was working hard to make it happen. The boy would let her manipulate him; he wanted her badly enough that he could not help himself. He might question her motives—although Arcannen doubted it—but he would respond nevertheless. She would gain his confidence and help shape his thinking. In the end, it would be enough to place him firmly in Arcannen’s experienced hands.

He thought momentarily of the Druids, and especially of Paxon Leah and his sister. It was Paxon, back in Portlow, who had attempted to intercept the boy. He had known he would run across the Highlander sooner or later; there was a connection between them that made it inevitable. Perhaps it would be a while before it happened again, especially if Paxon had tried to save the female Druid by smashing his way into the cylinder that imprisoned her. He felt a momentary pang of regret that he hadn’t been able to stay around and watch it happen. It would have eased his unhappiness about driving Leofur farther away and losing Chrysallin Leah’s services.

By nightfall, their destination appeared ahead, misted and darkening, the last of the daylight fleeing west at their backs. Overhead, the moon and stars were visible in a clear, cloudless sky. He could smell the ocean—the vast waters of the Tiderace—wafting on the evening air, strong and familiar. He could just begin to hear the booming crash of the waves against the rocks.

The boy and Lariana were awake, peering ahead through the gathering haze. “Look ahead!” he shouted over the rush of the wind. “See the buildings?”

In truth, the buildings were toppled and crumbling, their walls blackened and their roofs mostly collapsed. Ruins awaited them, the devastation left by the men and women of the Red Slash.

“What is it?” Reyn called back.

Arcannen smiled and made a sweeping gesture. “Arbrox! Your new home!”

When they had landed and climbed from the Sprint, Reyn said to Arcannen, “This is our new home?”

Lariana, too, usually stoic and unruffled, was looking around doubtfully. “What is this place?”

Arcannen gave them a moment. They were standing at the perimeter of what had once been the fortress of the raider village. The walls were broken and collapsed from the attack of the Red Slash six weeks earlier. Charred and blackened stone marked the remains of the fires that had been set to burn out the inhabitants who were still in hiding after the Federation soldiers had killed the rest. Bodies picked down to bones by carrion birds and four-legged scavengers littered the landscape both inside and outside the shattered walls, dull pieces of white in the fading daylight.

“This way,” he ordered without explanation, moving toward a breach in the crumbling stone.

Inside, the collapsed buildings echoed with their footsteps in the deep silence as they picked their way through bones and debris. Nothing moved in the ruins, not even the birds that had fed on the dead after the carnage was complete. Arcannen remembered it all as if it were yesterday. He had never spoken of what happened here—not to anyone. Not until now. But today he would talk of it. These people had been his family—or the closest he had known in the five years of exile he had suffered after his flight from Wayford. They had taken him in, sheltered and fed him, made him one of them, and never asked a thing in return. Old Croy, who mended his shoes and clothing and told stories of his past. Melinhone, who cooked for him every day and kept him warm at night. The boy Phinn and the girl Derinda, brother and sister, who played in the yard of the home next door to his own, still children when they died.

The list went on and on, and every face on it was etched into his memory. All had died in the attack, and there had been no effort to spare them. It was understandable that the authorities would come after the raiders who had risked their lives from the moment they had chosen to prey on Federation shipping, but to make no distinction between those who were guilty and those who were innocent—those who were instigators and those who were no more than bystanders—was unforgivable. It was an affront to Arcannen and a blatant disregard of the laws of civility, and he could not abide it.

He explained all this now as he walked them through the remains of Arbrox from end to end, pointing out this and that space where a memory recalled itself, offering brief stories of those dead and gone, relating bits and pieces of the life he had enjoyed during the time he had lived here. The pain he felt in doing so was immense, but it was cleansing, as well. By telling of what hurt, he found fresh fuel for his determination to see it avenged.

“Do you not see the injustice of it?” he asked the boy as they walked on across the darkening landscape, glimpses of moon and stars now providing light for them to find their way forward. “A handful of these people broke the laws of a powerful government, but all who lived here were made to suffer for their violation. There was no effort to determine the guilty. The soldiers of the Red Slash were told that everyone was to be killed. The attack—which I witnessed—was meant to eradicate an entire people. It was an abomination against humanity.”

“But why do you still consider this your home?” the boy pressed him. “It isn’t really your home anymore.”

“Come,” Arcannen ordered, turning away.

He took them a short distance to an open doorway and then inside rooms where the ceiling was collapsed and the floor strewn with rubble. Without pausing, he continued on to an opening in the cliff wall behind and through to a darkened hallway. With a snap of his fingers, he produced a flame that danced on his fingertips. In the glow of its light, they made their way back into the darkness until he reached a shuttered door, heavy and metal-bound, the lock that secured it new.

Digging into his black robes with his free hand, Arcannen produced an iron key that released the lock. Without a word, he opened the door and stepped inside. The boy and the girl followed. Reaching out with the flame he had conjured, he lit a series of torches fixed in wall brackets until the room in which they stood was flooded with light.

“As you can see,” he said, indicating what lay within with a sweeping gesture of his hand, “it is indeed still my home.”

The room was furnished sumptuously and decorated with ornate wall tapestries and silks, colorfully woven rugs and bright paintings. Fixtures of gold and silver glittered in the torchlight, and colorful glass bowls shone from where they sat on tables and pedestals. Through other doorways and openings, the faint outlines of furnishings revealed bedrooms and a kitchen, and all the way in a long hallway that tunneled back into a deeper darkness.

“I returned when it was safe to do so and found these rooms empty and untouched. I brought in the things I required to make it comfortable, and I resolved that Arbrox would rise from the ashes. I could not save her people, my friends and protectors, but I could save their home. I could make it mine again, and l could live here as once I had intended I might. No one would come to bother me here—not in this dead and ruined place—so I did not need to worry about discovery. In its destruction, it came to serve me as the perfect hiding place while I considered what I would do to the Red Slash in retaliation for their acts against these people.”

“You are all alone here?” Lariana asked him, her face solemn.

“Until now. I am not the sort of man who requires a great deal of company. I can manage on my own, even though I would have preferred things to remain as they were before the attack.”

“But you intend to avenge what happened here?” Reyn hesitated. “How will you do that?”

“First things first,” the sorcerer declared, squaring up before the boy. “Gaining revenge on the Red Slash on behalf of the dead of Arbrox is the prior obligation I mentioned. I seek your help in completing it. Will you consider doing so? Will you provide me with the assistance I need?”

The boy looked uncertain. “Wait. Are you asking me to use the wishsong to kill these soldiers you blame for what happened here? These men and women of the Red Slash?”

Lariana stepped close to him and took hold of his arm. “I don’t think so, Reyn. I think he has something else in mind.”

She said it in a way that warned the sorcerer he would be making a serious mistake in giving Reyn any other answer. He smiled inwardly at her perceptive recognition of what would amount to crossing a forbidden line and was reassured anew that she had been the right choice for aiding him in his efforts to win over the boy.

“No, Reyn,” he said. “I am not asking you to use your wishsong to kill anyone. I would never ask that of you. I know how you feel. Killing others is exactly what you are seeking to avoid! You have asked me to help bring your magic under control, and I will do so. What I need to know is whether you are willing to help me in another way. Exacting revenge is my business, but you could help me with the details. Please consider doing so. You can see what has happened here. Do you not think, as I do, that it was an injustice and a travesty?”

The boy nodded slowly. “I do.” But the uncertainty had not left his eyes.

Arcannen seated himself, fixing his face with a troubled look. “We are both victims of a world in which magic is mistrusted and disdained. Here, in the Southland, under the auspices of the Federation government, it is even outlawed. Druids hunt down those who possess it in order to take it away. A movement is afoot to stamp it out completely where it is not under the control of those who judge that they, and they alone, should make use of it. Look what happened to you in Portlow. There was no effort to talk to you; you were attacked. Your magic is considered dangerous, just as mine is. We are outlaws and exiles by the very nature of who we are what we are capable of doing. No thought is given to intent or character. We are hunted and in most cases we are exterminated. Surely, you cannot believe this is right?”