FIFTEEN
FOR CHRYSALLIN LEAH, LOCKED IN THE DARKNESS OF HER torture chamber, the madness continued unabated.
She lost track of the number of times she was visited by the gray-haired Elven woman and her henchmen. She lost count of the number of ways they found to hurt her. After a while, everything started to blend together, and it seemed that the torture never stopped for more than a few minutes, and the pain never stopped at all. There were no longer times of relief, not even small ones; the whole of her existence was a single endless wash of agony and humiliation. In the darkness, she felt increasingly alone, abandoned, forgotten. In the hands of her captors, subjected to their terrible ministrations, she began to feel her mind slipping.
In the brief moments when the pain lessened—a marginal reduction, at best—she found herself wondering what had happened to her brother. She began to imagine all sorts of terrible things. He had not come for her, and therefore she knew something had prevented him from doing so. Perhaps he was a prisoner, too, undergoing the same horrible experience she was. Perhaps he was injured and could no longer find the strength to act. Perhaps he was even dead.
She grew steadily more depressed as her hope diminished and her certainty that her fate was determined grew. She began to wish it would end, that everything would be over, that she would be allowed to die.
All the while, her tormentors never spoke to her. She waited for them to tell her what they wanted, but it never happened. She listened for the smallest sound, the briefest whisper, anything that suggested a reason for her captivity. Once there was a hint of laughter, and she felt relief even in that, though it was at her expense. She waited for more, prayed for more, but nothing came.
They fed her a liquid that was not water and not anything else she recognized. It relieved her parched throat, and while at first she was reluctant to drink it, in the end she was grateful for anything that would quench her thirst and did not care what it might be doing to her. They gave her no food. They gave her no chance to move about. She lost all sense of time and space, all ability to think of anything but her agony and its endless reoccurrence.
Then, at some point when she had given up waiting, with no warning and for no discernible reason, the Elven woman appeared, bent close to her, and whispered, “Tell me what you know.”
Chrysallin, her throat and mouth so dry and blood-filled she could not answer back, croaked in a desperate attempt to answer. But immediately a strip of cloth was tied about her mouth to prevent her from speaking. She tried to respond anyway, shrieking and crying into the gag, fighting to make the words take shape. Her efforts failed, and the Elven woman did not speak to her again.
In those few moments when she was left alone and awaiting the next onslaught of pain, she tried to make sense of what was happening. By doing so, she hoped she might find a way to free herself from the uncertainty that was eating at her. If she failed to do so, she knew she was going to continue on the road to madness. She could not survive what was being done to her without being able to imagine a rationale for its cause. Mostly, she thought it was about her brother. Mostly, she believed Arcannen was responsible. But she never knew for sure, and her belief was a slippery, elusive thing that she could never quite hold on to.
She was on the verge of losing her grip entirely when the door to her prison opened and a shadowy figure slipped into the room and came over to stand next to her. Although no sounds issued from the newcomer’s mouth, Chrysallin knew right away that this was not one of her tormentors, but someone new. Hands touched her gently, moving to her wrists and ankles, releasing her bonds. Arms came around her shoulders and gently helped her into a sitting position.
“I would have come sooner,” Mischa whispered, holding the girl close. “I tried. But they watch you so closely.”
Chrysallin tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She nodded instead, hugging the old woman back.
“There, there,” the other cooed, stroking her back, patting her softly. “Let’s get you out of here. Can you stand?”
Chrysallin shook her head. “Can’t … don’t look at me, please.”
Mischa made a titching sound. “They’ve gone too far. This is beyond reason. Here, I’ve brought you some clothes. Let’s get you dressed. You’ll be fine now. I’m here to help.”
Chrysallin was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she slipped into the clothes Mischa had brought, trying not to look at herself and at the same time to shield her battered, bloodied body from the old woman, ashamed of what had been done to her. She was so grateful she could barely manage to keep from breaking down completely, the emotions she had kept bottled up during her imprisonment now threatening to undo her.
“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right. I’m taking you out of here to somewhere safe. Just dress yourself. Hang on to me, if you need to.”
Chrys was shaking as she pulled on the clothes, the pain of her open wounds and damaged body causing her to gasp aloud. She eased herself carefully into the confines of the cloth, biting her lip against the rawness of the pain. It took her several long minutes, but Mischa never asked her to hurry.
“Lean on me,” Mischa told her. “Just stay with me.”
They moved toward the door, Chrysallin hobbling on feet and legs too damaged for anything more, supported by the surprisingly strong old woman. She managed to keep from crying out when her movements caused sharp stabs of agony, although she could not contain small gasps and groans.
“You know what they want, don’t you?” the old woman whispered as they slipped through the doorway and started down the empty hall beyond.
Chrysallin shook her head no. Her eyes scanned the shadows ahead, searching for the gray-haired Elven woman.
“They didn’t tell you?”
Another shake of her head.
“You don’t know anything? All that time they tortured you, and they didn’t tell you anything?”
Chrysallin was crying again, unable to respond.
“Then I will tell you!” Mischa hissed, “as soon as we are safely away. I will tell you what these monsters want!”
She guided Chrysallin ahead, moving at a steady pace, not rushing her, helping her to stand, speaking to her in low, hushed tones, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. The girl listened, clinging to the words as she would to a lifeline thrown in a violent dark sea, desperate to believe that this was the chance she had prayed for, a way out of her misery, a way back to her home and family. She forced herself to ignore her pain and her fear, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, telling herself that each step brought her that much closer to freedom.
They went out of the building and onto a street, but this was not a place Chrysallin recognized. The avenue was narrow and dark, the surrounding buildings crowded close, shadows cast everywhere, the sun shut away. It was barely daylight, the air gray and damp. The stones on which she walked were wet with a recent rainfall, and she had to be careful not to slip and fall.
They went only a short distance before Mischa turned her into the doorway of another building, and they went inside. From there they followed a hallway to a set of stairs that took them up one floor, then down another hall a short distance to where Mischa lived. Once inside her rooms, the old woman helped Chrys into a comfortable chair and brought her hot tea to drink. Mischa’s home was a living space, kitchen, and two back rooms the girl assumed were bedrooms. She couldn’t see beyond that. She sipped at the tea and waited for her rescuer to seat herself on the couch across from her.
“You listen to me, girl. You listen close. There’s things happening that might be not so much to your liking even beyond what’s been done to you. There’s schemes and trickery afoot, and that Elven woman is right in the middle of it. Now you and your brother have been brought into the mix, as well, and you might find it to your advantage to do something to change that soon.”
“How?” Chrys managed, her voice a croak, rough and blunted.
“By getting far away from here. By finding your brother and telling him what I am about to tell you. By being smarter and quicker than the witch woman and the sorcerer.”
“What … do you … know?”
The old woman leaned toward her, dark eyes intense, lips compressed into a thin line. Her bony hands clasped together as she rested her elbows on her knees. Her hawk eyes fixed on the girl.
“Arcannen is ambitious,” she said. “He is not satisfied with being just what he is now. He has much bigger plans for his future. They begin with destroying the Druids and taking their magic for himself, and he has found a way to do this. Before the month is out, a Druid will assassinate the Prime Minister of the Federation. When that happens, the Southland cities will rise up and crush the Druids once and for all. Then Arcannen will step into the void their departure has left.”
Chrysallin shook her head in confusion. “What … has this … to do with me?”
“You are the bait, girl. You are the spark to light the fuse. Arcannen will do this time what he set out to do before—trade you for that sword your brother carries. When the killing takes place, it will be with that sword, and the Druid who carries it out will be as much a pawn as you are. He will have done to him what’s been done to you. Do you understand me?”
“Tortured?”
“Now you have it. Tortured enough that the will is bent but not quite broken, the Druid’s spirit collapsed and made malleable enough that he will do whatever it takes to get free of the pain. Wouldn’t you have done the same, if I hadn’t come to rescue you?”
The Highland girl nodded. Indeed, she would have done anything.
“But you can stop this from happening. Listen close now. That woman that commands the torture? Do you know her?”
Chrysallin shook her head no.
“She hides the truth about herself. She pretends to be one thing when she is another. I have seen her reveal herself. When she is not here, she is in Paranor. She is a Druid!”
Chrys was staring at her. “How do … you know this?”
The old woman smiled. “I’ve cleaned Dark House for fifty years, and never a word of complaint, never a day taken that was not given to me. I am as much a part of that place as the furniture and less recognizable. They see right through me. They do not even realize I am there. They think me a crone with no mind and no purpose but to serve them.”
She paused, winking. “That’s how I found out about you. That’s how I learned they caught you and brought you back again after the first time. They talked when I was in hearing, and never knew I was there. Arcannen and his witch woman—they were both of them so much smarter than an old cleaning lady. They let everything slip out, saying how it would work, what it would do for them, when it would happen. I listened at the door to the room where you were held for other bits and pieces, knew what you were going through, but couldn’t get to you. Until now.”
Chrysallin could barely take it all in. It felt like another terrible dream, this whole tale of intrigue and deception. Her brother and herself made pawns, the Sword of Leah used for murder, the Druids infiltrated and subverted by the sorcerer’s magic, an assassination planned—could any of this be real?
“The Elven woman … is a Druid?” she repeated, her mouth gone dry again, her words scratchy and harsh.
Mischa nodded slowly, then rose and came over to the girl, bending down so that her lips were right next to Chrysallin’s ear. “But not just any Druid. Oh, no. She is disguised in clever clothes, that one.”
She stepped back and locked eyes with the girl. “The gray-haired lady, Chrysallin Leah, is the Ard Rhys!”
? ? ?
At Paranor, in Aphenglow Elessedil’s personal chambers, Paxon Leah sat facing her, his face horror-stricken. “How could this have happened?” he demanded.
Some days earlier the Druid assigned to keep watch over his mother and sister had been killed, and Chrysallin had disappeared. All this while he was off with Starks in the Southland village of Eusta, trying to track down the changeling that had been preying on the people living there. It was so impossible to believe that he was still trying to get his mind around the idea.
“Arcannen?” he asked.
She shook her head in a gesture of uncertainty. “It would seem likely, but we don’t know for certain. No one saw what happened to her. No one saw any sign of Arcannen. Chrysallin simply vanished. Someone took her, and now we have to find out where she is. We are looking.”
“It has to be Arcannen. He’s still trying to get at me through Chrys.” He rose quickly, his weariness forgotten. “I have to go find her.”
“Sit down, Paxon,” she said quietly.
Even though her voice was soft, there was iron in it—an unmistakable authority that he responded to instantly. Slowly, he lowered himself back into his seat. “You can’t expect me to do nothing,” he said to her.
“No, but I can expect you not to do something foolish. Before you go looking for your sister, you have to think it through. You have to know what you are up against. If Arcannen took her, he did so for the reason you already set out—to get at you. So he will be expecting you to come looking for her. He will be waiting for you. He will have a plan to take you prisoner, as well. Or at least a plan to persuade you to give him your sword. It won’t be like it was before. You won’t get your sister back so easily. You realize that, don’t you?”
He nodded sullenly. “I realize it. But at the end of the day I still have to go. I have to find him and deal with him. I have to save Chrys.”
“Then do so with a plan, not with little more than emotions and hope. Starks must have taught you that much in the time you’ve been with him.”
Paxon exhaled wearily. “He did. More than you know. You’re right. I have to give this some thought. He won’t have Chrys with him even if I find him. He will have her hidden away somewhere. He will use her as barter for the sword, but he won’t give me a chance to get her back without first giving up the sword.”
She stood up. “I want you to take Starks with you. He will provide balance to your impetuous urges. He will be a voice of reason and protect against foolish decisions. Listen to him. Do what he tells you. He has a lot of experience, and he tends to be calm even when things come closest to being out of control. Will you accept his help?”
“Of course. But he might not want to do this. It isn’t his problem.”
“I’ve already spoken with him about it. He has agreed to go with you and offer what help he can.” She paused. “He likes you, Paxon. He respects your determination and courage.”
“I would be grateful to have Starks come with me,” Paxon said at once.
“Then take today to talk about it with him. Think it through. Consider your options. Leave tomorrow, after you have done so. Remember that you won’t be helping your sister if you act out of haste. You can only help her if you are better prepared and smarter than whoever has her.”
He stood then and faced her. “Don’t worry. I’ll remember. But whatever it takes, I will get her back.”
Then he went out the door to find Starks.
Mischa sat down again, eyes still fixed on Chrysallin. “Drink your tea, get some liquid in your body. Then you should sleep. You’ll be safe enough here.”
“They’ll be … looking for me,” Chrysallin said.
“Arcannen’s away. His minions will look once they find you gone, but that won’t happen right away. Even when it does, they won’t know where to start. They won’t know how you got free or where you might have gone once you did. They’ll look, but mostly they’ll wait for his return.”
“But I … should go before … that happens. While … I still have … a chance to do so.”
“Not in your condition. You aren’t strong enough. Drink, now,” she repeated. “All of it. You leave after you’ve rested a bit, gotten stronger, clearheaded enough to know what you’re about. I can’t go with you. If they find me gone, they’ll know. I have to stay here, keep working, and not let them know I was the one who helped you. No choice in this, girl. I’m at risk now, too.”
Chrysallin nodded quickly. “I know.”
All the while, the pain that had racked her body for the time of her captivity continued to throb and pulse, a constant reminder of her weakened and debilitated condition. She tried to pretend it was getting better, but she could tell it wasn’t. Even without knowing how bad it was, she could be certain it wasn’t good. How many bones had been broken? How many ligaments torn? How many organs irreparably damaged by the torture she had suffered? She wanted to get a look at herself in a mirror, but she didn’t see one anywhere and didn’t want to ask the old woman to give her one.
She could only imagine how she looked. She was grateful to Mischa for not saying anything about it, for letting the matter be.
She set down her tea. “Is there … somewhere I can rest? Just for a little while?”
Mischa led her to one of the two bedrooms in the back of her home. It contained a single bed, a nightstand, and a chest of drawers. She guided Chrysallin to the bed and sat her down. “Sleep here. As long as you want. I’ll be close by. I don’t go back to work until tomorrow. By then, you can be on your way.”
“Where should I go?” Her voice was getting stronger now, clearer.
“Go to your brother. Go to Paranor to find him, if you must. But be aware of the danger you face if you do. She will be there. Home is Leah, but Leah is not safe, either. Arcannen will just come for you again. Best if you get to your brother. Just remember the Ard Rhys is not what she seems. Stay away from her.”
“But it’s Paranor. How can I avoid her?”
Mischa shook her head. “I don’t know. I just know you don’t want to fall into her hands again. Into Arcannen’s hands. If you do …”
She trailed off, looked away, and stood up. “Wait here.”
She left the room, was gone for a few minutes, and then returned. She sat next to Chrysallin on the bed. “Here,” she said. She handed the girl a long, slim object. It was wrapped in a soft cloth, but was hard underneath.
It felt like a knife.
Chrysallin looked at the old woman. “If you are threatened by Arcannen—in any form—use this,” the old woman said. “It’s what you think it is. But very special. Use it without hesitating, without thinking. There will be no time for either. Can you do that?”
Chrysallin nodded slowly, thinking of the pain and anguish, remembering what had been done to her. “Yes.”
Mischa stood. “I’ll leave it with you. It belongs to you now. Keep it safe.” She started away. “Keep it for when you are threatened. Especially by the Elven witch. Remember what she has done to you. Remember she will try to do it again.”
She stopped at the door and turned back, her face haggard, her eyes intense. “I will keep watch while you sleep. As long as I am able. At least until I have to return to Dark House to work on the morrow. But I will be back for you. Rest well, girl.”
Then she went out the door and closed it softly behind her.
It was nearing nightfall when Grehling made his way toward Dark House from the airfield with his delivery. A small box had come in during the afternoon, shipped from Arishaig for Arcannen. Normally, he would have brought it over at once. But Arcannen was not in Wayford now in any case, and he saw no need to rush. He waited until his shift at the airfield was finished—his father had given him the night off—before making the delivery.
He had no idea what was in the box and didn’t care to know. All that mattered was getting it where it was supposed to be and ending his involvement. His attitude toward the sorcerer had not improved since the incident with Paxon Leah and his sister, and he doubted that would change anytime soon.
He was closing in on his destination when he saw the old woman Mischa coming out of an alleyway beside the building where she lived. Right away he froze in place until she paused to look behind her, and then he stepped quickly into the deep shadows of a doorway. It was already hard to see, the light leached from the sky by night’s arrival and by rolling clouds that had blanketed the city since sunrise. Pressed back against the walls of the alcove, he watched the old woman creep into view like a predator in search of food and start down the street toward Dark House.
Immediately he decided to wait awhile before continuing on. He didn’t like Mischa. He couldn’t have said what it was exactly, only that his fear and dislike of her was a tangible thing and he suspected she was evil in a way that matched Arcannen. She and the sorcerer were two of a kind, twin dark stars in a firmament of scheming and machinations. He had only spoken to her a couple of times, and a couple was more than enough for him to form an opinion. It wasn’t that she threatened him or tried to harm him. It was his conviction that she could do either—and it wouldn’t cause her to lose much sleep if she did.
Even the way she moved was unnerving. Like a spider. He was small and skinny, so there wasn’t much of him to spy, but he was frozen in place nevertheless. People often didn’t see him because he was not particularly noticeable. He used that to his advantage here, willing her not to look in his direction but to keep moving ahead.
She did so, disappearing around a corner and moving out of sight.
He glanced back at the building. A single light burned in a window on the second floor. The rest of the building was dark.
That was probably where she had her rooms.
He wondered why she seemed so furtive around her own home, as if not wanting anyone to see where she was coming from. She lived there, after all; everyone knew it. So why all the stealth and suspicion? Why all the casting about, as if afraid she would be seen?
He wondered suddenly what her place was like inside. He wondered what she kept in there.
Grehling gave her almost half an hour before resuming his delivery. Then he hurried on, dropped the package at the front door with the guards, and went his way, the matter set aside, but not forgotten.