SIXTEEN
CHRYSALLIN LEAH’S SLEEP WAS DARK AND DEEP AND FILLED with nightmares. In succession they flooded her troubled mind, stealing away the momentary peace she had experienced after being rescued by Mischa, returning her to a sense of impending doom.
The first began in a meadow where she walked through sunlight toward a river, accompanied by her brother. Paxon was cheerful and his laughter was bright, and she felt his strong presence as a reassurance of her safety and freedom. She felt buoyant and at ease as she traversed a carpet of meadow wildflowers and smelled their sweet scent wafting on a soft breeze.
But soon she sensed a lessening of the wildflower presence as the swatches of color and the smells on the air diminished and then faded completely. She was in a pasture now, its carpet all dried and browned, the green of the fresher meadow grasses having disappeared. The skies had lost the sun’s brightness, and clouds had moved in to curtain the blue. She slowed, hesitating, and as she did so she felt something grapple at her ankles and wrap about her legs. She looked down and found herself entwined by saw grass and weeds, whipcord-tough and working hard to bind her in place and hold her fast.
She struggled to break free, but the weeds and grasses were too strong, and finally she could not move at all. In desperation, she turned to find her brother, but he had disappeared. She cast about desperately, calling out his name, trying to discover what had happened to him. She could not believe he had left her like this, without a word of warning.
When she looked again to where she had last seen him, the gray-haired Elven woman who had bound and tortured her in Dark House was standing in his place, smiling. Her lips moved, shaping words that Chrysallin understood, even though they made no sound.
Tell me what you know.
Chrys screamed in terror, grasping for the knife she knew was tucked within her belt and finding it missing. She wrenched furiously at the grasses, but they only clung all the tighter to her. She clawed at strands and stalks, trying to pry them away from her, but they refused to budge.
Then tiny bugs emerged from the earth beneath her feet and began to climb her legs, working their way under her clothing and into her boots. She could hear the gnashing of their tiny teeth, and then they were biting her, tearing at her flesh. She felt her skin break and her blood begin to flow. She collapsed in despair, shrieking.
The bugs were suddenly all over her.
Abruptly, the meadow with its bugs and withered grasses and the gray-haired Elven woman disappeared into blackness, and she was alone again. She felt herself rising, and when the light returned, she was standing on a mountainside, high up in the clouds, wind whipping snow and particles of ice against her skin. She wore no coat, hat, or gloves. The cold was bitter and relentless as it tore at her clothing and lashed her skin. She stared about, looking for where she was supposed to go, thinking there must be a trail leading down. Yet she could barely see beyond her outstretched hand where it braced her against the cliff face.
Eventually, she took a few tentative steps along the narrow path on which she stood. But the path led neither up nor down, and she could not see if that changed beyond where she crept along its slender length. She kept going nevertheless, knowing she must get off this mountain. If she stayed where she was, she was going to freeze to death. She would die if she did not find shelter.
Then an opening in the cliff wall appeared and she ducked hurriedly inside. She was in a huge cave, one that stretched away in all directions before her. The walls gave off a pale greenish light, a glow that chased back the darkness. Time slipped away as she proceeded deeper into the cavern, losing sight of where she had entered, finding that the walls ahead did not seem to get any closer as she went.
She was thinking of turning back again when the gray-haired Elven woman appeared, emerging from the shadows right in front of her. She drew up short, cringing involuntarily at the other’s approach. She took a step back, intending to flee. But the other stopped, hands at her side, smiling in a way that suggested to Chrysallin that flight was pointless.
Lips formed familiar, soundless words: Tell me what you know.
Then the shadows layering the walls lifted and became vague figures that took shape and approached like wraiths through the cavern gloom. Chrysallin backed away, but everywhere she turned, the shadows were closing in on her. She forced down the scream rising in her throat, fought back against her fear as it threatened to suffocate her. The shadows were close to her now, and there was nowhere for her to go, no avenue of escape open, no chance of finding help.
When they reached her, she had her hands up to her face and her eyes squeezed shut, and she could feel their touch on her body like the icy fingers of creatures long dead and frozen.
Help me, she begged the darkness. Please, help me.
The shadows draped her, and her breathing was cut off.
Seconds later she was standing on the cliffs above an ocean, looking out over a vast blue expanse of empty water. The cliff on which she stood was a thousand feet high, and its precipice was rocky and barren save for small tufts of sea grasses. Below, the face of the cliff disappeared into the water, a smooth sheer surface from which to tumble. She found the urge to do so almost irresistible. Strangely inviting. She could throw herself over, fall unimpeded to the ocean’s depths, and escape the nightmares that plagued her. She was aware of them, even in her dreams, knowing they would come again and again, never-ending visual impressions of what threatened her. It was almost more than she could stand, and relief could only be found if she were to give herself up to a watery tomb.
The sense of hopelessness she felt at what was happening to her was overwhelming. It was relentless and purposeful, and there was nothing she could do about it but jump and be done with her life. Why not give in to the urge? Why not save herself from further pain and fear? Was her life so precious that she would endure it even in the face of such misery?
Again, the gray-haired Elven woman materialized out of nowhere, standing close, looking at her, smiling.
Suddenly she found a well of strength she didn’t know she possessed—a strength given life by the hatred she felt on looking at this monster. Her rage was fueled by thoughts of what she would like to do to this creature, of how good it would feel to make her suffer for what she had done. White-hot and unchecked, her anger burned through her, providing fresh purpose and determination.
With a cry, she launched herself at the other, hands outstretched, intent on tearing the other’s face off, of obliterating her smiling presence.
But when she reached her, the Elven woman wasn’t there, had become a wraith that faded away, and Chrysallin passed through her empty image and toppled over the cliff’s edge and began to fall. All at once, she knew she had made a mistake. She didn’t want this to happen. She didn’t want to die. She had been tricked.
Too late. She was plunging toward the flat, hard surface of the ocean, and she knew that when she struck she would be killed on impact. There was no hope; her fate was determined. But the fall went on and on, and it would not end. She screamed now, and curled herself into a ball as the wind rushed past and the sound of the waters below lapping against the cliff face reached her ears. Soon now, she kept thinking. Any second.
But still she fell and did not stop.
She woke in the bedroom in which she had fallen asleep, still in Mischa’s home. But now she was lashed in place again, spread-eagle across the bedding, her arms and legs held fast. The men who had tortured her were back again, gathered close, watching. Their eyes glittered in the light of smokeless lamps that cast their shadows on the walls behind them, larger than life. They held metal implements that would cut and rend. They were stripped to the waist, their muscled arms gleaming. None of them spoke a word as they stood there watching her, waiting.
Then, from the darkness, the familiar voice said softly, “Begin.”
Chrysallin twisted and thrashed in response, trying to break free, to escape what was coming, and as she did so she caught sight of Mischa’s severed head resting on a platter on the nightstand next to the bed, eyes open and staring.
Then the pain began anew.
Aphenglow Elessedil was working through the contents of an address she was planning to present to the Coalition Council of the Southland Federation—one of the rare personal appearances she would make in the coming months—when Sebec appeared in the doorway of her offices in response to her summons. He entered quietly and she could tell at once from the look on his face that he knew something was wrong.
She set aside her speech and turned to him. “Have you inventoried the storage chambers lately?”
He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed the door behind him and came all the way in. His young face was strained, and there was a hesitancy to him that suggested whatever it was he had to tell her was not something he could relate easily.
“We’ve had another theft,” she said finally.
Which would make four altogether, including the disappearance of the scrye orb. She thought she had put a stop to it. She had placed wards on the doors to the storage chambers where the magic artifacts and instruments were kept cataloged and sealed away. She had used magic that only she and Sebec could unlock, the latter given access from the first because she trusted him in his role as personal secretary in a way she had seldom trusted anyone in her 150 years of life, and because someone besides herself had to have access to the chamber in case anything happened to her. She had determined long ago that once the Druids had found and recovered lost magic, it must be kept safe from misuse and irresponsible hands.
But someone had breached her protective efforts three times in recent months, stealing magic for reasons that were not entirely clear. It was a given by now that it must be one of them—a Druid acting alone or on behalf of an enemy of the order, a rogue who had penetrated her usually thorough assessment of an applicant’s suitability. It had been a bitter discovery on learning of the first theft, and it hadn’t become any easier to accept with the ones that followed.
Now this.
“Another?” he repeated. “What is it that’s missing this time?”
She took a steadying breath. “The Stiehl.”
The blade the assassin Pe Ell had used to kill Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River, centuries ago in Eldwist, the lair of the Stone King. Its blade was so sharp, it could cut through rock. It had vanished and reappeared time and again over the years until finally it had been recovered and sealed away for good.
The Stiehl had been accorded special treatment, the wards that protected it complex and layered. No one should have been able to get to it.
“You’re certain, Mistress?” he asked.
She nodded. “I had decided to do a survey of the artifacts, comparing the actual items to our listings in the catalog, when I noticed the wards that protected them were broken. At first, I couldn’t believe it. I thought I must be mistaken. I even searched the entire set of chambers, every nook and closet, every shelf and container. It took me all afternoon. But it wasn’t there. It was gone.”
She watched Sebec’s brow furrow in dismay. He understood the seriousness of what she was telling him. It was one thing to have the scrye orb stolen—a magic that, while important, was not particularly dangerous. But the Stiehl was another matter. Here was a killing weapon against which there were few protections. All sorts of bad things could happen if this blade fell into the wrong hands.
Only the loss of one other artifact would be more devastating. But the crimson Elfstones, or draining-Stones—which had been recovered by Redden Elessedil from within the Forbidding decades ago and given over to the order by his brother, Railing—were not housed in the chambers that contained the other artifacts. She kept them in her own chambers, in large part because after all these years she was still toying with the possibility of returning them to the Elves.
“Do you have any idea at all who took it?” he asked, referring again to the Stiehl.
“None at all. Like the other thefts, it was carried out when no one was around. The wards were negated and bypassed, and the weapon found by someone who clearly knew where it was being kept. I had a careful look about when I realized what had happened, thinking I might find some hint of who had been there. But whoever did this knew what they were doing.” She paused. “Did you inventory everything after the last theft? Are we sure the Stiehl was still locked away at that point?”
“I inventoried everything after every theft. So, yes, it was still where it was supposed to be.”
“When was that? Maybe two weeks ago?”
“About that.”
“Hardly any time at all. Our thief believes we are helpless to stop him, so he continues to steal.”
Sebec shrugged. “It seems we are helpless.”
A dark possibility crossed Aphenglow Elessedil’s mind—one so repulsive she almost dismissed it out of hand. But then she considered what was at stake and made a decision. She rose to face him. “These artifacts being stolen are increasingly more important. I must be concerned now for the safety of the crimson Elfstones. They’ve been safe enough in my quarters, but I think I should move them to the artifact chamber. I will do so this afternoon. Will you assist me in setting the wards?”
“Of course,” Sebec said. “Though perhaps you should leave the Elfstones where they are since they’ve been safe enough so far.”
“No, I think it would be better to move them. I will create new wards for the entire chamber. No one will be allowed inside but you and me until further notice. I will ferret out this thief or I will catch him in the act. The stealing stops now!”
“Yes, Mistress,” the other acknowledged.
“Send Starks and Paxon to me. I want to speak with them before they leave.”
Sebec nodded, backing toward the door. She was furious, and she knew he had seldom seen her like this. But an Ard Rhys had a breaking point, just like everyone else. She had reached hers, and she was not likely to calm down again until the thefts were resolved.
When he was gone, she took a deep breath, reconsidered at length the dark possibility that had occurred to her earlier. The more she looked at it, the more likely it became and the unhappier she grew.
But there was no help for it. It was what it was, nightshade by any other name still deadly poisonous. When she was finished thinking on it, she exhaled sharply to relieve the tension that had built up within and set about making herself a pot of tea.
It was midday of the following day when Arcannen arrived back in Wayford, his personal airship—courtesy of Fashton Caeil—with its distinctive raven emblem emblazoned on the mainsail setting down in its assigned space. Disembarking, he crossed the airfield, leaving his crew and personal attendants behind, choosing to go alone to his meeting with Mischa. Having finished his business with Fashton Caeil for the moment, his attention was refocused on Chrysallin Leah. By now, she should be sufficiently subverted that she would carry out his plans for the Druids. Mischa was resourceful and relentless when it came to mind alterations, and she would be no less so here where she knew how much was at stake.
Nevertheless he was anxious about this plan, even if it was his own. So much depended on everything falling into place at just the right time and in the right way. A failure on any front would scuttle the entire effort, and the most obvious risk lay with how the girl would respond to what was being done to her.
He intended to extract a further guarantee from Mischa this very day that her magic was doing what she had promised.
Tall, spare, and shadowed within his cloak and cowl, he cut an imposing figure as he passed the field manager’s boy where he worked on repairs to a parse tube set up on blocks close by the business office. The manager himself was present, sitting inside the building, visible through the viewing window, head bent to whatever task currently occupied him. He waited for either of them to glance up at him, but when neither did he dismissed them automatically from further consideration. The boy was occasionally useful, his father less so. Neither had an important place in his life. Even so, he supposed he was more comfortable passing them by unnoticed.
But then he stopped abruptly and turned toward the boy, a new thought occurring to him. He considered it momentarily, then he walked over. Now the boy was looking up at him, an uncertain look on his face.
“Do me a favor,” the sorcerer said to him. “You remember the Highlander I asked you to direct to Dark House a few weeks ago?”
The boy nodded.
“If you see him again, if he flies into Wayford, alone or with others, I want you to come at once to Dark House and let me know. Can you do that?”
The boy nodded once more, but didn’t say a word.
“You’re certain you can do this? You understand what I am asking. I don’t want the Highlander to know what you are about.”
“I understand,” the boy said.
“There will be something in it for you, if you do as I say.”
The boy nodded, but didn’t respond. A bit slow, Arcannen thought to himself, but reliable. Though he wondered suddenly how Paxon Leah, on his earlier visit, had managed to find a way into Dark House without alerting his guards. Had the boy told him?
He dismissed the idea; the boy would never risk the consequences.
He left the airfield behind and walked down the streets of the city, eschewing carriages and horses, feeling the need to stretch his legs and wanting to be alone. Passersby gave way to him, most moving all the way over to the other side of the street. He knew they were frightened of him, and it pleased him to see them demonstrate it openly. It was always better to be feared than respected. Respected men could be approached; they could be talked to and reasoned with. But feared men were simply to be avoided; reason and small talk were out of the question.
He walked not to Dark House, but a short distance farther on to where Mischa’s home was located on the second floor of a seemingly empty building. He took a few moments standing on the walkway of a side street where he could make certain no one was watching him, then crossed to the other side and moved quickly down the alleyway. The lock on the outer door of the building was familiar to him, and he released it easily. Once inside, he passed into the hallway beyond and went up the stairs at its end and down a second hall to Mischa’s front door.
There he paused, listening to the quiet before knocking softly—one loud, three soft—the agreed-upon signal. Time passed, then the locks released, the door swung open, and Mischa stood there looking out at him.
He was surprised at her appearance. She never looked particularly well, because she was old and withered and worn. Still, she almost always seemed composed and steady, even in the most stressful of times. Not today. Today she looked haggard beyond anything he had ever seen, her features contorted, her mouth twisted in a grimace, her eyes ablaze with intensity and raw emotion.
He jumped to an immediate conclusion. “You’ve killed her,” he said.
The grimace turned into something even more horrible. “Likely she’ll kill me first. Come inside.”
The crone turned away and walked into the living area without a glance back. Arcannen followed, closing the door behind him. “She’s all right, then?”
She wheeled back, and the sharp eyes fixed on him. “That depends on your point of view. She’s where I want her to be, but she is strong, that one, fighting me every step of the way, and I can’t be sure at this point if I’ve persuaded her or merely captured her attention for a time.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Mostly, it’s aggravating. She has a strong mind—much stronger than anyone else’s I’ve worked on. She has a core to her that defies explanation. There’s something there. What is her history? What is there about her that might explain this?”
Arcannen shrugged. “You know the family. Kings and Queens of all Leah once, now simple folk. The brother wields the sword, compels the magic by virtue of his bloodline. Maybe she could, too. Maybe that’s her strength.”
“Strength, yes. But are you assuring me she has no magic?”
“None that I know of. But most of what I know was recently learned. Only since I became aware of the sword. It seems the girl talked about it regularly at the tavern, though apparently no one there paid much attention. Even the tavern owner, who was the one who told me about it, insisted it was just another legend, another wild tale. Where was the proof that this weapon was anything special? It was nonsense. But I knew better. That was when I first began considering the possibility that I could acquire the weapon by holding her for ransom, and then you could turn the boy to our cause by altering his mind as you are altering the girl’s. Of course, that’s all changed now.”
Mischa shook her head. “Well, there’s something more to her than what’s on the surface. I don’t like it. She should have succumbed by now. But she’s still hanging on, clinging to something I can’t identify. We may have her convinced of what is happening and who is to blame, but it would be a good idea if we set her to her task as quickly as possible. The longer she lives outside my influence, the more likely she will come back to herself when we don’t expect it.”
“Perhaps you need more time with her?”
She gave him a look. “If I do much more to her, I will break her entirely. Then she will be useless. What we need is to keep her close another day and then speed her to your chosen destination and put an end to this business.”
“Another day? I think we can manage that. But are you sure that is enough to do the job?”
“I’m not sure of anything, sorcerer. I’m working with smoke and mirrors. I’m groping in the dark. But I have the skills and the experience, so don’t you worry yourself. I’ll make her our cat’s-paw. I’ll turn her to our uses and set her abroad to be the weapon you intend.”
“Let me see her.”
The witch hesitated. “Very well. But only for a minute and only through the doorway. You cannot enter the room; it would disturb the magic’s workings. The skein is delicate and complex. Only I can enter until its work is done.”
Arcannen nodded his agreement, and she led him down the hallway to the back rooms, stopping at the last door on her left. The door was closed, but flashes of light shone from beneath it, illuminating patches of flooring.
She looked back at him. “Say nothing when I open the door. Do not move from where you stand.”
Again, he nodded, irritated by now. Did she think he knew nothing of the magic she worked?
But he held his tongue, intent on making his own determination about how matters were proceeding. Mischa grasped the latch and carefully lifted so that the door swung open wide and everything within was clearly revealed.
The entire room was crisscrossed with bands of wicked green light, all of it pulsing softly. The bands ran everywhere and in no discernible order. Chrysallin Leah lay on a bed near the back of the room, her body covered in a thin sheet. The lines wrapped all about her, and it seemed as if many passed through her body. She twisted and squirmed in their grasp, her movements feeble and ineffective. She moaned softly, and sporadically she emitted small gasps.
Arcannen nodded to himself. She was deep in the nightmares Mischa had conjured for her, caught up in visions that would shape her thinking. She believed herself to be in the hands of the gray-haired Elven woman and her henchmen, being tortured and disfigured in an effort to divulge something of which she was unaware and they would not reveal. Her fear and rage were being directed toward her tormentors, deliberately and exclusively, and particularly toward the Elven woman.
He had seen enough. He nodded to Mischa, who closed the door softly and secured the latch. “She comes to us more and more, Arcannen,” the old woman said. “Her thoughts and actions become less and less her own and more and more ours. She will do what she is being trained for when the time comes. You could see it for yourself.”
“But she resists?”
“More than I would like. But not enough to change the eventual outcome. Another day, perhaps two, and she will be unable to function using free will. She will become our puppet, and she will do what she is being conditioned to do. Trust me.”
He trusted no one, but he nodded anyway. “Let us hope so,” he said. He turned away. “Come get me at Dark House when she is ready. I will take charge of her then and speed her on her way.”
He went through the house and down the hallway to the stairs without looking back.