SEVENTEEN
IN SPITE OF WHAT ARCANNEN MIGHT HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT the boy, Grehling was anything but slow. When the sorcerer departed the airfield and walked past him on the way into the city, the boy once again deliberately kept his head down and his eyes lowered so as to pretend to be absorbed in his work. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about the conversation that had just taken place. Why was the sorcerer so interested in the Highlander’s return? Knowing what had transpired during his first visit, it seemed unlikely Paxon Leah would consider coming back again. Yet Arcannen seemed to think it was possible.
And where was the other going now? Back to Dark House? Alone and on foot and without his guards? That was odd. He had seen Arcannen come and go from the airfield countless times over the years, almost always traveling by horse or carriage and with his collection of bodyguards close at hand.
But not this time. Grehling wondered why.
He waited until Arcannen was safely past and out of sight before lifting his head to look in the direction the other had gone, wondering again what he was up to. Because leaving as he had, alone and on foot, suggested he was up to something that he wanted to keep private.
He glanced over at the sorcerer’s airship, where the crew was dropping light sheaths and pulling down radian draws, securing the vessel in place. The guards Arcannen kept for protection milled about, looking bored and disinterested. Curiosity nudged the boy’s thinking, prodding at him like the poke of a finger against his arm. What was going on?
Almost immediately he found himself thinking back to the previous day and his sighting of the witch Mischa creeping about as she left for Dark House from her rooms in that all-but-empty building she occupied. He couldn’t have said why he connected the two—besides knowing that the witch was in Arcannen’s service and he had seen the two with heads bent close on more than one visit to the pleasure house—but he sensed he might be guessing right.
With the airfield safely under his father’s watch and no work that demanded his immediate attention, there was nothing to keep him from finding out if he was right. So he abandoned his task of repairing the skiff engine, told his father he was walking into town to look for spare parts, and set out. It was an obvious indulgence, a way of satisfying his curiosity and maybe seeing something he shouldn’t—an attraction for any fourteen-year-old boy—but he gave in to it readily with a boy’s excitement at embarking on an adventure. He didn’t do so with foolish disregard for the danger he was risking, because he understood that well enough, but he didn’t shy away from brushing up against it, either.
Down through the city he went, and he had only gone a short distance when he caught up to the sorcerer. Hard to mistake that tall, black-cloaked form, and he began following at a safe distance, staying out of the center of the roadway and up against the buildings. Arcannen didn’t slow, didn’t turn aside, and didn’t glance around. Apparently, he was unconcerned about the people around him, and after a while Grehling began to think he had been mistaken.
But as they neared Dark House, Arcannen paused at the corner of a side street, the one that Grehling knew led to Mischa’s building, and took a long, slow look around. The boy was already pressed back in the shadows by then, out of view of the sorcerer, little more than a part of a building wall. He stayed there for a long time, not bothering to try to peek out until he was certain Arcannen had moved on.
A quick glimpse confirmed that he was right about where the sorcerer was heading, and he began following him once again, more cautiously now, aware of the other’s heightened watchfulness. But Arcannen must have been satisfied he was alone; he had already moved down the side street and was out of sight. Grehling hurried after him and by the time he caught up to him again, close enough to see what he was doing, Arcannen had moved all the way down the alley to the exterior door of Mischa’s building, released the locks and latches, and was disappearing inside.
Standing on the side street across from the alleyway, Grehling considered his options. He had satisfied himself that his hunch about Arcannen was accurate, but he still didn’t know anything about the reason for the visit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with Paxon Leah, even if the Highlander wasn’t here. Of course, he hadn’t been here the last time Arcannen had told the boy to keep an eye out for him, had he?
But Paxon’s sister had, a prisoner in Dark House.
It was too far-fetched to believe she was a prisoner again, but Arcannen might have found another way to lure the Highlander to Wayford. Whatever the case, it was worth waiting around a bit to see what might happen next. All he had to do was be careful not to be seen.
So he moved down the street a short way and ducked into a second alley in which boxes had been stacked near a refuse bin. From there, he could see the entrance to the alley Arcannen had taken without being seen from across the street in turn. He hunkered down, put his rear end on the ground and his back against the building wall, and waited.
Grehling was slender, almost bony, not very tall or muscular—sort of your average fourteen-year-old. If he had to get away quickly, he could run very fast. He was good at following without being seen, at getting into places that were locked up, and at thinking things through in a thorough and logical way. He was something of a wizard himself when it came to airships, able to take them apart and put them back together almost mindlessly. He could fly them, too. He was a better pilot than his father; his father had said so. But if it came to a fight, he was in trouble.
He was afraid of both Mischa and Arcannen, and he did not want to be found by either of them. So he made sure the alleyway in which he was hiding opened at both ends—which the one leading to Mischa’s door did not—so that he had an escape route if he needed one. He would have loved to go up to the door of Mischa’s building, pick the lock, and have a look at what was inside, but he knew such an intrusion was far too risky to attempt. For now, at least, he would have to make do with watching and waiting.
The minutes slipped away, and Arcannen did not reappear. The boy grew impatient, but stayed where he was. He occupied his time with thinking about Paxon and his sword. Grehling really admired that sword, and he wished he could have it for his own. But he imagined it was a family heirloom, passed down from father to son, and Paxon would never part with it. He wondered if he could find a sword like that for himself. Was such a thing possible? He couldn’t imagine there were too many weapons of that sort lying around waiting to be found.
He was still daydreaming when a flicker of motion from across the street caught his eye, and Arcannen reappeared. Grehling, sitting quietly behind the refuse heap, watched as the sorcerer reached the opening of the alleyway and turned toward Dark House. The boy could see his face clearly, but could not read anything into his expression. He waited until the other was out of sight before rising and moving to where he could see the black-cloaked form disappearing from view.
He wondered what he should do. But there really wasn’t anything more he could do at that point, and he had almost made up his mind to return to the airfield when he heard a door slam from across the way and backed quickly out of view once more. Seconds later Mischa appeared, pausing at the head of the alley to look about, just as Arcannen had done moments earlier, before turning the opposite way the sorcerer had gone and shuffling quickly up the street. Grehling edged out from his hiding place so he could see where she went, watching as she continued on up the street until she was out of view.
The boy hesitated. Here was his chance to have a look inside the building. It was risky, but maybe the risk was worth it. Who knew what he might find? What if the sword was in there? Paxon’s black blade? What if Arcannen had stolen it and was keeping it hidden there?
He crossed the street quickly, dashed up the alley, and stopped when he reached the door. The only lock was on the latch plate, and he could tell at a glance it would not keep him out. He used the pick set he had been carrying with him since he was ten, and he had the door open in seconds. If the witch had used magic to secure the entry, he would have been in trouble. But there didn’t seem to be any present. Not that he could know for certain, of course. Still, when he tried to enter, there was no problem. Good enough. If they found out later someone had broken their wards, he wouldn’t be there anyway.
Inside, he looked about. The entire ground floor seemed abandoned. He followed the hallway to the back of the building and the stairs that led to the second floor. He remembered the location of the window where he had seen the light the previous night when he had caught the witch slipping out. He would look there first.
It occurred to him suddenly that if she was only going out for a few minutes and intended to come right back, she might not think it necessary to use magic to secure the premises. He thought he might be wise to hurry his investigation. The only way down from the second floor was by using the stairway or going out a window. Whatever happened, he didn’t want to be caught up here when Mischa came back.
He went up the stairs to the second floor and turned down the hallway to where the witch’s rooms were located. He stood before the door and put his ear against it, listening. No sounds were audible. He tried the handle. Locked. Again, he produced the picks, working the locks cautiously until he heard each release.
Pushing down on the handle once again, he opened the door and stepped inside. He was standing in a space with a couch and two chairs, a small dining table, and a stove. A hallway farther back led to several closed doors. He glanced around, assuring himself there was nothing lurking in the room’s deep shadows before he started down the hall. He stopped at a pair of closed doors, one on either side of the corridor. From beneath the door on the left, flashes of wicked greenish light were visible.
Now he was afraid. Really afraid. There was magic at use inside that room; he was certain of it. But he had no idea what sort of magic; he could not know what he would find if he opened the door to see. He was carrying no weapons, and he wasn’t big enough to stop much of anything that might come after him. He wondered suddenly if he had overstepped himself by coming in here in the first place. Maybe he should have let well enough alone until Paxon reappeared—if he was coming at all—and tell him what was happening and let him decide what needed doing.
But then he got angry with himself. He was not a coward, and he was acting like one. He could risk a quick look, couldn’t he? He had gotten this far. He was fast enough that he could slam the door shut again and flee down the hall and out of the building before anything in that room could get to him. Flashes of green light didn’t mean anything. Since when could that hurt you?
Since the Federation had found a way to reshape rough-cut sets of diapson crystals to create flash rips, he answered himself.
But what would something like diapson crystals be doing here? This was a witch’s lair, and magic was what would be waiting inside.
He took a deep breath, tightening his resolve. He would crack the door, he told himself. Just a bit. He would peek inside and see if anything threatened. If it did, he would run out of there immediately.
He could do this.
Even so, he almost didn’t. He almost listened to his worst fears and turned around and left. He almost gave it up then and there because he couldn’t think of any real justification for taking the sort of risk that opening that door would likely yield.
But then, almost on impulse, angry and impatient with himself, he pushed down on the handle and cracked open the door.
What he saw was confusing and scary. Bands of light crisscrossed the room, running everywhere in irregular patterns before converging on a bed near the back of the room where they wrapped about someone who was lying there. He could tell it was a person, even in the indistinct greenish glow. A thin covering outlined a body that jerked and shuddered and writhed in response to whatever the light was doing to it.
It was a surreal moment, and Grehling almost closed the door and fled. This was beyond anything he understood, and he needed to tell someone about it right away. But who would he tell? Who was going to come back here and go up against the witch? And likely face Arcannen, as well?
So he hesitated, trying to make out the prisoner’s face in the dim light. He was unsuccessful until a twisting of limbs and body brought her face into view, and he found himself looking at Chrysallin Leah. He stared in disbelief. So Arcannen had recaptured her and brought her back to Wayford, after all. But what was being done to her? What were these bands of light intended to accomplish?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. It was clear the witch’s magic was attacking her. He had to forget about getting help and get her out of there himself. There was no one else. A fourteen-year-old boy trying to get help with the story he would have to tell would only be laughed at. He would be ignored. Even the soldiers at the Federation army garrison would brush him off. Besides, he couldn’t let her continue to suffer like this. She was in obvious pain, in some sort of agony caused by the bands of light. She needed his help at once.
But what was he supposed to do?
He stood there, undecided. Time was running out. The witch would be returning. He had to act quickly. But anything he wanted to do began with entering the room. If he did that, would he be trapped in Mischa’s web, as well? Would he become bound up like Chrysallin?
There was only one way to find out.
He stuck his arm into the room. When nothing happened, he stepped inside the door all the way.
Immediately he was assailed by images of Chrysallin in strange places, a gray-haired Elven woman nearby, and various dangers threatening. The images filled his mind, buckling his knees with their darkness and intensity. He took another step, and the force of the images pressed down harder on him. They scrambled his thoughts, and on the bed Chrysallin Leah thrashed violently.
He closed his eyes to concentrate on steadying himself and took another two steps into the room. When he opened them again, the lines were fragmenting and losing focus, beginning in some places to curl up like burned threads and in others to fall away completely. There was a strange buzzing sound as the pulsing of the greenish light intensified.
Keep going, he told himself.
He continued on, moving with slow, steady steps toward the bed and the girl, trying to block out the images and to concentrate on what he knew he must do. The bands of light were collapsing altogether now, blinking into darkness, falling away. They offered no resistance as he passed through them, shredding and fading at his touch. Though the images continued, they were losing force, flickering in and out of his consciousness. His passage through the room was obviously disrupting the magic, and it gave him heart and persuaded him to continue.
By the time he had reached the bed, the bands of light had disappeared almost completely. He knelt by the girl and shook her gently.
“Wake up,” he urged. “Chrysallin? Can you hear me? Wake up!”
And she did, her eyes opening to find his face, horror-filled and despairing. “Who are you?”
“Grehling Cara. I’m a friend of your brother’s.”
Then her look changed to one of hope, and she sat up quickly and threw her arms around him.
“Thank you, thank you,” she whispered in his ear, holding on to him tightly. “Thank you for coming!”
“We have to go,” he said. “Quickly. Can you walk?”
He helped her stand, but she was clearly in a great deal of pain in spite of the fact that she seemed to have suffered no obvious injuries. He checked her over surreptitiously, conscious of her near nakedness and embarrassed to be looking, but he could find no wounds.
“You have to walk. I can’t carry you. But I can help support you.”
She was dressed in a night shift, and there was no sign of her clothes anywhere. He would have liked to find her boots, at least, but there was no time for a search. With one arm about her waist, he walked her toward the bedroom door.
Midway there, she stopped, looking back, glancing around. “Mischa,” she said.
“Back any minute.” He started her moving again. “We don’t want her to catch us here.”
“But her head? What happened to her head?”
He had no idea what she was talking about, and he didn’t want to take time to find out. So he just kept moving her toward the front door, helping her stay upright, one arm wrapped firmly about her slender waist. She was muttering to herself about things he couldn’t understand, every so often mentioning the Elven woman and Arcannen and her brother. It was enough to convince him that whatever was going on, it had to do with bringing Paxon back to Wayford. It also convinced him that the sorcerer and the witch were deadly serious about making this happen or they wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to kidnap the girl a second time and then layer her with bands of magic intended to …
He paused in his thinking. To do what?
In point of fact, what were those bands? He really didn’t know. But he would find out, once he got somewhere safe and could talk to Chrysallin about it.
“Keep moving,” he said. “You’re all right now. You’re doing fine.”
She murmured something unintelligible, but gripped him more tightly with the arm she had slung across his shoulders. She was tall, taller than he was, and it was awkward trying to steer her. She was keeping upright, but it was taking everything she had to do so.
“Don’t look at me,” she said at one point, and he thought she must be embarrassed by her lack of clothes and wished he could find a robe or shawl with which to cover her.
But there was no time for that or anything else. He had to get out of the witch’s rooms and her building and safely away. Time was something he didn’t have to waste.
He reached the door and flung it open and abruptly found himself face-to-face with the witch. There was no time to think, no chance to do anything but react. He slammed his fist into Mischa’s snarling face, catching her flush between her eyes. He was small and not much of a fighter, but desperation and fear lent him unexpected strength and the blow packed real force. Her head snapped back, her eyes rolled up, and down she went.
Leaning Chrysallin against the wall, he bent over the witch, made sure she was unconscious, then pulled off her boots and put them on the girl. In less than a minute, he had his arm around Chrysallin once more, steering her down the hall to the stairs, down the stairs to the first floor, then down the passageway there and out the door to the alleyway.
Whatever he was going to do now, he thought worriedly, he had better do it fast.