TWENTY
THE CITY WAS SILENT, THE STREETS EMPTY.
It was well after midnight when Starks and Paxon began their walk toward Dark House. The former led the way, wrapped in his familiar black robes, hooded now and shadowy against the worn cobblestones, and Paxon kept close behind. The Highlander felt the weight of the Sword of Leah pressing against his back with every step he took, a reminder of what most probably lay ahead. He did not think for a minute that any rescue of Chrysallin would come without a struggle. This time would not be like the last. Arcannen would be fully prepared, aware of the power of the Sword and looking to catch him off guard one way or another.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the movement of shadows from within alleyways and along walls. Bits and pieces of darkness, layering and separating, changing shapes by the instant. They might be human or animal, tree limbs or bushes, or they might be nothing at all. He kept his focus on the roadway ahead, not trusting his vision, using his other senses to warn him of possible danger. The deeper into the city they went, the less easy it became to see what waited. A skein of fog was settling in, forming in a mix of cold air and city warmth, clogging the streets and alleyways as it slowly expanded, snaking this way and that in search of fresh space, flooding yards and open spaces, banking up against stone walls. It thickened steadily, tightening until they were enveloped.
Starks slowed, studying the whiteness that obscured the way forward, clearly unhappy. He glanced over at Paxon, nodded to one side, and led him off the street and onto the walkway.
There, he stopped and lifted his face to the sky.
“Something is out there,” he whispered.
They were only blocks from Dark House now, so Paxon assumed the Druid believed that whatever he was sensing had something to do with Arcannen. He waited patiently as Starks stood silent and unmoving, eyes closed.
Then, abruptly, the Druid started forward again, and Paxon went with him. The Highlander found himself wondering about Grehling. Was it possible the boy had done something foolish and run afoul of Arcannen? He had been willing to risk himself earlier by telling Paxon how to break into Dark House. He had some experience dealing with both the sorcerer and his lair, so he might have been willing to take a further risk.
But he couldn’t know of Chrysallin’s kidnapping, could he?
Although, hadn’t he known of it before? Just by being present on the airfield when she was brought in? Was it too much to think he might have seen something this time, too?
In any case, he was worried for the boy, and he promised himself he would make sure Grehling wasn’t in any danger before he left Wayford.
Thoughts of Chrysallin’s fate haunted him. He couldn’t stop imagining all the things Arcannen might have done to her. Might even now be doing to her. He tried to tell himself that the sorcerer was after him, not her, but even that didn’t quite dispel the horrific images his mind seemed determined to conjure up. Guilt plagued him. Chrysallin should never have been involved in all this in the first place. She had nothing to do with any of it, a pawn the sorcerer had played to checkmate Paxon, bait to bring him to the hook. He hated that he was the cause of the situation she was in. He berated himself for leaving her unprotected. He should have turned down the offer to go to Paranor to train. He should have stayed with her and been ready when Arcannen resurfaced, and then he could have put an end to him.
But he knew that was foolish. What chance would he have had? He’d never killed anyone. He’d never before used magic. He had barely managed to wield the power of his sword the first time he’d gone to bring Chrysallin back. Only with the training he had received at Paranor in the use of arms and magic would he be able to survive a second encounter with the sorcerer.
And even then, he would be at extreme risk.
A cat darted across the roadway, a blur in the haze, a phantom. Paxon started in spite of himself, though Starks seemed unaffected. The fog was everywhere now, swirling gently in the night air, shifting to open and shut windows all around them, revealing momentarily parts of buildings and streets before closing about once more.
The minutes slipped away. Paxon lost track of where they were. In the fog, it was impossible to find anything to tell him. But Starks kept moving ahead, seemingly aware of where they were and where they were going, steadfast in his passage. Streetlamps burned out of the haze now and again, never bright enough to reveal much, but indicators at least that they were still keeping to the roadway and had not wandered off into the endless dark untethered from reality.
“There,” Starks said finally, pointing ahead.
Paxon stopped next to him. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything different. Then the fog shifted slightly, just enough that he could make out the front entrance to Dark House and a scattering of lights burning in the windows.
The Druid turned to him. “We’ll try going straight in. I will go first. You will watch my back. There will likely be someone on the door. I will deal with whoever that is. Keep your sword at the ready, but don’t use it unless we are attacked. We might get lucky enough to reach Arcannen before he is warned.”
He paused, waiting. Paxon nodded. “We have to find her,” he said. “Whatever else happens, we have to save her.”
Starks gave him a crooked grin. “We will.”
They crossed the street, went up the short set of steps that led to the front door, and stopped. Starks moved Paxon out of the line of sight offered by the peephole, but stood fully revealed himself. He pulled back his hood, adjusted his robes, and knocked.
The window on the peephole opened. “Name?”
“I’d rather not give it,” Starks replied with a rueful grin. “I’m just a man looking for a glass of ale and some personal comfort. Can you provide some of each, perhaps?”
The slide closed and the locks released. The door opened. Starks remained where he was, smiling at whoever was standing on the other side, not rushing in or showing any urgency.
“Lovely evening,” he said.
Then he stepped through the door. There was a muffled reply, a gasp, and finally a more distant grunt of surprise. Paxon peered around the door frame to find Starks holding a burly doorman pinned flat against the wall, his mouth working like a fish out of water, but with no sound emerging. Farther down the hall, a second man lay slumped against one wall, unmoving. “Close the door,” the Druid said.
Paxon did so. Starks moved close to the doorman, and their eyes locked. “Listen carefully,” the Druid said to his captive. “I will ask some questions. You will answer them. If you disappoint me, I will break your neck.” He paused, studying the man. “Is any of this not clear? Nod if you’ve understood it all.”
The man, now turning an interesting shade of purple, nodded vigorously.
“First question. Is Arcannen in Dark House?”
The man nodded.
“Is he on this floor?” A negative shake. “Upstairs, in his office?”
Affirmative nod.
“Are there guards with him?”
Another negative shake.
“Has he gone to bed?”
The man hesitated, managed to shrug. Then, an uncertain nod.
Starks reached out with his free hand, pinched the man’s neck hard near the shoulder, and the man collapsed in a heap.
“There will be more guards. We need to avoid being seen. There are back stairs down the hall and off to the left. Come.”
They moved down the corridor without encountering anyone else. Once again, Paxon was struck by the lack of guards and protections. Just as he had the first time, he sensed the possibility of a trap. But Starks seemed unconcerned, and so they reached the side passage and the stairway without incident.
Again, Starks paused, his voice a whisper. “Arcannen’s personal quarters are on the third floor. We will look for him there. If we find him, we will subdue him, then look for your sister.”
“I know where she was last time,” Paxon offered.
Starks nodded. “She won’t be there this time. The sorcerer knows you are coming. He will have moved her. But we might find someone who knows where he is keeping her.”
The Highlander nodded.
Together, they began to climb the stairs.
Arcannen sat at his desk, studying charts on supplies of potions and elixirs, on ingredients used in the construct of magic and conjuring forms he favored. It was busywork, admittedly, but he was not sleepy and he had done all he could about Chrysallin Leah for the moment. After Mischa had left, he had summoned a dozen of his guards and sent some to search the streets and some to watch the airfield. Chrysallin would show up at one place or the other. They would find her.
If Mischa didn’t find her first, of course, using her usual golems and familiars to track her down. He didn’t favor such things himself, preferring more reliable magic, but the witch had learned her skills differently than he so he had to accept her as she was. Besides, if her efforts yielded results he might even be inclined to forgive her for letting the girl escape in the first place. He might begin viewing her once again as indispensable to his plans.
He might, but not likely.
It always came down to the same thing. You could only rely on yourself. It didn’t matter about skills or experience or promises or good intentions or anything else when it came to placing your faith in another person—even someone you were close to, someone who had raised and nurtured and mentored you. You were always the first, best choice for making sure matters turned out the way you wanted. It wasn’t always possible for you to handle everything personally, but it was always possible for you to choose which things you would.
In this case, he had made a poor choice leaving Chrysallin Leah in the witch’s hands rather than keeping her close to him in Dark House.
Water under the bridge now. He would have to hope that either she was recovered so she could be treated further, or she would manage to find her way to Paranor and the Druids.
He leaned back in his chair, the lists and charts momentarily forgotten. He supposed his worldview was different from that of most, but he believed it the only realistic one. Strength was the measure of success, both physically and intellectually. Showing weakness led to failure, and any deviation from your goals only demonstrated your lack of commitment. The world did not give you anything for free; it did not provide help to those who did not look for opportunities and take advantage of them. Moral codes merely held you back; they placed unnecessary restrictions on your options and locked you in place. A willingness to ignore convention and rules was necessary if you were to achieve anything.
He knew how others viewed him. But how others viewed him was not his concern. None of those people would do anything for him. What they wished was to see him driven into the ground, a beaten man. They were jealous of his power and his achievements, and they hated him for his ability to do what they were afraid to do.
They called him wicked and evil; they labeled him a monster. It made them feel better to act as if he were a poison they must avoid at all costs. But strength did not come from belittling others and hiding away behind pretense and subterfuge. It did not come by doing what others thought admirable and consistent with their beliefs. It came from bold, determined action, from a willingness to ignore everything but the goal desired. It came from resilience and commitment.
His connection to and use of magic allowed for most of this. He could overcome almost anything simply by calling on what he had mastered over the years in the black arts. He had developed an affinity for using magic, an emotional and psychological bond that infused him with deep satisfaction when he summoned it, and while it might be argued that his attachment bordered on addiction, he felt the trade-off well worth it. Others might shy away, but they would never have what he did, would never attain what he had.
Thus, in this present situation, he was attempting something that no one had ever succeeded in doing, not just through careful planning and an understanding of how best to exploit weakness that others would not even recognize, but through fluid adaptation to changes and reversals such as the one involving the girl. He was attempting to bring down the Druid order.
Ambitious, yes. Impossible, no. It could be done, and he was in the process of doing it. If nothing further occurred to disrupt his already somewhat entangled plans, he would accomplish it within the month. And once he had done so, the benefits would be enormous. With the active support of his spy inside the order and the services he intended to exact from the recalcitrant and unreliable Fashton Caeil, he would become, overnight, the most powerful magic user in the Four Lands. He would be nicely positioned to see either the total destruction of the order or its rebuilding under his leadership.
He had barely completed that thought when one of the men he had sent out earlier appeared in the doorway, out of breath and redfaced.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.
“That Highlander is back. With one of the Druids. I just saw them land at the airfield. They’re on their way here. I ran all the way, just ahead of them, to tell you.”
Arcannen nodded, staying calm. “Go back downstairs and get something to eat. Stay there.”
When the man was gone, Arcannen considered his options. He wanted the Highlander and his sword, but the presence of a Druid complicated things sufficiently that he didn’t think engaging them at this point would be a good idea. Since he no longer had the sister, he had nothing with which to bargain. He could pretend he did, but it would be better to wait until he had the girl back in hand.
He picked up the charts and shoved them into a deep drawer, closed and locked it, and put the key in his pocket. If he hurried, he could get out of Dark House before they arrived. This is where they would come, searching for him, but if he wasn’t here they would be at a loss as to what to do. There were plenty of places he could go to ground until they lost interest or word reached him that Chrysallin was recovered.
Of course, there was always the danger they would stumble on a wandering Chrysallin Leah, but even that might work to his advantage. The boy would want to keep his sister safe. He would know he could not do that in Leah. So he would take her to Paranor and the Druids. Things would proceed from there as he had planned.
Meanwhile, he could put his time to better use. There were other pieces to his plan that needed setting in place.
He finished putting everything away, walked to the door, and peered out into the hallway. No one was visible. They couldn’t have gotten there this fast anyway, he chided himself. Why was he worrying about it? He went out into the passageway, started for the main stairs, and paused. Just in case, maybe he should avoid the main entrance.
He turned about and went the other way.
When he reached the back stairs, he started down.
Several blocks away, Chrysallin Leah was dreaming. She had fallen asleep again finally, exhausted from her struggle to remain awake, but had succumbed at last to the horror that waited. The gray-haired Elven woman was back, pursuing her through woods that were deep and dark and monster-haunted. She was everywhere Chrysallin looked, and it made no difference where the girl went or what she tried to do to escape. Her tormentor was always there, close at hand.
Other things hunted her, as well, their bodies shapeless and their faces blank and empty of expression. They crept through the shadows and out of dark holes. They dropped down from trees and walked out of walls of mist. They did not speak, but their intentions were clear. Even absent a show of teeth and claws, she knew they meant to hurt her. And she was already in so much pain, her body torn and ripped, her insides bruised and bleeding. No part of her had been left untouched when the Elven woman and her voiceless henchmen had tortured her earlier, and she remembered every last thing they had done to her.
So she darted here and there, turned this way and that, dodged the creatures that came at her, each time just barely avoiding them. But their pursuit was relentless, and she could not get clear. The chase went on and on, and her frantic, useless efforts drove her half mad …
Wake up!
Hands were on her, shaking her, holding her fast. She tried to cry out, but fingers sealed her mouth and would not let her.
“Chrysallin!” a voice hissed. Her eyes flew open, and Grehling’s face was right next to hers. “We have to go!”
She was hopelessly confused, still wrapped within the remnants of her dream. Where was she? The boy—she knew him, could almost speak his name—who was he? She tried to sit up, but her body screamed with pain, and she lay down again at once.
“Chrysallin, look at me!” he snapped, taking hold of her shoulders. “The witch is after us! Mischa! She’s sent something to find us. It’s right outside the door!”
She went cold all over at the mention of Mischa, and recognition came flooding back in a series of images and memories. Ignoring the pain, she struggled up, his strong hands helping her to her feet. A faint wash of light penetrated the curtains covering the front window, and she caught a glimpse of something big and black moving past, just outside the building wall.
The creatures in the dreams! They’ve found me!
Panic surged through her, and she backed away hurriedly, looking around for an escape. She saw Leofur Rai then, standing not six feet away, facing the door, a sleek metallic weapon cradled in her arms, pointed forward. Chrysallin had never seen anything like it. It was encased in black metal with a stock and barrel, and she could see Leofur’s finger resting on a trigger near the joinder of the two.
The young woman glanced over and gestured with her head. “Get out of here, both of you! Go down the trapdoor in the floor behind you. Go now!”
Grehling was hustling her backward, away from whatever was waiting just outside the front door. She heard a scratching sound and saw the door handle lever downward and catch on the lock.
“Quickly!” Leofur hissed. “There’s no—”
In the next instant the door burst inward, torn from its hinges as a huge black shape appeared in the opening. Leofur’s weapon discharged a fireball that shot across the space separating her from the intruder and exploded into it with such force that it was thrown backward through the doorway and into the street.
By then Grehling was shoving Chrysallin through the trapdoor and down the ladder to the passageway below, practically leaping after her. A moment later Leofur reappeared, clambering down to join them, pulling and bolting the trapdoor behind her.
She pulled out a smokeless torch from a niche in the wall and lit it. “This way,” she said without preamble, starting down the passageway, smoke curling from the barrel of the strange weapon.
“Did you kill it?” Chrysallin heard Grehling ask breathlessly as he rushed her along through the near darkness.
“Didn’t do much of anything to it. Confused it, maybe.” She didn’t look around, didn’t slow. “Keep going.”
The corridor ahead branched, and she turned left. The passageway twisted and turned with sets of stairs and ladders leading upward all along the way.
“What is that thing you used on it?” the boy persisted. “I’ve never seen one before.”
“There aren’t many,” Leofur shot back over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark with anger and frustration. “They’re still experimental, a part of the Federation’s weapons development program. Handheld flash rips.”
“How did you get one?”
She glanced back at him. “Contacts in my business. A bargain, a trade. What difference does it make? It wasn’t enough to stop that thing back there, was it? What have you gotten me into, Grehling?”
Not him, Chrysallin thought, not him. What have I gotten us into? I’m the one responsible.
Behind them, they heard a prolonged ripping of metal and wood. The trapdoor was open.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry! She screamed it in silence, screamed it to no one and everyone. So sorry!
She was coming apart again, the momentary sense of balance she had achieved when the creature had broken down the door and she had begun her flight thrown off kilter. The nightmares were back, the face of the gray-haired Elven woman right in front of her eyes, the pain and anguish surging through her in waves. She could feel herself moving, but was losing all sense of what she was about.
“Up here!” Leofur hissed at them as they reached a set of wooden steps cut into the earth.
They scrambled up to another trapdoor, which the young woman threw open, leading them through in a rush. When they were free of the tunnels, she dropped the door back into place once more and sealed it with locking bolts. They were standing in a warehouse, the space cavernous and dark. Crates were stacked against the walls and piled up in the center of the room. Windows set high up near the eaves let in what little light the room allowed.
With Leofur still leading the way, they rushed across the space, skirting the stacks of boxes and crates, to where a small door opened near the rear of the building and led back out onto the streets. They emerged panting for breath, their strength sapped, but their fear of what tracked them providing fresh resolve.
Leofur wheeled on the other two, the weapon held ready, the barrel still smoking. “We have to go to the airfield, Grehling. I don’t care what’s waiting there. That thing found us once; it will find us again.” She thrust the flash rip at him. “If this won’t stop it, I don’t know what will. We have to get out of the city!”
Grehling nodded. “All right. We’ll find a way. Chrysallin! You have to stay on your feet. You can’t fall! Can you do it?”
There was nothing she could say. She didn’t think she could make it to the next corner, let alone to the airfield. Her mind wandered momentarily, and she wondered where she was and where Paxon was and why she was hurting so badly. She wondered if the terrifying Elven woman was anywhere close. Or Mischa.
Mischa!
Suddenly she was looking right at her, standing not ten feet away.
Chrysallin screamed.