TWENTY-THREE
ARCANNEN’S NERVES SHOWED NO SIGN OF GIVING WAY IN THE face of what he had done until he had reached his airship, woken the crew, and lifted off. Then all at once his hands were shaking and he was damp with sweat. He had killed a Druid. He had committed the one act he had warned himself against, the one act he had known would bring him the worst kind of trouble. Now the Druids would hunt him until he was found and killed. He could argue all he wanted about why that wouldn’t happen—the passage of time would take the edge off the urgency of finding him, changes in the order would result in an agenda where punishing him was a lesser concern, whatever. But the truth was inescapable: Sooner or later, he was going to have to answer for what he had done.
He cursed the Druid for being so persistent, for continuing to hunt him long after any reasonable person would have given up. He cursed himself for believing his ambush would be enough to stop the other. He should have kept running, should have made better choices, should never have given the man the chance to come after him in the first place.
But it was all water under the bridge now, wasn’t it? It was all beyond a place where he could do anything about it. He was stuck with things the way they were. Regrets and hindsight and disgust were all shackles that threatened to slow him down and ultimately to undo him. What he needed to remember was that if he kept a clear head and acted quickly enough, he might still find a way to get clear of this mess. After all, it wasn’t the first time he had put himself in danger. It wasn’t the first time he had made a mistake that threatened to cost him everything.
But it was the first time he felt really, truly threatened.
Still, a solution to his problems was already nudging him, whispering in his ear—a plan that would free him from the immediate threat of Druid retaliation. It had come to him—as so many things did—when he least expected it. He was fleeing the scene of the killing, not yet seen by any of Wayford’s citizens, still not exposed nor his deed revealed. It gave him the opportunity and time to escape from the city, and it was while he was coming up to the airfield and making for his airship that the idea had begun to take shape.
If he could find a way to shift attention away from himself, he would have a chance to disappear until matters settled down. If he could give the Druid order a distraction to occupy its time, a matter that was more pressing than finding him—a threat so immediate and troubling that its members wouldn’t hesitate to focus all their efforts on dealing with it—he could salvage this debacle.
And by debacle he meant his disrupted plans for gaining control of the Druid order through Paxon and Chrysallin Leah.
The plan as originally conceived had long since fallen apart. The goal, however, remained the same: Find a way to take control of the order, then subvert it sufficiently to turn it to his own uses. In the beginning, after he had inadvertently discovered that Paxon Leah had in his possession a talisman believed lost, one quite possibly infused with extraordinary magic, his goal had been simple—he would claim it for himself. His first impulse was simply to steal it. But then he had remembered he lacked a means to unlock its magic, that only a member of the Leah household could do so. Therefore, he had taken Chrysallin Leah as a way to make her brother do his bidding.
But that effort had failed when Paxon Leah discovered the power of the sword and by doing so found a way to rescue his sister. For a time, it seemed he would have to forget the whole idea of using the boy; he was in the Druid camp after that, living at Paranor and not likely to return for a second encounter without bringing help.
Then he had come up with the idea of taking the girl a second time and using her in a different way. She was better suited to what he had wanted to accomplish in the first place, and maybe the boy could be brought around, as well. Using Mischa to subvert her thinking, he would make her his pawn—one who could be conditioned to perform without hesitation a single act when the opportunity was given her.
She would kill the Ard Rhys.
Such a thing had seemed impossible at first glance. But Mischa was talented, and she had turned more than one unwilling subject into an obedient servant. Give Chrysallin Leah enough reason, fill her with enough hatred, subject her to enough emotional and psychological suffering, and she would react instinctively against one she perceived to be an implacable enemy. The torture would not have to actually happen; it would not be necessary to physically damage her. It need only be perceived as real by the victim to accomplish what mattered—to leave her so obsessed with gaining freedom from and revenge upon her perceived torturer that she would use deadly force against her at the first opportunity.
All that, Mischa now claimed, she had accomplished. Chrysallin Leah was terrified of the gray-haired Elven woman who had stood by and directed her endless suffering—a woman who wasn’t even there, but who was as real to the girl as the pain she had experienced. A woman who looked exactly like Aphenglow Elessedil. The first time Chrysallin Leah came face-to-face with the Ard Rhys, she would try to kill her. She wouldn’t be able to help herself. She would use whatever weapon she could find, whatever tool lay close at hand, to put an end to the Druid leader.
To help her with this, Arcannen had arranged for Mischa to leave the Stiehl where Chrysallin could find it. But when she had escaped, she hadn’t even bothered to take the blade with her. He had worried from the beginning that Chrysallin Leah might not react as Mischa believed she would—that she might simply break down and be unable to function, reverting to a helpless victim. But the witch said the girl was very strong and very determined, and once she was free of her imprisonment she would be driven by the memories of what she thought had been done to her and would act quickly and directly. She would not see herself as helpless. She would see herself as needing to prevent any chance of ever again becoming her enemy’s prisoner. She would be driven to seek revenge for acts that were embedded in her memory like spikes.
All that was needed was a way to put the Ard Rhys and the girl together in the same room. And that would have been arranged if the girl hadn’t somehow found a way to escape through Mischa’s carelessness. It might still happen, of course. If her brother found her before the witch did—which was entirely possible—he would take her with him to Paranor to keep her safe. He would want the Ard Rhys to have a look at her. He would not understand the danger of what he was doing. Not until it was too late.
It was an ambitious and admittedly uncertain plan, but it was worth trying so he had carried it out. Now, of course, the outcome was highly improbable given the extent of the disruption that had occurred. Mischa could believe whatever she wanted, but he was a realist and he knew that the chances of Chrysallin Leah doing what she had been conditioned to do had fallen off dramatically.
Though he was willing to wait and see before writing off its chances altogether.
And with the Druid dead and a full-scale hunt to find and punish him inevitable, his plans for gaining control over the Druid order were evolving anew. The opportunity was still there. His path to the Druid archives and their collection of talismans and magic was still open to him. All he needed to do was to widen it a little, to smooth things over sufficiently that access was assured.
He thought he knew now how to make that happen. Not as he had planned in the beginning, but as he now determined was necessary.
A fresh plan, a fresh start.
It would begin in the Federation city of Arishaig.
? ? ?
In another part of the skies, some hours later, Paxon Leah was winging west toward Paranor. He was aboard the Druid airship he had flown to Wayford, bearing his still-catatonic sister and the body of his friend and companion Starks back to the Fourth Druid Order. He had intended to fly back alone, thinking to sail the airship singlehanded.
But flying an airship the size of a Druid clipper was risky in any case, and more so here, where he was distracted by what had happened to him and by his sister’s need for constant attention. It was Leofur Rai who pointed this out and Grehling who was quick to back her up. He should not be flying solo; she and the boy would accompany him, offering assistance where it was needed, either in sailing the airship or in providing care and companionship for Chrysallin. Once she was safely returned to Paranor, they would find a way home again. In the end, he saw the wisdom in what they were suggesting and reluctantly agreed.
It was his reluctance to permit anyone to be around him just now that had caused him to resist the offer in the first place. He was still in shock over what had happened to Starks, and he did not think himself fit company. The loss of his friend was something from which he did not think he would ever recover. The guilt he was feeling was enormous. In part, he blamed himself for not going with the Druid in pursuit of Arcannen. In part, it was his sense of having failed again—a pattern of lapses that seemed to mark his entire brief career as a Druid protector. Only this time it had cost a life.
He brooded about it on the flight north, whether standing at the controls or sitting with his sister. The other two did not try to engage him in conversation, clearly aware that if he wanted someone to talk to he would let them know. Neither made any attempt to distract him from his dark mood. They were simply there to help him where they could, doing what was needed to keep him on track to complete his return to Paranor and to those who might better be able to address what had happened.
They flew through the remainder of the day and into the night, lighting the ship’s guidance lamps, tracking their way across the darkened terrain under a cloudless sky brightened by an almost full moon and millions of stars. They encountered no other vessel or any form of disruptive weather, and it was still several hours before dawn when they reached their destination.
Trolls from the Druid Guard met them on the landing platform that connected to the north tower and swiftly bore Starks away. Because of the hour, Paxon was sent to his quarters while Chrysallin was taken to the healing center and Grehling and Leofur to rooms on the visitor level. There would be plenty of time to give reports after they had rested. The Ard Rhys would be informed. For now, sleep was what was needed. Matters were handled in the usual efficient manner, and all four were dispatched to their beds.
Paxon slept until noon. His sleep was deep and dreamless, and when he woke Sebec was waiting to receive him, lingering just outside his room.
“Come with me,” he said. “The Ard Rhys is anxious to see you. At present, she is speaking with the boy and has just finished interviewing the young woman. Leofur, isn’t it? I’ll take you to sit with her until it is your turn to report to the Mistress.”
He paused as they walked toward the dining hall. “I am very sorry about Starks. I know you will miss him greatly.”
Paxon said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Then he stopped suddenly. “I should see about Chrysallin.”
Sebec slowed, but shook his head. “Please wait on that, Paxon. The Healers are working with her just now, trying to find a way to bring her out of her catatonia. She is deeply under the influence of her self-induced withdrawal, and so far nothing anyone has said or done has been strong enough to bring her back. It might be best not to interrupt their efforts.”
Although he didn’t like the idea of not going immediately to see Chrys, he understood Sebec’s reasoning and let the matter slide. But he made the young Druid promise to inform him the moment the Healers were done working with his sister—even if it was for just a short time—so that he could go to her. She might not know him yet, but he still thought his presence might be enough to help her recover.
Minutes later, he found himself sitting with Leofur Rai in the dining hall. Sebec had returned to the Ard Rhys, and the two of them were off in a corner by themselves.
“Did you sleep?” he asked her, knowing she would wait for him to speak first.
She nodded, her silver-streaked hair rippling in the sunlight. “Better than I thought I would after what happened.”
“Your wounds are better?”
“Fine. Healing.”
He looked down for a minute. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did. Taking Chrys into your home, sheltering her when you knew how dangerous it was, making a stand against that black thing, facing down the witch—I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
“Sure you can,” she said. “You did pretty much the same. You ended up saving us from Mischa’s creature, and Chrysallin saved us from the witch. We came through it because we each made a stand when it mattered.”
“Still, I owe you for that.”
She shook her head. “You don’t owe me a thing. No one does.”
The way she said it puzzled him. “So you knew Grehling when he was much younger?”
“I helped his father raise him for a little more than four years. Do you want to eat something? I’m pretty hungry.”
He found he was hungry, too, and they went into the kitchen to see if there was any food to be had and emerged with full plates. They ate in silence, and when they were finished Paxon said, “What sort of weapon did you use on Mischa’s creature? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Her nose wrinkled in something that suggested distaste. “A handheld flash rip. They’re new. A fresh invention from the Federation that relies on a set of specially faceted diapson crystals for its power. Word is, they’re working on other things, too. Weapons development is high on their list of priorities. They intend to rebuild their army.”
From what it once was before the demons broke free of the Forbidding and destroyed the old city of Arishaig and most of its army. He hesitated. “How did you come by one?”
She shrugged. “Payment for a favor. A foolish, impulsive gesture on the part of the original owner, in my opinion. But he’s not likely to complain. Tell me about your sword.”
She was clearly uncomfortable talking about the flash rip, but he didn’t want to say too much about his talisman, either. “An ancient weapon. It’s been in the family for many generations. It was infused with magic by the Druid Allanon for one of my more famous relatives, Rone Leah.”
“And Arcannen knew about this sword? And that was why he took Chrysallin—he was trying to get to you?”
“Grehling’s been talking to you about this?”
“Some of it. Some I figured out on my own. Am I right?”
“He’s kidnapped Chrys twice. The time before he was trying to make a trade for the sword. This time, I don’t know what he was doing. Except that he knew I would come after her, so maybe it was the same thing again—a trade for my sister. But he tortured her, didn’t he? Or the witch did. I don’t understand the purpose of that.”
“Maybe there wasn’t any purpose. Maybe it was just to teach her a lesson. Arcannen has done it before. He tortures his girls at Dark House when they disobey.”
Paxon shook his head. “But he knew I would find out.”
“Maybe he just didn’t care.” She ran her fingers through her streaked hair. “And he didn’t do it himself. Chrysallin told Grehling that her torturer was a gray-haired Elven woman who stood by and watched the whole thing. She kept asking Chrysallin to tell her something—I don’t know what. Chrysallin apparently didn’t know, either. When Grehling brought her to me, she was barely coherent. It’s hard to know what happened to her.”
Paxon leaned back. “The Healers will help her. Once she’s better, maybe she’ll be able to tell us more. Whatever the case, I intend to go after Arcannen myself.”
Leofur pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about something. Did you know the Ard Rhys spoke to me about all this earlier, while you were still sleeping? She asked me to tell her everything I could about what happened.”
“Sebec told me.”
She paused. “Well, maybe this doesn’t mean anything, but I couldn’t help noticing that the Ard Rhys could be the woman Chrysallin described.”
Paxon almost laughed aloud. The idea of the Ard Rhys being responsible for Chrysallin’s torture was ridiculous. But then he caught himself, wondering suddenly if there might be a connection he wasn’t quite seeing.
“Tell me what Chrys said about this Elven woman,” he demanded.
By the time Arcannen landed his cruiser in Arishaig’s main port, he was already firmly settled on his plans. He had used the entire trip to mull them over, and he was satisfied that he had thought them through carefully and should proceed to execute them. Execute—a good word for what was needed. The ramifications of what he would do here would be extensive, but they would diminish considerably the chances that the Druids would be coming in search of him anytime soon. He just needed to hide himself for a sufficient length of time for events to proceed to a logical conclusion. How that would all play out, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. His goals, his needs, and his plans would not be changed by what happened after today.
He disembarked the airship with orders to be ready to lift off at a moment’s notice and for no one else to leave, even for a moment. He was wearing the black robe he kept in the onboard locker for situations of the sort he was confronted with today. He spent much of his time disguised as someone else, and the black robe—which was, in fact, one belonging to the Fourth Druid Order—would provide him with the look he required for today’s work.
It was the first of two pieces to the disguise he would assume.
The second was the change he had made to his facial features. Temporary, not permanent, and good for at least several hours, so that whomever he encountered or who happened to get a look at him would be able to describe him accurately to those who would come looking for him later.
He summoned one of the carriages that were always waiting at the edge of the field by the manager’s office and ordered the driver to take him to the Assembly and the chambers of the Coalition Council. He rode inside the closed passenger’s compartment with the curtains drawn and did not bother looking out. He was wrapped in his black robes and had his hood pulled up over his head, leaving only his face and hands visible. He was already deep in character, assuming the behavioral traits of the man he was impersonating. For the next two hours, or however long it took, he would become that man, and those who saw him would have no reason to doubt what they were seeing.
He experienced a brief moment of regret that things had failed to turn out the way he had wanted, but that was the nature of attempting to manipulate others. You had to be fluid in your thinking and in your decision making. Matters had a tendency to go awry no matter how well laid your plans. Arcannen knew this. Never so much so as in this case, but what was required to right the situation was the same as always. He must adapt and he must do so quickly.
And no one was better at it than he was.
When he arrived at the imposing edifice that was now called the Assembly, he paid the driver with Federation credits and ascended the steps leading to the building’s primary entrance. He knew his way and did not have to ask for directions. His robes and the emblem they bore identified him well enough that he was barely slowed at the checkpoints. A few of the guards gave him a look of recognition, and one even saluted him. Good enough. His disguise had not been uncovered. When his business was over, his identity would be confirmed. Eventually, the truth might surface, but by then his plans for the Druid order would have come to fruition as intended.
He wound his way through the Assembly hallways, keeping to himself, doing nothing to suggest that he desired conversation with anyone. In short order, he was standing at the entrance to the offices of the Minister of Security. Here, he was stopped briefly, his identity apparently not so well known. Eventually Crepice emerged to confront him.
“Isaturin,” the aide greeted him, bowing slightly. “We welcome you to this ministry.”
He bowed in return. “I am appreciative of your hospitality. I hope to speak with Minister Caeil. Is he available for a brief conversation?”
Crepice hesitated, his eyes shifting away momentarily and then back again—assessing the situation. Arcannen recognized the look. He was deciding what he should tell Isaturin—a man who was clearly antagonistic toward this office and its avowed purpose.
“Come into the waiting room and let me find out if he can see you.” Crepice had decided favorably. “I am sure something can be arranged.”
He guided Arcannen from the outer office to the reception area beyond and motioned for him to take a seat in one of the chairs set against the far wall. Then he disappeared through the familiar double doors that led to Fashton Caeil’s chambers. Arcannen sat down and waited, thinking through how he would handle what must happen next. Crepice would be right outside the chamber doors, so he would have to be careful.
He had only a few minutes to wait before the doors opened anew and out walked Caeil, his corpulent frame garbed in scarlet robes, his face flushed, his arms outstretched in greeting.
“What a surprise!” he enthused, grasping both of Arcannen’s hands in his own. “This visit is long overdue and much welcomed!” He paused, as if remembering something. “Although I have heard it said in certain quarters that your feelings for this office are not of the warmest sort.”
Arcannen nodded and managed a regretful look. “Times change. Attitudes evolve. I think a meeting between us is long overdue. I am hopeful that a reconciliation between the Federation and Paranor might begin at this very meeting.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Caeil released his hands and stepped back. “Come in, then. Let’s sit down and discover what sort of agreement we can achieve.”
Leaving Crepice to close the doors behind them, they entered Caeil’s chambers and sat, Caeil behind his desk, Arcannen in front of it. The minister bent forward to lessen the distance between them and smiled. “So, Ambassador Isaturin, what is it I can do for the Fourth Druid Order and its esteemed Ard Rhys?”
Arcannen motioned for him to lean even farther forward, and then he bent closer himself—a gesture that suggested that secrets and confidences were about to be shared.
“Well, Minister,” the sorcerer replied, the Stiehl already in his hand and held just out of view below the desktop, “you can die.”
In a quick, practiced movement, he snatched the front of Fashton Caeil’s robes with his free hand, yanked him across the desk, and buried the Stiehl at the base of his throat, severing his vocal cords and spinal column. Caeil went limp, his mouth opening and closing, and Arcannen pinned him to the desk while he worked the edge of the black knife blade back and forth, separating the other’s head from his shoulders.
It was over in seconds. The minister’s heavy body slumped to the floor, but his head—eyes wide in shock, mouth hanging open—remained atop the desk.
Arcannen took a moment to study his work, then carefully set the knife on the floor to one side, where it would be found, and stepped back. There was a little blood on the sleeves of his robe, but he was able to wipe most of it off on the dead man’s body. If he kept his arms folded against him when he left, nothing of the smears would be seen. He gave Fashton Caeil a last look. The Minister might still be alive if he hadn’t given himself away on their last visit. But suggesting that meeting in public was no longer an option was a clear indication of the direction in which things were going. Caeil’s usefulness as a resource was at an end. He would serve better by drawing the Federation’s attention to the Druids, and the Druids’ attention away from Arcannen as a result.
He took a moment to compose himself, making certain he was back in character as the Druid Isaturin, and then he walked to the door and opened it. Crepice was sitting at his desk, but he got up immediately as Arcannen appeared. The sorcerer waited until the man was close enough, then reached out quickly, grasped his neck, yanked him close, and twisted his head sharply to one side. Crepice went limp instantly.
Arcannen caught the body in his arms and dragged it behind the desk, leaving it there, out of sight.
Then, still in character as Isaturin, he walked through the doors leading out, closed them behind him, nodded to the guards standing watch and disappeared down the hall.