The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (15 page)

It was one that would continue to reward them if he could manage to keep Caeil from doing something foolish.

He mounted the steps to the Assembly, newly built and beautifully rendered amid the other buildings of the reconstruction. Arishaig was a new city. It had been destroyed by the demonkind during their breakout from the Forbidding more than a hundred years ago, and then subsequently restored. Larger and more opulent, reimagined in innovative ways by its builders, it was an amazing sight to those visiting from the lesser, older cities, and a wonder to those now living there. Wide avenues, parks and similar open spaces, a consistency of architecture, and an integration of businesses and residences helped soften the unfortunate sense of imprisonment created by the massive walls and gates that ringed the populace in steel and stone and which were touted by their builders as unbreachable.

Aside from the presumptious nature of this claim, Arcannen found it all garish and showy. He liked things that looked used and a little out of plumb. He liked places that were weathered and worn and had withstood the test of time. Arishaig was fine for those who liked their beauty on the surface and cared nothing for the substance underneath.

This city would be destroyed again. Of that, he was certain.

Within the halls of the Assembly, he made his way to the offices of the Minister of Security Against Magic, passing through several checkpoints and past numerous guards. Fashton Caeil bragged about his popularity with his people. Yet if that was so, why did he require so many guards? Someday, Arcannen promised himself, he would ask that question.

In any case, the guards let him pass with nothing more than a perfunctory greeting. He was well known here, and he was expected. So the searches and question that others had to endure were not required of him.

The Minister’s personal assistant, a man named Crepice who had been with Caeil since the beginning of his rise to power, greeted Arcannen with a smile that somehow managed to lack expression and led him to the inner chambers where his employer was waiting.

“Well met, Arcannen.” Fashton Caeil greeted him cheerfully, immediately drawing the sorcerer’s suspicion. Caeil was almost never cheerful. “Come, sit. A glass of ale?”

A big, corpulent man with thinning hair and close-set, piggish features, he had the look of someone who didn’t quite understand the world and its people. But underestimating his intelligence would be a mistake; Fashton Caeil was very smart and very clever. Not much got past this man, and while he might look self-indulgent and vague, he was anything but.

Arcannen moved over to the chair offered and accepted the glass of ale. “You seem quite … satisfied this morning,” he said in response. “Rather like the cat that caught the mouse.”

“Well, yes. I’ve had quite a good week.” Caeil sat across from him, settling his bulk into the chair gingerly. “Fresh possibilities for advancement have unexpectedly surfaced. I am looking at a rather exciting prospect. Our current First Minister seeks to step down. Age and time have fueled a loss of his interest in the battles of the political arena. My name has been mentioned as his successor. By more than a few, I should add.”

Arcannen inclined his lean frame toward the other in acknowledgment of the announcement’s importance. “It would be a well-deserved advancement.”

“Yet I am cautious of such judgments. Much of what happens to us in life is due to chance and circumstances beyond our control. Being in the right place at the right time. Discovering that others have impacted us more than we know and for reasons that are not entirely clear. But hard work matters, too. There is an old saying: The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

“If so, then you should be quite lucky indeed.”

Caeil shrugged. “Tell me what news you have of our latest venture. How does it go? Are the pieces falling into place?”

The sorcerer nodded. “It goes well enough. But there have been changes to it. I was forced to rethink my plans a few weeks back when I discovered that the brother possesses an artifact of great magic, one that I must find a way to control. I thought to do so through the sister, but he managed to unlock the artifact’s magic and rescue her. Pure chance. To counter this, I have retaken her and placed her in Mischa’s tender hands. I think she will provide the impetus we need.”

The minister studied him a moment and then shook his head doubtfully. “I mistrust this approach. It relies on mind control and deception of thought. Not the most reliable of tools.”

“It requires a practiced hand, yes. It requires skill and patience and careful application. But it works. I have seen the results.”

“You put too much faith in Mischa. She is a witch, after all. Who can tell what such a person might do?”

Indeed,
Arcannen thought darkly, ignoring the implication that he was of the same ilk. “She raised me, Caeil. She taught me everything I know of mind control. She is my solid and dependable ally.”

“Yours, perhaps. Not necessarily mine.” He made a dismissive wave of his hand. “This plan you have concocted is a fragile vessel.”

“The plan will work as intended. The Druid order will become ours to manipulate, and you will be credited as the man who made it happen. Then your advancement beyond the position of First Minister to Prime Minister will be all but assured.”

“And yours as caretaker of magic? It is a pleasant daydream. But I wonder if it is anything more.”

“Think about it. Think of how it works. We deceive ourselves far more easily than others deceive us. Our false perceptions betray us. Our fears and doubts worm their way into our subconscious and cause us to believe what isn’t necessarily true but becomes true through our own fixation on the possibilities. How do you think I managed to get the girl to believe she was able to bet in a game of chance where she had no coin? How do you think I managed to steal her away as easily as I did? She was no fool. She was young, tough-minded, and smart. But that only made her more vulnerable to the self-deception I instigated.”

“Yes, but this new approach? What you are attempting now? I see that you might achieve your goals in the short term, but will they last beyond the day? Or the week’s end? You condition her for a task that is innately repulsive and abhorrent to her. Will she not at some point realize what has been done to her?”

“Of course. It is unavoidable. She will doubt, she will equivocate, and she will mistrust her own perceptions. She will be enveloped in her inability to sort out truth and falsehood. But only one act is required of her. She will have her chance and her means. She will do what she has long since decided she must because she will believe unfailingly in its rightness.”

Arcannen shrugged. “And if she fails for some reason, we have lost nothing. But if she succeeds, think of what we will have gained.”

The big man drank his ale glass dry and set it aside. “But will the new Ard Rhys be as receptive as you think? What is to prevent his change of mind where we are concerned? What is to keep him loyal to us? How do we assure ourselves against a rebellion that will leave us where we are now?”

“Trust me,” Arcannen hissed, smiling.

Caeil made a rude noise. “I trust no one. I wouldn’t be where I am if I trusted people. No offense.”

“None taken. But remember, you have nothing to lose in all this. You are protected against any possibility of discovery. You are safely out of its path. I am the one who must trust you. If I succeed, I must depend on you to fulfill your promise and give me what I want.”

“Oh, there’s no problem with that. Have I ever failed to act on your special requests? That prototypical flier you command? Those weapons no one possesses but the Federation High Command? Access to important figures in the government that would otherwise have been denied you? All freely bestowed. That and more, should you ask it, can be yours. They mean nothing to me. But advancement to Prime Minister and control of the Druid order—now, that is something of real worth. Give me access to power of that sort, Arcannen, and there is nothing I would deny you.”

He stood, walked to the window and looked out. “But things have changed. We no longer stand in the same place we did yesterday. This new possibility of advancement to First Minister requires that we alter our relationship.” He turned back. “After today, we can no longer meet here. We must find neutral ground where we will not be seen together by anyone. We must make clandestine arrangements. A future First Minister and past Minister of Security Against Magic cannot be see in the company of a sorcerer with your unfortunate reputation. You understand, I am sure.”

Arcannen understood perfectly. This self-aggrandizing fool was already marginalizing him. He seethed inwardly as he gave Caeil a reassuring nod. “Whatever pleases you.”

Fashton Caeil came forward, extending his hand in a gesture of false friendship. Arcannen accepted it, held it firmly, and smiled. As he did so, he looked the other man in the eye and held his gaze. “But we are still friends?”

The minister’s face took on an uncertain look. “Of course we are still friends.”

Arcannen shifted his gaze and released his grip on the other’s hand. He had read the other’s eyes, and he knew he was lying. He meant to sever the relationship as soon as it was feasible to do so. Perhaps he even was thinking of doing so in a permanent manner.

“I must be going. I will contact you again soon with further news of our efforts. Congratulations once again on your impending appointment.”

You had better hope I let you live to enjoy it.

F
IFTEEN

F
OR
C
HRYSALLIN
L
EAH
,
LOCKED
IN
TH
E
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, “Give us what we want.”

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 shadow 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 wince and gasp aloud. She eased herself carefully into the confines of the cloth, biting her lip against the twinges of pain and scrapes of rawness. 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.”