The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (20 page)

“Only this. If you should find the knife, be certain that you bring it back.”

When they left her chambers, Starks explained to Paxon about the history of the blade—how it was recovered by Walker Boh on his quest to the land of the Stone King and then brought to Paranor when the Keep, closed since the death of Allanon, was reopened. It was an ancient weapon forged of rare metals and infused with dark magic so that it could cut through anything, no matter how strong. It had been kept safe for most of the past thousand years, locked away in the Keep. To have it taken and returned to the larger world where it could be used for any number of terrible purposes was unsettling.

“I want to talk to Sebec,” Starks announced. “He will be the one making inquiries. I want to know what he has found. I want to hear from him directly.”

Together, they tracked down and confronted the young Druid, who gave them what information he had and asked Starks if he knew anything about anyone entering the artifact chambers. The conversation lasted longer than Paxon believed was necessary, but he kept his thoughts to himself and paid attention to what was being said. As it was, they learned nothing useful, and their plans for leaving were delayed by more than half a day.

But now they were approaching their destination, and Paxon’s thoughts of the missing blade and the efforts mounted by the Ard Rhys to find it were forgotten in his focus on the search for Chrysallin. A fresh tension began to build, fueled by a mix of fear and expectation. She had been taken from her home almost a week ago. By now, anything could have happened to her. He was terrified that she might already be damaged in some unchangeable way. Arcannen wasn’t above exacting revenge simply because his earlier efforts had been thwarted. And while Paxon believed he had more in mind than simple vengeance, he couldn’t quite make himself rule out the possibility. Whatever the case, there was ample reason for him to hurry his efforts and to find his sister with all possible haste.

Starks had said nothing much of what he thought they should do, which was frustrating. He was the leader of this expedition, and Paxon would have liked to know hours ago how they were going to go about it. But Starks had concentrated his efforts on flying, and Paxon had been reluctant to bring up the matter himself. He knew Starks had a penchant for not speaking of future events until they were close to being upon them.

But now, climbing down from the pilot box and standing together on the darkened airfield, close by the manager’s office, he turned to Paxon and it seemed he would say something about their plans. Instead, he said, “Where is the field manager?”

Paxon glanced around and pointed. “There’s someone over there.”

The airfield manager was shambling toward them, coming from somewhere out among the moored aircraft. When he reached them, he tipped a battered cap and said, “Well met. Do you require service?”

Starks nodded back. “Our ship needs to be watched over. Can you do that for us?”

“For tonight?”

“Perhaps tomorrow, too.” He glanced at Paxon. “It’s late for a visit,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sleep might be a better choice.”

Paxon shook his head doubtfully. He didn’t like the idea of waiting. “Is Arcannen about?” he asked the manager. “Is he in Wayford?”

“Flew in this afternoon,” the man answered.

“Traveling alone?”

“If you don’t count his crew and his guards.”

“No one else?”

The man shrugged. “My son would know; he sees things better than I do. But he’s not here. Matter of fact, he left right after Arcannen flew in and didn’t come back.” He scratched his beard. “Been wondering about that. He’s late for the night shift. Usually I can depend on that boy.”

“That would be Grehling?”

“That’s him. Able and smart, though he’s got an independent streak a mile wide.” He shook his head. “You never know.”

Instantly, Paxon had a dark premonition. He faced Starks squarely. “I don’t want to wait on this. I want my sister back.”

Starks studied him a moment, and then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go get her.”

T
WENTY

T
HE
CITY
WAS
SIL
ENT
,
THE
STREETS
EMPT
Y
.

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 came to stop 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 with his sister.

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 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 them 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 no sound emerging. Farther down the hall beyond, 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 leaving Mischa, he had summoned a dozen of his guards and sent some to search the streets and some to watch the airfield. She 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 had 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 indispensible 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 handle.

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 had managed 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 certainty and need 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 red-faced.

“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.