The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (27 page)

Again, Arcannen turned and fled, this time for the stairway. He was screaming for help, yelling for his men to come to his aid. A handful did, appearing at the head of the stairs, blocking Paxon’s way as their leader rushed past them. But the Highlander never slowed. Giving the battle cry of his ancestors, the one all boys learned almost as soon as they were old enough to walk—
Leah! Leah!
—he went right through them.

He was down the stairs and on top of Arcannen before the other could reach the front door. Again they met in a clash of metal and fire, the sounds of the blows and their own heavy gasps from the effort filling the hallway. Paxon was wearing down, his strength ebbing, but he sensed that Arcannen was even more exhausted. At one point, in what the Highlander took to be an act of desperation, the sorcerer tried using magic to create a lumbering giant encased in armor. But Paxon slammed into the image fearlessly, and it shattered with a single blow.

Arcannen was retreating, step by step, now clearly interested only in escape. Smoke and ash filled the hall, clouding the air. Both men were bloodied and battered, their faces blackened and their eyes red with fatigue. Rage was present in their locked gazes, reflected in the glint of their eyes. Paxon was thinking of Starks, of how he had died. He was telling himself that the man he was battling had killed him and could not be allowed to go unpunished. He was telling himself that he was the one who must make that happen.

What Arcannen was thinking was unreadable. But his eyes said it was dark and dangerous.

They were alone now, the hallway empty save for them. The guards who remained upright had either fled or gone into hiding. No one was coming to Arcannen’s aid. Paxon felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The sorcerer’s guards had abandoned him, his strength was fading, and his hopes for escape were disappearing.

He rushed Arcannen anew, sword lifted, yelling out once more—
Leah! Leah!
—intent on finishing this. Arcannen snarled something in reply and held his ground. When they collided, the impact staggered both. Weapons flashed and clanged, and the blows the men exchanged were fierce and unrelenting. They surged back and forth across the hallway, fighting from one wall to the other and back again. The minutes dragged on; the struggle continued.

Finally, as they backed away from each other yet again, muscles screaming with fatigue, mouths open and gulping for breath, Arcannen held out one hand in a warding motion. “You can’t win this,” he gasped.

The Highlander laughed, drawing in huge breaths. “I
am
winning it. Hadn’t you noticed? Why don’t you just give it up and come with me?”

“Back to Paranor? Back to your Druids? You know what would happen to me.”

“You shouldn’t have killed Starks!”

Now Arcannen laughed. “You think I didn’t know that even before it happened? You think I wasn’t trying to avoid it? But he tracked me and would not quit! I just reacted; it was instinctive.”

“It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t answer for it.”

Arcannen sighed. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? How simple the world must seem to you—all black and white.” He paused, shaking his head in dismay. “How did you find out I was here in the first place? How did you even know I would come back so soon?”

Paxon shook his head. “I didn’t. I came here to find something to help Chrysallin.”

The sorcerer nodded. “Mischa’s subversion. I’d forgotten about that. You took your sister to Paranor? What happened?”

“She attacked the Ard Rhys.”

“That was what I intended. Only she was supposed to use the Stiehl, and she didn’t have it with her.”

“So it would have been the Ard Rhys who died, not Starks.” He lowered his sword and leaned on it. “Well, because of what you and Mischa did, my sister is now catatonic. I came back to find something to undo the damage.”

Arcannen nodded. “Take away the bad dreams. Make her forget the gray-haired Elven woman and all the torture that never happened. Her belief that she was physically damaged when she wasn’t.” He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “I can give you that, Paxon.”

Paxon straightened. “What? What did you say?”

“You heard me. I can make your sister well again. I have an antidote that will do so. Do you want it? Then, I’ll make you a bargain. The antidote for my freedom.”

Paxon was incensed. “I’m not going to do that!”

“I give you a potion that will make your sister well, and you let me go free. Why not?”

“I’m not letting you go!” the Highlander screamed in rage. “You’re not getting away again.”

The sorcerer shrugged. “If you want your sister back, you should think it over. That potion is the only thing that can help her, and I’m the only one who has it now that Mischa is dead.” He smiled. “You did this to yourself, you know.”

Paxon almost attacked him anew. But he kept thinking about why he had come back in the first place and of what Leofur had kept reminding him. He had not come back to find Arcannen, but to save Chrys.

“You’re lying,” he snapped. He lifted his black blade, held it ready. “You would say anything to save yourself!”

“I have the potion you need, Paxon Leah.
That
is not a lie; it is the truth. Do you want your sister back or will it make you feel better to see my head spiked on Paranor’s walls? It’s your choice. But you have to decide.”

Paxon shook his head. “No. I can’t let you go.”

“Well, you don’t exactly have me pinned to the ground yet, do you?” Arcannen lifted his flaming sword anew, readying himself. “Besides, there will be another day for you and me. Another time. Even if we don’t settle it now, don’t you think we will end up settling it eventually?”

Paxon did think so. It seemed inevitable.

He hesitated.

When he returned for Leofur, she was just coming out the front door of Dark House, as battered and smoke-blackened as he was, her hair all wild and spiky, carrying her flash rip tucked under her cloak as she stepped clear of the building’s walls with a quick look behind her and walked down the steps into the roadway to meet him.

For a moment, they just stood there. “Did you get him?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He got away.” Then he grimaced. “Actually, I let him go.”

She stared at him, her eyes surprised and wondering. “Why?”

He sighed. “Because he agreed to give me this in return.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out the tiny bottle the sorcerer had found for him when they returned to Mischa’s rooms. The witch had indeed hidden her potions and elixirs with magic, but Arcannen had known right where they were and how to reveal them.

“He said it would make Chrys forget all the bad things that happened to her, and that she would come back to herself.” He hesitated. “You’re going to tell me he was lying, aren’t you?”

Leofur shrugged, then shook her head. “He probably wasn’t. Even though he has dozens of other unpleasant characteristics, he tends to be truthful. He doesn’t see any reason not to be. Besides, I don’t think he wants to come up against you again right away, and you’d hunt him down if he lied.”

“I’ll hunt him down anyway.”

She nodded. “You made the right choice.”

“I hope so. I hope he didn’t deceive me. But you know him better than I do.”

“I know him better than anyone.”

He felt a surge of renewed disappointment and unhappiness.

“Because you were his …” He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t make himself say it.

“Because I was his
what
?” she asked, frowning.

“His …” He stopped again. “His lover.”

She almost laughed, a grin spreading over her features. “Is that what you think? Well, think again, Paxon Leah. I was as special as anyone could be to a man like him.” She reached out and gripped his shoulder hard. “Because I’m his daughter.”

T
WENTY
-
SEVEN

S
HE
TOLD
THIS
TO
NO
ONE
IN
THE
YEARS
FOLLOWING
her departure from her father and Dark House and the beginning of her life as caregiver for Grehling. Few who lived outside the walls of the building had ever seen her; fewer still knew who she was. During her early years, she was kept tucked away in rooms of her own and not allowed outside the building without an escort. She was fed, clothed, and educated in the manner of girls who were fortunate enough to enjoy a better social standing in the city, but she was denied their companionship. Dark House was her home, but it was also her prison.

She never knew her mother; she never even found out what happened to her. Her mother was simply never there, and no one would talk about her. She was raised by the women who worked for her father, raised in a home where strange men came and went by the hour, raised in dark and oppressive and carefully guarded surroundings that, by the end of things, she came to hate. She might have grown up there, but by the time she left to help look after and raise Grehling, she had come to realize the truth about her father.

“So that’s how you got us into Dark House so easily,” Paxon said. “They knew who you were because that’s where you grew up.”

They were walking back to the airfield, Paxon getting ready to leave for Paranor and the Druids.

“Some of them did. I feel badly about deceiving Fentrick. He used to play with me as a child. He and I were great friends at a time when I had no other friends. Now that’s gone.”

“You did it for me,” the Highlander acknowledged. “I am very grateful.”

“Don’t think you’re so special, Paxon,” she said quickly. “I did it because it was the right thing to do. I knew when Grehling brought Chrysallin to my front door that if I let them inside, I was crossing a line. Everything would change, and the past—maybe all of it—would be wiped away. I made that choice. That’s all.”

“Was it your father who gave you the flash rip?” he asked

“He thought I needed better protection living away from Dark House. He made me promise never to tell anyone I had it. That’s all I really want to say about it just now. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to Grehling. He thinks a lot of me, and he might have a hard time understanding. I already told him I had nothing to do with Arcannen.”

Paxon nodded. “I won’t say anything to him or anyone else. There’s no need. I’m just glad you’re all right. I was worried when I saw you slammed into that wall. By your own father.”

“My own father regards me as a failed experiment. I am an embarrassment to him. He wants me to be his daughter, and he can’t understand why that is so difficult for me.”

“But he attacked you!”

“In his eyes, I attacked him first. I allied myself with you, his enemy. I severed whatever ties remained between us. He had taken pains to do special favors for me in the past, even after I left, even though I never asked for them. I think after this, maybe that part of my life is over.”

They were nearing the airfield now, the first of the masts and light sheaths of the moored vessels rising up ahead of them. ““Don’t misunderstand me,” she added quickly. “I’ve wanted it to be over for a long time. There’s really nothing between us now but our blood ties. I’m glad he’s gone. And not likely to be back anytime soon.”

Paxon gave her a rueful look. “You’ll probably think the same thing about me once I’ve left, knowing what I was thinking about you.”

She nodded. “I might. You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of me.”

“I made an assumption about what you were doing in Dark House that I shouldn’t have made. I apologize. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’ve never had a problem with what people think about me. You included.”

“After what you did for me, how you helped me with your father, the way you stood by me when I was in danger? I will never forget that. And I don’t want you to be angry with me. I like you a lot. I want us to stay friends.”

She regarded him coolly. “It might be possible,” she said. “Why don’t we wait and see?”

At the airfield, Grehling came rushing out to meet them, throwing his arms around Leofur, who rolled her eyes and then hugged him back. The boy hugged Paxon, as well, and asked to hear the whole story of what had happened to them in Wayford. Paxon told him, Leofur adding bits and pieces here and there, but was he careful to stay away from the family connection between the young woman and the sorcerer.

“You did the right thing, taking the potion so you could help Chrys,” Grehling announced. “You can always go after Arcannen later. You can find him again, if you really want to.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“In fact, I’ll go with you!” Grehling declared. “I can help you track him down and bring him back. I can be your pilot. Can’t I, Leofur?”

She gave him a smile. “You can be anyone’s pilot. No one knows more about airships than you do.”

Paxon reached out to shake the boy’s hand. “You and me, then. We’ll talk about it another time.”

Grehling ran off, and Paxon turned to Leofur. “I meant what I said. I won’t ever forget what you did for me. I hope I see you again. I hope you will want to see me.”

She stepped back, looked him over, and shrugged. “I’ve seen worse than you come through my life. Let’s think about it, you and me. Go back to Chrys for now. Take care of her. Help her get better. Put all the bad things behind you for a while. Then let me know if you decide I’m not one of them.”

So he flew out of Wayford aboard his skiff, setting a course for Paranor. He could have used at least a few hours of sleep before going, but he couldn’t wait to return to Chrysallin and give her the potion. He tried unsuccessfully to convince himself that it would work, that Arcannen had not deceived him, that Leofur knew her father better than anyone probably did. One way or the other, he had to know if there was any chance his sister could be cured. Putting it off only made matters worse.

He traveled through the remainder of the day and into nightfall, a solitary craft in the growing darkness, its masts and railings fore and aft lit by running lamps and guided by the stars. He passed back over the Rainbow Lake and up the channel of the Runne River to the Dragon’s Teeth. It was nearing midnight by the time the lights of the Druid’s Keep came into view and he felt the first twinges of serious doubt about what he was doing.

The possibilities he envisioned were almost too much for him to face.

What if Arcannen had given him poison, and he was meant to poison his own sister as retribution for the trouble he had caused the sorcerer?

What if the potion was something other than a remedy? What if it was intended to turn Chrys into something terrible?

What if it was useless, a mix of water and coloring? What if it made her worse?

But he tamped down his fears because in his heart he believed it would work and Chrys would be made well.

He set down the skiff on the landing platform, climbed out, and hurried into the Keep. A few of the Trolls serving as Druid Guards took note, but none of them spoke to him. Once inside, he went straight to the healing center. Almost everyone there was asleep, including the Healers, but Paxon ignored them all and went into the room where they had been keeping Chrys when he left.

She was still sleeping, but he managed to wake her; the sleep potion was beginning to wear off by now. He helped her sit up, whispering to her that he was back and could help her, but even so she made no response and went right back to staring into space without seeing anything. Nothing had changed. He spoke her name, hugged her, talked to her a bit, and waited for an indication that she was in any way better. She was not. There was no sign of recognition, no awareness.

He brought out the bottle with the potion in it and held it out where she would see it. “I want you to drink this. I want you to trust me.” He hesitated, wondering if he should give her any sort of warning about other possibilities. In the end, he simply said, “I love you.”

Then he put the bottle to her lips, tipped her head back slightly, and poured the liquid into her mouth. He watched her throat work as she swallowed. When she had taken it all, he held her by the shoulders and waited for a response.

Nothing.

He continued to wait, the minutes passing and the room’s silence deepening. He peered into her eyes, looking for something to reveal itself. Finally, her eyes closed and she slumped into his arms. For a terrible instant, he thought he had killed her, that his worst fears had come true. But then he felt her throat and watched the rise and fall of her chest, and realized she was sleeping. He picked her up, carried her over to the bed, and tucked her in carefully.

He took the chair she had vacated and sat watching her for a long time afterward, mulling over what he had done, telling himself he had not made a mistake, that the fact she was sleeping was a good sign. Time passed, and his thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday. He relived his battle with Arcannen, rueful and disappointed that he had failed to bring the sorcerer back to Paranor, that he had in some way failed Starks. He found Leofur’s face continually resurfacing amid his other thoughts. He could see her expressions, hear her voice, and recall the way she moved.

He could not stop thinking about her.

At some point, he fell asleep.

He was still sleeping when the cool fingers touched his cheek and a familiar voice called his name. He stirred awake, sleep-fogged and lethargic. Hands gripped his shoulders and fingers squeezed gently.
Leofur,
he thought.

But when he opened his eyes, he was staring at Chrysallin.

“Chrys,” he whispered.

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I’m all right now.”

And she hugged him to her.

He waited for the Druid Healers to arrive and then went straight to bed. He should have gone to the Ard Rhys, but he couldn’t make himself do anything more. He was so exhausted he didn’t think he could put words together to tell her what had happened. It didn’t matter now, anyway. Chrys was well. The struggle to save her was over. Everything else could wait.

He slept all day and did not come awake again until it was almost sunset. It took him a long time even then to make himself climb out of bed, wash, dress, and go off to give his report to the Ard Rhys. He took a few minutes to stop at the healing center and let the Druid Healers treat the injuries he had incurred battling Arcannen and Mischa’s creature before continuing on to find the Ard Rhys.

He was almost to her chambers when he passed Oost Mondara in the hallway.

“You are a whole lot of trouble, Paxon Leah,” the Dwarf declared abruptly, combing to a stop. “Why is it you aren’t ever where you’re supposed to be?”

Then he glowered at the speechless Highlander enigmatically before continuing on.

Aphenglow Elessedil was in still in her office when he knocked. She rose to greet him and embraced him warmly. “We were very worried about you, Paxon. Sit down and tell me everything that happened.”

He did so, omitting only the part about Leofur’s relationship with Arcannen. It took him a while to go through it all, but the Ard Rhys simply sat quietly and did not interrupt. He took special pains to describe the difficulty he experienced in letting Arcannen escape after he had brought him to bay, of choosing to help Chrys rather than capturing the sorcerer.

“I think you made the right choice. I spoke to her earlier today.” She smiled at the look on his face. “The Healers told me she was fully recovered. But I had to see for myself.. I had to know how she would react to me. It was all done carefully and with an eye toward her safety. She did not attack me. She didn’t even know who I was.”

“So Arcannen was telling the truth after all?”

“It seems so. She remembers almost nothing of what happened to her. Certainly nothing of her torture and her suffering. Not even much about Mischa—just a vague memory of an old woman.”

“She doesn’t remember any of it? Not the black creature or the gray-haired woman? Not the escape with Grehling?”

“She remembers the boy helping her. She just doesn’t remember any of the things related to the nightmares and the pain. I didn’t want to ask her too much all at once. There will be time for that later. There is one thing, though. And I wanted to ask you before pursuing it. She doesn’t remember anything about using the wishsong.”

“I wasn’t there when it happened,” he said, “but I guessed that was what it was from the description Grehling gave. Chrys has never used it before; there was never anything to indicate she had inherited it. I don’t think she knew.”

Aphenglow nodded, her brow wrinkling, her face thoughtful. “There is a history of it surfacing in various members of the Ohmsford family after they have reached a certain age. It doesn’t always manifest itself right away. In Chrysallin’s case, I would guess the shock of what she experienced at the hands of Mischa and the threat of having to go through it again brought it out. Chrys just reacted to her fears by voicing them, and the magic came alive.”

“But she doesn’t remember it now?”

“Not a bit of it. My dilemma is what to do about that. She harbors a powerful magic. She’s locked it away inside, but it could surface again at any point. What do we do about it? Do we let it be or do we find a way to reveal it to her and teach her to master its use?”

“If she doesn’t remember now, maybe she won’t remember at all. I don’t think she should be reminded of anything that happened.” His voice tightened. “I don’t want her put through anything else right away, Mistress.”

“Nor do I,” she said. “I think we should let her be. But I wanted to hear you say it. For the time being, at least, while she is still healing, we should keep it to ourselves. Maybe she will remember at some point, and when she does we will have to be ready to tell her the truth. Now, tell me how you are.”

He said he was fine, a bit battered and bruised, some scrapes and burns, but no broken bones. He had been to the healing center before coming to her and treated for his injuries. Mostly, it was feeling good about Chrys that strengthened him.