Wards of Faerie

  “How do things stand with the Council members?” Stoon asked, moving the subject away from the Druids. “Have Arodian and Edinja come to terms with your unexpected elevation to Prime Minister? Do they suspect anything?”

  “They’re confused still.” Drust sipped at his wine absently, thinking about his rivals. “But I might want to do something about them before that changes.”

  “But not just yet. It will look suspicious if something happens to them so soon after the death of the old Prime Minister. It might be better to let a little time pass.”

  Stoon was right, of course. But he was missing the point. Drust shook his head. “I don’t intend to eliminate them. I intend to eliminate any threat they might pose.”

  Stoon looked at him with interest. “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Are you? Well, you’d better watch your back with those two. They’re every bit as clever as you.”

  Drust gave him a sharp look. “Then why have I been able to out-maneuver them so far? Why am I Prime Minister and not either of them?”

  Stoon said nothing. He just stared at the other man, waiting.

  Finally, Drust shrugged and said, “I take your point. I won’t get overconfident. I know what has to happen, but I realize I shouldn’t expect it to happen too quickly. In any case, I am more interested at the moment in my plans for the Druids than in worrying about Arodian and Edinja.”

  Eliminating the Druids and reducing Paranor to rubble was Drust Chazhul’s primary goal as Prime Minister of the Federation. He had spoken out for years on the subject, riding the wave of resentment that infused every public discourse surrounding the Federation’s stinging defeat on the Prekkendorran—a disaster that might be a hundred years past but felt as recent to most as yesterday. It was a defeat almost everyone attributed to the interference of the Druids on behalf of the Free-born allies. The Federation had been humiliated and its power sharply curtailed by the subsequent peace agreement. And although none of the current generation of Federation men and women had fought in that war, their hatred of the Druids was an inheritance passed down to them by their parents and grandparents—an inbred antipathy that politicians and military zealots continued to nurture.

  Drust Chazhul used that hatred for the leverage it provided him politically. As Prime Minister and a career politician with boundless ambition, he understood that as long as the Druids existed the Federation’s efforts at domination of the lesser Races and their lands would be curtailed. Which, in turn, meant that Drust’s plan to grow his personal power base in tandem with Federation expansion faced an insurmountable roadblock.

  He believed, as well, that the use of magic was an abomination that had somehow gained the upper hand over the far safer and more productive science that had determined the course of the Old World. He knew the stories of how failure to adequately and safely control science had led to the destruction of that Old World, but that didn’t change the fact that magic was an elitist power that only a few possessed or even understood. Mostly, these few were Druids. That they should wield such power—power denied to others (especially himself)—was unacceptable. He did not believe the Druids were any better equipped than he was to determine what was and wasn’t to be allowed in shaping the future of the human condition, and he resented strongly their insistence that only they understood the ramifications of magic’s use well enough to possess and employ it.

  Others did not agree, of course. Edinja was one of them. But that was to be expected; members of her family had been practitioners of magic for centuries and were not about to support someone who claimed they should now give it up.

  Things were changing in the world of the Four Lands. The Federation had been the first to develop diapson crystals as a mean of achieving progress, usage that relied on a burgeoning new form of science that could be calculated and controlled and did not rely on chance and inheritance and talismans. Military use of the crystals was forbidden, of course. But no one in his right mind believed that the Federation had ceased experimentation and development of the weapons that had very nearly placed victory in their grasp until the Druids had snatched it away.

  No, the Druids were an anachronism that needed to be eliminated, and Drust Chazhul believed he was the one who could do that.

  “What plans are these?” Stoon asked suddenly, regaining his attention.

  He furrowed his brow, thinking of something Stoon had said earlier. “What did you say about the Ard Rhys sending the King’s granddaughter back to Arborlon?”

  Stoon shrugged. “Our source in Arborlon tells us she asked the old King for permission to take the Elfstones to Paranor to help search for some magic she found reference to in the Elven histories. The King denied her, and that was the end of it.”

  “A quest, then? The Druids thought to search for this missing magic? They intended to leave Paranor?”

  “Still do. The decision is made, Elfstones or no.” Stoon was watching him closely. “What are you thinking?”

  “That such a search will take time and effort. That while it is being conducted, Paranor will be left mostly unguarded.”

  Stoon shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on that, Drust.”

  But Drust Chazhul was on his feet, pacing the room, suddenly animated. “All we need to do is to find an excuse to visit while the bulk of the Druids are away, one that won’t seem overtly aggressive. A diplomatically acceptable excuse. A visit to the Ard Rhys by the new Prime Minister of the Federation, perhaps. A courtesy call.”

  He wheeled back, facing Stoon. “Can Paranor’s defenses be breached? Is there a way to get past them?”

  The assassin smiled. “There is always a way. The trick is in finding it.”

  “I want you to work on that. While you do, I will lay the groundwork for my ‘diplomatic visit.’ Because of what I plan to do, I will need to take a sizable force with me to overcome whatever resistance I encounter.”

  “The Coalition Council will never agree to let you take a fighting force into Druid territory. They’ll slap you down in a minute. Arodian and Edinja will see to it.”

  “Perhaps not.” He felt excited, energized. “In fact, I might be able to make use of them.” He grinned. “Don’t underestimate me, Stoon. I know how to get things done that others wouldn’t even dare to consider. You concentrate on your job, and I’ll do the same with mine. Tell our spies to keep you advised on any preparations for an expedition made at Paranor. I’ll want reports from Arborlon, as well. Anything at all about what’s been found in the Elven histories or what’s intended to be accomplished by this search. If there’s a way to discover their destination or the specifics of its purpose or who might be helping them … anything at all.”

  Stoon nodded. “This is risky, Drust. If you overstep, your enemies will be on you like wolves on a lamb.”

  Drust Chazhul gave him a wicked smile. “Then they’d best watch themselves. This lamb might turn out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This lamb might devour them instead.”

  He drank the last of his wine. “Let’s go our ways. Come to me tomorrow night. We’ll see how things stand then.”

  He turned to collect his coat and hat. When he turned back again, Stoon was gone.

  16

  AT PARANOR, APHENGLOW ELESSEDIL SAT PROPPED UP IN her sleeping chamber bed, rereading the notes she had written regarding her use of the blue Elfstones three days earlier in Arborlon. She had made her report to the Ard Rhys and her fellow Druids that morning, but she felt compelled to make certain that she had left nothing out. Her broken leg, splinted and bound, lay stretched out before her, a sour reminder of how badly things had gone awry.

  Even as she was being carted back to her cottage, after the attack by the black-clad assailants and her rescue by Cymrian, her leg throbbing with pain and her mind awash with the consequences of her disability, she was recounting in her mind the details of what the Elfstones had shown her. She was afraid she would forget something if she didn
’t, aware of the quixotic tricks memory could play if one failed to revisit its first impressions quickly. Later, aboard Wend-A-Way, she had taken the time to write it all down. The more she went back over it, the better her chances of not forgetting anything.

  She was close to the end of her current perusal when she realized that all she was doing was finding a way to occupy her time. Confined to her bed, unable to participate in the preparations for the journey that would take the bulk of the Druid order in quest of the missing Elfstones, she was frustrated and bored and very much afraid that she might be the one who was left behind. No one had said so as yet, but the implications had been apparent after she gave her report. Condolences on the damage to her leg, regret that she would be bedridden for a week and splinted for two more, pitying looks. She was an adept at using her magic to heal, but there was only so much you could do with a break this bad. Cymrian had set it, her sister had wrapped it carefully, but she was disabled nevertheless.

  Knowing she should not broach publicly the question of whether she would be allowed to go with the others, she had kept her peace. The time to ask would be later, in private. The one to ask—the only one who mattered—was the Ard Rhys.

  She could hardly bear the waiting.

  Arlingfant and Cymrian had accompanied her back to Paranor, taking charge of her safety and transportation in the wake of this latest attack on her person. She had tried to dissuade Arling from coming, insisting her duties as a Chosen came before caring for her sister—an assertion that was quickly brushed aside. Arling would not be missed for the time it took to see Aphenglow safely placed under the care of her fellow Druids.

  Leaving Arborlon at once had not been a point of debate. Cymrian insisted she was no longer safe in her home city, the attack absolute proof that her purpose in coming back had somehow been compromised. There was no one aside from her family and himself she could trust and nothing further to be accomplished by remaining where she was. Better she be returned to the Druids, and Cymrian and Arlingfant were the right ones to see this was done. Cymrian could fly an airship and Arlingfant could see to the needs of her sister.

  Aphenglow had not argued the point. Her only regret was that her need to leave now prevented her from accessing and searching through the Chosen histories for information on Aleia Omarossian as she had planned. But that could wait for another day. For now, she must go to a safer place and impart what she had learned through the use of the blue Elfstones to the Ard Rhys.

  Any doubts she had harbored about Cymrian had been erased in the aftermath of his rescue efforts. After finding her in spite of her efforts to lose him, he had stood alone against five trained, experienced assassins, men bearing the distinctive eagle mark of a well-known Federation-connected league—who should have been able to overcome a single defender with little difficulty. He had killed all five. Not intentionally; he had hoped to take one alive to question. But in a struggle of this sort, it was difficult to hold back—a point brought home graphically to Aphenglow when she had taken the life of her last assailant and discovered how quickly you needed to react and how little time you were allowed to measure the force required to save yourself.

  In both instances, she was lucky to be alive. She was grateful to Cymrian, and she had told him so.

  Even so, there was still something about him that troubled her. She had resolved to find out what it was.

  Arlingfant seemed to have no similar reservations. She and Cymrian had formed a fast friendship that had grown stronger since they had embarked on the Wend-A-Way back to Paranor. Joking, laughing, and very much at ease with each other, they had bonded quickly—so much so that Aphenglow felt a twinge of jealously in spite of herself at not being an equal partner in this friendship.

  Mostly, though, she just felt disgruntled and troubled by the circumstances of her own situation.

  And, she admitted, staring out the window into the gray of the late-afternoon sky, rain clouds forming up to the west, she was worried about Bombax, the only member of the order who had gone out and not yet returned.

  This was not all that unusual. Bombax was headstrong, independent, and had a long history of coming and going on his own terms and according to his own timetable. Because he was so experienced, the other Druids did not worry for him as they might have for one another. In fact, they barely gave it a thought. But they were not in love with him as Aphenglow was; they had not chosen him as a life partner.

  They did not sense when something was wrong as strongly as Aphenglow did.

  But there was no help for it. All anyone knew was that he had set out for the cities of the Borderlands, intent on finding aid for their quest. They had no way to track him, no way to seek him out, and no particular desire to do so. If anything, he would resent the intrusion. Aphenglow knew this. What frustrated her was that even though she knew not to go looking for him, she could not have done so even if she wanted to. She resented her inability to act; she was angered by her incapacitation.

  She hated that all she could do was sit in this bed and wait.

  She was mulling over her unfortunate state when Khyber Elessedil appeared suddenly and unexpectedly in the doorway.

  “May I speak with you, Aphen?”

  Right away Aphenglow knew something was wrong. When the Ard Rhys bothered to ask if she could talk to you, you could be certain she had something unpleasant to say.

  “Is it Bombax?” Aphenglow replied at once. “Has something happened to him?”

  “This doesn’t concern Bombax.” The Ard Rhys walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. “How are you feeling?”

  She grimaced. “Bored. Frustrated. Anxious to be doing something.”

  “You are doing something. You are mending. Are you using your skills to speed the healing?”

  “Three times a day, no exceptions. I think I can begin walking in a day or so.”

  The Ard Rhys smiled. “Let’s not rush things, Aphen. You can only do so much.”

  “I want to go with you,” Aphenglow blurted out, unable to contain herself any longer. “You have to let me! You need me! Without me, you can’t be sure of where you’re going. I’m the one who saw the vision. I will recognize landmarks you might miss. Please! Let me go!”

  Khyber Elessedil shook her head. “You are so eager. What if this turns out to be something other than what you expect? What if it leads to nothing? What if it is all a trick of some sort? Magic can betray even us.”

  “I don’t care. I want to be there. I’m the one who found the diary. I deserve to go!”

  “You do deserve to go. Not only did you find the diary and bring it to the rest of us, but you recognized its value right away. You found the connection between Aleia Omarosian and the Elessedils. You opened so many doors, even when doing so endangered you. I do not in any way underestimate your contributions.”

  She sighed. “That said, I want you to remain here. Wait, hear me out. I need someone to keep watch over Paranor, a Druid with wits enough to know what to do if anything threatens in my absence. That would be Bombax, if he were here.”

  “But you need Bombax!” Aphenglow was insistent, desperate to change the other’s mind. “I’m not as skilled with magic. If you wait for him, perhaps I will be well enough for you to reconsider your decision to leave me.”

  “We have no idea when he’ll return. Even use of the scrye has failed to reveal any trace of his whereabouts. We cannot wait longer for him. Our expedition will leave tomorrow. Someone either knows or suspects what we are about. If they dare to attack you in your own city—in your own home—then there is reason to believe they will come after us. The quicker we act, the more difficult we make it for whoever hunts us.”

  “But, Mistress, a few more days …”

  “No, Aphen. The matter is settled. I want you here. You are incapacitated through no fault of your own, but incapacitated nevertheless. You lack mobility and strength. If we are threatened or even attacked, you become a liability that risks the lives of others becaus
e you cannot defend yourself as you need to. You know this. I regret you have suffered this setback, but disappointment is a part of all our lives.”

  Aphenglow fought back her tears. I will not cry! “How will you manage without me to guide you? What will you do when you come to a place you don’t recognize and cannot ask me what I saw in my vision? My notes are thorough, but there is no substitute for having seen firsthand what it is we seek. You cannot know what difficulties you might encounter later. I have to be there!”

  “Not if I perform a skiving of those memories so they become my own.” The Ard Rhys paused. “Will you agree to that?”

  A skiving. Aphen flinched. An excising of layers of images forming certain memories in one person’s mind and transplanting them into another’s. Few Druids—few magic wielders of any sort—had the skill to accomplish this. Khyber Elessedil was one.

  But it was an intrusion into the mind, a trespass into space that was the sole property of the owner. It had never been done to Aphenglow, and she had thought it never would.

  “I don’t want anyone in my mind,” she said quietly, firmly. “I cannot endure it.”

  Khyber nodded. “I don’t blame you. I would not ask it of you if there were a reasonable alternative. I promise not even to glance at anything but the Elfstone vision. A quick excision and then I am gone. If you experience pain or fear, I give you leave to banish me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Ard Rhys reached over and took Aphenglow’s hands in her own. “Yes, you do. You know.”

  Aphenglow nodded. She did know. She was a Druid first and always, and she would do what her Ard Rhys asked of her because that was the commitment she had given.