Khyber readjusted their hands so that Aphenglow’s were open, palms up, and her own were resting lightly on top of them, palms down. “Look at me, Aphenglow. Look into my eyes and do not look away.”
“I hate this,” Aphen said in response.
“Keep looking at me. Think about the vision. Any part of the vision. Don’t think of anything else but that. Let your mind relax and drift from one image to another. Keep remembering. Look at me. Look at me.”
Aphen obeyed, feeling the first twinges of the expected invasion, a sort of tingling that began in her hands and slowly worked its way up her arms, through her neck, and finally into her head. She forced herself not to move, not to react, just enduring it, letting the skiving happen. The presence of the Ard Rhys was unmistakable, the feel of her moving around in her mind, touching here and there, prowling. Aphenglow wanted to scream, to throw her out, to stop what was happening and erase its memory as the tide might erase all traces of passage on a sandy beach.
But she could not do that. She had given her word. She must hold fast.
Then, without warning, it ended. The presence of the Ard Rhys vanished, the invasion was over, and her mind and body were hers again. She felt Khyber’s hands withdraw, moving up to grip her shoulders.
“That was very brave of you,” the Ard Rhys whispered and kissed her on the cheek.
Aphenglow closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “Just don’t ever ask me to do that again.”
There was no response. When she opened her eyes, Khyber Elessedil was gone.
Shadows everywhere. Darkness all around.
Drust Chazhul worked his way cautiously down the deep gloom of the hallway leading to Edinja Orle’s chambers, already questioning the wisdom of his decision to visit her in this manner. He had wanted to speak to her somewhere private, somewhere their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. He knew he had no hope of persuading her to come to his own chambers, so he had decided on the bold approach of asking to come to hers. Surprisingly, she had agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
But she wanted him there after dark when he would not be seen and she could be certain of his intentions.
She could never be certain of that, he had thought at the time, but he admired that she believed she could. But then he, too, was risking something by coming alone to her, when he would be most vulnerable to whatever harm she might choose to inflict on him. So when he had agreed to her terms, he had mentioned casually that he would tell Stoon and his other retainers that they would not need to accompany him—just to advise her that someone would know where he was going, lessening the chances of her attempting anything unpleasant.
And he was not entirely without protections of his own. He was never without those.
But this darkness was annoying and made it difficult for him to maneuver, and he wondered how she could manage to do so herself. He groped his way along the wall, recalling the distance from the entry to the first door, keeping one hand stretched out in front of him to let him know when he reached it.
Even so, he came up against its rough surface less ready than he had expected to be, banging his hand and scraping his knuckles against the iron hinges. Cursing softly, he felt around for the handle, grasped hold, and twisted clockwise, half expecting that it would be locked.
But the latch released and the door opened smoothly. Beyond, a large entry was lit with a single smokeless torch of the sort favored by those who commanded magic. Edinja’s talent was legendary; she far outstripped anyone else in Arishaig. She might have been marginalized on the political spectrum because of it, given that tolerance for any use of magic was severely limited in the Federation these days, save that her family was old and established and greatly feared. No one with any sense—which included himself—wanted to risk incurring the enmity of the Orle family. So until recently he had ignored her attraction to magic and been careful to stay on civil terms with her.
That state of affairs had lasted until he secured the position of Prime Minister. Now he was not at all certain how she felt or what she intended to do about him.
He crossed the entry to the door beyond, this one smaller and less forbidding. Perhaps it was the light that made it so. He paused and knocked softly.
“Come,” he heard her say from within.
He opened the door and found himself in a room draped with silks and layered with carpets and throws and pillows. It looked to be less a reception chamber than a bordello, but he brushed that thought aside quickly. Candles burned everywhere, and the sweet scent of incense filled the air. He tried not to breathe it in but could not avoid doing so.
Edinja reclined on a couch at the back of the room. She was robed and hooded, though her fine, soft features were visible in the candlelight. She wore silken slippers on her tiny feet, ribbons flowing from her long silver hair. The rings that adorned her fingers glinted softly, small flashes of silver and gold. There was an unmistakable glow about her dusky skin that suggested an inner light. She was beautiful in a sharp, angular way, though he had never looked at her himself like that, only acknowledged what others said and thought. She lived alone, unmarried and unpartnered. It was said she took lovers now and then, but no one seemed clear on who or even what they were. Not that it mattered in the least to him.
Her only true companion lay stretched out a few yards away against the back wall. Cinla, sleek and sinewy, was a moor cat of average size, but striking design. Her strange reddish gold color was an exquisite rarity. Like all moor cats, she had the ability to appear and disappear at will, sometimes without even seeming to move. She accompanied her mistress outside her chambers every now and then, even on occasion into the Coalition Council chambers, but mostly she remained hidden from view. Drust himself had seen the big cat only once.
There were rumors about the relationship that existed between Edinja and Cinla, but they were of the sort that most often originated from malicious gossip and lacked any basis in truth. Still, there was a troubling intelligence in the moor cat’s green eyes as she studied Drust. He held her gaze only a moment before looking away.
“Good evening, Prime Minister,” Edinja greeted, indicating a chair close to where she rested.
“Good evening to you, Minister Orle,” Drust returned. He moved over to the chair indicated and sat down. “I appreciate your giving me this opportunity to speak with you alone.”
“And I that you were willing to come to me in my chambers so that this meeting could be conducted discreetly.”
He smiled. “I am flattered to be allowed into such a private place.”
“It must be difficult finding time for meetings such as this these days,” she responded, dismissing his compliment with a small wave of one tiny hand. “Given the demands of your new office.”
He decided not to let that pass. “Let me say something right up front. I am fully aware that you wanted the position of Prime Minister and that you are less than happy that I now own it. I didn’t seek it out and perhaps I should have refused when it was offered. But it seemed wrong to do so when you and Commander Arodian were at such odds. I took it as a means of avoiding further conflict, not to satisfy any need of my own. You may not believe me, but this is so. I am aware that you are better qualified to be Prime Minister than I am. So is Arodian, for that matter. I have said so publicly. I am here for that very reason. I cannot do this without your help.”
“Is that so?” She said it as if it were hard for her to believe. “You think yourself inadequate? You believe you require my poor skills to help you navigate treacherous waters?”
“An overly dismissive way of phrasing the level of your skills and experience, Edinja. But however you see yourself, the time has come for us to work together. I am approaching you first. I have not spoken to Arodian. I will tell you something quite frankly. I neither like nor trust him. He is too ambitious and too arrogant for me to believe he will lift a finger on my behalf. You, I think, are more farsighted.”
“Or at least more pragmatic.”
She gave him a shrug. “I don’t see the purpose in waging war with you, Drust. I haven’t the time or energy for it. My turn as Prime Minister will come soon enough. Oh, not that way. In the orderly course of events, the position will find its way to me. But for now, I would consider acting as your adviser and confidante, if that is what you are seeking from me?”
“It is exactly what I seek.”
She rose suddenly and walked across the room. “Something to drink? A little wine?”
“A little only.”
She made a point of letting him see her pour the wine into both glasses from the same decanter. Then she carried it across the room to him, tasting it herself from her own glass before handing him his, letting him know it was safe to drink.
“I don’t think you would poison me in your own chambers,” he said, taking a substantial drink. He glanced down at the wine and nodded. “Very nice.”
She laughed softly. “You would be surprised what I would dare to do. But poisoning you is not high on that list. Something else is, however. Before I agree to work with you, we need to reach an understanding about my use of magic. You are on record as opposing its use. You wish to see all practice of it abolished. That presents a problem for someone like myself.”
“I can see that it would. But I am firm about this. Magic is unpredictable and dangerous. It is a tool of the elite. Only a few have it, and the rest of us can only look in through the window and wonder at its attractive glitter. Worse, most of it is controlled by the Druids, and the Druids are the Federation’s enemy.”
She nodded, shrugged. “I care nothing for the Druids. I dislike them as much as you do. But I cannot give up using magic simply to satisfy your obsession with furthering the use of science. We need a better approach to solving this problem.”
He watched her drink a little more wine from her glass. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“I do. Wage your campaign against magic, but confine it for now to the Druids. Their order is far and away the most obvious and unattractive congregation of magic users. No one likes or respects them, and any attacks on them will be met with widespread indifference. Perhaps somewhere down the road, a few years from now, after the Druids are destroyed and your own position secured, you can find a way to make an exception for me and those who act for me.”
Drust Chazhul frowned. He didn’t much care for making her any promises. “Perhaps,” he allowed.
She frowned. “You patronize me, Drust. I can hear it in your voice and see it in your eyes. You say what you think will keep me compliant, but you have no real intention—”
She stopped suddenly, a startled look on her face. Her hand went to her throat and her mouth opened as she gasped for air. Drust Chazhul stared at her in a mix of confusion and shock.
“What have you done?” she hissed at him.
He shook his head quickly. “Nothing! I … don’t … What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“The wine!” She was on her feet, throwing away her glass, clutching now at her chest. “You’ve poisoned it!”
“No! I’ve done nothing!” He reached out to catch her as she lurched toward him, but she pushed him away. “Edinja, this wasn’t my doing!”
“Liar! Pretending … friendship, and all … the while …”
Cinla was sitting up straighter, watching it all, but not doing anything. Not yet. Drust looked in the moor cat’s eyes and began to back away, edging toward the door. What was happening here? Edinja had dropped to her knees and was bent over, retching violently. Drust knew he should do something, but he couldn’t think what it was. If it was poison, one needed to know what kind in order to provide an antidote. Her symptoms suggested something of every poison he knew.
“Treachery!” Edinja shrieked. Then she toppled over and lay still.
Dead. Drust knew it at once. Her eyes fixed, her skin turned blue, her inner glow gone dark, her voice silenced. A white froth leaked from between her lips, pooling onto the floor.
Drust kept backing away, aware that Cinla was on her feet now and moving over to where her mistress lay. It would only be seconds before the moor cat turned her attention back to him. He had to get out of there before that happened. None of this was his doing, but if he were found in her chambers like this he would be blamed anyway. No amount of explaining would save him.
His eyes still on the moor cat as it sniffed Edinja’s motionless body, he backed into the chamber door, fumbled for the handle, released the latch, and was on the other side almost before he knew it. Making sure the latch was set, he rushed across the entry to the larger door, wrenched it open, and fled into the blackness beyond.
17
KHYBER ELESSEDIL STOOD AT THE STERN RAILING OF THE Walker Boh as she sailed west out of Paranor and watched the Druid’s Keep slowly disappear into the eastern horizon. She could see it for a long time as the airship proceeded at a slow, steady pace toward the western wall of the Dragon’s Teeth, its dark peaks ominous even in the bright sunlight of midday, spears extended toward the blue bowl of the sky. She had thought she might see Aphenglow come out to witness their departure, but the young Elven woman did not appear.
What she had not told Aphen, but what the other might have guessed, was that she had returned directly to Paranor from Patch Run precisely because she knew the young Druid’s memory of the path the expedition needed to take was essential and must be skived if Aphen was to be left behind—a decision she had already made. She had chosen this effort over chasing after the Ohmsford twins, knowing Bakrabru was on the way to their Westland destination in any case and convinced that she could persuade the boys to join her once she had plumbed Aphen’s memories and collected the other members of the company.
None of which relieved her feelings of guilt over how she had used Aphen and then discarded her.
The Ard Rhys shook her head, tamping down a pang of disappointment. She knew how bitter Aphen was about being left behind and wished she could have done more. But she imagined that in the end no one could help Aphen but Aphen herself. It might take time, but as her leg healed her heart would mend, too. She would come to accept that Khyber’s choice not to take her was the right one. Bombax would return, and she would find other things to occupy her time.
Besides, they might all be reunited sooner than anyone thought. She hadn’t been trying to placate Aphenglow when she had suggested as much. She wasn’t at all sure that this present effort would lead to anything conclusive. It might well lead to nothing. Or it might turn out to be only the first step on a much longer journey. Tracking down something that was thousands of years missing, lost in a time that no longer existed by a Race that had been reduced to a fraction of its former size, would likely be much more complicated than anyone believed.
Anyone but herself, she amended—someone who had lived long enough to know better, who had experienced the rebel Shadea a’Ru’s attempt to gain control of the order and survived the struggle it had taken to prevent that from happening.
So long ago now. So far in the past.
She watched the last vestiges of the fortress fade into the distance and experienced a strange feeling of regret at leaving, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“She will be fine, Mistress,” Garroneck said at her elbow. “She is a strong young woman.”
Khyber gave him a smile. “I know that. I just wish we could have found a way to include her.”
The big Troll shrugged. “Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be included. There might be something else that requires her talents.”
“A nice thought.” She nodded slowly. “I hope you are right. Mostly, I hope she will be able to do what is needed at Paranor in our absence. Leaving her with only her younger sister, her Elven protector, and a handful of your Trolls worries me. I hope Bombax comes back soon.”
“You know he will. He always does. And don’t underrate the capabilities of my Trolls, Mistress. They are more than a match for anything that might threaten Aphenglow or the Keep.”
&nb
sp; She nodded absently, redirecting her attention to the forward decks on the big warship. “What do you think of those three?”
She was referring to the two men and one woman that her Druids had brought back with them from their forays into different parts of the Four Lands in compliance with the urgings of the Shade of Allanon.
“An odd bunch,” Garroneck declared.
An apt description, she thought. Each very different from the others, all very different from the Druids.
Skint was a Gnome Tracker recruited by Carrick—small, dark-faced, and decidedly uncommunicative. The Druid had found him in a small village at the foot of the Wolfsktaag Mountains in the Anar. He had known Skint from his childhood in the Eastland, where Carrick’s father had managed a mining business. His father had used Skint as a hunter and trapper to feed his workers and protect his operation, which was a long way from anything approximating civilization. Skint’s value, Carrick had explained to Khyber, was that he was exceedingly adept at finding his way through places he had never seen before, at reading signs, and at ferreting out dangers. As a boy, he had spent time with Skint—though his father had never found out about it—so he had witnessed firsthand how clever the Gnome could be. Skint wasn’t a pleasant fellow, but he was very good at what he did. If you were with him and in danger, he was your best chance at finding your way to safety.
Seersha had brought back a Dwarf Chieftain. His name was Crace Coram, and he was something of a legend. He was the son and grandson of former Chieftains of their people, the Quare Rek, and he had inherited wars with Gnome tribes that went back several centuries. His father was killed in battle by members of one of those tribes, the Zek’ke, when Crace was just twenty, and he had been named leader by his people immediately. Only days later the Zek’ke had attacked again, knowing his father was dead and expecting to find the Quare Rek in disarray. At first, they were, fleeing in all directions. But Crace Coram rallied them in midflight, sought out the Gnome leader responsible for the death of his father, and single-handedly killed him and three others who were trying to protect him. Then, with fewer than thirty men, he drove the Zek’ke from his village and pursued them for three days through the mountains, the Dwarves under his command killing the fleeing Gnomes one by one.