The Black Elfstone

  On the other hand, she could not help thinking about the family she had left behind so abruptly, especially her brother. Even the short time she had been gone seemed entirely too long, and she was uneasy with what might have happened in the interim. Four years with her uncle…She felt an urgent need to return to her brother and make certain he was well. She wanted Drisker to understand this and to respond to her need, and she thought that at some point soon now he would.

  Perhaps on his return from this meeting…

  She stayed where she was for perhaps an hour, drinking tea and listening to the birds, trying to identify them from their songs, occasionally calling them to her with the wishsong’s magic. She could do that almost effortlessly, a skill she had mastered even before coming to Emberen. She had moved beyond that endeavor to find ways to imitate the wind and the sound of a stream’s rippling passage and the whisper of leaves in the branches of trees. How to imitate nature. The more she could assimilate with other things, the more accomplished her abilities to hide and blend in would grow.

  Of late, she had begun to find ways to make others see her as someone or something other than what she was. A sort of cloaking of herself in a disguise that could not be revealed while her magic was working on keeping it in place. There were endless possibilities where the wishsong was involved. Some were frightening. She knew from studying with Drisker that at various times in the history of the Ohmsford family certain members had mastered the power of life and death over living things, of employing the wishsong to save lives by healing or to take them by force. It was a terrible responsibility to have such power, and she was not at all sure she wanted it. The Druid, however, had insisted skill at her level required she master every aspect of it. You could not back away from what it could do once it was given to you. Management and understanding were the only reasonable options for maintaining control.

  But she had not yet been tested in this or thought to test herself. It rankled her even to think about it. Better to let it be until Drisker felt she had learned whatever else he had to teach. So far, he had not asked instances of using magic to manipulate life, and she thought he felt as she did. It would come to her soon enough in any event, and rushing into it before she was prepared physically and emotionally was unwise.

  When the tea was gone and the morning with it, she began training once more. Every day she was required to complete certain exercises involving the use of magic. Some of them required that she leave the cottage and go into the forest, but on this day she chose to stay close. Drisker didn’t seem to think she was at risk, but she didn’t like it that he had felt it necessary to warn her in the first place. So she took his advice to heart and exercised caution, being careful not to do anything that would attract attention.

  Her efforts took her mind off her brother and her parents sufficiently that after a time she stopped thinking about them at all and disappeared into her lessons. She spent considerable time persuading a crow that she was her fledgling. In the end the crow hopped right up to her before realizing something wasn’t quite right and flying off. She assumed the guise of a tree, disappearing into a skin of bark and a covering of leafy branches, becoming a part of the woods surrounding her. It was hard to tell how successful she was since she couldn’t judge her own appearance from inside her covering. But squirrels and birds seemed convinced enough to try to either climb or land on her, and she took that as a good sign.

  By nightfall she was exhausted enough that it took what little energy remained to prepare a meal, eat it, pull off her clothes, and wash her face before falling into bed and going off to sleep. She slept undisturbed through the night and woke rested and cheerful on finding the new day sunny and warm.

  For the better part of the next week she worked on her magic and stayed close to home. She kept an eye out for Drisker, but he did not return. By the seventh day, she began to worry. How far had he traveled? Had he walked the whole way? She found herself wishing she had asked him for a few details about his plans.

  She also wished she had asked him about the eyes.

  Ever since she had arrived, she had felt them watching. She accepted that there were creatures living in the woods about them that she couldn’t see and that preferred to remain hidden. She could even accept some of them were enchanted, drawn to this place by Drisker’s use of magic and now, perhaps, her own. But she was troubled by the constant surveillance, knowing it was there yet not being able to confirm it. She was troubled, too, by her disappointment that the Druid had not thought it necessary to tell her.

  But there was nothing she could do about any of it, so she resigned herself to biding her time, deciding that when Drisker returned she would confront him and demand that he tell her the truth.

  But that night, she found out the truth for herself.

  —

  Drisker Arc walked into Emberen to the storage service that kept watch over his two-man flit. It was a modified model, not new but in excellent condition. It had space for two where most flits had space for only one. He used it mostly to haul supplies and equipment because he almost never had reason to carry a passenger. Until now, of course. Now, it appeared the flit would prove useful while Tarsha worked with him as his assistant. They would need to travel, and these days most travel was done using airships rather than horses.

  After hauling out the flit with the help of the storage manager and stowing his pack, he boarded the little craft and flew northeast. He traveled for the rest of that day and then three more, crossing the Streleheim before swinging farther north to pass below the upper reaches of the Skull Kingdom, then continuing on past the Razors. On the fourth afternoon, he flew over the city of Anatcherae and by nightfall reached the eastern shore of the Lazareen. At daybreak on the fifth day, he resumed flying, making his way toward Taupo Rough.

  Brutal country, he thought as he disembarked and looked around. Hard on man and beast. Unfit for anyone civilized.

  What he sensed in the cries of birds, in the scents of the morning air, and in the shifting of light and shadows that morning told him something was amiss. It was akin to the premonitions he had been having over and over again of late. But this one was so strong there was no questioning it. Somewhere, death had found an unexpected release.

  At midday he reached his destination, a barren patch of ground uninhabited by much of anything beyond insects. There he waited through the rest of the day, unable to go farther than the place where he and the Morsk always met. For now, he must wait on his informant and trust that he would show. It wasn’t a given; sometimes he didn’t. But he would be patient, in large part because he was greatly troubled by the destruction of the Corrax Trolls. It was odd that it should happen to a Race of people trained to fight almost from birth. Troll tribes engaged in territorial battles regularly, but such skirmishes did not involve the annihilation of one by another. There wasn’t a military force in all the Four Lands that should have been able to manage such a feat.

  And if such a thing had happened, where were the Elves and their magic and the Federation forces and their war machines? Where were the Druids? Did they not know what had happened? Given the extent of their resources and widespread network of spies and scouts, it seemed unlikely they hadn’t heard anything.

  Sooner or later, no matter the odds or the challenge presented, someone was going to have to act. That no one had done so thus far suggested that everyone was waiting for someone else to solve the problem. It would be typical of the Southlanders, but not the Elves and certainly not Druids. Paranor, at least, should already be responding in some significant way. That they weren’t doing anything suggested their leadership was proving to be as mercurial now as it was at the time of his departure. This was just one more consequence of his decision to shed his responsibility for the Druid order that he had to live with.

  It was nearing dark when the Morsk finally arrived. It appeared out of the darkness like the wraith it was, black as night and twice as ghostly, its robes drifting behind it in a shift of
wind like the tattered remnants of its unfortunate life. It wore a vaguely human shape, but its features were hidden and its movements so liquid it seemed to lack substance. It drifted toward the Druid silently and settled down across from him, another of night’s endless shadows.

  Drisker Arc.

  Its voice was a hiss in the near silence of their private space, soft and menacing.

  “Well met.”

  You would be the only one to say so. Not many think meeting me a fortunate moment.

  “Then it is good I am not of their ilk. What have you learned?”

  That winds of death and destruction blow through the Northland and are coming south. That the Races face a danger the like of which they have not faced before. That you should never have ceased to be Ard Rhys. That your counsel and leadership are badly needed.

  Drisker closed his eyes and then opened them again. “Could you be more specific about who or what this danger is?”

  They are wraiths that appear and vanish at will. They may have magic. These are the rumors of the living—the wives and children of the dead. The Trolls were overwhelmed and destroyed in spite of superior numbers. But I did not see this for myself.

  “But someone must have seen them. Are they from another region of the Four Lands? From another country we know nothing about? Someone must know.”

  The Morsk studied him. If you are so interested in knowing more, why don’t you track them down and see for yourself? But perhaps you should be wary of coming too close to them, considering.

  Drisker Arc sat back. It was not up to him to do this, of course. This wasn’t his business. It was up to the Druids.

  You are thinking all this should be done by the Druid order. And so it should. But you know they will do nothing.

  “You seem certain of this.”

  They have done nothing so far, have they? Why would that change?

  Why, indeed. “How many of these invaders are there?”

  I cannot tell. The ground hides their footprints.

  This was impossible. “No tracks? No sign of their passing?”

  Perhaps they are dead men. Perhaps they are ghosts. Perhaps the rumors are true.

  Drisker shook his head. What was going on?

  There was a second attack this morning. The Vacchs tribe. They were strong and seasoned warriors. They resisted the invaders, as did the Corrax. Like the Corrax, they are no more.

  Drisker remembered his premonition. This confirmed its source. Grim news. Worse than grim. “The Vacchs could not decipher what was happening to them? They could not save themselves? None of them?”

  The Morsk shrugged. Are we finished?

  The Morsk’s impatience was obvious. It had come only because it owed Drisker, who had once saved its life when it had been imprisoned and threated with death by superstitious Southlanders in a small village above Varfleet. How they had caught it or managed to contain it, he had never found out. Certainly the Morsk was not eager to tell him, ashamed and furious at its circumstances. But Drisker had discovered it was being held and came out of Paranor to set it free and explain its unfortunate condition to the villagers who saw it as a demon and a dark thing in need of killing.

  Afterward, the Morsk had told him something.

  I was born into a mixed-Race family, it had said. My ancestors were both shape-shifters and humans with an Elf or two thrown in for good measure. They were feared and hunted, all of them. They were seen as creatures of the dark. As am I. There is no acceptance or understanding of us, Druid. There never will be.

  Well, perhaps. But for those few moments after freeing it, Drisker tried to persuade it otherwise. And the Morsk had not forgotten his kindness or his respect.

  “Where does this enemy travel now?” he said.

  A rippling of dark robes and a shifting of its body filled a momentary pause. Where they will, Druid. The Northland will do nothing more to stop them.

  Drisker imagined not. Not after two Troll armies had been annihilated. But what would they do next? He would have to find out. He would have to do more than that, in point of fact. The Druids would have to be braced. Ober Balronen would have to be confronted. It would not be a pleasant moment, no matter its compelling nature.

  My debt to you is paid, the Morsk whispered, its voice sand rough-blown against wooden walls. I am leaving now.

  “My thanks,” Drisker replied, bowing in deference, head lowering.

  By the time he looked up again, the Morsk had disappeared.

  —

  A week after Balronen’s last, decidedly unproductive Council meeting, he summoned Darcon Leah to his private study. It was early morning, and the Blade was barely up and dressed when the summons arrived. Dar yawned and stretched and considered taking time to eat something before deciding any delay was a bad idea. Better to arrive promptly and hope to get free quickly. The Keep’s inhabitants were awake and moving down the hallways, and the day was bright with sunshine and birdsong. It almost made him think things would go well for a change.

  Almost.

  But his instincts told him this was going to be another wide detour around the issue of what to do about the enemy marching steadily south toward the more civilized and densely populated sections of the Four Lands. He girded himself for the necessary unpleasantness of having to remind the Ard Rhys of the urgency of acting while not insinuating himself too far into areas over which he had no personal jurisdiction.

  Still pondering the possible ways this meeting might go as he approached the chambers of the Ard Rhys, he was surprised to encounter Ruis Quince and Zia coming out. Looks were exchanged but no words. The expression on Zia’s face was unreadable, although Quince seemed immensely pleased. They went by him quickly, and he continued on through the open door to find Balronen waiting.

  “Close the door.” The High Druid gestured impatiently. He stood in the center of the room, facing Dar. He did not offer a seat, did not offer a libation. He did not look happy. “Something’s happened that requires our attention.”

  Balronen turned away momentarily as if looking to see if that something might be present. “There was another reveal of magic early this morning in the scrye waters. A rather demonstrable reveal, much on the order of the one that signaled the demise of the Corrax Trolls. I think we can safely assume there has been another attack. So I have decided to dispatch Ruis and Zia immediately to find out what is happening. I want you to go with them. Can you be ready by midday?”

  Dar nodded. “Of course.”

  Balronen looked back at him in time to catch the nod, but there was something oddly distracted about the look. “That’s good. Good.” He cleared his throat. “There’s something else. I want you to keep an eye on those two; I want you to watch them closely. They have been…furtive. There have been suggestions of bad intentions in their meetings with me. Their interactions are…” He trailed off.

  He was clearly having difficulty expressing himself. After a moment, he continued anyway. “Their eagerness to share this journey troubles me. Ruis was too quick to agree…after Zia suggested he lead the delegation. It makes me wonder what else is going on.”

  Dar stared. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “Come now,” the other man said softly. “Surely you know by now that they are lovers. They share a bed; they share secrets.”

  As a matter of fact, he did know all this. But he couldn’t see how it mattered where the mission was concerned.

  Balronen seemed to sense his hesitation. “I want to know what’s going on between them!” he snapped irritably. “Is that so hard to understand? I would think you would want to know, too. She was your lover before she was his, I seem to recall.”

  Dar couldn’t speak. What was this really about? Was Balronen worried there was some sort of intrigue brewing between the two? He didn’t seem interested at all in the delay in finding out why these Troll massacres had happened or who had perpetrated them. His concern was with what he appeared to view as a personal offense against him.
>
  “You saw it, too, didn’t you?” the High Druid pressed. “You must have. In that last meeting? The way Ruis maneuvered things so it didn’t look like it was his idea? The way Zia accepted his company right away?”

  There was a dark look in his gaze that told Dar immediately this was a full-blown obsession the other man had latched on to, brought about by suspicions that had their origins in things the highlander knew nothing about.

  “I’m not sure what I saw,” he answered carefully. “You recognize such things better than I do.”

  “Then you must take my word. Yours is a less complicated mind than my own, I suppose. I wouldn’t expect you to see the nuances of these types of things. But it was there in the looks they exchanged, in the words they spoke—all slyness, clever avoidance. I must always be on my guard against things unseen. You are my Blade, and I want you to protect me by finding out what they are planning. Can you do that?”

  Ober Balronen was talking as if he was deranged. Dar Leah knew he should resign his position on the spot and get out of Paranor. But he hesitated, and Balronen took his silence as an affirmative answer.

  “Do so, and I will make you a Druid. You command magic, after all, and there’s no reason you should not be one of us. But do not fail me in this. Find out the truth. Any way you have to.”

  He gripped Darcon’s shoulder tightly and squeezed it. “You depart at dawn tomorrow.”

  Then he released his grip and walked past the highlander and out the door, exiting with long, swift strides. Dar stood rooted in place, trying to make sense of what had just happened and failing.

  “Shades!” he whispered to himself.

  He waited until Balronen was five minutes gone before leaving the room. Even then, he paused at the doorway and peered out to make sure the other was out of sight. He felt more than a little foolish, but he didn’t want to have to face the High Druid again right away. That much suspicion felt like a disease, and he didn’t want any part of it.