The High Druid's Blade

  At the end of this day, when the tall woman with the long gray hair and the Elven features came over to study her again, Chrysallin stared back, memorizing every feature, burning the hated features into her memory, wanting to be certain she would know her should she ever get out of this. She hated the woman with every fiber of her being, even more so than she hated the men that were carrying out her instructions. Chrysallin hated her enough that if she could have gotten free, she would have tried to kill her on the spot.

  When the woman was gone, taking her creatures with her, Chrysallin was drained of energy and damp with sweat and blood. Her body throbbed and twitched with pain, and there was no relief to be found. Every shift of her limbs, however small, produced fresh agony. Attempts at waiting it out only caused her to be more aware of it. In the darkness, she could not see the damage that had been done, but she could tell it was considerable. She believed she would never look the same when this was over. She would be marked for life, both without and within. She would be rendered a shadow of who and what she had once been.

  But she did not cry this night. She refused to cry. She would not let herself. Instead, she channeled her suffering into rage—a white-hot anger that made her want to scream and tear at things. She fed this rage with promises of what she would do to the gray-haired Elven woman once she was free. She gave it direction by thinking how she would inflict on her captor the same pain she was suffering. It was wishful thinking, but it gave her an outlet for her despair and for her need to respond and not feel entirely helpless. It gave her another life outside of the one she was enduring. It gave her a focus and a mission. She wasn’t sure she could survive another day of what was being done to her, but she knew she was going to try if for no other reason than to deprive them of the satisfaction of watching her break apart. And, of course, the possibility of somehow gaining revenge.

  She dreamed that night, and in her dreams she was in a desert crawling on her hands and knees across burning sands and jagged rocks, her body torn and bloodied and her strength almost exhausted. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but emptiness. No trees or water, no buildings, no people. Except that there was someone walking beside her as she crawled. When she managed to look up, she found it was her nemesis, the gray-haired Elven woman, keeping pace with her, glancing down now and then and smiling with satisfaction, showing no other emotion, saying nothing as they proceeded. The sun beat down, the heat rose off the carpet of the sand, and the woman never offered any of the water she drank from a skin she had slung across her shoulder.

  The dream went on a long time—or at least it felt that way—past any semblance of reality, a steady progression of sameness meant to demonstrate what was already all too clear. Chrysallin’s fate was out of her hands. Nothing was going to change. The suffering was going to continue.

  And when she woke, brought out of her sleep by the reappearance of her captors for another round of torture, the dream became reality.

  In the Federation capital city of Arishaig, Arcannen was visiting a variety of friends, associates, allies, and wielders of political power to whom he dispensed favors—or from whom he sought them. He had been connected to almost all of them for years, building relationships that allowed him to pursue his special efforts at acquiring and employing magic in spite of the strict laws against doing so—mostly because he made certain that those who looked the other way or openly supported him benefited from what he did. Among those who received him were Ministers of Defense, Treasury, and Transportation, several ordinary Ministers lacking specific offices but who came from populous cities, a pair of high-ranking commanders in the Federation army, and a handful of lesser sorcerers with whom he shared a common interest in liberating the use of talismans and artifacts that unlocked various forms of magic.

  It was a tedious business, but he wanted to leave no one feeling snubbed. He was an important figure in the Southland world of banned magic, and all sought his friendship and support. They were to some degree frightened or at least wary of him, but he regarded that as a form of respect and did his best to encourage it. Unpredictability and the certainty of retribution should he be crossed were the strongest characteristics of his reputation, and he made good use of them. A while back, one of the lesser magic wielders living in Arishaig had let it be known that he would no longer consider himself an active part of Arcannen’s network, but would go his own way. He was allowed to do so—in pieces, which made their way to the other magic wielders and a few key Ministers.

  But while Arcannen did not shy from using violence or blackmail, mostly he accomplished what was needed through diplomacy and clever planning, always allowing others to share in his good fortune.

  All of which was the point of this visit, but in particular regarding his plans for the Leah siblings, Paxon and Chrysallin. To do what was needed, he required the support of the prickly and sometimes recalcitrant Minister of Security, Fashton Caeil. Unfortunately, the Minister was the one man he could neither bribe nor intimidate, for Caeil was as powerful and ruthless as he was. He had been cultivating the man’s support for years, slowly building an alliance that demonstrated his good intentions toward the Minister while at the same time drawing on the other’s resources and powers to claim things that would otherwise have been denied him. Because without Fashton Caeil’s assistance, Arcannen’s involvement in acquiring magic from those who possessed it within the borders of the Southland would have been a dangerous undertaking indeed.

  While Fashton had no use for the Druids and their rules, he also had no problem with using magic where it would benefit his climb to power. Like all of the members of the Coalition Council, it seemed, he desired the position of Prime Minister. But his plans far exceeded his grasp, Arcannen had determined early on, and so he was prepared to bend the rules for the sorcerer so long as it helped him on his climb up the political ladder. It was a bargain that had rewarded them both.

  It was one that would continue to reward them if he could manage to keep Caeil from doing something foolish.

  He mounted the steps to the Assembly, newly built and beautifully rendered amid the other buildings of the reconstruction. Arishaig was a new city. It had been destroyed by the demonkind during their breakout from the Forbidding more than a hundred years ago, and then subsequently restored. Larger and more opulent, reimagined in innovative ways by its builders, it was an amazing sight to those visiting from the lesser, older cities, and a wonder to those now living there. Wide avenues, parks and similar open spaces, a consistency of architecture, and an integration of businesses and residences helped soften the unfortunate sense of imprisonment created by the massive walls and gates that ringed the populace in steel and stone and which were touted by their builders as unbreachable.

  Aside from the presumptious nature of this claim, Arcannen found it all garish and showy. He liked things that looked used and a little out of plumb. He liked places that were weathered and worn and had withstood the test of time. Arishaig was fine for those who liked their beauty on the surface and cared nothing for the substance underneath.

  This city would be destroyed again. Of that, he was certain.

  Within the halls of the Assembly, he made his way to the offices of the Minister of Security, passing through several checkpoints and past numerous guards. Fashton Caeil bragged about his popularity with his people. Yet if that was so, why did he require so many guards? Someday, Arcannen promised himself, he would ask that question.

  In any case, the guards let him pass with nothing more than a perfunctory greeting. He was well known here, and he was expected. So the searches and questions that others had to endure were not required of him.

  The Minister’s personal assistant, a man named Crepice who had been with Caeil since the beginning of his rise to power, greeted Arcannen with a smile that somehow managed to lack expression and led him to the inner chambers where his employer was waiting.

  “Well met, Arcannen,” Fashton Caeil greeted him cheerfully, immediately
drawing the sorcerer’s suspicion. Caeil was almost never cheerful. “Come, sit. A glass of ale?”

  A big, corpulent man with thinning hair and close-set, piggish features, he had the look of someone who didn’t quite understand the world and its people. But underestimating his intelligence would be a mistake; Fashton Caeil was very smart and very clever. Not much got past this man, and while he might look self-indulgent and vague, he was anything but.

  Arcannen moved over to the chair offered and accepted the glass of ale. “You seem quite … satisfied this morning,” he said in response. “Rather like the cat that caught the mouse.”

  “Well, yes. I’ve had quite a good week.” Caeil sat across from him, settling his bulk into the chair gingerly. “Fresh possibilities for advancement have unexpectedly surfaced. I am looking at a rather exciting prospect. Our current First Minister seeks to step down. Age and time have fueled a loss of his interest in the battles of the political arena. My name has been mentioned as his successor. By more than a few, I should add.”

  Arcannen inclined his lean frame toward the other in acknowledgment of the announcement’s importance. “It would be a well-deserved advancement.”

  “Yet I am cautious of such judgments. Much of what happens to us in life is due to chance and circumstances beyond our control. Being in the right place at the right time. Discovering that others have impacted us more than we know and for reasons that are not entirely clear. But hard work matters, too. There is an old saying: The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

  “If so, then you should be quite lucky indeed.”

  Caeil shrugged. “Tell me what news you have of our latest venture. How does it go? Are the pieces falling into place?”

  The sorcerer nodded. “It goes well enough. But there have been changes to it. I was forced to rethink my plans a few weeks back when I discovered that the brother possesses an artifact of great magic, one that I must find a way to control. I thought to do so through the sister, but he managed to unlock the artifact’s magic and rescue her. Pure chance. To counter this, I have retaken her and placed her in Mischa’s tender hands. I think she will provide the impetus we need.”

  The minister studied him a moment and then shook his head doubtfully. “I mistrust this approach. It relies on mind control and deception of thought. Not the most reliable of tools.”

  “It requires a practiced hand, yes. It requires skill and patience and careful application. But it works. I have seen the results.”

  “You put too much faith in Mischa. She is a witch, after all. Who can tell what such a person might do?”

  Indeed, Arcannen thought darkly, ignoring the implication that he was of the same ilk. “She raised me, Caeil. She taught me everything I know of mind control. She is my solid and dependable ally.”

  “Yours, perhaps. Not necessarily mine.” He made a dismissive wave of his hand. “This plan you have concocted is a fragile vessel.”

  “The plan will work as intended. The Druid order will become ours to manipulate, and you will be credited as the man who made it happen. Then your advancement beyond the position of First Minister to Prime Minister will be all but assured.”

  “And yours as caretaker of magic? It is a pleasant daydream. But I wonder if it is anything more.”

  “Think about it. Think of how it works. We deceive ourselves far more easily than others deceive us. Our false perceptions betray us. Our fears and doubts worm their way into our subconscious and cause us to believe what isn’t necessarily true but becomes true through our own fixation on the possibilities. How do you think I managed to get the girl to believe she was able to bet in a game of chance where she had no coin? How do you think I managed to steal her away as easily as I did? She was no fool. She was young, tough-minded, and smart. But that only made her more vulnerable to the self-deception I instigated.”

  “Yes, but this new approach? What you are attempting now? I see that you might achieve your goals in the short term, but will they last beyond the day? Or the week’s end? You condition her for a task that is innately repulsive and abhorrent to her. Will she not at some point realize what has been done to her?”

  “Of course. It is unavoidable. She will doubt, she will equivocate, and she will mistrust her own perceptions. She will be enveloped in her inability to sort out truth and falsehood. But only one act is required of her. She will have her chance and the means to act on it. She will do what she has long since decided she must because she will believe unfailingly in its rightness.”

  Arcannen shrugged. “And if she fails for some reason, we have lost nothing. But if she succeeds, think of what we will have gained.”

  The big man drank his ale glass dry and set it aside. “But will the new Ard Rhys be as receptive as you think? What is to prevent his change of mind where we are concerned? What is to keep him loyal to us? How do we assure ourselves against a rebellion that will leave us where we are now?”

  “Trust me,” Arcannen hissed, smiling.

  Caeil made a rude noise. “I trust no one. I wouldn’t be where I am if I trusted people. No offense.”

  “None taken. But remember, you have nothing to lose in all this. You are protected against any possibility of discovery. You are safely out of its path. I am the one who must trust you. If I succeed, I must depend on you to fulfill your promise and give me what I want.”

  “Oh, there’s no problem with that. Have I ever failed to act on your special requests? That prototypical flier you command? Those weapons no one possesses but the Federation High Command? Access to important figures in the government that would otherwise have been denied you? All freely bestowed. That and more, should you ask it, can be yours. They mean nothing to me. But advancement to Prime Minister and control of the Druid order—now, that is something of real worth. Give me access to power of that sort, Arcannen, and there is nothing I would deny you.”

  He stood, walked to the window, and looked out. “But things have changed. We no longer stand in the same place we did yesterday. This new possibility of advancement to First Minister requires that we alter our relationship.” He turned back. “After today, we can no longer meet here. We must find neutral ground where we will not be seen together by anyone. We must make clandestine arrangements. A future First Minister and past Minister of Security cannot be seen in the company of a sorcerer with your unfortunate reputation. You understand, I am sure.”

  Arcannen understood perfectly. This self-aggrandizing fool was already marginalizing him. He seethed inwardly as he gave Caeil a reassuring nod. “Whatever pleases you.”

  Fashton Caeil came forward, extending his hand in a gesture of false friendship. Arcannen accepted it, held it firmly, and smiled. As he did so, he looked the other man in the eye and held his gaze. “But we are still friends?”

  The Minister’s face took on an uncertain look. “Of course we are still friends.”

  Arcannen shifted his gaze and released his grip on the other’s hand. He had read Caeil’s eyes, and he knew he was lying. He meant to sever the relationship as soon as it was feasible to do so. Perhaps he even was thinking of doing so in a permanent manner.

  “I must be going. I will contact you again soon with further news of our efforts. Congratulations once again on your impending appointment.”

  You had better hope I let you live to enjoy it.

  FIFTEEN

  FOR CHRYSALLIN LEAH, LOCKED IN THE DARKNESS OF HER torture chamber, the madness continued unabated.

  She lost track of the number of times she was visited by the gray-haired Elven woman and her henchmen. She lost count of the number of ways they found to hurt her. After a while, everything started to blend together, and it seemed that the torture never stopped for more than a few minutes, and the pain never stopped at all. There were no longer times of relief, not even small ones; the whole of her existence was a single endless wash of agony and humiliation. In the darkness, she felt increasingly alone, abandoned, forgotten. In the hands of her captors, subjected to their t
errible ministrations, she began to feel her mind slipping.

  In the brief moments when the pain lessened—a marginal reduction, at best—she found herself wondering what had happened to her brother. She began to imagine all sorts of terrible things. He had not come for her, and therefore she knew something had prevented him from doing so. Perhaps he was a prisoner, too, undergoing the same horrible experience she was. Perhaps he was injured and could no longer find the strength to act. Perhaps he was even dead.

  She grew steadily more depressed as her hope diminished and her certainty that her fate was determined grew. She began to wish it would end, that everything would be over, that she would be allowed to die.

  All the while, her tormentors never spoke to her. She waited for them to tell her what they wanted, but it never happened. She listened for the smallest sound, the briefest whisper, anything that suggested a reason for her captivity. Once there was a hint of laughter, and she felt relief even in that, though it was at her expense. She waited for more, prayed for more, but nothing came.

  They fed her a liquid that was not water and not anything else she recognized. It relieved her parched throat, and while at first she was reluctant to drink it, in the end she was grateful for anything that would quench her thirst and did not care what it might be doing to her. They gave her no food. They gave her no chance to move about. She lost all sense of time and space, all ability to think of anything but her agony and its endless reoccurrence.