Терри Брукс - Tanequil

His attraction to her might have had something to do with their similar backgrounds as orphans and children of the street, outcasts who had been forced to make their own way in the world. It might have had something to do with their mutual acceptance of violence as a way of life. When she found out what he had done to the deserter, her only response had been to ask for a piece of the man to prove that he was dead. She had not sought an explanation of the circumstances. She had neither approved nor disapproved of the act. That might have impressed him.

Then again, he might have recognized that she was drawn to him, finding his disfigurement, both external and internal, oddly attractive, as if surviving such damage was proof of his resiliency, of his worth. That he was repulsive to look upon, all crook–limbed and spiderlike, did not matter to her. Nor did his penchant for mutilating and eviscerating his victims, which might well have reflected his own lack of self–esteem. In the world of the Federation army, strength of heart and body counted for more than strength of character or physical appearance. Judgments were passed daily on the former and seldom on the latter. She found Aphasia Wye admirable for his talents and cared nothing for the package in which those talents came wrapped. Killing was an art, and this man, this odd creature of the streets and darkness, had elevated it to a special form.

She visited with him regularly after that, talking of death and dying, of killing and surviving, and their conversations confirmed that they were more alike than might appear to be the case on the face of things. He spoke in short, halting sentences, his voice the sound of crushed glass and dry leaves, intense and tinged with bitterness. He had no time for words with most people yet found them pleasant when shared with her. He didn't say so, but she could feel it. He lacked friends, lacked a home, lacked anything approaching a normal existence, gnawing at the edges of civilization the way a rodent would a garbage pit.

At first, she couldn't determine anything about his way of life. What did he do to stay alive? How did he spend his time? He wouldn't reveal such things, and she knew better than to press. It wasn't until he was sure of her, until he felt the connection between them to be strong enough, that he told her. He was a weapon for those who needed one and could afford to pay. He was a poison so lethal that no one he touched lived beyond that moment. Those who needed him found him through word of mouth spread on the streets. He came to them when he chose, — they were never allowed to find him.

He was an assassin, although he didn't call himself that yet.

Two years later, after she had decided to leave the Federation and pursue her ambitions elsewhere, she had been drugged and violated by a handful of men who wanted to make an example of her.

Left for dead, she had recovered, tracked them down, and killed them all. Aphasia Wye had helped her find them, though he knew better than to deprive her of the pleasure she took in watching them die. Afterwards, she had fled Dechtera and the Southland for the protective isolation of Grimpen Ward and the Wilderun. Deep in the Westland, she had continued her study of magic in preparation for her journey to Paranor, where she intended to become one of the new Druids.

Within two months of her arrival, Aphasia Wye appeared in Grimpen Ward, as well. How he found her was a mystery she never solved, — nor did it matter. In truth, she was glad to see him. He had followed her, he said, because he wanted to see what she was going to do. It was an odd way of putting things, but she understood. He wanted to share in the violence and upheaval in which she almost certainly intended to immerse herself. He understood her as well as she understood herself. There would be killing and death in her life no matter where she went or what she did. It was in her nature. It was in his, as well.

He did not live with her, or anywhere that would suggest they shared a relationship. He stayed on the periphery of her existence, surfacing only when she put out word for him or when he sensed, as he was capable of doing, her need for him. When she met Iridia, Aphasia Wye was the first person she introduced to the Elven sorceress. It was a test of sorts. If Iridia was disturbed by Wye, she would be of little use in more repellent situations. Iridia barely gave the assassin a second glance. She was made of the same stuff as Shadea and driven by the same relentless hunger.

So the three of them had coexisted in Grimpen Ward until Shadea had come east to Paranor, bringing Iridia with her. Aphasia Wye had been left behind very deliberately so as not to complicate her induction into the Druid Council. Later, when she was firmly established and there was need, she had sent for him. The others who had joined her conspiracy against the Ard Rhys—Terek Molt, Pyson Wence, and Traunt Rowan—instinctively disliked and mistrusted her dangerous friend. Molt called him a monster from the first. Wence called him worse. Rowan, who had heard of him during his time in the Southland, kept his thoughts to himself. But when mention of Aphasia Wye was made in his presence, his face betrayed him every time.

All in all, it made Shadea a'Ru very happy to find them so unsettled by a man who answered only to her.

She turned from the window of her sleeping chamber and walked back to her desk. There was a great deal she did not know about Aphasia Wye. In truth, he unsettled her, as well, at times. There was something subhuman about him, something so primal that it was irreconcilable with human nature. It was his gift to be so, a gift she was quick to take advantage of when confronted with difficult situations. Remorseless and inexorable, he never failed. She would have used him against the Ard Rhys had she not believed Grianne Ohms–ford the more dangerous of the two and the one person besides herself who would be a match for him.

But against the boy …

She bent down to blow out the candles.

It was late in the day, the assignment of duties given out and the members of the Druid Council dismissed to their rooms, when Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence appeared at the door to her chambers. She had not seen them since that morning, when she had advised them of the message from Aphasia Wye. Their response had been guarded—perhaps out of a sense of resignation that the unpleasant task of capturing the young boy was going to be carried out after all, — perhaps out of a sense of futility they felt regarding the whole business. Neither had been overly supportive of the endeavor. It was as if they believed that eliminating Grianne Ohmsford was all that mattered, that beyond her removal lay green pastures and blue skies.They lack the fire of old, she thought,the passion that brought them into my circle of influence. But she didn't worry. They were still committed enough to do what was needed and not likely to disappear in a pointless rage as Iridia had done.

Besides, she was already making plans for new alliances that would eliminate the necessity of maintaining the old.

«A message just reached us, Shadea," Traunt Rowan began as soon as he had closed the door behind them. «We have found the boy's parents.»

She felt a surge of elation. Everything was finally falling into place. Once they had the parents under their control, they could rest easy. There was no one else who would pursue the matter of the Ard Rhys' disappearance, no one who cared enough to become involved. Kermadec might still be out there, or Tagwen, but neither possessed the magic of Bek Ohmsford. He was the one who was dangerous. «Where?» she asked.

«In the Eastland. We have been searching that area ever since Molt discovered from the boy that his parents were on an expedition in the Anar. But no one had seen or heard anything until a week ago. Then a trader working the supply route along the Pass of Jade on the lower edge of Darklin Reach sold some goods to a man and woman piloting an airship namedSwift Sure. They are the ones we seek.» «A week ago?» Shadea frowned.