Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus

Grianne lashed out at the face with ferocious intent, surprising even herself with her vehemence. She felt such loathing, such rage, that she could not stop herself from reacting, and the deed was done before she could think better of it. Her magic exploded into the face, which disappeared instantly, taking with it the flashes and the burning air, leaving only darkness and the lingering smell of expended magic.

She compressed her lips tightly, fighting back the snarl forming on them, consumed by the feelings this thing had generated. It was all she could do to pull herself together and turn back to an obviously unnerved Kermadec.

«Are you all right?» he asked at once.

She nodded. «But I wasn't for a moment, old bear. That thing radiated such evil that I think letting it come even that near was a serious mistake. If I didn't know better, I would say it lured me here.»

Which it had, she knew at once, though she would not say so to him. It had known she would come, would respond to its advances, and would step close enough to feel it. It wanted her to know it was there. But why? What did it want? Where did it hide that she could not find it, and that it could not do more than it had?

«Do we stay here another night?» the Rock Troll asked cautiously.

She shook her head «I think we've seen all we are going to see. We'll fly to Paranor at first light I'll find better answers back there to what is happening,"

We've talked enough!» Shadea a'Ru snapped irritably. «How much more talking does it need? This is the best chance we'll get!»

No one said anything in response. No one cared to be the first to speak. She was a big woman, and she dominated with her size as much as with the force of her personality. Fully six feet tall, broad–shouldered and strong, she had fought in the front lines on the Prekkendorran for two years, and none of them had survived anything nearly as terrible as that. The contrasting hues of her sun–browned skin, smooth and dusky, and wind–blown blond hair, short–cropped and uncombed, gave her a look of good health and vitality. When she stepped into any room, heads turned in her direction and conversation slowed.

Here, however, the reaction was different. Here, they all knew her too well to be much more than cautious. She looked from face to face, her calculating blue eyes searching out signs of doubt or hesitation, challenging them to try to hide it from her. Their responses were as different as they were. Terek Molt disdained even to look at her, his flat, hard features directed toward the doorway of the room that concealed their secret meeting. Iridia Eleri's stunningly perfect features had a cool, distant look. Neither Dwarf nor Elf had ever demonstrated any hesitation in their joint endeavor. Either would have undertaken the effort alone long ago but for Shadea's insistence on unity.

Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence glanced uneasily at each other.

The problem lay with the Southlander and the Gnome. Cowards, she thought angrily, though she knew better than to say so to their faces.

«Act in haste, regret at leisure, Shadea," the former offered softly, shrugging.

She wanted to kill him. He was the only one of them who would dare to speak to her like that, and he did so for no better reason than to demonstrate that she could push him only so far before he would dig in his heels. He wanted this as much as she did, as all of them did, but he was too cautious for his own good. It came out of being the child of Federation functionaries; the fewer chances you took in that world, the better off you were.

«Please don't fall back on platitudes to justify your reluctance to do what is necessary!» she snapped in reply. «You're better than that, Traunt. Smarter than that. We can nose this matter about like a dog with an old bone for as long as you wish, but it won't change a thing. Nothing will happen to improve matters unless we make it happen.»

«She smells out plots like ours," Pyson Wence said, his small hands gesturing for emphasis. «Step wrong with her, and you might find yourself down here for good!»

They were deep underground in the cellars of Paranor, gathered in one of the rooms used primarily for storage. The room smelled of dust and the air was cold and stale to the taste. Stone walls locked them away beneath tons of rock and earth, a safehold that few ever bothered to visit save to retrieve stores. It was the one place in Paranor where some degree of privacy was assured.

They had been meeting for almost a year, just the five of them. Shadea a'Ru had carefully selected the other four, discovering where their loyalties lay, then approached them one by one. Each shared her distaste for the Ard Rhys. One hated her openly. All wanted her gone, if for widely differing reasons. To some extent, they complemented each other, each bringing an attribute to the endeavor that the others lacked. The Southlander, Traunt Rowan, was strong of heart and body, more than a match even for Shadea—a warrior seeking to put right what he perceived as wrong. The Elven sorceress, Iridia Eleri, was cold of heart and hot of temper, but quick–witted and intuitive, as well. Her ability to stanch her emotions masked the dark truths that had set her on this path. The Dwarf, Terek Mott, while stolid and taciturn in the manner of Dwarves, was hungry for power and anxious to find a way to get past the Ard Rhys' rules and restrictions so that he could claim the destiny he so desperately craved. Pyson Wence, so frail and helpless–looking, was a snake trapped in a supplicant's body, a rare combination of treacherous instinct and decisive purpose. No superstitious tribal pagan, he wielded his magic in a cold and calculating fashion.

Had the Ard Rhys any inkling of their true dispositions when she accepted them into the order? Shadea a'Ru could not be certain. It was possible, if only because Grianne Ohmsford herself had been such a dark creature for so long—the Ilse Witch, the Morgawr's tool. She had found redemption, she believed, and so thought others could find it, as well. She was mistaken on both counts, but that was to the advantage of those gathered in this room, those who waited only on fate to provide them with the chance they needed to be rid of her.

As perhaps it did here, if their impatient leader could gain the pledge of support she required.

«You want her gone, don't you?» she asked Pyson Wence pointedly. «Dead or otherwise, but gone?» She looked around. «How about the rest of you? Changed your minds about her? Decided you like having her as Ard Rhys? Come! Speak up!»

«No one in this room and few outside of it want Grianne Ohmsford as Ard Rhys, Shadea.» Traunt Rowan looked bored. «We've covered this ground before, all of it. What keeps us from acting is the possibility of failure—a very real possibility, I might point out. Failure means no second chance. So before you start berating us for our reluctance, try to see the reality of the situation a little more clearly. When we act against her, we had better be very certain that we will succeed.»

The weight of her stare settled on him and she did not remove it for long seconds. The others shifted uncomfortably, but they said nothing for fear her eyes would seek them out instead. Traunt Rowan, to his credit, held her gaze, but she could see the uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. She might do anything; that was her reputation. If you provoked Shadea a'Ru—something not at all hard to do—you did so at great risk. One who had tested her had already disappeared. Everyone suspected that she might have caused that disappearance, even the Ard Rhys, but no one could prove it.

«I would not summon you with such urgency," she said, speaking to Traunt, but including all of them with a quick shift of her eyes, «if I did not have a way to dispose of her that would pose no risk at all to any of us. I am aware of the possibility of failure. No matter how carefully we plan and execute, something can always go wrong. The trick is to make certain that even if that happens, no suspicion or blame will fall on us. But in this instance, I do not think we will fail. I think we will succeed better than we had hoped. Are you ready to hear me out?»