Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

Sebec made no mention of Paxon’s sword. Not once. He rarely even glanced at it, seemingly caught up in discussing the work of the Druids. But Paxon still worried about what he would do if the order tried to take the sword away from him. How would he respond? He could not let them do it, but how far was he willing to go to prevent it from happening?

By midnight, when the lights of Paranor began to appear, Paxon was nodding off, his eyes heavy and his body lethargic. But his first sight of the Druid’s Keep brought him awake again in a hurry. The very size of it took his breath away. Massive walls, great towers soaring skyward, clusters of buildings sprawling over acres of ground, the whole of it made dark and shadowed by the ancient trees of the surrounding forest–the Keep was overwhelming. Sebec was at his side to point out which rooms each building housed, eager either to display his knowledge or to further intimidate a first–time visitor, Paxon wasn’t sure which. Perhaps both. Whatever the case, the Highlander couldn’t take his eyes off the complex, scanning everywhere, searching out shapes and forms through the shadows, imagining what was there that he couldn’t see, hoping he would be given a chance to find out before he was sent away again.

The sloop set down on an elevated landing platform, and Sebec led him off the vessel and down a ramp to a doorway opening into a tower connected to the main building. From there, he led him downstairs to where the guest quarters were located, choosing a door midway along a corridor of matching doors and guiding him inside. The room had a bed, a table next to it, a dresser with a washbasin and towels, and a single window that looked out on a courtyard one story below.

“This is your room,” Sebec said. “Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you will see the Ard Rhys and visit with her. I will come for you when it is time. Sleep well.”

Then he went out the door, closing it behind him.

Paxon looked around the room, dropped his bag, pulled the drapes, stripped off his travel clothes, washed, and climbed into the bed.

He was asleep in seconds.

When he woke the following morning, the sun was just coming up over the eastern wall of the Keep, a brilliant gold light in a clear blue sky. He lay where he was for a few minutes, languishing in the bedding, enjoying the feeling of comfort and ease, then rose and walked to the window to peek through the curtains. Sunlight filled the courtyard below, and several black–robed figures were at work in the gardens. He stared down at them for a moment, but when he heard voices in the hallway he turned away to wash and dress.

He was just preparing to depart for a look around when a knock at the door and a greeting announced the arrival of Sebec. “One minute,” he answered.

Glancing over to where the Sword of Leah lay across the bed, he made a quick decision. He would take it with him. Leaving it behind was just asking for trouble. If he was going to lose it, they would have to take it from him by force and not through subterfuge or carelessness.

Strapping it across his back, he went out the door to join Sebec.

Together, they walked down to a dining room in which a handful of Druids and Trolls were eating breakfast. Sebec had them sit apart from everyone else, perhaps because he felt Paxon would be more comfortable that way. But it also gave them a chance to talk freely, and Paxon had more questions by now about the Druids. Sebec answered all but one–he declined to say anything further about what the Ard Rhys intended to talk to him about. Mostly, he claimed not to know. The Ard Rhys would speak for herself, and it was not his place to speculate about what she would say.

Paxon, though impatient with the secrecy, did not press him. Instead, he accepted the answers he was given, enjoyed his breakfast, and tried as best he could to prepare himself for what was coming.

When the meal was finished, Sebec took him from the dining room deep into the interior of the building, across a narrow bridge to a second building, and onto a rooftop garden. It was small and very private, but incredibly beautiful, the bedding plants a rainbow of colors set amid stone walkways and benches, all of it screened away from the rest of Paranor by a high hedge wall.

“Find a comfortable seat, Paxon,” Sebec directed. “The Ard Rhys will be with you shortly.”

He moved off, returning the way he had come, leaving Paxon on his own. The Highlander glanced around, found a bench in the sunshine, and took a seat. As he waited, staring off into the distance where the tips of the trees in the forest surrounding the Druid’s Keep shimmered with a light breeze and birds circled in the skies overhead, he kept thinking of the sword strapped across his back. Of what use was it to him now? As protection against Arcannen and for Chrys certainly, but beyond that, what was he supposed to do with it? It was a powerful magic, one that had served various Leahs over the centuries in their support of the Druids and their numerous quests. Was there a quest in his future, one not yet made clear to him? Or was he clinging to the weapon because it was the only thing he had that made it seem as if there might be something more for him than continuing to run an airfreight service?

He could smell the scents of the flowers that surrounded him, pungent and fragrant as they wafted in the breeze. He closed his eyes and breathed in those scents, and the memories they generated of the Highlands and home and family were so strong and poignant they almost brought tears.

“Paxon?” a soft, lyrical voice asked.

He opened his eyes quickly. Aphenglow Elessedil stood before him, wrapped in her Druid robes, the Eilt Druin laced around her neck, its silver emblem flashing in the sunlight. He had never seen her before, but he knew who she was instantly. She was tall and sparely built, her gaze steady, a smile on her face. She must have been very beautiful once, when she was young. She was still beautiful in the way some older women are, made so more because of her regal carriage and the proud, calm certainty she radiated than simply because of her physical features.

He rose to greet her, flustered by the direct look she gave him and by the knowledge of what she represented. “Lady,” he responded and managed a short bow.

She extended her hand and held his briefly. “Are you well rested?” she asked him.

“Very well.” He glanced around appreciatively. “This is a beautiful place. The gardens, of course, but all of Paranor, as well.”

“You have never been here, but you must have heard stories from your family.”

“I have heard many. From my grandparents and my mother–of Mirai Leah and Railing and Redden Ohmsford. And of you.”

“May I sit with you?” she asked.

He moved over to allow her to do so. “I am surprised to be here,” he admitted. “Why did you ask me to come?”

“You never knew Mirai, did you?” she asked instead of answering him. “She was a brave and resourceful young woman. You would have liked her. I think she had as much to do as anyone with the outcome at the Valley of Rhenn when my sister became the Ellcrys and the demon hordes were sent back into the Forbidding. You carry her blood in your veins; you carry Ohmsford blood within you, as well. A very potent mix that allows for special abilities. Even, perhaps, the presence of the wishsong.”

He had thought of that possibility more than once over the years, ever since learning of the complexity of his family’s history, of Leahs linked to Ohmsfords. But there had never been even a hint of such magic in his blood–not even the smallest suggestion that it might be present.

“I don’t think I have any use of magic,” he said. “I don’t think anyone in the family has since the Ohmsford twins.”