Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

The smile Mischa gave him was chilling. “She is no match for me, Arcannen. And you should know that I never underestimate anyone. So don’t forget the terms of our agreement. I would be sad if you did, but you would be even sadder.”

He stared at her a moment. “Threats now, is it? Just be certain you keep your end of the bargain.”

Then he turned from her and continued on his way.

Arcannen had barely finished closing the door before Chrysallin was thinking of ways to escape. A single ankle chain and a lock on the door: Free herself of those and she was on her way home. The sorcerer was so smug, so convinced of his superiority over a fifteen–year–old girl that he believed her cowed. Or at least, he was convinced she would be unable to outwit him. Well, he was in for a surprise. She had no intention of waiting around for Paxon to come get her. She would be out of here and off to find him long before coming for her was necessary.

She lay back, thinking of Arcannen’s face when he found her gone, imagining his rage. It made her want to laugh. It was too bad she couldn’t be there to see it. But she brushed these images aside, reminding herself she wasn’t free yet and that there were still obstacles to be overcome before she could take time to enjoy fantasies of Arcannen’s unhappiness.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again and a guard appeared with her clothes. He dumped them at the foot of her bed, released the locks and chains that bound her wrists–leaving the ankle chain in place–and departed without a word. She sat up and spent several minutes massaging her wrists, then slipped out from under the sheets and started to dress. Right away, she faced a problem. With a chain and cuff still fastened about her ankle, she couldn’t put on her pants. Instead, she had to settle for slipping into her tunic and tying the sheet about her waist to use as a makeshift skirt.

Then she sat back down on the bed and felt carefully along the waistband of her pants until she found the tiny metal pick. Long and straight except where it curved at one end, it was a tool she always carried with her. Picking locks of one sort or another had become something of a specialty, although in this case it was more important than usual. Arcannen had left the lights on, so boosting her ankle and chain onto the bed provided her with enough light to pick the lock. It took her less than five minutes to free herself. Discarding the sheet, she pulled on her pants and boots, tucked the pick back into her waistband, and walked over to the door.

She stood there listening for a time, then carefully tried the handle.

Locked.

She looked around the room. What she needed was a weapon, but there wasn’t anything at hand that would serve the purpose. She thought momentarily about the chain that had secured her ankle, but it was linked to a ring in the floor–and besides, it was too heavy for her to wield effectively. What she needed was some sort of club.

She looked around. There was not a stick of furniture in the room save for the bed, and the frame was metal.

Her jaw tightened.

She was not giving up.

Walking back to the door, she put her ear against the frame and listened through the crack. Nothing. She waited a moment, and then she knocked and called out, “Hey, can you come here a minute? I need help!”

There was no response. She waited a few minutes and then tried again. Still no response. Good enough.

Retrieving the pick from her waistband, she began working it around in the keyhole. It was harder going this time, the lock larger and less easily maneuvered. But in the end it gave a familiar snick and released.

Pocketing the lock pick, she gently twisted the handle and felt the latch give. Standing where she was, with the door partially cracked, she listened for sounds of someone waiting outside. When she heard nothing, she opened the door farther and took a cautious peek outside, looking first one way and then the other down a long hall. She was not anywhere she had been before. She was not anywhere she recognized. If she was back in Dark House, as she assumed, she had been taken to a different part of the building than where she had been kept before. This area was shadowy and empty feeling, as if no one was anywhere about.

Still, she took her time before she stepped from the room into the hallway and began edging her way carefully along the wall, stopping often to listen for the sounds of movement or voices. But everything was still. She had chosen to turn left, but she had no idea what way she should be going. She needed some sort of indicator to give her a sense of direction so she could figure out how to get free of the building.

When she reached the end of the hallway, she was facing a wall. No stairway led either up or down. She turned around in frustration, her fears heightening, and retraced her steps, working her way toward the other end of the corridor, forcing herself to keep her pace slow and steady. This time, she found that the hallway bent to the left, and in the dimness cast by the passage lights she could just catch sight of stairs leading down.

She was just starting ahead again–freedom in sight–when a door opened in front of her and an old woman emerged. The woman was bent and worn looking, dressed in a skirt and blouse that were stained and old, a scarf tying back her long gray hair, and high–top boots on her feet. She was hauling a bucket and mop, and she carried a collection of rags under one withered arm.

A cleaning woman, Chrys thought, freezing in place. Too late to go back or try to hide. She waited for the old woman to turn the other way, to not notice she was there.

Instead, the old woman turned directly toward her and froze. For long moments, the two just stared at each other.

Then Chrysallin raised a finger to her lips in a universally recognizable plea for silence. The old woman watched her, then nodded in agreement. Chrys moved in front, heading for the stairway. As she angled past, the old woman beckoned her to step close.

Leaning in, the other whispered, “There are guards at the bottom of the stairs. If you want out, there is a better way.”

Chrys hesitated, then nodded. “Can you show me?” she whispered back.

The old woman nodded and wordlessly led her back the way she had come to a door she had already passed, opening it onto a hidden set of narrow steps. Motioning for her to follow, she led Chrys down three flights of stairs into a cellar crammed with boxes and smelling of damp and mildew. What light there was came from slits cut into the stone of the foundation walls, almost at ceiling height, and covered over with a heavy, diffuse glass.

The old woman led her across the cellar floor, winding through the stacks of boxes, avoiding places were water had pooled and cracks in the floor had opened. Once or twice, Chrysallin thought she saw movement in the shadows–quick and furtive. Rats. She stayed close to the old woman, her guide through this gloomy country she did not know. It took them a long time to reach the far end, and then they were at an old ironbound wooden door recessed deep in the stone of the wall. The old woman stopped there, released a series of locks and latches, and pulled the door open to the outside.

Chrys peered past the woman’s stooped shoulders to a twilight in which stars were just beginning to come out in a darkening sky. In front of her, steps led upward to a street lined with houses and streetlamps. She could hear the distant sounds of voices and the movement of carriages and horses.

She could smell the fresh air of the city. She could taste her freedom.

She turned to the old woman who was watching her through rheumy eyes, hands clutched to her breast like a supplicant. “Go on, now,” she hissed. “Run!”

Chrysallin almost bolted, but then she hesitated. “Will you tell me your name?”