Terry Brooks - 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.