Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed the door behind him and came all the way in. His young face was strained, and there was a hesitancy to him that suggested whatever it was he had to tell her was not something he could relate easily.

“We’ve had another theft,” she said finally.

Which would make four altogether, including the disappearance of the scrye orb. She thought she had put a stop to it. She had placed wards on the doors to the storage chambers where the magic artifacts and instruments were kept cataloged and sealed away. She had used magic that only she and Sebec could unlock, the latter given access from the first because she trusted him in his role as personal secretary in a way she had seldom trusted anyone in her 150 years of life, and because someone besides herself had to have access to the chamber in case anything happened to her. She had determined long ago that once the Druids had found and recovered lost magic, it must be kept safe from misuse and irresponsible hands.

But someone had breached her protective efforts three times in recent months, stealing magic for reasons that were not entirely clear. It was a given by now that it must be one of them–a Druid acting alone or on behalf of an enemy of the order, a rogue who had penetrated her usually thorough assessment of an applicant’s suitability. It had been a bitter discovery on learning of the first theft, and it hadn’t become any easier to accept with the ones that followed.

Now this.

“Another?” he repeated. “What is it that’s missing this time?”

She took a steadying breath. “The Stiehl.”

The blade the assassin Pe Ell had used to kill Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River, centuries ago in Eldwist, the lair of the Stone King. Its blade was so sharp, it could cut through rock. It had vanished and reappeared time and again over the years until finally it had been recovered and sealed away for good.

The Stiehl had been accorded special treatment, the wards that protected it complex and layered. No one should have been able to get to it.

“You’re certain, Mistress?” he asked.

She nodded. “I had decided to do a survey of the artifacts, comparing the actual items to our listings in the catalog, when I noticed the wards that protected them were broken. At first, I couldn’t believe it. I thought I must be mistaken. I even searched the entire set of chambers, every nook and closet, every shelf and container. It took me all afternoon. But it wasn’t there. It was gone.”

She watched Sebec’s brow furrow in dismay. He understood the seriousness of what she was telling him. It was one thing to have the scrye orb stolen–a magic that, while important, was not particularly dangerous. But the Stiehl was another matter. Here was a killing weapon against which there were few protections. All sorts of bad things could happen if this blade fell into the wrong hands.

Only the loss of one other artifact would be more devastating. But the crimson Elfstones, or draining–Stones–which had been recovered by Redden Elessedil from within the Forbidding decades ago and given over to the order by his brother, Railing–were not housed in the chambers that contained the other artifacts. She kept them in her own chambers, in large part because after all these years she was still toying with the possibility of returning them to the Elves.

“Do you have any idea at all who took it?” he asked, referring again to the Stiehl.

“None at all. Like the other thefts, it was carried out when no one was around. The wards were negated and bypassed, and the weapon found by someone who clearly knew where it was being kept. I had a careful look about when I realized what had happened, thinking I might find some hint of who had been there. But whoever did this knew what they were doing.” She paused. “Did you inventory everything after the last theft? Are we sure the Stiehl was still locked away at that point?”

“I inventoried everything after every theft. So, yes, it was still where it was supposed to be.”

“When was that? Maybe two weeks ago?”

“About that.”

“Hardly any time at all. Our thief believes we are helpless to stop him, so he continues to steal.”

Sebec shrugged. “It seems we are helpless.”

A dark possibility crossed Aphenglow Elessedil’s mind–one so repulsive she almost dismissed it out of hand. But then she considered what was at stake and made a decision. She rose to face him. “These artifacts being stolen are increasingly more important. I must be concerned now for the safety of the crimson Elfstones. They’ve been safe enough in my quarters, but I think I should move them to the artifact chamber. I will do so this afternoon. Will you assist me in setting the wards?”

“Of course,” Sebec said. “Though perhaps you should leave the Elfstones where they are since they’ve been safe enough so far.”

“No, I think it would be better to move them. I will create new wards for the entire chamber. No one will be allowed inside but you and me until further notice. I will ferret out this thief or I will catch him in the act. The stealing stops now!”

“Yes, Mistress,” the other acknowledged.

“Send Starks and Paxon to me. I want to speak with them before they leave.”

Sebec nodded, backing toward the door. She was furious, and she knew he had seldom seen her like this. But an Ard Rhys had a breaking point, just like everyone else. She had reached hers, and she was not likely to calm down again until the thefts were resolved.

When he was gone, she took a deep breath, reconsidered at length the dark possibility that had occurred to her earlier. The more she looked at it, the more likely it became and the unhappier she grew.

But there was no help for it. It was what it was, nightshade by any other name still deadly poisonous. When she was finished thinking on it, she exhaled sharply to relieve the tension that had built up within and set about making herself a pot of tea.

It was midday of the following day when Arcannen arrived back in Wayford, his personal airship–courtesy of Fashton Caeil–with its distinctive raven emblem emblazoned on the mainsail setting down in its assigned space. Disembarking, he crossed the airfield, leaving his crew and personal attendants behind, choosing to go alone to his meeting with Mischa. Having finished his business with Fashton Caeil for the moment, his attention was refocused on Chrysallin Leah. By now, she should be sufficiently subverted that she would carry out his plans for the Druids. Mischa was resourceful and relentless when it came to mind alterations, and she would be no less so here where she knew how much was at stake.

Nevertheless he was anxious about this plan, even if it was his own. So much depended on everything falling into place at just the right time and in the right way. A failure on any front would scuttle the entire effort, and the most obvious risk lay with how the girl would respond to what was being done to her.

He intended to extract a further guarantee from Mischa this very day that her magic was doing what she had promised.

Tall, spare, and shadowed within his cloak and cowl, he cut an imposing figure as he passed the field manager’s boy where he worked on repairs to a parse tube set up on blocks close by the business office. The manager himself was present, sitting inside the building, visible through the viewing window, head bent to whatever task currently occupied him. He waited for either of them to glance up at him, but when neither did he dismissed them automatically from further consideration. The boy was occasionally useful, his father less so. Neither had an important place in his life. Even so, he supposed he was more comfortable passing them by unnoticed.