Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

She sat up finally, unwilling to remain abed any longer, and when she did so the Druid dozing in the chair woke up. “Mistress!” he exclaimed in horror, and he leapt up to prevent her from rising.

“No, no,” she insisted, warding him off with arms extended. “I’m well enough to get up and walk around. Please let me do so.”

He did, but only after he had helped steady her and made certain she wouldn’t fall. “I should examine you, Mistress.”

“Why don’t you wait on that and go find Sebec for me, instead,” she said gently. “Ask him to come here. When we are finished, you can conduct whatever examination is needed.”

He left reluctantly, and she took the opportunity to wash her face in the basin by her bedside and run a comb through her long gray hair. She watched herself in the mirror as she did this, thinking she really had lived too long. The Druid Sleep was a gift but it didn’t make her happy. It didn’t bring back the time she had lost. It didn’t bring back the people who were gone. It didn’t even provide a sense of contentment.

There was a knock on the door and Sebec entered on her invitation. The young Druid looked haggard, his face drawn, his eyes mirroring his concern, but he smiled at once when he saw her back on her feet. “Mistress! Thank goodness!”

He came over to her and knelt at her feet, taking her hands in his own and kissing them. “I’m so sorry for what happened. It was my fault. I didn’t know the doctors hadn’t sedated her yet. They said they were going to. I almost killed you!”

She grasped his hands and brought him to his feet. “Hardly. I was just a bit stunned from the blow. She has real magic in her voice–a dangerous power for one so young–but I don’t think she knows anything about it. Is she sleeping now?”

“The Healers gave her a strong potion. They want her to rest for several days before they begin treating her again. The shock was significant, they say.”

“I imagine so. Where is Paxon?”

Sebec hesitated. “He flew the boy and the young woman back to Wayford.”

She gave him a measured look. “And you let him do this?”

“I don’t think I could have stopped him.”

“You know what he intends, don’t you? He intends to go looking for Arcannen.”

“He said he just wanted something to do.”

Aphenglow released his hands and walked over to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser. “I want you to get him back here. I want a contingent of Druid Guards to fly to Wayford, find him, and escort him home. Send Oost Mondara. Right now, Sebec.”

She said it with enough emphasis that her disapproval was clearly evident, and he almost ran out the door to do her bidding. She watched him go, disappointed all over again. Some things you couldn’t do anything about, she supposed. Some things had to be left to run their course.

She walked to the window and pulled open the curtains. Daylight streamed in. From the position of the sun, it appeared to be midmorning. A new day had arrived.

She walked to her wardrobe, pulled out fresh clothing, shed her nightgown, and began to dress.

She did not see Sebec again until midafternoon. She imagined he had decided to keep his distance until he was certain her anger had abated, occupying himself with other duties. She was confident he would do as she had told him and dispatch Oost and the Druid Guards immediately, so she saw no reason to follow up on that. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Paxon, still so young and headstrong. She worried that he would find Arcannen before help could reach him.

She was afraid that the rescue attempt would come too late.

But she had done what she could, and there were other matters she must deal with.

She’d spent the morning with the Druid Healers being poked and prodded, listening to advice–don’t try to do too much right away, get lots of sleep, drink liquids, if you feel weak sit down and wait for it to pass. All of it was well meant but unnecessary. She was sore, but getting better by the minute, ready to resume her duties as the Ard Rhys of the order.

So after she had eaten lunch–her first meal since waking–she returned to her office to examine documents that had now been awaiting her attention for days. Much of it was busywork, the sort of paper shuffling she deliberately put aside and ignored for as long as possible. But with her limited strength and mobility, this seemed an excellent time to catch up.

She was still in the midst of her efforts when Sebec knocked on her door and entered. She could tell at once from his expression that something was seriously wrong. But she forced herself to sit back and wait for him to get up enough nerve to tell her.

“Mistress, we have visitors,” he announced. “A Federation warship has arrived. It carries a full complement of Federation soldiers and the Prime Minister himself. He wishes to speak with you at once.”

She gave him a measured look. “What does he want to speak to me about?”

“He wouldn’t say. He said it was strictly between the two of you. He is waiting just outside the north gates.”

She took a moment to digest this news. The current Prime Minister of the Federation was a welcome change from Drust Chazhul and Edinja Orle and a few others she had been forced to deal with over the years. By all accounts, he was a decent and honorable man whose service to his people and conduct toward the other Races of the Four Lands had proven exemplary. Hard–nosed and fiercely loyal, he was nevertheless neither venal nor treacherous. She believed she could trust him.

She rose. “Arrange for a contingent of the Druid Guard to accompany me. No one is to act precipitously. No one is to do anything unless I am attacked. Am I clear about this, Sebec?”

The young Druid nodded hastily and backed out of the room. She gathered up her black robes and followed him into the hallway beyond and along its length to the stairs leading down. Once outside the building, she crossed the open courtyard to the north gates, squinting against the bright sunlight. By then, the contingent of Druid Guards she had requested had caught up to her, flanking her protectively, a silent presence. She ordered the gates opened and walked outside the Keep into a broad splash of sunshine.

The Federation warship was moored right in front of her, its huge dark hull casting its black shadow over her as she walked forward, leaving the Druid Guards behind. A small gathering of Federation officials and soldiers stood off to one side of the warship.

The Prime Minister separated himself from the others and came toward her. He was a spare, elderly man, white–haired and bearded, his blue eyes still sharp and knowing.

“Well met, Mistress Elessedil,” he greeted her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me like this. It is important that everything be done out in the open. An appearance of trust is crucial in this situation.”

She wondered what he was talking about, but let him steer her aside, well away from the others, choosing a spot where they were out of hearing. “What’s happened?” she asked, facing him squarely.

He met her gaze and held it. “Yesterday morning, a Druid entered the chambers of Fashton Caeil, our Minister of Security, and murdered both him and his assistant. The Druid who did this was seen and recognized by Federation soldiers stationed at the entry to the Minister’s chambers. He was positively identified. It was Isaturin.”

Aphenglow pursed her lips. “So have you come to Paranor to ask me to turn him over to you?”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “Not exactly. The identification is suspect. I have reason to believe it is false even though the soldiers were quite clear about seeing him and hearing his name spoken. Or perhaps it is exactly because of both. It seems odd to me that a killer would allow these things to happen if he had any intention at all of hiding his identity. Then there’s this.”