Terry Brooks: High Druid's Blade

“But he attacked you!”

“In his eyes, I attacked him first. I allied myself with you, his enemy. I severed whatever ties remained between us. He had taken pains to do special favors for me in the past, even after I left, even though I never asked for them. I think after this, maybe that part of my life is over.”

They were nearing the airfield now, the first of the masts and light sheaths of the moored vessels rising up ahead of them. “Don’t misunderstand me,” she added quickly. “I’ve wanted it to be over for a long time. There’s really nothing between us now but our blood ties. I’m glad he’s gone. And not likely to be back anytime soon.”

Paxon gave her a rueful look. “You’ll probably think the same thing about me once I’ve left, knowing what I was thinking about you.”

She nodded. “I might. You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of me.”

“I made an assumption about what you were doing in Dark House that I shouldn’t have made. I apologize. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’ve never had a problem with what people think about me. You included.”

“After what you did for me, how you helped me with your father, the way you stood by me when I was in danger? I will never forget that. And I don’t want you to be angry with me. I like you a lot. I want us to stay friends.”

She regarded him coolly. “It might be possible,” she said. “Why don’t we wait and see?”

At the airfield, Grehling came rushing out to meet them, throwing his arms around Leofur, who rolled her eyes and then hugged him back. The boy hugged Paxon, as well, and asked to hear the whole story of what had happened to them in Wayford. Paxon told him, Leofur adding bits and pieces here and there, but he was careful to stay away from the family connection between the young woman and the sorcerer.

“You did the right thing, taking the potion so you could help Chrys,” Grehling announced. “You can always go after Arcannen later. You can find him again, if you really want to.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“In fact, I’ll go with you!” Grehling declared. “I can help you track him down and bring him back. I can be your pilot. Can’t I, Leofur?”

She gave him a smile. “You can be anyone’s pilot. No one knows more about airships than you do.”

Paxon reached out to shake the boy’s hand. “You and me, then. We’ll talk about it another time.”

Grehling ran off, and Paxon turned to Leofur. “I meant what I said. I won’t ever forget what you did for me. I hope I see you again. I hope you will want to see me.”

She stepped back, looked him over, and shrugged. “I’ve seen worse than you come through my life. Let’s think about it. Go back to Chrys for now. Take care of her. Help her get better. Put all the bad things behind you for a while. Then let me know if you decide I’m not one of them.”

So he flew out of Wayford aboard his skiff, setting a course for Paranor. He could have used at least a few hours of sleep before going, but he couldn’t wait to return to Chrysallin and give her the potion. He tried unsuccessfully to convince himself that it would work, that Arcannen had not deceived him, that Leofur knew her father better than anyone probably did. One way or the other, he had to find out if there was any chance his sister could be cured. Putting it off only made matters worse.

He traveled through the remainder of the day and into nightfall, a solitary craft in the growing darkness, its masts and railings fore and aft lit by running lamps and guided by the stars. He passed back over the Rainbow Lake and up the channel of the Runne River to the Dragon’s Teeth. It was nearing midnight by the time the lights of the Druid’s Keep came into view and he felt the first twinges of serious doubt about what he was doing.

The possibilities he envisioned were almost too much for him to face.

What if Arcannen had given him poison, and he was meant to poison his own sister as retribution for the trouble he had caused the sorcerer?

What if the potion was something other than a remedy? What if it was intended to turn Chrys into something terrible?

What if it was useless, a mix of water and coloring? What if it made her worse?

But he tamped down his fears because in his heart he believed it would work and Chrys would be made well.

He set down the skiff on the landing platform, climbed out, and hurried into the Keep. A few of the Trolls serving as Druid Guards took note, but none of them spoke to him. Once inside, he went straight to the healing center. Almost everyone there was asleep, including the Healers, but Paxon ignored them all and went into the room where they had been keeping Chrys when he left.

She was still sleeping, but he managed to wake her; the sleep potion was beginning to wear off by now. He helped her sit up, whispering to her that he was back and could help her. But even so she made no response and went right back to staring into space without seeing anything. Nothing had changed. He spoke her name, hugged her, talked to her a bit, and waited for an indication that she was in any way better. She was not. There was no sign of recognition, no awareness.

He brought out the bottle with the potion in it and held it out where she would see it. “I want you to drink this. I want you to trust me.” He hesitated, wondering if he should give her any sort of warning about other possibilities. In the end, he simply said, “I love you.”

Then he put the bottle to her lips, tipped her head back slightly, and poured the liquid into her mouth. He watched her throat work as she swallowed. When she had taken it all, he held her by the shoulders and waited for a response.

Nothing.

He continued to wait, the minutes passing and the room’s silence deepening. He peered into her eyes, looking for something to reveal itself. Finally, her eyes closed and she slumped into his arms. For a terrible instant, he thought he had killed her, that his worst fears had come true. But then he felt her throat and watched the rise and fall of her chest, and realized she was sleeping.

He took the chair she had vacated and sat watching her for a long time afterward, mulling over what he had done, telling himself he had not made a mistake, that the fact she was sleeping was a good sign. Time passed, and his thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday. He relived his battle with Arcannen, rueful and disappointed that he had failed to bring the sorcerer back to Paranor, that he had in some way failed Starks. He found Leofur’s face continually resurfacing amid his other thoughts. He could see her expressions, hear her voice, and recall the way she moved.

He could not stop thinking about her.

At some point, he fell asleep.

He was still sleeping when cool fingers touched his cheek and a familiar voice called his name. He stirred awake, sleep–fogged and lethargic. Hands gripped his shoulders and fingers squeezed gently. Leofur, he thought.

But when he opened his eyes, he was staring at Chrysallin.

“Chrys,” he whispered.

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “Where have you been?”

“I came as quickly as I could. I’m sorry it took so long.”

“I was afraid, Paxon.”

“I know.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “But I can’t remember why. I can’t remember any of it.”

He smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. You’re where you belong.”

And she hugged him to her.

He waited for the Druid Healers to arrive and then went straight to bed. He should have gone to the Ard Rhys, but he couldn’t make himself do anything more. He was so exhausted he didn’t think he could put words together to tell her what had happened. It didn’t matter now, anyway. Chrys was well. The struggle to save her was over. Everything else could wait.