Terry Brooks: Wards of Faerie

Down he went in a crumpled heap and lay there.

She approached him cautiously. There was no movement. She toed him gingerly, ready for him to spring up and attack anew. But he failed to respond. Still using her boot, she rolled him over. His head was bent awkwardly to one side, loose and unhinged.

His neck was broken.

Shades , she thought, appalled at what she had done.

She picked up the knife he had been carrying, which was lying to one side. It was a Southland weapon, forged in one of the Borderland Cities, probably in Varfleet where they did such skilled work with blades. She knelt next to him, still watchful, ready to respond if he moved. But when she pulled back the black hood that concealed his features, his eyes were fixed and staring. She studied his features, trying to place him.

She had never seen him before.

A search of his clothing turned up nothing that revealed who he was or where he had come from. He was a Man, not an Elf, and she felt a small ripple of gratitude for that. She did not want to think that there were Elves this anxious to see her dead.

Was killing her the dead man’s idea, or did he serve another?

She remembered there had been two of them last night …

She turned to look for the backpack, scanning the ground where she had dropped it, but it was gone. So, she thought: one man to attack her and one to steal the bag. A small variation on last night’s attack, and this time they’d had better success.

She glanced out into the darkness and down the pathway, but there was nothing to see. The second attacker would be far away by now. He would not stop until he was safe and could examine the contents of her bag at his leisure. She wished she could be there to see his face when he opened it and found it stuffed with old maps and a couple of books on the care and feeding of hogs.

She smiled in spite of herself. She knew a trick or two. She had been expecting the attack and had left nothing to chance. The diary was back at the palace, down in one of the storerooms, safely tucked away where only she could find it. After last night’s assault, she wasn’t about to take foolish chances.

What she could not decide was how her attackers knew about the diary in the first place. How could anyone have found out about it in so short a time?

Whatever the answer to her question, it was clear that someone wanted it as badly as she did and would kill to get it. Using an assassin as skilled as the dead man was a clear indication of their determination. It changed her thinking measurably. She was no longer equivocating about what she must do.

She went back to the assassin, knelt beside him, and spoke a Druid grace to give him peace and forgiveness. Even the worst of the dead deserved that much.

Then she rose and went to find her sister to say good-bye.

It was time to return to Paranor.

Interior maps copyright © 2012 by David A. Cherry

Within the jagged ring of the Dragon’s Teeth, fading daylight turned scarlet splashed across the canopy of the Forbidden Forest all the way to the spires of Paranor. The Druid’s Keep rose stark and solitary out of an ocean of trees, its ancient stones blackened by time and weather—a vast sprawling complex in the midst of a wilderness. At the helm of the Wend-A-Way , Aphenglow eased off the thrusters, bringing the craft almost to a halt, creeping forward so that she could consider what she had left behind. It had been a long time since she had been home to Paranor, and she felt the need to prepare herself for her return.

She had left at sunrise, awake before Arlingfant so that they could say their good-byes. Her sister had asked again to come with her, to join her as a Druid and leave her life as a Chosen behind. She had cried, which had caused Aphenglow to cry, as well. But in the end Aphenglow only kissed her sister, hugged her close, and promised she would be back to see her again soon. “Take care of Mother,” she whispered before breaking away.

It all seemed very long ago now that she was coming up on Paranor and the life she had chosen for herself. She felt excited as she watched the details of the towers and walls come into focus, the places she had always favored revealing themselves one by one, the secrets she had discovered finding fresh purchase in her memories. The history of the Druids was intriguing and compelling, but it was the structure of the Keep itself that left her breathless. Sometimes she thought back to the days of Galaphile and the first Druids and wondered how they had managed to construct such a massive and complex edifice in a time when so little in the way of machinery and skill had been available.

As she neared, she saw the dim shapes of the Trolls who served as the Druid Guard at watch on the walls. Dark-clad and imposing, they were the protectors of the order. They were walking the battlements, lighting the torches with nightfall’s approach. Garroneck, Captain of the Guard, disdained the use of the flameless lamps present throughout the Keep’s interior. Fire was more dramatic and forbidding, and it was his task to keep those who were not invited away. Aphenglow could picture his blunt features and fierce expression as he explained the reason for this. The Keep had been assaulted only a handful of times since its construction, and it had fallen only once, when it had been betrayed. The big Troll did not intend to see it happen a second time, not while he was in command of the guard.

She closed off all but the parse tubes aft, and then walked forward and drew down the jib and mainsails on her skimmer and stowed them away. She would coast in and use the wing sails to steer the little ship. Measuring less than sixty feet, it could be flown by a single person, assuming one knew what to do. Aphenglow was an experienced flier, capable of commanding even a ship-of-the-line, and she had done so with the Walker Boh on several occasions. The only Druid who was her equal when it came to flying was Bombax, but then he was her equal in almost everything.

Readied for landing, she worked the thrusters in tandem and allowed the skimmer to settle slowly within the interior walls of the Keep, down into the courtyard that had been converted in Grianne Ohmsford’s time to a landing platform where the ships could be anchored just off the ground or docked for servicing. All the other ships were visible save Arrow , so it was likely all but one of the other Druids were in residence.

She brought Wend-A-Way down carefully, the landing platform blazing to life with hastily lit torches; the Troll guard had seen her approach and recognized her vessel. Garroneck was already waiting, standing off to one side, huge arms crossed over his chest until he raised one in a casual gesture of greeting. Very like him. Never any show of impatience or excitement, everything measured and steady. In all the time she had known him—which covered the entire period of her Druid tenure—she had never seen him make a rash or foolish decision or lose his temper with anyone who did.

She lowered the skimmer anchor, which Garroneck came forward to secure, dropped the rope ladder over the side, shouldered her backpack, and climbed down to greet him.

“It’s been a long time, Aphenglow,” he rumbled, his great hands swallowing hers. “Are you well?”

“Well enough,” she answered. “How are things here?”

“Steady sailing, favorable winds. We do what’s needed and then some. The Ard Rhys still sleeps. Is that about to change?”

Perceptive, as always. “Perhaps. I’ll need to speak with the others first. Who’s missing?”

A short growl that might have been laughter. “Who else but that impetuous Borderman. He comes and goes like the weather, never entirely predictable. I think he’s gone to Arishaig to test the political winds.”