Brooks, Terry - High Druid's Blade - The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

“If I can be alone with her for an hour—with no danger of her father interfering—I think I can find out the truth,” Paxon had insisted. “I think Iantha will tell me the truth.”

Starks wasn’t so sure, but he had agreed to let Paxon try. “You’ll have to go alone,” he had said. “She likely won’t talk to you if I’m there. But you be careful, Paxon. We still don’t know what’s happening here. I know you like this girl, but she may be more under her father’s control than you realize. She may even betray you to him.”

But Paxon did not think this was so, believing instead that this was a chance to help someone who desperately needed it. With his sword to protect him, he felt more than capable of carrying out his effort to uncover the truth.

As he neared the mill, he slowed his mount, careful to keep watch and to listen for the miller’s wagon. He believed the man had already gone to make his deliveries, but he couldn’t take anything for granted. If he was seen, he would have to turn back. He couldn’t let Joh discover he had been to visit Iantha secretly. Not without first knowing if his suspicions were correct.

But when he passed by the old mill and approached the cottage, he found Iantha waiting for him, already seated on the steps of the porch. She rushed up to him at once and took his hands in hers. “Tie up your horse in the trees across the way,” she told him, a note of urgency in her voice. “Father is already gone, but if he should come back early, he won’t know you’re here.”

Paxon did as she asked, then walked back over to the porch to sit with her. She went into the house and returned again with glasses of cold ale and a plate of fresh bread. “I’m so glad you came back, Paxon,” she said, sitting close to him. “I feel so much better when you’re here.” She glanced at him shyly. “You must think me very forward.”

“I think you are scared,” he replied, his eyes on her face. “I came back because I wanted to see you, but also because I am worried about you. Do you have something to say about that?”

She seemed almost ready to speak, but then there was a hesitation in her response and a tightening of her shoulders. She shook her head. “Can we talk about something else first? Tell me about Paranor!”

He did, anxious to put her at ease, to give her a chance to collect herself so she could tell him what she knew. It would not be easy, talking about her father, revealing him as the creature that was killing the villagers. In spite of what he was, he expected she loved him and had been protecting him for some time now. She would know something was wrong, living with him as she was, and she would be torn between her love for him and her need to tell someone what he was.

They spoke together quietly for the better part of an hour, Paxon giving descriptions of the Druid’s Keep, providing entertaining stories about various Druids, even giving her a brief explanation detailing his own training for the order. She was fascinated by everything—her eyes wide, her enthusiasm unbounded, and her questions unending. How did this happen? What did you do then? Were you ever frightened by what might become of you? On and on. But he could feel her loosening up, and it would not be long now before she was ready to talk to him about her father.

Still, he was aware of time slipping away; neither of them could be certain how much of it they had left. Patience was one thing, but unreasonable delay was another. Paxon needed to persuade her to talk to him before doing so became too dangerous.

So, finally, he took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. “We have to talk about your father now. I need you to tell me the truth about him. You said you were frightened. What is it that frightens you?”

She dipped her head again, a protective gesture, and for a long time she didn’t speak. She let him hold her hands and once or twice she squeezed them back, but her face remained hidden in the veil of her long brown hair.

“This is very hard,” she said finally.

He nodded, waiting on her. She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him again. In spite of the circumstances, he found himself kissing her back.

“I like you so much,” she said, breaking the kiss. “You are kind and patient with me. I’m going to hate it when you are gone. I will miss you.”

“Just tell me,” he encouraged her.

She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how!”

“Does your father have something to do with all the killings that have happened in Eusta?” he tried, thinking a nudge might help.

She clenched her fists. “We shouldn’t talk about this, Paxon. You should forget I said anything. In fact, you should leave now. My father will be back soon, and I don’t want him to find you here. I’m sorry.”

Paxon hesitated only a moment, and then he took hold of her by her upper arms and held her firmly in front of him. “You brought me out here to tell me something. I came because I believed you. This isn’t going to go away, and neither am I. The killings have to stop, and if your father has something to do with them, Starks and I are going to find out.”

Her eyes were suddenly wild. “You don’t know what you are talking about! You don’t know what you are saying!”

He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then tell me. Tell me why your father isn’t involved. Tell me where I am wrong. But I’m not leaving until you tell me something!”

She sagged in his grip, her head drooping. “I didn’t want this to happen!” she wailed. “I only wanted you to like me. To be a friend! To talk to me! I just said whatever came into my head so you would come back. Can’t you leave it at that? Can’t you?”

“No, I don’t think he can,” a voice said from behind Paxon. He turned to look, and there was Crombie Joh, standing in the shadows less than ten feet away, hands on hips, face grim. “I told you that, Iantha. I told you he would keep after you until he found out everything.”

“Everything?” Paxon echoed, taking his hands off Iantha and bracing himself as he faced her father.

The big man shrugged. A light rain had begun to fall, and his features were indistinct in the mix of gray light and shadows. He had the look of something more wraith than human. Yet his voice was the same, and his build hadn’t changed.

“I knew you would come out here as soon as she told you I was leaving to make deliveries. Why did you do that? She likes you; she doesn’t want to see you get hurt. And now you almost certainly will.” An audible sigh escaped his lips. “Where is your companion?”

“On his way to join me,” Paxon said quickly.

Joh frowned. “Oh, I doubt that. He would be with you now, if he was coming. He wouldn’t be hanging back, biding his time. He let you come because you both thought Iantha would tell you what you wanted to hear about me. That I was the killer. That I was the changeling. That she had been covering up for me all along. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you were expecting her to tell you?”

“I thought she might want to help you.”

Crombie Joh’s laugh was mirthless. “That’s very funny, Highlander. Very amusing.”

Paxon got to his feet and drew out the Sword of Leah. He came down off the porch steps and advanced on the miller. “Why do you find it so funny? You don’t believe she might want to help you?”

“Why, no, not at all. Exactly the opposite, in fact. I believe she wants to help me very much.”

He was changing now, right in front of Paxon, his human form fading, something predatory and dangerous taking his place. The big body lengthened and stretched, the clothes shredding as bones and cartilage and muscles found new shapes and took on strange definitions. A wolf’s head replaced Joh’s own, jaws lengthening into a maw that was filled with gleaming teeth. Hands and feet became paws with great hooked claws. Dark, bristling tufts of hair sprouted all across the exposed parts of the strong body, up arms and down legs, covering head and shoulders until what Paxon beheld was all animal and nothing human.