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

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.

But then he stopped abruptly and turned toward the boy, a new thought occurring to him. He considered it momentarily, then he walked over. Now the boy was looking up at him, an uncertain look on his face.

“Do me a favor,” the sorcerer said to him. “You remember the Highlander I asked you to direct to Dark House a few weeks ago?”

The boy nodded.

“If you see him again, if he flies into Wayford, alone or with others, I want you to come at once to Dark House and let me know. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded once more, but didn’t say a word.

“You’re certain you can do this? You understand what I am asking. I don’t want the Highlander to know what you are about.”

“I understand,” the boy said.

“There will be something in it for you, if you do as I say.”

The boy nodded, but didn’t respond. A bit slow, Arcannen thought to himself, but reliable. Though he wondered suddenly how Paxon Leah, on his earlier visit, had managed to find a way into Dark House without alerting his guards. Had the boy told him?

He dismissed the idea; the boy would never risk the consequences.

He left the airfield behind and walked down the streets of the city, eschewing carriages and horses, feeling the need to stretch his legs and wanting to be alone. Passersby gave way to him, most moving all the way over to the other side of the street. He knew they were frightened of him, and it pleased him to see them demonstrate it openly. It was always better to be feared than respected. Respected men could be approached; they could be talked to and reasoned with. But feared men were simply to be avoided; reason and small talk were out of the question.

He walked not to Dark House, but a short distance farther on to where Mischa’s home was located on the second floor of a seemingly empty building. He took a few moments standing on the walkway of a side street where he could make certain no one was watching him, then crossed to the other side and moved quickly down the alleyway. The lock on the outer door of the building was familiar to him, and he released it easily. Once inside, he passed into the hallway beyond and went up the stairs at its end and down a second hall to Mischa’s front door.