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

There he paused, listening to the quiet before knocking softly—one loud, three soft—the agreed-upon signal. Time passed, then the locks released, the door swung open, and Mischa stood there looking out at him.

He was surprised at her appearance. She never looked particularly well, because she was old and withered and worn. Still, she almost always seemed composed and steady, even in the most stressful of times. Not today. Today she looked haggard beyond anything he had ever seen, her features contorted, her mouth twisted in a grimace, her eyes ablaze with intensity and raw emotion.

He jumped to an immediate conclusion. “You’ve killed her,” he said.

The grimace turned into something even more horrible. “Likely she’ll kill me first. Come inside.”

The crone turned away and walked into the living area without a glance back. Arcannen followed, closing the door behind him. “She’s all right, then?”

She wheeled back, and the sharp eyes fixed on him. “That depends on your point of view. She’s where I want her to be, but she is strong, that one, fighting me every step of the way, and I can’t be sure at this point if I’ve persuaded her or merely captured her attention for a time.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Mostly, it’s aggravating. She has a strong mind—much stronger than anyone else’s I’ve worked on. She has a core to her that defies explanation. There’s something there. What is her history? What is there about her that might explain this?”

Arcannen shrugged. “You know the family. Kings and Queens of all Leah once, now simple folk. The brother wields the sword, compels the magic by virtue of his bloodline. Maybe she could, too. Maybe that’s her strength.”

“Strength, yes. But are you assuring me she has no magic?”

“None that I know of. But most of what I know was recently learned. Only since I became aware of the sword. It seems the girl talked about it regularly at the tavern, though apparently no one there paid much attention. Even the tavern owner, who was the one who told me about it, insisted it was just another legend, another wild tale. Where was the proof that this weapon was anything special? It was nonsense. But I knew better. That was when I first began considering the possibility that I could acquire the weapon by holding her for ransom, and then you could turn the boy to our cause by altering his mind as you are altering the girl’s. Of course, that’s all changed now.”

Mischa shook her head. “Well, there’s something more to her than what’s on the surface. I don’t like it. She should have succumbed by now. But she’s still hanging on, clinging to something I can’t identify. We may have her convinced of what is happening and who is to blame, but it would be a good idea if we set her to her task as quickly as possible. The longer she lives outside my influence, the more likely she will come back to herself when we don’t expect it.”

“Perhaps you need more time with her?”

She gave him a look. “If I do much more to her, I will break her entirely. Then she will be useless. What we need is to keep her close another day and then speed her to your chosen destination and put an end to this business.”

“Another day? I think we can manage that. But are you sure that is enough to do the job?”

“I’m not sure of anything, sorcerer. I’m working with smoke and mirrors. I’m groping in the dark. But I have the skills and the experience, so don’t you worry yourself. I’ll make her our cat’s-paw. I’ll turn her to our uses and set her abroad to be the weapon you intend.”

“Let me see her.”

The witch hesitated. “Very well. But only for a minute and only through the doorway. You cannot enter the room; it would disturb the magic’s workings. The skein is delicate and complex. Only I can enter until its work is done.”

Arcannen nodded his agreement, and she led him down the hallway to the back rooms, stopping at the last door on her left. The door was closed, but flashes of light shone from beneath it, illuminating patches of flooring.

She looked back at him. “Say nothing when I open the door. Do not move from where you stand.”

Again, he nodded, irritated by now. Did she think he knew nothing of the magic she worked?

But he held his tongue, intent on making his own determination about how matters were proceeding. Mischa grasped the latch and carefully lifted so that the door swung open wide and everything within was clearly revealed.

The entire room was crisscrossed with bands of wicked green light, all of it pulsing softly. The bands ran everywhere and in no discernible order. Chrysallin Leah lay on a bed near the back of the room, her body covered in a thin sheet. The lines wrapped all about her, and it seemed as if many passed through her body. She twisted and squirmed in their grasp, her movements feeble and ineffective. She moaned softly, and sporadically she emitted small gasps.

Arcannen nodded to himself. She was deep in the nightmares Mischa had conjured for her, caught up in visions that would shape her thinking. She believed herself to be in the hands of the gray-haired Elven woman and her henchmen, being tortured and disfigured in an effort to divulge something of which she was unaware and they would not reveal. Her fear and rage were being directed toward her tormentors, deliberately and exclusively, and particularly toward the Elven woman.

He had seen enough. He nodded to Mischa, who closed the door softly and secured the latch. “She comes to us more and more, Arcannen,” the old woman said. “Her thoughts and actions become less and less her own and more and more ours. She will do what she is being trained for when the time comes. You could see it for yourself.”

“But she resists?”

“More than I would like. But not enough to change the eventual outcome. Another day, perhaps two, and she will be unable to function using free will. She will become our puppet, and she will do what she is being conditioned to do. Trust me.”

He trusted no one, but he nodded anyway. “Let us hope so,” he said. He turned away. “Come get me at Dark House when she is ready. I will take charge of her then and speed her on her way.”

He went through the house and down the hallway to the stairs without looking back.

S

EVENTEEN

IN SPITE OF WHAT ARCANNEN MIGHT HAVE THOUGHT ABOUTthe boy, Grehling was anything but slow. When the sorcerer departed the airfield and walked past him on the way into the city, the boy once again deliberately kept his head down and his eyes lowered so as to pretend to be absorbed in his work. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about the conversation that had just taken place. Why was the sorcerer so interested in the Highlander’s return? Knowing what had transpired during his first visit, it seemed unlikely Paxon Leah would consider coming back again. Yet Arcannen seemed to think it was possible.

And where was the other going now? Back to Dark House? Alone and on foot and without his guards? That was odd. He had seen Arcannen come and go from the airfield countless times over the years, almost always traveling by horse or carriage and with his collection of bodyguards close at hand.

But not this time. Grehling wondered why.

He waited until Arcannen was safely past and out of sight before lifting his head to look in the direction the other had gone, wondering again what he was up to. Because leaving as he had, alone and on foot, suggested he was up to something that he wanted to keep private.

He glanced over at the sorcerer’s airship, where the crew was dropping light sheaths and pulling down radian draws, securing the vessel in place. The guards Arcannen kept for protection milled about, looking bored and disinterested. Curiosity nudged the boy’s thinking, prodding at him like the poke of a finger against his arm. What was going on?