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

“Raffe let you go?”

“I quit. I’ve had enough of working for Raffe and putting up with his constant badgering and groping and talking about how great he is. Believe me, Paxon, I’ve given this some thought. Anyway, that has nothing to do with why I’m here. You were seen coming back through the city and up the road past the Two Roosters. I knew then you hadn’t gotten Chrys back. And I knew you wouldn’t give up on her. So I thought maybe I could find a way to help.”

“Jayet …”

“Please don’t say that if you needed help, you would ask a man. If you did that, I would have to hurt you. Just listen a moment. For one thing, I can get into places where a man can’t. For another, I can fly an airship. You might need me to do that if you get hurt. You might need another pair of hands to back you up. I can provide all that. I’m tough enough; you know that. Let me help.”

He thought about it a moment. There were enough reasons against agreeing to her suggestion to fill a good-size shed. But there were reasons in favor of it, too.

Her blunt features tightened. She was waiting for him to say no. “All right,” he said, less certain about it than he wished. “But you have to promise to do what I say, no matter what.”

Her nod of agreement was brisk, sharp. “Whatever you say.”

Not entirely to his surprise, she had already packed a bag. It was sitting on the front porch where she had left it, and she shouldered it as they went out the door together. He had written a note to his mother just in case she came back early, telling her that Chrys had gone with him on a transfer—a short run over to the east end of the Rainbow Lake—and he would be back in a couple of days. She was supposed to be gone for a week, and for once he hoped she would not hurry back.

He was on his way out the door when he caught sight of the sword hanging over the fireplace and stopped. He needed a weapon, and he didn’t have anything better. The sword was a relic from the past, but he released it from its fastenings and took it down. He studied it for a moment, taking note of the emblem stamped on its leather sheath—a seal he assumed once identified the royal house of the Leahs. He pulled the blade free and balanced it in his hand. He ran his finger carefully along its edge. It was still razor-sharp, and unblemished.

The Sword of Leah.

He sheathed the blade anew and strapped it across his back. It was better than nothing. Maybe it would finally provide him with a little magic of his own.

With Jayet in tow, he walked back down to the north end of the airfield where he kept his vessels moored. He had several—or, he amended quickly, the family had several. The transport—a big, looming carrier with four masts and multiple light sheaths that required a crew of four, the balance of which he usually found from a pool of airship fliers who worked as independent contractors—an elderly skiff that wasn’t good for much, and his Sprint. He would take the Sprint, of course; it was small, fast, maneuverable, and very dependable.

He walked over to where it was docked inside its locked hangar—a building that was more shed than hangar, constructed specifically to shelter the vessel from weather and tampering. He checked the lock, then released it and opened the door. With Jayet’s help, he pulled the Sprint clear, put up its raked single mast, and fastened down the radian draws. Then he closed the door to the shed and locked it anew.

“Ready?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Let’s fly.”

Moments later they were airborne, winging their way south. Paxon had traveled to Wayford on cargo hauls a few times, and he could find his way without maps or compass. But he didn’t know anything much about the city proper, having flown in and out again without leaving the airfield. Once they got to Wayford, he would need help.

He wasn’t taking anything about this mission for granted. He knew he was going to need all kinds of help from one source or another. Maybe Jayet would provide some of it. Maybe strangers would provide the rest. But he would need luck, too. Probably a lot of it.

Even so, his conviction that he could find his sister and bring her home again remained undiminished. Nothing would prevent that from happening.

They flew south through the rest of the day and into the night. By the time the lights of the city came in sight, it was well after midnight. Jayet was sleeping, curled up in her seat behind him, her spiky hair flattened against the cushions, her face relaxed and bathed in starlight. He found her suddenly pretty—an attribute he’d somehow overlooked before. He smiled in spite of himself. She didn’t look so tough now.

Wayford’s airfield was three times the size of Leah’s, and the sea of ships that filled her acres of open grassland and landing pads seemed to stretch away for thousands of yards. He maneuvered the Sprint onto a pad that was vacant, close to the field manager’s office, and shut her down. Jayet was awake, looking around sleepily.

Paxon climbed out of the pilot box and stretched. “Wait here.”

He reached inside the pilot box, pulled out the Sword of Leah—which he had taken off while they were flying—and strapped it across his back once more. Then he walked over to the field manager’s office and stepped through the door. The boy sitting at the field manager’s desk might have been thirteen or fourteen, but no older. “Kind of young to be an airfield manager, aren’t you?” Paxon asked him.

The boy shrugged. “I’m old enough.” He was looking at Paxon’s sword, its black length poking up over the latter’s shoulder.

“Can you give me that pad for one night? Maybe for two?”

“Yours as long as you want it. Just sign the register.”

He shoved a book across the desk, and Paxon filled in the requisite space. “How much?”

“Pay when you leave.” He gestured. “Nice-looking blade. Old, but it has clean lines. Bet you know how to use it, too.”

“Want to take a look?”

The boy rocked forward and stood up. Paxon unsheathed his sword and offered it to him. The boy examined it carefully, handed it back, and once it was sheathed again extended his hand. “I’m Grehling Cara. My dad’s the airfield manager. He’s off for the night, but I fill in for him. He’s teaching me the business.”

“Paxon Leah. Your father must have some confidence in you.”

The boy pointed out the window at the Sprint. “I like your ship, too. Did you build her yourself?”

Paxon nodded. “From the ground up. Can I ask you something? Do you know a man called Arcannen?”

The boy gave him a look. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need to find him. I need directions.”

“Are you friends with him?”

Paxon shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

Grehling sat down again. “Oh, just because. He flew in earlier today and told me he had a friend coming in from the Highlands who might ask how to find him.” His eyes fixed on Paxon. “I thought you might be that friend.”

So Arcannen had expected him to follow, after all. Paxon felt a surge of anger at the other’s arrogance, but quickly tamped it down. “Well, you should know he is not my friend.”

Grehling nodded. “I thought that might be. Arcannen doesn’t have many friends, just lots of people who do business with him. He owns Dark House, a place where they do things my father won’t talk about. But I know anyway. He’s a magic wielder, a sorcerer. He’s very powerful and very dangerous. People disappear around him all the time. Maybe you should think twice about trying to find him.”

“I should, but I can’t. He’s taken something that isn’t his, and I intend to get it back.”

“A girl?”

“My sister, Chrysallin. You saw her?”