Wards of Faerie: The Dark Legacy of Shannara (29 page)

She stopped suddenly, a startled look on her face. Her hand went to her throat and her mouth opened as she gasped for air. Drust Chazhul stared at her in a mix of confusion and shock.

“What have you done?” she hissed at him.

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing! I … don’t … What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“The wine!” She was on her feet, throwing away her glass, clutching now at her chest. “You’ve poisoned it!”

“No! I’ve done nothing!” He reached out to catch her as she lurched toward him, but she pushed him away. “Edinja, this wasn’t my doing!”

“Liar! Pretending … friendship, and all … the while …”

Cinla was sitting up straighter, watching it all, but not doing anything. Not yet. Drust looked in the moor cat’s eyes and began to back away, edging toward the door. What was happening here? Edinja had dropped to her knees and was bent over, retching violently. Drust knew he should do something, but he couldn’t think what it was. If it was poison, one needed to know what kind in order to provide an antidote. Her symptoms suggested something of every poison he knew.

“Treachery!” Edinja shrieked. Then she toppled over and lay still.

Dead. Drust knew it at once. Her eyes fixed, her skin turned blue, her inner glow gone dark, her voice silenced. A white froth leaked from between her lips, pooling onto the floor.

Drust kept backing away, aware that Cinla was on her feet now and moving over to where her mistress lay. It would only be seconds before the moor cat turned her attention back to him. He had to get out of there before that happened. None of this was his doing, but if he were found in her chambers like this he would be blamed anyway. No amount of explaining would save him.

His eyes still on the moor cat as it sniffed Edinja’s motionless body, he backed into the chamber door, fumbled for the handle, released the latch, and was on the other side almost before he knew it. Making sure the latch was set, he rushed across the entry to the larger door, wrenched it open, and fled into the blackness beyond.

17

K
HYBER
E
LESSEDIL STOOD AT THE STERN RAILING OF THE
Walker Boh
as she sailed west out of Paranor and watched the Druid’s Keep slowly disappear into the eastern horizon. She could see it for a long time as the airship proceeded at a slow, steady pace toward the western wall of the Dragon’s Teeth, its dark peaks ominous even in the bright sunlight of midday, spears extended toward the blue bowl of the sky. She had thought she might see Aphenglow come out to witness their departure, but the young Elven woman did not appear.

What she had not told Aphen, but what the other might have guessed, was that she had returned directly to Paranor from Patch Run precisely because she knew the young Druid’s memory of the path the expedition needed to take was essential and must be skived if Aphen was to be left behind—a decision she had already made. She had chosen this effort over chasing after the Ohmsford twins, knowing Bakrabru was on the way to their Westland destination in any case and convinced that she could persuade the boys to join her once she had plumbed Aphen’s memories and collected the other members of the company.

None of which relieved her feelings of guilt over how she had used Aphen and then discarded her.

The Ard Rhys shook her head, tamping down a pang of disappointment. She knew how bitter Aphen was about being left behind
and wished she could have done more. But she imagined that in the end no one could help Aphen but Aphen herself. It might take time, but as her leg healed her heart would mend, too. She would come to accept that Khyber’s choice not to take her was the right one. Bombax would return, and she would find other things to occupy her time.

Besides, they might all be reunited sooner than anyone thought. She hadn’t been trying to placate Aphenglow when she had suggested as much. She wasn’t at all sure that this present effort would lead to anything conclusive. It might well lead to nothing. Or it might turn out to be only the first step on a much longer journey. Tracking down something that was thousands of years missing, lost in a time that no longer existed by a Race that had been reduced to a fraction of its former size, would likely be much more complicated than anyone believed.

Anyone but herself, she amended—someone who had lived long enough to know better, who had experienced the rebel Shadea a’Ru’s attempt to gain control of the order and survived the struggle it had taken to prevent that from happening.

So long ago now. So far in the past.

She watched the last vestiges of the fortress fade into the distance and experienced a strange feeling of regret at leaving, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“She will be fine, Mistress,” Garroneck said at her elbow. “She is a strong young woman.”

Khyber gave him a smile. “I know that. I just wish we could have found a way to include her.”

The big Troll shrugged. “Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be included. There might be something else that requires her talents.”

“A nice thought.” She nodded slowly. “I hope you are right. Mostly, I hope she will be able to do what is needed at Paranor in our absence. Leaving her with only her younger sister, her Elven protector, and a handful of your Trolls worries me. I hope Bombax comes back soon.”

“You know he will. He always does. And don’t underrate the capabilities
of my Trolls, Mistress. They are more than a match for anything that might threaten Aphenglow or the Keep.”

She nodded absently, redirecting her attention to the forward decks on the big warship. “What do you think of those three?”

She was referring to the two men and one woman that her Druids had brought back with them from their forays into different parts of the Four Lands in compliance with the urgings of the Shade of Allanon.

“An odd bunch,” Garroneck declared.

An apt description, she thought. Each very different from the others, all very different from the Druids.

Skint was a Gnome Tracker recruited by Carrick—small, dark-faced, and decidedly uncommunicative. The Druid had found him in a small village at the foot of the Wolfsktaag Mountains in the Anar. He had known Skint from his childhood in the Eastland, where Carrick’s father had managed a mining business. His father had used Skint as a hunter and trapper to feed his workers and protect his operation, which was a long way from anything approximating civilization. Skint’s value, Carrick had explained to Khyber, was that he was exceedingly adept at finding his way through places he had never seen before, at reading signs, and at ferreting out dangers. As a boy, he had spent time with Skint—though his father had never found out about it—so he had witnessed firsthand how clever the Gnome could be. Skint wasn’t a pleasant fellow, but he was very good at what he did. If you were with him and in danger, he was your best chance at finding your way to safety.

Seersha had brought back a Dwarf Chieftain. His name was Crace Coram, and he was something of a legend. He was the son and grandson of former Chieftains of their people, the Quare Rek, and he had inherited wars with Gnome tribes that went back several centuries. His father was killed in battle by members of one of those tribes, the Zek’ke, when Crace was just twenty, and he had been named leader by his people immediately. Only days later the Zek’ke had attacked again, knowing his father was dead and expecting to find the Quare Rek in disarray. At first, they were, fleeing in all directions. But Crace
Coram rallied them in midflight, sought out the Gnome leader responsible for the death of his father, and single-handedly killed him and three others who were trying to protect him. Then, with fewer than thirty men, he drove the Zek’ke from his village and pursued them for three days through the mountains, the Dwarves under his command killing the fleeing Gnomes one by one.

When he finally caught up to the survivors, the Gnomes threw down their arms and begged for their lives. Crace Coram granted their wish, extracting a promise that none of them or any of their families or friends or members of their community would ever participate in another attack on the Quare Rek. The Gnomes not only agreed, they kept their word.

But the Dwarf legend was no longer Chieftain of his people. He had passed on that responsibility to his oldest son. Seersha had come from a neighboring village and had known Crace Coram all her life. When she had found him and explained her purpose, he had agreed at once to come back with her. His respect for Seersha and for the Druids was enormous, and if he could be of help to them he was more than willing to do so.

Besides, he had added with a smile, he had nothing better to do with his time.

Of the third choice, the strange young woman brought along by Pleysia, the Ard Rhys knew nothing at all beyond her name.

Oriantha.

She was sitting now at the bow of the vessel, deep in conversation with her friend and mentor. Pleysia was gesturing as she talked to the young woman, insistent and determined. Whatever the subject matter of their discussion, Pleysia was passionate about it. At times, it seemed to the Ard Rhys, almost angry.

“I think I need to learn something more about Pleysia’s choice,” she said to Garroneck.

She left him at the stern of the vessel, walked past the pilot box, went down the three steps to the mid-deck, and continued forward. Pleysia and Oriantha sensed her coming and ceased their conversation immediately, turning to watch her approach.

She knelt down next to them so that she was on eye level and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you settled in?” she asked Oriantha.

The young woman nodded, but said nothing. In fact, she hadn’t said ten words since being introduced. She seemed pleasant enough, if odd looking. There was nothing Elven about her; if anything her strong features were almost feral. Her face lacked softness of any kind, and her lithe young body was hard and lean and layered with muscle. There was nothing special about her otherwise, nothing to suggest what it was she could do to help them. When asked why she had been chosen, she had deferred to Pleysia, who had refused to say. They would find out when it was time, the latter had advised obstinately, but not before.

Khyber Elessedil glanced from one woman to the other. “It might be a good idea if we talked now about what Oriantha can do for this expedition, Pleysia. I don’t mind if we keep it among the three of us, but I think I have to insist that you tell me. I’ve trusted you this far, but I don’t want to be caught by surprise later.”

She waited. Pleysia glanced at her companion and shook her head. “It must wait awhile longer, Mistress.”

The Ard Rhys felt a rush of irritation, but she kept her expression neutral. “How much longer, Pleysia?”

“We sail for the Westland to find the Ohmsford twins. Isn’t that so? A journey of not more than two days?”

Khyber nodded. “That is so.”

“I ask your forbearance until then. When we reach our destination, I will tell you why Oriantha is so important to this expedition. You have my word on it.”

Khyber thought about asking why two more days made any difference, but then thought better of it. By asking, she would be opening herself up to another argument. Better to just let things alone.

She smiled. “Very well. We’ll wait. Please remember your promise.”

She rose and walked away, vaguely dissatisfied.

Aphenglow watched the
Walker Boh
depart from the window of her bedchamber, still propped up by pillows, her splinted leg stretched
out in front of her. She did not witness the liftoff and the long, slow swing west, but could see the airship through her window as it flew away from the castle and disappeared into the horizon. It took a long time to disappear completely, and by the time it did she was in tears.

She was alone for the moment. Arling was exploring the Keep with Cymrian in the company of Krolling, the Troll who had been given command of the guard contingent left to watch over the Keep. She sat thinking for a time, pondering this and that, letting her mind skip from one subject to the next, trying not to direct her thoughts but letting them wander where they chose.

“I hate this!” she whispered finally, her anger breaking through.

She thought suddenly of Bombax, still not returned, and she threw off her lethargy and growing sense of helplessness and swung her legs off her bed and stood. She was surprised and vaguely irritated at how strong her leg felt. She had been employing her healing talents regularly, but hadn’t tested the results before now. Had she known she could bear her weight this well, she might have fought harder to be included in the expedition.

She took a step away from her bed and almost instantly felt her leg give way. She barely managed to keep herself from falling.

She sat down again and stayed there for long moments, gathering her resolve. She would not even consider quitting. Hoisting herself off her bed a second time, she hobbled carefully to the far corner of her chamber. Her walking staff was leaning against the wall, and she took it in hand. Better supported now, she made her way to the door and out of the room.