Jarka Ruus (29 page)

The boy staggered across the flats, head lowered against the heat of the still-fiery bay. Flames and ash-smeared waters were all that remained of the
Galaphile
. Pen glanced at the charred mix, baffled and awed by what had taken place, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of it.

He reached Khyber and knelt beside her. He touched her shoulder. “Khyber,” he said softly.

She did not look up or stop shaking, so he put his lips to her ear, whispering, “Khyber, it's all right, it's over. Look at me. I need to know you can hear me. You're all right.”

“So much power,” she whispered suddenly. She stopped shaking then, her body going perfectly still. A long sigh escaped her lips. She lifted her head and looked out across the fiery surface of the wetlands. “I couldn't stop it, Pen. Once it started, I couldn't stop it.”

“I know,” he said, understanding now something of what had transpired. “It's all over.”

He helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together to where Tagwen knelt beside Ahren Elessedil. Pen knew at a glance that the Druid was dying. A handful of arrows and darts had pierced him, and his body was blackened and smoking from the explosion. But his eyes were open and calm, and he watched their approach with a steady gaze.

Khyber gasped as she saw him, then dropped to her knees and began to cry, her hands clasped helplessly in her lap, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

The Druid reached out with one charred hand and touched her wrist. “Terek Molt tied his magic to the
Galaphile
,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked with pain. “To protect her. When I attacked, he strengthened the connection until he was too committed to withdraw it. The Elfstones couldn't tell the difference. To them, the
Galaphile
was a weapon, an extension of Molt. So it consumed them both.”

“I could have helped you!”

“No, Khyber.” He coughed and blood flecked his burned lips. “He couldn't be allowed to know that you had the Elfstones. Otherwise, he would have destroyed you.”

“Instead, he destroyed you!” She was crying so hard that she could barely make herself understood.

The ruined face tilted slightly in response. “I misjudged the extent of my invulnerability. Still, it is a reasonable trade.” He swallowed thickly. “The Elfstones are yours now. Use them with caution. Your command of their power . . .” He trailed off, the words catching in this throat. “You've seen the nature of your abilities. Strong. Your heart, mind, body—very powerful. But the Stones are more powerful still. Be wary. They will rule you if you are not careful. There is danger in using them. Remember.”

She lifted her tear-streaked face and looked over at Pen. “We have to help him!”

She was almost hysterical. Pen was frightened, unable to think of what to say to her. There was nothing they could do. Surely she could see that. But she looked so wild that he was afraid she might try something anyway, something dangerous.

Ahren Elessedil's hand tightened on her wrist. “No, Khyber,” he said. He waited until she looked back at him, until she met his terrible burned gaze. “There is nothing to be done. It is finished for me. I'm sorry.”

His eyes shifted slowly to Pen. “Penderrin. Twenty years ago, when I sailed on the
Jerle Shannara
with your father, a young girl gave up her life for me. She did so because she believed I was meant to do something important. I would like to think this is part of what she saved me for. Make something good come out of this. Do what you were sent here to do. Find the Ard Rhys and bring her back.”

He took several sharp, rattling breaths, his eyes holding the boy's as he struggled to speak. “Ahren?” Pen whispered.

“Promise me.”

The Druid's eyes became fixed and staring, and he quit breathing. Pen could not look away, finding in that terrible gaze strength of purpose he would not have believed possible. He reached out and touched the Druid's charred face, then closed those dead eyes and sat back again. He looked over at Khyber, who was crying silently into her hands, then at Tagwen.

“I never thought anything like this would happen,” the Dwarf said quietly. “I thought he would be the one to get us safely through.”

Pen nodded, looking out over the burning lake at the flames licking at the twilight darkness, staining sky and earth the color of blood. The surface of the water burned silently, steadily, a fiery mirror reflected against a backdrop of shadow-striped trees. Smoke mingled with mist and mist with clouds, and everything was hazy and surreal. The world had an alien feel to it, as if nothing the boy was seeing was familiar.

“What are we going to do?” Tagwen asked softly. He shook his head slowly, as if there were no answer to his question.

Penderrin Ohmsford looked over again at Khyber. She was no longer crying. Her head was lifted and her dark features were a mask of resolve. He could tell from the way she was looking back at him that there would be no more tears.

The boy turned to the Dwarf. “We're going to do what he asked of us,” he said. “We're going to go on.”

Twenty-seven

Shadea a'Ru stalked from the Druid Council without sparing even a glance back at those fools who expected it, her eyes directed straight ahead. She would not give them the satisfaction. She would give them nothing. She was seething with rage and frustration, but she would not let even a hint of it escape. Let them suspect what they wished about her true feelings; their suspicions were the least of her problems.

Her stride lengthening, she shouldered past the few grouped by the doors leading out, using her size and weight to brush them aside, and turned down the hallway toward the stairs leading up to her rooms. It was a kindness she bestowed on them, leaving so abruptly. Had she hesitated longer, she might have killed one of them.

Surely that would have been more satisfying than anything else that had happened.

She had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince the Council of the necessity of taking a stand on the war between the Federation and the Free-born. She had insisted that no progress in the efforts of the Druid order could be made until the war was concluded. It was inevitable, she argued, that the Federation, superior in men and materials, would emerge as the eventual victor. Better that it happen now, so that the rebuilding could begin, so that the work of the Druids could commence in earnest. Callahorn was Southland territory in any event, inhabited mostly by members of the Race of Man and naturally aligned with the interests of the Federation. Let them have it. Make that the condition to ending the war. The Free-born were a rebel outfit at best, consumed by their foolish insistence on keeping Callahorn for themselves. Remove the tacit support of the Druids and the rebels would collapse.

She did not tell the Council, of course, that she had made a bargain with Sen Dunsidan to help him secure control over the Borderlands. She did not tell them that Federation control of Callahorn was the price of his support of her and her efforts to expand the authority and influence of the order. That wasn't something they needed to know. It was enough that she was proposing a reasonable, commonsense solution to a problem that had plagued the order since the day of its inception.

But the Council had balked at adopting her proposal, its members led in their opposition by that snake Gerand Cera, who had insisted that a thorough study of the consequences of such drastic action was needed first. The matter was not as simple as the Ard Rhys was trying to make it seem, his argument went. Elven interests would be impacted by the outcome of the Federation–Free-born war in a significant way, as well. Once he had mentioned the Elves, it was only moments before the Dwarves were insisting that their interests were important too. Soon, everyone was arguing. Clever of him. Without repudiating the suggestion outright, he had managed to defer any action on it until a later date, all with an eye toward his own special interests, she was certain.

Very well. He had won this day, but there would be another—although not necessarily for him. He was becoming something of a nuisance, one that she would have to deal with soon. If he could not be brought into line, he would have to be removed.

For the moment, she had more pressing concerns. Sen Dunsidan would arrive in three days, and he would expect to hear that she had secured the Council's approval for Federation occupation of Callahorn along with its open repudiation of Free-born claims to the land. He would be expecting a joint announcement of solidarity on the matter, one that would clearly indicate to the Free-born that their cause was lost. His expectations would not be met. She would have to tell him that the matter was not settled, that he would have to be patient. He would not like that, but he would have to live with it. He was used to disappointment; he would survive.

She began to climb the stairs to the tower, conscious of the darkness pressing in from without, filtering through the windows to cast its shadows in the flickering torchlight. Nighttime already, and she had not yet eaten.

She was halfway up when Traunt Rowan appeared at the top of the stairs on his way down. She could tell at once that something was wrong.

“You had better come, Shadea,” he told her quietly, waiting until she had reached him, then turning back the way he had come. “The cold chamber.”

She fell in beside him, angry without yet knowing why. “Has Molt failed yet again?”

“Someone has. The scrye waters indicate a massive collision of magics somewhere east of Anatcherae. The
Galaphile
is gone.”

“Gone?” She stared at him. “Gone where?”

“Destroyed. Obliterated.”

Her fists clenched in fury. “How could Molt allow such a thing to happen?” Her mind spun with possibilities. “When was our last report from him?”

“Yesterday.” Rowan wouldn't look at her. “The message indicated he was in pursuit of the boy and the others and had caught up with them in Anatcherae. That would have been two days ago.”

She forced herself to stay calm, to think it through. Courier birds released from the
Galaphile
brought her regular messages from Molt, indicating where he was and what he was doing. Nothing in yesterday's message suggested the Dwarf was in any trouble, let alone the sort that would cause a Druid warship to be destroyed. Magic of such power was unusual, and it would have to have been employed in just the right way. The Elfstones? Perhaps. But Ahren Elessedil was not a warrior Druid or trained in battle the way Molt was. It was inconceivable that he would have prevailed in a confrontation.

They entered the cold chamber to find Iridia Eleri standing at the basin, staring down at the scrye waters with haunted eyes, arms folded across her rigid body. Her eyes snapped up at their entry, and the haunted look gave way to one of rage.

“If you had sent me, this wouldn't have happened!” she hissed at Shadea, making no effort to hide her feelings.

Shadea ignored her, walking over to the basin and looking down. Heavy ripples emanated from a point at the eastern shore of the Lazareen, perhaps somewhere within the Slags. She knew that country. Dangerous to anyone, no matter how well armed or prepared. There was no mistaking what she was reading in the waters. The nature of the ripples clearly indicated a massive explosion, one instigated by a use of magic. The little blip that had served as a beacon for the
Galaphile
was gone. Traunt Rowan was not mistaken in what he had told her.

“There's no way of knowing who survived this,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Not without sending someone to find out,” Traunt Rowan said.

Iridia spun around the end of the basin and came face-to-face with Shadea. Although smaller of frame and stature, Iridia looked as if she intended to attack the bigger woman. Shadea took a step back in spite of herself.

“This is on your head,” Iridia snapped, her words as sharp-edged as daggers, her voice freezing the air. She was shaking with rage. “You are responsible for this travesty, you and your insistence on doing whatever you choose to do. What do you need with the rest of us, Shadea? What have you ever needed with us? I thought you my friend, once. I thought we were sisters. But you are incapable of friendship or loyalty or caring of any sort. You are as much a monster as that creature you summoned to bear the Stiehl. And I am no better. I have been one of your monsters, one of those who act in your behalf. I have been your tool.”

She shook her head slowly. “No more. Not ever again.”

She held the other's gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked from the room. Unimpressed, Shadea watched her go. She thought it unfortunate that Iridia could no longer sort things out in a reasonable manner. Her attachment to Ahren Elessedil had left her emotionally unstable, and Shadea found herself hoping that the Elven Prince had gone the way of the
Galaphile
. Then, perhaps, Iridia would come back to herself.

Shadea looked over at Traunt Rowan. “Are you of a like mind?”

The Druid shrugged. “I am no one's tool, and I do what I choose. Iridia's problems are her own. On the other hand, I question the wisdom of your decision to send Terek Molt after that boy. I don't see the benefit to it. It distracts us from what matters.”

“What matters is making certain no one finds a way to bring the Ard Rhys back!” she snapped at him. “Why can't you see that? All of you are so certain it can't be done. But remember who she is. Others thought her dead and gone, as well, and lived to regret it.”

“No one can go into the Forbidding—”

“Hssst! Don't even speak the word!” She leaned close. “It is bad enough that Ahren Elessedil and the boy know what has happened, and it would be a mistake for us to think that they do not. They will seek a way to reach her. Successful or not, they will not forgive us for what we have done. This matter will not resolve itself while they live. If you think otherwise, say so now!”

He stared at her in silence, then shook his head. “I think as you do.”

Shadea wasn't sure she believed him, but it was enough of an affirmation for now. She looked back at the scrye waters. Another message would arrive by tomorrow if Terek Molt was still alive. If not, then she could only hope that he had taken the boy, the Elven Prince, and that sycophant Tagwen with him to the grave. Then she could stop thinking about all of them and concentrate on what was happening at Paranor.

It occurred to her suddenly that she had forgotten about Aphasia Wye, dispatched with the Stiehl, as Iridia had reminded her, to eliminate the boy and his protectors. What of him? Even if the
Galaphile
was destroyed, even if Terek Molt was dead, perhaps the assassin was still carrying through on his task. Nothing would stop him once he set his mind to it. The only character flaw she had ever discovered was his troublesome streak of independence. On a whim, he might abandon the whole project.

She stared down again at the scrye waters, studying the diminishing series of ripples that marked the passing of the
Galaphile
.

With Aphasia Wye, she thought, you never knew.

         

Iridia Eleri strode blindly from the cold chamber and down the hallway beyond, so furious she could barely make herself think. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, a series of ragged, glistening tracks on her perfect features. Had she stayed a moment longer, she would not have been able to hold them back. She stopped now, turning into a deep alcove in the empty hallway, and cried freely for several minutes, her body racked with sobs, her world collapsed about her. She knew what Shadea only suspected. Ahren Elessedil was dead. The voice had told her so.

When she stopped crying, she stood motionless in the alcove's darkness and forced herself to confront the truth. She had lied to herself, lied to them all. She was still in love with Ahren. She had always been in love with him and always would be. Shadea might sneer and the others might doubt, but it was so. It didn't even matter that he was dead. She loved him anyway.

What she could not bear was that he had not loved her in turn.

She stared into space, the words echoing in her mind. The voice had promised that this would change, that with time and patience, he would love her. The voice had promised from the very beginning, when it had first summoned her and offered its help. The voice was persuasive and comforting, and so she had listened and believed. Ahren could be hers, and for that she would do anything.

And had.

She closed her eyes against a wave of memories that paraded through her mind like specters. A flood of emotion followed on their heels. The sadness she felt for the man she had left in order to pursue Ahren. The emptiness she had experienced when she had given birth to and then abandoned the man's baby. The humiliation she had endured when Grianne Ohmsford had discovered what she had done. The terrible hurt she had suffered when Ahren had told her that in spite of everything, they could not be together, that his life was meant to go another way. The rage she had called upon to ally herself with Shadea and the others in their determination to rid the Druids of Grianne Ohmsford. The hatred she had nurtured for the Ard Rhys, the person most responsible for her misery.

The sense of devastation and irreparable loss she felt now, with Ahren Elessedil forever beyond her reach.

–But it need not be so–

Her eyes snapped open and she took a quick breath. The voice was back, come to comfort her anew. She nearly began crying again, so grateful was she to hear it. How much she depended on it. Just the sound of it was enough to give her fresh hope, new strength.

–He can still be yours–

She nodded at the darkness, wanting it to be true. But how could it? Ahren was dead, the voice had already told her so. There was no way to bring him back, no way to restore life to his shattered body. She could join him, of course. She could end her own life and reunite with him in death. She believed that was possible and even preferable to what life offered without him. Maybe she would have that, anyway. Now that she had broken with Shadea, it would not take the other long to decide to eliminate her.

–You need not die to have him back–

She had always trusted the voice, and she had never had cause to regret it. From the beginning, when it had summoned her north to the ruins of the Skull Kingdom and she had built the fires and made the sacrifices that had brought it into being, she had known it spoke the truth. It was a small thing for her to help it, when it was doing so much to help her. Shadea had believed from the first that she was the guiding force behind the conspiracy to eliminate the Ard Rhys, that she was the one who had sought out and found the means to carry out the act through her connection with Sen Dunsidan. The Federation Prime Minister, in turn, believed that he was the one who was determining the course of events, that his promises and gifts to Iridia, after she had approached him, had subverted her and made her his spy within the Druid camp. But she was the one to whom the voice spoke. She was the one who had brought it out of the darkness and into the light. She was the one to whom it had given the liquid night and the means by which she could gain some small measure of revenge against the woman who had turned Ahren Elessedil against her through scurrilous subterfuge and self-serving advice.