Jarka Ruus (3 page)

Guiding Chaser to one end of the shelf, they dismounted and walked back for a closer look.

“Sacrifices of some sort,” Kermadec observed, glancing around uneasily, his big shoulders swinging left and right, as if he were caged. He did not like being there, she knew, even with her. The place held bad memories for Trolls, even after so long. The Warlock Lord might be dead and gone, but the feel of him lingered. In the history of the Trolls, no one had done more damage to the nation's psyche. Trolls were not superstitious in the manner of Gnomes, but they believed in the transference of evil from the dead to the living. They believed because they had experienced it, and they were wary of it happening again.

She closed her eyes and cast about with her other senses for a moment, trying to read in the air what had happened here. She tracked the leavings of a powerful magic, the workings of a sorcery that was not meant to heal or succor. A summoning of some sort, she read in the bits and pieces that remained. To what end, though? She could not determine, though the smells told of something dying, and not quickly. She looked down at the fire pit and read in the greasy smears dark purpose in the sacrifices clearly made.

“This isn't good,” she said softly.

He stepped close. “What do you find, mistress?”

“Nothing yet. Nothing certain.” She looked up at him, into his flat, expressionless features. “Perhaps tonight, when darkness cloaks the thing that finds this dead place so attractive, we shall find out.”

         

She tethered Chaser some distance away, back in the rocks where he couldn't be seen, giving him food and water and speaking soothing words to steady him against what might happen later. Afterward, she ate a cold dinner with Kermadec, watching the light fade from the sky and the twilight descend in a flat, colorless wash that enveloped like smoke. There was no sunset, no change in the look of the land and sky save an almost rushed transition from light to dark. The sensation it generated in Grianne was one of possibility draining into despair.

She pushed such dark thoughts away but could not change her feelings for the place. It was wretched ground for living things, a wasteland in which she did not belong. The pervasive feelings of hopelessness and isolation gave notice that for some transgressions there could be no redemption. If she lived another thousand years, she did not think to see a rebirth of life in the Skull Kingdom. Perhaps, given the types of life that might find purchase in such a land, it was for the best.

“Sleep,” she told Kermadec. “I will keep watch the first half of the night.”

He grunted agreement and was asleep in seconds. She envied him a rest that came so easily. She watched him for a time, his rough skin looking smooth in the darkness, his hairless body and nearly featureless face giving him the appearance of a smoothly faceted shape hewn from stone. Sleek—that was the way he struck her. Like a moor cat, big and powerful and smooth. She liked him better than almost anyone. Not so much for the way he looked as for the way he was. Direct and uncomplicated. That wasn't to say he was slow-witted or combative; he was neither. But Kermadec didn't complicate matters by overanalyzing and debating. When something needed doing, he spent as little time and effort as was possible in getting it done. He had a code of conduct that served him well, and she did not think he had ever varied from it. She wished her own life could be as straightforward.

Time slipped away, and Grianne watched the moon rise and the stars paint the sky in a wash of white pinpricks. The rocks around her remained silent. The fire pit, its rings of rocks looking like hunched Gnomes in the gloom, sat cold and untended. Perhaps nothing would happen this night, the one night she was here to see it happen. Perhaps whoever built the fires and created the flashes had sensed her presence and would stay away. She wondered if she could force herself to keep watch another night if nothing happened on this one. She had no good reason to do so; her presence now was generated mostly by her instinctive reaction to the possibilities of what she feared might happen, not to what actually had.

Then, as midnight approached, the fire pit abruptly flared to life. It did so without warning or reason. No one had appeared to tend it; no fuel had been laid or tinder struck. It burned sharp and fierce on nothing more than air, and Grianne was on her feet at once.

“Kermadec!”

The Rock Troll awoke and rose to stand beside her, staring at the phenomenon without speaking. The intensity of the fire increased and diminished as if the flames were breathing, as if the air were changing in some indefinable way, first lending strength to the invisible fuel, then leeching it away. All around, illuminated by tendrils of light, the jumbled rocks became ghostly spectators. Grianne eased forward cautiously, just a step or two at a time, eyes shifting back and forth among the shadows in an effort to find what was out there. Something had to be; something had to have initiated the blaze. But she could detect no life, no sign of anything living save Kermadec and herself. Someone had lit the flames from another place, someone or something that did not need to be present to work whatever magic was intended.

“Mistress!” Kermadec hissed.

Flashes of light appeared in the air above the fire, sudden flares of brightness that suggested small explosions. But they made no sound and left no residue of smoke or ash, as if giant fireflies in the darkness. They were moving in circular fashion, widening their sweep and rising higher as their numbers increased. Below, unchanged, the fire continued to burn.

Grianne reached out with her magic to explore this mix of burning air and flameless light, using the wishsong to investigate what was there that she wasn't seeing. She found other magic at once, concentrated and powerful, dispatched from another place to this one. It was as she had thought. She detected, as well, that something was responding to it, something that was able to find purchase in this ruined land where it might not have been able to do so in one less poisoned. It was not something she could put a name to, but it was there nevertheless, pressing up against the fire and the light.

A face in the window, she thought suddenly.

Perhaps not just from somewhere in this world, but from another plane of existence altogether.

She probed harder with her magic, trying to break through to whatever was out there, to generate a response that would reveal something more. Her efforts were rewarded almost at once. Something small and dark appeared at the edges of the light, like a wraith come out of the netherworld, not altogether shapeless, but lacking any clear definition. It slid in and out of the light like a child playing hide and seek, first here, then there, never quite revealing itself altogether, never quite showing what it was.

Kermadec was whispering hurriedly, anxiously, telling her to back away, to give herself more space. It wasn't safe to be so close, he was saying. She ignored him; she was caught up in the link she had established between the foreign magic and her own. Something was there, quick and insubstantial, just out of reach.

And then all at once it wasn't hiding anymore. It was there, right in front of her, its face turned full into hers, edges and angles caught in the light. She caught her breath in spite of herself. The face was vaguely human, but in no other way recognizable. Malevolence masked its features in a way she had not thought possible, so darkly threatening, so hate-filled and remorseless, that even in her time as the Ilse Witch, she had not experienced its like. Dark shadows draped it like strands of thick hair, shifting with the light, changing the look of it from instant to instant. Eyes glimmered like blue ice, cool and appraising. There was recognition in those eyes; whoever was there, hiding in the light, knew who she was.

Grianne lashed out at the face with ferocious intent, surprising even herself with her vehemence. She felt such loathing, such rage, that she could not stop herself from reacting, and the deed was done before she could think better of it. Her magic exploded into the face, which disappeared instantly, taking with it the flashes and the burning air, leaving only darkness and the lingering smell of expended magic.

She compressed her lips tightly, fighting back the snarl forming on them, consumed by the feelings this thing had generated. It was all she could do to pull herself together and turn back to an obviously unnerved Kermadec.

“Are you all right?” he asked at once.

She nodded. “But I wasn't for a moment, old bear. That thing radiated such evil that I think letting it come even that near was a serious mistake. If I didn't know better, I would say it lured me here.”

Which it had, she knew at once, though she would not say so to him. It had known she would come, would respond to its advances, and would step close enough to feel it. It wanted her to know it was there. But why? What did it want? Where did it hide that she could not find it, and that it could not do more than it had?

“Do we stay here another night?” the Rock Troll asked cautiously.

She shook her head. “I think we've seen all we are going to see. We'll fly to Paranor at first light. I'll find better answers back there to what is happening.”

Three

“We've talked enough!” Shadea a'Ru snapped irritably. “How much more talking does it need? This is the best chance we'll get!”

No one said anything in response. No one cared to be the first to speak. She was a big woman, and she dominated with her size as much as with the force of her personality. Fully six feet tall, broad-shouldered and strong, she had fought in the front lines on the Prekkendorran for two years, and none of them had survived anything nearly as terrible as that. The contrasting hues of her sun-browned skin, smooth and dusky, and wind-blown blond hair, short-cropped and uncombed, gave her a look of good health and vitality. When she stepped into any room, heads turned in her direction and conversation slowed.

Here, however, the reaction was different. Here, they all knew her too well to be much more than cautious. She looked from face to face, her calculating blue eyes searching out signs of doubt or hesitation, challenging them to try to hide it from her. Their responses were as different as they were. Terek Molt disdained even to look at her, his flat, hard features directed toward the doorway of the room that concealed their secret meeting. Iridia Eleri's stunningly perfect features had a cool, distant look. Neither Dwarf nor Elf had ever demonstrated any hesitation in their joint endeavor. Either would have undertaken the effort alone long ago but for Shadea's insistence on unity.

Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence glanced uneasily at each other. The problem lay with the Southlander and the Gnome.
Cowards
, she thought angrily, though she knew better than to say so to their faces.

“Act in haste, regret at leisure, Shadea,” the former offered softly, shrugging.

She wanted to kill him. He was the only one of them who would dare to speak to her like that, and he did so for no better reason than to demonstrate that she could push him only so far before he would dig in his heels. He wanted this as much as she did, as all of them did, but he was too cautious for his own good. It came out of being the child of Federation functionaries; the fewer chances you took in that world, the better off you were.

“Please don't fall back on platitudes to justify your reluctance to do what is necessary!” she snapped in reply. “You're better than that, Traunt. Smarter than that. We can nose this matter about like a dog with an old bone for as long as you wish, but it won't change a thing. Nothing will happen to improve matters unless we make it happen.”

“She smells out plots like ours,” Pyson Wence said, his small hands gesturing for emphasis. “Step wrong with her, and you might find yourself down here for good!”

They were deep underground in the cellars of Paranor, gathered in one of the rooms used primarily for storage. The room smelled of dust and the air was cold and stale to the taste. Stone walls locked them away beneath tons of rock and earth, a safehold that few ever bothered to visit save to retrieve stores. It was the one place in Paranor where some degree of privacy was assured.

They had been meeting for almost a year, just the five of them. Shadea a'Ru had carefully selected the other four, discovering where their loyalties lay, then approached them one by one. Each shared her distaste for the Ard Rhys. One hated her openly. All wanted her gone, if for widely differing reasons. To some extent, they complemented each other, each bringing an attribute to the endeavor that the others lacked. The Southlander, Traunt Rowan, was strong of heart and body, more than a match even for Shadea—a warrior seeking to put right what he perceived as wrong. The Elven sorceress, Iridia Eleri, was cold of heart and hot of temper, but quick-witted and intuitive, as well. Her ability to stanch her emotions masked the dark truths that had set her on this path. The Dwarf, Terek Mott, while stolid and taciturn in the manner of Dwarves, was hungry for power and anxious to find a way to get past the Ard Rhys' rules and restrictions so that he could claim the destiny he so desperately craved. Pyson Wence, so frail and helpless-looking, was a snake trapped in a supplicant's body, a rare combination of treacherous instinct and decisive purpose. No superstitious tribal pagan, he wielded his magic in a cold and calculating fashion.

Had the Ard Rhys any inkling of their true dispositions when she accepted them into the order? Shadea a'Ru could not be certain. It was possible, if only because Grianne Ohmsford herself had been such a dark creature for so long—the Ilse Witch, the Morgawr's tool. She had found redemption, she believed, and so thought others could find it, as well. She was mistaken on both counts, but that was to the advantage of those gathered in this room, those who waited only on fate to provide them with the chance they needed to be rid of her.

As perhaps it did here, if their impatient leader could gain the pledge of support she required.

“You want her gone, don't you?” she asked Pyson Wence pointedly. “Dead or otherwise, but gone?” She looked around. “How about the rest of you? Changed your minds about her? Decided you like having her as Ard Rhys? Come! Speak up!”

“No one in this room and few outside of it want Grianne Ohmsford as Ard Rhys, Shadea.” Traunt Rowan looked bored. “We've covered this ground before, all of it. What keeps us from acting is the possibility of failure—a very real possibility, I might point out. Failure means no second chance. So before you start berating us for our reluctance, try to see the reality of the situation a little more clearly. When we act against her, we had better be very certain that we will succeed.”

The weight of her stare settled on him and she did not remove it for long seconds. The others shifted uncomfortably, but they said nothing for fear her eyes would seek them out instead. Traunt Rowan, to his credit, held her gaze, but she could see the uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. She might do anything; that was her reputation. If you provoked Shadea a'Ru—something not at all hard to do—you did so at great risk. One who had tested her had already disappeared. Everyone suspected that she might have caused that disappearance, even the Ard Rhys, but no one could prove it.

“I would not summon you with such urgency,” she said, speaking to Traunt, but including all of them with a quick shift of her eyes, “if I did not have a way to dispose of her that would pose no risk at all to any of us. I am aware of the possibility of failure. No matter how carefully we plan and execute, something can always go wrong. The trick is to make certain that even if that happens, no suspicion or blame will fall on us. But in this instance, I do not think we will fail. I think we will succeed better than we had hoped. Are you ready to hear me out?”

All nodded or at least kept quiet. Terek Molt never agreed or disagreed with anything. He simply stayed or walked away. Dwarves were given to physical gestures over words, which suited her fine. They were given to directness, as well, and it was good to have at least one of those among so many dissemblers.

“Wait!” Iridia hissed suddenly, one hand lifting sharply.

She rose from her bench, crossed the room to the door, and put her ear against it. The door was ironbound oak two inches thick and sealed with magic to prevent even the faintest echo of their voices from escaping. None of them cared to have even the smallest whisper drift beyond this chamber. The Ard Rhys already suspected they were plotting against her; what saved them was that others were doing so, as well. There was no time for Grianne to deal with all of them. Still, if she was ever to discover the particulars of this specific plot, they would be dealt with swiftly and thoroughly. The Ard Rhys might claim to no longer be the Ilse Witch, but she could revert in the blink of an eye. Not even Shadea a'Ru cared to go up against her if that happened.

That was a good part of the problem, of course. That Grianne Ohmsford was not simply the Ard Rhys, but that she was the Ilse Witch, too. It was not something any who had come to Paranor to join the Druid order could ignore. The past was the past, but it was always with you. She might claim to be a changed woman, having taken up the Ard Rhys mantle at the behest of Walker Boh, having been given the blessing of Druids dead and gone, and having pledged herself to reestablish the Druid Council as a viable force in the Four Lands. She might claim to be committed to helping the Races become strong, independent, and peaceful neighbors, to putting an end to the war between the Free-born and the Federation, and to reintroducing a mix of science and magic into the world for the betterment of all men and women. She might claim anything she wished, but that didn't change what everyone knew about her past. It didn't erase what she had done. In some cases, nothing could. It was too close, too personal—as with Traunt Rowan and Iridia Eleri, the two among these conspirators who sought vengeance for acts committed by the Ilse Witch and forgotten by the Ard Rhys. The others were simply hungry to employ their magic and sate their ambitions in ways that were forbidden. But for each, to realize desires meant getting rid of Grianne.

This tension didn't start and end with the five gathered in secret here. It manifested itself in other splinter groups, as well, all of them working to achieve something secret, all of them with goals and hungers that were in some way in conflict with the Third Druid Council as Grianne Ohmsford had conceived it. It wasn't a question of
if
she would be done away with; it was merely a question of
when
.

And a question of who would prove clever and bold enough to make it happen, of course. And then be strong enough to take charge of the order, once she was gone and a new Ard Rhys was needed.

Some part of Shadea a'Ru, some tiny bit of reason shoved far back into the darker corners of her consciousness, accepted that not all of those who had come to Paranor to begin life as Druids felt as she did. Some admired Grianne and believed her right for the position—strong, determined, tested, and unafraid. But Shadea a'Ru would not allow herself to think well of those because to do so might give credibility to their loyalty, and she believed that to be a weakness she could not afford. Better to see them as sycophants and deceivers and to plan for their removal, as well, once the path was clear to do so.

Iridia was still standing by the door, listening. Everyone was waiting on her now, watching silently. “What is it?” Shadea asked finally, irritated and impatient.

The sorceress stepped back and stared at the portal as if it were an enemy that needed dispatching. Her distrust of everyone and everything ran deep and unchecked. Even Shadea herself merited Iridia's suspicion. She was beautiful and talented, but deeply flawed. Her personal demons ran loose through her predatory mind, and someday they were going to turn on her.

“I heard something moving,” she said, turning away, dismissing the matter. “I just wanted to be certain the warding was still in place.”

“You set it yourself,” Shadea pointed out.

Iridia did not look at her. “It could have been tampered with. Better to be sure.” She returned to the bench and sat down. For a moment, she said nothing more. Then she glanced up at Shadea, as if remembering her. “What were you saying?”

“She was saying she has found a way to solve our problem with the Ard Rhys.” Traunt Rowan picked up the loose thread of the conversation with his calming voice. “Without posing any danger to us.”

“There is a potion I have a chance to obtain,” Shadea told them. “Mixed with a spell, it produces a magic strong enough to work against anyone, no matter how well prepared they are. The potion is called liquid night. Together with the spell, it will dispatch the intended victim to another place. It doesn't kill them; they simply disappear. No blame attaches because there is no body. There isn't even a residue to tell any searchers what happened. Everything disappears in a few hours, victim and magic alike.”

Pyson shook his head. “There is no such magic. I know most, have read about the ones I do not know, and I have never heard of liquid night.”

“That is because it isn't from this world,” Shadea said. “It is from the world into which I am sending the Ard Rhys.”

They stared at her with a mix of expressions. “What world would that be?” Traunt Rowan asked finally.

She shook her head. “Oh, no, Traunt. I don't give you anything more until after I have your word that you are committed to me and to what I am proposing. I am the one who sought the potion out, and I intend to keep the particulars my own. All you need to know is that once I have implemented it, you will never see the Ard Rhys again.”

“But she will not be dead,” Pyson Wence persisted doubtfully. “If she is not dead, there is always a chance she can find her way back. She has more lives than a cat. You know her history, Shadea. She is not like anyone else. I like her no better than you, but I respect her ability to stay alive.”

Shadea nodded in agreement.
Idiot
. “She won't be coming back from where I intend to send her, Pyson. No one comes back from where she will be going. Besides, she won't stay alive long enough to do much about her situation in any case. There are things there far more dangerous than the Ilse Witch. Once gone, she will never come back.”

They were intrigued, interested, but still hesitant. Except for Terek Molt, who was nodding vigorously. “Do it, I say. If you have a way to eliminate her, woman, do it!”

“When will this happen?” Iridia asked.

“When she returns, two or three nights from now. I can have everything in place before then. It will happen while she sleeps, so smoothly and silently that she will not wake again in this world.”

“If you have this all ready, or can make it ready, why do you have need of us?” Traunt Rowan asked. “This was begun as a joint endeavor, but it seems to me that you have taken over the effort yourself. We no longer have anything you need.”

She had been anticipating the question and was pleased to know that she was still able to keep one step ahead of them. “It might seem that way if you didn't think it through carefully,” she said. “This effort will not succeed if we don't look beyond eliminating Grianne Ohmsford.”