Jarka Ruus

High Druid of Shannara - Book 1 

By Terry Brooks

Synopsis

The first instalment in a magical new SHANNARA trilogy Twenty years have passed since the events told in The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara trilogy. Grianne Ohmsford, rescued from oblivion by her brother Bek, has renounced her former life as the evil Ilse Witch, and now serves as the head of a new Druid Council. Her purpose is to defend the Four Lands from anarchy and warfare. Such was the destiny foretold for her by the Druid, Walker Boh. But there are those who cannot easily forgive her past actions, and are loathe to follow her leadership. When Grianne's enemies cause her to disappear, only a few loyal friends can help her. The dwarf Tagwen; Grianne's nephew, Pen Ohmsford; and the Elf Prince, Ahren Elessedil, begin a desperate journey to find Grianne and return her to the Druids' keep at Paranor. Their quest is urgent, their way uncertain and perilous, for the darkest of magics have been used to spirit Grianne away. Pen Ohmsford is descended from the line of Jerle Shannara, the first of the Elven Kings, but his own magic seems small and inadequate when measured against that of his aunt's enemies, who will stop at nothing to thwart Pen's efforts to rescue his aunt and restore the nascent Druid Council. And there is another danger. An ancient and deadly power has found its way out into the world. If things are not put to rights, the danger to the Four Kingdoms will be immeasurable...

ONE

She sat alone in her chambers, draped in twilight's shadows and evening's

solitude, her thoughts darker than the night descending and heavier than the

weight of all Paranor. She retired early these days, ostensibly to work but

mostly to think, to ponder on the disappointment of today's failures and the

bleakness of tomorrow's prospects. It was silent in the high tower, and the

silence gave her a momentary respite from the struggle between herself and those

she would lead. It lasted briefly, only so long as she remained secluded, but

without its small daily comfort she sometimes thought she would have gone mad

with despair.

She was no longer a girl, no longer even young, though she retained her youthful

looks, her pale translucent skin still unblemished and unlined, her startling

blue eyes clear, and her movements steady and certain. When she looked in the

mirror, which she did infrequently now as then, she saw the girl she had been

twenty years earlier, as if aging had been miraculously stayed. But while her

body stayed young, her spirit grew old. Responsibility aged her more quickly

than time. Only the Druid Sleep, should she avail herself of it, would stay the

wearing of her heart, and she would not choose that remedy anytime soon. She

could not. She was the Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, the High Druid of

Paranor, and while she remained in that office, sleep of any kind was in short

supply.

Her gaze drifted to the windows of her chamber, looking west to where the sun

was already gone behind the horizon, and the light it cast skyward in the wake

of its descent a dim glow beginning to fail. She thought her own star was

setting, as well, its light fading, its time passing, its chances slipping away.

She would change that if she could, but she no longer believed she knew the way.

She heard Tagwen before she saw him, his footfalls light and cautious in the

hallway beyond her open door, his concern for her evident in the softness of his

approach.

"Come, Tagwen," she called as he neared.

He came through the door and stopped just inside, not presuming to venture

farther, respecting this place that was hers and hers alone. He was growing old,

as well, nearly twenty years of service behind him, the only assistant she had

ever had, his time at Paranor a mirror of her own. His stocky, gnarled body was

still strong, but his movements were slowing and she could see the way he winced

when his joints tightened and cramped after too much use. There was kindness in

his eyes, and it had drawn her to him from the first, an indication of the

nature of the man inside. Tagwen served because he respected what she was doing,

what she meant to the Four Lands, and he never judged her by her successes or

failures, even when there were so many more of the latter than the former.

"Mistress," he said in his rough, gravel-laced voice, his seamed, bearded face

dipping momentarily into shadow as he bowed. It was an odd, stiff gesture he had

affected from the beginning. He leaned forward as if to share a confidence that

others might try to overhear. "Kermadec is here."

She rose at once. "He will not come inside," she said, making it a statement of

fact.

Tagwen shook his head. "He waits at the north gate and asks if you will speak

with him." The Dwarf's lips tightened in somber reflection. "He says it is

urgent."

She reached for her cloak and threw it about her shoulders. She went by him,

touching his shoulder reassuringly as she passed. Within the stairwell, beyond

the sound of her own soft footfalls, she heard voices rise up from below, the

sounds of conversations adrift on the air. She tried to make out what they said,

but could not. They would be speaking of her; they did so almost incessantly.

They would be asking why she continued as their leader, why she presumed that

she could achieve anything after so many failures, why she could not recognize

that her time was past and another should take her place. Some would be

whispering that she ought to be forced out, one way or another. Some would be

advocating stronger action.

Druid intrigues. The halls of Paranor were rife with them, and she could not put

a stop to it. At Walker's command, she had formed this Third Council on her

return to the Four Lands from Parkasia. She had accepted her role as leader, her

destiny as guide to those she had recruited, her responsibility for rebuilding

the legacy of the Druids as knowledge givers to the races. She had formed the

heart of this new order with those few sent under duress by the Elven King Kylen

Elessedil at his brother Ahren's insistence. Others had come from other lands

and other Races, drawn by the prospect of exploring magic's uses. That had been

twenty years ago, when there was fresh hope and everything seemed possible. Time

and an inability to effect any measurable change in the thinking and attitudes

of the governing bodies of those lands and Races had leeched most of that away.

What remained was a desperate insistence on clinging to her belief that she was

not meant to give up.

But that alone was not enough. It would never be enough. Not for someone who had

come out of darkness so complete that any chance at redemption had seemed

hopeless. Not for Grianne Ohmsford, who had once been the Ilse Witch and had

made herself Ard Rhys to atone for it.

She reached the lower levels of the Keep, the great halls that connected the

meeting rooms with the living quarters of those she had brought to Paranor. A

handful of these Druids came into view, shadows sliding along the walls like

spilled oil in the light of the flameless lamps that lit the corridors. Some

nodded to her; one or two spoke. Most simply cast hurried glances and passed on.

They feared and mistrusted her, these Druids she had accepted into her order.

They could not seem to help themselves, and she could not find the heart to

blame them.

Terek Molt walked out of a room and grunted his unfriendly greeting, outwardly

bold and challenging. But she could sense his real feelings, and she knew he

feared her. Hated her more than feared her, though. It was the same with Traunt

Rowan and Iridia Eleri and one or two more. Shadea a'Ru was beyond even that,

her venomous glances so openly hostile that there was no longer any

communication between them, a situation that it seemed nothing could help.

Grianne closed her eyes against what she was feeling and wondered what she was

going to do about these vipers - what she could do that would not have

repercussions beyond anything she was prepared to accept.

Young Ceryson Scyre passed her with a wave and a smile, his face guileless and

welcoming, his enthusiasm evident. He was a bright light in an otherwise

darkened firmament, and she was grateful for his presence. Some within the order

still believed in her. She had never expected friendship or even compassion from

those who came to her, but she had hoped for loyalty and a sense of

responsibility toward the office she held. She had been foolish to think that

way, and she no longer did so. Perhaps it was not inaccurate to say that now she

merely hoped that reason might prevail.

"Mistress," Gerand Cera greeted in his soft voice as he bowed her past him, his

tall form lean and sinuous, his angular features sleepy and dangerous.

There were too many of them. She could not watch out for all of them adequately.

She put herself at risk every time she walked these halls-here in the one place

she should be safe, in the order she had founded. It was insane.

She cleared the front hall and went out into the night, passed through a series

of interconnected courtyards to the north gates, and ordered the guard to let

her through. The Trolls on watch, impassive and silent, did as they were told.

She did not know their names, only that they were there at Kermadec's behest,

which was enough to keep her reassured of their loyalty. Whatever else happened

in this steadily eroding company of the once faithful, the Trolls would stand

with her.

Would that prove necessary? She would not have thought so a month ago. That she

asked the question now demonstrated how uncertain matters had become.

She walked to the edge of the bluff, to the wall of trees that marked the

beginning of the forest beyond, and stopped. An owl glided through the darkness,

a silent hunter. She, too, hunted. She felt a sudden connection with him so

strong that she could almost envision flying away as he did, leaving everything

behind, returning to the darkness and its solitude.

She brushed the thought aside, an indulgence she could not afford, and whistled

softly. Moments later, a figure detached itself from the darkness almost in

front of her and came forward.

"Mistress," the Maturen greeted, dropping to one knee and bowing deeply.

"Kermadec, you great bear," she replied, stepping forward to put her arms around

him. "How good it is to see you."

Of the few friends she possessed, Kermadec was perhaps the best. She had known

him since the founding of the order, when she had gone into the Northland to ask

for the support of the Troll tribes. No one had ever thought to do that, and her

request was cause enough for a convening of the council of the nations. She did

not waste the opportunity she had been given. She told them of her mission, of

her role as Ard Rhys of a new Druid Council, the third since Galaphile's time.

She declared that this new order would accept members from all nations, the

Trolls included. No prejudices would be allowed; the past would play no part in

the present. The Druids were beginning anew, and for the order to succeed, all

the Races must participate.

Kermadec had stepped forward almost at once, offering the support of his

sizeable nation, of its people and resources. Prompted by her gesture and his

understanding of its importance to the Races, his decision was made even before

the council of nations had met. His Rock Trolls were not imbued with a strong

belief in magic, but it would be their honor to serve as her personal guard.

Give them an opportunity to demonstrate their reliability and skill, and she

would not regret it.

Nor had she ever done so. Kermadec had stayed five years, and in that time

became her close friend. More than once, he had solved a problem that might

otherwise have troubled her. Even after he had left for home again, his service

complete, he had remained in charge of choosing the Trolls that followed in his

footsteps. Some had doubted the wisdom of allowing Trolls inside the walls at

all, let alone as personal guards to the Ard Rhys. But she had walked in darker

places than these and had allied herself with creatures far more dangerous. She

did not think of any Race as predisposed toward either good or evil; she saw

them all only as being composed of creatures that might be persuaded to choose

one over the other.

Just as she saw the members of her Druid order, she thought, though she might

wish it otherwise.

"Kermadec," she said again, the relief in her voice clearly evident.

"You should let me rid you of them all," he said softly, one great hand coming

to rest on her slim shoulder. "You should wash them away like yesterday's sweat

and start anew."

She nodded. "If it were that easy, I should call on you to help me. But I can't

start over. It would be perceived as weakness by the governments of the nations

I court. There can be no weakness in an Ard Rhys in these times." She patted his

hand. "Rise and walk with me."

They left the bluff and moved back into the trees, perfectly comfortable with

each other and the night. The sights and sounds of Paranor disappeared, and the

silence of the forest wrapped them close. The air was cool and gentle this

night, the wind a soft whisper in the new spring leaves, bearing the scent of

woods and water. It would be summer before long, and the smells would change

again.

"What brings you here?" she asked him finally, knowing he would wait for her to

ask before speaking of it.

He shook his head. "Something troubling. Something you may understand better

than I do."

Even for a Rock Troll, Kermadec was huge, towering over her at close to seven

feet, his powerful body sheathed in a barklike skin. He was all muscle and bone,

strong enough to rip small trees out at the roots. She had never known a Troll

to possess the strength and quickness of Kermadec. But there was much more to

him. A Maturen of thirty years, he was the sort of person others turned to

instinctively in times of trouble. Solid and capable, he had served his nation

with a distinction and compassion that belied the ferocious history of his Race.

In the not so distant past, the Trolls had marched against Men and Elves and

Dwarves with the single-minded intent of smashing them back into the earth.

During the Wars of the Races, ruled by their feral and warlike nature; they had

allied themselves with the darker forces in the world. But that was the past,

and in the present, where it mattered most, they were no longer so easily bent

to service in a cause that reason would never embrace.

"You have come a long way to see me, Kermadec," she said. "It must be something

important."

"That remains for you to decide," he said softly. "I myself haven't seen what I

am about to reveal, so it is hard for me to judge. I think it will be equally

hard for you."

"Tell me."

He slowed to a stop in the darkness and turned to face her. "There is strange

activity in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom, mistress. The reports come not from

Rock Trolls, who will not go into that forbidden place, but from other

creatures, ones who will, ones who make a living in part by telling of what they

see. What they see now is reminiscent of other, darker times."

"The Warlock Lord's domain, once," she observed. "A bad place still, all broken

walls and scattered bones. Traces of evil linger in the smells and taste of the

land. What do these creatures tell you they see?"

"Smoke and mirrors, of a sort. Fires lit in darkness and turned cold by

daylight's arrival. Small explosions of light that suggest something besides

wood might be burning. Acrid smells that have no other source than the fires.

Black smudges on flat stones that have the look of altars. Markings on those

stones that might be symbols. Such events were sporadic at first, but now occur

almost nightly. Strange things that of themselves alone do not trouble me, but

taken all together do."

He breathed in and exhaled. "One thing more. Some among those who come to us say

there are wraiths visible at the edges of the mist and smoke, things not of

substance and not yet entirely formed, but recognizable as something more than

the imagination. They flutter like caged birds seeking to be free."

Grianne went cold, aware of the possibilities that the sightings suggested.

Something was being conjured up by use of magic, something that wasn't natural

to this world and that was being summoned to serve an unknown purpose.

"How reliable are these stories?"

He shrugged. "They come from Gnomes for the most part, the only ones who go into

that part of the world. They do so because they are drawn to what they perceive

in their superstitions as sacred. They perform their rituals in those places

because they feel it will lend them power. How reliable are they?" He paused. "I

think there is weight to what they say they see."

She thought a moment. Another strangeness to add to an already overcrowded

agenda of strangenesses. She did not like the sound of this one, because if

magic was at work, whatever its reason, its source might lie uncomfortably close

to home. Druids had the use of magic and were the most likely suspects, but

their use of it in places beyond Paranor was forbidden. There were other

possibilities, but this was the one she could not afford to ignore.

"Is there a pattern to these happenings?" she asked. "A timing to the fires and

their leavings?"

He shook his head. "None that anyone has discerned. We could ask the Gnomes to

watch for it, to mark the intervals."

"Which will take time," she pointed out. "Time best spent looking into it

myself." She pursed her lips. "That is what you came to ask me to do, isn't it?

Take a look for myself?"

He nodded. "Yes, mistress. But I will go with you. Not alone into that

country-ever-would I go. But with you beside me, I would brave the netherworld

and its shades."

Be careful of what you boast of doing, Kermadec, she thought. Boasts have a way

of coming back to haunt you.

She thought of what she had committed herself to do in the days ahead. Meetings

with various Druids to rework studies that members of the order would undertake.

Those could wait. Overseeing the repairs to the library that concealed the Druid

Histories; that one could not happen without her presence, but could wait, as

well. A delegation from the Federation was due to arrive in three days; the

Prime Minister of the Coalition was reputed to lead it. But she could be back in

time for that if she left at once.

She must go, she knew. She could not afford to leave the matter unattended to.

It was the sort of thing that could mushroom into trouble on a much larger

scale. Even by her appearance, she might dissuade those involved from pursuing

their conjuring. Once they knew that she was aware of them, they might go to

ground again.

It was the best she could hope for. Besides, it gave her an opportunity to

escape Paranor and its madness for a few days. In the interval, perhaps a way to

contend with the intrigues might occur to her. Time and distance often triggered

fresh insights; perhaps that would happen here.

"Let me tell Tagwen," she said to Kermadec, "and we'll be off."

TWO

They departed Paranor at midnight, flying north out of the Druid forestlands

with a full moon to light their way, riding the edge of their expectations just

ahead of their doubts and fears. They chose to use Grianne's War Shrike, Chaser,

to make the journey, rather than a Druid airship, thinking that the Shrike would

draw less attention and be less cumbersome. An airship required a crew, and a

crew required explanations. Grianne preferred to keep secret what she was

investigating until she better understood what it meant.

Tagwen accepted the news of her sudden and mysterious departure stoically, but

she read disapproval and concern in his eyes. He was desperate for her to tell

him something more, a hint of what she was about so that if the need arose, he

might be able to help. But she thought it best he know only that she would be

gone for a few days and he must see to her affairs as best he could. There would

be questions, demands perhaps, but he couldn't reveal what he didn't know. She

braced his shoulders firmly with her hands, smiled her approval and reassurance,

and slipped away.

It went without saying that Tagwen would make no mention of Kermadec unless she

failed to return; a visit from the Rock Troll was always to be kept secret.

There were too many who disapproved of the relationship, and the Dwarf

understood the importance of not throwing fuel on a fire already dangerously

hot. Grianne could depend on Tagwen to use good judgment in such matters. It was

one of his strongest attributes; his exercise of discretion and common sense was

easily the equal of her own. Had he the inclination or the talent, he would have

made a good Druid. That accolade bestowed, she was just as happy to have him be

what he was.

The flight took the rest of the night and most of the following day, a long,

steady sweep out of Callahorn and across the Streleheim to the peaks of the

Knife Edge and the Razors, where the ruins of the Skull Kingdom lay scattered in

the valley between. As she guided Chaser onward, the rush of air in her ears

wrapping her in its mindless sound, she had plenty of time to think. Her

thoughts were both of what lay ahead and behind. But while the former merely

intrigued, the latter haunted.

Her efforts at this new life had started so promisingly. She had returned to the

Four Lands with such confidence, her identity regained, her life remade, the

lies that had misled her replaced by truths. She had found her lost brother Bek,

whom she had never thought to see again. She had broken the chains that the

Morgawr had forged to hold her. She had fought and destroyed the warlock with

her brother at her side. She had done this so that she might be given a chance

at the redemption she had never thought to find. The dying touch of a Druid, his

blood on her forehead marking her as his successor, had set her on her path. It

was a destiny she would never have chosen for herself but that she had come to

believe was right and had therefore embraced.

Walker, a shade with a shade's vision, had reappeared to her at the Hadeshorn,

and given her his blessing. Druids dead and gone passed in review, their shades

materializing from the ether, rising out of the roiling waters, infusing her

with their knowledge and a share of their collective power. She would rebuild

their order, resuming the task that Walker had undertaken for himself and failed

to complete. She would summon members of all the Races to a Third Druid Council

and from it found a new order, one in which the dictates of a single Druid would

no longer be all that stood between civilization and anarchy, between reason and

madness. For too long, one Druid had been required to make the difference. Those

few who had done so -Bremen, Allanon, and Walker- had persevered because there

had been no one else and no other way. She would change that.

Such dreams. Such hopes.

Ahren Elessedil had talked his brother, the Elven King Kylen Elessedil, into

supplying the first of the new order, two handfuls of Elves Ahren had led to

Paranor personally. After Kylen discovered he had been tricked, that Walker was

dead and the hated Ilse Witch had replaced him, he had sought to recall those he

had sent. But it was too late; the Elves who had come were committed to her and

beyond his reach. In retaliation he attempted to poison the minds of the leaders

of the other Races against her at every opportunity. That did not prove to be

too difficult with Sen Dunsidan, by then Prime Minister of the Federation, who

already feared and detested her. But the Dwarves and Trolls were less easily

persuaded, especially after she made the effort to go directly to them, to speak

in council, and to insist that she would place the order at their disposal so

far as it was possible to do so. Remember what the Druids were created to do,

she kept reminding them. If you seek a source of strength in the cause of peace

and goodwill among all nations, the Druids are the ones to whom you should turn.

For a time, they did so. Members of both Races came to her, and some from

Callahorn, as well, for they had heard good things about her from the Rover

Captain Redden Alt Mer and from the Highlander Quentin Leah, men they respected.

Besides, once they learned that the Federation did not support her, they were

inclined to think that was reason enough for them to do so. The war between the

Federation and the Free-born was still being fought, mighty armies still locked

in combat on the Prekkendorran, leaders still waging a war that had been waged

since the passing of Allanon -a war pitting unification against independence,

territorial rights against free will. The Free-born wanted Callahorn to be its

own country; the Federation wanted it to be a part of the Southland. At times it

had been both, at times neither.

There was more to it, of course, as there always is in the case of wars between

nations. But that was the justification most often given by those involved, and

into the breach left by the absence of any sensible attempt to examine the

matter stepped the Ard Rhys.

It was a fateful decision, but one she did not see how she could avoid. The

Federation-Free-born war was a ragged wound that would not heal. If the Races

were ever to be brought together again, if the Druids were to be able to turn

their attention to bettering the lives of the people of the Four Lands, this war

must first be ended.

So, even as she struggled to strike a balance in the diversity of temperaments

and needs of those who came to Paranor to study the Druid ways, she was

attempting, as well, to find a way to resolve the conflict between the

Federation and the Free-born. It involved dealing with the two leaders who hated

her most -Kylen Elessedil of the Elves and Sen Dunsidan of the Federation. It

required that she put aside her own prejudices and find a way to get past

theirs. She was able to do this in large part not through fear or intimidation

but by making herself appear indispensable to them. After all, the Druids were

still in possession of knowledge denied common men, more so than ever since the

events in Parkasia. Neither man knew for certain what knowledge she had gained

from the Old World that might prove invaluable. Neither understood how little of

that knowledge she actually possessed. But perception is often more persuasive

than truth. Without the Druids to offer support, each worried that crucial

ground would be lost to the other. Without her help, each believed he risked

allowing the other a chance to grow more powerful at his expense. Sen Dunsidan

had always been a politician. Once he understood that she did not intend to

revert to her ways as the Ilse Witch or hold against him his temporary alliance

with the Morgawr, he was more than willing to see what she had to offer. Kylen

Elessedil followed along for no better reason than to keep pace with his enemy.

Grianne played at this game because it was the only choice she had. She was as

good at it now as she had been when she was the Ilse Witch and manipulation was

second nature. It was a slow process. Mostly, she settled for crumbs in exchange

for the prospect of a full loaf. At times, brought close by promises made and

fitfully kept, she thought she would succeed in her efforts, her goal no more

than a meeting away. Just a truce between the two would have opened the door to

a more permanent solution. Both were strong men, and a small concession by one

might have been enough to encourage the other to grant the same. She maneuvered

them both toward making that concession, gaining time and credibility as she did

so, making herself the center of their thinking as they edged toward a

resolution to a war no one really wanted.

Then Kylen Elessedil was killed on the Prekkendorran, the blame for it was laid

at her doorstep, and in an instant everything she had worked for nearly six

years to achieve was lost.

When they stopped at midmorning to rest Chaser, Kermadec reopened the wound.

"Has that boy King come to his senses yet, mistress?" he asked in a tone of

voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

She shook her head. Kellen Elessedil was his father's son and, if it was

possible, liked her even less than his father had. Worse, he blamed her for his

father's death, a mindset she seemed unable to change.

"He's a fool. He'll die in the same way, fighting for something that to

right-thinking men makes no sense at all." Kermadec snorted softly. "They say

Rock Trolls are warlike, but history suggests that we are no worse than Men and

Elves and in these times perhaps better. At least we do not carry on wars for

fifty years."

"You could argue the Federation-Free-born war has been going on for much longer

than that," she said.

"However long, it is still too long." Kermadec stretched his massive arms over

his head and yawned. "What is the point?"

It was a rhetorical question and she didn't bother to attempt an answer. It had

been a dozen years since her efforts at finding a solution had broken down, and

since then she had been preoccupied with troubles much closer to home.

"You are due for a change of guards," Kermadec offered, handing her his aleskin.

"Maybe you should think about a change of Druids at the same time."

"Dismiss them all and start over?" She had heard this argument from him before.

Kermadec saw things in simple terms; he thought she would be better off if she

did so, too. "I can't do that."

"So you keep saying."

"Dismissing the order now would be perceived as weakness on my part. Even

dismissing the handful of troublemakers who plague me most would have that

effect. The nations look for an excuse to proclaim the Druid Council a failure,

especially Sen Dunsidan and Kellen Elessedil. I cannot give them one. Besides,

if I had to start over at this point, no one would come to Paranor to aid me.

All would shun the Druids. I have to make do with things as they are."

Kermadec took back the aleskin and looked out over the countryside. They were

just at the edge of the Streleheim, facing north toward the misty, rugged

silhouette of the Knife Edge. The day was bright and warm, and it promised

another clear, moonlit night in which to explore the ruins of the Skull Kingdom.

"You might think about the impracticality of that before you give up on my

suggestion."

She had thought about alternatives frequently of late, although her thinking was

more along the lines of restructuring and reordering so as to isolate those most

troublesome. But even there she had to be careful not to suggest an appearance

of weakness to the others or they would begin to shift allegiance in ways that

would undo her entirely.

At times, she thought it might be best if she simply gave them all what they

wanted, if she resigned her position and departed for good. Let another struggle

with the problem. Let someone else take on her responsibilities and her

obligations as Ard Rhys. But she knew she couldn't do that. No one else had been

asked to shoulder those responsibilities and obligations; they had been given to

her, and nothing had happened to change that. She could not simply walk away.

She had no authority to do so. If Walker's shade should appear to tell her it

was time, she would be gone in a heartbeat- though perhaps not without

disappointment at having failed to accomplish her task. But neither Walker's nor

the shade of any other Druid had come to her. Until she was discharged, she

could not go. The dissatisfaction of others was not enough to set her free.

Her solution to the problem would have been much easier if she were still the

Ilse Witch. She would have made an example of the more troublesome members of

her order and cowed the rest by doing so. She would not have hesitated to

eliminate her problems in a way that would have appalled even Kermadec. But she

had lived enough of that life, and she would never go back to it. An Ard Rhys

must find other, better ways to act.

By late afternoon, they had crossed the Streleheim and flown through the lower

wall of the Knife Edge into the jagged landscape of the Skull Kingdom. She felt

a change in the air long before she saw one on the ground. Even aboard Chaser,

several hundred feet up, she could sense it. The air became dead and old,

smelling and tasting of devastation and rot. There was no life here, not of a

sort anyone could recognize. The mountain was gone, brought down by cataclysmic

forces on the heads of those who had worked their evil within it, reduced to a

jumble of rocks within which little grew and less found shelter or forage. It

was a ruined land, colorless and barren even now, a thousand years later, and it

was likely to be a thousand more before that changed. Even in the wake of a

volcano's eruption, in the path of the resultant lava flow, life eventually

returned, determined and resilient. But not here. Here, life was denied.

Ignoring the look and feel of the place, even though it settled about them with

oppressive insistence, they circled the ruins in search of the site where the

fires and the flashes had been observed. After about an hour they found it at

one end of a long shelf of rock balanced amid a cluster of spikes that jutted

like bones from the earth. A ring of stones encircled a fire pit left blackened

and slick from whatever had been burned. When Grianne first saw it from the air,

she could not imagine how anyone could even manage to get to it, let alone make

use of it. Rock barriers rose all about, the crevices between them deep and

wide, the edges sharp as glass. Then she amended her thinking. It would take a

Shrike or a Roc or a small, highly maneuverable airship to gain access, but

access could be gained. Which had been used in this instance? She stored the

question away to be pondered later.

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. Afterwards, 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 and consumed 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 India'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."

"You would have us make you Ard Rhys in her place," Traunt Rowan declared

softly. "Wouldn't you?"

She nodded. "I am best suited for it. I command the most respect among those who

must be convinced of the necessity of choosing a new Ard Rhys quickly. But do

not be fooled, Traunt. I do not see myself as another Grianne Ohmsford, a leader

standing alone and apart, needing no one. This is exactly what set us against

her in the first place. She isolates herself. She sees herself as wiser and more

capable, better able to determine what is best for everyone. If I were to take

that route, how would I be any different?"

"You oversimplify," Pyson Wence said. "Our dislike for the Ard Rhys goes well

beyond the way she holds herself above us."

"Indeed," she agreed. "But inaccessibility and the appearance of isolation will

doom whoever stands for the position of Ard Rhys, once Grianne is gone. I need

all of you to support me if I am to succeed. You each represent a faction of the

order-you, Pyson, of Gnomes; Terek Molt, of Dwarves; Traunt, of Southlanders;

and Iridia, of Elves. Not all of each, by any means, but a sizeable number. You

are among the strongest of your respective Races, and you can bring support to

me as such. I cannot serve as Ard Rhys and achieve what we have decided upon

without your help."

"Why should you be Ard Rhys?" Terek Molt snapped suddenly, his sullen features

tightening.

She kept her temper. Speaking out like this was his nature. "Because the order

would not have you, Terek. They might have Traunt Rowan, but none of the rest of

you. And Traunt is not interested." She looked purposefully at him. "Are you?"

He shook his head, his lips pursing with disdain. "I have no need to be leader

of the order-only to see it set upon the right path, one determined by someone

other than her."

Grianne Ohmsford, he meant, but would not speak her name. In his own quiet way,

he hated her most. If Shadea had found a way that would allow him to kill her

himself, he would have accepted it without question. She often wondered what he

thought things would be like for him after Grianne was gone. What would there be

left for him to do after having burned so much energy and devoted so much time

to seeing her dispatched?

"Where have you found this potion?" Pyson Wence asked. "Liquid night? If not

from this world, if instead from this place you refuse to reveal, how did you

come by it?"

She shook her head. "No answers until I have your commitment, Pyson. It is

sufficient to say that it will do what is needed."

"Someone gave it to you?" he continued. "You have a secret ally? Another who

serves our cause? Are you keeping other secrets, Shadea?"

She was, of course, but he would never find them out. "No more questions from

you, no more answers from me," she told him, told them all. "I want your oath,

your Druid oath, your word and your bond. Everything that you hold sacred stands

behind it, and we all bear witness to what you say. If I do this, if I rid you

of the Ard Rhys, then will you support my bid to be the new leader of the order?

Will you stand with me to the death to see finished what we seek to do?"

Iridia Eleri rose, cold eyes sweeping the room. "You have my j oath. Let her

burn a thousand years in her own magic's fire!"

Terek Molt grunted approvingly. "She's earned banishment a thousand times over,

and I care nothing for where she gets banished to. Get it done, Shadea. Put this

creature out of our lives!"

There was a long silence. Traunt Rowan was clearly thinking, head lowered, hands

clasped. Pyson Wence, sitting beside him, glanced over, then looked at Shadea,

frowning.

"If you can do as you say, then I have no quarrel with your effort." His eyes

shifted from face to face. "But if Shadea exaggerates in any way, if the power

of the magic she proposes to use is less than what she thinks it is, then I want

to be certain she does not exaggerate, as well, her certainty that nothing of

this can come back to haunt us."

"How could it do that, Pyson?" she spit at him. "Would it bear our names spelled

out upon its liquid surface? Would it somehow speak them aloud?"

He shrugged. "Would it, Shadea?"

"It is a potion supplemented by a spell. The potion does not originate in this

world. The spell is one familiar to dozens and available to all who care to read

and study on it. Nothing of either attaches to us. Stop equivocating! If you

want out of this business, there is the door that brought you in. Pass back

through, and you have your release."

Not that he would ever live to reach it, she thought darkly, waiting on him. Not

that he would take half a dozen steps before she burned him to cinders. It was

too late for backing away. Too late for anything but going forward.

Maybe Pyson knew this, for he made no move to rise, showed no inclination to do

anything but ponder her words. He was so settled in place, so loose and

comfortable with his legs tucked under and his arms folded into his robes that

it seemed to her, infuriatingly so, that he might be thinking of a nap.

"I'll give you my oath, Shadea," he said finally. "But-" He paused, cocking his

head to one side, his sharp Gnome features thoughtful. "But I think my oath must

be conditional on discovering where it is that you propose to send the Ard Rhys.

If it isn't sufficiently far away or secure, I intend to tell you so and back

out."

There were murmurs of assent to this, but Shadea ignored them, knowing that what

she had in mind for Grianne Ohmsford would please them all. Once they heard,

there would be no more mutterings. "What of you, Traunt?" she asked the

Southlander.

"You've said nothing."

"I have been thinking." He smiled faintly. "Thinking about how much we are

entrusting you with. It seems to me that more than one of us ought to be

involved in this effort-not just in the planning, but in the execution. It would

require a stronger commitment, which is what you are looking for. It would give

us all a sense of participation beyond what you have proposed so far."

"It would also entail a greater risk," she pointed out, not liking where his

suggestion was going. "Two stand a greater chance of being detected than one.

Whoever administers the potion and the spell must approach the Ard Rhys

secretly. Stealth and quickness will determine success or failure."

"Two can move as quietly as one," he argued, shrugging. "Moreover, if one

falters, the other can still act. It offers us a measure of protection."

"I don't intend to falter," she said coldly, openly angry. "We'll draw straws to

see who goes with you," Iridia said, siding with Rowan.

Both Pyson Wence and Terek Molt nodded in assent. Shadea knew when she was up

against a wall. She was not going to get them to back off without arousing

suspicion. "All right," she agreed. "But only one."

She rose and walked to a stack of crates containing serving ware packed in straw

and drew out four strands. Breaking off three, she evened them between her

fingers and offered them to the others. Terek Molt snatched the first. It was

short. Iridia drew a short straw, as well.

The other two looked at each other, hesitating. Then Traunt Rowan picked from

the remaining two straws. His was the long one.

"How fitting," Shadea sneered, "since taking part was your idea. Now give me

your word, Traunt. Your oath and your promise as a Druid to stand with me no

matter what."

He nodded, unruffled. "You always had that, Shadea, from the moment you told me

what you intended and recruited me to your cause. I am as committed as you will

ever be."

Perhaps, she thought. But we will never know for sure because there is no way to

test such a claim. For her purposes it was sufficient that he was committed to

support her as the new Ard Rhys after Grianne was dispatched. Once she held that

office, and despite what she had told them to gain their support, they would all

become expendable. Her plans were greater than they knew and did not include

them.

"We are agreed then," she said, looking from face to face, seeking again any

sign of hesitation.

"We are agreed," Traunt Rowan affirmed. "Now tell us where you intend to

imprison the Ard Rhys. Where can you send her that she cannot find a way back to

haunt us?"

Shadea a'Ru smiled at the looks on their faces when she told them.

FOUR

Sen Dunsidan was a cautious man. He had always had reason to be cautious, but he

had more reason these days since he had more to lose. His life's accomplishments

were impressive, but the price exacted in exchange had been severe and

permanent. It wasn't the sort of price one could measure in terms of wealth. If

it had been only money, he would not have been as cautious as he was. The price

levied against him was a piece of his soul here and a part of his sanity there.

The price was psychological and emotional, and it left him bereft of almost

anything resembling peace of mind.

Not that he had ever possessed much of that in any case. Even in the days when

he was only Minister of Defense of the Federation and in the thrall of the Ilse

Witch, he had compromised himself in almost every way imaginable to advance his

position and increase his power. Peace of mind was a benefit that did not accrue

to those who lacked moral restraint. He was cautious back then, as well, but not

nearly as much so as now. He saw himself as invincible in those days, too clever

for anyone to outsmart or outmaneuver, too powerful to be challenged. Harm might

come to lesser men, but not to him. Even the Ilse Witch, for all her disdain and

aloofness, was wary of him. He knew how she saw him-how most saw him. A snake,

coiled and ready to strike. He did not take offense. He liked the image. Snakes

were not cautious. Others were cautious of snakes. It was beneficial to instill

a sense of uneasiness in those with whom he was compelled to deal.

Caution came to him after he broke off his relationship with the Ilse

Witch-betrayed her, in fact-and allied himself with the Morgawr, her warlock

mentor. It was the smart thing to do. The Morgawr was the more powerful of the

two and the more likely to succeed in their battle to destroy each other.

Moreover, the warlock was the one who was willing to give Sen Dunsidan what he

wanted most in exchange for his support-a chance at becoming Prime Minister. Two

men stood in Sen Dunsidan's way, and the Morgawr had them killed in what

appeared to be for one an accident, and for the other, natural causes.

But what the Morgawr claimed from him in the bargain was much more than he had

ever expected to pay. The Morgawr forced Sen Dunsidan to watch as he turned

living men into the walking dead, creatures without wills of their own, things

that did only as they were told. Worse, he forced Sen Dunsidan to participate in

the atrocity, to bring the men to him under false pretenses and to witness their

destruction. When it was finished and the Morgawr had gone, Sen Dunsidan was a

changed man. Even after becoming Prime Minister, even after gaining enough power

that no one dared to challenge him, he never felt safe. Devastated by watching

what had been done to those men, by being an accomplice to it, he could not

regain the sense of invincibility he had once thought he would never lose.

Worse, he could not take any comfort in what he had gained. He could not stop

thinking about those men. He became obsessed with his own vulnerability; his

need to protect himself against falling victim to what he had witnessed

dominated his thinking. Emotions already blunted by his lesser crimes were

turned to stone. His heart hardened and his soul shriveled. He no longer felt

anything for anyone other than himself, and what he felt for himself was mostly

fear.

With the passing of the years, he grew steadily more unsettled, responding to

fears he could not control.

Tonight was one of those times.

He sat waiting impatiently in a reading chair that did not face the doorway of

the room, but a blank wall. The room itself was in a place he had never thought

he would visit. He was at Paranor, a guest of the Druids and, more particularly,

of his onetime nemesis, Grianne Ohmsford. Twenty years ago, when she had

returned from the airship voyage she had undertaken in search of a lost magic

from another time, he had thought himself a dead man. She had destroyed his

ally, the Morgawr, and would certainly have determined that he had supplied the

Federation ships and men under the warlock's command. Had she been the Ilse

Witch still, had something not happened to change her while she was away, she

would have killed him at once. Instead, she had ignored him, retreating to the

confines of Paranor, secluded with the shades of dead Druids, and had done

nothing.

At first, he had thought she was playing a game with him and had waited

stoically for the inevitable. But after a time, he began to hear rumors of a new

Druid order and an Ard Rhys who would lead it. He heard that the Ilse Witch had

forsaken her name and disclaimed her past, that she was no longer who or what

she had been. It was too outlandish to credit seriously, the sort of rumor that

invariably proved false. But men and women from all the Races were traveling to

Paranor to seek a place in the Third Druid Council, and he began to wonder.

And then the impossible happened. She summoned him to a meeting on neutral

ground to discuss their relationship. He went because he saw no reason not to.

If she wanted him dead, she would find a way to make him so and hiding in his

compound in Arishaig, or anywhere else in the Four Lands, wasn't going to save

him. To his astonishment, she told him that the past was behind them both and it

was time to consider the future. There would be no more dealings of the sort

that had taken place before. There would be no recriminations for what was done.

She sought instead to open lines of communication between Paranor and the

Federation that would facilitate a productive sharing of ideas and solutions to

problems of mutual concern-like the war on the Prekkendorran, for instance. She

would give him what help she could in his new position as Prime Minister,

sharing knowledge that would aid the people he led. In turn, he would help her

restore the credibility and effectiveness of the Druids throughout the Four

Lands.

It had taken him a while to adjust to the new relationship, but in the end it

gave him back the life he had thought forfeited and so he was willing to make

that adjustment. There had been other meetings over the years, many of them,

with visits to Paranor by him and to Arishaig by her. Discussions had been held

and trades made and, all in all, they had gotten along well enough.

Which never once stopped him from trying to find a way to kill her, of course.

It was impossible for him not to think of doing so. Whoever she claimed she was,

Ilse Witch or Ard Rhys, she was too dangerous to be allowed to live; nothing

prevented her from reverting at some point to the creature she had been, casting

off her new guise, her new identity. More to the point, he knew he could never

control her. If he couldn't control her, he couldn't control the Druids, and

controlling the Druids was essential if he was to govern the Four Lands. That

was his ambition and his intention, and he meant to see it fulfilled. Only the

Free-born stood in his way, but eliminating the Free-born meant finding a way to

subvert the Druids. They claimed not to be siding with anyone in the

Federation-Free-born conflict, but it was clear enough that however the war on

the Prekkendorran turned out, the Ard Rhys was never going to allow either side

to crush the other.

Sen Dunsidan had decided long ago that crushing his enemies was the only way to

survive them. Leaving them alive after you had defeated them only gave them

another chance to come after you. If they were dead and gone, you had nothing to

worry about. So he was in Paranor for yet another meeting with Grianne Ohmsford,

for discussions concerning the Prekkendorran and the war with the Free-born and

whatever else she cared to talk about, and none of it mattered to him because

the meeting would never happen. It was scheduled to take place in the morning,

but by then the Ard Rhys would be dead. Or would wish she was.

It had taken a long time to find a way to eliminate her, and it had come about

in a most unlikely way from a most unlikely source. Assassination had always

been an alternative, but her instincts were so acute that she could sense that

sort of thing almost without making an effort. Her magic was formidable, the

wishsong of the Ohmsford legends, passed down through the bloodline, stronger in

her than in almost any other member of her family, made so by her training and

her life as the Ilse Witch. You might try to catch her off guard and kill her,

but you would have a better chance at growing wings and learning to fly.

He had looked for other ways to rid himself of her, but no other solution

immediately presented itself. Employing another magic to overcome her own was

the logical approach, but he didn't know any magic and wasn't equipped to wield

it if he did. Finding an ally who could act in his place was the logical

solution, but with the death of the Morgawr and the formation of the Third Druid

Council, he no longer had direct dealings with magic wielders save for the one

he wanted to eliminate.

Then help arrived from an unexpected source, not much more than a year ago, and

he had not only his ally, but a spy in the Druid camp. The spy gave him a pair

of much needed eyes and ears to monitor the Ard Rhys' movements. Sooner or

later, he believed, he would find a way to get past her defenses, as well.

Now, he had found that way at last. Tonight, he would test it- without risk to

himself, without danger of discovery. If it worked, Grianne Ohmsford would no

longer be a problem. By morning, the world would be a different place.

Yet he was uneasy, not quite believing it would happen, afraid that his

complicity in the deaths of all those men years ago at the hands of the Morgawr

would take form somehow this night and devour him. It did not seem ridiculous

that it might happen; it seemed almost inevitable. There was a price to be paid

for what he had done, and sooner or later someone would appear to collect it.

He was thinking of that as the wall across from him slid silently open and

Shadea a'Ru stepped into the room.

* * *

Grianne Ohmsford sat at the writing table in her chambers, making notes for her

meeting with Sen Dunsidan, preparing herself for the bargaining that would take

place. It was always a matter of give and take with the Prime Minister, a

question of how much she was willing to give versus how much he was attempting

to take. He had changed over the years in some ways but, when bargaining, still

sought to extract more than the other party was prepared to give. A politician

to the end, he remained outwardly friendly and forthright while inwardly

thinking of ways to cut his opponent's throat.

Literally, in her case.

She knew how he felt about her. To him, she was still the Ilse Witch and that

would never change. He was afraid of her, no matter how hard she tried to

convince him that her time as the Morgawr's creature was at an end. She might be

Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, but that was not how he saw her. Because he

could not change old habits, she knew his fear would rule his thinking. That

meant he would be looking for a way to eliminate her.

She didn't mind that. He had always been looking for ways to eliminate her, from

the moment they had formed that first alliance, nearly twenty-five years ago.

That was how Sen Dunsidan dealt with allies and enemies alike; he used them to

the extent he could while searching for ways to render them ineffective, which

often meant eliminating them altogether once they had served their purpose. In

some cases he had been successful, but he had never posed a threat to her. He

did not possess the tools to cause her harm, lacking both magic and allies to

accomplish that end. Alone, he could do nothing.

Besides, he was the least of her worries. She had other, more dangerous enemies

with which to contend, others with equally strong motives for seeing her

dispatched, others living closer to home.

She didn't like thinking of it. So much hard work had gone into reforming the

Druid order, and now it was a nest of vipers. It wasn't what she had intended or

envisioned, but there it was. Kermadec was right. Her position grew more tenuous

with the passing of every day, and if the erosion of her authority continued,

she would lose control completely. If that happened, she would have failed, and

she could not bear even to think of that.

She returned her thoughts to Sen Dunsidan and the more immediate concerns of

tomorrow's meeting. She was seeking a truce in the battle on the Prekkendorran,

one by both Federation and Free-born, one that would result in a standdown of

both armies.

And that might lead to a gradual reduction in forces and a chance at peace. But

neither side was showing much interest in the idea, even though after nearly

fifty years of conflict it seemed almost inconceivable to her that they could

think of anything else. Most of the people who had initiated the struggle were

dead and gone. Only the inheritors were left, men and women who probably didn't

have any real idea of the circumstances that had triggered the war.

Not that any of them cared, she thought darkly. War was often its own excuse.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Tagwen. She bid him enter. The

Dwarf shuffled in under a load of books and papers, which he deposited on the

working table to one side, where she could pick through them. They were the

detritus of her previous efforts to persuade Sen Dunsidan and the Federation to

her cause. Tagwen studied the stack forlornly for a moment, then looked at her.

"Is he settled in his chambers?" she asked.

"Quite comfortably. He should be. He has the best rooms in the Keep." Tagwen

didn't like Sen Dunsidan, a fact he didn't bother to hide from her, though he

was careful to hide it from others. "I left him to his ale and cogitation. More

of the former, less of the latter, unless I miss my guess."

She smiled in spite of herself. She rose and stretched. "Everyone is advised of

tomorrow's gatherings?"

He nodded. "You meet privately with the Prime Minister after breakfast, then he

addresses the full council, then he meets with a select few-you know them all

and they know one other-and then you sit down for some serious bargaining, which

will once again probably result in nothing much being decided."

She gave him a hard look. "Thank you for your optimism. What would I do without

it?"

"I prefer reality to fantasy," he said, huffing through his beard as he met her

gaze squarely. "Better for you if you did the same now and then. And I am not

talking about your meeting with the Prime Minister."

"Have you been trading opinions with Kermadec again?"

"The Maturen sees things far more clearly than some people. He doesn't waste

time on looking for ways to smooth things over when he sees it is a waste of

effort. You ought to listen to him."

She nodded. "I do. I just can't always follow his advice. I am not in a position

to do so. You know that."

Looking back at the stack of documents on the table, then at the half-eaten

dinner sitting cold on the plates he had brought earlier, Tagwen didn't say

anything for a moment. "He wants to know if you've decided yet when you are

leaving." Tagwen looked back at her.

"And I want to know where you are going."

She walked to the window and looked out at the moonlit sky. Her rooms in the

high tower were so far above the forest that wrapped the Keep that the trees

seemed a black ocean stretching away to the Dragon's Teeth. She had decided that

she would go to the Hadeshorn to seek the advice of Walker's shade about what

she had seen in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom. Shades did not always give

direct answers to questions of that sort, but they sometimes revealed insights

into what was being sought. Someone or something was behind those fires that

burned on air and in those strange flashes of light, and the magic invoked had

come from a source she did not recognize. Walker's shade might at least be

willing to tell her about it.

Wanting to see the business through and to make certain she stayed safe in the

process, Kermadec had offered to go with her. She was happy for his company.

"As soon as the Prime Minister departs," she answered. "I would guess he will

not stay after tomorrow night. Everything will have been said by then."

"Everything has been said already," Tagwen said.

"Perhaps it just needs saying again."

The Dwarf gestured toward the door. "Traunt Rowan is outside. He wants to speak

with you. I told him you did not have time for him tonight, but he was quite

insistent."

She nodded. Another thorn poking at her from the Druid bramble bush. She like

Rowan, admired his determination and willingness to work hard, but she knew that

he did not like her. Sometimes she wondered at the source of his dislike, but

she had never broached the subject with him. If she started asking everyone who

disliked her why that was so, she would not have time for anything else. It

pained her to think that so many in the order could not get past their bad

feelings toward her. On the other hand, it said something about their resolve

that they had come to study with her anyway.

"Send him in, Tagwen," she said. "I can give him a few minutes."

Tagwen went without a word, but his parting look suggested he thought she was

making a mistake. She smiled. It wouldn't be her first.

She glanced at herself in the mirror that hung by the door, reassuring herself

she was still presentable so late at night. Or maybe to reassure herself that

she had not faded away into her thoughts, become a ghost woman.

Traunt Rowan knocked and entered at her bidding. He was tall and

broad-shouldered and in his black robes looked less a Druid than a warlock. His

strong features had a calm, distant expression that belied the intensity he

brought to every meeting. She had been fooled by it at first, but knew better

now. Rowan never did anything haphazardly or halfway. If he ever overcame his

resentment of her, he would be a valuable ally.

He bowed stiffly, a formality only. "Thank you for seeing me," he said. "What I

have to say is important."

"Say it then."

She did not offer him a seat or anything to drink. He was all business and would

have refused both. When he was with her, he was mostly anxious to be gone again.

"I think you should resign your office," he said.

She stared at him, speechless in the face of such audacity.

"I don't say this to attack you," he continued. "Or because I don't respect what

you have done. I say it because I think it will help the order if you do as I

suggest. You are a smart woman. You understand the situation well enough. There

are too many at Paranor who do not think you should lead them. There are too

many here who cannot forget your past. Or forgive you of it. I admit I am one of

them. Such prejudice hamstrings your efforts at accomplishing almost anything

you undertake. If you were no longer leader, the prejudice would be removed.

Another might do better."

She nodded slowly. "I don't think you intend putting yourself forward as Ard

Rhys, Traunt Rowan. Who, then?"

He took a deep breath. "Whomever you name," he said finally.

It took him some effort to concede her this, and she wondered at its source. He

was close with those vipers Shadea a'Ru and Iridia Eleri, who he knew she would

never support, yet he had named neither. Why?

"You were chosen to form this order," he continued, his voice calm and

persuasive. "No one could argue that you haven't done what you set out to do in

bringing it to life. But perhaps you were not meant to lead it. Perhaps your

purpose ended once the Third Council came into being. Another role might work

better, one less visible in the larger scheme of things. Have you considered

that?" She had. She had considered every scenario that might break the logjam

the Third Council found itself enmeshed in. But she still did not judge any

other alternative acceptable under the present circumstances. Things were too

unsettled for her to step down, too uncertain for her to let another take her

place. To begin with, there wasn't anyone strong enough of whom she approved.

The factions already established within the order would tear almost anyone else

apart. Anarchy would claim the Third Council and destroy it. She could not allow

that.

"I admire and appreciate your honesty and your boldness," she told him. "Not

many would have dared to come to me with this suggestion. I don't know that I

can do what you ask, but I will consider it."

He nodded, clearly unhappy. "I have never told you what brought me to Paranor,

but I think you need to hear it now. It is no secret that we are not friends.

You have probably already guessed that it has something to do with your past. My

parents were Federation officials who became victims of your manipulations when

you were the Ilse Witch. They were destroyed politically because of you. The

reasons no longer matter. The fact remains that they died broken and despised

even by their closest friends. Dannon and Cela Scio. They were members of the

Coalition Council, at one time. Do you remember them?"

She shook her head.

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I took my mother's family name so no one here,

especially you, would make the connection. My purpose in coming was to see to it

that you did not subvert the Druid Council in the same way you had subverted

other political bodies-to make sure that you really were Ard Rhys and not still

Ilse Witch. I was willing to let go of the past if you had changed. I thought

that might be enough. But it isn't. You are still linked to your past in the

minds of too many, both inside and outside Paranor's walls. You are rendered

ineffective by acts you committed before you became Ard Rhys. That won't change,

it can never change. I have stayed on as a Druid only because I believe you must

be made to leave."

The heat of anger rose in her face, a faint blush she could not prevent. "Your

opinion does not necessarily represent that of the majority. Nor is it

necessarily right."

"Resign your office," he repeated. His expression was suddenly hard and fixed.

"Do so now, tonight. Announce it to all. Time does not allow for extended

deliberation on the matter."

She stared at him in surprise. He was practically ordering her to leave. "Time

allows for more deliberation than you seem willing to afford me. I said I would

consider your demand, Traunt Rowan. That will have to be enough."

He shook his head. "It isn't nearly enough. I should have come to you long

before this. Pay attention to me, Ard Rhys. Events have a way of piling up and

stealing away our choices."

"Do they do so here? What are you trying to say? Why is this so urgent? Tell

me."

For a moment, he hesitated as if thinking he might, then simply turned away and

went out the door, slamming it behind him with such force that she felt the

vibrations in the stone beneath her feet.

* * *

"Have you brought it?" Shadea a'Ru demanded as she stepped out of the darkness

of the hidden passageway into the light of the room.

Sen Dunsidan regarded her with bemusement. "Good evening to you, too."

She took her time closing the wall panel behind her, watched it slide smoothly

back into place, and let her temper cool. As impatient as she was to get on with

things, it would do her no good to argue with Dunsidan at this point.

"My apologies," she said, turning back to him with a smile. "I am more than a

little nervous about all this, as you might guess. I am also anxious to get it

over with."

He nodded. "Understandable, Shadea. But haste often results in mistakes, and we

can't afford to have any here."

She gritted her teeth against what she was tempted to say and let the moment

pass. They were never going to have much of a relationship, Sen Dunsidan and

she. The one they had was one of convenience and nothing more. As much as she

wanted the Ard Rhys out of the way, she was only slightly less anxious to be rid

of him. He was a treacherous, self-serving snake, a man who had built his career

on the misfortunes and failings of others. She had heard the stories about his

despicable uses of children and women, and she believed them all. Once Grianne

Ohmsford was eliminated, she would turn her attention to him. But for the

moment, they must remain allies, and she would play that game as best she could.

"There won't be any mistakes," she said.

She moved over to the table with the wine carafe and poured herself a glass. His

room was rich with tapestries and rugs, with wine and sweets, and with good

smells. It contrasted sharply with her spare and unassuming quarters some floors

below. She felt no jealousy, finery and comforts were a sign of weakness. They

made demands that caused one to lose focus on what really mattered. She would

not allow that in herself, but was more than willing to allow it in him. It

would make it easier to break him down and destroy him when the time to do so

arrived.

"How do you know that the potion you have brought me works as you think? What if

you have been betrayed?"

She watched for a reaction. He merely shrugged. "I haven't tested it myself, but

I am assured it is lethally effective."

"Assured by whom?" she asked. "Who gave you this 'liquid night, Prime Minister?"

she pressed. "You didn't mix it up yourself. Such a potion requires magic, and

you have none. Who do you know who has such magic? Did someone at Paranor assist

you? Someone not allied with me? Do you play us against each other?"

His leonine features lifted slightly. "I don't discuss my alliances. What does

it matter, anyway? If it doesn't work, what have you lost? Only a little of your

time. I will have lost your trust completely. I am the one at risk, Shadea."

He lifted his own wineglass and toasted her. "But it will work. By morning, the

Ard Rhys will be a memory and all the talk will be of you, the new Ard Rhys. I

know something of how this works, Shadea. I know because it happened to me when

I coveted the position of Prime Minister. The order will be frightened and

confused. It will be looking for direction and for someone to supply it. No one

else has the backing you possess. The matter will be settled quickly. I salute

you, Ard Rhys to be."

She ignored his patronizing, wondering how she could find out who had given him

the potion. She would find out, she had decided. But short of torturing him on

the spot, she would not find out immediately. She would have to bide her time,

something at which she had gotten quite good.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Prime Minister." She finished the wine and

set down her glass. "What will you do when the news comes? Stay or go?"