The Darkling Child

SIXTEEN

IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDDAY WHEN ARCANNEN PILOTED HIS Sprint over the last of the coastal landscape separating him from the ruins of Arbrox and made a cautious landing in the sheltered area he had chosen earlier for his craft’s concealment. On the coast, vessels were in constant danger from high winds and sudden storms, but he faced an equally daunting prospect from the risk of discovery. If anyone found his vessel and commandeered it, he would be trapped in his lair. Escape without a flying vessel was out of the question. Between the miles of barren terrain surrounding his hiding place on three sides and the churning maelstrom of the ocean on the fourth, the only way a man could flee with any hope of success was through the air.

So hiding his Sprint was a necessary effort each time he returned. His current choice was a deep depression in the rocks inland from the coast proper about a mile from Arbrox, tucked back in a mass of boulders and broken rock that no one could successfully navigate on foot without knowing how to do so beforehand. Using rock walls and cliff overhangs, he was able to place his airship almost completely out of sight. Finding it on foot would require an extraordinary stroke of luck. A careful air search in the right weather and with sufficient sunlight might reveal it, but the persistent marine layer and frequent rains reduced the chances of that happening considerably.

Besides, he lived in the ruins of a village to which no one came.

Or hadn’t before now. But come they would, and very soon. He had made sure of that–all part of his plan to provide Dallen Usurient with an irresistible opportunity to bring the Red Slash back to the coast to find him. Not that he expected Usurient himself would do so. No, Usurient would take a different approach, one less obvious to those watching for it. He would send someone other than himself, reluctant to make a return trip if it wasn’t necessary, believing that hunting down and killing off Arcannen could be achieved without his personal involvement. He would send men skilled at the sort of undertaking with which he would task them, their orders clear and their destination determined through the rumors and reports with which he had provided them.

And they would journey to their doom.

But that was all part of the game, and Arcannen loved nothing better than contests of wit and machinations and, ultimately, surprises.

He covered the Sprint with a canvas that was the exact same mottled gray–and–brown as the rocks within which it nestled and began the walk back to the remains of the village. All about him, the damp and the gray bore down in a heavy shroud. The wind whipped about him fiercely, constantly changing direction and force, a wild thing that nothing could contain. Ahead, the crashing of waves against the rocks was a steady booming that drowned out the rest of the world’s sounds.

By now, he was thinking, Usurient would have begun the process of choosing the men he would send and providing the equipment and supplies they would need. By now an expedition would have been mounted, and if it had not already been dispatched it soon would be.

He must prepare for them. He must anticipate their arrival and their intentions in ways that would allow him to dispose of them quickly.

The seeds were planted, he assured himself. He had planted them himself. It would be interesting to discover what sort of crop they would yield.

Arcannen was, at heart, a fatalist. He believed that most of what happened was predestined and that his own involvement was preordained. Life offered opportunities, and you made the choices that were demanded of you. To some extent, you influenced the results of what happened–but never completely and not always in the ways you anticipated. You had to accept that much of life was chance and luck, and so you rode that sea of the unexpected and unanticipated from the moment you were born until the moment you died. Sometimes the ride was smooth and easy, but often it was rough. The intangibles always dictated the outcome in ways you could not entirely predict or alter.

So it was that his plans for Usurient and the Red Slash were fluid. He would arrive where he needed to be, but the journey would not go entirely according to his wishes.

He wondered suddenly how things were proceeding with the boy and Lariana. She was clever, that one. She had already won the boy’s heart; he was so in love–even if he did not realize it–that his choices hereafter would begin and end with her. She was every bit as clever and manipulative as Arcannen had believed she would be. He was pleased enough with how she had handled herself that he decided he would give her instruction in the use of magic and perhaps even agree to take her on as his apprentice. He would have given that honor to Leofur had she not spurned him, but that was all water under the bridge now. And Lariana might prove the better choice in any case.

As he closed on the ruins, he saw nothing of the happy couple. Nestled inside, he imagined, perhaps sharing secrets in ways that he had given up on long ago. Young love–such a tender, wonderful thing. Such an attractive nuisance. It stole away your reason; it ensnared your common sense in euphoric dreams. Useful here, however. In the end, it would net him what he needed to fulfill his plans for revenge against his enemies.

When he reached the sealed door and released the locks, there was still no sign of them. Down the hallway and into his quarters he proceeded, listening for the sound of their voices. When he heard them, he slowed automatically to listen. But their words were low and indistinct.

On entering his quarters, he found them sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea and smiling at each other. Good enough, he thought. “Well met, young friends,” he said cheerfully. “Reyn, are you rested and fed?”

The boy nodded, sharing a look with the girl. Oh, rested and fed, indeed, the sorcerer thought.

“Is your business concluded?” Lariana asked. “Did things go well?”

He moved over to stand next to them. “Unfortunately, not all went as well as I had expected. Word has gotten out that I am living in these ruins or somewhere close by. I had hoped that a tighter lock might be kept on loose lips, but it hasn’t worked out that way. I expect I am compromised.”

Lariana gave him a direct look. “What does that mean exactly?”

“If means that Usurient and the Red Slash will soon know–if they don’t already–where I am.”

“They will come here?” the boy demanded.

“Not right away. And not Usurient. He will send someone else.”

“He will send assassins,” Lariana said.

He was pleased at how quickly she caught on. “I imagine so. He will choose a handful of killers to hunt me down, keeping at a distance so that no blame will attach to him. If that fails, then he will come himself.”

“Maybe we should leave,” Reyn suggested. “There are other places we could hide.”

“And other places we could be found. No, Reyn. Running away isn’t the answer. The hunting won’t stop unless we make it stop.” He was purposeful in using we rather than I. “We will make our stand here.”

The boy exchanged a look with Lariana. “How do we do that?”

Arcannen smiled reassuringly. “Well, in the first place, I’m not going to ask you to use the wishsong to help protect us. Not in a way that requires you to hurt anyone, at least. So you needn’t worry about that. Mostly, you need to keep your eyes open for the men Usurient will send. When they come, I will deal with them myself.”

“But if we are threatened,” Lariana interrupted quickly, turning now to the boy, “we may have to defend ourselves. So there is no guarantee you won’t have to use your magic that way. Does that frighten you?”

Arcannen could hear the challenge in her voice. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. This was what made her so valuable to him. She anticipated everything so well.

“I will do what I have to,” the boy said at once. “But I would not like it if I had to hurt anyone.”

Lariana nodded. “I would not like that, either. But it seems we are fated to be hunted by these people.” She turned to Arcannen. “These are the same people who massacred the population of Arbrox, aren’t they? They will treat us the same way.”

Arcannen nodded. “And there are others we need to fear, as well. The Druids hate us, too. They fear my use of magic will somehow compromise them. They wish to stop me completely from using it. Understand. Not only do we need to protect ourselves now, but we also need to find a way to prevent this harassment–this persecution–from continuing. We need to persuade all of these people to leave us alone. Because once they find out the truth about you, Reyn, they will come after you, too. Just as they did in Portlow. You can’t allow that to continue.”

“I know.” The boy nodded slowly. He had already begun to come around to the mind–set Arcannen wished him to assume. “But how do we do that?”

“Can you tell us?” Lariana asked quickly, anticipating once again what was needed.

Arcannen stepped away from the table. “I can do better than that. I can show you. Come with me.”

Paxon Leah was exercising alone in the training yard, working his way through a series of complex defensive maneuvers, when Keratrix found him. He was stripped to the waist, sweating in the hot sun, enjoying the strain on his body as he whipped the Sword of Leah from left counter to right thrust, blocking and counterattacking, twisting and turning his shoulders and arms in a mock battle against an invisible enemy. Most of the moves he was employing had been taught to him by Oost Mondara over the past five years, skills he had studied, practiced, and finally mastered in his continuing efforts to make himself more deserving of his designation as the High Druid’s Blade. He was so deeply enmeshed in his efforts that it was some time before he noticed that the scribe was standing off to one side watching him.

When he stopped and looked over, the other shook his head and smiled ruefully. “You make it look so easy. But I know it isn’t.”

Paxon rolled his shoulders and stretched. “It helps if you do it about a million times. Besides, I’m still learning.”

“You don’t look like you need to learn anything more.” Keratrix paused. He brushed at his mop of dark hair. “Sorry to bother you, but the Ard Rhys would like to see you. When you’re finished here.”

Isaturin. Paxon walked over to the battered old scabbard that had protected his sword’s blade for so many generations and sheathed the weapon carefully. “I’m finished,” he said. “Let me wash up and I’ll come up right away.”

He went inside the building to his quarters and bathed and changed his clothing. He was wondering what Isaturin might want of him. He had not been asked to undertake anything since his return from Portlow. No further missions had been assigned, and no reports had come in on Arcannen or the boy with the wishsong. Avelene had recovered from the trauma she had suffered at the sorcerer’s hands and had gone back to her studies. Since the night she had asked Paxon to stay with her, she had barely spoken to him. He thought she might be embarrassed at what she perceived to be a display of weakness, or perhaps she simply didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He had not pressed her about any of it, leaving her alone except to exchange pleasantries when they encountered each other, letting her work her way through her feelings, not presuming anything from what had happened and how she had reacted.

In truth, he didn’t know quite what to make of her. She had shown no interest in him before they had set out in search of the source of the magic that approximated the wishsong. Even then, her feelings had appeared mixed. And her response to him after being freed from the black cylinder appeared to have been generated mostly out of fear and desperation. He was reluctant to read anything more into it.

When he reached the Ard Rhys’s quarters, Isaturin was waiting in the doorway. “I got tired of reading documents and decided to give my eyes a rest,” he offered, leading the way back inside. “I needed to look at something besides symbols on paper. Are you well?”

Paxon nodded. “As well as ever. Is there any news?”

They sat on opposite sides of Isaturin’s desk–the one that had belonged earlier to Aphenglow Elessedil and which, to Paxon’s way of thinking, always would. But he forced himself to shove the image of her still sitting at it out of his mind.

“A rumor has reached us of Arcannen’s whereabouts,” Isaturin said. “He was spotted somewhere near the ruins of Arbrox, a coastal town that was a haven for pirates and their families until it was completely destroyed by Federation forces about six weeks ago.”

Paxon was confused. “What would he be doing there?”

Isaturin shrugged. “With Arcannen, you can never be sure about anything. Even the rumor is suspect. There is no clear reason for it. Arbrox is miles up the coast from the nearest inhabited village. All that remains are its ruins. How is it that not only has the sorcerer decided to inhabit these ruins but also foolishly allowed himself to be seen? Word got back to the Federation, so they are sending a contingent of soldiers to find out if it’s true. But the Prime Minister wants us to look into this, as well.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would he want us involved if the Federation army is already doing so?”

“I’m not sure. But the Prime Minister was fond of Aphenglow. They were friends, so I don’t want to dismiss his request out of hand. He works hard to maintain a delicate balance with the various ministerial offices within the Coalition Council, and even with Aphenglow gone he has managed to maintain a close relationship with the Druids.”

Isaturin pursed his lips. “I think he is curious about the Federation army’s reasons for undertaking this investigation. There were rumors of a massacre when the Red Slash went into Arbrox six weeks ago. In any case, I have decided to respond to his request. You are to go to Arishaig to speak with him directly and determine the real reason for our involvement.”

Paxon was caught by surprise. “You’re sending me?”

“He asked for you specifically. He has something he wants to say to you. It seems he believes your previous encounters with Arcannen might prove valuable. If what he tells you persuades you to go on to Arbrox for a closer look, then I want you to do so.”

Paxon shook his head. “I hope he’s not putting too much faith in what I know about Arcannen.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t be alone in deciding what needs doing. Avelene will be going, too. I want you to act as her escort and protector.”

“Avelene?” The Highlander hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Is she … well enough?”

“If you are asking me if she is physically well enough, I am assured by our healers that she is. If you mean emotionally, we’ll have to wait and find out. Are you worried?”

“For her, I am, yes. She underwent a great deal of trauma. I don’t know if she can handle any more just yet.”

“I don’t, either, so I want you to find out. If she is to serve in the field–as I think she should–we have to test her at some point. This seems as good a time as any. But she will be in command, Paxon. As a member of the Druid Order, she will lead.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way.” Paxon hesitated. “Do you mind if I speak to her about this before we leave?”

Isaturin rose, and Paxon stood with him. “Speak to her all you like. But you should know before you do that I didn’t ask her if she wanted to go. She asked me if she could.”

The men stared at each other until Isaturin gave Paxon an amused smile. “You never know, do you?”

Then he gestured him out the door.

Arcannen took his young charges from his living quarters, down the hallway, and out into the open air. He led them past the debris and the remains of the dead to a section of the fallen village that featured neither. There, in a mostly sheltered courtyard, away from the wind and the sudden spats of rain, standing beneath a sky of perpetual gloom and clouds, he faced them.

“When you respond to threats like the ones you faced from the Fortrens, do you consciously think about what you are going to do?” he asked Reyn, standing close enough to be heard about the howl of the wind. “Or do you just react spontaneously without thinking at all?”

The boy shook his head. “I just act. If I get pushed too far, everything just breaks free.”

“When this happens, you are enraged and maybe afraid, too, aren’t you?”

Reyn nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Lariana. The wind was whipping strands of hair about her alabaster skin, giving her face a veiled look. She smiled encouragingly and nodded an unspoken understanding.

“What are you asking me to do?” he demanded of Arcannen, suddenly frightened.

“What you need to do! To learn to think before you act. To not be so easily pushed into reacting in ways you don’t want to. Don’t you understand what is happening? Don’t you see what is being done to you?”

He seemed angry now, almost threatening. Reyn took a step back in spite of himself. But Arcannen seemed to realize he had overstepped himself and held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m just trying to make myself clear. I want to help you. If you take time now to learn how to master your magic–when it doesn’t matter and there is no danger–you will be able to exercise more control when you need it. That’s the task I’ve set you. Practice using your magic in specific ways. Think it through first. Here.”

He came over to Reyn, turned him toward what remained of one wall, and bent close, standing behind the boy, his mouth at Reyn’s ear. “To control magic, you have to imagine what it is you want it to do. You have to visualize it happening. You have to form the image in your mind and do so in a clear, concise way. Don’t think about anything else. Don’t let your mind wander. Keep the image at the forefront of your thoughts. Then sing it to life.”

Reyn hesitated. “Is that how you do it?”

“I don’t have your kind of magic. Only you do. Now do as I say!”

“Then how do you know … ?”

“Just do what I say!” The sorcerer cut him short, impatient and irritated all over again. “All magic works on the same principles. You either layer on its use or you wield it like a hammer. You want the first; the second is what got you into trouble in the first place. Try it. Visualize, then sing to make it real.”

Reyn started and stopped. He tried again, stopped. “I don’t know what I should try to make real?”

Arcannen’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “Picture one of the Fortrens. They caused you enough trouble; think about one of them. Imagine him coming at you, wanting to hurt you. See his face in your mind!”

The boy reacted, barely hesitating this time. His memory of Borry and Yancel Fortren was so strong that their faces came to mind instantly. He didn’t try to choose one, but fixed on images of both–seeing them just as he had that last night he had faced them in Portlow behind the Boar’s Head Tavern. The images formed, and then he began to hum softly to bring them to life. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but his instincts took command of his voice. Slowly, the images began to gain substance and color and finally a real presence.

And suddenly, just like that, they were there, Borry and Yancel Fortren, standing in front of him, advancing with their familiar looks of cruelty and disdain, weapons held ready for use.

In the next instant the image was gone, shattered as if by a hammer taken to glass. Reyn gasped and staggered back into the immediate support offered by Arcannen’s strong arms. “What happened?” the boy demanded. “I had it and then it went away!”

“You lost control,” the sorcerer answered, straightening him up. “You lost focus. It only takes a second. This is new to you. It won’t happen all at once. You need to spend time working on it. You have to practice using it. I want you to begin this afternoon, right now. Work with Lariana. Remember, she can see what you visualize into being. She can tell you what you are doing. She can suggest things to you. Try as much of this as you can. Work hard at it. It’s important.”

“Won’t you be here to help?” the boy asked at once.

“Later. After you’ve experimented on your own. I have something else I need to do first. We’re in some danger here. I need to change that. I won’t be long.”

Arcannen moved away, heading out into the wilderness surrounding the village ruins, satisfied that the boy and Lariana would do fine without him. He would be more comfortable with her, more willing to try things. She would exert no pressure on him; she would suggest and encourage. He had already spoken to her at length about what would be needed for the boy to be won over. He had explained how the magic worked and what was needed for the boy to develop it sufficiently to help him with his plans.

He walked several hundred yards away from the ruins, looking out over the barren rugged terrain surrounding him, wondering how long he had to prepare. Not long, he thought. Usurient wouldn’t waste time. Whoever he was sending was likely already on their way. He could only hope, against all odds, that the Commander of the Red Slash had decided to come himself, wanting to make sure.

But it didn’t matter. At the end of this business, Arbrox and her people would be avenged, and he would have made it clear to the Federation and the Druids and everyone else that he and those like him were to be left alone. He would make them so afraid of him, so unwilling to come near him, that by the time he had found a way to subvert the Druid Order it would be too late for any of them to do much about it, and he would have gained control of the all the magic that mattered.

He glanced at the ruins. Most especially the magic wielded by that boy.

Turning back to the task at hand, he began the slow, tedious process of laying down the wards that would alert him to the presence of the men who were coming for him.