The Darkling Child

EIGHT

ARCANNEN FLEW WEST THROUGH THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY, losing himself in the piloting of his Sprint, enjoying the passing countryside below and the sweet smells of the summer day. He did not spend time thinking about what lay ahead; he had done enough of that already. Instead, he gave himself over to clearing his mind and letting his thoughts drift wherever they cared to go. Rest came with difficulty these days; the long comforting sleep of his time in Wayford had devolved into catnaps and guarded dozing. Being hunted did that to you. Being prey instead of predator required you always have one eye open.

Unbidden, his thoughts jumped to Leofur. He wondered how his daughter was, how her life was going. He had not had contact with her in five years–not since Paxon Leah had given him his freedom in exchange for the medication that would cure his sister of her hallucinations and nightmares and give her back her life. Leofur had no idea where he was, of course. Like the rest of the world, she had been left behind. Not that they had been close before; not that leaving her caused him any particular pain. It certainly couldn’t have mattered to her when he disappeared; she had been trying to kill him. Or at least trying to help the Highlander do the job. She had forsaken him a long time ago.

Wasn’t it odd then that he was wondering about her now, that he found himself thinking about her when there was so little reason? But there it was, an inescapable fact. He supposed he wondered about her in a generic sort of way and not with any real hopes or aspirations. He did wonder how she had ended up with Paxon Leah and what had become of that relationship. He had sensed at the end that it might be more than casual, that they might have cared about each other in a more serious way. But he couldn’t say why he felt this was so; he couldn’t explain it with reasoning or logic.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted on to other things. To the boy, waiting for him back in Portlow. He didn’t even know his name. Wasn’t that odd? He had such plans for him, such possibilities in mind, and he didn’t know who he was. It was his nature not to get too close to people, of course. People were there to be used, instruments to be applied to a task. The boy was no different. Not in that way. In the way in which he might serve, he was decidedly different. In the nature of his power and his legacy, he was perhaps one of a kind.

But at the end of the day, the boy was there to be set on a course of action and made to follow through. He was just another weapon to be used against Arcannen’s enemies.

He wished suddenly that he still had someone inside the Federation government to whom he could turn. It was helpful having a highly placed collaborator working to help you realize your plans or aid you in obtaining special favors. He had no one like that these days. Sebec had been purged from the Druid Order, and he himself had eliminated Fashton Caeil, the Federation Minister of Security Against Magic.

Still, if you were on your own, you depended on no one to accomplish what needed doing, and the chances of mistakes were considerably lessened. He had learned that lesson a while back, and even though it placed a larger burden on him, it also assured that what was required would be done right.

Like now, when he was on his way to visit an old friend in the Southland city of Sterne in an effort to repay a debt.

He left his Sprint at the edge of the city airship field and walked several hundred yards to the field manager’s office to arrange for payment and a promise to watch over it. If he lost his airship, he would be in deep trouble. So a few extra credits paid to make sure that didn’t happen were credits well spent. The field manager was open to an arrangement–the pay he received from the city being less than what he believed he deserved–and a bargain was quickly struck. The Sprint would be carefully watched with an understanding that its owner would be back to claim it before dawn.

His escape route assured, Arcannen set out for the Federation barracks at the west end of the city.

He took a carriage to a place less than a quarter mile away–a shop that specialized in opiates and other mind–altering potions and plants–and stood outside until the shop had emptied of customers, checking a final time through the small glass windows to either side of the door to make certain before going in. The shop was small and cramped with shelves and bins backed up against all the available wall space and then stacked so high that a ladder was needed to reach the two top levels. A counter no more than four feet long sat well back in the shadows, its top clear of everything but a single cup and saucer and a smoking pipe resting in a bowl.

An old man sat behind the counter, eyes fixed on Arcannen. He might have been a hundred years old or a thousand. He was bent and withered, and until you looked closely you might have assumed that he had died and no one had noticed. He wore tattered gray clothes and a skullcap. Arcannen had never seen him wear anything else. His beard and hair were so wispy and thinned out, you could count the strands.

“Eld Loy,” the sorcerer greeted him, giving the old man a small bow. “All is well? Nothing has changed?”

The old man nodded.

“My friend still occupies the same quarters?”

Another nod.

“He sleeps alone?”

A shrug. A nod.

“The Red Slash do not ward him, I mean? I don’t care about the women.”

Still another nod.

Arcannen reached into his robes and withdrew a pouch filled with credits. “Yours, for your services–unless they prove inaccurate. In which case, they will pay for your burial.”

The old man didn’t blink. Arcannen bowed again and went back out the door.

He waited until close to midnight before making his way to his destination. It was a tavern set close to the barracks and frequented by the soldiers and their companions. It was the property of a retired squad leader and a few of his mates, and it catered almost exclusively to those who shared their worldview–which is to say, other soldiers. Even with midnight approaching, the tavern’s interior was well lit and filled with boisterous men and women, shouting and laughing and singing songs of army life. A few of those with too much drink and a vague notion that it was time to get home had made it as far as the front stoop before falling by the wayside.

Arcannen stepped around the bodies carefully. Because Eld Loy had given him a diagram of the tavern’s layout, he knew to go to the back door, step quickly inside, take three steps left to the rear stairwell, and climb to the small bedroom on the third floor. No one saw him enter the building; no one heard him ascend the stairs. This was not surprising, given the amount of noise and drunkenness in the tavern below. Arcannen had counted heavily on the distraction to keep from being noticed.

He paused at the door to listen. There were no sounds coming from inside. He tried the knob; it turned easily. He opened the door and peered in. Pale light from a streetlamp seeped through curtains hung over a solitary window to reveal that the room was unoccupied. Arcannen stepped in. The room was dismal–a squalid box with a bed, an old dresser, a table with a basin, and a wicker chair. There were some clothes on the floor and a few odds and ends of personal effects.

He glanced up. A heavy lamp was suspended from a hook screwed into one of the ceiling beams, but it was unlit.

Arcannen took another look around, moved the chair into the shadows to one side, and sat down to wait.

Miles away, in the village of Portlow, Gammon was confronting Reyn Frosch. It was after midnight, and the tavern patrons were finally beginning to make their way home, the great room quieting down. Even in the absence of the boy’s music, the people of the village had come to spend the evening, perhaps in the hope that he would resume playing. But Reyn had not found a way to replace his elleryn, and in spite of the assurances of the stranger that the Fortrens would leave him alone, he was not convinced.

This was being reinforced by Gammon as they spoke in the privacy of the boy’s room.

“You can’t trust a man like that,” Gammon was insisting. “Did you see his eyes? Of course you did. How could you not? Wicked. Dangerous! He may well be the man to convince the Fortrens to let you be, but what do you want with a man like that?”

“He knows something about my singing.” Reyn rubbed his temples. His head ached. “Maybe he can explain what happened.”

“Maybe. But maybe he wants something more from you. Why would he help you otherwise? I think you should go. Get away from here. Find a new town and a new tavern that needs a singer with your talent.”

“I told him I would wait.”

“You owe him nothing! Think about what you are doing!”

Reyn sighed. This discussion was going nowhere. He could not make Gammon understand. The tavern owner was fixated on the stranger’s darkness, as if it were a portent of impending doom. The boy didn’t sense that at all. He was less concerned with the way people dressed and looked. What determined a man’s character was how he behaved. The stranger had done nothing to him but show interest.

“I have to sleep now,” he said finally.

“Fine,” Gammon declared, rising. “But before you do, I have something for you. Wait here for me.”

He went out and was gone for perhaps five minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a package wrapped in cloth and bound with string. The size and shape caused the boy’s heart to quicken. He took the package from the tavern owner and swiftly unwrapped it.

A new elleryn, its burnished wood gleaming brightly, lay in his hands.

“She’s beautiful,” the boy whispered. He looked up at Gammon. “But I can’t afford her.”

“You don’t have to pay anything. It’s a gift.”

“But I’m not playing for you anymore. I can’t take this.”

Gammon laughed. “You made me enough money over the last two years to pay for this ten times over. I owe you this. You take it. Keep it.” He shrugged. “If you would agree to leave here tonight, I would pay you something extra to help you on your way. But I can see your mind is made up.”

Reyn smiled. “I won’t ever forget this.”

“I should hope not.” Gammon stuck out his hand. “Luck to you, Reyn. Whatever you decide to do. Luck always.”

The handshake warm and firm. Reyn wished once more that things could have worked out differently. Then Gammon released his grip and was out the door.

It was several hours later when Arcannen heard footsteps on the back stairs leading up to the bedroom in which he waited. The footsteps were clumsy and uncertain. There were frequent stumbles. He could tell that the man coming up was drunk and unsteady, anxious to reach his room and tumble into bed. It would make his task just that much easier, if not quite so satisfying. He would have preferred the other sober and fully aware of what was about to happen. He would rather the fear reflected in his eyes and voice not be dulled by drink.

But you couldn’t always have things the way you wanted them. If you could, the events that created the reason for his being here would never have come to pass.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairway. Soundlessly, Arcannen rose and moved to stand just behind the door. The man without fumbled with the handle, and the door swung inward. When the man was inside the room, Arcannen quietly closed the door behind him. The man turned back unsteadily, peering at the dark shape behind him, unable to focus.

“Who is it?” He slurred his words, swayed unsteadily. “What do you want?”

“I want you, Desset,” Arcannen answered.

Desset tried to scream, but Arcannen grabbed him, muffling his cries with one hand, bearing him backward onto his rumpled bed, pushing him down until he was pinned, his eyes wide with fear, his body quaking in the sorcerer’s strong grip.

“Shhh, shhhh,” Arcannen whispered. “There’s no point in trying to scream. I took your voice so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Do you know what’s going to happen to you, Desset? Of course you do. It’s what happens to all traitors sooner or later. I hope the last few weeks of your life was worth what you did.”

Climbing atop the other man, he pinned his arms and took his head gently in both hands, lifting it so that they could see into each other’s eyes clearing. Desset was thrashing feebly beneath him, and tiny whimpers were coming from his throat as he fought to scream for help.

Arcannen smiled down at him as he cradled his head. “You knew the price you would pay for betraying me, didn’t you? Or was it just bad luck that it worked out this way? Were you only interested in destroying Arbrox? No, they wouldn’t pay you well enough for that. Something, for certain, but much more for me. You couldn’t pass up the chance to get your hands on that kind of money. All you had to do was make certain I died along with all of the others. Those people were my friends, Desset. They sheltered and protected me. They helped me when no one else would. And now, because of you, they are all dead.”

Arcannen paused. “And now you can join them.”

Tightening his hands on Desset’s head, he wrenched it sharply to one side and then quickly the other way. He could feel the neck bones giving way; he could hear them cracking and snapping. Desset shuddered and clenched and finally went still.

Arcannen released the dead man’s head and stood up. That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he would have liked, but killing seldom was. It was a task performed out of necessity, and while the act itself could be fulfilling, the aftermath seldom induced any sort of euphoria. It was so here. The sorcerer was already thinking beyond what he had just done to what still needed doing.

He pulled a length of cord from a pouch at his waist, tied one end tightly around Desset’s neck, and formed a loop at the other end. Then he shouldered the dead man, climbed atop the chair to gain the necessary height, and, after removing the lamp, slung the open loop over the ceiling hook and left Desset hanging.

Then he seated himself, printed a few words on a piece of paper, and attached them to Desset’s body. He studied his handiwork for a few moments more, watching the dead man swing gently from the ceiling hook as a breeze through the window caught his body in a twisting motion.

Now we will see, he thought.

Then he went out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.

It was shortly after dawn the following morning when Dallen Usurient, Commander of the Red Slash division of the Federation army, climbed those same stairs behind the officer who had summoned him and entered Desset’s quarters. Desset’s body still hung from the ceiling hook, lifeless and beginning to smell as the day’s heat reached it. Usurient saw the note pinned to the body right away and walked over for a look.

He read the note carefully and stepped back again, his face dark with anger.

“Do you know what it means, sir?” the officer who had summoned him asked quietly.

Usurient nodded. He knew exactly what it meant.

WE ARE COMING FOR YOU.

ARBROX.

He looked at the officer. “It means Arcannen is still alive.”