Wards of Faerie

16

At Paranor, Aphenglow Elessedil sat propped up in her sleeping chamber bed, rereading the notes she had written regarding her use of the blue Elfstones three days earlier in Arborlon. She had made her report to the Ard Rhys and her fellow Druids that morning, but she felt compelled to make certain that she had left nothing out. Her broken leg, splinted and bound, lay stretched out before her, a sour reminder of how badly things had gone awry.

Even as she was being carted back to her cottage, after the attack by the black-clad assailants and her rescue by Cymrian, her leg throbbing with pain and her mind awash with the consequences of her disability, she was recounting in her mind the details of what the Elfstones had shown her. She was afraid she would forget something if she didn’t, aware of the quixotic tricks memory could play if one failed to revisit its first impressions quickly. Later, aboard Wend-A-Way, she had taken the time to write it all down. The more she went back over it, the better her chances of not forgetting anything.

She was close to the end of her current perusal when she realized that all she was doing was finding a way to occupy her time. Confined to her bed, unable to participate in the preparations for the journey that would take the bulk of the Druid order in quest of the missing Elfstones, she was frustrated and bored and very much afraid that she might be the one who was left behind. No one had said so as yet, but the implications had been apparent after she gave her report. Condolences on the damage to her leg, regret that she would be bedridden for a week and splinted for two more, pitying looks. She was an adept at using her magic to heal, but there was only so much you could do with a break this bad. Cymrian had set it, her sister had wrapped it carefully, but she was disabled nevertheless.

Knowing she should not broach publicly the question of whether she would be allowed to go with the others, she had kept her peace. The time to ask would be later, in private. The one to ask—the only one who mattered—was the Ard Rhys.

She could hardly bear the waiting.

Arlingfant and Cymrian had accompanied her back to Paranor, taking charge of her safety and transportation in the wake of this latest attack on her person. She had tried to dissuade Arling from coming, insisting her duties as a Chosen came before caring for her sister—an assertion that was quickly brushed aside. Arling would not be missed for the time it took to see Aphenglow safely placed under the care of her fellow Druids.

Leaving Arborlon at once had not been a point of debate. Cymrian insisted she was no longer safe in her home city, the attack absolute proof that her purpose in coming back had somehow been compromised. There was no one aside from her family and himself she could trust and nothing further to be accomplished by remaining where she was. Better she be returned to the Druids, and Cymrian and Arlingfant were the right ones to see this was done. Cymrian could fly an airship and Arlingfant could see to the needs of her sister.

Aphenglow had not argued the point. Her only regret was that her need to leave now prevented her from accessing and searching through the Chosen histories for information on Aleia Omarossian as she had planned. But that could wait for another day. For now, she must go to a safer place and impart what she had learned through the use of the blue Elfstones to the Ard Rhys.

Any doubts she had harbored about Cymrian had been erased in the aftermath of his rescue efforts. After finding her in spite of her efforts to lose him, he had stood alone against five trained, experienced assassins, men bearing the distinctive eagle mark of a well-known Federation-connected league—who should have been able to overcome a single defender with little difficulty. He had killed all five. Not intentionally; he had hoped to take one alive to question. But in a struggle of this sort, it was difficult to hold back—a point brought home graphically to Aphenglow when she had taken the life of her last assailant and discovered how quickly you needed to react and how little time you were allowed to measure the force required to save yourself.

In both instances, she was lucky to be alive. She was grateful to Cymrian, and she had told him so.

Even so, there was still something about him that troubled her. She had resolved to find out what it was.

Arlingfant seemed to have no similar reservations. She and Cymrian had formed a fast friendship that had grown stronger since they had embarked on the Wend-A-Way back to Paranor. Joking, laughing, and very much at ease with each other, they had bonded quickly—so much so that Aphenglow felt a twinge of jealously in spite of herself at not being an equal partner in this friendship.

Mostly, though, she just felt disgruntled and troubled by the circumstances of her own situation.

And, she admitted, staring out the window into the gray of the late-afternoon sky, rain clouds forming up to the west, she was worried about Bombax, the only member of the order who had gone out and not yet returned.

This was not all that unusual. Bombax was headstrong, independent, and had a long history of coming and going on his own terms and according to his own timetable. Because he was so experienced, the other Druids did not worry for him as they might have for one another. In fact, they barely gave it a thought. But they were not in love with him as Aphenglow was; they had not chosen him as a life partner.

They did not sense when something was wrong as strongly as Aphenglow did.

But there was no help for it. All anyone knew was that he had set out for the cities of the Borderlands, intent on finding aid for their quest. They had no way to track him, no way to seek him out, and no particular desire to do so. If anything, he would resent the intrusion. Aphenglow knew this. What frustrated her was that even though she knew not to go looking for him, she could not have done so even if she wanted to. She resented her inability to act; she was angered by her incapacitation.

She hated that all she could do was sit in this bed and wait.

She was mulling over her unfortunate state when Khyber Elessedil appeared suddenly and unexpectedly in the doorway.

“May I speak with you, Aphen?”

Right away Aphenglow knew something was wrong. When the Ard Rhys bothered to ask if she could talk to you, you could be certain she had something unpleasant to say.

“Is it Bombax?” Aphenglow replied at once. “Has something happened to him?”

“This doesn’t concern Bombax.” The Ard Rhys walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. “How are you feeling?”

She grimaced. “Bored. Frustrated. Anxious to be doing something.”

“You are doing something. You are mending. Are you using your skills to speed the healing?”

“Three times a day, no exceptions. I think I can begin walking in a day or so.”

The Ard Rhys smiled. “Let’s not rush things, Aphen. You can only do so much.”

“I want to go with you,” Aphenglow blurted out, unable to contain herself any longer. “You have to let me! You need me! Without me, you can’t be sure of where you’re going. I’m the one who saw the vision. I will recognize landmarks you might miss. Please! Let me go!”

Khyber Elessedil shook her head. “You are so eager. What if this turns out to be something other than what you expect? What if it leads to nothing? What if it is all a trick of some sort? Magic can betray even us.”

“I don’t care. I want to be there. I’m the one who found the diary. I deserve to go!”

“You do deserve to go. Not only did you find the diary and bring it to the rest of us, but you recognized its value right away. You found the connection between Aleia Omarosian and the Elessedils. You opened so many doors, even when doing so endangered you. I do not in any way underestimate your contributions.”

She sighed. “That said, I want you to remain here. Wait, hear me out. I need someone to keep watch over Paranor, a Druid with wits enough to know what to do if anything threatens in my absence. That would be Bombax, if he were here.”

“But you need Bombax!” Aphenglow was insistent, desperate to change the other’s mind. “I’m not as skilled with magic. If you wait for him, perhaps I will be well enough for you to reconsider your decision to leave me.”

“We have no idea when he’ll return. Even use of the scrye has failed to reveal any trace of his whereabouts. We cannot wait longer for him. Our expedition will leave tomorrow. Someone either knows or suspects what we are about. If they dare to attack you in your own city—in your own home—then there is reason to believe they will come after us. The quicker we act, the more difficult we make it for whoever hunts us.”

“But, Mistress, a few more days …”

“No, Aphen. The matter is settled. I want you here. You are incapacitated through no fault of your own, but incapacitated nevertheless. You lack mobility and strength. If we are threatened or even attacked, you become a liability that risks the lives of others because you cannot defend yourself as you need to. You know this. I regret you have suffered this setback, but disappointment is a part of all our lives.”

Aphenglow fought back her tears. I will not cry! “How will you manage without me to guide you? What will you do when you come to a place you don’t recognize and cannot ask me what I saw in my vision? My notes are thorough, but there is no substitute for having seen firsthand what it is we seek. You cannot know what difficulties you might encounter later. I have to be there!”

“Not if I perform a skiving of those memories so they become my own.” The Ard Rhys paused. “Will you agree to that?”

A skiving. Aphen flinched. An excising of layers of images forming certain memories in one person’s mind and transplanting them into another’s. Few Druids—few magic wielders of any sort—had the skill to accomplish this. Khyber Elessedil was one.

But it was an intrusion into the mind, a trespass into space that was the sole property of the owner. It had never been done to Aphenglow, and she had thought it never would.

“I don’t want anyone in my mind,” she said quietly, firmly. “I cannot endure it.”

Khyber nodded. “I don’t blame you. I would not ask it of you if there were a reasonable alternative. I promise not even to glance at anything but the Elfstone vision. A quick excision and then I am gone. If you experience pain or fear, I give you leave to banish me.”

“I don’t know.”

The Ard Rhys reached over and took Aphenglow’s hands in her own. “Yes, you do. You know.”

Aphenglow nodded. She did know. She was a Druid first and always, and she would do what her Ard Rhys asked of her because that was the commitment she had given.

Khyber readjusted their hands so that Aphenglow’s were open, palms up, and her own were resting lightly on top of them, palms down. “Look at me, Aphenglow. Look into my eyes and do not look away.”

“I hate this,” Aphen said in response.

“Keep looking at me. Think about the vision. Any part of the vision. Don’t think of anything else but that. Let your mind relax and drift from one image to another. Keep remembering. Look at me. Look at me.”

Aphen obeyed, feeling the first twinges of the expected invasion, a sort of tingling that began in her hands and slowly worked its way up her arms, through her neck, and finally into her head. She forced herself not to move, not to react, just enduring it, letting the skiving happen. The presence of the Ard Rhys was unmistakable, the feel of her moving around in her mind, touching here and there, prowling. Aphenglow wanted to scream, to throw her out, to stop what was happening and erase its memory as the tide might erase all traces of passage on a sandy beach.

But she could not do that. She had given her word. She must hold fast.

Then, without warning, it ended. The presence of the Ard Rhys vanished, the invasion was over, and her mind and body were hers again. She felt Khyber’s hands withdraw, moving up to grip her shoulders.

“That was very brave of you,” the Ard Rhys whispered and kissed her on the cheek.

Aphenglow closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “Just don’t ever ask me to do that again.”

There was no response. When she opened her eyes, Khyber Elessedil was gone.

Shadows everywhere. Darkness all around.

Drust Chazhul worked his way cautiously down the deep gloom of the hallway leading to Edinja Orle’s chambers, already questioning the wisdom of his decision to visit her in this manner. He had wanted to speak to her somewhere private, somewhere their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. He knew he had no hope of persuading her to come to his own chambers, so he had decided on the bold approach of asking to come to hers. Surprisingly, she had agreed without a moment’s hesitation.

But she wanted him there after dark when he would not be seen and she could be certain of his intentions.

She could never be certain of that, he had thought at the time, but he admired that she believed she could. But then he, too, was risking something by coming alone to her, when he would be most vulnerable to whatever harm she might choose to inflict on him. So when he had agreed to her terms, he had mentioned casually that he would tell Stoon and his other retainers that they would not need to accompany him—just to advise her that someone would know where he was going, lessening the chances of her attempting anything unpleasant.

And he was not entirely without protections of his own. He was never without those.

But this darkness was annoying and made it difficult for him to maneuver, and he wondered how she could manage to do so herself. He groped his way along the wall, recalling the distance from the entry to the first door, keeping one hand stretched out in front of him to let him know when he reached it.

Even so, he came up against its rough surface less ready than he had expected to be, banging his hand and scraping his knuckles against the iron hinges. Cursing softly, he felt around for the handle, grasped hold, and twisted clockwise, half expecting that it would be locked.

But the latch released and the door opened smoothly. Beyond, a large entry was lit with a single smokeless torch of the sort favored by those who commanded magic. Edinja’s talent was legendary; she far outstripped anyone else in Arishaig. She might have been marginalized on the political spectrum because of it, given that tolerance for any use of magic was severely limited in the Federation these days, save that her family was old and established and greatly feared. No one with any sense—which included himself—wanted to risk incurring the enmity of the Orle family. So until recently he had ignored her attraction to magic and been careful to stay on civil terms with her.

That state of affairs had lasted until he secured the position of Prime Minister. Now he was not at all certain how she felt or what she intended to do about him.

He crossed the entry to the door beyond, this one smaller and less forbidding. Perhaps it was the light that made it so. He paused and knocked softly.

“Come,” he heard her say from within.

He opened the door and found himself in a room draped with silks and layered with carpets and throws and pillows. It looked to be less a reception chamber than a bordello, but he brushed that thought aside quickly. Candles burned everywhere, and the sweet scent of incense filled the air. He tried not to breathe it in but could not avoid doing so.

Edinja reclined on a couch at the back of the room. She was robed and hooded, though her fine, soft features were visible in the candlelight. She wore silken slippers on her tiny feet, ribbons flowing from her long silver hair. The rings that adorned her fingers glinted softly, small flashes of silver and gold. There was an unmistakable glow about her dusky skin that suggested an inner light. She was beautiful in a sharp, angular way, though he had never looked at her himself like that, only acknowledged what others said and thought. She lived alone, unmarried and unpartnered. It was said she took lovers now and then, but no one seemed clear on who or even what they were. Not that it mattered in the least to him.

Her only true companion lay stretched out a few yards away against the back wall. Cinla, sleek and sinewy, was a moor cat of average size, but striking design. Her strange reddish gold color was an exquisite rarity. Like all moor cats, she had the ability to appear and disappear at will, sometimes without even seeming to move. She accompanied her mistress outside her chambers every now and then, even on occasion into the Coalition Council chambers, but mostly she remained hidden from view. Drust himself had seen the big cat only once.

There were rumors about the relationship that existed between Edinja and Cinla, but they were of the sort that most often originated from malicious gossip and lacked any basis in truth. Still, there was a troubling intelligence in the moor cat’s green eyes as she studied Drust. He held her gaze only a moment before looking away.

“Good evening, Prime Minister,” Edinja greeted, indicating a chair close to where she rested.

“Good evening to you, Minister Orle,” Drust returned. He moved over to the chair indicated and sat down. “I appreciate your giving me this opportunity to speak with you alone.”

“And I that you were willing to come to me in my chambers so that this meeting could be conducted discreetly.”

He smiled. “I am flattered to be allowed into such a private place.”

“It must be difficult finding time for meetings such as this these days,” she responded, dismissing his compliment with a small wave of one tiny hand. “Given the demands of your new office.”

He decided not to let that pass. “Let me say something right up front. I am fully aware that you wanted the position of Prime Minister and that you are less than happy that I now own it. I didn’t seek it out and perhaps I should have refused when it was offered. But it seemed wrong to do so when you and Commander Arodian were at such odds. I took it as a means of avoiding further conflict, not to satisfy any need of my own. You may not believe me, but this is so. I am aware that you are better qualified to be Prime Minister than I am. So is Arodian, for that matter. I have said so publicly. I am here for that very reason. I cannot do this without your help.”

“Is that so?” She said it as if it were hard for her to believe. “You think yourself inadequate? You believe you require my poor skills to help you navigate treacherous waters?”

“An overly dismissive way of phrasing the level of your skills and experience, Edinja. But however you see yourself, the time has come for us to work together. I am approaching you first. I have not spoken to Arodian. I will tell you something quite frankly. I neither like nor trust him. He is too ambitious and too arrogant for me to believe he will lift a finger on my behalf. You, I think, are more farsighted.”

“Or at least more pragmatic.” She gave him a shrug. “I don’t see the purpose in waging war with you, Drust. I haven’t the time or energy for it. My turn as Prime Minister will come soon enough. Oh, not that way. In the orderly course of events, the position will find its way to me. But for now, I would consider acting as your adviser and confidante, if that is what you are seeking from me?”

“It is exactly what I seek.”

She rose suddenly and walked across the room. “Something to drink? A little wine?”

“A little only.”

She made a point of letting him see her pour the wine into both glasses from the same decanter. Then she carried it across the room to him, tasting it herself from her own glass before handing him his, letting him know it was safe to drink.

“I don’t think you would poison me in your own chambers,” he said, taking a substantial drink. He glanced down at the wine and nodded. “Very nice.”

She laughed softly. “You would be surprised what I would dare to do. But poisoning you is not high on that list. Something else is, however. Before I agree to work with you, we need to reach an understanding about my use of magic. You are on record as opposing its use. You wish to see all practice of it abolished. That presents a problem for someone like myself.”

“I can see that it would. But I am firm about this. Magic is unpredictable and dangerous. It is a tool of the elite. Only a few have it, and the rest of us can only look in through the window and wonder at its attractive glitter. Worse, most of it is controlled by the Druids, and the Druids are the Federation’s enemy.”

She nodded, shrugged. “I care nothing for the Druids. I dislike them as much as you do. But I cannot give up using magic simply to satisfy your obsession with furthering the use of science. We need a better approach to solving this problem.”

He watched her drink a little more wine from her glass. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“I do. Wage your campaign against magic, but confine it for now to the Druids. Their order is far and away the most obvious and unattractive congregation of magic users. No one likes or respects them, and any attacks on them will be met with widespread indifference. Perhaps somewhere down the road, a few years from now, after the Druids are destroyed and your own position secured, you can find a way to make an exception for me and those who act for me.”

Drust Chazhul frowned. He didn’t much care for making her any promises. “Perhaps,” he allowed.

She frowned. “You patronize me, Drust. I can hear it in your voice and see it in your eyes. You say what you think will keep me compliant, but you have no real intention—”

She stopped suddenly, a startled look on her face. Her hand went to her throat and her mouth opened as she gasped for air. Drust Chazhul stared at her in a mix of confusion and shock.

“What have you done?” she hissed at him.

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing! I … don’t … What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“The wine!” She was on her feet, throwing away her glass, clutching now at her chest. “You’ve poisoned it!”

“No! I’ve done nothing!” He reached out to catch her as she lurched toward him, but she pushed him away. “Edinja, this wasn’t my doing!”

“Liar! Pretending … friendship, and all … the while …”

Cinla was sitting up straighter, watching it all, but not doing anything. Not yet. Drust looked in the moor cat’s eyes and began to back away, edging toward the door. What was happening here? Edinja had dropped to her knees and was bent over, retching violently. Drust knew he should do something, but he couldn’t think what it was. If it was poison, one needed to know what kind in order to provide an antidote. Her symptoms suggested something of every poison he knew.

“Treachery!” Edinja shrieked. Then she toppled over and lay still.

Dead. Drust knew it at once. Her eyes fixed, her skin turned blue, her inner glow gone dark, her voice silenced. A white froth leaked from between her lips, pooling onto the floor.

Drust kept backing away, aware that Cinla was on her feet now and moving over to where her mistress lay. It would only be seconds before the moor cat turned her attention back to him. He had to get out of there before that happened. None of this was his doing, but if he were found in her chambers like this he would be blamed anyway. No amount of explaining would save him.

His eyes still on the moor cat as it sniffed Edinja’s motionless body, he backed into the chamber door, fumbled for the handle, released the latch, and was on the other side almost before he knew it. Making sure the latch was set, he rushed across the entry to the larger door, wrenched it open, and fled into the blackness beyond.