The High Druid's Blade Page 5

  But Paxon refused to talk about it, repeating at every opportunity that she should do as he had instructed and keep this whole business to herself. Especially from their mother, who fortunately hadn’t returned in time to discover any of what had happened. She might hear of the confrontation at the Two Roosters, but she was not to hear of the kidnapping or the events that took place in Wayford.

  For the time being, they all needed to be very careful of where they went and what they did. Given Arcannen’s reputation, this might not be finished. Even though Paxon could not believe the sorcerer would risk a return visit to Leah and the Highlands anytime soon, it would be a mistake to take that for granted. So they all needed to keep alert, and if they went anywhere they were not to go alone. Chrys, particularly, had to do better about watching out for herself. She had to stop putting herself at risk.

  His sister was quick to shrug off his warning, but he had seen the look in her eyes when she was in Arcannen’s hands. She was lucky she hadn’t been hurt or molested in any way, and she knew it. Staying close to home and out of trouble would appeal to her for a while at least, and Paxon hoped that would be long enough.

  Meanwhile, he asked about in the city, speaking of a rumor he had heard—that there was a sorcerer in Wayford named Arcannen who owned a business called Dark House and not only commanded magic but was using it in defiance of Federation law. He communicated with those he knew who served on the Highlands Council, the official governing body of the country, and again with a select group of men and women who had family and friends living in Wayford, but his inquiries always ended in cautions. If anyone knew of this man and this place, it might be a good idea to speak with someone in the Federation government about what might be happening and see if something couldn’t be done about it.

  And he asked everyone to be sure to let him know if they found out anything useful.

  But no one had heard or knew anything about Arcannen and Dark House. After a day or two of asking, he quit. He could only do so much without engaging in a full-on confrontation with the sorcerer.

  Even so, he asked the airfield manager and his mechanics to keep watch for any vessel bearing an attacking raven as its emblem or flying a pennant designating it as a ship registered out of Wayford.

  Life went back to the way it had been. He continued making shipping runs into other regions of the Four Lands, but he took Chrys with him when he did, teaching her what he knew about airships and flying, doing what he could to distract her from what had happened and from thoughts of Arcannen’s possible return. Jayet had found another job with another tavern, working once again as a serving girl, but with better people around her. She had grown much closer to Chrys since the Two Roosters incident, and they had started to talk about forming a business making jewelry and baskets. It gave Paxon considerable peace of mind to know that his sister was spending most of her time with someone who would have at least a reasonable chance of keeping her out of trouble.

  He couldn’t have said why Chrys was the way she was. They had grown up in the same household with the same mother, and they had both suffered to some extent from the death of their father. But nothing dramatic or life changing had happened to his sister to turn her into such a wild creature. Nothing had happened to her that hadn’t happened to him—nothing that would explain why she was so reckless and unsettled.

  He watched her while they made their airship runs, working the lines of the trader, tying off radian draws onto the parse tube connectors and hoisting light sheaths and spars. Tall, rangy, already beginning to grow out of her midteen awkwardness, she had all the makings of a first-class airman. She learned quickly, she worked hard, and she listened.

  But in spite of her skills and her potential, she spent her free time down in the taverns anyway—usually with Jayet—drinking with the men, throwing dice, being rowdy and wild. She didn’t get in fights anymore, but she remained confrontational and fiercely independent, and there was nothing he could think to do to change that. Even though his mother asked him now and then if there wasn’t something he could say to her, or a means of persuasion he could employ to help change her, he knew it was a waste of time.

  Chrysallin Leah was who she was, and she was the only one who could ever change that.

  Paxon was aware that he wasn’t all that settled, either. Hero status notwithstanding, he was always looking for something better to do with his life. Much of the time he felt he was drifting, following through with his mother’s expectations and the family’s needs and ignoring his own. Money for food and clothing was a life requirement, and it had to come from somewhere. In this case, it had to come from running the family business. The trouble was that, as a prospect for his life’s work, it was far from satisfying. But he had never found anything else—or at least anything that excited him sufficiently to justify moving away from cargo hauling and into what might turn out to be a reasonable alternative.

  Yet he found himself wondering in the days following his encounter with Arcannen and uncovering of the Sword of Leah’s strange power if perhaps he wasn’t on the verge of doing so. His discovery was exciting and seemed indicative of better things to come. That he had managed to unlock the sword’s power and wield it, that he could use it as a weapon against even the darkest sorcery, was both awe inspiring and thrilling. It was an important responsibility, laden with possibilities, and he wanted to take advantage of them.

  It made him remember some of his ancestors, the ones who had carried the sword on remarkable quests and accomplished great feats—Rone, Morgan, and Quentin—Leahs one and all.

  It also made him think more carefully on Arcannen’s involvement with the sword. The sorcerer, he now believed, had known what the weapon could do when he first saw it. That he would try to come after it at some point seemed almost certain. But how would the sorcerer go about it? And what could Paxon do to prevent it from happening? Certainly, he had managed to escape once. But he had to admit that Arcannen was far more skilled and experienced with using magic than he was, and a second encounter might not turn out as well for him as the first one had.

  Yet his options were limited by his circumstances. He was locked into fulfilling his family’s needs, making cargo hauls, and staying in Leah, and into living with one eye open while sleeping and looking over his shoulder at every sound and shadow while awake.

  He thought about moving away. Maybe it was time. Another man, someone with flying and business skills, could be brought in to run their airfreight service. He could find another city with another kind of work that would better suit him and help keep his family safe by removing himself and the sword from the picture. Maybe Arcannen would lose interest in the talisman if it wasn’t around, and the danger would fade after a year or so and he could come home again.

  He spent much of his time mulling this over, considering the risks and benefits and looking for a sign that would indicate which way he should turn.

  On the first day of the third week following his return from Wayford, that sign appeared.

  He was working down on the airfield, mending the frayed ends of lengths of radian draws that served as replacements for ones that had broken midflight, when a man approached, coming down from the airfield manager’s office at a slow, steady pace. Paxon had never seen him before, but he knew what he was the moment he caught sight of him. Black robes that reached to the ground and covered him from head to foot, a deep-set hood pulled back in the midday sun, and a silver medallion with a hand clasped about a burning torch marked him instantly as a Druid.

  Paxon put down his tools and stood, a dark premonition forming in his chest, quickening his heart.

  The stranger walked up to him, his blue eyes bright and cheerful. “Well met, Paxon Leah. My name is Sebec. I serve in the Fourth Druid Order.”

  He held out his hand and Paxon shook it. Sebec was not particularly tall or imposing looking. If anything, he was slight of build and rather bookish in appearance. And he seemed very young. But there was an intensity to hi
s gaze and a confidence in his manner that let Paxon know not to misjudge him.

  “Your robes and medallion give you away,” the Highlander observed, releasing the other’s hand. “Can I help you?”

  “It might be the other way around.” Sebec gave him a brief smile. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

  Paxon knew what he was suggesting. That it would be better not to talk out in the open where they could be seen, that whatever the Druid wanted to say would be better said in private. Paxon glanced around, trying to think where the best place might be.

  “Perhaps we could go up to your home and sit outside in the yard while we talk,” Sebec suggested suddenly, revealing he knew more than a little about Paxon already.

  Paxon didn’t argue. Together, they walked up from the airfield, skirting the edge of the city to reach the roadway leading to his home. Paxon watched the Druid out of the corner of his eye, still taking his measure, trying to decide what this was all about—even though he was afraid he already knew. It had to be about his confrontation with Arcannen. It was the only thing he could imagine the Druids would be interested in, although he wasn’t sure how the order had learned of it. He worried it might be because he had summoned the magic of the Sword of Leah, and they had a way of tracking such magic.

  He worried they intended to take his sword away from him.

  Once they had climbed the hill—a task Sebec accomplished without breaking a sweat—they sat down together on the porch steps. His mother called out from inside, then appeared in the doorway, brushing flour from an apron and smiling.

  The smile dropped away when she saw Sebec. “Well met,” she greeted the Druid, quickly putting the smile back in place. “I’m Zeatha Leah.”

  The young Druid stood. “Sebec, of the Fourth Druid Order.”

  Something in his manner made her smile widen in spite of what Paxon recognized as her obvious discomfort. “Welcome to our home, Sebec. I’ve just baked cookies. Would you like some?”

  So Paxon and Sebec sat together on the porch eating cookies and drinking cups of ale while looking out over the city. For a while, neither said anything, concentrating on their eating and drinking, lost in their separate thoughts.

  “You have a beautiful view of the Highlands,” Sebec said finally.

  “The land belonged to my family for centuries,” Paxon replied, nodding in agreement. “Once, we owned for as far as the eye can see. But now we make do with fifteen acres and this view.”

  Sebec loosened the ties on his black robes to open them at the neck and let the breeze cool him. “This would be enough for me, if I lived here.”

  Paxon didn’t respond, thinking it was enough for him, too, but he would have liked to experience the time when it all belonged to the Leah family and they were Kings and Queens of the Highlands. Just to see what it would have felt like.

  “I’ve come to ask a favor of you,” Sebec said, putting down his empty cookie plate and cup. “I want you to come with me to Paranor to speak with the Ard Rhys. You won’t be gone long, maybe one night, maybe two. No more, and then I would bring you back again.”

  “She’s going to take away my sword, isn’t she?” Paxon declared, unable to help himself. The words just tumbled out of him, and he felt a deep emptiness at the truth he knew they carried.

  Sebec stared at him. “Do you mean the one you wear strapped across your back? That one? No, I don’t think that’s what she has in mind. She wants to talk to you about something else. But it isn’t my place to speak for her. She wants to do this in person.”

  “But she did not choose to come herself, did she?”

  “She doesn’t go much of anywhere these days, Paxon. She is very old and frail, and it is an effort for her just to get through the day while staying at home. You would be doing her a service by going, and I think maybe doing a service for yourself before matters are concluded.” He paused. “You know of her, don’t you? You are familiar with her name and history?”

  Paxon nodded. “Aphenglow Elessedil.”

  He knew very well who she was. Almost everyone did. And almost everyone knew her history—or as much of it as she allowed them to know. She had been alive for more than a century and a half, kept so by the Druid Sleep. Once within the protective confines of the sleep, Druids stopped aging until they woke again. An Ard Rhys was entitled to use it as often as he or she thought advisable, maintaining consistency in the rule of the Druid Order through longevity.

  But Aphenglow Elessedil was famous from long before her time as the Ard Rhys in the Fourth Druid Order. She was a member of the Elven royal family, and in her youth she had helped her sister Arling, a Chosen of the Ellcrys, pass safely through the ordeal required for her to become the successor to the Ellcrys when the old tree died. She had stood with the Ohmsford twins, Redden and Railing, against the demon hordes when they had broken free of the Forbidding. She had spearheaded the quest undertaken by the Druid order under Khyber when it had gone in search of the missing Elfstones of Faerie, and because of her efforts one set of the precious Stones, at least, had been recovered.

  There were rumors that all of them had been found and returned to the Four Lands but that the others had been lost again. The ones that remained were said to be scarlet in color, but few had ever seen them. They were kept at Paranor in the possession of the Druids as a part of the edict regarding recovered magic and its care and usage. The Elves, he knew, had laid claim to those Elfstones, demanding their return. After all, the Elves already had the blue Stones in their care. Why shouldn’t they be given possession of the scarlet Stones, as well?

  But Aphenglow had denied their demands repeatedly, insisting that the Druid edict on the collection and preservation of magic superseded any nationalistic claims. She was content to let the Elves keep the seeking-Stones, which had been in their possession for thousands of years, but not those scarlet talismans now referred to as the draining-Stones.

  So the antagonism and suspicion that had plagued her throughout her life continued, and Aphenglow Elessedil was never accepted back into the Elven nation as one of their own. She had made her choice, and she would have to live with it. She had chosen the Druid way, embraced its creed and enforced its laws, and it was clear that this is how it would always be. She was a Druid first and an Elf second.

  All of this was common knowledge. Or common to the Leahs and the Ohmsfords who had grown up with it or heard about it later from their parents and grandparents. So Paxon knew something of Aphenglow, but none of it lessened the wariness he felt for Druids in general.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about all this,” he admitted, locking eyes with Sebec. “Even the thought of going to Paranor makes me uneasy.”

  Sebec nodded. “I understand. But I can assure you that you will be in no danger if you come and will be brought back whenever you are ready. The Ard Rhys only desires a chance to talk with you, nothing more.”

  Paxon thought about leaving Chrys behind, about the risk that might be involved if he did. Arcannen might discover he was gone and take advantage of it. But he didn’t want to say anything to Sebec about that particular concern because the Druids might not know about those events after all. Sebec didn’t even seem to know the truth about his sword.

  He looked away. He could simply refuse to go. He probably should. But what if what Aphenglow Elessedil wanted to talk to him about was important? What if it concerned Arcannen and might give him a way to help protect Chrys? What if it did have something to do with the Sword of Leah, and he would anger her by refusing even to discuss it?

  What if he were simply being foolish and cowardly by imagining all sorts of things that weren’t real? Wasn’t he better off just going and getting it over with?

  “All right, I will come,” he said. “But I’ll need time to say good-bye to my mother and sister. I need to make sure they will be all right without me.”

  The young Druid smiled. “Why not let me speak with them? I can reassure them that they won’t have to worry about yo
u.” He climbed to his feet. “I shall start immediately with your mother.”

  And before Paxon could collect his wits sufficiently to question the suggestion, Sebec was walking into the house, calling his mother’s name.

  SIX

  PAXON WAS ASTONISHED AT HOW AMENABLE BOTH HIS MOTHER and sister were to the prospect of his traveling to Paranor. This felt entirely wrong, but the matter was settled almost immediately. Once Sebec had made the suggestion and explained how important it was to the Ard Rhys, neither said a word in opposition. Perhaps it was the young Druid’s earnest demeanor that convinced them. Perhaps he used magic. Whatever the case, his persuasive skills exceeded anything Paxon had ever seen this side of Arcannen. His mother, so reticent about the Druids beforehand, was suddenly excited at the prospects she envisioned would be generated by her son’s newfound importance. His sister, in typical fashion, seemed more interested in Sebec himself than in his news, and dismissed Paxon’s departure with a casual wave and a cryptic remark about staying out of trouble.

  As if he were the one who needed to worry about that particular problem.

  At least he got his mother and sister to agree to take a few days to visit his mother’s sister in the town of Agave, at the eastern edge of the Highlands. It would take them away from the capital city while he was gone, hopefully removing them from any immediate danger of another visit from Arcannen.

  “Are you sure about this, Mother?” he asked her when Sebec had finished speaking with her and had gone back out onto the porch with the fresh glass of ale she had pressed on him. “You don’t mind my going? You won’t worry about me?”

  “I will always worry about you, Paxon,” she said, “but I don’t think there is any risk to you here. I don’t sense any duplicity in this young man. On the contrary, I think him honorable. He intends you no harm. You will be fine, and so will we.”

  So he went, walking down to the airfield with his sword strapped across his back and his travel pack slung over one shoulder, less certain of what he was doing than either his sister or his mother, but doing his best not to show it. Sebec’s vessel was a Rover-crafted double-mast with good lines and black-dyed light sheaths bearing the emblem of the Fourth Druid Order emblazoned in gold. A crew of three awaited them—Trolls serving in the Druid Guard, chosen by the Ard Rhys herself from among volunteers who all came from the same village in the Northland and whose ancestors had served in the guard before them. Big, hulking men, they spoke not a word to either Sebec or Paxon, but simply went about their business, hoisting sails, tying off lines, powering up the diapson crystals in their parse tubes, and setting out.