The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(35)

He also pointed out that there had been a sharp increase in the number of readings of magic throughout the Four Lands in the past half a year.

“It all began about the time the scrye orb disappeared,” he told Paxon before they parted that afternoon. “The orb was a companion magic to the scrye waters—different, yet serving the same purpose. Aphenglow found it in the wake of the events surrounding the breakdown of the Forbidding more than a century ago. It happened after she returned to re-form the Fourth Druid Order and build upon its work. The orb allows its holder to view magic of any sort if it manifests itself. It can let the holder know the nature and location of that magic.”

“It disappeared?” Paxon repeated. “How did that happen?”

Starks gave him a look. “Not by accident, I can tell you, but the details are fuzzy. One day it was there, the next it was gone. Stolen, of course. But by whom? And who has it now?”

“But it’s a magic,” Paxon pointed out. “Wouldn’t the scrye waters reveal it at some point? Surely it’s been used.”

“Yes, well, there’s a problem with that. The one doesn’t reveal the other. One magic negates another—a rare but sometimes unavoidable event—so we can’t pinpoint where it is. We are still waiting for something or someone to let us know what happened.”

He didn’t have anything more to add to what he had told Paxon, and the Highlander realized how hard it would be to track something like that once it was gone. But he found himself wondering if whoever stole the orb might not be the same person who had given them away to Arcannen at Grimpen Ward. It would be odd if it weren’t. There couldn’t be two spies within the order, could there?

They set out the following morning aboard the fast clipper and with the same two members of the Troll guard as before. Starks was soon back in his favorite position in front of the pilot box, buried in another book, reading as if there were nothing better to do. Paxon moved to the bow, thought about doing his exercises, then abandoned the idea in favor of a nap. Sleep seemed more important.

They reached Eusta the same day, but very late at night. There was a small airfield occupied by a couple of worn-looking skiffs and one two-masted transport moored up alongside a maintenance shack, and no one around. They spent the night aboard their vessel, then rose at dawn, washed and ate breakfast, and walked into the village.

Eusta was small and worn down by age and weather. Most of the buildings were wood-sided and thatch-roofed, patched and crumbling. A handful of men stood outside a grain storage bin, talking in low voices, and Starks approached them, Paxon at his heels.

“Well met,” he said. “My name is Starks. My companion is Paxon. We’re here about the killings.”

Because he was wearing his Druid robes, there wasn’t much doubt about either who he was or why he was there. But it forced the men who were gathered to engage in conversation with him.

“Two more just last night,” one answered. The man was big and strong, with huge forearms and hands. “Ellice and Truesen Carbenae, on their farm, a mile south of the village. Thing’s not satisfied with taking just one anymore. Now it wants two.”

Last night, Paxon thought. While we slept.

“Anyone see it happen?” Starks asked. “Anyone get a look at this creature?”

“Just those that are dead,” growled a second man, his ferret features sharp and narrow, his eyes challenging. “They didn’t have much to say about it.”

Starks ignored him, eyes on the first man. “Can you take me there?”

“What’s the point?” snapped Ferret-face. “You think you can catch a ghost? You think you’re up to it, Druid? This thing is smart and dangerous. It will end up eating you for its next meal.”

Starks turned. “If you are so concerned about me, why don’t you come along? You can help.”

The man smirked. He glanced at his fellows knowingly, then back at the Druid. “I don’t help Druids.”

“You’ve probably never had one ask you in the right way.” Starks crooked his fingers and twisted them in the way Paxon had seen him do before in Grimpen Ward, and the man went rigid, unable to move. His face turned red with his futile efforts at freeing himself, his mouth opening and closing pointlessly. “There you are,” Starks finished. “All ready to go. I’ll even let you lead.” He turned away. “Can we get under way?” he asked the first man. “What’s your name?”

“Joffre Struen.” Joffre glanced at his companion. “You really going to take him with us?”

Starks shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve made your point.”

The Druid nodded. He turned and gestured again, and Ferret-face dropped to the ground in a heap. “Don’t let me see you again,” Starks said, bending down to him, and then he walked away.

The journey to the farm took a little more than half an hour on horseback. Joffre Struen provided them with horses from the town stables, of which he was owner and manager, and led them south down a dirt road that quickly petered out into broad swaths of pastureland. The day was sunny and bright, the sky clear of clouds and deep blue. The landscape was rolling and grassy, with small patches of forest and plowed fields. It was good soil for growing, Paxon saw, and the crops were just starting to poke through the furrowed earth.