The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(53)

She was on the verge of losing her grip entirely when the door to her prison opened and a shadowy figure slipped into the room and came over to stand next to her. Although no sounds issued from the newcomer’s mouth, Chrysallin knew right away that this was not one of her tormentors, but someone new. Hands touched her gently, moving to her wrists and ankles, releasing her bonds. Arms came around her shoulders and gently helped her into a sitting position.

“I would have come sooner,” Mischa whispered, holding the girl close. “I tried. But they watch you so closely.”

Chrysallin tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She nodded instead, hugging the old woman back.

“There, there,” the other cooed, stroking her back, patting her softly. “Let’s get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Chrysallin shook her head. “Can’t … don’t look at me, please.”

Mischa made a titching sound. “They’ve gone too far. This is beyond reason. Here, I’ve brought you some clothes. Let’s get you dressed. You’ll be fine now. I’m here to help.”

Chrysallin was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she slipped into the clothes Mischa had brought, trying not to look at herself and at the same time to shield her battered, bloodied body from the old woman, ashamed of what had been done to her. She was so grateful she could barely manage to keep from breaking down completely, the emotions she had kept bottled up during her imprisonment now threatening to undo her.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right. I’m taking you out of here to somewhere safe. Just dress yourself. Hang on to me, if you need to.”

Chrys was shaking as she pulled on the clothes, the pain of her open wounds and damaged body causing her to gasp aloud. She eased herself carefully into the confines of the cloth, biting her lip against the rawness of the pain. It took her several long minutes, but Mischa never asked her to hurry.

“Lean on me,” Mischa told her. “Just stay with me.”

They moved toward the door, Chrysallin hobbling on feet and legs too damaged for anything more, supported by the surprisingly strong old woman. She managed to keep from crying out when her movements caused sharp stabs of agony, although she could not contain small gasps and groans.

“You know what they want, don’t you?” the old woman whispered as they slipped through the doorway and started down the empty hall beyond.

Chrysallin shook her head no. Her eyes scanned the shadows ahead, searching for the gray-haired Elven woman.

“They didn’t tell you?”

Another shake of her head.

“You don’t know anything? All that time they tortured you, and they didn’t tell you anything?”

Chrysallin was crying again, unable to respond.

“Then I will tell you!” Mischa hissed, “as soon as we are safely away. I will tell you what these monsters want!”

She guided Chrysallin ahead, moving at a steady pace, not rushing her, helping her to stand, speaking to her in low, hushed tones, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. The girl listened, clinging to the words as she would to a lifeline thrown in a violent dark sea, desperate to believe that this was the chance she had prayed for, a way out of her misery, a way back to her home and family. She forced herself to ignore her pain and her fear, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, telling herself that each step brought her that much closer to freedom.

They went out of the building and onto a street, but this was not a place Chrysallin recognized. The avenue was narrow and dark, the surrounding buildings crowded close, shadows cast everywhere, the sun shut away. It was barely daylight, the air gray and damp. The stones on which she walked were wet with a recent rainfall, and she had to be careful not to slip and fall.

They went only a short distance before Mischa turned her into the doorway of another building, and they went inside. From there they followed a hallway to a set of stairs that took them up one floor, then down another hall a short distance to where Mischa lived. Once inside her rooms, the old woman helped Chrys into a comfortable chair and brought her hot tea to drink. Mischa’s home was a living space, kitchen, and two back rooms the girl assumed were bedrooms. She couldn’t see beyond that. She sipped at the tea and waited for her rescuer to seat herself on the couch across from her.

“You listen to me, girl. You listen close. There’s things happening that might be not so much to your liking even beyond what’s been done to you. There’s schemes and trickery afoot, and that Elven woman is right in the middle of it. Now you and your brother have been brought into the mix, as well, and you might find it to your advantage to do something to change that soon.”

“How?” Chrys managed, her voice a croak, rough and blunted.

“By getting far away from here. By finding your brother and telling him what I am about to tell you. By being smarter and quicker than the witch woman and the sorcerer.”

“What … do you … know?”

The old woman leaned toward her, dark eyes intense, lips compressed into a thin line. Her bony hands clasped together as she rested her elbows on her knees. Her hawk eyes fixed on the girl.

“Arcannen is ambitious,” she said. “He is not satisfied with being just what he is now. He has much bigger plans for his future. They begin with destroying the Druids and taking their magic for himself, and he has found a way to do this. Before the month is out, a Druid will assassinate the Prime Minister of the Federation. When that happens, the Southland cities will rise up and crush the Druids once and for all. Then Arcannen will step into the void their departure has left.”