The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(56)

He was closing in on his destination when he saw the old woman Mischa coming out of an alleyway beside the building where she lived. Right away he froze in place until she paused to look behind her, and then he stepped quickly into the deep shadows of a doorway. It was already hard to see, the light leached from the sky by night’s arrival and by rolling clouds that had blanketed the city since sunrise. Pressed back against the walls of the alcove, he watched the old woman creep into view like a predator in search of food and start down the street toward Dark House.

Immediately he decided to wait awhile before continuing on. He didn’t like Mischa. He couldn’t have said what it was exactly, only that his fear and dislike of her was a tangible thing and he suspected she was evil in a way that matched Arcannen. She and the sorcerer were two of a kind, twin dark stars in a firmament of scheming and machinations. He had only spoken to her a couple of times, and a couple was more than enough for him to form an opinion. It wasn’t that she threatened him or tried to harm him. It was his conviction that she could do either—and it wouldn’t cause her to lose much sleep if she did.

Even the way she moved was unnerving. Like a spider. He was small and skinny, so there wasn’t much of him to spy, but he was frozen in place nevertheless. People often didn’t see him because he was not particularly noticeable. He used that to his advantage here, willing her not to look in his direction but to keep moving ahead.

She did so, disappearing around a corner and moving out of sight.

He glanced back at the building. A single light burned in a window on the second floor. The rest of the building was dark.

That was probably where she had her rooms.

He wondered why she seemed so furtive around her own home, as if not wanting anyone to see where she was coming from. She lived there, after all; everyone knew it. So why all the stealth and suspicion? Why all the casting about, as if afraid she would be seen?

He wondered suddenly what her place was like inside. He wondered what she kept in there.

Grehling gave her almost half an hour before resuming his delivery. Then he hurried on, dropped the package at the front door with the guards, and went his way, the matter set aside, but not forgotten.





[page]SIXTEEN




CHRYSALLIN LEAH’S SLEEP WAS DARK AND DEEP AND FILLED with nightmares. In succession they flooded her troubled mind, stealing away the momentary peace she had experienced after being rescued by Mischa, returning her to a sense of impending doom.

The first began in a meadow where she walked through sunlight toward a river, accompanied by her brother. Paxon was cheerful and his laughter was bright, and she felt his strong presence as a reassurance of her safety and freedom. She felt buoyant and at ease as she traversed a carpet of meadow wildflowers and smelled their sweet scent wafting on a soft breeze.

But soon she sensed a lessening of the wildflower presence as the swatches of color and the smells on the air diminished and then faded completely. She was in a pasture now, its carpet all dried and browned, the green of the fresher meadow grasses having disappeared. The skies had lost the sun’s brightness, and clouds had moved in to curtain the blue. She slowed, hesitating, and as she did so she felt something grapple at her ankles and wrap about her legs. She looked down and found herself entwined by saw grass and weeds, whipcord-tough and working hard to bind her in place and hold her fast.

She struggled to break free, but the weeds and grasses were too strong, and finally she could not move at all. In desperation, she turned to find her brother, but he had disappeared. She cast about desperately, calling out his name, trying to discover what had happened to him. She could not believe he had left her like this, without a word of warning.

When she looked again to where she had last seen him, the gray-haired Elven woman who had bound and tortured her in Dark House was standing in his place, smiling. Her lips moved, shaping words that Chrysallin understood, even though they made no sound.

Tell me what you know.

Chrys screamed in terror, grasping for the knife she knew was tucked within her belt and finding it missing. She wrenched furiously at the grasses, but they only clung all the tighter to her. She clawed at strands and stalks, trying to pry them away from her, but they refused to budge.

Then tiny bugs emerged from the earth beneath her feet and began to climb her legs, working their way under her clothing and into her boots. She could hear the gnashing of their tiny teeth, and then they were biting her, tearing at her flesh. She felt her skin break and her blood begin to flow. She collapsed in despair, shrieking.

The bugs were suddenly all over her.

Abruptly, the meadow with its bugs and withered grasses and the gray-haired Elven woman disappeared into blackness, and she was alone again. She felt herself rising, and when the light returned, she was standing on a mountainside, high up in the clouds, wind whipping snow and particles of ice against her skin. She wore no coat, hat, or gloves. The cold was bitter and relentless as it tore at her clothing and lashed her skin. She stared about, looking for where she was supposed to go, thinking there must be a trail leading down. Yet she could barely see beyond her outstretched hand where it braced her against the cliff face.

Eventually, she took a few tentative steps along the narrow path on which she stood. But the path led neither up nor down, and she could not see if that changed beyond where she crept along its slender length. She kept going nevertheless, knowing she must get off this mountain. If she stayed where she was, she was going to freeze to death. She would die if she did not find shelter.