The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(57)

Then an opening in the cliff wall appeared and she ducked hurriedly inside. She was in a huge cave, one that stretched away in all directions before her. The walls gave off a pale greenish light, a glow that chased back the darkness. Time slipped away as she proceeded deeper into the cavern, losing sight of where she had entered, finding that the walls ahead did not seem to get any closer as she went.

She was thinking of turning back again when the gray-haired Elven woman appeared, emerging from the shadows right in front of her. She drew up short, cringing involuntarily at the other’s approach. She took a step back, intending to flee. But the other stopped, hands at her side, smiling in a way that suggested to Chrysallin that flight was pointless.

Lips formed familiar, soundless words: Tell me what you know.

Then the shadows layering the walls lifted and became vague figures that took shape and approached like wraiths through the cavern gloom. Chrysallin backed away, but everywhere she turned, the shadows were closing in on her. She forced down the scream rising in her throat, fought back against her fear as it threatened to suffocate her. The shadows were close to her now, and there was nowhere for her to go, no avenue of escape open, no chance of finding help.

When they reached her, she had her hands up to her face and her eyes squeezed shut, and she could feel their touch on her body like the icy fingers of creatures long dead and frozen.

Help me, she begged the darkness. Please, help me.

The shadows draped her, and her breathing was cut off.

Seconds later she was standing on the cliffs above an ocean, looking out over a vast blue expanse of empty water. The cliff on which she stood was a thousand feet high, and its precipice was rocky and barren save for small tufts of sea grasses. Below, the face of the cliff disappeared into the water, a smooth sheer surface from which to tumble. She found the urge to do so almost irresistible. Strangely inviting. She could throw herself over, fall unimpeded to the ocean’s depths, and escape the nightmares that plagued her. She was aware of them, even in her dreams, knowing they would come again and again, never-ending visual impressions of what threatened her. It was almost more than she could stand, and relief could only be found if she were to give herself up to a watery tomb.

The sense of hopelessness she felt at what was happening to her was overwhelming. It was relentless and purposeful, and there was nothing she could do about it but jump and be done with her life. Why not give in to the urge? Why not save herself from further pain and fear? Was her life so precious that she would endure it even in the face of such misery?

Again, the gray-haired Elven woman materialized out of nowhere, standing close, looking at her, smiling.

Suddenly she found a well of strength she didn’t know she possessed—a strength given life by the hatred she felt on looking at this monster. Her rage was fueled by thoughts of what she would like to do to this creature, of how good it would feel to make her suffer for what she had done. White-hot and unchecked, her anger burned through her, providing fresh purpose and determination.

With a cry, she launched herself at the other, hands outstretched, intent on tearing the other’s face off, of obliterating her smiling presence.

But when she reached her, the Elven woman wasn’t there, had become a wraith that faded away, and Chrysallin passed through her empty image and toppled over the cliff’s edge and began to fall. All at once, she knew she had made a mistake. She didn’t want this to happen. She didn’t want to die. She had been tricked.

Too late. She was plunging toward the flat, hard surface of the ocean, and she knew that when she struck she would be killed on impact. There was no hope; her fate was determined. But the fall went on and on, and it would not end. She screamed now, and curled herself into a ball as the wind rushed past and the sound of the waters below lapping against the cliff face reached her ears. Soon now, she kept thinking. Any second.

But still she fell and did not stop.


She woke in the bedroom in which she had fallen asleep, still in Mischa’s home. But now she was lashed in place again, spread-eagle across the bedding, her arms and legs held fast. The men who had tortured her were back again, gathered close, watching. Their eyes glittered in the light of smokeless lamps that cast their shadows on the walls behind them, larger than life. They held metal implements that would cut and rend. They were stripped to the waist, their muscled arms gleaming. None of them spoke a word as they stood there watching her, waiting.

Then, from the darkness, the familiar voice said softly, “Begin.”

Chrysallin twisted and thrashed in response, trying to break free, to escape what was coming, and as she did so she caught sight of Mischa’s severed head resting on a platter on the nightstand next to the bed, eyes open and staring.

Then the pain began anew.


Aphenglow Elessedil was working through the contents of an address she was planning to present to the Coalition Council of the Southland Federation—one of the rare personal appearances she would make in the coming months—when Sebec appeared in the doorway of her offices in response to her summons. He entered quietly and she could tell at once from the look on his face that he knew something was wrong.

She set aside her speech and turned to him. “Have you inventoried the storage chambers lately?”

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed the door behind him and came all the way in. His young face was strained, and there was a hesitancy to him that suggested whatever it was he had to tell her was not something he could relate easily.