The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(59)

But there was no help for it. It was what it was, nightshade by any other name still deadly poisonous. When she was finished thinking on it, she exhaled sharply to relieve the tension that had built up within and set about making herself a pot of tea.


It was midday of the following day when Arcannen arrived back in Wayford, his personal airship—courtesy of Fashton Caeil—with its distinctive raven emblem emblazoned on the mainsail setting down in its assigned space. Disembarking, he crossed the airfield, leaving his crew and personal attendants behind, choosing to go alone to his meeting with Mischa. Having finished his business with Fashton Caeil for the moment, his attention was refocused on Chrysallin Leah. By now, she should be sufficiently subverted that she would carry out his plans for the Druids. Mischa was resourceful and relentless when it came to mind alterations, and she would be no less so here where she knew how much was at stake.

Nevertheless he was anxious about this plan, even if it was his own. So much depended on everything falling into place at just the right time and in the right way. A failure on any front would scuttle the entire effort, and the most obvious risk lay with how the girl would respond to what was being done to her.

He intended to extract a further guarantee from Mischa this very day that her magic was doing what she had promised.

Tall, spare, and shadowed within his cloak and cowl, he cut an imposing figure as he passed the field manager’s boy where he worked on repairs to a parse tube set up on blocks close by the business office. The manager himself was present, sitting inside the building, visible through the viewing window, head bent to whatever task currently occupied him. He waited for either of them to glance up at him, but when neither did he dismissed them automatically from further consideration. The boy was occasionally useful, his father less so. Neither had an important place in his life. Even so, he supposed he was more comfortable passing them by unnoticed.

But then he stopped abruptly and turned toward the boy, a new thought occurring to him. He considered it momentarily, then he walked over. Now the boy was looking up at him, an uncertain look on his face.

“Do me a favor,” the sorcerer said to him. “You remember the Highlander I asked you to direct to Dark House a few weeks ago?”

The boy nodded.

“If you see him again, if he flies into Wayford, alone or with others, I want you to come at once to Dark House and let me know. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded once more, but didn’t say a word.

“You’re certain you can do this? You understand what I am asking. I don’t want the Highlander to know what you are about.”

“I understand,” the boy said.

“There will be something in it for you, if you do as I say.”

The boy nodded, but didn’t respond. A bit slow, Arcannen thought to himself, but reliable. Though he wondered suddenly how Paxon Leah, on his earlier visit, had managed to find a way into Dark House without alerting his guards. Had the boy told him?

He dismissed the idea; the boy would never risk the consequences.

He left the airfield behind and walked down the streets of the city, eschewing carriages and horses, feeling the need to stretch his legs and wanting to be alone. Passersby gave way to him, most moving all the way over to the other side of the street. He knew they were frightened of him, and it pleased him to see them demonstrate it openly. It was always better to be feared than respected. Respected men could be approached; they could be talked to and reasoned with. But feared men were simply to be avoided; reason and small talk were out of the question.

He walked not to Dark House, but a short distance farther on to where Mischa’s home was located on the second floor of a seemingly empty building. He took a few moments standing on the walkway of a side street where he could make certain no one was watching him, then crossed to the other side and moved quickly down the alleyway. The lock on the outer door of the building was familiar to him, and he released it easily. Once inside, he passed into the hallway beyond and went up the stairs at its end and down a second hall to Mischa’s front door.

There he paused, listening to the quiet before knocking softly—one loud, three soft—the agreed-upon signal. Time passed, then the locks released, the door swung open, and Mischa stood there looking out at him.

He was surprised at her appearance. She never looked particularly well, because she was old and withered and worn. Still, she almost always seemed composed and steady, even in the most stressful of times. Not today. Today she looked haggard beyond anything he had ever seen, her features contorted, her mouth twisted in a grimace, her eyes ablaze with intensity and raw emotion.

He jumped to an immediate conclusion. “You’ve killed her,” he said.

The grimace turned into something even more horrible. “Likely she’ll kill me first. Come inside.”

The crone turned away and walked into the living area without a glance back. Arcannen followed, closing the door behind him. “She’s all right, then?”

She wheeled back, and the sharp eyes fixed on him. “That depends on your point of view. She’s where I want her to be, but she is strong, that one, fighting me every step of the way, and I can’t be sure at this point if I’ve persuaded her or merely captured her attention for a time.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Mostly, it’s aggravating. She has a strong mind—much stronger than anyone else’s I’ve worked on. She has a core to her that defies explanation. There’s something there. What is her history? What is there about her that might explain this?”