The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(67)

He understood in that moment why he had never really managed to forget how he felt about her.


He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep before he heard Chrysallin thrashing, but he was awake instantly as he jerked upright from beneath the blankets and hurriedly knelt beside the couch, trying to calm her.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice a rough, sleep-fogged whisper. “You’re safe! Nothing can hurt you here.”

But she was having none of it, her eyes open and staring, her limbs gesturing wildly, her words jumbled and lacking any recognizable meaning. She kept saying something about the Elven woman, about her brother, and about a black knife. She raved about her pain and suffering, begging and begging her tormentors to stop, to let her go. He held her and whispered reassurances, soothed her with hushing and with the touch of his hand as he stroked her long hair. He did everything he knew how to do to calm her, but it was only after a long time that she went still again.

When he lay her back on the couch and adjusted her blanket, it seemed as if she had gone back to sleep.

But when he lay down again himself, he heard her call softly, “Grehling?”

“I’m here.”

“I had a dream. Another dream. A nightmare. It was bad.” She paused. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

He waited, and then said, “I’m real. Your being here with me is real. Being safe is real.”

“Maybe. But everything I thought was real before wasn’t. Now I can’t be sure of anything.”

He heard her shift positions so she was lying on her side, looking down at him. “I still hurt everywhere. I can still feel the pain from what they did to me. I can still remember them doing it.” She took a long shuddering breath. “But there doesn’t seem to be any physical damage. I touch my fingers and hands and arms—which I thought were all torn apart and broken—but they’re just the same as always.”

“Everything about you is fine. You don’t have any damage anyone can see. You look just the same. When it gets light you can see for yourself. All those things you said happened to you—they didn’t. Something was done to make you believe they happened, but they didn’t.”

She was silent for a long time. “I imagined it all?”

“You were made to imagine it, I think.”

“Maybe not all of it.”

He hesitated. “No, I think maybe everything.”

“Not the Elven woman. Not her. She was real. She was there every time I opened my eyes. Mischa was real. You said so yourself. They were both real, but maybe Mischa is dead now. I saw her head on a table.”

Grehling squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. “I don’t think she’s dead. And neither do you. Think carefully. You saw her when we escaped. I struck her with my fist. You saw that happen.”

“Did I? I’m not sure. I don’t know if I remember that. I think it was the Elven woman. She was the one you struck.”

The boy sighed and yawned, reluctant to have this discussion now. “I have to sleep. So do you. We can talk about it in the morning. But I’ll be right here if you need me.”

“Promise?” she asked softly.

“Promise.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence. His breathing deepened and his eyes closed. He was almost asleep again when he heard her say, “When I see her again, I’m going to kill her.”

He didn’t have to ask who she meant.





[page]NINETEEN




WHEN MISCHA SHAMBLED INTO HIS OFFICE AT DARK HOUSE late that evening, a huge bruise on her forehead and both eyes blackened, Arcannen knew at once what had happened.

“The girl got away,” the witch spat, confirming it.

It was with some effort that he managed to keep his composure. “How did she manage that?” he asked.

She slumped into a chair, her head in her hands. “She had help. A boy. I don’t know where he came from, but he must have broken into the building, found her, and taken her out.”

“He was able to free her from the magic?”

“Apparently. It wasn’t that hard. If you were determined enough, you could walk into the room, break the web apart, and free her.” She looked up, her face twisted in pain. “You will remember I told you to be careful not to go into the room when we looked in on her. That was the reason. The strands have a powerful effect on the intended subject, but are otherwise weak.”

“This just happened?”

“A short time ago. I went out for ingredients for the potions that form the bands. When I returned, they were coming out the door. The boy hit me before I could stop him.” She pointed needlessly to her forehead. “When I woke again, they were both gone.”

He hesitated, thinking it through, resisting the urge to leap up and do something. Haste now would be a mistake. The damage, however bad, was already done. He glanced out the window to his right. Darkness had settled in, the light gone out of the world for another day. Another complication.

“How far along do you think the process was? Is she sufficiently subverted by now that she will do what you have set her to do, even though she has been freed?”

Mischa gave him a dark look. “The magic needs time; there isn’t an exact way to measure how much. You know that. It varies with each subject’s strength of will. She has already endured a stronger dosage than most, and still I was not satisfied that she was completely won over. Yes, she is deep under. But another day would have been better.”