The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(70)

“Not yet, but I have taken steps to find out. We have someone in our midst who is both a thief and a traitor to the order. This most recent theft makes four in the past year. The Stiehl is the most dangerous—the other three, including the scrye orb, considerably less so. You were summoned so that I could warn you to be careful. It is not altogether impossible that any of these weapons, but especially the Stiehl, might be used against you. This theft has Arcannen’s mark on it, and you are embarking on a journey to find him. Don’t be careless when you confront him.”

Starks nodded and rose. “We are not the careless sorts,” he said. “Is there more?”

“Only this. If you should find the knife, be certain that you bring it back.”

When they left her chambers, Starks explained to Paxon about the history of the blade—how it was recovered by Walker Boh on his quest to the land of the Stone King and then brought to Paranor when the Keep, closed since the death of Allanon, was reopened. It was an ancient weapon forged of rare metals and infused with dark magic so that it could cut through anything, no matter how strong. It had been kept safe for most of the past thousand years, locked away in the Keep. To have it taken and returned to the larger world where it could be used for any number of terrible purposes was unsettling.

“I want to talk to Sebec,” Starks announced. “He will be the one making inquiries. I want to know what he has found. I want to hear from him directly.”

Together, they tracked down and confronted the young Druid, who gave them what information he had and asked Starks if he knew anything about anyone entering the artifact chambers. The conversation lasted longer than Paxon believed was necessary, but he kept his thoughts to himself and paid attention to what was being said. As it was, they learned nothing useful, and their plans for leaving were delayed by more than half a day.

But now they were approaching their destination, and Paxon’s thoughts of the missing blade and the efforts mounted by the Ard Rhys to find it were forgotten in his focus on the search for Chrysallin. A fresh tension began to build, fueled by a mix of fear and expectation. She had been taken from her home almost a week ago. By now, anything could have happened to her. He was terrified that she might already be damaged in some unchangeable way. Arcannen didn’t seem above exacting revenge simply because his earlier efforts had been thwarted. And while Paxon believed he had more in mind than simple vengeance, he couldn’t quite make himself rule out the possibility. Whatever the case, there was ample reason for him to hurry his efforts and to find his sister with all possible haste.

Starks had said nothing much of what he thought they should do, which was frustrating. He was the leader of this expedition, and Paxon would have liked to have known hours ago how they were going to go about it. But Starks had concentrated his efforts on flying, and Paxon had been reluctant to bring up the matter himself. He knew Starks had a penchant for not speaking of future events until they were close to being upon them.

But now, climbing down from the pilot box and standing together on the darkened airfield by the manager’s office, he turned to Paxon and it seemed he would say something about their plans. Instead, he said, “Where is the field manager?”

Paxon glanced around and pointed. “There’s someone over there.”

The airfield manager was shambling toward them, coming from somewhere out among the moored aircraft. When he reached them, he tipped a battered cap and said, “Well met. Do you require service?”

Starks nodded back. “Our ship needs to be watched over. Can you do that for us?”

“For tonight?”

“Perhaps tomorrow, too.” He glanced at Paxon. “It’s late for a visit,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sleep might be a better choice.”

Paxon shook his head doubtfully. He didn’t like the idea of waiting. “Is Arcannen about?” he asked the manager. “Is he in Wayford?”

“Flew in this afternoon,” the man answered.

“Traveling alone?”

“If you don’t count his crew and his guards.”

“No one else?”

The man shrugged. “My son would know; he sees things better than I do. But he’s not here. Matter of fact, he left right after Arcannen flew in and didn’t come back.” He scratched his beard. “Been wondering about that. He’s late for the night shift. Usually I can depend on that boy.”

“That would be Grehling?”

“That’s him. Able and smart, though he’s got an independent streak a mile wide.” He shook his head. “You never know.”

Instantly, Paxon had a dark premonition. He faced Starks squarely. “I don’t want to wait on this. I want my sister back.”

Starks studied him a moment, and then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go get her.”





[page]TWENTY




THE CITY WAS SILENT, THE STREETS EMPTY.

It was well after midnight when Starks and Paxon began their walk toward Dark House. The former led the way, wrapped in his familiar black robes, hooded now and shadowy against the worn cobblestones, and Paxon kept close behind. The Highlander felt the weight of the Sword of Leah pressing against his back with every step he took, a reminder of what most probably lay ahead. He did not think for a minute that any rescue of Chrysallin would come without a struggle. This time would not be like the last. Arcannen would be fully prepared, aware of the power of the Sword and looking to catch him off guard one way or another.