The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(72)

Paxon did so. Starks moved close to the doorman, and their eyes locked. “Listen carefully,” the Druid said to his captive. “I will ask some questions. You will answer them. If you disappoint me, I will break your neck.” He paused, studying the man. “Is any of this not clear? Nod if you’ve understood it all.”

The man, now turning an interesting shade of purple, nodded vigorously.

“First question. Is Arcannen in Dark House?”

The man nodded.

“Is he on this floor?” A negative shake. “Upstairs, in his office?”

Affirmative nod.

“Are there guards with him?”

Another negative shake.

“Has he gone to bed?”

The man hesitated, managed to shrug. Then, an uncertain nod.

Starks reached out with his free hand, pinched the man’s neck hard near the shoulder, and the man collapsed in a heap.

“There will be more guards. We need to avoid being seen. There are back stairs down the hall and off to the left. Come.”

They moved down the corridor without encountering anyone else. Once again, Paxon was struck by the lack of guards and protections. Just as he had the first time, he sensed the possibility of a trap. But Starks seemed unconcerned, and so they reached the side passage and the stairway without incident.

Again, Starks paused, his voice a whisper. “Arcannen’s personal quarters are on the third floor. We will look for him there. If we find him, we will subdue him, then look for your sister.”

“I know where she was last time,” Paxon offered.

Starks nodded. “She won’t be there this time. The sorcerer knows you are coming. He will have moved her. But we might find someone who knows where he is keeping her.”

The Highlander nodded.

Together, they began to climb the stairs.


Arcannen sat at his desk, studying charts on supplies of potions and elixirs, on ingredients used in the construct of magic and conjuring forms he favored. It was busywork, admittedly, but he was not sleepy and he had done all he could about Chrysallin Leah for the moment. After Mischa had left, he had summoned a dozen of his guards and sent some to search the streets and some to watch the airfield. Chrysallin would show up at one place or the other. They would find her.

If Mischa didn’t find her first, of course, using her usual golems and familiars to track her down. He didn’t favor such things himself, preferring more reliable magic, but the witch had learned her skills differently than he so he had to accept her as she was. Besides, if her efforts yielded results he might even be inclined to forgive her for letting the girl escape in the first place. He might begin viewing her once again as indispensable to his plans.

He might, but not likely.

It always came down to the same thing. You could only rely on yourself. It didn’t matter about skills or experience or promises or good intentions or anything else when it came to placing your faith in another person—even someone you were close to, someone who had raised and nurtured and mentored you. You were always the first, best choice for making sure matters turned out the way you wanted. It wasn’t always possible for you to handle everything personally, but it was always possible for you to choose which things you would.

In this case, he had made a poor choice leaving Chrysallin Leah in the witch’s hands rather than keeping her close to him in Dark House.

Water under the bridge now. He would have to hope that either she was recovered so she could be treated further, or she would manage to find her way to Paranor and the Druids.

He leaned back in his chair, the lists and charts momentarily forgotten. He supposed his worldview was different from that of most, but he believed it the only realistic one. Strength was the measure of success, both physically and intellectually. Showing weakness led to failure, and any deviation from your goals only demonstrated your lack of commitment. The world did not give you anything for free; it did not provide help to those who did not look for opportunities and take advantage of them. Moral codes merely held you back; they placed unnecessary restrictions on your options and locked you in place. A willingness to ignore convention and rules was necessary if you were to achieve anything.

He knew how others viewed him. But how others viewed him was not his concern. None of those people would do anything for him. What they wished was to see him driven into the ground, a beaten man. They were jealous of his power and his achievements, and they hated him for his ability to do what they were afraid to do.

They called him wicked and evil; they labeled him a monster. It made them feel better to act as if he were a poison they must avoid at all costs. But strength did not come from belittling others and hiding away behind pretense and subterfuge. It did not come by doing what others thought admirable and consistent with their beliefs. It came from bold, determined action, from a willingness to ignore everything but the goal desired. It came from resilience and commitment.

His connection to and use of magic allowed for most of this. He could overcome almost anything simply by calling on what he had mastered over the years in the black arts. He had developed an affinity for using magic, an emotional and psychological bond that infused him with deep satisfaction when he summoned it, and while it might be argued that his attachment bordered on addiction, he felt the trade-off well worth it. Others might shy away, but they would never have what he did, would never attain what he had.

Thus, in this present situation, he was attempting something that no one had ever succeeded in doing, not just through careful planning and an understanding of how best to exploit weakness that others would not even recognize, but through fluid adaptation to changes and reversals such as the one involving the girl. He was attempting to bring down the Druid order.