The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(85)

It was the first of two pieces to the disguise he would assume.

The second was the change he had made to his facial features. Temporary, not permanent, and good for at least several hours, so that whomever he encountered or who happened to get a look at him would be able to describe him accurately to those who would come looking for him later.

He summoned one of the carriages that were always waiting at the edge of the field by the manager’s office and ordered the driver to take him to the Assembly and the chambers of the Coalition Council. He rode inside the closed passenger’s compartment with the curtains drawn and did not bother looking out. He was wrapped in his black robes and had his hood pulled up over his head, leaving only his face and hands visible. He was already deep in character, assuming the behavioral traits of the man he was impersonating. For the next two hours, or however long it took, he would become that man, and those who saw him would have no reason to doubt what they were seeing.

He experienced a brief moment of regret that things had failed to turn out the way he had wanted, but that was the nature of attempting to manipulate others. You had to be fluid in your thinking and in your decision making. Matters had a tendency to go awry no matter how well laid your plans. Arcannen knew this. Never so much so as in this case, but what was required to right the situation was the same as always. He must adapt and he must do so quickly.

And no one was better at it than he was.

When he arrived at the imposing edifice that was now called the Assembly, he paid the driver with Federation credits and ascended the steps leading to the building’s primary entrance. He knew his way and did not have to ask for directions. His robes and the emblem they bore identified him well enough that he was barely slowed at the checkpoints. A few of the guards gave him a look of recognition, and one even saluted him. Good enough. His disguise had not been uncovered. When his business was over, his identity would be confirmed. Eventually, the truth might surface, but by then his plans for the Druid order would have come to fruition as intended.

He wound his way through the Assembly hallways, keeping to himself, doing nothing to suggest that he desired conversation with anyone. In short order, he was standing at the entrance to the offices of the Minister of Security. Here, he was stopped briefly, his identity apparently not so well known. Eventually Crepice emerged to confront him.

“Isaturin,” the aide greeted him, bowing slightly. “We welcome you to this ministry.”

He bowed in return. “I am appreciative of your hospitality. I hope to speak with Minister Caeil. Is he available for a brief conversation?”

Crepice hesitated, his eyes shifting away momentarily and then back again—assessing the situation. Arcannen recognized the look. He was deciding what he should tell Isaturin—a man who was clearly antagonistic toward this office and its avowed purpose.

“Come into the waiting room and let me find out if he can see you.” Crepice had decided favorably. “I am sure something can be arranged.”

He guided Arcannen from the outer office to the reception area beyond and motioned for him to take a seat in one of the chairs set against the far wall. Then he disappeared through the familiar double doors that led to Fashton Caeil’s chambers. Arcannen sat down and waited, thinking through how he would handle what must happen next. Crepice would be right outside the chamber doors, so he would have to be careful.

He had only a few minutes to wait before the doors opened anew and out walked Caeil, his corpulent frame garbed in scarlet robes, his face flushed, his arms outstretched in greeting.

“What a surprise!” he enthused, grasping both of Arcannen’s hands in his own. “This visit is long overdue and much welcomed!” He paused, as if remembering something. “Although I have heard it said in certain quarters that your feelings for this office are not of the warmest sort.”

Arcannen nodded and managed a regretful look. “Times change. Attitudes evolve. I think a meeting between us is long overdue. I am hopeful that a reconciliation between the Federation and Paranor might begin at this very meeting.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Caeil released his hands and stepped back. “Come in, then. Let’s sit down and discover what sort of agreement we can achieve.”

Leaving Crepice to close the doors behind them, they entered Caeil’s chambers and sat, Caeil behind his desk, Arcannen in front of it. The minister bent forward to lessen the distance between them and smiled. “So, Ambassador Isaturin, what is it I can do for the Fourth Druid Order and its esteemed Ard Rhys?”

Arcannen motioned for him to lean even farther forward, and then he bent closer himself—a gesture that suggested that secrets and confidences were about to be shared.

“Well, Minister,” the sorcerer replied, the Stiehl already in his hand and held just out of view below the desktop, “you can die.”

In a quick, practiced movement, he snatched the front of Fashton Caeil’s robes with his free hand, yanked him across the desk, and buried the Stiehl at the base of his throat, severing his vocal cords and spinal column. Caeil went limp, his mouth opening and closing, and Arcannen pinned him to the desk while he worked the edge of the black knife blade back and forth, separating the other’s head from his shoulders.

It was over in seconds. The minister’s heavy body slumped to the floor, but his head—eyes wide in shock, mouth hanging open—remained atop the desk.