The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(86)
Arcannen took a moment to study his work, then carefully set the knife on the floor to one side, where it would be found, and stepped back. There was a little blood on the sleeves of his robe, but he was able to wipe most of it off on the dead man’s body. If he kept his arms folded against him when he left, nothing of the smears would be seen. He gave Fashton Caeil a last look. The Minister might still be alive if he hadn’t given himself away on their last visit. But suggesting that meeting in public was no longer an option was a clear indication of the direction in which things were going. Caeil’s usefulness as a resource was at an end. He would serve better by drawing the Federation’s attention to the Druids, and the Druids’ attention away from Arcannen as a result.
He took a moment to compose himself, making certain he was back in character as the Druid Isaturin, and then he walked to the door and opened it. Crepice was sitting at his desk, but he got up immediately as Arcannen appeared. The sorcerer waited until the man was close enough, then reached out quickly, grasped his neck, yanked him close, and twisted his head sharply to one side. Crepice went limp instantly.
Arcannen caught the body in his arms and dragged it behind the desk, leaving it there, out of sight.
Then, still in character as Isaturin, he walked through the doors leading out, closed them behind him, nodded to the guards standing watch and disappeared down the hall.
[page]TWENTY-FOUR
APHENGLOW ELESSEDIL WAS TALKING WITH GREHLING IN HER chambers, urging him to tell her what had happened to Chrysallin Leah.
“So when you found her in Mischa’s quarters, she was strapped to a bed in a room that was crisscrossed by glowing lines. But you could walk through these lines and they shredded and disappeared? They didn’t hurt you? You didn’t feel anything?”
The boy thought about it. “They didn’t hurt me, but they did something to me. They made me see images of Chrysallin and a gray-haired Elven woman. Chrys was in trouble; she was in pain. And—”
He stopped suddenly, staring at her. “And what?” she encouraged him. She needed to understand what had happened. “Go on, Grehling. Tell me everything.”
“The gray-haired Elven woman looked like you.” He hesitated. “In fact, it was you.”
“You’re certain about this?”
He nodded. “But then the images went away when I broke enough of the threads. So I got her free and took her out of there. She was in a lot of pain. She kept saying she had been tortured and no one could bear to look at her ever again. She seemed to think that she had broken bones and that there was blood all over her; it was hard to make sense of it all. I couldn’t see anything wrong with her. She looked fine to me. But I didn’t ask her about it. She was too upset. I just wanted to get her away. We bumped into Mischa right outside the door, coming back from wherever she’d gone, but I hit her hard enough to knock her out. We ran then, and I took Chrysallin to Leofur’s house.”
He went on from there, describing how Leofur had taken them in and they had slept until the black creature broke down the door and then Leofur saved them by using her weapon and taking them down into the tunnels. But the creature had followed them, Mischa had appeared, and again they had fled until they were caught by the witch and trapped in an alleyway.
“But then something really strange happened,” he continued, his voice suddenly becoming more intense. “Mischa started taunting Chrysallin. She kept reminding her about the gray-haired woman—the one who looked like you. She asked her if she wanted more torture. Then the gray-haired woman appeared and said something, and Chrysallin went crazy. She started screaming—and I’ve never heard anything like it! It was terrible. I tried covering my ears to shut out the sound, but nothing helped. Then the gray-haired woman exploded. The witch started backing away, but she was thrown against the wall and smashed apart. And all from the screaming! But Chrysallin didn’t seem to know what had happened afterward. She even asked me if I did!”
Aphenglow didn’t say anything in response for a long time, turning away to walk to the window and look out over the walls and towers of the Keep. “Chrysallin didn’t do anything with her hands, didn’t speak any words? She just screamed?”
“That’s what I saw,” Grehling affirmed.
You don’t suppose, Aphenglow thought, an idea occurring to her that was so unexpected she was momentarily startled.
She turned back to the boy. “Why don’t you go have something to eat in the dining hall? Paxon and Leofur might be there. I’ll have Sebec take you.”
The boy started to leave, then turned back. “Do you know what’s wrong with Chrysallin?” he asked her.
She smiled. “I might.”
“Can you help her?”
“I intend to try.”
She watched him depart, closing the door behind him, and then she turned back to the window once more. She would have to see the girl at some point, although she would need to be careful about how she handled it. If Chrysallin thought her responsible for her current condition—if she believed Aphen was the one who had overseen her torture—she would not be very receptive to a visit.
Normally, this wouldn’t be of much concern to an Ard Rhys. The defenses of her magic would be more than enough to protect her from any harm the girl might try to cause her in retaliation. But this tale of screaming that was strong enough to cause a human being to simply disintegrate was disturbing. It could be it was an aberration resulting from a form of wild magic—one either due to a birth defect or attained through exposure or physical contact—or it could be what had occurred to Aphenglow immediately on hearing of it. It could be an indication that Chrysallin Leah had been born with a heretofore-submerged command over the Ohmsford family’s generations-long magic they called the wishsong.