The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(87)

After all, she was the great-grandchild of Mirai Leah and Railing Ohmsford, the product of a mixed bloodline with a very long history of magic use. Paxon Leah possessed the same blood and carried the same history in his genetic mix, but he had shown no trace of having use of the wishsong. It was entirely possible that the sister had it and he did not. There was a history of that within the family—of the magic sometimes skipping entire generations before resurfacing. It was also true that the ability to summon the wishsong did not always appear right away. Sometimes, it took years to reveal its presence.

But it was a magic embedded in the use of the bearer’s voice, the sound capable of achieving almost anything for a practiced user. If not controlled or if released spontaneously, the result would very likely be the one Chrysallin Leah had experienced. Terrified, threatened, and enraged, she would have struck out blindly, giving voice to the mix of feelings roiling inside of her. She would not necessarily have even been aware of what she was doing, and the result would have shocked and confused her.

It all fit. Yet Aphenglow could not be certain unless she revealed to the girl what had happened and then convinced her she needed to find a way to deal with what it meant.

But how best to do that?

She would start by telling Paxon what she suspected. He would have to come to terms with the fact that his sister might have the use of a magic that had not surfaced in the Leah/Ohmsford bloodline for several generations—an incredibly powerful magic that she would need to learn to control. He would probably have to help her do that. It would require that Chrysallin be given time and opportunity to fully recover from the damage she had suffered at the hands of Arcannen and Mischa. It would demand patience and understanding and guidance.

She didn’t know if the young man was up to it. She thought he might be, given the level of maturity and determination he had demonstrated in his efforts to master the skills taught to him by Oost Mondara and the lessons imparted by Sebec, but she couldn’t be sure.

No one could.

She stepped away from the window and started for the chamber door. She had another matter to occupy her attention just now. She had put it off for days, but she could do so no longer. She must go down to the artifact chamber and discover if anything had disturbed the wards she and Sebec had placed over the vault that housed the crimson Elfstones. The Stones themselves were safe enough; she had taken no chances with that.

All that mattered was whether or not another theft had been attempted.


Paxon was still deep in conversation with Leofur about his sister when Sebec reappeared. “They’ve finished with her for now. She’s sleeping, but you can sit with her. Would you like to do that for a few minutes?”

He didn’t have to ask whom the young Druid was talking about and he didn’t hesitate to break off with Leofur. “Can we continue this later?” he asked, already getting to his feet.

She gave him a nod, and he was off. With Sebec leading, he departed the dining room, went down the hall to a set of stairs, climbed one level, went down another hallway, and at the very end entered a large ward sectioned off into a collection of rooms with walls and closed doors and open compartments separated only by curtains. The Healers, whether they were Druids or not—Paxon couldn’t tell for certain—were all dressed in white, men and women alike. There were eight or nine in evidence, all bustling about, going this way and that, some singly and some in small groups. A few glances were directed his way, but no one spoke to him.

He had not spent much time in the healing center during his stay at Paranor and did not know his way around. But Sebec, who was obviously familiar with everything, led him forward to one of the enclosed rooms, knocked softly on the door, turned the latch, and peeked inside.

He turned back to Paxon. “I’ll let you stay with her alone. But not for very long. The Healers will be back shortly. I’ll come for you when they are ready. I’ll knock first. Don’t open it unless I do.”

Paxon went inside and heard the door close behind him. Chrysallin was not, in fact, sleeping, but sitting on a chair staring off into space. She was dressed in a white gown and slippers. She had been washed and her hair had been combed. He walked closer, noting once again that there were no marks on her, no evidence at all of any sort of torture. Whatever had been done to her, it was all in her mind. But she believed the terrible things she spoke of had actually happened, and that was all that mattered.

He knelt beside her and took her hands in his own.

“Chrysallin, can you hear me? It’s Paxon. It’s your brother. Please, look at me. Let me know if you can hear me.” No response. He kept talking. “Chrys, we’re going to help you. You’ve been hurt, but there is no damage to your body. The torture you experienced wasn’t real. It all took place in your mind; you were meant to believe it was happening when it wasn’t. But we are in Paranor now. There are Healers here who can help you. They are working to find a way to make you better. Everything will be all right.”

Then he talked to her about their childhood. He told her stories she would remember of when they had played together as small children. He reminded her of adventures they had gone on in their backyard. He tried kidding her about the time he had chopped off her long hair and made her cry. He talked about the trips they would take together on the airships, freighting cargo from Leah to other cities in the Four Lands. He told her how good she would be at crewing and piloting, how much she had learned, and where they would go and what they would do once she was well.