Deep magic second coll.., p.5
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 5
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
Panamon led them down the hallway and back up through the various levels of the complex—a slow and torturous journey in which Shea barely allowed himself to breathe. Every so often, Panamon would stop, see something he didn’t like, and turn them back another way. But no one saw them.
Then, finally, they were outside again, standing in an open courtyard but still inside the fortress walls.
Panamon turned back to them and pulled them close.
“Our horses are in a stable just on the other side of that wall.” He pointed. “We have to saddle and mount them and ride through the gates to be safe. We still have a couple of hours before dawn to distance ourselves from Chule. But we don’t want to drag our heels doing it. Come on.”
“Wait.” Shea grabbed his arm. “What about the Elfstones? I’m not leaving without them!”
Panamon nodded, his face expressionless. “Of course you’re not.” He reached into his tunic, pulled out the pouch with the Elfstones, and handed them over. “That was never the plan.”
Shea felt a rush of joy. So he was right. Panamon hadn’t betrayed them after all. “What was the plan?”
“Later. When we are well away.”
They slipped through a door in the wall that housed the stable, found their horses, saddled them, and rode down a narrow corridor along the outer wall to the main gates.
Guards stepped forward and stopped them, their faces dark with suspicion and their pikes held ready. “Where do you think you’re going?” one asked.
“Back to where we came from,” Panamon answered. “Chule told us we could leave in the morning. Morning is here. We want to get an early start on the day. We have a long way to ride, and the hardest part is getting out of the Northland.”
The guards exchanged an uneasy glance. “No one told us about this.”
“No? Then maybe no one thought it was something you needed to be told. Maybe they thought you could figure out what needed doing on your own. But if that’s not so, why doesn’t one of you go back inside and wake Kestra Chule to ask him? Or you could just detain us for another four hours until he wakes up on his own. I will ask him then how you two happened to be chosen for this duty.”
The guards shifted uneasily, hefting their pikes in a threatening way and still blocking the gates as they looked back and forth between Panamon and the Ohmsfords and each other. There was a long few moments as they silently debated their options. Finally, one stepped aside and signaled up to the walls to winch open the gates.
Minutes later, Panamon was leading the Ohmsfords back through the ravines of the terrain that bordered the keep, moving slowly but steadily away from its imprisoning walls. They rode in silence, concentrating on finding a safe path through the treacherous landscape using what dim light the cloud-obscured quarter moon and scattered stars could provide. Shea kept looking back over his shoulder at Flick, who was bringing up the rear. Flick kept looking back at Kestra Chule’s black fortress.
But there was no sign of activity on the walls and no sign of any pursuit. It seemed they had gotten away cleanly.
And with the Elfstones safely back in hand! Shea kept reaching up to feel their bulk inside his tunic pocket, fingering their familiar outline, reassuring himself that they were really there.
By sunrise, they had reached the banks of the River Lethe and were crossing the old wooden bridge to the northern fringes of the Streleheim and the promise of safety, and the Valeman could stand it no longer.
He rode up next to Panamon and caught his eye. “What just happened back there? What was that all about?”
Panamon looked over. Flick had ridden up to hear, as well. “A little sleight of hand,” the thief answered with a shrug. “I knew Kestra Chule from his time in Varfleet, in days now gone, when he was a buyer and seller of stolen goods. We were friendly enough; I was a thief, he was a buyer. Eventually, he became a collector. He found that fortress we just left—perhaps once occupied by Trolls or even Skull Bearers, but then abandoned—and he moved in.
“A while back, while doing a bit of business with me, he mentioned that he was looking for someone to build him a vault to house some very valuable artifacts and precious metals from his collection. After a few drinks, he bragged about how he had recovered a Black Irix. He wouldn’t tell me how he came by it at first, but then he mentioned that he’d had to move half a mountain to reach it.
“So I told him I’d heard a story about a Troll who had worn the Black Irix who’d died in the collapse of a mountain. He cocked an eyebrow at me in a way that told me we were talking about the same thing. So I mentioned the name of a vault builder I knew. Chule went to him, was shown the vault he wanted, was told how to set the locks to his own satisfaction, and the sale was made. Chule hauled the vault back to his fortress and installed it. He set the locks with his own set of numbers and twists of the dial, and put the Irix inside along with the rest of his treasure.”
Panamon laughed. “He even bragged on it afterward. How clever he was! How foolproof his protections! But I knew something he didn’t. Vault makers always put in a backup set of numbers and twists in their locks so that if something goes awry with the code entered by the owner, there is another way of getting inside. I went to the vault maker who had sold his product to Chule and convinced him to give me that information. He was willing enough once I handed over a substantial sum of money. He was never going to attempt anything against a man like Chule. What did he care what my intentions were?
“So now I had the means to steal the Irix. What I didn’t have was a means of finding out where inside the fortress Chule had installed his vault and whether or not the Irix was inside it. Before going in, I had to know both. And I couldn’t very well ask Chule.”
“That’s why you came to Shady Vale,” Shea said. “You knew I could find out by using the Elfstones.”
“Well, that was part of it,” Panamon acknowledged. “The other part involved persuading you to go with me into the keep. Because I needed something to convince Chule my intentions were good. He’d always kept me at arm’s length before, and I needed to get much closer than that. So I told him I would bring him the only Elfstones in existence. Of course, I demanded a huge fortune for this, all of which is now safely tucked away in my gear.”
He patted the blanket and bags strapped across the rear of his horse. “Right inside there.”
“I gave you up to Chule so he would think well enough of me to engage in a little celebration afterward. That allowed me to slip a sleeping potion into his drink. After that, it was simply a matter of relieving him of the Elfstones, leaving him asleep on the couches to ostensibly retire to my bedchamber, but instead going to his, finding and opening the safe the Elfstones had revealed earlier, and taking out the Irix.
“Once that was accomplished, I came to find you and get you out of there. My initial plan was to leave things as they were until this morning so we could simply ride out together and leave him none the wiser until he decided to have a look inside his safe. But I didn’t like what he had to say earlier about letting you go. I think maybe he intended to make sure you never told anyone he had the Stones. And since I had put you in harm’s way, I thought it my obligation to take you out again.”
“You should have told me what you were intending,” Shea said. “That was a terrible thing you did.”
Panamon gave one of his maddening shrugs. “But it was done for the right reason—to recover the Irix and return it to Keltset’s people. Exactly what I told you I intended from the first.” He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Shea. And Flick, too. But I couldn’t tell you ahead of time; you might have inadvertently given the game away if you had known. Worse, you might have refused me right out of hand. It was a huge gamble, but I had to take it.” His familiar grin reappeared. “Life is a gamble, isn’t it?”
“It’s certainly a gamble where you’re concerned,” Flick snapped.
“He’ll come after you, won’t he?” Shea asked suddenly. “He’ll know you stole the Irix and took back the Elfstones, and he’ll hunt you down.”
Panamon nodded. “He’ll try. But I’m not so easy to catch.”
“That won’t stop him. You know it won’t.”
“Maybe not. But I might have mentioned something to the Trolls about his illicit acquisition. They didn’t seem too happy about it. I think they will be watching for him to emerge from behind his walls into the open. When he does . . .”
They were passing through the area where they had encountered the Harrgs two nights earlier, and the sun was just cresting the horizon, sending its muted light through the cloud banks and mist, when Panamon reined in his horse.
“I leave you here to continue on to the Vale. Ride straight through the rest of today and for as much of tonight as you can manage. Keep close watch. I don’t think they will catch up to you, but you want to be careful anyway.”
“Where will you go?” Flick asked. He almost sounded sorry about it.
The thief pointed west. “I have a delivery to make, and the sooner it’s done, the better. Temptation is a terrible thing, and I would hate to give in to it here.”
“If you do, we will come looking for you,” Shea declared. “And we will find you, too.”
Panamon Creel laughed. “I don’t for a moment doubt it. Good-bye, Shea. Good-bye, Flick. I hope you will find a way to forgive me for what I did. I hope that what I am about to do will put paid to my debt to you both and persuade you my intentions were always the best.”
Off he rode, galloping swiftly away. They watched him until he was only a speck on the distant horizon.
As he disappeared from view, Shea heaved a sigh. He had never really believed that Panamon had decided to abandon them. He had never been convinced—even though the evidence suggested otherwise and Flick kept insisting he was wrong—that his friend intended to leave them in the hands of Kestra Chule. This wasn’t the Panamon Creel he knew. In spite of his other faults, it wasn’t the sort of man he was.
Looking back on it now, he had never been so happy to be proven right.
* * *
Flick, on the other hand, was thinking of Audrana Coos, thinking of the very last words she had spoken to him after noticing the turbulence in the waters of the scrye bowl and advising him of his brother’s fate. He will go on a quest, and you cannot stop him from doing so. Nor should you.
Indeed. Shea had needed to go. He needed to help Panamon retrieve the Black Irix, and he needed to know it would be returned to Keltset’s people. Flick had doubted the woodswoman and he had doubted Panamon Creel, and he should have managed to muster the faith that had sustained his brother. What was it his brother had said when they were locked in that cell? That it was better to think well of people than ill.
Next time they encountered Panamon, he promised himself, he would to do the same. It would be almost three years before that happened, and when it did Flick would find himself struggling to keep this promise.
But that’s a story for another time.
PALADINS OF SHANNARA: THE BLACK IRIX by Terry Brooks. Copyright © 2013 by Terry Brooks. Published by permission of Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All Rights Reserved.
ABOUT TERRY BROOKS
Terry Brooks is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty books, including the Dark Legacy of Shannara adventure Wards of Faerie; the Legends of Shannara novels Bearers of the Black Staff and The Measure of the Magic; the Genesis of Shannara trilogy: Armageddon’s Children, The Elves of Cintra, and The Gypsy Morph; The Sword of Shannara; the Voyage of the Jerle Shannara trilogy: Ilse Witch, Antrax, and Morgawr; the High Druid of Shannara trilogy: Jarka Ruus, Tanequil, and Straken; the nonfiction book Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life; and the novel based upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas, Star Wars:® Episode I The Phantom Menace.™ His novels Running with the Demon and A Knight of the Word were selected by the Rocky Mountain News as two of the best science fiction/fantasy novels of the twentieth century. The author lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest.
Facebook: facebook.com/authorterrybrooks
Twitter: @officialbrooks
METAMORPHISTRY
By Jeff Wheeler | 7,500 words
THE SUN PIERCED brightly overhead, and the cobblestone streets were choked with dust and noise from the crowd of street hawkers and citizenry pressing to get into the giant arena in the heart of the city of Vaud.
Brandis noticed that his shadow had compressed beneath the soles of his boots and he paused and craned his neck, shielding his face as he squinted up at the sun. It was noontide and cheering had started up within the huge stone walls of the coliseum.
His valet, Roshaun, turned back and gestured at him to keep moving. “You can’t stop in the streets, Brandis. You’ll get trampled this close to the walls. I think I see the seventh arch over that way. Hurry, or you’ll miss seeing her because of the crowd.”
Sweat tickled the back of his neck beneath his mane of long hair. “I think she’ll wait for me, Roshaun. She was more than a little interested, I think.”
“Your title means nothing in this city,” the valet said, laughing. “The Black Forest is hundreds of leagues away. Your father’s castle is smaller than that inn.” Another roar of cheers swelled from within. “The gladiators have started already? I don’t want to miss all the fighting! Can we hurry?”
Brandis put his hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked. His tight white jacket was stained from the ever-present dust, and its epaulets bounced as he followed Roshaun up the steps. He stroked his goatee, having spent sufficient time grooming it earlier that day. He wanted to look his best for her. He had made sure Roshaun had polished the family crest on his sword hilt.
The two approached the tall archway and found the gate beneath it was closed and locked with guards standing there. Roshaun held up his hands to Brandis to show he would take care of things, and he quickly walked ahead and spoke to the sentries posted. Brandis fumed with frustration. He had tried taking a carriage there, but the streets were so thick with people they could hardly move, and so the two had abandoned the driver to cross the rest of the distance on foot.
A groan from the crowd meant that someone had been struck down. Roshaun gesticulated to the sentry, speaking quickly and urgently. The sentry got the attention of his captain, who was watching the match in the heart of the coliseum, who then nodded vigorously and came to the gate with his keys.
“You have not missed much, Lord Brandis,” the captain said. “Estenna informed us you were coming. She’s waiting in her brother’s box. It is one of the best views in the coliseum.”
“I know,” Roshaun said eagerly, clenching his fists. “Are there truly werewolfs in the arena, Captain? It’s not just a tale?”
The captain snorted and laughed, which could have meant anything. “You foreigners are all the same, inventing foolish names—garwalfs, ulfhennin, weriuuolfs. They’re lycanthropes. I work below the arena and have seen them transform. You won’t believe what I tell you until you see it with your eyes. Well, satisfy your eyes, then. See for yourself. Meecham—take them to the Keltin box first.”
The sentry bowed swiftly and brought them around the corner to a wide stairwell that zigzagged up the coliseum. The crowds gathered were cheering and waving kerchiefs. There were people of every fashion, every dominion throughout the lands who assembled at the lake city of Vaud. Brandis was nervous as they climbed the private stairwell, picturing her rust-colored hair and intriguing smile in his mind, trying to still the buzzing giddiness that threatened to make him grin like a fool when he saw her. Roshaun hastily climbed the stairwell, intent on aiding his master.
“This way,” the sentry said, leading them up even higher. How many levels were inside the coliseum? Four? Five? Brandis’s heart was pounding from more than emotion now. His legs were aching at the climb, but he was healthy and had the stamina to endure such an ascent. They reached the top ring of the stadium where he was impressed by the statuary waiting for them.
“By the arts,” Roshaun said in awe, staring at the different poses of horror-stricken figures.
“Those aren’t statues. They were all transformed by a medusa,” said the sentry, gesturing. “Before she was caught and killed.”
“Are you toying with us, man?” Brandis asked with a quirked smile, narrowing his gaze.
“Of course he is,” Roshaun said. “It’s fine work, but these were carved.”
The sentry looked at them with contempt. “Think what you will. There is a reason that Vaud has the University of Metamorphistry. For a thousand years its sorcerers have studied that particular art. Are you a prince? From where?”
“The Black Forest,” Brandis replied stiffly. “In Hennland.”
The sentry sniffed and grunted. “Vaud stood here when your kingdom was nothing but twiggy saplings. And the Keltin family is one of the oldest.” He stopped at a curtained door and bowed, gesturing for them to enter.
Brandis, feeling overwhelmed at the grandeur and the spectacle, mustered his dignity, straightened his posture, and waited as Roshaun brushed dust from his shoulders and back. Then his valet pulled aside the curtain and Brandis, gripping his sword hilt again, strode into the box where he saw Estenna and her brother.
“You came!” the girl said with enthusiasm, her blue eyes flashing with eagerness. He adored her eyes. “I was afraid you might have been stranded in the crowd.” She wore a beautiful gown the color of dappled peaches, clasped at the shoulders with intricate brooches, that exposed her skin and the slope of her neck, where he saw a glimmering series of necklaces and medallions. Her long arms were bedecked with bracelets and her beautiful auburn hair was pinned on one side. She was a vision, and he felt his throat tighten with involuntary thirst.
“The crowds were eager to enter as well,” Brandis said, giving her a little bow. “If you hadn’t shared the secret entrance, we would have been lost in the throng.”
