Jarka Ruus - Терри Брукс

— You will. You will dare anything, Ilse Witch. Haven't you always–She cringed inwardly but kept her face expressionless. «You are Brona," she said. «You are the Warlock Lord.»

— I am as you name me, Straken. The name causes you to be afraid. It causes you to question what you have done. As it should. Tell me. Why do you summon me–She mustered her courage, telling herself that he was dead, only a shade, and incapable of harming her physically. Alive, he would have been a very real threat. Dead, he was a threat only if she allowed him to be. If she kept him at bay and controlled her emotions, she was safe enough. She told herself that, but she was not entirely sure. It was not the Four Lands, after all. She was in another world, and the rules might be different.

«I am lost, and I want to go home again.»

— You carry your home inside you, dark and tattered as the robes I wear. You bear it in your heart, a sorry, empty vessel. Ask me something better–Behind him, the lake rumbled in discontent, and a scattering of lesser shades reappeared at the edges of the Warlock Lord's dark form, hovering cautiously.

«Who sent me here?» she asked him.

He made a sound that could have been laughter or something more terrible. Beneath his ragged form, the waters hissed and steamed.

— Not those you suspect, foolish girl

«Not other Druids? They didn't send me?»

— They are pawns–Pawns? It made her pause. «Who then?»

The dark form shifted anew, blowing spray and cold into her face, sending shivers down her spine.

— Ask me something more interesting– Frustrated, she took a moment to think. Shades were notorious for giving vague or incomplete answers to the living. The trick was in determining from those answers what was real and what was false. It would be doubly hard here.

«Why are you even speaking with me?» she asked impulsively. «I am Ard Rhys of the Druids, your enemies in life.»

— You are not what you see yourself to be. You are a changeling who dissembles and pretends. You hide whom you really are inside. Others fail to see it, but I know the truth. I speak to you because you are not like them. You are like me–Although it made her cold inside, she dismissed the comparison out of hand; she understood well enough its source. He was not the first to see her that way nor would he be the last. «How do I get home again? How do I find my way back?»

— You cannot. Someone must find you–Her heart sank, but she forged ahead anyway. «No one will ever find me here. No one can even get to me.»

— You are already found. Someone already comes

«Here? For me?» She felt her heart jump. «Who does this?»

— A boy–That stopped her in her tracks. «What boy?»

— He is your way back. When he comes for you, you must be ready to go with him–A boy. She took a deep breath, her throat tightening with the effort. A boy. There was more to this, there had to be, but she knew he wouldn't tell her what it was. He would make her wait, because that was the nature of the game he played. Besides, the future was uncertain, even for a shade. He could not tell her if the boy would succeed or fail. He could tell her only that the boy was coming. He would let her imagine the rest. She must go another way.

She pulled her cloak closer about her, aware suddenly of how cold she was. It was his presence, the nearness of his evil. Even in death, it was there, in the spray off the lake, in the currents of the air, in the darkness pressing down on her. Death, come alive in the form of his shade, gave power to what he was.

— Ask me something more–His restlessness had returned, and she was in danger of losing him. But she didn't know where to go next. «Where will I find this boy?»

— At the doorway through which you entered. You waste my time. Ask me something that matters. Is it possible that you are as stupid as you are pathetic–She stiffened. He was taunting her and it was working. «Tell me why I am still alive. What reason was there for imprisoning rather than killing me?»

She was certain that he laughed, the sound so raw it made her cringe with embarrassment and rage. The lake's waters spit in response to the sound, and the greenish light that radiated from beneath pulsed with energy.

— To serve the needs of the one who brought you here

«What needs are those?»

— You ask the wrong question. Ask the right one–Her mind worked furiously, thinking it through. «Why am I inside the Forbidding?» she asked finally.

Again, the laughter, but cool and soft this time, barely a whisper on the wind.

— That is better, little Straken. You are inside the Forbidding so that the one who brought you here could get out–She caught her breath. Get out? Someone had gotten out? An exchange, she thought. Of course. The power that had imprisoned her belonged to the thing that sought to escape, not to someone from her own world. Something powerful had wanted out, something clever enough to manipulate those it needed in the Four Lands, and it had found a way through her.

The shade's voice cut through her thoughts, commanding her attention.

— Heed me. You understand some, but not all. Here is the truth you must embrace, if you are to survive long enough to learn the rest. You cannot cast off your true self. You gain power through acceptance of your destiny. Bury your emotions with your foolish ambitions for the Druid Council. Become who you were meant to be, Ilse Witch. Your magic can make you powerful, even here. Your skills can give you domination. Use both. Wield them as weapons and destroy any that challenge you. If not, you will be destroyed, in turn

«I am not the Ilse Witch," she replied.

— Nor am I, then, the Warlock Lord. I have watched you grow. You were powerful once. You disdained that power for foolish reasons. Had you stayed strong, you would not have been sent here like this. But you have grown weak. Death's cold hand is on you. Your time grows short–The shade threw out one hand, and a wind howled across the lake, whipping at its robes and sending Grianne to her knees. The lesser shades scattered once more, disappearing into the darkness, lost. The lake boiled anew, spitting and rumbling, a cauldron of discontent, and the Warlock Lord began to retreat back toward its center, burning eyes still fixed on her. She tried to stand again, but the wind beat her down, and it was all she could do to meet that terrible gaze from her kneeling position. So much hatred in those featureless orbs—not for her alone, but for everything that lived. Even in death and from the netherworld, it sought release.

«I am Ard Rhys!» she screamed at it in frustration.

The shade did not respond. It reached the center of the lake and sank from sight, its black form vanishing with the quickness of a shadow exposed to light, gone in an instant, leaving only the lake and the sound of the wailing. Waterspouts exploded into the night, and Grianne backed away on her knees, buffeted by the relentless force of the wind. As she backed away, she fell, tearing her clothing and scraping her knees on the rocks. Shadows fell across her, cast by things she couldn't see. She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and pulled her hood tight against her ears.

I am Ard Rhys!

Then abruptly, everything went still. The wind died, the wailing faded, and the lake quieted once more. She kept her head lowered a moment, then lifted it cautiously. The valley was empty of movement and sound, of anything but a flicker of greenish light that emanated from the depths of the lake and reflected off the crushed stone.

Overhead, the sky was still black and empty of stars. All about the valley's rim, the wall of mist pressed close. She rose, battered of body and emotions, drained of strength and spirit, and walked away.

TWENTY–TWO

Penderrin Ohmsford had thought he would sneak off to see Cinnaminson again the following night and perhaps the night after that, as well, if the Skatelow was still in port. His initial assignation had infused him with such joy and excitement that he could hardly wait for the next one to take place. He knew it was wrong to give so much attention to Cinnaminson when he should be thinking about finding his missing aunt. But the latter was far away, the former all too close. He couldn't seem to help himself; in a struggle of emotions, his sense of responsibility finished a distant second to his passion. All that mattered was that he be with Cinnaminson.

Having thought of little else all that day, he managed to slip away again the next night, only to find that her father and the other two Rovers were still aboard. He stood dockside in the shadows, watching them smoke on deck and listening to their voices. He waited a long time for them to leave, but when it became clear they had no intention of doing so, he gave up and returned to the inn.

The second night was even more frustrating. A new storm moved in, more ferocious than the one they had encountered several days earlier, drenching Anatcherae and halting all traffic for the next twenty–four hours. The rain was so bad that even on the ground visibility was reduced to almost nothing. Pen knew no one would be venturing out in weather like this, including the Rovers aboard the Skatelow. There was no point in even thinking about meeting with Cinnaminson.

So he was forced to make do with daydreams, which could not replace the real thing but which at least gave him an outlet for his frustrations. Sitting around at the Fisherman's Lie for hours at a time, sometimes with Khyber, sometimes with Ahren and Tagwen, but mostly alone, he passed the time thinking of ways he could separate her from her father, bring her with him when he returned home, and build a life for the two of them. It was such fantasy that even he knew it didn't bear looking at too closely. He was just a boy and she only a girl, and neither of them had any experience at falling in love. But Pen didn't care. He knew how he felt, and that was enough.

Khyber kept him company much of the time, but she spent hours alone in her room working on her Druid disciplines and exercises, practicing movements and words, and tending to her studies. Ahren worked with her each day, but he was gone much of the time, scouting for news of their pursuers and checking on Gar Hatch's progress with the Skatelow. Tagwen surfaced now and again, but mostly he kept to his room. He was less sociable than he had been when it had just been the two of them, and Pen thought it was due in part to his discomfort with life outside of Paranor. Tagwen was used to carrying out his duties for the Ard Rhys in the claustrophobic company of the Druids, and his time at the inn was too unstructured. What he did when he was alone was a mystery, although Pen caught him writing in a notebook on two occasions, and the Dwarf confessed to keeping a diary of their progress to help pass the time. That made as much sense to Pen as what he was doing, moping around about Cinnaminson, so he left the Dwarf alone.

Khyber, on the other hand, chided both of them mercilessly. More driven and disciplined than either, she found their lack of purpose irritating, and took every opportunity to suggest that they ought to do better with their time. Tagwen was incensed, but Pen just ignored her. He was beginning to see her as the big sister he didn't have but had often imagined. She was pushy and insistent, and she thought everyone should see things the way she did. Having talked with her about her life, Pen understood her motivation. She had been forced to fight for everything she had, a young Elven Princess whose life had been charted out for her by her family without any consideration at all for what she wanted. It had only become worse for her after her father's death and her brother's ascension to the throne. Just to come visit with Ahren had required a great deal of fortitude and determination. He could not imagine what would happen to her when her brother found out she was with them.