The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy by Terry Brooks
“You set it yourself,” Shadea pointed out.
Iridia did not look at her. “It could have been tampered with. Better to be sure.” She returned to the bench and sat down. For a moment, she said nothing more. Then she glanced up at Shadea, as if remembering her. “What were you saying?”
“She was saying she has found a way to solve our problem with the Ard Rhys.” Traunt Rowan picked up the loose thread of the conversation with his calming voice. “Without posing any danger to us.”
“There is a potion I have a chance to obtain,” Shadea told them. “Mixed with a spell, it produces a magic strong enough to work against anyone, no matter how well prepared they are. The potion is called liquid night. Together with the spell, it will dispatch the intended victim to another place. It doesn’t kill them; they simply disappear. No blame attaches because there is no body. There isn’t even a residue to tell any searchers what happened. Everything disappears in a few hours, victim and magic alike.”
Pyson shook his head. “There is no such magic. I know most, have read about the ones I do not know, and I have never heard of liquid night.”
“That is because it isn’t from this world,” Shadea said. “It is from the world into which I am sending the Ard Rhys.”
They stared at her with a mix of expressions. “What world would that be?” Traunt Rowan asked finally.
She shook her head. “Oh, no, Traunt. I don’t give you anything more until after I have your word that you are committed to me and to what I am proposing. I am the one who sought the potion out, and I intend to keep the particulars my own. All you need to know is that once I have implemented it, you will never see the Ard Rhys again.”
“But she will not be dead,” Pyson Wence persisted doubtfully. “If she is not dead, there is always a chance she can find her way back. She has more lives than a cat. You know her history, Shadea. She is not like anyone else. I like her no better than you, but I respect her ability to stay alive.”
Shadea nodded in agreement. Idiot. “She won’t be coming back from where I intend to send her, Pyson. No one comes back from where she will be going. Besides, she won’t stay alive long enough to do much about her situation in any case. There are things there far more dangerous than the Ilse Witch. Once gone, she will never come back.”
They were intrigued, interested, but still hesitant. Except for Terek Molt, who was nodding vigorously. “Do it, I say. If you have a way to eliminate her, woman, do it!”
“When will this happen?” Iridia asked.
“When she returns, two or three nights from now. I can have everything in place before then. It will happen while she sleeps, so smoothly and silently that she will not wake again in this world.”
“If you have this all ready, or can make it ready, why do you have need of us?” Traunt Rowan asked. “This was begun as a joint endeavor, but it seems to me that you have taken over the effort yourself. We no longer have anything you need.”
She had been anticipating the question and was pleased to know that she was still able to keep one step ahead of them. “It might seem that way if you didn’t think it through carefully,” she said. “This effort will not succeed if we don’t look beyond eliminating Grianne Ohmsford.”
“You would have us make you Ard Rhys in her place,” Traunt Rowan declared softly. “Wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “I am best suited for it. I command the most respect among those who must be convinced of the necessity of choosing a new Ard Rhys quickly. But do not be fooled, Traunt. I do not see myself as another Grianne Ohmsford, a leader standing alone and apart, needing no one. This is exactly what set us against her in the first place. She isolates herself. She sees herself as wiser and more capable, better able to determine what is best for everyone. If I were to take that route, how would I be any different?”
“You oversimplify,” Pyson Wence said. “Our dislike for the Ard Rhys goes well beyond the way she holds herself above us.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “But inaccessibility and the appearance of isolation will doom whoever stands for the position of Ard Rhys, once Grianne is gone. I need all of you to support me if I am to succeed. You each represent a faction of the order—you, Pyson, of Gnomes; Terek Molt, of Dwarves; Traunt, of Southlanders; and Iridia, of Elves. Not all of each, by any means, but a sizeable number. You are among the strongest of your respective Races, and you can bring support to me as such. I cannot serve as Ard Rhys and achieve what we have decided upon without your help.”
“Why should you be Ard Rhys?” Terek Molt snapped suddenly, his sullen features tightening.
She kept her temper. Speaking out like this was his nature. “Because the order would not have you, Terek. They might have Traunt Rowan, but none of the rest of you. And Traunt is not interested.” She looked purposefully at him. “Are you?”
He shook his head, his lips pursing with disdain. “I have no need to be leader of the order—only to see it set upon the right path, one determined by someone other than her.”
Grianne Ohmsford, he meant, but would not speak her name. In his own quiet way, he hated her most. If Shadea had found a way that would allow him to kill her himself, he would have accepted it without question. She often wondered what he thought things would be like for him after Grianne was gone. What would there be left for him to do after having burned so much energy and devoted so much time to seeing her dispatched?
“Where have you found this potion?” Pyson Wence asked. “Liquid night? If not from this world, if instead from this place you refuse to reveal, how did you come by it?”
She shook her head. “No answers until I have your commitment, Pyson. It is sufficient to say that it will do what is needed.”
“Someone gave it to you?” he continued. “You have a secret ally? Another who serves our cause? Are you keeping other secrets, Shadea?”
She was, of course, but he would never find them out. “No more questions from you, no more answers from me,” she told him, told them all. “I want your oath, your Druid oath, your word and your bond. Everything that you hold sacred stands behind it, and we all bear witness to what you say. If I do this, if I rid you of the Ard Rhys, then will you support my bid to be the new leader of the order? Will you stand with me to the death to see finished what we seek to do?”
Iridia Eleri rose, cold eyes sweeping the room. “You have my oath. Let her burn a thousand years in her own magic’s fire!”
Terek Molt grunted approvingly. “She’s earned banishment a thousand times over, and I care nothing for where she gets banished to. Get it done, Shadea. Put this creature out of our lives!”
There was a long silence. Traunt Rowan was clearly thinking, head lowered, hands clasped. Pyson Wence, sitting beside him, glanced over, then looked at Shadea, frowning.
“If you can do as you say, then I have no quarrel with your effort.” His eyes shifted from face to face. “But if Shadea exaggerates in any way, if the power of the magic she proposes to use is less than what she thinks it is, then I want to be certain she does not exaggerate, as well, her certainty that nothing of this can come back to haunt us.”
“How could it do that, Pyson?” she spit at him. “Would it bear our names spelled out upon its liquid surface? Would it somehow speak them aloud? ”
He shrugged. “Would it, Shadea?”
“It is a potion supplemented by a spell. The potion does not originate in this world. The spell is one familiar to dozens and available to all who care to read and study on it. Nothing of either attaches to us. Stop equivocating! If you want out of this business, there is the door that brought you in. Pass back through, and you have your release.”
Not that he would ever live to reach it, she thought darkly, waiting on him. Not that he would take half a dozen steps before she burned him to cinders. It was too late for backing away. Too late for anything but going forward.
Maybe Pyson knew this, for he made no move to rise, showed no inclination to do anything but ponder her words. He was
“I’ll give you my oath, Shadea,” he said finally. “But—” He paused, cocking his head to one side, his sharp Gnome features thoughtful. “But I think my oath must be conditional on discovering where it is that you propose to send the Ard Rhys. If it isn’t sufficiently far away or secure, I intend to tell you so and back out.”
There were murmurs of assent to this, but Shadea ignored them, knowing that what she had in mind for Grianne Ohmsford would please them all. Once they heard, there would be no more mutterings. “What of you, Traunt?” she asked the Southlander. “You’ve said nothing.”
“I have been thinking.” He smiled faintly. “Thinking about how much we are entrusting you with. It seems to me that more than one of us ought to be involved in this effort—not just in the planning, but in the execution. It would require a stronger commitment, which is what you are looking for. It would give us all a sense of participation beyond what you have proposed so far.”
“It would also entail a greater risk,” she pointed out, not liking where his suggestion was going. “Two stand a greater chance of being detected than one. Whoever administers the potion and the spell must approach the Ard Rhys secretly. Stealth and quickness will determine success or failure.”
“Two can move as quietly as one,” he argued, shrugging. “Moreover, if one falters, the other can still act. It offers us a measure of protection.”
“I don’t intend to falter,” she said coldly, openly angry.
“We’ll draw straws to see who goes with you,” Iridia said, siding with Rowan.
Both Pyson Wence and Terek Molt nodded in assent. Shadea knew when she was up against a wall. She was not going to get them to back off without arousing suspicion. “All right,” she agreed. “But only one.”
She rose and walked to a stack of crates containing serving ware packed in straw and drew out four strands. Breaking off three, she evened them between her fingers and offered them to the others. Terek Molt snatched the first. It was short. Iridia drew a short straw, as well.
The other two looked at each other, hesitating. Then Traunt Rowan picked from the remaining two straws. His was the long one.
“How fitting,” Shadea sneered, “since taking part was your idea. Now give me your word, Traunt. Your oath and your promise as a Druid to stand with me no matter what.”
He nodded, unruffled. “You always had that, Shadea, from the moment you told me what you intended and recruited me to your cause. I am as committed as you will ever be.”
Perhaps, she thought. But we will never know for sure because there is no way to test such a claim. For her purposes it was sufficient that he was committed to support her as the new Ard Rhys after Grianne was dispatched. Once she held that office, and despite what she had told them to gain their support, they would all become expendable. Her plans were greater than they knew and did not include them.
“We are agreed then,” she said, looking from face to face, seeking again any sign of hesitation.
“We are agreed,” Traunt Rowan affirmed. “Now tell us where you intend to imprison the Ard Rhys. Where can you send her that she cannot find a way back to haunt us?”
Shadea a’Ru smiled at the looks on their faces when she told them.
FOUR
Sen Dunsidan was a cautious man. He had always had reason to be cautious, but he had more reason these days since he had more to lose. His life’s accomplishments were impressive, but the price exacted in exchange had been severe and permanent. It wasn’t the sort of price one could measure in terms of wealth. If it had been only money, he would not have been as cautious as he was. The price levied against him was a piece of his soul here and a part of his sanity there. The price was psychological and emotional, and it left him bereft of almost anything resembling peace of mind.
Not that he had ever possessed much of that in any case. Even in the days when he was only Minister of Defense of the Federation and in the thrall of the Ilse Witch, he had compromised himself in almost every way imaginable to advance his position and increase his power. Peace of mind was a benefit that did not accrue to those who lacked moral restraint. He was cautious back then, as well, but not nearly as much so as now. He saw himself as invincible in those days, too clever for anyone to outsmart or outmaneuver, too powerful to be challenged. Harm might come to lesser men, but not to him. Even the Ilse Witch, for all her disdain and aloofness, was wary of him. He knew how she saw him—how most saw him. A snake, coiled and ready to strike. He did not take offense. He liked the image. Snakes were not cautious. Others were cautious of snakes. It was beneficial to instill a sense of uneasiness in those with whom he was compelled to deal.
Caution came to him after he broke off his relationship with the Ilse Witch—betrayed her, in fact—and allied himself with the Morgawr, her warlock mentor. It was the smart thing to do. The Morgawr was the more powerful of the two and the more likely to succeed in their battle to destroy each other. Moreover, the warlock was the one who was willing to give Sen Dunsidan what he wanted most in exchange for his support—a chance at becoming Prime Minister. Two men stood in Sen Dunsidan’s way, and the Morgawr had them killed in what appeared to be for one an accident, and for the other, natural causes.
But what the Morgawr claimed from him in the bargain was much more than he had ever expected to pay. The Morgawr forced Sen Dunsidan to watch as he turned living men into the walking dead, creatures without wills of their own, things that did only as they were told. Worse, he forced Sen Dunsidan to participate in the atrocity, to bring the men to him under false pretenses and to witness their destruction. When it was finished and the Morgawr had gone, Sen Dunsidan was a changed man. Even after becoming Prime Minister, even after gaining enough power that no one dared to challenge him, he never felt safe. Devastated by watching what had been done to those men, by being an accomplice to it, he could not regain the sense of invincibility he had once thought he would never lose. Worse, he could not take any comfort in what he had gained. He could not stop thinking about those men. He became obsessed with his own vulnerability; his need to protect himself against falling victim to what he had witnessed dominated his thinking. Emotions already blunted by his lesser crimes were turned to stone. His heart hardened and his soul shriveled. He no longer felt anything for anyone other than himself, and what he felt for himself was mostly fear.
With the passing of the years, he grew steadily more unsettled, responding to fears he could not control.
Tonight was one of those times.
He sat waiting impatiently in a reading chair that did not face the doorway of the room, but a blank wall. The room itself was in a place he had never thought he would visit. He was at Paranor, a guest of the Druids and, more particularly, of his onetime nemesis, Grianne Ohmsford. Twenty years ago, when she had returned from the airship voyage she had undertaken in search of a lost magic from another time, he had thought himself a dead man. She had destroyed his ally, the Morgawr, and would certainly have determined that he had supplied the Federation ships and men under the warlock’s command. Had she been the Ilse Witch still, had something not happened to change her while she was away, she would have killed him at once. Instead, she had ignored him, retreating to the confines of Paranor, secluded with the shades of dead Druids, and had done nothing.
At first, he had thought she was playing a game with him and had waited stoically for the inevitable. But after a time, he began to hear rumors of a new Druid order and an Ard Rhys who would lead it. He heard that the Ilse Witch had forsaken her name and disclaimed her past, that she was no longer who or what she had been. It was too outlandish to credit seriously, the sort of rumor that invariably proved false. But men and women from all the Races were traveling to Paranor to seek a place in the Third Druid Council, and he began to wonder.
And then the impossible happe
It had taken him a while to adjust to the new relationship, but in the end it gave him back the life he had thought forfeited and so he was willing to make that adjustment. There had been other meetings over the years, many of them, with visits to Paranor by him and to Arishaig by her. Discussions had been held and trades made and, all in all, they had gotten along well enough.
Which never once stopped him from trying to find a way to kill her, of course. It was impossible for him not to think of doing so. Whoever she claimed she was, Ilse Witch or Ard Rhys, she was too dangerous to be allowed to live; nothing prevented her from reverting at some point to the creature she had been, casting off her new guise, her new identity. More to the point, he knew he could never control her. If he couldn’t control her, he couldn’t control the Druids, and controlling the Druids was essential if he was to govern the Four Lands. That was his ambition and his intention, and he meant to see it fulfilled. Only the Free-born stood in his way, but eliminating the Free-born meant finding a way to subvert the Druids. They claimed not to be siding with anyone in the Federation–Free-born conflict, but it was clear enough that however the war on the Prekkendorran turned out, the Ard Rhys was never going to allow either side to crush the other.