The Sorcerer's Daughter by Terry Brooks
“Well, you don’t get to decide.”
“I think you should reconsider your choice, at least.”
“Isaturin is right. We are all exhausted. We need to get back to Paranor as quickly as possible—and by the shortest route possible.”
“Assuming that’s the safest route.”
Paxon gave him a look. “We don’t have a safest route. At least, not one we know about. We have choices, but who knows if any of them is safe or not? Please drop it.”
Darz went silent for a moment, but Paxon could tell he was seething. “Give me a weapon.”
There it was, what the Commander of the Ministerial Watch really wanted. “I don’t think anyone is ready for that. If there’s trouble, just stay clear of it.”
They trudged ahead, entering the wall of mist and finding themselves enveloped in a thick gray blanket that immediately obscured all sense of direction. No landmarks stood out; no paths offered themselves. They were in a maze. Paxon had chosen an entry point where the bulky plants were more spread out so that passage through their massed trunks was easier, but he had to work hard at maintaining his sense of direction. Within minutes, everything beyond the mist and the plants disappeared.
Behind him, the others bunched together, a reaction to their feelings of disorientation and confusion. The mist was creating its own world—a tight, claustrophobic morass. It was disconcerting—and even Paxon, who had some experience with situations of this sort, found himself gripping his sword more tightly than usual. His eyes and ears were tightly focused on his surroundings, straining to see and hear anything that suggested danger. But there was only gloom and silence and gently waving plant limbs.
Beside him, Fero Darz walked stiffly, his face a mask of anger and mistrust, his mouth clamped into a tight line. Paxon would have given him a weapon if he thought the other could be trusted, but he couldn’t be sure what Darz might do. And adding another element of risk to this already risky flight was foolish. Better to keep him safely away from weapons. Better to let him be angry than dangerous.
The trek dragged on, and nothing about them changed. More gloom, more mist, more plants, and no end in sight. Paxon had to hope they were going in the right direction and maintaining a straight line. He imagined they were well within the boundaries of the Battlemound Lowlands by now, and he had heard stories of the things that resided there. All sorts of creatures—plants and animals alike—that fed off unwary travelers. Dangerous predators that could overpower you in ways you weren’t expecting before you could manage to act. It was a place to avoid, for sure.
If you could.
And if you couldn’t, then at least you should do your best not to attract attention.
These were Paxon’s last thoughts before everything exploded into violence.
—
It was hard to tell exactly what went wrong. He wasn’t paying attention to what was happening behind him, his eyes scanning the way forward and taking note of the plants that waited within the soupy haze—counting their numbers, measuring the distances separating them, choosing a path. Isaturin told him later that old Consloe stumbled. The Troll who was carrying him had set him down at his insistence a short time earlier. Apparently shamed by the fact that everyone else was managing without help, the old Druid must have felt that he should be doing so, too. But his efforts quickly began to fail, and Isaturin noticed. Rather than ask another to step in when everyone else was also on the verge of exhaustion, he had gone to the old man’s aid, but he was not quick enough. Old Consloe lost his footing before the Ard Rhys could reach him and went down.
Unfortunately his momentum carried him right into the base of one of the plants.
The old man was still struggling to regain his feet when the plant he had rolled up against grabbed him. Roots appeared from the earth, snake-like tendrils that writhed and twisted and swiftly wrapped themselves around his frail body. He cried out, then screamed as the roots tightened.
Isaturin conjured magic instantly, and directed a bolt of brilliant blue fire into the trunk of the offending plant, but that achieved nothing. The plant began to burn, its bark catching fire, but the roots continued to hold Consloe fast. Isaturin struck at it again, burning the roots closest to the old man. But even when they caught fire, the plant refused to let go.
It all happened in seconds.
Paxon raced to their aid, but Miriya got there first. Blade drawn, she extended her arms and her sharpened steel flashed bright and quick in the gloom. One of the roots fell away, but another swiftly took its place. Again, the warrior Druid struck. And again, and again. Each time a root was severed, more appeared. By now the roots were reaching for her, as well; several wrapped about her legs and pulled her down. Paxon arrived, and with the green snakes of the sword’s magic racing up and down his blade like living creatures, he cut her free. Barely pausing, he grabbed her arms and pulled her clear. Other roots grappled for them. In no time, a circle of waving, grasping tentacles hemmed them in, separating them from the others.
Backs together, Paxon, Miriya, and Isaturin hacked at every root that came close. It was not enough. They were being overwhelmed. From outside the deadly circle, the Trolls and Fero Darz watched helplessly. Even Karlin Ryl stood motionless, a statue in the gloom.
Then Paxon turned at the sound of a strangled cry and caught a glimpse of old Consloe as he was pulled beneath the earth. He disappeared slowly—limbs, body, and head—screaming as he was consumed. None of his companions could reach him; the roots blocked their way. In seconds he was gone.
And we are next, Paxon thought, his strength beginning to wane.
Even before the thought was completed, however, Karlin Ryl suddenly cried out, her voice high and piercing, cutting through the sounds of battle, drawing everyone’s attention. She stood with her arms outflung and her head thrown back. Even the roots seemed to hesitate in the wake of her terrible, painful wail. Abruptly, a familiar shape emerged from her body, separating itself from where it had hidden within, a lithe and powerful figure released into the night. Growing larger, taking on new size, it became a monstrous presence.
The Sleath.
Once it was free of Karlin, she collapsed instantly. Before she was even on the ground, the Sleath attacked. It did not go after the Trolls or Fero Darz, who stood almost on top of it. Instead, it tore into the plants. It did not shy from them when they tried to respond; it did not hesitate or slow. It created a path of destruction, leaving behind shredded trunks, twisted roots, and an ichor that seeped from within each dying plant, black in the gloom.
Paxon braced himself. The Sleath was coming toward them.
Wordlessly, Miriya and Isaturin moved next to him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on either side. This didn’t feel like a rescue; it felt like a fresh promise of death. They stood firm against it, nevertheless. But given the outcome of their last encounter with this demonkind, Paxon had no illusions about their chances of survival.
The Sleath, in the meantime, continued to bull its way toward them through a tangle of roots and plants. Nothing seemed able to stop it—certainly not the masses of vegetation. They snapped and whipped at the Sleath. They tried desperately to wrap themselves around it. They reached up for it from beneath the earth and out to it from behind the cover of other plants. Paxon found himself wondering if perhaps they were all one plant, joined underground where the binding could not be detected.
Whatever the case, nothing they did seemed to matter. The Sleath continued to tear them to pieces.
Then Paxon heard an urgent shout. Fero Darz was howling at him. The Commander of the Ministerial Watch had moved farther away from the Sleath and now stood off to one side. The Troll guards had joined him. The uninjured one carried Karlin Ryl over his broad shoulder, as he had carried Consloe before. The roots that encircled them only moments earlier had drawn back into the earth, perhaps gone to the aid of their fellows in the fight against the Sleath. A path through had opened, a corridor to safety. Darz gestured wildly for Paxon a
The Highlander swiftly made the choice for the others. He practically shoved Isaturin—who was standing statue-like next to him, seemingly mesmerized by the Sleath—toward the opening. Miriya was already moving, and together the three fled, the Highlander bringing up the rear, sword in hand, ready to turn and fight.
He did not need to worry. The Sleath had all it could do to ward off the roots. It was beginning to show signs of tiring, and the number of roots had not diminished. Although hundreds were destroyed, thousands more were waiting. The Sleath continued its advance, but the roots refused to give way, forcing it to struggle for every foot it gained. It was an impossible fight to win.
Paxon and his little company continued in a lateral direction across the open ground. The plants they passed seemed disinterested in them. Their roots did not surface to bar the way or reach out to snare them. Perhaps it was taking all their energy to wear down the Sleath. For, magic or no, the creature was faltering. Paxon, glancing back, could hardly believe it. It seemed even extreme magic of the sort that created the Sleath had its limits. Nothing was indestructible.
Too late, the Sleath seemed to realize the danger. It struggled to pull back, sensing it was in trouble, but too late. The roots had it, their sinuous lengths wrapped firmly about the Sleath until it could not move at all. Then it went down, the roots enfolding it, wrapping it as a spider might a fly in a cocoon of webbing. In seconds it seemed to lose substance. Its body shimmered, and for an instant Paxon believed it was attempting to meld with the plants as it had with Karlin. But the plants resisted and began a slow but inexorable dismemberment of the Sleath. It took awhile, the effort a ferocious exhibition of strength against strength until, finally, the Sleath succumbed. It came apart with a rending of flesh and a snapping of bones, and in seconds it was pulled into the earth.
By now the little company fleeing it had gotten well forward of the battle, weaving steadily through plants that remained disinterested. Paxon, who was back in the lead, chose their path, marking the open spaces and measuring the potential for danger. No one talked. No one saw the need. They simply pushed on through the endless mist.
—
They walked for a long time, waiting for the plants to rise out of the earth to stop them. But all was quiescent. It was as if they had gone dormant with the destruction of the Sleath. The morning was still, the world about them an empty, lifeless expanse. Eventually, the mist fell away and the sun burned high overhead.
Miriya dropped back to walk beside Karlin Ryl, taking her life partner’s small hand in her own as she kept pace with the Troll who carried her. She spoke softly to her, but Paxon could hear anyway.
“Don’t leave me,” the warrior Druid begged softly. “Be strong. It won’t be much longer now. Then we will be clear of these things. Please, Karl, don’t die. I am here with you. I won’t leave you.”
She squeezed Karlin’s hand, and reached over to stroke her hair where it fell across her face. The seer seemed lifeless, but Paxon heard Miriya say, “That’s my girl. I feel you squeezing back. I feel you reaching out to me. I am here, love. I am always here.”
Time passed. Miriya continued to murmur softly to Karlin. The plants thinned and finally disappeared, and the little company was out in the open once more, closer now to the forests of the Anar, which rose like a dark wall off to their right.
The company stopped, and the Troll carrying Karlin Ryl lowered her gently to the ground. Miriya knelt hurriedly next to her, still holding her hand, still murmuring softly. But Karlin was no longer responding, and a moment later Miriya released a wail of anguish that cut through the silence with a razor’s sharpness.
Karlin Ryl was gone.
Leofur and Imric took turns sleeping until dawn, one always awake in case the men decided to return. When the sun was up, they climbed back into the two-man and set out for the Wilderun. The day was gray and sunless, the sky clouded over in the wake of the storms that had passed south of them, with the threat of more visible ahead. Leofur knew better than to try to fly a small craft through such heavy weather, but she was hoping that by staying north she would be able to skirt its edges. A little rain wouldn’t matter, but heavy thunderstorms and high winds could take them down.
She sat at the controls, her eyes forward and her concentration focused on her flying. Even so, she found herself thinking of Paxon. She wondered where he was, wondered if he had escaped Arishaig. It was troubling that she didn’t know anything more. She was worried for him, even knowing how experienced he was at dealing with dangerous situations. She had never known anyone as confident—with one exception. Her father shared that quality, even if he was the Highlander’s opposite in every other way. Paxon was one of those people who would always land on his feet and never be at a loss for what to do in a challenging situation. It was as if it was bred into him. His resiliency was tested often, but he never faltered. The only time she had ever seen him unmoored was when he had come to her in Wayford after his return from the Westland. Then, he was so adrift he could barely function. He had left the Druid order, his confidence in his purpose as the High Druid’s Blade diminished. He had lost several Druids under his protection and twice been bested by her father.
Then, and only then, had he needed her help so badly he might not have survived without it. But that was an aberration. She had never seen even a hint of such weakness since.
Though perhaps she would see it again if she failed to find and return Chrysallin.
She wondered if Paxon’s return to her before was in any way connected with his ongoing struggle with her father. It was an odd thought, but valid. Paxon was complex, driven both by personal demons and a need to accomplish something important. He had always believed he was meant to do great things. He wanted his life to have meaning—and not in a small, inconsequential way. It was possible that he measured his own successes against those of her father, and found himself wanting. After all, he had failed repeatedly to find a way to hold her father accountable for the deaths of his Druid friends. As a result, perhaps he felt his relationship with her was diminished in some way by his failure to gain closure with her father.
She wished she knew. She wished he would talk about it with her. She wished he would be more open when they were together. He was so protective of his feelings, so secretive about himself. And so often apart from her. As Druid protector, he was constantly being sent on assignment, and she was constantly being abandoned. If not for Chrysallin, she would have been lonely beyond words. She had no other real friends at Paranor. She had no real life.
Or purpose.
Or direction.
Or anything.
Given half a reason, she would consider leaving Paxon and going home.
The thought stunned her. It came all at once and unbidden, but there it was. She hated it and at the same time knew it was so.
She pushed it aside quickly.
“You look pretty intense,” Imric said suddenly, and she glanced over to find him watching her. As if he could read her thoughts, or as if he was trying.
“Just thinking about Paxon. Wondering how he is.”
He nodded, saying nothing for a moment. “What will we do when we get to the Wilderun? I don’t have a trail to follow this time.”
“Maybe we’ll find you one. Someone in Grimpen Ward will know something about the Murk Sink and Melis. We just have to ask around.”
“I’m not good at that sort of thing.” He looked away self-consciously. “I’m better the less I have to interact with others.”
“Then it’s a good thing you have me along this time.”
Just before they had departed earlier, she had given him a chance to go back to Paranor. After all, he had fulfilled his promise to her by tracking down Chrysallin’s kidnappers and determining where her friend had been taken. She could not have done that on her own, but now she could reasonably expect to find both the Murk Sink and the witch without his help. She had no reason to expect him to conti
But he saw it differently. She might still have need of him, he pointed out. She didn’t know what she would find once she arrived in the Wilderun. If she had to go into Murk Sink, she might have need of someone who could read sign and smell scent and otherwise find a trail hidden from ordinary eyes. Besides, he had added, this quest gave him something he had been missing for too long—a way to use his shape-shifting productively for the first time in years. It infused him with new life. She had done this with her strange request for his services. Would she deprive him of it at this point? Ostensibly she would be releasing him from her service, but actually she would be sending him back into a life of self-deprivation and renewed loss of purpose, wouldn’t she?
She almost laughed at that. She knew he was asking to be included, that coming with her was more important than staying safe at home. It was clear that using his shape-shifting ability provided him with such pleasure that he could no longer imagine doing without it. Anchored to her through the tether, he had found a way to exorcise the demons of his suspect control over his abilities while indulging in the exquisite freedom they provided him.
That he was asking her to risk herself for him seemed fair since she was asking the same of him. Possibly she would be placing herself in situations where a loss of control could damage her permanently, but she found the challenge oddly attractive. She liked being depended on again, liked having a purpose beyond providing company for Paxon’s sister.
So she had relented and said he could come, inwardly pleased that he wanted to, happy to have someone to share her quest. To some extent, she could admit, she was eager to continue to share in his shape-shifting, no matter the risk the tethering demanded. Even vicariously, it was wondrous. In being tethered to him, she was transported to a reality beyond anything she had ever experienced. It was terrifying and enthralling, intimidating and exciting, all at once. Having been a part of it, having seen how it worked and how it made her feel, she understood why it was so important to him. She was only a newly minted participant. But to be born with it? To have it be as much a part of you as breathing? She could understand why it was so addictive, so hard to give up. She did not see how he could ever have done so while at Paranor. She did not know how he could ever do so again.