when she would have been better advised to use more subtle means. Now it was taking all of her efforts to persuade her followers that she had changed her ways and would be for them the understanding, concerned leader they all foolishly believed they needed.
In the meantime, the order languished. She had secured her hold on the office of the High Druid through the aid of her allies, especially Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence, either of whom was better suited to the role of diplomat than she was and who together had worked tirelessly to bring as many Druids into line as they could manage. But the effectiveness of the Druid Council continued to be limited, its shadow no more intimidating or impressive than it had been with Grianne Ohmsford at its head. Still regarding the order with distrust and disdain in equal measures, none of the nations or their governments spent a moment to consider the position of the Druids on any of the issues affecting the Four Lands. The sole exception was the Federation—but that was only because she had made Sen Dunsidan her ally early on, giving him the promise of the order's backing to put a favorable end to the war on the Prekkendor–ran. Even the Prime Minister was in scant evidence these days, however, the leader of the powerful Federation having retired to Arishaig with scarcely a word of communication since his announcement of support for her as acting Ard Rhys.
That was not out of character for Sen Dunsidan, of course. His history as leader of the Coalition Council was notable for his behind–the–scenes manipulations and judicious absences. Long had he coveted his position, — it was no secret. He had gotten it because his rivals had died mysteriously, both on the same day, a coincidence too obvious to ignore. But in the years since he had realized his goal, he seemed less satisfied. Once a very public man, he now appeared rarely and only when it was unavoidable. She had endured his sly and condescending attitude on more than one occasion. But he seemed less sure of himself these days, less driven, and she thought that his secrets were beginning to erode his once unshakable confidence.
Nevertheless, he was a valuable ally. If he chose to hide out in Arishaig, it was of no matter so long as his support of her was made open and obvious to all. The trick was in finding a way to persuade him to accommodate her.
For now, there was the matter of the bell and what it signified. She rose from her desk and walked to the alcove window that opened north. On the ledge just outside the frame, she had constructed a platform and secured a wire cage for her carrier birds, the same species that Grianne Ohmsford had used when the chambers had been hers. The sound of the bell meant that the one she was expecting had finally returned.
She opened the window and peered inside the wire enclosure. The fierce, dark face of the arrow swift peered back at her, its sleek, swept–back wings folded into the sides of its distinctively narrow body, its right leg bound with the tiny message tube. She reached into the cage and stroked the bird familiarly, speaking soothingly, calming it. The birds imprinted on their owners early and never shifted their allegiance. She had been forced to destroy all her predecessor's birds because they were useless to her. Their loyalty was legendary, and like creatures that mate for life, they would not accept a new master.
After a moment, she slipped the tube from the swift's leg and brought it into the light. Unfastening the tip, she pulled out the tiny piece of paper inside and carefully unrolled it.
The familiar block printing confirmed what she had suspected for days:
GALAPHILEDESTROYED. TEREK MOLT AND AHREN ELESSEDIL DEAD. I TRACK THE BOY.
The scrye waters had told them already of the destruction of theGalaphile, and she had assumed that Terek Molt was gone, as well, especially since there had been no word from him since. That Ahren Elessedil was dead was the first positive piece of news she had received on the matter. She was more than pleased to have Grianne Ohmsford's strongest ally out of the way.
Itrack the boy.
She felt a shiver of excitement at the words. Aphasia Wye still hunted Penderrin Ohmsford. The boy was doomed. Once Aphasia began to hunt, there was no escape. It was only a matter of time. She had feared the assassin had perished in the conflagration that had consumed theGalaphile, and after days with no communication, she had dispatched the arrow swift to seek him out. It did not matter to her how he had survived, only that he had.
She carried the tiny message back to her writing table and fed it into the flame of the candle. The paper blackened and curled and turned to ash. She bore the charred fragments back to the window, blew them into dust, and watched them drift away on the wind.
Aphasia Wye.
She had found him quite by accident, an outcast and recluse living at the edge of the teeming, squalid hovels that encircled the city of Dechtera. She had been in the last year of her service with the Federation, a big, strong woman with little fear and a burning ambition. Her introduction to Aphasia Wye came about because she was looking for a certain deserter from the army, a man she knew well enough to dislike and stay clear of in other circumstances. But a rumor of his presence in the tenement sections of the city having surfaced, she was assigned to find and bring him back. She was given no choice in the matter.
Aphasia Wye, however, had found him first. A street child of unknown origins, Aphasia had grown up as something of a legend to those who populated the dark undersurface of Dechtera. At some point in his early life, he had been badly disfigured, but not before he had been so severely mistreated that the damage to his physical appearance could not begin to approach the damage to his psyche. Emotionally and psychologically, he dwelled in a realm few others had ever occupied, dark and soulless and empty of feeling. If he had a code of conduct, Shadea had never been able to figure out what it was. That it involved killing as a ritual cleansing was something she learned when she went looking for the deserter. That it was quixotic and arbitrary became clear when she discovered that Aphasia felt an unexpected connection to her.
His attraction to her might have had something to do with their similar backgrounds as orphans and children of the street, outcasts who had been forced to make their own way in the world. It might have had something to do with their mutual acceptance of violence as a way of life. When she found out what he had done to the deserter, her only response had been to ask for a piece of the man to prove that he was dead. She had not sought an explanation of the circumstances. She had neither approved nor disapproved of the act. That might have impressed him.
Then again, he might have recognized that she was drawn to him, finding his disfigurement, both external and internal, oddly attractive, as if surviving such damage was proof of his resiliency, of his worth. That he was repulsive to look upon, all crook–limbed and spiderlike, did not matter to her. Nor did his penchant for mutilating and eviscerating his victims, which might well have reflected his own lack of self–esteem. In the world of the Federation army, strength of heart and body counted for more than strength of character or physical appearance. Judgments were passed daily on the former and seldom on the latter. She found Aphasia Wye admirable for his talents and cared nothing for the package in which those talents came wrapped. Killing was an art, and this man, this odd creature of the streets and darkness, had elevated it to a special form.
She visited with him regularly after that, talking of death and dying, of killing and surviving, and their conversations confirmed that they were more alike than might appear to be the case on the face of things. He spoke in short, halting sentences, his voice the sound of crushed glass and dry leaves, intense and tinged with bitterness. He had no time for words with most people yet found them pleasant when shared with her. He didn't say so, but she could feel it. He lacked friends, lacked a home, lacked anything approaching a normal existence, gnawing at the edges of civilization the way a rodent would a garbage pit.
At first, she couldn't determine anything about his way of life. What did he do to stay alive? How did he spend his time? He wouldn't reveal such things, and she knew better than to press. It wasn't until he was sure of her, until he felt the connection between them to be strong enough, that he told her. He was a weapon for those who needed one and could afford to pay. He was a poison so lethal that no one he touched lived beyond that moment. Those who needed him found him through word of mouth spread on the streets. He came to them when he chose, — they were never allowed to find him.
He was an assassin, although he didn't call himself that yet.
Two years later, after she had decided to leave the Federation and pursue her ambitions elsewhere, she had been drugged and violated by a handful of men who wanted to make an example of her.
Left for dead, she had recovered, tracked them down, and killed them all. Aphasia Wye had helped her find them, though he knew better than to deprive her of the pleasure she took in watching them die. Afterwards, she had fled Dechtera and the Southland for the protective isolation of Grimpen Ward and the Wilderun. Deep in the Westland, she had continued her study of magic in preparation for her journey to Paranor, where she intended to
