victim of the staff’s magic, and there was nothing it could do to prevent it from happening.
It fought anyway, shrieking and spitting and thrashing, an insane thing, right up until the moment it blacked out.
Aboard theZolomacb, Federation soldiers and crew alike stared in shocked silence at the space Sen Dunsidan—or whatever had played at being Sen Dunsidan—had occupied only seconds before. Nothing remained but blood and shredded clothing and pieces of skin. None of them knew what had happened, and most didn’t care to find out. All they wanted to know was whether there was any risk that the thing that had been the Prime Minister of the Federation was coming back.
Khyber swept the air in front of her with a sparkle of elemental magic to gain their attention, black Druid robes billowing out. «Back away!» she shouted at them, moving forward threateningly, occupying the space directly in front of what remained of Sen Dunsidan. She glanced down at those remains, and then up at dozens of frozen stares. «You didn’t want him for a leader anyway, did you?»
Rue Meridian was hugging Pen, her face fierce. «What were you thinking, Penderrin?» she whispered. «It would have taken you with it if I hadn’t broken your grip on the staff!»
Pen was white–faced, both from the pressure of his mother’s grip and the realization of how narrow his escape had been. He took a deep breath. «I wasn’t sure what would happen if I let go.»
She hugged him tighter still. «Well, whatever the reason, you hung on too long to suit me. You scared me to death!»
« I wonder if it worked,” he said softly.
« You wonder if what worked?»
« Something I tried, right there at the end. The staff and I were joined. We were communicating. I was telling it things. I was trying to make it understand me.» He drew back and looked at her. «That was what I was doing, when I was hanging on, before you made me let go.»
« Trying to tell the darkwand something?»
He smiled and nodded. «But I don’t know if it understood.»
It took a while for the Moric to regain consciousness after its struggle to resist being sent back into the Forbidding. As a result, it did not see the bright images projected into the air by the runes of the darkwand as it pulsated with light on the barren ground next to it. It did not see those images rise skyward to form intricate patterns that danced across the sullen clouds. By the time the demon stirred, the images had faded and the fire had gone out of the runes.
The Moric sat up slowly, knowing at once from the taste of the air and the smell of the earth that it was back inside its prison. It stared down at the staff, the once–gleaming surface become dusty and scarred. The runes had gone dark and the magic had disappeared. It was just a length of wood, a useless thing.
When it became aware of the shadow looming over it and looked up to find the dragon, the demon had to stifle a gasp. A huge, scaly, armored monster, it was easily the biggest the demon had ever seen. Freezing in place, the demon tried to figure out what to do, casting about in vain for a way to escape. The dragon was studying it intently, its lidded yellow eyes gleaming with a strange fascination.
And then it saw that the dragon wasn’t looking at it, but at the staff that lay at its feet. The demon snatched up the staff and held it out to the beast, offering it eagerly. But the dragon didn’t move. It was waiting for something. The demon laid the staff close by one of its huge, clawed feet and started to move away. But the dragon hissed at it in warning, freezing it in place.
The Moric turned back slowly, not knowing what to do, unable to determine what it was the dragon wanted.
The dragon, in no hurry, waited for the demon to figure it out.
Thirty–One
The day was drenched in sunlight, and from high in the air where she rode aboard the Druid airship Bremen, Grianne Ohmsford could see the countryside for fifty miles in all directions. Huge, cottony clouds floated against the western horizon far out on the flats of the Streleheim, distant and remote, a soft promise of good weather. The airship sailed north on the first day of its expedition, and the woman who had once been Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order was at peace.
She had known for a long time what she would do, she supposed. She had known from before she had come back through the Forbidding what must happen. The order would never heal while she was Ard Rhys, no matter how much she wanted to make it well, no matter how hard she tried to mend its wounds. The past is always with us, and more so with her than with most. She had accepted that she would never be free of that past.
She could chart the important phases of her life: as a child of six hiding in the cellar of her home with her baby brother while her parents were slaughtered in the rooms above, as a young girl subverted by the Morgawr into believing that the Druid Walker Boh had been responsible, as the Ilse Witch working to destroy Walker until a chance meeting with the brother she had thought dead revealed the truth, and as Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order struggling to find a way to gain acceptance as a force for good within the Four Lands.
She could see the path her life had taken and comprehend the reasons for all that she had done. But she could never explain it satisfactorily to anyone else. She could try, but most would dismiss her words as clever attempts at self–justification or worse.
She understood the truth of things. Some would always see her as the Ilse Witch, and would worry that beneath the surface of the image she projected, a monster lurked. That would never change, the roots of mistrust had grown too deep. Traunt Rowan had been right about that. Had he been more patient and less foolish, he would have lived to see her admit it.
She glanced back at the pilot box, where one of Kermadec’s Rock Trolls stood at the helm. Kermadec himself was seated on a box below the side wall, deep in conversation with Penderrin. She wondered what they were talking about. Even in the short time since the big Troll’s recovery from the battle in the north tower, the two had grown close. After returning the Moric to the Forbidding, the boy had come back to Paranor with his parents and had remained to help her restore some semblance of order to the Druid’s Keep. His parents had stayed, too, for a little while. But they had grown uncomfortable, as they always did with Paranor, and—seeing that she had matters well enough in hand, and missing their home and their old life—they had decided to go home to Patch Run.
But Pen had stayed on, his friendships with Kermadec, Tagwen, and Khyber Elessedil influencing his decision at least in part. All were aware of the transition Grianne was working, all were anxious to help her see it through. Pen could do no less, he told his parents. Bek understood, Rue accepted. They made him promise he would not stay past the end of the month. They wished Grianne and the others well, said good–bye, and flew SwiftSure home. Grianne never told them all of what she intended, although she would have liked to tell Bek. But it was best if she didn’t, she told herself. It would be easier on them if they didn’t know.
She had dissolved the order and dismissed those still in her service. As Ard Rhys, she had the power to do this, and there was no one who would question her now. She gave Paranor into the keeping of Khyber, Bellizen, and Trefen Morys. When the time was right and when they had found a way to do so, they would re–form the order. A handful of others who had remained loyal were invited to stay, as well. But she charged the three she trusted most with spearheading the task of carrying on, the ones she believed would work the hardest. All three had asked her to reconsider. All had pleaded inexperience and limited skills. They were not equal to the task. Others could do better.
But there were no others she could rely on, and there were covenants to monitor, a part of the agreement that she had forged with the Federation and the Free–born. Her young successors would struggle at first, but they would learn from their mistakes and they would grow from their experiences. They would survive, protected as they were by Paranor and their magic, by the mystique of the Druids, and by their own perseverance and determination. She had thought this through carefully after talking with each. It was the right choice.
In the end, persuaded that she would not accept their refusals, they had acquiesced. They would select those men and women who would make up the next generation of Druids at Paranor. Perhaps, in time, the governments and peoples of the Four Lands would come to accept them as a good and necessary force for the
