Jarka Ruus (4 page)

“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 so settled in place, so loose and comfortable with his legs tucked under and his arms folded into his robes that it seemed to her, infuriatingly so, that he might be thinking of a nap.

“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 happened. She summoned him to a meeting on neutral ground to discuss their relationship. He went because he saw no reason not to. If she wanted him dead, she would find a way to make him so, and hiding in his compound in Arishaig, or anywhere else in the Four Lands, wasn't going to save him. To his astonishment, she told him that the past was behind them both and it was time to consider the future. There would be no more dealings of the sort that had taken place before. There would be no recriminations for what was done. She sought instead to open lines of communication between Paranor and the Federation that would facilitate a productive sharing of ideas and solutions to problems of mutual concern—like the war on the Prekkendorran, for instance. She would give him what help she could in his new position as Prime Minister, sharing knowledge that would aid the people he led. In turn, he would help her restore the credibility and effectiveness of the Druids throughout the Four Lands.

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.

Sen Dunsidan had decided long ago that crushing his enemies was the only way to survive them. Leaving them alive after you had defeated them only gave them another chance to come after you. If they were dead and gone, you had nothing to worry about.

So he was in Paranor for yet another meeting with Grianne Ohmsford, for discussions concerning the Prekkendorran and the war with the Free-born and whatever else she cared to talk about, and none of it mattered to him because the meeting would never happen. It was scheduled to take place in the morning, but by then the Ard Rhys would be dead.

Or would wish she was.

It had taken a long time to find a way to eliminate her, and it had come about in a most unlikely way from a most unlikely source. Assassination had always been an alternative, but her instincts were so acute that she could sense that sort of thing almost without making an effort. Her magic was formidable, the wishsong of the Ohmsford legends, passed down through the bloodline, stronger in her than in almost any other member of her family, made so by her training and her life as the Ilse Witch. You might try to catch her off guard and kill her, but you would have a better chance at growing wings and learning to fly.

He had looked for other ways to rid himself of her, but no other solution immediately presented itself. Employing another magic to overcome her own was the logical approach, but he didn't know any magic and wasn't equipped to wield it if he did. Finding an ally who could act in his place was the logical solution, but with the death of the Morgawr and the formation of the Third Druid Council, he no longer had direct dealings with magic wielders save for the one he wanted to eliminate.

Then help arrived from an unexpected source, not much more than a year ago, and he had not only his ally, but a spy in the Druid camp. The spy gave him a pair of much needed eyes and ears to monitor the Ard Rhys' movements. Sooner or later, he believed, he would find a way to get past her defenses, as well.

Now, he had found that way at last. Tonight, he would test it—without risk to himself, without danger of discovery. If it worked, Grianne Ohmsford would no longer be a problem. By morning, the world would be a different place.

Yet he was uneasy, not quite believing it would happen, afraid that his complicity in the deaths of all those men years ago at the hands of the Morgawr would take form somehow this night and devour him. It did not seem ridiculous that it might happen; it seemed almost inevitable. There was a price to be paid for what he had done, and sooner or later someone would appear to collect it.

He was thinking of that as the wall across from him slid silently open and Shadea a'Ru stepped into the room.

         

Grianne Ohmsford sat at the writing table in her chambers, making notes for her meeting with Sen Dunsidan, preparing herself for the bargaining that would take place. It was always a matter of give and take with the Prime Minister, a question of how much she was willing to give versus how much he was attempting to take. He had changed over the years in some ways but, when bargaining, still sought to extract more than the other party was prepared to give. A politician to the end, he remained outwardly friendly and forthright while inwardly thinking of ways to cut his opponent's throat.

Literally, in her case.

She knew how he felt about her. To him, she was still the Ilse Witch and that would never change. He was afraid of her, no matter how hard she tried to convince him that her time as the Morgawr's creature was at an end. She might be Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, but that was not how he saw her. Because he could not change old habits, she knew his fear would rule his thinking. That meant he would be looking for a way to eliminate her.

She didn't mind that. He had always been looking for ways to eliminate her, from the moment they had formed that first alliance, nearly twenty-five years ago. That was how Sen Dunsidan dealt with allies and enemies alike; he used them to the extent he could while searching for ways to render them ineffective, which often meant eliminating them altogether once they had served their purpose. In some cases he had been successful, but he had never posed a threat to her. He did not possess the tools to cause her harm, lacking both magic and allies to accomplish that end. Alone, he could do nothing.

Besides, he was the least of her worries. She had other, more dangerous enemies with which to contend, others with equally strong motives for seeing her dispatched, others living closer to home.

She didn't like thinking of it. So much hard work had gone into re-forming the Druid order, and now it was a nest of vipers. It wasn't what she had intended or envisioned, but there it was. Kermadec was right. Her position grew more tenuous with the passing of every day, and if the erosion of her authority continued, she would lose control completely. If that happened, she would have failed, and she could not bear even to think of that.

She returned her thoughts to Sen Dunsidan and the more immediate concerns of tomorrow's meeting. She was seeking a truce in the battle on the Prekkendorran, one by both Federation and Free-born, one that would result in a stand-down of both armies. And that might lead to a gradual reduction in forces and a chance at peace. But neither side was showing much interest in the idea, even though after nearly fifty years of conflict it seemed almost inconceivable to her that they could think of anything else. Most of the people who had initiated the struggle were dead and gone. Only the inheritors were left, men and women who probably didn't have any real idea of the circumstances that had triggered the war.

Not that any of them cared, she thought darkly. War was often its own excuse.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Tagwen. She bid him enter. The Dwarf shuffled in under a load of books and papers, which he deposited on the working table to one side, where she could pick through them. They were the detritus of her previous efforts to persuade Sen Dunsidan and the Federation to her cause. Tagwen studied the stack forlornly for a moment, then looked at her.

“Is he settled in his chambers?” she asked.

“Quite comfortably. He should be. He has the best rooms in the Keep.” Tagwen didn't like Sen Dunsidan, a fact he didn't bother to hide from her, though he was careful to hide it from others. “I left him to his ale and cogitation. More of the former, less of the latter, unless I miss my guess.”

She smiled in spite of herself. She rose and stretched. “Everyone is advised of tomorrow's gatherings?”

He nodded. “You meet privately with the Prime Minister after breakfast, then he addresses the full council, then he meets with a select few—you know them all and they know one other—and then you sit down for some serious bargaining, which will once again probably result in nothing much being decided.”

She gave him a hard look. “Thank you for your optimism. What would I do without it?”

“I prefer reality to fantasy,” he said, huffing through his beard as he met her gaze squarely. “Better for you if you did the same now and then. And I am not talking about your meeting with the Prime Minister.”